Silver Threads Read online

  Silver Threads

  Memory House Series

  Book Five

  BETTE LEE CROSBY

  SILVER THREADS

  Memory House Series, Book Five

  Copyright © 2016 by Bette Lee Crosby

  Cover design: damonza.com

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Editor: Ekta Garg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages for a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on life experiences and conclusions drawn from research, all names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.

  ISBN-978-0-9969214-5-9

  BENT PINE PUBLISHING

  Port Saint Lucie, FL

  Published in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  SILVER THREADS

  Somewhere Far Away

  Clarksburg, Alabama

  The Phone Call

  Drew Bishop

  When Morning Comes

  The Weeks that Followed

  Drew

  Thirty-Six Years Ago

  The Text Thing

  Finding Closure

  Drew

  A Place to Start

  The Weight of Loss

  A Free Man

  The Search for Tom

  Coming of Summer

  Rethinking Alisha

  The Trip

  Dog Days

  Drew

  The Library

  The Dog

  An Unfair Life

  The Plan

  The Checklist

  Drew

  A Time to Wait

  In Clarksburg

  The End of Halfway

  High Above the Earth

  The Offer

  A Sad Goodbye

  Dinner and a Dream

  Annie Doyle

  House Hunting

  Across the Pond

  A Changing Life

  Elizabeth’s Arrival

  A Running Kinship

  A Budding Friendship

  Elizabeth Cunningham

  A California Christmas

  Moving Forward

  Keeper of the Scales

  Thursday

  Elizabeth

  The Big Surprise

  Dinner Guest

  Season of Love

  The Love Potion

  A Second Proposal

  In a Place Far Away

  More from Bette Lee Crosby

  Acknowledgements

  More Heartwarming Stories

  About the Author

  For Coral Russell

  My genius, friend and partner.

  Silver Threads

  Memory House Series

  Book Five

  Somewhere Far Away

  On the day Jennifer Green was born, a pile of stones was placed alongside her scale of life. A few were the dark gray of sorrow, but most were a pale blush color. The largest stone was the rose hue of a sunrise. That one would be placed on the scale the day she married Drew Bishop.

  Even more brilliant but a wee bit smaller was the pink stone glistening with specks of silver. That one would bring Jennifer a baby girl named Brooke. The Keeper of the Scales smiled. Seeing such happiness laid out before him was pleasing to his eye.

  Since the beginning of time the Keeper alone has been challenged with the task of keeping each person’s scale in balance. A bit of happiness and then a small stone of sorrow, until the lives he has in his charge are measured evenly.

  You might think such power is universal, but it is not. There is a silver thread that crisscrosses the landscape of scales and connects strangers to one another. Not even the Keeper of the Scales can control the events traveling through the thread. The only thing he can do is try to equalize the balance once it has been thrown off.

  Like Jennifer Green, each of the Coggan twins was also given a pile of stones at birth. Tom Coggan used up the blush-colored ones in his early years—wasted them on frivolities like Patsy, the blond stripper who worked at the Boom Boom Club. During those years the Keeper tried to balance Tom’s life by dropping one gray stone after another onto the scale, but the weight of whiskey and good times far outweighed the gray stones.

  Before Tom’s thirty-fourth birthday, only a single piece remained in his pile. It was neither a blush-colored stone nor a gray pebble but a large black rock. The Keeper of the Scales gave a saddened sigh, lifted the rock and dropped it onto the sorrow side of Tom’s scale.

  With a resounding thud Tom Coggan’s scale came crashing down and landed on the silver thread that connected him to the woman who had ten years earlier become Jennifer Bishop.

  Clarksburg, Alabama

  February 13, 2013

  That Wednesday morning Jennifer Bishop awoke with yet another migraine. When the alarm on her cell phone rang, the sound seemed sharp as a razor blade in her ear. This was going to be one of those days when she wanted nothing more than to remain in bed with the blinds drawn and an icy cold cloth folded across her forehead.

  Had Drew been at home she would have asked him to drop Brooke off at school, but he was traveling again. This time it was Atlanta or maybe Chicago. He’d left a schedule, but she’d paid little attention to it. This was a week like all the others; five or six days of being on the road then home for a day or two and gone again. What difference did it make if he was in Dallas or Topeka?

  Jennifer tapped the Calendar icon. Just as she thought: there was a Brownie meeting after school. With her head pounding like this, there was no way she could spend the afternoon shuttling Brooke and her friends from school to the meeting and then from the meeting back home.

  Tracy Edwards, Lara Stone and Jennifer took turns carpooling the girls from place to place. Today it was Jennifer’s turn, but with this migraine it would be impossible. She texted Lara.

  “Killer headache. Can U take carpool? I’ll do the next 2.”

  She tapped Send then reluctantly swung her legs to the floor and started toward the bathroom. After splashing a handful of cool water on her face and pulling on a pair of jeans, she went back and checked the messages.

  “No prob,” Lara’s text said. “Feel better.”

  Jennifer tapped out a quick thank you then stuck the phone in her back pocket and headed toward Brooke’s room. Her eight-year-old daughter had inherited Drew’s ability to sleep through almost anything. She gave the girl’s shoulder a gentle shake.

  “Brooke, honey, it’s time to get up.”

  In the same way her daddy would have done, Brooke opened one eye, mumbled, “Okay,” then closed the eye and dug deeper into the pillow.

  “Really,” Jennifer said. “You’ve got to get up. Mama has a headache this morning, and we’re already running late.”

  Brooke gave a sleepy stretch and sat up. “Do I have to take the bus, or are you gonna drive me?”

  “It’s raining, so I’ll drive you. On the way home I can stop at the drugstore and pick up my prescription.”

  Jennifer bent and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Hurry up now. No crawling back into bed.”

  Brooke gave a guilty giggle and pushed back the covers. Although she had her mama’s easy smile, her personality was that of her daddy: serious minded and studious. She never had to be reminded of home
work or tucking a sweater into her backpack. It was done before anyone asked. The night before she’d laid out the clothes she planned to wear to school that day, so she was dressed and downstairs in fifteen minutes flat.

  After a quick bowl of cereal, they were in the car and headed for school.

  Jennifer knew the drop-off line would be long on a rainy morning, and it was. One by one the cars inched forward and kids scrambled out. Three cars ahead of her a Buick tapped the bumper of the SUV in front of it, and all hell broke loose. The agony of waiting for the SUV owner to come around and inspect the bumper, that quite obviously had no damage, escalated when the woman behind the Buick began blowing her horn.

  Jennifer groaned. “My head is killing me. Can’t you just jump out here?”

  Brooke’s eyes grew big and round. “No. It’s against the rules.”

  “The walkway is right there,” Jennifer pleaded. “Five, maybe six feet away.”

  “Rules are rules, Mama. If I get out before—”

  “I know.” Jennifer gave a weary sigh. “Missus Lombardi will come over here and read me the riot act.”

  Brooke nodded.

  There was no escaping or bypassing the drop-off line. The cars were bumper to bumper. Jennifer couldn’t pull out even if she wanted to, so she sat there with a sharp pain hammering against the inside of her head. Her only thoughts were of getting to Dunninger’s Drugstore, grabbing her refill of Relpax and returning home where she could lie down in a darkened room and wait for the migraine to subside.

  After what seemed an eternity, the cars began to move and they pulled up to the walkway. Brooke leaned forward, kissed the side of her mama’s cheek then reached for the door handle.

  As it swung open Jennifer said, “Don’t forget, you’re riding with Ava’s mom to Brownies.”

  “I thought it was your turn.”

  “It was. Lara’s doing me a favor, so don’t forget to thank her, okay, sweetie?”

  “Okay.” Brooke nodded then she slammed the door shut and hurried along to join a group of classmates.

  The sound of the door ricocheted through Jennifer’s brain like a bomb blast. The migraines were getting worse. This one was close to being unbearable. Pulling out of the drop-off line and circling around behind Clarksburg Middle School, she fixed her eyes on the car in front of her and used every last bit of energy she had to push on the gas pedal and keep moving.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tom Coggan was out of money and out of options. He had until five o’clock to get three thousand dollars to Antonio or have both legs broken. He hadn’t had a fix since yesterday afternoon, the ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop and his gut was killing him. He had the shakes so badly he could barely get the mug of coffee to his mouth. After two tries, he tossed the cup into the sink and watched it splinter.

  He’d already pawned his watch, and the only other thing of value he had was the gun. He could pawn that too or use it to get the money he needed. The gun would maybe get him fifty bucks—not enough to pay off Antonio or get a fix—so he decided to go for the alternative. He had nothing to lose; he was as good as dead anyway.

  Tom’s first thought was the liquor store. Liquor stores always had a fair bit of cash on hand, and he could snatch a bottle of booze while he was there. He pulled on his jacket, dropped the gun into the right pocket then stuffed a length of cord and a wool cap into the left. As he moved toward the door he grabbed his sunglasses and put them on.

  It was seventeen blocks to the liquor store. Since he had no car, he had to walk. The rain was barely a mist when he started, but after three blocks it began to pour. Twice he stopped and thought about going back, but then he reasoned that the rain was a good thing. It would keep people at home. The liquor store would be empty and all that much easier.

  By the time he turned onto Atlantic Street, the plan was clear in his mind. He didn’t have to shoot the clerk. He could leave him tied up, and that would allow time enough to get clear of the area. Wearing the sunglasses and hat, he was unrecognizable.

  Tom smiled as fat raindrops dripped off his collar and rolled down his back. He was convinced it was a good plan. All he had to do was get in and out with no violence, and then he’d be home free.

  No violence. That was the thing. That’s where Tom’s brother, Eddie, had made his mistake. As soon as that clerk ended up in the hospital, the cops came looking for him. Tom had warned Eddie a dozen times or more, but Eddie had chosen to listen to Cassidy and ended up in jail.

  Stupid; just plain stupid.

  Good thing the cops didn’t bust their chops looking for a snatch-and-run. Over and over again Tom reminded himself, no violence.

  It was 8:20 when he got to the liquor store. The door was locked. “Closed” the sign said. “Open 10AM to 10PM, Monday through Saturday.”

  Tom reached for his wrist to check the time then remembered his watch was gone. It was at the pawnshop along with his cell phone, bowling ball and a number of other things.

  “Damn,” he mumbled.

  He stood there for several minutes and rattled the door handle as he cussed it for being locked. Finally he turned and started down Commerce Street.

  The bakery was open, but there were three women inside. Not good. Besides a bakery wouldn’t have much cash, and he had no desire for gooey muffins. Two blocks down he saw the green neon sign for Dunninger’s Drugstore and headed in that direction.

  Tom felt for the gun in his pocket and smiled again. A drugstore was as good as a liquor store. Better maybe. Once he had the clerk tied up he could help himself to a bit of morphine or oxycodone to take the edge off.

  ~ ~ ~

  Dunninger’s Drugstore had been robbed the summer before, and Albert Dunninger lived with the reminder of it. He’d been knocked out cold and shoved into a storeroom while the thieves pilfered through his drawers of drugs. After God only knows how long, they’d emptied every container of painkiller, antidepressant, tranquilizer and sleeping tablet then scattered bottles of vitamins across the floor. By the time the police arrived, Albert had a huge lump on his forehead and was so traumatized that he had to be hospitalized for a week.

  The drugstore had remained closed for the full month of August, and before it reopened in September Albert had gotten himself a Beretta 92. He kept it in the drawer beneath the cash register. At first he’d worried the gun was too heavy and perhaps too powerful for an amateur to operate, but he’d solved that problem with shooting lessons and one solid week of target practice.

  The minute Albert saw the stranger walk in he became suspicious. Why would somebody be wearing sunglasses on a day with pouring rain? And a wool cap pulled low over his brow when it was barely fifty degrees?

  He stood behind the cash register, eased the drawer open an inch and then two. He didn’t reach for the Beretta but stood there watching and waiting.

  Tom circled the store, leaving a watery trail behind him. He stopped and browsed a display of candies then moved on to cold remedies. As he walked he glanced down one aisle and along the other.

  He was soaked through to his shirt but feeling good. Already he could imagine himself with a pocket full of money and enough oxycodone for a real high. Once he was certain there was no one else in the store, he turned toward the cash register at the back counter. He slid his hand into his pocket, wrapped it around the handle of the gun and fingered the trigger.

  No violence.

  Tom’s nose was red, swollen almost, and runny looking. In an effort to get the pharmacist to turn away so he could grab him from behind, Tom said, “The doctor called in a prescription, and I’m here to pick it up. Jones; Bill Jones.”

  In that moment Albert could have pulled out the gun but he hesitated, thinking maybe he’d made a mistake judging the fellow. He stepped back from the drawer and asked, “What’s your date of birth?”

  Tom wasn’t prepared for the question, and it unnerved him.

  “February fifth,” he answered nervously.

  The moment the words were
out of his mouth he realized he’d made a mistake in giving his actual birthday. He yanked the gun from his pocket and said, “Don’t move, and you won’t get hurt.”

  He moved closer to the counter, the hammer cocked and his right arm locked into position. The revolver was pointed at Albert’s face.

  Albert heard the front door open and waited for a moment of distraction. His Beretta was less than a foot away. All he needed was the split second when the man turned to glance back.

  The only thing Tom heard was the ringing in his ears.

  Jennifer Bishop came down the cold remedies aisle staggering beneath the pain of the migraine. At the end of the aisle, she rounded the corner and stepped in the trail of water Tom had dripped across the floor. Her foot slid out from under her. She grabbed for the shelf and knocked over an end cap display of Hockmeyer’s Cough Syrup.

  The sound of bottles clattering to the floor was louder than the ringing in Tom’s ears. He whirled around, saw her standing less than two feet away and fired. Before her body hit the floor, Albert grabbed his gun and fired a second shot. That one tore through Tom’s brain and splattered parts of it halfway down the aisle. The last thing Tom Coggan saw was a big black rock hurtling through space and aimed right at him.