Today's Reading
With a roll, the car hit on the driver's side, and there was a heavy crack of breaking ice. Frigid water funneled through the open window. As he clenched and unclenched his fists, he fought to relax. He focused on the sensation of his nails digging into his palms, the slight sting helping to ground him in the present moment. Calm down. No big deal. This was like the cold-water immersion therapy the PT staff used to make him do to help muscle recovery after tough games. He needed to breathe through it—slow and steady. With a quick motion, he got the seat belt off, and just in time. The car was sinking fast.
He pushed away the thought as he rattled the door. Stuck. Damn. He'd have to squeeze through the window.
He was a pro athlete and used to be able to run through box jumps, ladder drills, sprints, and cycling to keep his cardio fitness in top form. But last week, he'd gone jogging and had to dial it down to a walk after a measly quarter mile.
Fuck cancer.
He still had his mental fortitude, though. He was paid to stay cool under pressure. He needed to imagine himself by a roaring fire, dry and warm, recounting the story to Nora. He rehearsed it, visualized it, and, with a determined crawl, got halfway through the open window before his belt caught on something.
He pushed, but his arms might as well have been made of wet noodles. His strength leached out by the second.
Failure wasn't an option. He wouldn't go out like this. Not after everything he'd survived. He bit his cheek, wrangling his focus. He had to control and execute each movement efficiently—no room for error or wasted effort.
His heart jackhammered in his ears as he finally kicked free and started swimming for the surface. The top of his head cracked against a frozen ceiling. Unyielding. No way out. Everything was so cold, yet his lungs were a firestorm, burning with fierce intensity. He punched violently. His knuckles scraped a wall of ice. His nails tore, ripping and breaking. No exit. Shit! He felt his strength ebb as his cells screamed for oxygen. Black water pressed on all sides. He couldn't resist the urge. Had to breathe. As he reflexively gasped, the darkness rushed in. An intense emptiness took hold, coupled with a whirling chaos, a sense he was at the end of everything. And then... nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
My Most Neglectful Offspring,
I set pen to paper to address the conspicuous silence that followed my previous letter. I can only surmise that your leisurely diversions have left scant moments for correspondence.
This past Monday, I had the pleasure of taking an excursion through Kensington Gardens with Lavinia Throckmorton. Amidst this floral profusion, dear Lavinia unveiled a most astonishing revelation—her Augusta, at a mere eighteen years of age, has found herself betrothed. A marvel, considering you, my dear, have now completed seven and twenty orbits around the sun in solitary splendor.
In her usual delicate manner, Lavinia sought news of your well-being, and I conveyed that you were finding the rural air most invigorating. My dearest fugitive, you embarked upon your pastoral sojourn to visit your cousin with a promise to be gone for a fortnight. It's now been twice that time.
In your absence, your brother has undertaken the task (again) of identifying suitable gentlemen who, against all odds, remain unattached. I don't have to remind you that opportunities for a union are diminishing with each passing day. I eagerly await your prompt return.
With the deepest affection and a hint of maternal vexation,
Your Loving Mother
A hint? A hint! Lizzy dropped the letter to her lap with a snort. Hell's teeth. Her self-proclaimed Loving Mother was ready to paint the words "Please Marry My Daughter" on a bedsheet to hang out the front window of the family's Mayfair home.
She knotted her hands into the blanket she perched on to keep from shaking her fists at the ducks paddling in the pond down the rise. The mallards were hunting watercress, minding their own business. Her mother could take a lesson from them.
It was high time that woman developed a hobby. Archery, perhaps? Or the delicate art of watercolor? Possibly the solace of a well-chosen book, preferably a scandalous one? Anything to draw attention away from the subject of her daughter's matrimonial prospects, or, rather, the lack thereof.
Her cousin Georgie was the lucky one. Though she'd buried her husband, she'd grown her freedom. Here in Hallow's Gate, she lived the independent life of a merry widow—a shining example of all that was possible. The previous evening, during another of Georgie's legendary dinner parties, a revelation had struck Lizzy during the fish course. A fact so painfully obvious she had inclined her head toward her friend Jane and murmured, "It's a quietly acknowledged truth that a single man in possession of a good fortune would be welcome to make any sensible woman a widow."
...
