Beyond the Fall

time.

Chapter One

Tamara Ledbetter caressed the glossy front of the guidebook with its tantalizing picture of a partially-ruined castle, the ocean, and a bright blue sky in the background. Then she placed it gently in the rosewood desk drawer, a piece she’d inherited from her beloved Aunt Mary, one of her father’s sisters. She turned to take in the view through the large bay window to chase away thoughts of her father. The Golden Gate Bridge, lit up, glimmering like fireflies against the darkening sky, always cheered her. And she needed cheering.

She leaned against the window frame. The trip to Great Britain was in three weeks. Was she ready? Michael had spoken little about it in the last few months. But as a busy doctor, he was often preoccupied—too preoccupied. They needed this vacation, to relax them both, and to enrich their marriage of over a decade. She pressed her knuckles against the window frame. Would it bring them close again, or was she being a fool?

She stared out at the city skyline, office buildings dark, apartments lit up, the metropolis falling quiet or going about its business. Born and raised in San Francisco, she adored the city, but a journey to visit the land of her Cornish ancestors thrilled her. Searching for Michael’s roots in Wales enticed her as well. Yet his enthusiasm had never matched hers. He could be stingy when it came to emotions. And he acted even more so these days.

Tamara glanced at the clock. It was after seven p.m., but a thoracic surgeon could be called into emergency surgery at a moment’s notice. He’d had many late nights.

Entering the tiny kitchen of the two-bedroom condo, she opened the refrigerator. She withdrew a bottle of pinot grigio and unscrewed the cap, screw caps no longer considered gauche, and poured herself a glass.

Sipping the crisp wine, she stepped to the window again. She sighed. Could a simple holiday rekindle their strained relationship? Married, after meeting in college, they’d had such big plans to travel through Europe. Yet they’d barely traveled through California so far.

She caught her reflection in the window and gave herself an encouraging smile, though it looked forced.

At least she kept busy running her non-profit that aided women in domestic violence situations. Those efforts and successes, seeing the women grow and learn, and achieve safety warmed her.

The door opened. Her heart twitched; her fingers gripped around the smooth wine glass stem. Michael strode in, sharp in his blue Armani suit, his pale, almost white blond hair neatly combed, his brow furrowed. He set down his briefcase without looking at her.

Hi, honey. Would you like a glass of wine? Tamara smiled wide, to heat the extra-coolness that emanated from him. Late again? Did you have a rough day? She cringed, sounding like the Happy Housewife, sans ironed and starched apron; how lame. Did you have last-minute surgery?

In a moment, Tam. I have much on my mind. He entered their bedroom. She heard the toilet flush and then water running.

Once upon a time, he’d have kissed her hello before anything else. He’d ask about her day as well. She sipped more of her wine.

He took forever to return to the living room. She poured a glass of pinot for him, even though he’d never said he wanted one. It was his favorite wine. His, not hers, she mused.

When he came back out, his suit jacket off, his eyes weary, she handed him the glass.

I thought we’d eat at Fisherman’s Wharf at the Grotto, but not if you’re too tired. She really wanted to go out, share more wine, and maybe some rare laughter.

You’ve forgotten how to cook? His flippant tone grated on her nerves. He’d behaved rudely toward her too often, and she was tired of blaming it on stress.

No, I can still manage to cook. Her patience wore thin and sharp like the blade of a knife. If you can manage to act civilized. She bit her lip. They had argued over his brusque attitude lately. Many married couples drifted in different directions, and she wondered, all of a sudden, why she kept trying. "Since you refuse to go out for an enjoyable evening, if you ask nicely, I might find something to fix. An omelet?"

Her irritation flared hotter at his silence. She stepped to the refrigerator to hide her pique and opened the door. She was behind in grocery shopping. In the past they had shopped together. She stared over at him again. Are you worried about something?

I worry about many things in my profession. Eyes averted, he took a long drink from his glass. The hospital is always frantic.

I’m sure it is. I just wish you wouldn’t blame me. I’m not the one hammering on your time. She said it glibly, masking her upset. Anyway, our vacation will do wonders for you. Quaint villages, lively pubs. Aren’t you looking forward to researching your mom’s ancestors when we drive up to Wales? Her words fell into dead space. She struggled to keep her voice even. I can’t wait to walk among our history.

There was no cheese in the fridge, and only one egg—some pathetic omelet. Damn. We could order in Chinese.

He sighed, almost a groan. Never mind. I’m really not hungry.

She turned again, her hand strangling the fridge handle. You’re constantly grumpy, and we need a break. England is beautiful in the early fall I’ve heard. She sounded like an overanxious travel agent. Let’s go out anyway for drinks, we—

About that…our vacation. He glanced away once more, swirling the wine in his glass. We need to discuss several important issues.

No, Michael. We are still going, aren’t we? Her words crisp, her pulse skipped. Was he teasing her? He used to tease. Used to be playful. That person seemed far in the past. Did she even know this man anymore?

Tam, let’s sit and talk. His tone cool, he sat at their small kitchen table of polished yellow oak, a wood she disliked but Michael preferred, without offering her the courtesy of sitting first.

She sank into the chair across from him. The back of her neck prickled. They’ve reneged and won’t give you the time off? Her voice sounded too petulant, the nagging wife she’d never wanted to be. He’d asked for these vacation days a year ago, hadn’t he?

His gray eyes on her now, he leaned his arms on the table, hands clasped. He had such beautiful hands. His Rolex watch peeked out from his shirt sleeve. He smelled of his favorite cologne, Clive Christian No. 1, with its scents of cedar-wood and vanilla.

At over eight-hundred dollars a bottle, she thought it extravagant, but Michael had to have the prestige he now insisted on.

I’m seated, so tell me what’s wrong. Her stomach knotted. His gaze turned distant, and she swallowed slowly. What’s happened? Why have you been acting so cold toward me?

He leaned back in the chair with a slight grunt. This isn’t easy. I don’t know how to say what I need to.

Are you ill? The words rushed out. His very late nights and distraction had bothered her in ways she’d hated to contemplate, though the alarm bells clanged louder in her brain. Sickness would be easier, yet still frightening. Tell me, please.

I can’t go to the UK. He stared at his manicured fingernails. But I’m not ill.

Her heart thudded. Her ire rose again. Okay. Then what is it, exactly?

Tam, I don’t think it’s working. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. In fact, I’m certain.

What isn’t working? Us? Her mind spun over other possibilities. Had he quit his job and now had to search for another? No, she was pretending to be naïve, to protect herself. Her jaw clenched. I know we’ve had our problems, and I’ve asked you to discuss them, so can you stop being so cryptic?

I really hate to hurt you. He stared at her, his mouth in a grimace, looking as if hurting her really didn’t matter that much.

But you’re about to? Is this the conversation I’ve suspected? Now her heart crawled toward her throat. Like an idiot she’d fought against it, yet all the signs were there, especially this last year. The person before her was no longer the Michael she’d trusted and loved. They used to laugh so easily.

I need to make changes. His tone was like ice, forming a wall. Drastic changes.

Her head swam. She tried a sardonic laugh. Are you changing careers, becoming a monk? Or do you want a… Impossible! …divorce?

Now he’d grasp her hands and suggest marriage counseling. But by the look on his face, that was another futile hope. Her cheeks burned. She felt herself sinking, dripping off the chair.

He glanced toward the front door for a moment, as if assessing his escape route. I’ve been seeing someone else.

A sharp pain jabbed in her gut. Bile rose in her throat. Really? Since…when? she asked, stunned, yet not stunned, a strange juxtaposition. Still, this scenario had to be happening to someone else, not her. Who are you seeing?

You don’t know her. Shoulders hunched, he shook his head. I’m really sorry, Tam.

You’re sorry? She reared against the chair back. He didn’t sound sorry. The iron Scottie dog on the buffet stared at her, and she longed to snatch it up and club her husband with it. What does this mean? Are you leaving me? Or…you just want to get your cheating off your chest?

I’ll move in with her, tonight. I’ll get most of my things together. He blew out his breath slowly. His expression looked as rigid as stone. And send for the rest.

No counseling, no trying to work anything out, as simple as that? You couldn’t tell me you were unhappy months ago? Her words came out shrill, her body quivering. After two quick breaths, searing anger stiffened her. "Off you merrily go into a new life with little prior warning."

Counseling won’t help. Believe me. He stood, his stocky form throwing a shadow over her. Soon he’d probably be fat around the middle. I’ll start to pack.

Michael! How can you do this, after ten years? She really wanted to know. You couldn’t solve our issues without cheating on me? Without honest discussions? What did I do wrong? She said it with curiosity and sarcasm in equal measure. A scream of selfish bastard lingered in her throat. You can’t be serious.

There’s no way around it. I just don’t love you anymore. He walked into the bedroom. He was obviously finished with his diagnosis. The patient was terminal.

She heard drawers open and close, hangers clicking in the closet. The big, brave surgeon gathering his scalpels and sponges and leaving the operating room. She said it loud enough but doubted he heard. How passive-aggressive of her.

The beginning for him, the apparent end for her—or only a change? He’d pierced her with that cruel shot about love. But how much did she love him anymore? That thought did astound her.

Had her accommodating college girl morphing into an independent woman turned him off? She struggled to remember how they fell in love in the first place; had she enjoyed his control, his guiding hand, back then?

Would anyone notice if he accidentally fell out the window, along with his Stefano Ricci shirts?

She sat, anger coursing through her, staring at the ugly oak table for what seemed hours, then glanced again at the cast iron Scottie. Finally, she rose like a dazed boxer, head throbbing, surprised her legs supported her, and poured another glass of wine.

****

Oh my God! Her sister, Eva, cried into the phone. You poor baby. What a shit!

Don’t pity me; it doesn’t help. Tamara drank from her coffee mug as she sat on the edge of her bed the next morning. She’d spent a terrible night after Michael left, half in shock, half in feeling sorry for herself. She’d cried out of fury, punching her pillow, pretending it was Michael. Then she thought when she first woke up it had only been a nightmare. She’d dragged through making coffee, for one, then called her sister. I’m still confused, her voice thickened, but there were plenty of signs I ignored, because I wanted to. What an idiot.

His leaving is not your fault, so don’t blame yourself. Don’t you dare. What will you do now, besides get a vicious, blood-sucking lawyer? Eva asked. I wish I could be there, but—

No, I understand. You’re busy right now. And his decision might have been my fault in some ways, too. We outgrew each other. Yet I’ll still blame him; it makes me feel better. She almost laughed, definitely a surprise.

Yes, keep blaming him. I wish we lived closer, and I hadn’t just started my new coaching job. Eva sounded frustrated.

I know, dear, I know. Tamara stared out the bedroom window at the early morning mist. Eva lived in Los Angeles, which wasn’t that far away by plane, but her job coaching women’s college basketball was a huge opportunity. Maybe Tamara could fly down there for a weekend; she needed family.

I can’t believe this. I’m so sorry. Eva groaned. What a triple shit.

Such foul mouths we have in our clan. But you’re right; I do need a lawyer. Tamara rubbed her forehead, then stretched her stiff neck. I’ll call around on Monday. So many issues to mull over, her life flipped around and upside-down. Torn to shreds, blown into the wind. Freakin’ hell, she needed to stop the analogies.

I always thought he was self-centered, rather a jerk; sorry, but I did. Eva paused. I’m not trying to be a smart-ass, or anything.

Yes, he could be, I agree; but I overlooked his faults when…when he was completely attentive to me. When he’d wooed her so suavely. Dancing in clubs, walks hand in hand in Golden Gate Park. Now she couldn’t remember the last time they’d even had sex.

Tamara’s hand trembled as she set down her coffee mug on the night stand. The coffee burned in her empty stomach. Her husband had walked out on her, as if she’d meant nothing. The resentment, bordering on rage, resurfaced, like a pot boiling over.

At the same time, her body felt beaten, her brain tangled in cobwebs.

Are you still there? What will you do about your trip? Eva asked.

I don’t know yet. Tamara picked up one of the pamphlets she’d spread out on the bed. Roscarrock House, a manor in Cornwall, England, the home of one of their ancestors supposedly. She traced her finger over the tawny-stoned, Elizabethan building. What would it have been like to live in such a place, in such a primitive time? Away from modern worries.

Don’t wait too long for the lawyer, Sis. You know Michael won’t, Eva insisted. She’d always acted the bossy one at two years older. Have you called Dad?

No, I can’t trouble him. And don’t you either, please. Their father had the beginnings of early-onset Alzheimer’s and lived in Florida, now in assisted living. So sad for a man once in charge, a partner in a construction firm originally from the tough side of San Francisco with his own colorful language. A bigger knot formed in her stomach. Their mom had died of cancer three years ago. If not for Eva, Tamara was alone. Listen, I think I’ll take a long walk to clear my head. I need to get out of this apartment. I might fly down to visit you soon.

Get a man-chomping attorney, take him for every cent, and suck him dry; then come down and stay as long as you wish. Eva sighed. And promise me you’ll take good care of yourself.

I will, Sis. I promise. Tamara would love to feel her big sister’s arms around her, comforting, but she couldn’t stay too long. She hated LA. That spread-out city had none of the charm of San Francisco, though she wouldn’t say so at this moment. That was the least of her problems. I’ll call you again this evening. Love you.

Tamara showered; the water that pulsed over her tight muscles felt refreshing. She pulled her long, hard to tame honey-blonde hair into a ponytail and jerked on her sweats and Nikes. She left the building and walked briskly in the cool air of her city.

She strode along Priest Street, the location of their small, though fashionable apartment at the highest point of Nob Hill. She and Michael had loved the cute neighborhood of narrow lanes, colorful Victorian homes, and modern condos when they’d moved here seven years ago. But now the ambiance escaped her since everything was a burbling avalanche of change.

Thank goodness it was Saturday, and she didn’t have to face work until Monday.

She stepped around a white cat who’d stopped to stretch in the sun.

What would she do about the UK? Cancel, forget her plans to research her family? What did any of it matter now? Wales was definitely out of the question.

Her enthusiasm, her demanding job and his, had half-blinded her to Michael’s growing indifference to the trip. His indifference to her. His final words, I just don’t love you anymore, gnawed at the corners of her every thought. But was she more humiliated than devastated? Had her feelings toward him started to fade?

She almost jogged down Sacramento Street toward the Embarcadero, her arms and legs pumping. The buildings with their bay-windowed façades stood side by side in silent scrutiny. Then she slowed to gaze out over the harbor, breathed in the salt and fishy scents. The breeze washed over her. Early September and the fog would creep over the bay thicker and thicker as the season passed. She wished she could dissolve into the fog and vanish for a while.

A truck roared past and left the stink of diesel. Tourists from over the bridges milled about the city, crowding the streets. The familiar noises distracted her.

Then a couple walked by, hand in hand, laughing.

Her skin prickled again. Michael, the selfish ass! Immature thoughts, maybe; but at least anger kept her grounded, even if despair might smack her down later. How could he betray her like this? No children, no pets, and soon, no apartment. She couldn’t afford the place on her own. Her neck muscles tightened.

Tamara dealt with victims of domestic violence every day, and now she suffered her own domestic tumult. Her eyes watered, but she fisted her hands and refused to become a victim. She just wasn’t certain how to act, like someone after a sudden death who stared down a gaping hole of emptiness.

She took a deep breath as she watched the sailboats glide across the azure bay. Alcatraz, once a notorious prison, a tourist trap now, sat out there on its island. More people strolled by chattering happily, oblivious to her sudden downfall. A woman who couldn’t keep her man. She repressed the worries she wasn’t attractive enough, alluring, exciting; the guilt she might have chased him away because she hadn’t tried hard enough either the last couple of years. She slapped a hand on her thigh. Self-defeating thoughts would not help.

A dog barked, startling her.

She huffed and strolled on, past the Ferry Building, and entered the green expanse of Sue Bierman Park; the mossy smells soothed her for a moment. She and Michael used to walk down here, share a picnic. He could be here now, with his new girlfriend, making new memories with someone else. Every pale-blond man she saw made her wince.

She could barge into the middle of their tête-à-tête like a giant bee and sting them both. Her heart squeezed, sharp and brittle in her chest. She was losing her mind.

Children’s laughter trilled through the air from deeper into the park.

Her throat tightened. Michael had always told her he didn’t want children, and Tamara had taken the pill and tried not to envy her friends who had kids. That sinking in her stomach that accompanied this decision had lessened over the years. Arguing with him about it had gotten her nowhere. At thirty-three she wasn’t too old, but now she’d be a single mother.

Another painful idea wriggled in. Would he have children with whomever this bitch was he’d moved in with?

With a moan, she leaned against a tree. Maybe she wouldn’t cancel the trip; she’d go alone, to distance herself. To perhaps find enjoyment and grow as a person, away from her predicament.

Turning back toward Nob Hill, she sprinted up the street, hearing her loud breath, feeling her thumping heart, and the sweat damp at her neckline.

She’d jerk herself forward for three weeks, then pretend to be unaffected, a sophisticated woman of the world, and board the damn plane.

Chapter Two

Hands gripped on the arms of her first-class seat, Tamara’s courage wavered; she almost bolted off the plane and back into the snaking corridors of the San Francisco airport.

The shock, which buffered the bulk of reality, had worn off. Her husband had left her without a backward glance. The resulting ire, then disbelief, had turned into restless agitation. Though they’d lived mostly separate lives lately, she still had counted on him to be there. Her anchor of support had rusted to debris. What would she do now? What happened to ’til death do us part? She bit on her lip. Should she plan his death? That brought a rare smile to her face.

As soon as possible, she needed to sell the beautiful apartment with all their memories, good and bad. Michael’s lawyer had said that was the best course. Her own lawyer agreed. Sell and divide the money. She blinked. How civilized.

After spending one entire Sunday in bed watching reruns of Sex and the City, she’d glanced in the mirror and recoiled. What a frump. Dark circles under her hazel eyes, matted hair with unruly curls. Such a waste. Michael was enjoying his new life, and she’d crawled under the proverbial rock. She’d gone back to her long walks about the city and dug deep into her work, arranging parenting classes, mental-health counseling, and affordable housing for ill-equipped, despairing women. Ironic, somewhat.

Fighting a groan, she’d sort out her finances when she returned home. Still, her salary at the non-profit would hardly fund a life in expensive San Francisco. She swallowed slowly— she’d be exiled to the burbs.

She scrunched her fingers over her leather purse. This might be insane, going to England alone, but exciting at the same time. Both her divorce lawyer and Eva encouraged her to go. She was too disorganized to try and find a girlfriend to travel with her on such last minute notice. Now she’d have to master driving on the wrong side of the road in a rental car, find the bed and breakfast, and hopefully she wouldn’t sit in the rented room and stare at historical wallpaper. She closed her eyes tightly and swiped that negative thought away.

The jet engines surged; the fabric of the craft juddered, and the plane started down the runway. The empty space beside her mocked her. She plopped her purse onto the seat. No more pity party. Michael had paid for the trip and hadn’t cancelled anything. So she could at least be thankful for that crumb and find a trace of relief.

The engines screamed, banging in her head, and the plane lifted, soon reaching its cruising altitude. She ordered a merlot as soon as the drink cart rattled by. The hell with the crisp pale pinot grigios that her soon-to-be-ex-husband enjoyed. How had she ended up so influenced by his tastes, burying her own?

She drank the rich wine with its hint of cherries, and toasted herself. Here’s to you, and your fall from grace, she scoffed at that one, but new adventures are ahead.

The couple across the aisle gave her an odd stare.

****

Navigating the rental car in the early morning, woozy from snatches of sleep on long plane rides, she left Heathrow and drove toward the motorway. The M4 would take her toward Cornwall, an almost five-hour drive. Keep Left, she kept reciting to herself so as not to drift over onto the familiar right side of the road. Nothing is familiar anymore, lady! She forced a laugh.

A drizzle started, and she scrambled to find the switch for the windshield wipers. The tricky circling in a roundabout nearly did her in as she fumbled. Finally, the swoosh of wipers.

She fumed some more about her personal issues to the rhythm of the wipers chasing dots of water over the glass. How could she have made it better for her marriage? Or was it time for them to move on, just not so abruptly, and underhandedly? She pictured the wipers thrashing like whips over Michael’s body, dividing him into drops of rain that splattered, and smiled to dispel her upset.

Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten much on the plane, or in the last three weeks. She grabbed an energy bar from her purse and munched on the nutty cardboard-taste.

Farther from the airport were lush green fields and picturesque stone houses in the distance. The modern buildings she ignored. The drizzle stopped. She opened the window to the smell of damp pavement and grass. She started to relax and enjoy the scenery.

Near Bristol she dodged heavier traffic, had to make a left turn, and nearly sideswiped a car as she naturally entered the right lane, and then swerved back to the left. She smacked the steering wheel. Why did two countries that had evolved with the same language and customs have to drive on opposite sides of the road? And having the driver’s side on the right was also a confusion. At least her car was an automatic, and she didn’t have to deal with a stick shift.

Speeding down the M5 through Devon, she picked up the A38, stopped, and had lunch in a pub with Free House written on the whitewashed façade. Her tired mind wouldn’t register what the food was that churned in her stomach as she continued the drive.

The half-timbered houses that hugged the road here reminded her of a storybook.

Finally, she crossed the Tamar River, the one named after her namesake, a nymph in Cornish mythology. She laughed at that idea. Her body was still slender from all the walking she did, her figure decent. Trim and attractive, she’d once been called. Would someone ever find