Zero Visibility

ZERO
Visibility

© 2015 by Georgia Beers

This ebook original is published by Brisk Press, Brielle New Jersey, 08730

Edited by Heather Flournoy

Cover design by Steff Obkirchner

Author photo by Steff Obkirchner

First printing: January 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author or the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-098998956-5

Novels

Finding Home

Mine

Fresh Tracks

Too Close to Touch

Thy Neighbor’s Wife

Turning the Page

Starting From Scratch

96 Hours

Slices of Life

Snow Globe

Olive Oil and White Bread

Anthologies

Outsiders

Georgia Beers

www.georgiabeers.com

Writing is a very solitary art, and as an introverted writer, I’m absolutely okay with being solitary. That being said, the creation of a book cannot be accomplished by the writer alone. Many other fingers are in the pie, so to speak, and
Zero Visibility
is no exception.

Thank you to my dear friend, Steff Obkirchner, for so many things. Not only does she serve as my webmistress, cover designer, and personal photographer, she is also a wealth of information. She reads over my work and makes suggestions. She offers up ego boosts and/or pats on the back when I need them (and conversely smacks me in the back of the head when I need
that
). And she introduced me and Bon to the stunning beauty of the Adirondack Mountains, which led me to write this book. She is irreplaceable in my world.

Thanks to my awesome niece, Allyson Whitney, who gave me a very quick crash-course in the rules of ice hockey. The girl knows her stuff and answered my text questions accurately and immediately. And just for her: Go, Preds!

My deep, heartfelt thanks and love to The Triumvirate. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You keep me sane and make me laugh at the same time. I’m never letting you guys go; I hope you understand that.

To my editor, Heather Flournoy, thank you for your gentle yet knowledgeable hand. I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. As always, thanks to Brisk Press for being so easy to work with. Everybody’s path from writing to printing to publishing should be so smooth. You guys rock.

My eternal gratitude and love to my wife, Bonnie, who puts up with every quirk a writer could possibly have and then some (we are talking about me here), and does it with a positive attitude, some ridiculously good ideas, a sense of humor, and a boatload of love and support. I couldn’t ask for a better partner, in business and in life. Boobs with a hat on, baby.

And last, but never, ever least, thanks to you, my readers. I’m a very lucky woman in that my readers stay with me no matter what path I choose to take. Please keep the e-mails and Facebook notes coming. They mean more to me than you know.

Cassie Prescott was a
big ball of emotion as she drove home a day earlier than expected. The sporting goods conference had been an informative one. She’d come across several new items that would sell well in her store this ski season, and she’d been able to meet a couple of vendors with whom she’d spoken on the phone, but had never seen face-to-face. Texting and e-mail was all fine and good, but nothing beat actual personal contact. Cassie preferred it. A couple nice dinners and a fun happy hour in the hotel bar last night were highlights of the trip so far. She wasn’t due to head home until tomorrow evening, but her mother had called her on her cell to deliver the news that Caroline Rosberg had passed away suddenly the previous night, and calling hours were tomorrow.

Missing the funeral or even the calling hours were not options. Cassie had immediately packed up her stuff, texted her apologies to the folks she’d made plans with for the remainder of the conference, and loaded up the car to make the five hour trek home to Lake Henry.

Normally, she would enjoy the drive. It was mid-October in the Adirondacks, and the mountains of upstate New York were a spectacular visual explosion of reds, oranges, and yellows. It was this array of color that brought the tourists to Lake Henry in droves and kicked off the busy season. The hotels and inns would be stuffed to the rafters until after New Year’s, and even then, things would only slow down a bit. Cassie’s sporting goods store would be filled with customers. Tourists would be milling along Main Street, visiting the shops, eating at some of the finest restaurants in the state, and getting ready to ski. It was her favorite time of year. She loved fall and relished its approach; the change in the scent of the air, the chill in the temperature. She loved unpacking her sweaters and warmer clothes. She loved the promise of winter, which meant roaring fires and hot chocolate and hikes in the snow with her dog. She loved the way the trees looked in all their blazing splendor. But today, the drive went by in a blur as Cassie’s occasional tears mixed with her racing thoughts and prevented her from appreciating any of the beauty around her at all.

Dusk had fallen when she finally passed the sign that normally put a cheerful grin on her face.

You are now entering Lake Henry. We’re glad you’re here!

Lake Henry would be different without Caroline, a woman who was a fixture in their tight-knit community, somebody who’d lived in Lake Henry her entire life. Which, it turned out, hadn’t really been long enough.

Cassie swallowed hard and made the right turn onto Main Street, which circled the whole of Lake Henry, a path she walked with her dog every morning. Thankfully, she was saved from further thoughts of sadness by a sight a bit too common during the busy season, but one that never failed to make her laugh. A woman, dressed in a business suit of jacket, pants, and heels, was trying her best to navigate the cobblestone sidewalk that ran all the way down Main Street. It was a scientific fact that cobblestones and high-heeled shoes did not mix well, and every third or fourth step the woman would stumble slightly, regain her balance, and continue on her way. Behind her, she pulled a large suitcase, which was obviously quite heavy, and the rhythmic bumping of its wheels over the stones was alarmingly loud.

Cassie glanced at her as she drove past, was able to make out short blonde hair, a very tall, lean frame, and a scowl that made the woman look as if she might kill the next person she came across.

Cassie smiled. “Good way to roll an ankle,” she mumbled, and fought to keep from saying it loudly out her slightly open car window. Instead, she simply shook her head. “Tourists.” Heels were
so
not the dress code for Lake Henry. Hikers? Sneakers? Boots? Skis? Snow shoes? All yes. Heels? Not so much.

At least her drive home didn’t take her past The Lakeshore Inn. That was Caroline’s place; she’d run it ever since Cassie was a kid, and Cassie had spent many a summer helping out with housekeeping and general maintenance to make some extra cash. She still popped in several times a week to see if Caroline or Mary, Caroline’s right hand, needed anything. The Lakeshore Inn was, as its name suggested, right on the lake. But it was in the opposite direction of Cassie’s store, and for that, tonight, she was grateful.

On autopilot, she waved at various people, smiled at others. She knew pretty much all the locals, and they all knew her. She’d lived here for all of her twenty-eight years—with the exception of the four miserable years she went away to college—and she couldn’t imagine living anyplace else. Lake Henry was in her blood.

It was in Caroline’s, too. Cassie knew that. They’d talked about it. Caroline had been given many opportunities to leave, to live someplace warmer, someplace hipper, but she’d always said the same thing to Cassie: “How can I leave? Lake Henry is in my blood.”

And now she’d be buried here.

Cassie swallowed down the ball in her throat and tried to remember where she’d last seen her all-purpose black dress. She was going to need it.

***

“God damn fucking cobblestones,” Emerson Rosberg muttered as she stumbled yet again on the stupid sidewalk. “Who the fuck uses cobblestones anymore? Is it still 1873 here? Have they never heard of cement? Concrete? Asphalt?” She glanced up and saw the big sign lit by an outdoor light aimed up from the ground. The Lakeshore Inn. “Thank freaking god.”

Apparently, she’d been away too long, as she’d forgotten that parking in Lake Henry was at a premium, and The Lakeshore Inn was no exception. Every space was occupied when she arrived. She’d been forced to park down the street—a good half mile away—in a public lot that would end up costing her an arm and a leg if she had to stay there for long.

And what the hell had she packed? Bricks? Her suitcase seemed to have gained a good fifty pounds since she started pulling it behind her, these last few steps the hardest yet. The autumn evening had dropped in temperature, her blazer doing very little to keep the chill away from her skin. Without stopping to take in the building—or the larger one across the street that used to be part of The Lakeshore Inn—she dragged her suitcase down the walkway, letting it bounce roughly down the steps, following the signs to the office.

Inside, the atmosphere was completely different. Warm. Inviting. The counter for the office overlooked a common area set up like a living room, complete with leather couches, bookshelves lined with classics, and a gas fireplace, which was burning brightly now and filling the room with a pleasant coziness. A young couple holding hands quietly excused themselves as they sidled by her. Nobody else was in sight. Emerson thought about just going behind the counter to the kitchen and office she knew were there, but somehow it didn’t feel right. Instead, she gave the little silver bell on the counter a soft tap.

“Be right with you!” The voice was pleasant, high-pitched, and a little sing-song. Emerson scratched at her forehead and waited. When Mary came around the corner and saw Emerson, she stopped dead in her tracks, and her eyes filled with tears. Not for the first time—or even the second or third—judging from how red-rimmed they were. “Oh, Emerson!” Mary came around the counter and before Emerson could take a step, she threw herself into Emerson’s arms and began to cry openly. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Those were the only words Emerson could make out clearly as she stood holding the sobbing woman, awkwardly patting her back and looking around the room for some means of escape. Of course, there was none, so she stood, patted, and waited in extreme discomfort until the older woman pulled herself together and took a step back. She held Emerson at arms’ length with a shockingly strong grip.

“Let me get a good look at you,” she said, and Emerson took the opportunity to do the same. Mary O’Connor was at least a decade older than Emerson’s mother, which would put her in the category of approaching seventy. She had always been a huge bundle of energy, and she still made Emerson think of her as birdlike, the way she flitted around quickly, her tiny frame moving at a speed seemingly twice as fast as everybody else. She was still petite, but her usual peppiness had been tempered. Her eyes were sad, and it was as if the natural light she always carried had dimmed.

“My god, how long has it been?” she asked Emerson now, forcing cheerfulness into her voice.

“Five years,” Emerson replied, trying to hide the embarrassment that now colored her cheeks.

“Five years,” Mary repeated, and her feigned surprise said she knew
exactly
how long it had been. “My god.”

Five years?
Emerson thought, and the fact of it actually surprised her. Five years since she’d returned home. She had her reasons. Oh, she had lots of very logical reasons. But now that her mother was gone, none of them seemed all that important. In fact, they seemed downright ridiculous. She would never come home to her mother again.