Getting It Right Read online

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  About Karen E. Osborne

  Copyright & Credits

  About Akashic Books

  To Bob, my friend, partner, and love of my life

  And to Marci Korwin for helping me save my life

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jim Smyth died young but not soon enough.

  The coffin hovered over the grave. In front, a protective canopy snapped in the wind, which smelled like newly turned earth and fading roses. Short rows of collapsible chairs held fifteen mourners underneath the covering and a few others clustered around the edges. From her vantage point on a hill several yards away, Kara watched the hat- and scarf-covered heads and tried to imagine who they might be. Why would anyone mourn Big Jim?

  Flyer wrapped his right arm around her. Slushy rain hit their shared umbrella, making a soothing white noise. She leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder.

  "I wish they'd hurry and cover him up," Flyer said.

  Tuesday stood a few steps away, her thin arms hugging her body. "They'll wait till everyone is gone." The rain made her face glisten.

  Flyer dug his left hand into his pocket. "Let's scare 'em off." He gestured with his chin toward the gravesite. "Run down there, yell and holler."

  "We should go." Tuesday stepped half under the umbrella, some almost-snow slipping down the side of her jacket. "It's over."

  Kara agreed it was time to go. She prayed Tuesday was right about it being over. The three of them were huddled under a leafless sugar maple in Woodlawn, the Bronx's largest cemetery. March had barreled in announcing the death of their childhood torturer, and they couldn't stay away. Kara had thought if she saw Big Jim Smyth in a deep, dank, and lonely hole, it would bring her peace, and she could move on. They all could.

  To the south, the 4 train rattled by; the threesome headed in its direction. Discrete signs along pathways named to hide their true destination marked the way: Alpine Lane, Laurel Road. Bare trees cast stark, shifting shadows. Woodlawn Cemetery stood as an unlikely oasis in the urban borough. Multifamily brick houses edged the northern border; to the west, cars droned along the congested Major Deegan; to the east, the Bronx River Parkway curved around the four hundred acres of the cemetery. Whenever a train banged its way uptown or down, the mourners received a jolt of life.

  Kara slowed. The feeling was back—someone or something was watching her. She looked around and saw only rows of headstones jutting up behind the stand of evergreens, icy bits of frozen rain coating the grass.

  Tuesday said, "Can you believe it? He's really dead."

  "Well, I'm not buying it." Flyer tilted the umbrella toward Kara.

  Tuesday rocked from side to side. "When I heard he was sick, I began to hope."

  "We should have gone to the wake," Flyer nodded his head vigorously, "walked right up to the coffin, and pulled out a mirror—checking for breath like they do in old-time mobster movies."

  "After praying for it night after night . . ." Tuesday trailed off.

  The hairs on the nape of Kara's neck rose. She twisted around quickly and Flyer stumbled. "Sorry." Twigs cracked under the feet of scrambling squirrels. The heavier sound, more deliberate, had disappeared. Was she imagining things?

  "Is something going on with you?" Tuesday asked Kara in the same angry tone she always used, no matter the subject. "You've been jumpy all day."

  "We're all wrecked," Flyer said. "This has been a hell of a day."

  But that wasn't all of it for Kara. How could she explain what had no substance? "Just the jitters." That barely covered it. She felt stalked.

  "I keep expecting him to leap up and say he was only kidding," Flyer said.

  "Come on, you two." Kara slipped her right arm through Flyer's left and her left arm through Tuesday's right. "He's dead," she said, as much for her own benefit as for theirs. "He can't terrorize us anymore."

  Besides, there were other things to worry about now. She glanced sideways as they walked; Flyer looked even worse than the last time they had been together. Always thin, now his brown skin was sallow, and it hung from his prominent cheekbones as if he had contracted some killer disease. Could he have . . . She stopped the thought in its tracks. Worrying was a time-waster. Zach always admonished her for seeing trouble when there was none.

  "Why the grin?" Tuesday sounded accusatory.

  "Am I grinning?"

  "Yeah." Even her affirmatives sounded like challenges.

  "The guy I'm dating just popped into my mind." Kara's smile reappeared; she couldn't help it. "Did I tell you about him?"

  "No."

  Flyer asked, "Serious?"

  "Pretty much." Better leave it at that. Tuesday was sure to say something scornful.

  Several people approached from the opposite direction. A sobbing woman dressed in sneakers, a black skirt, and rain jacket. Close behind two men followed, their collars up, heads ducked down. A child ran to keep up, her hood flopping around on her back. As the three friends stepped aside to let the strangers pass, one of the men stared at them—not just a quick glance, a full once-over.

  This happened often enough. They had been together since Kara was six, Tuesday five, and Flyer four; first in the Smyths' home in foster care, and then in a group home until Kara aged out at eighteen. They probably wouldn't be friends if they met each other today. Twenty-eight-year-old Flyer played drums in various bands in obscure clubs. Music plus odd jobs paid the rent for his shared apartment in a dodgy neighborhood. He was dressed in baggy cargo pants, his oversized jacket dwarfed his frame, and dark smudges lined his eyes. Up close, his spiked dreads smelled unwashed. Drumsticks lodged in his back pocket tented his jacket. Tuesday, on the other hand, seemed as healthy as ever. Her dyed-blond Afro, buzzed close, gleamed with pomade. She barely came to Flyer's chest but sported an ever-present scowl that kept most people at bay.

  In many ways, Kara was the oddest one. She was thirty, with honey-beige skin so fair that when people asked where she was from and she told them the Bronx, they acted disappointed, as if she should be from somewhere exotic. Almond-shaped, amber eyes and long legs often brought unwanted comments. In fact, her looks brought her more pain than happiness, and had often been the reason for Big Jim's violence.

  "Don't go silent on me, Kara," Tuesday said. "Who is this guy you're dating?"

  Flyer pulled out his drumsticks, waved them both in the air like the double-fisted conductor of a grand overture, and pronounced in his rapper voice, "What difference does it make? She's happy. We should all be happy."

  "Humph." Tuesday kept eyeing Kara.


  "Shit, this is a day of celebration! He's dead and we're free. We'll mark this one as a high holiday."

  "Don't be an ass," Tuesday said. "The Lord won't like you talking like that." She caught Kara's eye. "And I hope you're not being one either. Is this one single?"

  Kara flushed. Tuesday rolled her eyes. She wasn't wrong. But this time things were different: Zach's wife had cheated on him and broken his heart, but with young children to consider, it was going to take some time to work things out.

  "Let's hurry, I'm freezing my buns off here," Flyer said.

  The three began a slow jog, holding and bumping into each other under the oversized umbrella. Kara tried to assess her feelings: an evil chapter of her life had closed. She had a great teaching job, she was in love with a good person this time—a catch, as her landlady Mrs. E. would say. Although she still worried about Flyer and Tuesday, they were doing okay. Best of all, Jim Smyth was dead. So why the constant dread?

  They reached the gated exit of the cemetery. Goose bumps dotted Kara's flesh. Dare she spin around?

  "You're twitching again," Tuesday said.

  "I'm fine." But she wasn't. Who was out there?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alex Lawrence couldn't get a word in edgewise. Still wet from the shower, her strawberry-blond curls dripping, a towel wrapped around her, and her cell phone mashed against her right ear, she tried to understand her mother's shouts.

  "Mom, where are you? What's wrong?"

  "I'm on my way to the hospital. Get yourself over there."

  "What's going on?"

  "Your father is dying."

  "Dying?"

  "You heard me."

  "Was he in an accident? What?"

  Alex could picture her mother's face, eyebrows drawn on carefully in spite of having rushed out of the house, droplets of spittle at the corners of her mouth.

  "Call your sisters."

  "I need details." Years of practice had taught Alex to question everything her mother said. Dying could mean anything, from, He didn't come home last night so he must be dead, to, He's gone in for a checkup so he must have Ebola. "Tell me what happened."

  "I did."

  "Mom—"

  "He had a heart attack."

  That couldn't be true. Her father was as healthy as their horses, galloping at full tilt. "When?"

  "How fast can you get to Northern Westchester?"

  Before Alex could respond, her mother yelled, "Oh no you don't! Idiots. Who gives these people licenses? They probably don't even speak English."

  Alex suppressed a scream. Her mother constantly uttered disparaging remarks about almost every ethnic group, and nothing Alex did or said seemed to quell it.

  "I heard that."

  It was eerie how intuitive her mother was about some things, and how dense she was about others. Still naked, Alex pushed Speaker on her phone and put it on her nightstand so she could towel dry. "How bad is it?"

  "How would I know? That Ms. Don't-Tell-the-Wife-Anything assistant of his called. What are you doing? You sound like you're in a tunnel."

  "Did you contact the hospital?" Alex took the phone off speaker, pressed it to her left ear, and used her right hand to rip through her closet in search of a clean pair of jeans. "What did they say?"

  "Find your sisters."

  "Mom, what did they tell you?"

  "I'm here. Hurry." She clicked off.

  Oh dear God. Poor Daddy. The muscle under Alex's left eye pulsed. She massaged her temples and tried to think. Water seeped from her scalp. She plugged in the blow-dryer and waved it around her head.

  It would take her at least thirty minutes to get to the hospital in Mount Kisco. Did her mother remember to bring their insurance information and her father's toiletries? Better swing by the house just in case. What else would he need?

  A futile search for clothes left Alex with yesterday's jeans and a wrinkled cobalt T-shirt pulled from the hamper. She sniffed the armpits and tugged it on. In spite of her mother's hysterics, this sounded like the real thing. The eye muscle jumped again.

  Alex stepped into her cowboy boots. The toes were scraped raw and the heels worn to crooked angles so they felt as good as a pair of slippers, a level of comfort the day might require. Inside her front pocket, she discovered a frayed cigarette. With care, she rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. He couldn't be dying.

  Full grocery bags from last night's 7-Eleven run made navigating the short distance between her bedroom and kitchenette tricky. Where was he when it happened? Not at home . . . again. The assistant who called Alex's mother was a woman in her late sixties and probably not his evening companion.

  Alex snatched up her jacket and backpack from the chair where she'd dumped them, stuffed her still-damp curls under a Mets baseball cap, grabbed her keys, and left the apartment. The elevator creaked to the lobby. Alex strode quickly past the red and blue upholstered chairs and fake potted plants speckled with dust as she glanced at her watch. If she stopped in Bedford before going to the hospital the detour would only add an extra ten minutes. She could be with him in forty-five minutes at the most. She picked up the pace.

  * * *

  It was silent except for the crunch of her boots on the tar-and-gravel pavement and the rhythm of the icy March drizzle. The sky was dawn-dark as the moon held on. Streaks of gray barely colored the horizon, and the air smelled like impending snow. She clambered into her Jeep Cherokee.

  Light traffic allowed Alex to drive faster than the forty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit on Route 133 East. The thought of her all-powerful father lying vulnerable in a hospital was hard to accept. She decided to wait to call her sisters until she knew more—no sense alarming them without all the facts. Vanessa would be okay, but Pigeon was twenty-five going on thirteen. Sean­—she needed to call him too. She'd promised her business partner she'd finish an overdue project today, no matter what. Well, that wasn't going to happen.

  Alex reached Bedford in record time. It was 7:25 a.m. The pale sun edged over the horizon. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel waiting for a light to turn green. To calm herself, she placed two fingers against her lips, closed her eyes, and inhaled. She could almost smell and feel the phantom smoke going deep into her lungs. A horn honked behind her.

  "Asshole."

  She accelerated, made a right onto Green Lane, and then followed the twisting, narrow Bedford roads to the Lawrence's driveway. Alex took another drag on her imaginary cigarette. She'd thought about e-cigarettes but no, she had quit. Done. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

  The house, with its wraparound veranda, emerged on the crest of the hill. Memories zipped through her mind: her dad giving her a thumbs-up at her high school debut as Annie Oakley; horseback riding on the purposely unpaved Guard Hill Road; her parents yelling at each other in the kitchen while Pigeon and Vanessa hid in Alex's bed.

  She climbed the stairs to the veranda. Her key turned easily in the lock. She stepped into the entranceway, took the stairs two at a time, and hurried down the hallway to her father's home office. Bookshelves lined the walls. His executive chair stood in a lonely vigil in front of the oak desk, one of the few pieces of furniture he'd chosen himself. She took a moment to enjoy the view from the picture window. Fog hugged the rolling hills like fallen clouds, and the barely-there sun backlit the scene. He'd be at his desk again soon.

  Feeling like a little girl doing something wrong, Alex opened the top desk drawer in search of insurance cards. It was a jumble of papers, pens, a stapler, different types of eyeglass covers. She sifted through the debris until she found them in an envelope marked Healthcare—two insurance cards and copies of his Social Security card and passport. After extracting the insurance information, she shoved the envelope back in its spot. She was about to close the drawer when a picture she'd disturbed caught her attention, and she picked it up.

  Her father was young, his curls cut short. Sun freckles dotted his arms, and a stripe of sunburned skin c
rossed the bridge of his nose. Next to him was a petite black woman, as small as Alex's mother, her caramel skin glowing. Her dad held a young Alex in one arm, but in the other was an unfamiliar child with amber eyes, suntanned skin, and three braids tied with ribbons—one in the front and two in the back. Who are these people? Why don't I remember this? She flipped the photo over but there was no date or notation. For several seconds she pondered the picture. A glance at her watch, however, told her she needed to hurry, so she slid the photograph back into its spot and went in search of toiletries.

  * * *

  Parking at the hospital was as easy as following the signs to the receptionist, who directed Alex to her father's floor. When she reached the critical care unit, she found her mother sobbing on Aunt Peggy's well-padded shoulder.

  Peggy waved her over. "He's asking for you."

  Alex leaned in and kissed Peggy's forehead.

  "Go on in, honey." She waved a plump hand toward Worth Lawrence's room. Her two-carat diamond ring flashed in the fluorescent light. "I'll take care of your mom."

  Her father was propped up by the slant of the bed, plastic tubing through his nostrils. He looked old, his complexion mottled and pale, his violet eyes cloudy. For the first time Alex noticed how thin his blond hair had become, its characteristic curls lying flat against his scalp. Although only fifty-eight, he suddenly seemed mortal. An IV drip snaked out of a bag filled with a clear liquid and hung from a stand down to his taped wrist. Monitors hummed.

  Alex cleared her throat.

  "Hey, kitten." His voice croaked. "Seems your old man did himself in this time." He shifted in his bed, trying to get comfortable. "Warning sign to Dorian Gray." He touched his cracked lips. "Maybe more than a warning."

  She didn't know what to say. Tears crept into the corners of her eyes.

  A dry cough jerked his chest. Alex winced and waited, her left eye muscle throbbing.

  "I guess I'd better pay attention."

  She reached for his hand and tried for a teasing tone: "Mom had you dead and buried, but you seem great to me."

  "Wishful thinking on both your parts."

  "Daddy, you know she loves you." It came out more forcefully than she had intended. "She's Auntie Mame with a sharper edge is all." Alex pulled off her baseball cap and tugged her fingers through the still-damp curls. "How do you feel?"