The Shimmering Road Read online

  ALSO BY HESTER YOUNG

  The Gates of Evangeline

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Hester Young

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  Ebook ISBN: 9780698190788

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Young, Hester, author.

  Title: The shimmering road / Hester Young.

  Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2017. | Series: Charlie Cates ; 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016039342 | ISBN 9780399174018

  Subjects: LCSH: Women journalists—Fiction. | Children in dreams—Fiction. | Family secrets—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3625.O96435 S54 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016039342

  p. cm.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Hester Young

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART I One

  Two

  PART II Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  PART III Ten

  PART IV Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  PART V Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  PART VI Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  PART VII Thirty-Three

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For the women who showed me Tucson:

  Sylvia, Annette, Laura, Margaret, Tavie, Carolyn, Isabel, Eva, Diana, and most of all, Teresa

  To say nothing is out here is incorrect; to say the desert is stingy with everything except space and light, stone and earth is closer to the truth.

  —WILLIAM LEAST HEAT-MOON

  The dream begins with water, always water.

  I’m awash in indistinct shapes and hues, anchored only by the feel of it: a warm and steady spray against my back, soothing in its measured patter. Then the colors sharpen, take form, like the lens of a camera adjusting its focus.

  Walls of concrete block, painted white, peeling. A metal rod from which a flimsy cloth curtain hangs. Exposed piping. A showerhead.

  I’m standing on blue and yellow tile, naked, drenched. The floor dips beneath me toward a drain, but the gathering water can’t escape quickly enough. It pools around my ankles, soothing my tired feet.

  I close my eyes. Roll my head gently from side to side, release the tension in my shoulders. Thoughts of the outside world buzz at the edge of my mind in an angry swarm, but I push them away. Allow myself to occupy only this moment, to be wholly present in my body, which is no longer mine alone. I run a hand over the swelling curve of my abdomen and smile at the answering kick.

  I’m going to be a mother, I think. Going to put the ugly past behind me and build a future with this child.

  Despite my worn surroundings, I feel clean. My body is full of life and hope and promise. I stretch my arms luxuriously above my head, enjoying the weight of my growing baby, the sensation of running water against my face and heavy breasts.

  It never occurs to me that we’re not alone.

  The sound cuts through everything, the falling water, my sense of calm, my belly. A loud pop, like a firework going off behind me. And I can feel it.

  I stumble backward, clutching my stomach, suddenly struggling to breathe. I don’t fully grasp what’s happening until I see the blood swelling from beneath my hands.

  A gunshot.

  I’ve been hit. She’s been hit.

  Two more pops. A pressure in my chest, a burning. Now I’m drowning in the dark, trying to break through, swimming, swimming, until the water becomes blankets and my lungs at last find air.

  When I awake, find myself in the safety of my own bedroom once more, there’s a wave of relief, intense and fleeting. That dream again, I think. Still, I reach down and touch my belly, waiting for some movement, some sign that my baby’s okay. Only after I’ve felt her lazy swish within me do I relax.

  She’s fine, I reassure myself, and so are you. The dream hasn’t come true.

  But another, darker part of me knows I can’t rest easy. Not yet, it tells me. Not yet.

  PART I

  Sidalie, Texas

  July

  2012

  One

  I know, long before Noah parks in the newly paved two-car driveway, that this is not a house I want to own. The upscale brick exterior and sharp white trim, the springy green lawn, the sprawling garage—it’s so cookie-cutter cute, so ready for its spot on HGTV. So beautiful, if I were being fair, but I’m not.

  As they say in real estate, location, location, location.

  After watching me shoot down a dozen other properties that looked exactly like this one, Noah can’t have high hopes, but he puts on a good face nevertheless. “This is one of Sidalie’s best neighborhoods,” he says, and then, noting my wrinkled nose, adds, “Would you at least keep an open mind?”

  Our realtor, who has been waiting in her gleaming Grand Cherokee, now rushes over to meet us. “Hey there, honey!” Brandi exclaims, her eyes barely meeting mine before they settle on my pregnant belly. “Look at you! Must be getting close now, Charlotte!”

  “She’s thirty-two weeks.” Noah beams with that can-you-believe-it expression that older women so adore in an expectant father.

  Brandi is no exception. “Aw, now, isn’t he precious? You’ve got a proud daddy-to-be right here. I love it!”

  Brandi Babcock may possess the name of a porn star, but she has the body of a butternut squash, a solid top that flares out into an epically large backside. In the past few months of house-hunting, I’ve grown rather fond of her. When not raving about architectural features, she’s dishing about the details of her daughter’s upcoming wedding, and even though these extravagant nuptials aren’t my style, I admire how much she cares. I can only imagine what it would be like to have a mother so invested in my life.

  “I just can’t wait to
show you this property,” Brandi gushes. “Light, airy, great yard, practically brand-new. And plenty of room to expand the family!” She gives me a little wink, as if multiplying is the secret desire of every woman.

  I grin. She must be seriously underestimating my age. At thirty-nine, I have no intention of “expanding the family.” In point of fact, Noah and I were blindsided by this pregnancy, and if our nascent relationship has thus far absorbed the shock and left us eager for our daughter’s arrival, it’s more a function of luck than careful planning.

  Brandi’s tour goes over about as well as the last twelve. Noah likes the place, and I don’t. At thirty-five hundred square feet, the house is absurdly large—“Texas sized!” as Brandi said with a laugh. It also possesses the same characteristics as every other property we’ve seen, which I can by now recite along with her: crown molding, granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, master bath with his-and-hers sinks, a pool, a two-car garage. I feel a twinge of homesickness. Flawless, voluminous real estate at ridiculously affordable prices? This is not my world.

  “And there’s an underground sprinkler system,” Brandi tells me, as if this is the item that I’ve been missing, the one that will close the deal.

  I move through the house, nodding politely at the right intervals, but when she warns us that the bathroom attached to the garage “needs some work,” my body kicks into high alert. Could it be? The shower from my dream with the blue and yellow tile? Surely not in a house this nice.

  Noah glances at me, one eyebrow raised. He knows exactly where my mind has gone, and he’s right there with me. Since my nightmare began a month ago, we’ve both kept an eye out for sketchy-looking showers, approached every unfamiliar restroom with caution.

  My dreams are not like other people’s. They show me things.

  “What kind of work does the bathroom need, exactly?” I ask Brandi.

  “The sink is stained,” she admits. “I think the previous owner washed out some paintbrushes there. It’s just a half bath, and I’m sure you’d never use it, but I know how particular you are.”

  Half bath. That means no shower. Noah gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “Well?” Brandi asks me when we’ve completed the walk-through. “What did you think?”

  “It’s just so . . . big.”

  “These New York City girls.” Noah shakes his head. “You finally give ’em room to breathe, and they don’t know what to do with it.”

  Brandi laughs. “I can see that!” She puts a hand on my shoulder, preparing to dispense helpful advice. “It seems big now, Charlotte, but you’ll want all this space once your baby comes. Children have a way of shrinking a home, you’ll see.”

  Her all-knowing smile gets to me. I can feel my hormones flaring up—it doesn’t take much these days. “Thanks for the tip, Brandi, but this isn’t my first house. Or my first child.”

  “Oh no? I thought—”

  “I had a son. He died last summer.”

  I regret mentioning Keegan the moment the words pass my lips. Though pregnancy regularly brings his loss to the forefront of my mind, I recognize that he’s a delicate subject as far as others are concerned. People never know what to say about the death of a child. Even the perennially perky Brandi looks thrown off balance.

  “I—had no idea,” she stammers. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  Noah puts a hand on my waist and nudges me toward the door. He knows this house is a lost cause. “Thank you so much, Brandi, for showin’ us the place,” he says. “We’ll give it some thought.”

  “Of course,” she agrees, ready to get me out of here. “Y’all just call if you’d like another showing.”

  Back in the car, Noah makes no mention of the house or Brandi Babcock, but I can feel his disappointment. I stare out the window at all the shiny new houses of Sidalie, knowing how desperate Noah is to own one, wishing I could share in his enthusiasm.

  “Maybe we should put this house thing on the back burner for a while,” Noah suggests. “The baby’s comin’ soon. We don’t need the extra stress right now.”

  I grab my water bottle from the center console and take a long drink. “That’s probably a good idea. To table the search for a bit.”

  He doesn’t address the thing we both know. That I don’t ever want to buy a house in Sidalie. That I’ll use every possible excuse to avoid putting down roots here.

  Our living situation will remain in a holding pattern for now, the month-by-month lease on our apartment a tenuous compromise that can’t last forever. I see his plan, of course, as clearly as he sees mine. He’s hoping that, with patience, he can wear me down, that Sidalie will grow on me like a slow fungus, consuming my resistance bit by bit until I capitulate.

  It’s a battle he may very well win. I know what having a baby does to a person. Odds are good I’ll be too tired to fight him once our daughter’s here. Sooner or later, I’ll stop struggling and submit. Resign myself to living someone else’s life, a life I had no hand in choosing.

  On our way home, we stop at a Walgreens to pick up more prenatal vitamins. What should be a three-minute errand quickly blows up when Noah is accosted in the parking lot by a plump brunette.

  “Noah?!” She has platform sandals and a rock that could probably feed an African village for a year. “Oh my gosh, how are you?”

  I know the drill by now. She’s either one of his landscaping clients, which would be fine, or someone he knows through his ex-wife, which would be awkward.

  It’s Option B.

  “I can’t believe I ran into you,” the brunette says. “I was just thinking of you guys the other day. I told Tim, we should invite Carmen and her husband over. It’s been way too long.”

  One would think, given the number of times he’s been in this exact scenario, that Noah would have developed a more suave approach. That he’d have learned to tell the truth straight off, mention his divorce directly instead of pussyfooting.

  Nope.

  True to form, he gets that deer-in-the-headlights look and begins rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Wow,” he says. “Yeah. You and Tim—it’s been a while.”

  “Right? But our son is finally sleeping through the night, so we’re, like, trying to have a social life again. Where are you guys living now?” Somehow the brunette remains totally oblivious to the immensely pregnant woman at Noah’s side. She probably thinks I’m a relative. They always do. “You moved, right? I drove by your old house a few months ago, and the lawn was a mess. I knew that couldn’t be your place, ha-ha.”

  “Yeah, Carmen and I, uh, sold the house,” he says, still failing to introduce me. I feel like a giant piece of furniture, a poorly positioned piano or clumsy table that Noah’s always trying to get around. “I’m in an apartment right now. Not sure where I’ll go next.”

  She misses his meaning entirely. “Knowing Carmen, you’ll probably end up in Houston, living, like, a block from her office. What’s the big plan? Partner at the firm by thirty-five?”

  Noah scratches his head. “That’s her plan,” he says. “And you’re right, actually. She did get a place in Houston. I think she’s . . . doin’ okay. From what I hear.”

  At last, it dawns on the brunette. Her mouth drops open. Her eyes bug. Suddenly she sees me, really sees me, and I know she’s jumping to a number of unfavorable conclusions. “Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed. Did you and Carmen split up?”

  “Yeah.” Noah looks apologetic, as if her bad manners and general cluelessness are somehow his fault. “We just reached a point . . . where it made sense.”

  The woman stares at me, awaiting further explanation. She’s already decided that he was cheating, that I was his dirty little secret, that I probably leveraged my pregnancy to break up his marriage. All untrue, but how can one defend oneself against unspoken accusations?

  “This is Charlie, by the
way.” Noah makes no other attempt at introduction, and after some stilted conversation, the brunette drifts away, her smile pinched with tacit disapproval.

  I try not to take it personally. The woman was Carmen’s friend, after all. Whatever story Noah tells, her loyalties will always lie with his ex-wife. I don’t begrudge her that, don’t even blame Noah for his ineptitude, although just once, I’d love for him to brag on me instead of freezing up like a kid caught daydreaming in class. This is my girlfriend, Charlotte Cates, he could say. She’s a journalist from New York. Did you know she has a book coming out next month?

  But that might read as insensitive. There’s no winning here—unless you’re Carmen.

  Though I’ve never met the hotshot lawyer who once shared Noah’s bed, I feel like I know her, quite intimately, in fact. Because it’s not just her ex-husband I’ve taken on. Somehow, unwittingly, I’ve inherited her life.

  Sidalie isn’t a large town, and I can’t help but move in her shadow, fall into all of her and Noah’s old routines. I shop at her grocery store, dine at her favorite restaurants, receive her mail. Mrs. Noah Palmer, the envelopes say, and they’re not for me.

  Carmen may have left Sidalie, but her family members remain tethered to Noah’s landscaping company. Two of her cousins work for Noah, and his lead landscape designer just happens to be Carmen’s little sister. Our uncomfortable encounter with the brunette is nothing compared to the stink-eye Cristina gives me on the rare occasion I stop by his office.

  It’s not the life that I imagined when we left Louisiana together just a few months ago, ready to see where our relationship would take us. Things were easy then. I loved our time on the road: stopping to explore tiny towns, sleeping at whatever funky motel we might chance upon, photographing every tacky roadside attraction. When we returned to Noah’s native Texas, I hoped that Sidalie would be another pit stop for us, a dot on the map where he tied up the loose ends of his business and then moved on, went somewhere new, built a life from nothing with me and our daughter.