Landslide (The South Beach Connection Book 1) Read online

  Landslide

  The South Beach Connection Book One

  A. R. Hadley

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prelude to Perception

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Prelude To the Beat of Her Own Drum

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Prelude to Grapple

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Prelude to Chance

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Prelude to Release

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Prelude to Mystify

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Prelude to Sense

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Prelude to Spin

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Prelude to Enlighten

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Ready for Wanderlust!

  Playlist

  Also by A.R. Hadley

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by A.R. Hadley

  Published by Chameleon Productions

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission from the publisher. For permission requests, write to the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Definitions cited are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to definitions found in dictionaries or online is purely coincidental.

  Epigraph by F. Scott Fitzgerald, from The Crack-Up, copyright © 1945 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-0-9996527-0-1

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Images: Robert Villalta and Yoann Boyer

  Editors: Monica Black at Word Nerd Editing.

  Jenny Andreasson Babcock

  Proofreading: Devon Burke at Joy Editing

  Formatting: Erica Alexander at Serendipity Formatting

  For the loves of my life

  “Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.”

  ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

  double doors

  revolving doors

  movement

  change

  paradoxical shift

  universe tilts

  I glide down the star slide

  and land

  at your feet

  on my feet

  riding on the tail of a lackluster comet

  Perception

  the way we see the world

  June 2014

  Keep Calm.

  The dice hanging from the rearview mirror of the cab mocked her without mercy. How many times had she read those two words? A million.

  She could not keep calm. Calm was bullshit. A lie.

  She hated labels, but the complacent doctor had slapped her with one anyway. Two awful words encompassing a mess of complications:

  Panic. Disorder.

  It sounded like knots tangled up inside a dirty throw rug.

  The cab was dirty and small, or she was shrinking, scrunched down, jeans tight against her thighs. It smelled too, like the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Latex and sanitizer trying to mask people’s filth. The tiny space and stench couldn’t fit her anxiety, fears, or grief.

  She stared out the window.

  South Florida whizzed by as she twirled a piece of hair around her finger, a habit she’d had since her preteen years. The noises inside her head grew louder than the traffic.

  I am afraid…

  Afraid if she put away the phone she clutched in her palm — the device she used for comfort or distraction, a child’s favorite blanket or a smoker’s pack of Marlboro’s — she would think…

  Of anything.

  Of everything.

  Thinking was out of the question. Thinking led to feelings.

  A friend once told her every thought was derived from a single feeling, so which came first, the thought or the motherfucking feeling? Maybe it was just the perception of her feelings anyway, her unique interpretation spinning her own reality.

  There was no reality, and perception was a dream — her dream.

  It was all a dream.

  A Dorothy in the Land of Oz, house spinning inside a tornado, hypnotizing dream. If she closed her eyes, she could see her there, sitting on her left. Not Dorothy Gale, but her mom, Beverly. Daddy on the right. She had been sandwiched in the middle of her divorced, but somewhat amicable, parents in the back seat of a New York City cab less than a week ago.

  "When are you going to Miami?" Beverly had asked, stale cigarette smoke wafting from her clothes into Annie’s nose.

  "I told you, Mom. A million times. Friday."

  "This Friday?"

  "Yes."

  "You've asked her enough questions already, Beverly," Albert said, squeezing his daughter's hand. "Let her be. It's Annie's day."

  The college graduation, celebration, and congratulations hadn’t been able to drown out the regrets, the what-ifs, or the death. It didn't obliterate the passive-aggressive behavior of her mother or the sadness somehow palpable in the grip of her father's palm.

  Every conceivable emotion had taken over the empty space of that cab days ago, and it consumed her again now in the seat of a different taxi, filling the vat no one spoke of.

  The pores.

  The tiny holes.

  The inconspicuous places in and all around, in between the handshakes, the glances, the hellos and hi, how are yous, making innocuous replies to friends and strangers with the infamous line, I'm doing so fine for the hundredth time I think I'll puke.

  And she did puke.

  Plenty.

  She’d secretly puked and perspired and gone nearly crazy for months before the ceremony. But she’d had to make college graduation.

  She’d had to.

  She’d graduated. For him. A ghost.

  Did he still know her? Could he see her? Did she even know herself? Who was she?

  She thought she knew who she was. Always. She was nine going on forever. She was resilient. Iron. Steel. Until death had broken her. A measly little shard of kryptonite split her open and exposed her. What a joke.

  Life.

  Reality.

  Perception.

  Who was she?

  Annie Baxter.

  The dreamer. The romantic. The optimist. The born photographer. A daughter. A sister. The sky. She was blue. Blank. She was broken.

  Nothing but atmosphere kept her from floating off into an endless,
oxygen-deprived universe.

  She needed to snap out of it, stop the incessant ramblings, because the taxi had pulled into the drive at 387 Ocean Boulevard. Pressing her nose to the glass, anticipation replacing anxiety, her face regaining its color and vigor, her breathing found a landing strip.

  The palm trees in the Allens’ yard greeted her, their branches swaying in the wind and waving. Thank God the shaking had subsided. Her breathing regulated. She would disguise the panic. She would take back the summer. Starting now. This was her summer.

  Mine.

  Finally — Golden Beach. A thousand miles from New York City. Direct, daily access to sun and sand. A direct distraction from the thinking and feeling. Well, what good was a photographer who didn't feel?

  Who was she kidding? Annie felt everything.

  However, the traffic, heat, and sunlight blazing through the car's windows on the trip from Miami International had lulled her into a state of thinking. Not just any kind of thinking — mindful thinking. The kind of thinking that would trap her, suffocate her, and—

  No, no, no. She didn't need to think. She only needed to look up at the tall, graceful palm trees surrounding their driveway. She was here.

  "Miss?" The driver sounded impatient. She must not have heard him the first time. Because she was daydreaming … again.

  She paid the fare, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and wheeled her suitcase toward the porch of the modern two-story brick house with frontage on the Atlantic Ocean. The house sat close to the street, as did most of the homes on the 1.8-mile stretch of Golden Beach — one of the few remaining places on Florida's coastal highway where there were no high-rises or condos. “Only homes,” was what Maggie had told her. And this home was already a delight — a sanctuary and a retreat.

  Whatever, Annie. Keep moving. Front door.

  The faint smell of fresh-cut grass lingered in the air as she pulled her luggage along, brushing a finger under her nose, making her way to the porch, feeling anxious yet filled with a buzz, ready to greet two old friends — friends she had not seen since the funeral.

  She couldn't think about the funeral. Not now. Think about John and Maggie. Closing her eyes, she squeezed the lids, willing the optimist within her to win.

  Florida.

  Sun.

  The beach.

  Fuck…

  No. Thinking.

  Flies fluttered in her stomach as she awaited the opening of the door, attempting to suppress the vivid memories that never ceased.

  "Kiddo," John said with a smile. He looked over her like a father, always had, although he didn't have any children of his own.

  Annie grinned. Would he ever stop calling her that? Kiddo. She loved the sound of his coarse voice and the drawl. Its delightful tune had faded over the years, but she could still hear the Atlanta accent, especially in his sweet sentiments.

  John leaned closer, pushed back a section of her hair, and kissed her cheek. Then he inched away, looking over his shoulder before yelling for his wife.

  “Mags, Annie is here. Come in, sweetheart." He grabbed the suitcase handle from her grasp. "Let me get this. Is this all you brought for the summer?" He peeked around her petite frame at the empty porch, astonished.

  “Yes," Annie replied with a smile as she stepped over the threshold, her backpack over her shoulder, her thumb tucked under the strap.

  "Maggie would need several suitcases,” he chuckled. "And they would be heavy."

  Laughing, Annie glanced at John then turned her attention to the staircase. Spectacular and white, it spiraled up to the second floor, flowing like the keys on a grand piano. Maggie descended those keys, her auburn curls bouncing and hips swaying, not looking a day over forty.

  God, how old is she? Forty-four…?

  Age was just a number. Like the steps, one could lose count looking at them. Annie lost count looking at Maggie. It had been over a year.

  If she didn't stop the bullshit recollections, she would lose it right here. And she wouldn’t cry. She’d disguise. No one would see her tears.

  "What would Maggie need?" she asked John but looked at Annie, bubbling enthusiasm in each word.

  "Luggage, lots of luggage," John replied. "Annie only brought one suitcase."

  Maggie squealed, hit the ground floor with a bounce, and stood right in front of Annie. "Your hair." She fanned out the caramel strands. "It's gotten so long. You look so pretty.”

  “I'm letting it grow." Annie blushed. The two of them managed to make her feel like a kid again. A kiddo. Nine or ten and smooshed between them on their couch watching Toy Story for the hundredth time. She preferred the cowboy and astronaut to Ariel or Cinderella. John and Maggie never complained. “It hasn't been this long since I was sixteen.”

  “I know. I remember,” Maggie said, deep affection in her dulcet voice.

  "You still seem sixteen to me," John sighed.

  "That's because you're old." Maggie winked.

  Annie remembered that adorable wink, first being on the receiving end of it and Maggie’s devotion at the tender age of nine, spending afternoons, evenings, and sometimes nights at the high-rise in Seattle where Maggie took care of her every day after school. Annie’s own mother couldn’t have been bothered to adult, or had entered another treatment center, or she had been drunk morning to midnight, or perhaps, she hadn’t given a fuck. Her father perpetually worked, and was on the verge of marriage number three. He hadn’t fought for custody of their only child — solely because of John and Maggie … and probably guilt. He had cheated. Mommy had won. The Allens became Annie’s salvation, the icing on the nonexistent cake, surpassing any birthday present, better than shuffling back and forth between inebriated aggression and contrition.

  "Yeah," John grumbled, tilting his head toward his wife. "People mistake me for her father." A boisterous laugh followed his declaration.

  "No," Annie said, shaking her head. "Really? No, they don't."

  "It's your hair, honey." Maggie touched the tips of her husband's shiny silver locks. He had grayed early but wore it well.

  "You both look good. Fortyish is the new thirtyish, right?"

  They all smiled.

  “You look good, sweetheart." Maggie rested a hand on Annie's shoulder. “The year has been good to you.”

  Good to you. What did that even mean?

  Maggie spoke those words like a question or an affirmation or like some sort of dreamy consolation, her chocolate-brown eyes swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

  Annie had to glance away from everything Maggie’s eyes and tone depicted. She looked toward John, but he remained quiet, shifting his eyes to the—

  No, no, no. Don’t look at the floor.

  She bit the inside of her cheeks — another old habit — but her eyes gave her away.

  The last year … what had it been? Had it been good? Annie had forgotten good. The last year meant surviving, face pressed up against the glass window of a freight train, life zooming by at the speed of light, the blurred, white streaks chasing her, medication and anxiety replacing parties and commitment, scattered ashes usurping sunshine — all the things she tried escaping never far behind.

  Fifteen years of friendship and parentage flashed before her mind’s eye. The last year of her own life — a film, a tragedy, in Imax 3-D, flickering across the screen without her consent or permission, without a ticket for admission. A year.

  Good to her? Not if you considered pills, studying all hours of the night, hiding, and escaping — all while literally breathing into a paper bag — good.

  Blurred? Yes. The trees outside the window of a train. Only streaks of color, white light, she couldn’t touch or appreciate.

  Just…

  Like…

  Now.

  Anxiety rushed in and overtook the sensible part of her brain, constricting her stomach in the center of the pretty little foyer. That is what she had attempted to avoid in the cab with her parents last week, and in the cab ear
lier alone. Always avoiding, avoiding until she couldn't see straight, but seeing the two of them again, John and Maggie Allen — what had she been thinking? Moving here to Florida to exhibit her photographs, starting over.

  It all came back.

  Acid shot up her esophagus. Her throat tightened. The day was as new as it was stale and old.

  She stood in Tabitha's kitchen. Her cell phone rang. "Annie, did you hear me?" her father cried, over and over, into the phone. "Annie … Annie!"

  “Has it been a year?” John asked the question the way a stuffed teddy bear might if it could talk. He nodded then stared at her hypnotized face. "I wish we could've seen you sooner, sweetie. I wish we could've made it up for your graduation.”

  Annie snapped out of the horrid memory, the day her life had irrecoverably changed, and remembered John had recently attended a funeral.

  “Maggie explained everything.” Annie touched his arm. “I'm sorry for your—”

  “Enough of this sorry and sorrow,” John said, fumbling and avoiding Annie's sympathy. There was his true accent, subtle yet strong. “Come on to the kitchen. We'll have a drink.”

  "I want to reimburse you for your cab fare," Maggie interjected.