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Lake Surrender

By Carol Grace Stratton

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CHAPTER ONE

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
Ally thought about Winston Churchill’s quote as she pulled into her driveway and slammed on the brakes of her emerald green compact sedan. Seeing the FOR SALE sign freshly pounded into the front yard set off her inner tornado, and ruined a perfect Northern California Friday in March.
She jerked the key out of the ignition. Didn’t waste much time, Bryan. Would like to have told Kylie first.
“Let’s go, Benjie,” she said, glancing in the rear view mirror at her six-year-old.
Ally flicked back hair that sat hot on her neck, a color her ex-husband Bryan called a cross between a burnt cranberry and a persimmon. She opened the passenger door and leaned over the car seat, trying to connect to Benjie’s menthol blue eyes. But as a thousand times before, he jerked his head away. Ally sighed and lifted him out of the car. Almost before she planted his red Velcro-strapped sneakers on the ground, her son had bolted down the sidewalk.
“Stop,” Ally hollered, watching a blur of boney limbs and platinum blonde hair fly down the block. He flew past the neighbor’s nanny pushing a stroller of twins and barely missed the mayor of Mountain View, who looked like his Great Dane was taking him for a walk. Benjie’s head turned for a moment before he jumped off the curb and into the street. Ally’s heart sped up as a Honda Civic swerved and barely missed him. The driver leaned on the horn before squealing off.
Dashing to the street, Ally felt the heel of her best Jimmy Choos crunch beneath her. She lurched forward on the other good shoe and gripped one of Benjie’s arms.
Her whole body shook. “What are you doing? You know you’re never supposed to go in the street. That’s naughty.” She cupped his face, and looked into the eyes that never seemed to look back. “Benjamin, don’t ever do that again. I would hate to lose you.” She saw her son take his right hand and grab his left forearm, pinching it till it turned a reddish purple. “Oh, honey, it’s okay, I’m not mad at you. She wrapped her arms around him for a reluctant hug before scooping him up in her arms. She hobbled on one shoe back to their house.
As she hit the code for the garage door opener, she heard a car pull up behind her. Ally turned her head to see a seventy-something portly man sitting in a silver BMW. When he leaned his head out the window, she saw it was her Frank, her boss at Shout Books. “Need to talk to you.”
Ally nodded to him and raised a finger to signal him to wait. She turned back to her son and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Please go to your room, now.” She put him down on the pavement, and watched as he scooted through the garage to the kitchen.
Turning around, she reminded herself to paste on her best professional smile. “Hi, Frank, didn’t expect to see you here today.”
Frank climbed out of the car and headed toward her. “Wanted to catch you before you came in to work tomorrow. Got a minute?”
“Let’s sit on the front porch.” She thought it strange for him to pay her a visit at home. They settled into two big rattan chairs with yellow overstuffed cushions overlooking the lawn, and she waved to her gardener, who was finishing up trimming a bush. Turning back to Frank, she asked, “Can I bring you a drink? Wine, beer?”
He took of a pair of gold wire sunglasses, folded them up, and slipped them into his jacket’s breast pocket. “No thanks.”
“Shoot.”
Frank bowed his head as if to gather his thoughts. “You know you’re a great editor, and you’re the go-to-girl when we need to be represented at conferences. You also have a natural ability to sniff out a children’s bestseller.”
Ally shifted forward in her chair, and focused all her attention on the CEO of Shout Children’s books. As good a friend as Frank was, her instinct told her this wasn’t a social call.
“Thanks for that appreciated and rare compliment, but you didn’t drive down the peninsula to praise me. What gives?”
He stood and started to pace the length of the porch. After two loops, he stopped and motioned to the For Sale sign. “Looks like you’ve got the house on the market.”
Ally put her hands palms side up to show she had no choice. “Yeah. Since the divorce, I can’t maintain the payment by myself.”
“That’s probably providential.” Frank paused to wrangle a cough drop from his pocket, and popped it in his mouth. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you. I wanted to catch you before you read about it on Twitter and Publisher’s Weekly.”
Ally’s stomach did a one-eighty. Her fingers sunk down into the arms of the chair as she absently traced the relief pattern of the rattan. What was he trying to tell her? “Bad news? Providential?” This wasn’t Frank asking her to head up the company’s picnic committee.
“You know the financial woes of the children’s publishing companies. People just aren’t buying their kids books anymore. Video games, yes, print books, no.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. “We’ve tried to maintain an independent voice and keep our company going. But I just got word that the board has accepted an offer to merge with Randly House Publishing.” He fiddled with his watch strap, repositioning it back and forth on his wrist like a nervous twitch.
“Bottom line?”
“Bottom line—we’re downsizing. I was told we have too many acquisition editors and need to eliminate the one that had the least seniority.”
Taking a big gulp, Ally inhaled the warm spring air, trying to comprehend his words. All she could hear was, “Eliminate, eliminate, eliminate.” The word reverberated in her head like a tiny troll banging a brass gong. She opened her mouth to respond, but her throat felt covered with sand. She couldn’t squeak out a word. Was she locked in a horrible dream? She’d climbed the company ladder, starting as an administrative assistant and then becoming an editor, earning excellent yearly reviews. She thought she'd work for Shout for life.
She eked out a hoarse “When?”
Frank leaned toward her and gave her hand a paternal pat. “In about two months. I’m negotiating a severance package for several of you. I’m so sorry, really I am. Just didn’t see it coming.”
Ally watched Frank’s car disappear down the street. Gathering the little bit of strength she had left she opened the front door and propelled her body towards the family room only to crash lengthwise onto the couch. Her Jack Russell dog, Jumping Bean, raced to the sofa and licked her on the arm. “At least you love me, J Bean.”
Kylie, her daughter, walked into the family room from the kitchen, a couple of oatmeal cookies in her hand. “Mom, are we really selling the house?”
Ally put up both hands in front of her, a “don’t even ask” gesture. She could hear the twelve-year-old angst in Kylie’s voice, but was in no mood to start in with her daughter. She needed to control her own tsunami first.
“Sweetie, give me a moment.” Ally grabbed a coke from the refrigerator and collapsed onto the family room couch. She guzzled a few sips and then put the can down. Bringing her feet up to her lap, she leaned over, massaging the balls of her feet. She was too tired for two-and-a-half-inch stilettos. The cool can felt good to Ally, pressed to her forehead, but it didn’t calm her throbbing headache. How was she going to explain to Kylie about the house, and now her job?
“I already ate at Jamie’s and, anyway, you guys promised we could stay here in this house. No fair, Mom.”
Ally stood and walked over to the kitchen bar to thumb through the day’s mail. Pulling out a bill, she turned around only to see her daughter had followed her. Kylie’s look—two dark eyebrows dipped into a frown—told her Kylie wasn’t going to give up until she had an answer.
“I did not promise anything of the sort. I said we’d stay here until it sells. We’ve been talking about selling for weeks, and it has to be sold as part of our divorce.”
Her daughter’s lip started to quiver like a diving board after a jump. “But all my friends, Mom. We can’t move. We just can’t.”
How am I going to plow through this one?
She dropped the pile of mail on the counter, put out her arms, and drew her daughter in for a hug. “I know it’s hard, but I’m asking you to be mature. Things don’t always work out.”
Kylie took a step back, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m sick of being mature. I want to be a kid.” She lowered her head, long hair falling on either side of her face like two shiny sheets of chocolate satin.
Ally touched her daughter’s chin and tipped it up. “Please, Kylie, I know this isn’t what you wanted, but—”
Kylie jerked her head away. “If you and Dad could get just get along—” Choking anger hung in the air like an invisible cloud.
Ally crossed her arms in front of herself. “That’s enough.”
“I have a right to say what I think.” Kylie turned and stomped off to her bedroom.
“While you’re up there, check on your brother.”
Ally groaned and sat down on the long leather couch in the family room. Out of habit, she booted up her laptop, clicking open a file, but then shook her head. Better check on Kylie. She climbed the stairs to Kylie’s bedroom, and stood in the doorway. Her daughter sprawled out on the purple spread, crying.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t think we’d have to put the house up for sale so soon. Maybe we’ll find another nearby.” Ally curled up next to her daughter and hugged her, pulling up the old pink afghan that Aunt Nettie had crocheted when Kylie was a baby.
“Don’t make this any harder. Please, honey.”
Kylie shook her head. “You don’t understand.” She swiped at a tear running down her cheek.
Ally pulled a tissue from a box on her daughter’s bedside, noticing the new box was half empty. “I do understand. I just can’t fix it. Honey, we live in the most expensive part of the country. It comes down to money.” Yeah, money from my now non-existent job. She massaged her daughter’s back, waiting for the crying to subside before she slipped out.
She passed the office located in an alcove off of the upstairs hallway, trying not to think about the vacant bookshelves or the empty spot in the middle of the large walnut desk where Bryan used to keep his computer, phone charger, and a row of family photos. Now it sat oddly clean and uncluttered, a piece of furniture that had lost its importance in their lives. It looks empty and useless, like me. The desk and I, we’ve both lost our identity.
In her bedroom, Ally threw her suit jacket on the bed. She had taken to sleeping in the middle now. It kept her from waking and seeing one side of the bed still made up. Now at least the whole bed would be messed up when she woke. She stared at the wall painted Heavenly Blue, and the carved four-poster bed with its gauzy peach-colored panels. The sanctuary now felt more like Ally’s personal morgue. And I hate the color Heavenly Blue.
She pulled on brown leggings and a lacy stretch top, reminders of her ballet days. In the bathroom, she turned on the faucet to rinse off the day’s stress. Georgia, her sister, used to say she could pass for a woman in her late twenties instead of thirty-five. But, since the divorce, her skin showed her stress. She probably needed to go back to the spa for a face peel to get rid of the latest crop of crow’s-feet.
It didn’t help to brush her hair and see dark red strands left in the sink. I can’t be losing my hair, can I? Ally pulled back her hair to see her forehead. Yes, it did look higher.
While wrestling it back into a ponytail, she heard banging on the closet wall next to the bathroom sink. Ally turned toward the closet. Bryan’s empty belt rack on the back wall vibrated, preview to an earthquake. The thud came from the other side—Benjie’s room.
Just a few more minutes to myself, please, little man.
She flung herself onto the silky bedspread and rolled over onto her back.
Bam, bam, bam. The noise grew more demanding.
She jerked open her son’s bedroom door to discover Benjie pounding his head against the wall—his head the drumstick, the wall the drumhead.
“Oh, baby, don’t do that to yourself.” Ally grabbed her son and cradled his head in one arm. With the other, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Benjie’s therapist. The dog pushed open the bedroom door, barking frantically.
“Quiet, J Bean. I don’t need your opinion.”
She tapped her foot, waiting for Maria to pick up.
The call went right to voicemail, and Ally spit out a terse message.
Why won’t she pick up? Benjie squirmed out of her arms and returned to his head banging. Ally yanked a Transformers blanket off the bed. With one hand she wrapped the blanket around the top of his head as a cushion, and with her other hand she pulled a surgical sponge from the bedside table. Using firm strokes she put pressure on his limbs. His teacher promised the technique worked miracles in calming autistic children. It only took five minutes, and she felt him stop straining in her arms as his little body went limp.
“Me bad, me bad.”
Ally tucked a wisp of hair behind his ear. “No, sweetie, you’re not bad, you just can’t run into the street. We want you to be safe.” Note to self: Buy son a helmet.
Benjie took the lock of hair she had just tucked back and twirled it around his finger, around and around and around. Ally suppressed a scream. If she had to watch him flip his finger around that swatch of hair one more second, she’d be a candidate for the local mental health facility.
Ally disconnected his finger from the strand. “Why don’t you play button collection instead?”
Grabbing a shoe box from a shelf above his desk, she dumped out the contents onto an oval braided rug. In just a few minutes, her only son had lined up all the buttons from small to large, dark to light.
“Whatever it takes.”
Before closing the door, Ally glanced down at Benjie, lost in his world of buttons. He never looked up.
That night after dishes, she joined the kids in the family room. Pulling out more paperwork from her briefcase, Ally settled onto the couch and looked over the pile. She estimated a couple hours of work ahead. Her analysis of two key manuscripts needed to be submitted by Monday. Might as well finish up on a good note.
Kylie padded down the stairs, rubbing her still swollen eyes, and slid into the leather club chair across from her mother. “Mom?” she said as she fingered the curves of a vase next to her.
“Hi sweetie.” Ally patted a spot next to her on the sofa for Kylie to sit down before looking back at her computer.
“I have to know—can we at least stay in this neighborhood?”
“I don’t know.” Ally finished the last sentence of an email then looked up.
“Are we moving?”
“Somewhere.”
“When will you know where?”
“Not sure.” The corners of her daughter’s mouth flipped up. “Mom, you always say, a lot can happen in twenty-four hours. You never know.”
Ally gave her a thumbs-up and flashed her a smile. Bless that girl for her eternal optimism.
“Twenty-four,” added Benjie, as he used toothpicks to outline the gray and brown hexagons in the patterned rug.
“Yep, so hop to bed so we’ll have a new twenty-four hours sooner.” Ally kissed her daughter goodnight, then turned and watched her go down the hall, taking her long skinny legs with her. Ally’s dad used to say to Ally, “You have long legs to take yourself to places faster. But where will you be when you arrive?” Where had they taken her? Would Kylie be in a hurry, and as impatient, too?
* * *
“What’s this about a new twenty-four hours?” a low voice interrupted her thoughts. Bryan had slipped into the family room and into the conversation. He leaned over to ruffle Benjie’s hair and give him a kiss on the top of his head. “Just came by to give you the real estate brochures.”
Ally glared at the tall lean figure she used to be married to; the sight of him caused her jaw to lock. “Where have you been? I had to tell Kylie by myself.”
Bryan shook his head. “Sorry, I had no idea they’d stick the sign in the yard so soon. I want to sit down and talk to her.”
“As usual, your timing’s impeccably bad.”
The minute the words escaped her lips she saw the pain slashed across his face, and Ally wished she could take back the cutting words.
“As usual, your role in life is to remind me I’m not the perfect father.”
Ally bit her lip, trying not to say anything more, but the poison slipped out again. “If you had been around more—”
“Here we go again.”
“—maybe we would have had a semblance of a normal family.”Bryan lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, a sign of trying to control his anger.
She gulped. “I’m sorry, that just slipped out.”
“Not the first time. Or the last, Miss Wordsmith.”

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