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Quinn Alexander adjusted her grip on the paintbrush as she stood atop a ladder in her studio. The thrill of painting was a living, breathing entity inside her. Much like a storm. Could there be a better landscape to paint?
The ones that looked like they could kill you were her favorite. The more tempestuous the storm rolling over the valley below—the more it threatened to wash away with the torrents its darkness promised—the better.
Her current project spoke in dark tones of depth and power. The one ray of bright light escaping the churning clouds inspired hope with its promise the sun shone somewhere beyond.
Torrents and sun. Two promises which would each have their time. But when and for how long?
If she could inspire hope in one person, then her hours poured into each painting were worth it. She hadn’t quite lost hope. Not yet. She wasn’t a stranger to life’s storms, and she’d come close to giving up, but Brendan—her ray of light—helped her hang on.
Her gaze laser-focused on her brushstrokes, she added fine details to the canvas covering most of the cinder block wall. One more day, maybe two, and her masterpiece would be complete.
The golden bell over the gallery’s entrance offered its warning, breaking her concentration midstroke and sending a stream of delight trickling through her. Brendan was here with her surprise. With a glance at the clock and brush between her teeth, she descended out of the clouds. Twelve-ten. His meeting with new clients must have run long.
But shuffling steps on the gallery’s wooden floor announced two visitors.
Was her surprise a person? Ah, the intrigue.
She stepped off the ladder and nestled her brush in its cradle, expecting Brendan to bound through the hall from the gallery. But no one bounded, and the eerie quiet had her glancing at the clock again.
“I’ll be right out.” She wiped her hands on her paint-smeared overalls as she approached the viewing room. Holding her breath, she waited for Brendan to grab her and twirl her around the room.
Two police officers stood near the entrance. She exhaled, her delight pausing its flow. “Has there been another robbery?”
“No, ma’am.” One officer held his hands at chest level, his voice hesitant. “That’s not why we’re here.”
Her gaze flickered to his female partner.
“Are you Quinn Alexander?”
“Yes, that’s–that’s me.” She swallowed hard, the stream of delight running dry. The police were here, and Brendan was late.
“My name is Officer Frank Mullins. This is Officer Brianna Davis.” He gestured toward the sitting area. “May we sit?”
Quinn’s feet ignored her prompt to move. With effort, she pried them off the floor and walked to one of the wingback chairs she and Brendan had picked up at the Tulsa flea market. “What is it? What’s happened?”
The officers sat on the avocado-green couch—same flea market. The green matched the chairs’ floral print. “There’s been an accident.” Officer Mullins hovered on the couch’s edge, his hands clasped and still. “A semi crossed the centerline and hit your husband’s car. He was transported to St. Francis.”
The storm was coming, its darkness snuffing out the light.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you—he sustained injuries that he was unable to survive.”
Her mouth fell open. Breathing became difficult. She replayed his words, then blinked. “A car. You said a car. My husband drives a big truck—a big F250. You’ve got the wrong person.”
Officer Davis listed her head. “The car had Alexander Homes on the side.”
Quinn’s gaze riveted onto the officer’s, and she sat up straight. “Brendan never takes the company car. He always drives his truck. Always.”
It couldn’t be him. How dare they make such a mistake!
Officer Mullins raised his hands to calm her as if that were possible. “Mrs. Alexander, your husband has already been identified. His ID was in his wallet. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“No, it can’t be him.” She pushed from the chair and marched back into her studio to retrieve her bag. She dug through it for her phone, refusing to look at her churning storm clouds. Her hands shook as she pressed speed dial one. Voice mail. With a furrowed brow, she disconnected and called again. “Answer. Please answer.”
God, please don’t let this be happening.
It’s not him. She paced back and forth, willing him to pick up.
“Hi, you’ve reached Brendan Alexander with Alexander Homes. I’m sorry to have missed your call. Please leave your name and number along with a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you for calling and have a great day. And if this is the lovely Mrs. Alexander... I love you, baby.” She’d heard his message a thousand times—his declaration to the world that he loved her—and a thousand times, it had made her smile. This time, it sounded like goodbye.
She stared without seeing and flinched when Officer Mullins spoke beside her. “Ma’am, won’t you please sit down?” Hand on her elbow, he led her back to her chair. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
“My mom. Please call my mom.” Somehow, her words made it out, her voice foreign, far away. Her anger wasn’t subsiding, but panic was becoming its companion.
He took her phone and walked toward the back room, speaking quietly.
Don’t. Cry. With her elbows on her knees and her hands over her mouth, she clenched her gut tight. This was not real, could never be real. They’d have to prove it was him. He was just late. Showing house plans to new clients.
Someone laid her coat across her shoulders. She jerked her head up. When had Mom come in? They went through the gallery door out into the cold March day. The wind blew against her skin.
Why couldn’t she feel the chill? Her body felt heavy and light at the same time—like she was there, but not.
Around her, the world on Cherry Street carried on. Brendan would drive up any minute with a romantic lunch and stolen kisses and the surprise he’d promised.
But he didn’t.
Brendan was always there. He made everything better. Every storm. How was he not here now?
Eyes red with tears, her mother took her bag and dug for her keys. Why was she crying? This wasn’t real.
But as her mother sobbed, puddles formed in Quinn’s eyes. Her mother’s hands trembled as she fumbled to find the shop key. The hollow click of the lock sounded permanent.
Quinn shrank into her seat as they drove, seeing little of what passed by. A numbness took over her body, and her heartbeat echoed in her ears like thunder. The world’s colors faded, leaving everything lackluster as a great chasm opened in her soul.
She teetered on the edge, the bleakness threatening to pull her down.
They entered through the emergency entrance where someone ushered them to trauma care. Her legs moved through muscle memory, her mind incapable of thought. The familiar sterile smell clogged her nostrils, something she’d never wanted to smell again. She choked back the rising bile.
Her dad stood next to a room with sliding glass doors, curtains pulled closed. Was this real? Pete Hawkins was a strong man she’d only seen cry one other time, in a nightmare not far in the past. Him crying now brought reality crashing into her like a hurricane-force wind.
“Daddy?” Her breath came in gasps, her tears in torrents. This was real. She stumbled to him, and he caught her in his arms. Then Mom was there, Dad’s arms around them both.
“My precious girl.”
God, how can this be real?
A nurse’s voice came from somewhere outside their circle. “You may go in when you’re ready. Take all the time you need.”
Her feet wouldn’t move. “I–I can’t.”
This had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any minute she’d wake up, and Brendan would be there with lunch and her surprise.
He promised.
“We’re right here with you.” Strong and gentle, her father’s voice poured over her in a stream of strength. Mom brushed her hair from her face.
Quinn tried to swallow the lump threatening to choke her. She couldn’t breathe around it. Trembling, she took a step toward the door.
The nurse slid it open enough for them to pass through, then shut it, closing them inside the nightmare.
She waded through the remnants of discarded medical supply packaging, tossed to the floor without thought. The walk to her husband’s side, only seconds, stretched out like miles.
He looked so broken. Glass sprinkled his hair like sand and sparkled in the fluorescent lights. But the bruises, cuts, and gashes distorting his face couldn’t hide his beauty. Her finger passing through dried blood, she traced his cheek line to his chin. Cold hard skin made her retract her hands, but they hovered over him, wanting to touch him. She willed his eyes to open, but they wouldn’t.
His arms would never hold her. His lips would never kiss her. His voice would never whisper to her.
She was alone. In a new storm. A storm he wouldn’t be there to help her through.
She collapsed over him, her dad’s hands on her shoulders. Her cries probably rang through the entire trauma center, but she didn’t care. In that bed lay her heart, her whole life, and both were being ripped away. She couldn’t grasp them, couldn’t hold on. They were just gone. Brendan was gone.
