Within Reach

“Oh, Angie.” Billie pressed a hand to her chest, her gaze glued to the necklace. “It’s so beautiful… I don’t have the words. You’ve outdone yourself. My God.”

Angie smiled, pleased, and accepted her friend’s hug when Billie shot to her feet and rounded the table to embrace her.

“I love you, sweetie. Happy birthday,” Angie said, speaking quietly so only her friend could hear.

“I love you, too, String Bean. You talented hussy. I will treasure it always, I swear.”

Angie could see all the memories they shared reflected in Billie’s eyes as her friend drew back from their hug—the years at boarding school, the mistakes they had made, the highs, the lows. Unexpected sentimental tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked rapidly.

Billie sniffed, too.

“Do I need to go get the tissues?” Michael asked drily.

“We’re having an intense moment of womance here, do you mind?” Billie said.

Everyone laughed and the moment was gone. Angie helped clear the table while Billie played a game of tag with the children, running around the backyard until they were all breathless. Angie loaded the dishwasher and smiled to herself as she listened to Billie complaining about how she would have to retire from playing tag now that she was an old lady of thirty-two. Angie was rinsing out a salad bowl when Billie entered the house, red-faced, hands on her hips as she labored to catch her breath.

“Wow, you really are winded, you tragic fossil,” Angie said as her friend walked to the cupboard and reached for a glass.

“Don’t laugh. Your birthday is coming up soon,” Billie said.

She was genuinely out of breath and the smile faded from Angie’s lips. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need some water.” But Billie’s hand trembled as she held her glass under the water.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

She waved an impatient hand, already walking away with her drink. “I’m fine.”

Angie shrugged and resumed rinsing the salad bowl. The sound of glass shattering had her spinning around. She was in time to see Billie press her hands to her chest before collapsing to her knees, the sound of bone hitting wood a loud, resonant thunk.

“It hurts,” Billie gasped, fingers pressing into her chest.

Then she hit the floor, unconscious, her body loose and lifeless.

Angie let the salad bowl crash into the sink.

“Michael!” she screamed. She rounded the counter, her bare feet slipping on the floor. She fell to her knees beside Billie’s pale, still body as Michael appeared in the doorway.

“What happened?” he asked, his face a stark, terrified white as he took in his wife’s body on the floor.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Call an ambulance.”

CHAPTER ONE

Ten months later

THE FAMILIAR HEAVINESS settled over Angie as she parked in front of Billie’s house. Every time she came here, she saw the same image in her mind’s eye: the flashing blue and red ambulance lights reflecting off the white stucco facade, the shocked neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, Billie’s too-still body being rushed to the ambulance, an EMT working frantically to keep her alive.

Angie reached for her purse and the bag containing the gifts she’d bought in New York and made her way up the drive, noting the mail crowding the letterbox. The lawn needed mowing, too.

A pile of shoes lay abandoned on the porch—two pairs of child-size rubber boots and a pair of adult sneakers. She hit the doorbell, checking her watch.

After what felt like a long time, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. It swung open and Michael appeared, his features obscured by the screen.

“Angie.” He sounded surprised, but she’d emailed him three days ago to tell him she’d be coming by to see him and the kids once she arrived home.

“Hey. Long time no see,” she said easily.

He rubbed his face. “Sorry. I forgot you said you were coming over.” He pushed the screen door open. “Come in.”

His hair was longer than when she’d flown out six weeks ago, his jaw dark with stubble. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, both hanging on his frame.

“How are you?” she asked as she kissed his cheek.

“We’re getting by.” His gaze slid away from hers and he took a step backward, one hand gesturing for her to precede him up the hallway to the kitchen. “How was New York?”

“Good. Busy. Hot and hectic.” She’d gone to train with an American jewelry designer and show her work at an arty little gallery in Greenwich Village. She’d also gone to get away, because she’d needed to do something to shock herself out of her grief.

She blinked as she entered the dim kitchen and living space. The blinds had been drawn on all the windows, the only light coming from the television and around the edges of the blinds.

It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust enough to see that Charlie was ensconced on the couch, his gaze fixed on the flickering TV screen as Kung Fu Panda took out the bad guys.

“Hey, little man,” she said, crossing to his side and leaning down to drop a kiss onto his smooth, chubby cheek.

He glanced at her and smiled vaguely before returning his attention to the movie. She took in the stacks of books on the floor, the dirty plates on the coffee table, the clothes strewn over the couch.

“Eva should be home soon. She went to a friend’s place after school,” Michael said. “You want a coffee?”

She returned to the kitchen, her gaze sliding over the dishes piled in the sink and the boxes of cereal and other foodstuffs lined up on the island counter. Paperwork sat in a cluttered pile, and an overloaded laundry basket perched on one of the stools, leaning dangerously to one side. Everything looked dusty and ever-so-slightly grubby.

“Coffee would be good, thanks,” she said slowly.

The house had been like this when she’d visited before she’d flown to New York, but for some reason it hadn’t made the same impression as it did today. Then, she’d talked with Michael amidst all the dishes and laundry and not registered the darkness and the mess and his gauntness. It had all seemed normal, because in the months since Billie’s death it had become the norm as she did her best to help Michael any way she could.

Today, she saw it all—the disorder, the dullness in Michael’s eyes, the air of neglect and hopelessness—and she understood with a sudden, sharp clarity that this wasn’t simply a household in mourning, this was a household veering toward crisis.

Her chest ached as she watched Michael go through the motions of making coffee. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the look in his eyes when she arrived at the hospital hard on the heels of the ambulance that horrible day. He’d been sitting in a small side room, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. She’d stopped in the doorway saying his name. When he’d looked up the emptiness and grief in his eyes had told her everything she needed to know. The memory of that moment of realization—the death of her last hope, that somehow they had managed to save Billie from what had clearly been a catastrophic major event—was still sharp and bitter and hard, but she knew that her loss was nothing compared to Michael’s.

He’d loved Billie so much. She’d been the center of his world and she’d died far, far too young. Was it any wonder that he was finding it so hard to pull himself together and move on?

She swallowed a lump of emotion and lifted the basket off the stool so she could sit.

“How did your show go?” Michael asked as he slid a brimming coffee mug toward her.

“Well, I think. But it’s so competitive over there, I’m not holding my breath.”

“Your stuff is great. You don’t need to hold your breath.”