Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“It would save you some money,” Zena sniffed, putting up the pretension of an argument as she slid her arms through the sleeves of her coat, then yanked on a pair of red leather gloves.

The cost with you just can’t be counted in dollars, Hattie had thought, because Zena always found a way to extract her fee. “Thanks, we’ll do fine.” Hattie had closed the door behind her mother, then watched as Zena walked to her Cadillac and slid behind the wheel. Her mother had paused to light a cigarette, a practice she thought she hid from everyone, including Hattie and her doctors. Then she had driven off, her taillights winking Christmas red as the big car lumbered out of the lot to the road. Once the Caddie disappeared from view, Hattie had bolted the door and turned off the outside lights.

Now, she went through her nightly ritual, checking on her daughters, turning off the hall light, then walking into her bedroom where she kicked off her shoes a little too hard and one of her heels slammed against the footboard. She thought about Dan and about her life as she flopped onto the bed. Tears surfaced. Again. She’d been fighting a losing battle with them all day, it seemed.

Heart heavy, she felt the weight of guilt settle over her and press down on her lungs until she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. When Bart died, she’d insisted he didn’t kill himself, but only Dan had listened, and even he couldn’t do anything about the ME’s verdict of suicide, even though no note or message of any kind had been found. If Bart had truly taken his own life, she reasoned—and she didn’t want to go there . . . couldn’t most of the time because deep down, she knew she was to blame. She was the one who’d wanted the divorce and had pushed for it, and though she’d promised Bart that he would have joint custody of the twins, sharing the girls had been difficult for everyone. Bart’s depression had grown deeper and deeper and . . . maybe there was something she should have seen or guessed, some warning sign. But if there was, she sure hadn’t picked up on it, other than to know he was angry at her.

She just hadn’t been able to believe that he’d taken his life.

She still couldn’t. Not really.

And now Dan was near death’s door. A tear trickled down her cheek and she swiped it angrily away. S

he’d always been close to Dan, had dated him in high school. When he’d gone to college, they’d agreed to see other people, though Hattie had been brokenhearted, or at least thought she had. Then she’d caught Cade’s eye, and with Dan gone, she’d turned her attention to the bad boy of the clan. Whereas Dan had been a stand-up kind of guy, the responsible brother, Cade was the rebel who spat at authority. She and Cade circled each other for a bit, then dove into a hot affair soon after she graduated. The romance, if you could call it that, fizzled out pretty fast because he had a roving eye and Hattie, in those days, if nothing else, demanded fidelity. She wanted Cade’s heart and a ring, but he couldn’t give either and one day, he just climbed onto his motorcycle and drove off, heading west, she’d heard later, though he didn’t contact her for years. And when he finally did, that had spelled disaster with a capital D.

Now, she bit her lip thinking about him and their always mercurial relationship. They were bad for each other, had always been, never mixing. She’d forced herself to get over him, to turn to the one man who had always loved her, his younger brother Bart, baby of the clan and always a bit of a dreamer.

When Bart asked her to marry him, so soon after Cade had left for the last time, she’d not only said yes, but insisted they elope. He, more traditional, had talked her into a quickie marriage at the ranch, and she’d reluctantly agreed. As long as it was soon.

She remembered her wedding day, of course, but those memories weren’t the kind that a bride should carry with her for the rest of her life. Nine years earlier, she’d stood beneath an arbor that the florists had constructed in the wide yard on the west side of the Grayson farmhouse. The day had been Montana sunny and bright, the sky June blue and cloudless, a summer breeze bending the hollyhock and columbine as it whispered through the pines.

Friends and family, around forty in all, were gathered on the yard where the rented white chairs had been festooned with bouquets of roses, carnations, and baby’s breath, the bouquets trailing long blue and coral ribbons. Each guest had already been given a glass of champagne or sparkling cider to toast the bride and groom as soon as the ceremony ended.

The officiant was someone her mother knew, a short man with rimless glasses and a bald head glistening with sweat. His smile was beatific, his face weathered, as if he’d spent his youth in the sun, a man of the outdoors as well as God.

Facing her, Bart had been clean-shaven, tall and handsome in his black, western-cut suit, his gray eyes focused on her, the hint of a smile teasing his lips. He loved her. She knew that, had known it long before any words had been spoken. And that should be enough. Right.

She was making the smart choice, she’d told herself, over and over again. They were friends. Lovers. And if the lovemaking wasn’t as fiery as she’d hoped, that could change. She would make it change.

Dan was Bart’s best man, and Hattie made certain her own gaze didn’t wander in his direction, not once. There wasn’t a chance of her heart betraying her, not on this, her wedding day, and her sister, standing so closely by her, watching her, made Hattie’s convictions all the stronger.

She was marrying Bart now. He was her world, so she’d stood with her hands linked to his, uttering vows she hoped she would keep. Not looking at Dan, not thinking about Cade, not letting the doubts that had chased her up to this moment catch up to her.

Life would be good.

She vowed to be Bart’s “wedded wife,” for better or worse, in front of God and country, her mother and her sister, Cara, who was Hattie’s matron of honor.

Despite her valiant efforts to believe in the future, the wedding, even at that point, seemed cosmically off-kilter, the ceremony and all the players staged, like pawns on a giant chess board. This is your choice, Hattie, she’d told herself. Don’t think that way. Don’t lose faith. It will work out. Bart’s a good man. An honest man. He’ll be true and faithful and everything you could possibly want, and he is a Grayson.

Oh, God . . .

Her hands were clammy, her heart beating a wild negative tattoo, a warning. This isn’t right. You’re marrying with your head and not your heart. Yes, he loves you, but you know you don’t love him. Not the way he deserves.

In that moment she could feel her face drain of color, but she wouldn’t listen to the arguments in her mind. She couldn’t. Swallowing back any lingering doubts, she told herself that this would be her life. She would be a Grayson, and the love she felt for Bart, if not as deep as she’d felt with Dan or as passionate as it had been with Cade, was strong and vital. She would make this marriage work. She had to.

Because she was pregnant. Just pregnant. She’d found out only two days before and she’d told no one. Not her best friend, not her mother, and certainly not Bart. There would be no shotgun wedding. This was a planned event. So what if the planning had been less than six weeks.

Her cheeks burned at the thought of the life growing inside her and hoped everyone in the small circle of family and friends who had been invited thought that she was just a “blushing bride,” though that was far from the truth and she wasn’t the type.

“. . . it’s my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Grayson,” the officiant had said proudly, and their guests clapped and held their glasses high, pale liquid catching in the light from a lowering sun. Then to Bart, he said, “You may kiss your bride.”

It’s over.

You’re married!

Hattie had closed her eyes and kissed Bart just as the sound of a motorcycle’s engine reached her ears. Her heart beat a little faster, but she told herself she was imagining things, that it didn’t matter, that she was a married woman, that . . . But then Bart’s muscles tightened for a second, and he released her too quickly as the sound of the engine grew louder.

Then she saw it, as they walked down a short makeshift aisle between the chairs, a harsh glint of sunlight bounced off shiny metal. With a roar, the big bike tore up the driveway, spun near the front porch, spraying gravel.