Set in the rich landscapes of southern France and New York, AFTERMATH is a story of love and loss and the redemption of a man who suddenly finds himself untethered in the midst of a perilous and unpredictable world.

Middle-aged newspaper man, John Parrish, is heading down a strange road into a life no longer his own. After surviving a particularly messy and malicious divorce, John is forced from his position as Senior Editor of World News at the New York Sentinel. Suddenly, his life is spiraling out of control.

John knows he must reinvent himself in order to endure the tumultuous events that have overtaken his life. But first, defying caution, he decides a little vacuous living is just what he needs before getting on with life. His plans of leisurely traveling through France alone, change suddenly when he meets novelist, Olivia Moreau, widow of notorious French industrialist, Jacques Moreau-who, even in death, seems to have his enemies. John and Olivia begin a passionate affair and travel the wine country together. But in Marseille, John awakens one morning and discovers Olivia is missing.

AFTERMATH

By DAVID HARRISON

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 David Harrison
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7600-9

Chapter One

Since my divorce, in the late winter of the previous year, I had been living in a furnished efficiency near Gramercy Park, on East Fifteenth, between Third and Lexington. The building was old, and a little run down, but the apartment was inexpensive and suited my needs. There were plenty of restaurants and bars within easy walking distance, but more often than not, after work, I would stop in at Pete's Tavern for the daily special or the prime rib. Pete's had become a haven of sorts in my transition from married life. It was lively, the people entertaining, but there was a downside too; as I spent more time there, I began to recognize in the clientele the same untethered quality I was beginning to see in myself, as if heading down a strange road into a life not my own. But it was more than that too; the divorce had turned messy and malicious, even more than I imagined it might. Of course I was not blameless in the matter, nor could I deny that I had seen it coming; the changes in Marti, the disengagement and contention, my own failure to change course, the qualities of a dissolving marriage, impossible to ignore. But in my endless capacity for self-deception and devotion to my work, I had been careless, refusing to read the signs. Marti and I had always weathered the storms of life, and I had come to view our long history together as something elemental and unshakable, foolishly ignoring how quickly all of that could change. In hindsight, it was a simple matter of opening my eyes to obvious forewarnings. But in fairness, at the time, regardless of what I may have known to be true, I could not have foreseen the tumultuous ride that lay ahead. The divorce, I would quickly learn, was only a prelude; the first in a series of events that would change the course of my life more profoundly then I could have imagined.

My name is John Parrish. I am a newspaper man. And having spent my days climbing the ranks of the New York Sentinel, while Marti taught at the Manhattan International School, we had managed to pay off our Upper East Side apartment, which she had kept, and the Long Island house, which I had kept. Over the years, I suppose I had convinced myself that the traveling and sheer number of hours required by my job were not a strain on our marriage. And though Marti had always assured me in her immutable way that they were not, it wasn't until much later that I began to detect the false note, the spiteful small reproach in her voice that I had foolishly relegated to a level of apathy in the daily rush of our lives.

But regardless of hindsight or of how I may have chosen to view it now, the simple truth was that my life had suddenly altered—priorities had changed. Aside from having to reinvent myself in mid-life, my concern was now for our daughter, Christi, who was living with her mother in the city, and already in her last year of high school. The realization that she would be starting at Yale in the fall, compelled me to feel my age more than I cared to admit.

It seemed only a short time ago that I myself had begun my own studies on that same campus, a campus which had changed little over the years—the stone Gothic buildings, the spires, the vast impersonal quality of it. I was afraid then, with a looming certainty, that my time at Yale would prove to be the highpoint of life—that afterwards, everything would smack of anticlimax. It hadn't turned out that way, but neither had my success been meteoric. For a time, I felt as if I were standing on the sidelines, envious of those who had catapulted themselves ahead early on—it wasn't until much later that I began to question the seeming advantages of early success. I had seen too many of my triumphal classmates lose their way to drugs and alcohol and aborted marriages. But even with what I have come to view as an amended, patient approach to life, existence, as I knew it, had, with a resounding roar, blown up in my face. At age forty-five, my world had come undone—I was certain of nothing.

I had started with the Sentinel as a green reporter, straight from Yale, having climbed the management ranks to Senior Editor of World News, a position I had held for just over five years by the time the rumors began to swirl. It seemed that consortiums and various corporate entities had begun to take notice of our industry's apparently high profit margins. There were suddenly all manner of enterprising groups with the high intensions of streamlining target news organizations—of transforming staid business models into efficient, honed machines, from which to extract ever greater profits. And the Sentinel, being unprotected by family ownership, or majority voting rights, as some of our competitors were, had been particularly vulnerable. So when finally it happened—when the Sentinel was bought out by a consortium of local businessmen, I found myself suddenly on the hit list—expendable—the last of a vanishing breed. The new owners, all five of them, previous captains of industry, who had apparently tired of retirement and country club life, arrived with a business plan in hand calling for the immediate reduction of eighty employees, with the clear implication of more to follow.

In short, the handwriting was on the wall, and it came as no surprise when, on a Thursday afternoon in early May, I was called into the office of my good friend and Executive Editor, Jack Turnbull, and asked to quietly accept a voluntary severance package. It was a significant package. More than I might have expected. And though the inevitability of it was predictable enough; still, in the prime of my career, it wasn't how I had envisioned leaving the paper.

Jack's words and resounding baritone voice still echoed in my ears: "Of course you understand, John, this is nothing personal," he began. "I'm afraid it's the unfortunate reality of the corporate world. I'm sorry as hell—not to mention the short notice."

I sat there looking back at my old friend from across the desk. It wasn't Jack's fault, he was simply reacting to the pressures from above. Nevertheless, I wanted to believe it would have been different, if the tables had been turned, if I were in his shoes—but I wasn't at all sure of that. I wanted to be angry, but couldn't.

Finally, I said, "Don't worry about it, Jack. We've both seen this coming; I've been making plans."

"What the hell can I say?" Jack continued on, pacing now behind the large walnut desk, devoid of all clutter, stopping and turning momentarily to look out the window as if at nothing at all. "This is not only embarrassing; it's the goddamndest thing I could have imagined." He paused a moment, and then said, "I never thought it would play out like this."

My eyes wandered to a framed photograph on the wall behind him of Jack smiling broadly and shaking hands with President Clinton in happier times. Jack appeared much younger then, his hair not as gray, or as wispy, not parted as low on the left side, and he hadn't yet been relegated to wearing the round rimless glasses that had become, in a way, his persona.

"I'm afraid I haven't any choice in the matter," Jack said as he paced now with his hands in his pockets, "I never thought they'd start at the top like this. I'm at a loss. It's the goddamnest thing." Jack stopped and slowly shook his head, looking off again into the distance, the light silhouetting his face, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, as though reaching for words he could not articulate; then he turned, looking directly at me, his long narrow face furrowed, his gray eyes staring from behind the round reflecting glasses. I could see the edge of his left eye begin to twitch. It was a tick that plagued him, I knew, when under pressure. "Right now," he said, "I wouldn't wish my job on anyone. I thought somehow we'd escape all this—smooth it over. Hell, maybe it's time for us all to get out—let some new blood handle it. Maybe they're more up to this kind of thing. Shit," he said, shrugging his shoulders and sitting down heavily in his high black leather chair, "the whole fucking world's changed, hasn't it?"

Jack looked at me solemnly for a moment. Then he said, "These guys have no idea what kind of hell's going to break loose with inexperienced people at the top."

I didn't ask who would be replacing me; it was a moot point.

Then Jack went on, I could tell, in an effort to ease the awkwardness that hung in the air like a suffocating cloud. He roiled on about the internet and how it was sucking the life out of ad revenues, the drop in subscriptions, and eroding profit margins, all of which would no doubt spur a new round of layoffs. "Hell, maybe you're lucky—getting out now," he said.

"Maybe," I said, as we both stood and reached across the desk to shake hands.

"Whatever you do," Jack said, his eyes earnestly resting on mine, "don't be a stranger. Keep in touch. I mean that."

Knowing Jack as I did, I knew that he did mean it. "I will," I said. "As soon as I've firmed up my plans."

Jack smiled and nodded. "I look forward to that," he said, as I turned and walked to the door.

Though regretting the maligned way it had all played out, I had to admit that my focus had changed, it was time to move on. Maybe a stout shove out the door was exactly what I needed. It had been clear to me for sometime that the business I loved had changed; it wasn't so much about honest news reporting now as it was about media hype and ratings, political correctness, and the terminal fear of offending anyone. The craft itself, the scrutiny of world events for public enlightenment had, it seemed, been devalued somewhere along the way. Perhaps it was just me—maybe I had changed more than I cared to admit—but passing through the newsroom, on the way to my office the following day, to pack-up some personal belongings, I overheard a young reporter say to a colleague: "Never let truth get in the way of a good story." I stifled a grin, which I suspect turned into more of a wince. I didn't want to believe it had come to that. But perhaps, in my desire to see the paper as an instrument of public trust, I had become overprotective of an enterprise no longer worthy of veneration. I wondered what had become of the old fashioned truth-telling reporters I had once known. Truth it seemed had become a supple concept. Balancing the demands of political factions and special-interest groups had become the byword—partisan politics ruled the day.

And so it was, with less trepidation than I might have imagined on that Friday morning in early May, that I left the Sentinel's offices for what I had thought was the last time. I was on the sidewalk—cut loose—an unfettered and unwilling free agent.

Mostly though, and it was hard for me to admit at the time, I was angry with myself for not having been astute enough to gain the advantage, and the pleasure, of leaving on my own accord. But despite any bitterness I was feeling, there was also a strange, palpable feeling of release. I had to smile to myself, for I did have a plan, I wasn't leaving empty-handed.

It would be my last night in the city for a while. Good riddance, I thought, as I sat alone, gazing at the small living space of the cheap furnished efficiency I had been occupying. The walls gave the impression of closing in on you from the countless coats of paint having been applied over the years. The window shades were soiled and yellowed, and black smudged fingerprints of previous tenants decorated the doorjamb, which I had stubbornly refused to wash off. Three dissimilar, rusted deadbolts graced the door, two of which were in working order. The dim shabbiness of the place had come to epitomize the harsh side of life in the city, which seemed somehow further removed than a mere fifty-five blocks from my former existence on the Upper East Side. As I sat and looked around at the too-large, well-worn furniture, the bed slightly askew on its broken frame, it was, I decided, the picture of a mired life, something I was suddenly glad to be rid of.

It was on a Saturday afternoon, during the third week of May, after finishing a jog along the beach, that I was sitting alone on the couch in the front room of the Hampton Bays home, brooding my fate. There was a novel by Styron lying on the coffee table that I had long intended to read. But at the moment, I was recuperating, still breathing hard, getting my breath back, while gazing out the front windows, watching a bank of cumulus clouds drift in the distance. The room, now devoid of certain family heirlooms Marti had taken in prelude to the divorce, was absent the small busts and carvings I remembered from her family—and books—lots of books, from the white built-in bookcases along the western wall of the room, including many of my favorites: Hemingway, Greene, Roth, and Updike to name a few. Several small wooden tables and many of the silver-framed photographs had vanished, but most of the major furnishings remained—the brown leather couches, the heavy old wooden coffee table, dented and marred by teething puppies and various family projects over the years, my favorite leather reading chair, and a favored eight-by-ten silver-framed photograph of Christi that I was surprised Marti had left behind. Even so, each missing item seemed to infuse an unshakeable void that at times bore down with unrelenting reprisal. But regardless of that, and of at times lingering dangerously on the edge of self-pity, I vowed to keep myself in shape—focus on the positive—pull myself from the mire. At an age I still liked to think of as youthful, I wasn't about to allow this body of mine to slip into the fat-laden state of so many of my contemporaries. I had decided that youth was a matter of staying trim and vigorous, and that I would stay in shape if it killed me. At five-eleven, it was a point of pride that I had nearly managed to maintain my collegiate weight of one hundred and sixty-five pounds, having gained only a scant five pounds over the years. It seemed my only serious concession to age had been the gray hair that had prematurely, I told myself, invaded my temples and sideburns.

I had always favored the quiet simplicity of life at the beach, as opposed to the city, and was glad to have salvaged the Long Island house. Aside from Christi, it seemed the house, my mint-condition, black, fuel injected 1962 Corvette, sitting covered in the garage, and a few personal affects, comprised the sole tangible evidence of my earthly existence.

It was not a new house by any stretch, having been built in the '60's—a ranch, with gray shingled siding, white window casings, and black shutters. A modest home by area standards, a four bedroom of no more than three thousand square feet, but being single story, it sprawled across the wide beachfront lot. There was a small one bedroom guest cottage built onto the far side of the three-car garage, which also housed my daily driver, a dark blue 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee. The long gravel driveway, freshened just a year earlier, formed a circular area at the front of the house. In back, the house faced east, onto Shinnecock Bay, where a wide gray-stained porch with round white pillars looked onto mild dunes with clumps of sea grass and wind fences leading down to the water. I'd always felt a certain peace about life while sitting in an Adirondack chair on the porch in a light breeze with a good book and glass of wine at hand. I must admit though, that in Marti's absence, the house had become cluttered. Cleaning up after myself had never been a priority. A cluttered house, I knew, was not the kind of thing I would look back on from my death-bed with regret. I had a cleaning woman who came in once a week. She did her best, but was hard-pressed to keep up with my disarray.

I had no sooner picked up Styron's book and begun to read in earnest, when the phone on the end table rang. It was Alan Sherrard, my good friend, and Executive Director at the London Times. I had been half expecting his call. I knew he had heard of my predicament at the Sentinel. Then I heard a click, and Kathy's familiar soft alto came over the line.

"We want you to come over for a visit, John," Kathy said. "Running away to Europe for a while might be good for you."

"Yes, we've talked it over," said Alan. "A change might be just what you need. A little time away."

For a moment, I could only smile, looking out at the sea, holding the receiver loosely to my ear. "You're probably right," I said, half jokingly. "But I've got some things to take care of before running away."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from AFTERMATHby DAVID HARRISON Copyright © 2011 by David Harrison. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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