MAUI SNOW

IUNIVERSE, INC

Chapter One

His hand was much paler than I remembered. A side effect, no doubt, of the coma ward's harsh fluorescent lighting and sterile gray walls.

I wanted so badly to lift him up. To grab his hand, drag him out of there. Past the walls. Past the nurses. Outside and into the warm Hawaiian sun. I wanted to run until our feet hit the edge of the surf and we could launch our boards into the Pacific. We'd fight the tide. At least I would. He never needed to. We'd paddle out, laughing, swallowing bits of the sea as it washed over our heads and then we'd fly down blue walls of water. At the end of the day we would let the tide carry us in and drop exhausted into the warm Oahu sand.

I remembered the way he was when I first met him, all kind and mischievous. Not like this. Slack bodied. Eyes closed. Frustration stabbed at my insides, clogging my throat, and I had a sudden urge to pick up one of those stupid pillows stacked neatly at the bottom of the bed and thwack him in the head with it. I pictured him waking up, smiling all lopsided and groggy. So happy to see me.

I squelched the urge. Concentrating instead on his forehead, on that wisp of hair that always seemed to land in his eyes, I did my best to ignore the hum of machinery and the heavy tangle of wires that disappeared inside the bed sheets.

It couldn't end like this. Could it? Not after everything we'd gone through. Liat, Mak, January, Nick, and Kai, we'd all seen so much. Done so much. I couldn't stop what happened. Couldn't change what I'd done. Strange that it all seems so clear to me now, that I can feel everything, hear everything. Thoughts as loud as words, details, once frayed and obscure speed through my brain at will now. I see things about all of us. Understand them in a way that was just not possible ... before.

I felt a touch on my shoulder.

"You should go home, Willow. There's nothing more you can do here."

Chapter Two

"This better be good Harry," I grouched into the cell phone as I hurried past the corner of 8th and Walnut.

"It's only been two weeks since my escape from the loony bin, and so far, not having such a good day."

I could actually hear him wincing through the phone.

"Keep your voice down. Good Lord, Willow, why do you keep doing that? Saying stuff out loud where people can hear you. You know, Angela went to a boatload of trouble to keep your situation quiet and for some reason instead of thanking her for saving your career you seem bent on ruining it."

"You're right Harry. In fact I should send her a note. But I hear she changed addresses last night. You wouldn't happen to have her new one would ya?"

5,4,3 ... I waited for the words to sink in. I loved Harry, really I did, and to be fair he was just looking out for me, for my career. But he was so fretful lately that it was getting on my last nerve. He had to have read the front page this morning. He's an editor at the Philly Chronicle where we both work. You see, Harry's always up at the crack of dawn making sure he's prettier than everyone else so I know that he had plenty of time to read my story about what happened last night ... 2 ...

"Oh geeze, Willow, I'm sorry. That's why I called you in the first place. Shit—Angela and Bill Priest shot dead? You right there on the scene afterwards? It's unreal. Gotta be the last thing you need right now. Tell me, Wil, are you ... okay?"

There it was again. That stupid pause. The one Harry keeps throwing into all of our conversations these days. That slight but intense, full-of-crap pause. As if that extended blip of silence was somehow going to magically bloom the truth. Answer his constant question: Is she really herself again? Or is she still crazy.

"Knock it off Harry," I quipped, aggravation getting the better of me. "I'm fine."

"Right, right, Wil, 'course you are. It's just that walking in on a thing like that well ... it could be hard on anybody. Especially a friend as good as Angela and so I ... I just wanted to make sure that you're alri—

"God Harry," I interrupted. "You're worse than a damned building inspector." This time I paused for effect. "Stop ... checking me ... for cracks."

Honestly, it was maddening.

"Not to worry," I added, jiggling the crowd of prescription bottles buried at the bottom of my pocketbook. "I've got plenty of meds. Oh, and those swell guys in the white lab coats? Yeah, well, they spackled the hell out of all those cracks in my banged up psyche, just before I booked it out of nuthouse central. Yep, Harry. Packed up those holes real good. Three to five years, guaranteed. So stop worrying." Then, after a moment, and in the most sincere voice I could muster, I added, "I promise not to crumble to pieces in front of you."

"It was not the nuthouse Willow, it was a private ... ranch. Really it was more like a spa for overworked individ—

"It was a nuthouse, Harry."

"Shhhhh, Willow, please," he sighed. "It's not ... I don't ... I'm not trying to drive you cra —bug you," he caught himself and let out an oversized sigh. "I'm just trying to help."

I laughed. I'm not sure why. It just suddenly struck me as funny. Harry; my clear, concise, never at a loss for words editor had been reduced to sounding like Elmer Fudd when dealing with me. It was more than I could take. Especially before coffee. It was either laugh or run screaming. Run screaming was probably the saner choice.

"Go ahead, make fun. I'm just trying to look out for you," Harry responded, his voice petulant. "When I left work last night the front page was a picture of the Ben Franklin Bridge and a headline about some boring traffic study. I wake up this morning sit down to my stack of pancakes and see: Couple gunned down in Society Hill home. It was bad enough when I read that it was Angela and Bill but I nearly had a coronary when I saw your byline."

"You sure it wasn't the pancakes Harry? I've tried to warn you about all that butter you slap between every layer. And don't even get me started on the syrup."

Truth? Harry is thin, blonde, and seriously good looking. A regular Calvin Klein model despite the fact that he's within spitting distance of fifty. The pancakes were probably whole grain and thinner than my patience.

"Stop with the jokes, Wil." I could hear the exasperation creeping into his voice.

"Just tell me how you wound up in the middle of a domestic dispute between Angela and Bill Priest."

"That was no domestic dispute," I said quietly. "And I didn't wind up in the middle of anything. By the time I showed up it was way too late. Bill was dead and Angela was barely hanging on. Geeze Harry, did you even bother to read the article?"

"Of course I read it. Then I called a friend of mine down at the precinct this morning to get the latest information, smarty-pants. Turns out they don't think much of your theory about some unidentified person lurking around on the second floor. In fact they're leaning pretty hard in the direction of domestic dispute."

"Well then the detective in charge needs a compass," I grouched. "What about forensics?"

"Not back yet. The preliminary investigation suggests that Bill shot Angela first. They tried to get specifics from her but all Angela did was confirm that it was her fault."

Harry paused.

"You're holding back Finnegan."

It was all business now. Harry only uses my last name when he starts digging around a story.

"Did you purposely leave information out of your article? Come on, we're talking about Angela here. If she gave a statement to the cops before she died then I know she told you more. So why didn't I read it this morning?"

"You didn't read anything else because I don't know anything else. Yet. If Angela knows ... knew," I caught myself. "If she knew anything well she was in no mood to share."

My tone was defensive. I couldn't help it. Angela was protecting someone. That much I was sure of. The thing is—the reason I was so edgy this morning—what I wasn't telling Harry—is that I was scared to death she was protecting me. You see some of last night's details are a bit too fuzzy.

It's because I get these flashbacks. To Iraq. Stuff that happened while I was on assignment over there. Stuff I don't want to think about. Ever. Besides what I do remember, what Angela was rambling about last night didn't make any sense.

"Come on Wils. My guy at the precinct says Angela admitted it was her fault. It's hard to believe she'd keep the details from you. And even if she did that doesn't explain why you left the short version out of your article. It's a direct quote. A deathbed admission for cripes sake. You must've had a reason."

I didn't respond.

"Look, I know what Angela did for you. What she meant to you. Hell, I'm probably the only other person on the planet who understands what a brilliantly twisted heart of gold that old broad had. But she was in the spotlight all the time. Truth is, if she did it, if she admitted shooting Bill, then she would've expected you to print that."

"Really Harry? Would she? I guess she would have expected me to bolt out of there too, with my jeans still drenched in her blood. I suppose she wouldn't mind that I plopped myself in front of the computer to bang out the gory details fast enough to make the deadline. Ahead of everyone else of course. After all, front page is great but an exclusive? Even better. Yep, I'm sure that's what she expected. What are friends for, right?"

"That's the job Willow," Harry said quietly. "In fact that's the very career Angela went way out on a limb to protect for you just a short time ago. Don't underestimate what Angela would've expected. The lady had both feet firmly planted in reality. She would never hold that against you. Hell she would've been glad it was you Willow."

Harry was right about that. It didn't make me feel any better though and I was tired of talking. My mind was a mess with the blood and details. At least the ones I could remember. The thing is, Angela's admission of guilt wasn't the only thing I'd left out of my article. For starters, her four-carat diamond ring was weighing down my ring finger. I twirled it unconsciously with my thumb as I turned the corner toward Chestnut Street.

"Is there anything else Harry? It's almost nine and I really need to get some coffee."

Harry groaned. "Good grief. You're loose on the streets before coffee? Who'll protect those poor unsuspecting souls trying to get a little warmth on top of the steam grates," he tsked loudly. "I just hope to god you're not wearing stilettos."

For an instant I let myself smile. That was my Harry. Wild, outrageous, inappropriate. Hands down one of the best editor's in the business, and the kind of friend who would never miss a chance to make fun of my coffee addiction.

Friends are good. New friends can be really interesti —

There it was again. That odd voice. Echoing in my head. All of a sudden I felt nauseous.

"Hey Harry?"

My head ... it was pounding something awful.

"Harry," I forced myself to continue. "Your friend at the precinct. What else did he tell you?"

"Just that Angela must have already had the other pistol in her hand when she was shot. Oh, and Angela's shot? Dead on. Bullet hit Bill about an eighth of an inch above his right eye and blasted straight through his brain. It's crazy isn't it? You think rich people have it all. I guess having a pair of diamond studded pistols worth more than the average house stashed away in your antique end tables isn't all it's cracked up to be, huh?"

"Watch it Harry." I squeezed the sides of my forehead.

"I'm just sayin'. You never really know with rich people."

"You never know with anybody, Harry."

I flipped the phone shut before he could say anything else.

Chapter Three

It was that time of year again. Those dreaded weeks before the holidays when suburban revelers felt it their duty to converge on the city to go shopping, do lunch, and maybe catch a show. Really, it was barely nine o'clock. Way too early for a working stiff's coffee shop like this one to be crowded with shoppers agonizing over lattes versus espresso. Even worse, they were stopping to chat with each other before actually ordering, clamoring on about the round of upcoming parties that were just not to be missed.

I listened in, annoyed but amazed, as one woman proceeded to quiz the overworked coffee jockey for tips on which flavored syrup would cause the least amount of damage to her hips and butt. She giggled at the Starbucks guy, who, by the way, was young enough to be her grandson. She even made it a point to pat the tight stretch of denim spanning her rear end. He flashed her the mandatory company smile, but his skin turned slightly green and I suspected he might be in need of a bucket. He politely suggested caramel.

It was all I could do to keep myself from shouting from the doorway: Lady, get a grip! That kid is like seventeen. Besides, there's not a syrup on the planet that could rescue those granny jeans.

It was mean and judgmental, I know. Especially considering that my own favorite jeans were rolled into a bloody ball and stuffed into the corner of my closet, right next to the vintage surfboard that I took from Angela's house last night.

Normally I'm not that judgmental. Although psychologically speaking, I suppose the team of shrinks who treated me after I came back from Iraq would have considered my response a step up on the recovery ladder. Truth is before Angela got me to spill my guts about what happened over there (aside from the broken ribs and smooshed left leg) I didn't have much of an opinion about anything.

But Angela is dead. And I can't picture myself sharing that gem of a story with anyone else. Not Harry. Not my large, close knit, Irish family (seven sisters, four brothers). In fact, before I clammed up, they all got the same basic details as the army medics who followed me from Iraq to Germany to the fancy secluded gardens of Nuthouse Central in the Pocono Mountains. As far as they knew, I was embedded with the 186th for seven months. We were behind a tank. Tank hit an IED. People died. No mention was ever made about the Iraqi boy wearing my Led Zeppelin shirt. Or about what happened to my friend Matt.

Angela had dragged it out of me though, and with such sketchy methods too. As my injuries started to heal and my lack of appetite and friendly chatter became more apparent, Angela was the one who very quietly enlisted the headshrinkers. Strong doses of painkillers; that was the excuse they used to explain my lack of communication. Considering my injuries it was a reasonable explanation. Friends and colleagues were respectful.

My family didn't buy it though. They came in numbers and they came often. They pestered the doctors for answers. They did everything they could to coax me back from the brink. When that went on too long, when no progress was being made, Angela convinced them that I needed a new set of doctors and a change of scenery. She promised results. At that point I think they were willing to try anything. So Angela had me whisked off to a remote facility in the Pocono Mountains, complete with windows and a fancy garden. That's where she began her own daily routine of therapy.

Don't get me wrong. She brought in plenty of high priced headshrinkers to analyze me. But every day Angela came to see me first. And I do mean every day. She would come and sit by my bed, always bringing two cups of fresh hot coffee with her. Dancing it under my nose. And she'd talk. All about the coffee. What kind of beans, what part of the world they were grown in, what type of roast, what kind of cream ... on and on and on. When I wouldn't talk back she'd drink them both. After Angela finished the coffee she'd talk about Iraq. Insisting that I buck up, tell her what happened. That she'd help me deal. When I didn't respond she'd make up her own awful scenarios. Every day it was the same thing. When that didn't work she had a small coffee roaster and an espresso machine brought to my room ... and she stepped up the one-sided conversations. It was cruel, but effective. Way more effective than anything the shrinks tried. What are friends for, right?

(Continues...)

Excerpted from MAUI SNOWby PEGGY FARRELL Copyright © 2010 by Peggy Farrell. 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.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.