Fools at the Altar

Her first mistake was going to Tampa. She should have known that nothing good ever happened in Florida.

Her second mistake was marrying

him

. That was the worst mistake of all.

Dressed in a white charmeuse wedding gown and clutching a bouquet of gardenias to her breast, Grace Marshall had walked down the aisle to the altar. Like a lamb to the slaughter. A silly lamb. A moron. An idiot. A goddamn fool.

Six years before sealing her fate at the altar, Grace had been 18 years old. She'd left her hometown of Andover Connecticut to attend the University of South Florida. That was where she'd met Jack Forester, her very own 'Florida Man.'

He'd treated her well at first, but as soon as his wedding ring was on her finger and she was living under his roof, he'd changed. It had begun with questions.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"How come you're home 10 minutes later than you were supposed to be?"

"Who was that guy you were talking to?"

"You were flirting with the bastard, weren't you?"

"Why are you wearing such a short skirt? Are you a hooker? Oh, you're not? Then why do you keep dressing like one?"

"Why did you go there alone when I specifically told you not to?"

"Why are you still friends with that bitch even after I told you to cut ties with her? She's a bad influence."

"Why haven't you quit your job yet? I keep telling you that you don't need to parade yourself around an office with all those leering men. Not when you've got me to provide for us."

"Why are you always talking on the phone with your dad? What's there for you two to talk about constantly? You know he's never liked me."

Soon, he'd stopped throwing questions and begun throwing fists. Life became easier to bear if she simply let him have everything the way he wanted it.

That life of walking on eggshells had lasted three years, until she'd found the courage to leave. The knowledge that something better was out there became too much to resist. The rest of the world called her like a siren. She needed more out of her existence than waiting for the next time her husband would raise his hand to her. She needed more than sitting around for the next black eye or bloodied lip. She needed

more

.

So she'd packed a bag and run. And she'd been running ever since.

Always looking over her shoulder. Never going anywhere he'd expect her to go. Places he knew made her happiest. Places he'd find her if she ever went. She didn't dare step a toe in Andover, or anywhere near Connecticut.

"Leave me and I'll find you," he'd once told her, those pale blue eyes drilling into her face. "I'll find you and so help me, I'll choke the life out of you with my bare hands."

She'd never forgotten those words, because she knew he'd meant them. Jack Forester did not make empty threats. Jack Forester did not play.

He would never be finished with her until one or both of them were dead. So she never stopped running. She worked temporary jobs and lived in short-lease apartments. Wondering, each hour of each day, if she'd turn a corner and see him.

She'd gone from Tampa to Chicago and stayed there a month, then to Milwaukee for six weeks, then D.C. for a couple months, then Raleigh, then Dallas, then Denver, then Albuquerque. Bouncing around with no pattern.

Right now, she was in California. She'd lived in Albuquerque for three months but she'd begun to feel watched so she'd run again. She'd cut her long hair off, dyed it black, exchanged her car for a different make, model and color—and fled her apartment in the dead of night.

She'd taken circuitous routes for miles; heading northwest. She'd arrived at Paloma Beach. She'd been here 2 weeks and she didn't feel like she'd been followed. Here among summer tourists, she felt safe. Her new studio apartment was in a downtown tenement.

It was always safer in crowded tenements. Where someone would hear if she screamed...

That thought made her stomach clench. Her lunch leapt to the back of her throat.

Deliberately, Grace took a deep breath of sea breeze, swallowing her nausea and forcing herself to relax. There was no need to be afraid. Jack Forester hadn't found her trail again. He hadn't tracked her here. He wasn't watching her. She was safe, even if just for now.

She spent the whole day at that tranquil beach, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat and aviators. As the day drew to its close, she watched the sunset over the bay, thinking that she hadn't swum. It had been a long time since she'd swum, and she'd gotten so much sun today that she wanted a dip before it got too dark and evening tide came in.

Tipping back her hat brim, Grace cast a look along the beach, scanning each vacationer's face in the light of the sunset. There were no faces she recognized. Secure in her anonymity, she took off her hat and sunglasses, stood up, and stretched. She left her things on her towel, stepping onto still-warm sands and then out to the shore where land became water. As a wave came washing onto shore, foaming around the bay, she dipped a toe in.

She smiled; the water was wonderfully cool.

She waded in, her smile growing wider as her overwarm body was enveloped in cool water. She stayed close to shore at first, but the temptation soon came to swim just a little farther out. She gave into temptation, cleaving the water with skilful strokes. Swimming felt amazing after lying in the sun all day. She was utterly serene. Nobody was watching.

But within the next thirty seconds, she began to pray fervently that somebody

was

watching and would come to her rescue.

The riptide came out of nowhere, and came instantaneously.

Much later, she would kick herself for not having noticed the signs when she'd begun to swim out. But she swam straight into a break in the waves and didn't realize she was in life-threatening danger until a longshore current jetted her farther out from the beach. She instantly lost control of her movements. The water moved her, grabbing her like a ragdoll and dragging her with it, out to the sea.

A wave crashed over her head. Saltwater rushed into her mouth. Panic shot into her chest—sheer, unadulterated panic.

Logically, she knew the best way of surviving a riptide was to not fight against the current in a bid to swim directly back to shore. But in the moment, all rationality was lost in terror. The water that had seemed so serene was now a demon trying to snatch her life from her. This water wanted to suck her into its depths and consume her. This water was as evil as Jack Forester.

Grace thrashed in the foaming waves, the current carrying her several feet in a single second. She tried to remember to swim perpendicular to the current, but she no longer knew what direction perpendicular was. She didn't know left from right.

She made to scream, but the sound was murdered by another rush of saltwater filling her mouth and nose.

Oh, God. Oh, sweet God. She was about to die.

The water submerged her. She couldn't see anything.

Fighting, she broke the surface again. Thrashing and flailing without rhythm. But she was losing energy fast.

She was about to try for another scream when the current dragged her even farther out from shore. Flailing was no use. The water sapped the strength from her limbs. It didn't feel like she was in the ocean any longer. It was now so difficult to move that she might as well be in a vat of molasses.

She'd die.

She was sinking. Down...down...dark...dark... The water was bottomless.

She'd die and her family would grieve. She'd never hug her parents again. She'd never see her childhood home again, where frost blanketed the avenue in winter. In summer, poet's jasmine trailed on the mailbox and apricot roses wove through the pergola. She'd never laugh with her old friends again; Thomas, and Rose, and Jennifer, and Alexander.

Alexander...

She would never see him again. Alexander, her childhood sweetheart. The kind-hearted boy she'd loved as a girl. When they'd last seen each other, he'd been 18 and had left Andover to attend Columbia University. That was twelve years ago. He'd be a man of 30 by now.

Alexander...

Grace Marshall swallowed another rush of saltwater, and everything went black.

Alexander...

#######

Author's Note: This story contains descriptions of physical assault. If this is distressing to you, tread with caution. Any comments containing hateful slurs will be deleted.

#######

(20 years later)

October -- November 1993

White Plains, New York

Chapter One: The Ancient Beast

"Elephant guns. Let's take them down one by one. We'll lay it down. Let the seasons begin. Take the big game down." Beirut,

Elephant Gun

.

*

Tessa Rouanet sat in a wingback armchair, a slender figure in a crisp pinstripe skirt-suit. Sapphires were at her ears and fingers, flashing blue fire. Auburn hair, gleaming red fire, fell to her shoulders in neat waves. Her long legs were crossed, suede pumps on her feet. Her green eyes were focused and alert.

A notepad and fountain pen were in her hands. There was a frosted glass coffee table in front of her. Across the table was a daybed where a middle-aged woman lay, her eyes on the ceiling.

This was a psychologist's office; a comfortable one. The walls were painted a soothing duck-egg blue. The furniture was of soft fabric. Two steaming cups of cocoa were on the table, both half-drunk.

With her gaze focused on the middle-aged client, Tessa Rouanet spoke in a tone of calm encouragement. "Won't you continue?"

"I woke up two days later in a hospital," said the middle-aged client, still curled up on the daybed. "It turned out that a lifeguard really

had

seen when the riptide carried me out. She saw me, dived in after me, and saved me. She's the reason I'm alive to this day. When I woke up in the hospital, I was in the Intensive Care Unit. A neurologist showed me a CT scan they'd done. He told me I'd had an internal hemorrhage. When I asked him exactly when I'd heal up, he told me the injury was relatively minor and nothing should impair my recovery, but he couldn't specify a date." Grace Marshall rolled her eyes. "If you've ever dealt with doctors, you'll know how irritatingly vague they can be."

"I'm glad to say I've never been so seriously injured. I still know how medical doctors can be, though." Tessa smiled. "My brother's been a physician for nearly 14 years. I have a soft spot for doctors, and he's the reason why. They sometimes avoid putting specific times on things because they can't always be certain. The body doesn't always respond the way we expect, so a little caution goes a long way."

"Maybe," Grace conceded. "Anyway, I stayed a week in the hospital. I rested in my apartment another week, then I left California. I was getting antsy. My accident had made local news. That would have made it a lot easier for him to track me down."

Tessa sipped her cocoa. "Where did you go next?"

"Seattle," Grace replied on a sigh.

"You were unhappy there?"

"That's putting it mildly. I hated it."

"Because you'd rather have stayed longer in California? Or was there a deeper reason?"

"It wasn't deep at all. I was angry. I was so angry that I had to be in that godforsaken rainy city. I hated everything about Seattle. That's when I finally stopped being so afraid of him. I was

pissed

." Grace suddenly turned her head, fixing Tessa with smoldering eyes. Her voice rang with bitter fury. "If it weren't for my moving around so much because of that bastard, I'd never have been at Paloma Beach in the first place. I could have died when that riptide took me. I thought I was a goner. Oh, I was unhappy in Seattle alright. I hated everything and everyone. Especially that goddamn Jack Forester. I still hate him. God, I

hate

him!"

Her hands shaking, Grace sat up in the daybed. She snatched up her cocoa mug and gulped. "That bastard!" She slammed the mug down, trembling all over. "That fucking stupid useless piece-of-shit rat bastard stole years of my life from me. Years living in terror. I didn't deserve that! I didn't!"

"You didn't," Tessa agreed in a calm voice. "And you have every right to resent it."

"I was a moron to have married him. How could I not have seen how evil he was? When I look at myself in those wedding pictures, I don't see a bride. You know what I see? A fool in a wedding gown." Grace released a ragged breath. Finally running out of steam, she curled back onto the daybed. Her trembling began to ease.

Tessa didn't say a word. She allowed Grace to calm down in her own time.

This was how Tessa Rouanet handled her clients in the early stages of their treatment. She was a Clinical Psychologist who specialized in trauma. She tackled trauma the way a game hunter took on a hulking beast. You couldn't wave a tiny handgun at a colossal beast and expect to successfully defeat it. No. You went in with an elephant gun. You took aim with a .458 Lott rifle, firing strategically until you took the big game down.

During the early sessions, Tessa let her clients express everything they felt, as the feelings came. She never told them their feelings were wrong. She didn't judge them if they ranted. No holds were barred. But once all the pieces were finally hurled on the floor, she guided them towards picking the valuable pieces back up—and leaving the rest behind.

This was Grace Marshall's third session. During their very first consultation, Tessa had asked her, "Could you let me know what you hope to achieve through this?"

Grace's reply had been, "I want to stop being angry. Someone in my past made my life hell. It's been 20 years and I thought I'd gotten over it, but out of nowhere lately, I've been having intrusive thoughts and angry spells. Sometimes depression comes over me and I can't get out of bed. I lie there thinking about everything I went through, and I feel worthless. Sometimes I cry. When the anger hits, I can't control it. I lash out at whoever's nearest. It's affecting my current relationships, and that's the last thing I want. I thought I was over the trauma, but I guess not. Maybe I'm going crazy."

Tessa had replied, "I dislike the word 'crazy.' This isn't psychosis. Unless you're having delusions and hallucinations, you're not psychotic. I've found from my years in practice that repressed traumas coming back is usually the cue that you're ready to face them and tackle them for good. This might well be a sign that you're mentally stronger now."

Grace had given a bark of humorless laughter. "Stronger? I don't know about that. When I lie in bed crying over the wasted years, I definitely don't feel strong. I just want this to end. I need my peace of mind."

"That's a good goal. No matter what's happened in the past, the best thing is to seek peace for yourself." Tessa had folded her hands on her desk. "Here's what I think we should do. We'll have a few sessions where we talk through your trauma in a way that feels comfortable for you, then we'll have a session to discuss treatment and set goals together. You can use those first few sessions to assess me and decide if I'm the right psychologist for you. If you want to stick with me, great. If you decide I'm the wrong fit, I'll gladly refer you to other specialists who might be able to help you achieve your goal."

"That sounds fair."

So the sessions had begun. From what Grace had told so far, she'd been put through the wringer by her first husband. She'd been abused, beaten, threatened, stalked. Hunted like prey. And they were only halfway through the retelling of her trauma.

Now, Tessa checked her watch. It was 4:49pm. This session—and her workday—was ending. "Take another few minutes to relax," Tessa said to Grace. "We've got 10 minutes left, so I'll finish my notes and we'll wrap this session up. During next week's session, we'll pick up your story from your arrival at Seattle."

Grace nodded. "Okay."

For the next 5 minutes, the room was quiet; the silence broken by Tessa's pen scratching the paper as she finished writing her notes. There was also Grace's steady breathing, and the autumn wind howling outside. By 5:00pm, the session was wrapped up and Grace Marshall was out the door.

Alone in her office, Tessa Rouanet put the last client charts in their correct files and locked the files in her desk drawer. She took her purse, put on her coat, and left her office.

Jean-Yves was at his desk outside her door.

Jean-Yves Leduc was her personal assistant. He was also 22 years old, and the sort of male handsome enough to be called 'beautiful.' He had the face of a demigod; gaunt and symmetrical, with hollow planes and angles that could cut glass. His eyes, the color of molten gold, sat underneath thick black eyebrows. His matching head of black hair fell like a glossy curtain to frame his face. The body matched the face—he stood a head taller than most men, with a lean muscularity his office clothes couldn't hide.

Jean-Yves sat upright as Tessa stepped out of her office. "Heading home, Dr Rouanet?" he asked her.

As he spoke, he shuffled the papers in front of him. Trying, Tessa knew, to look efficient. He was new to this job and still learning the ropes.

"Yes." Tessa paused at his desk. "This morning, I reminded you to rebook my next session with Mr. Hill. The veteran with complex-PTSD. He said he couldn't make next week's session. Have you rescheduled him and called to give him his new appointment time?"

Jean-Yves groaned. "Oh, shit—I mean, sorry! I

knew

I was forgetting something." He glanced at his watch. "It's only a little after five. I can fix this. I'll reschedule him now, and call him to confirm. I'll fix it and do better next time."

Saying nothing, Tessa gave Jean-Yves a disapproving stare.

"I know I've said that before. But I'm trying, I really am. I know you took a chance hiring me. I promise I won't make another scheduling mistake. I'll do better."

Tessa sighed. Jean-Yves had been saying "I'll do better" since she'd hired him three months ago.

She hadn't needed a personal assistant before, but she'd recently taken on several new clients. She now needed a P.A. to handle the admin while she focused on the clients. But that only worked if said assistant was any good at the job. She'd been patient with Jean-Yves at the start, but patience was getting difficult.

He didn't have as much experience as other applicants who'd submitted résumés, but she'd invited him for an interview because his French name had made her curious. Ever since marrying her husband, a Frenchman from Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, Tessa had developed an interest in French expats. It was nice to talk about France with people who knew and loved it.

But when Jean-Yves arrived for the interview, Tessa had learned he wasn't French. He was Canadian; a Québécois. His eager friendliness had won her over despite his meager experience. Compassion for his circumstances had sealed the deal; steady employment was a requirement of his visa.

Jean-Yves Leduc had moved to New York to pursue a modeling career. He'd admitted this to her at the interview. He'd gotten some modeling gigs so far, but he was still at the struggle stage. He needed steady employment to justify remaining in The States, so she'd felt a moral obligation to help him out and had hired him on the spot.

She was now starting to regret being such a soft touch. It was something her parents had berated her for since childhood.

"You're too damn sensitive," her father would sigh.

"You're gonna need a transfusion soon, what with how your big ol' heart keeps bleeding," her mother would add, with coldly upturned lips.

"That's okay," a teenaged Tessa had once sneered back at her mother. "I'd rather have a big ol' bleeding heart than a heart that's the size of a dried-up raisin. Like yours."

Her elder brother had witnessed that exchange. He hadn't spoken. He'd just smiled wryly to himself. That smile he always had while she and their parents were fighting. He was a good brother to her, but he'd never taken sides during family arguments. Somehow, he'd never been at the center of a major disagreement. Maybe that was because he'd never been as emotional as her. He was less likely to take things personally, and therefore, less likely to react.