Sarah Mayberry - Within Reach

Billie sidled up to her husband and passed him their son before starting to dance in earnest, her small body moving smoothly to the beat. She shook her booty, jiggled her small breasts and wiggled her hips until Michael lost the battle and his mouth curved into an all-out grin.

“Okay, message received. No more work. What needs doing before everyone arrives?”

A flurry of activity ensued. Billie took Angie on a whirlwind tour of her birthday present from Michael, the small wooden studio in the backyard designed to give Billie the space to pursue her current passion for all things ceramic. They had barely returned to the house when a couple of neighbors arrived, along with a few other friends. Michael entertained them on the deck while Angie helped Billie put the finishing touches on the food in the kitchen.

“So… How are things with the hot Greek guy?” Billie asked as she mixed oil and vinegar for the salad dressing.

“Nonexistent,” Angie said.

“Don’t tell me it’s over already?”

“It’s over.”

“Angie, I swear. What are we going to do with you?”

Angie frowned, irritated by the despairing note in her friend’s voice. “Being single is not a disease. I love my life.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. A man does not happiness make. Sometimes, in fact, he makes unhappiness.”

Billie opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it. Angie was glad, since she suspected her friend had been about to say something about Finn, and that would have really pissed her off. They had talked Finn to death years ago. There was nothing new to be said, no new conclusions to come to. He was firmly in the past.

Where he belonged.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Billie said after a short silence. “There’s a new guy at Michael’s office. I haven’t convinced Michael to find out if he’s single or not yet, but if he is, I want you to meet him.”

Common sense told Angie to let the comment slide—Billie was like a runaway freight train when she got an idea in her head—but her own stubbornness demanded a response.

“Let me get this straight. You don’t know this man at all, haven’t even set eyes on him, I’m betting. Yet you want me to go out with him?”

“I’m only thinking of you.”

“I’m curious. What, exactly, is his qualification for being a good prospect for poor old Angie? Having a pulse? Walking upright?” She put down the knife she’d been using to focus all her attention on her misguided friend.

In the loaded silence after her speech Billie slid the knife out of Angie’s reach. “Just in case,” she said, poker-faced.

Angie laughed. Billie was too damn irreverent and likable and her heart was so obviously in the right place. “You are hopeless.”

“So are you.”

They took the salads outside and the next few hours drifted by in a haze of sunshine and white wine and laughter. Angie kicked off her shoes and sat back and listened to the others talk around her, occasionally pitching in a comment of her own, but mostly happy to watch Billie do what she did best—shine and sparkle and glow.

When it came time for dessert, Michael produced a white box sporting the logo of Billie’s favorite bakery and they all oohed and ahhed over the giant chocolate-and-coffee mousse cake inside.

Angie fished a small box from her handbag and handed it to her friend with a smile. “Something for your collection.”

“You spoil me, but I’m not going to say no,” Billie said.

Angie watched as Billie lifted the lid to reveal a delicate black-pearl necklace, the pearls suspended on hand-beaten gold wire that had been curved into delicate, impossible spirals. As always when she first revealed a new piece, there was a little stab of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. After nearly ten years of being a professional jewelry designer, she’d resigned herself to the fact that that small moment of self-doubt would probably never go away.

Perhaps, in some way, it was essential to her craft.

“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.