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When your childhood is cut short by murder and treachery, it''s not easy to live a normal life. At the tender age of nine, Harriet witnessed her father beat her mother to death, and she holds herself partially responsible. Still haunted by half-memories, guilt, and disturbing dreams, she has constructed a solitary and joyless existence, with little room for men or romance. Facing her thirtieth birthday, she knows she must do something to change her life. Like an omen, she meets Agnes, a rich elderly widow looking for a companion at her summer home in Maine, and the two forge a business deal. Thinking this will be like a vacation and a time to plan a better future, Harriet is shocked to discover challenges and obstacles she hadn''t anticipated. Agnes'' nephew and sole heir resents Harriet and wants her gone. And then there''s Eli, the local artisan who makes her reconsider her decision to avoid men. Can he possibly return her feelings? Soon, the nephew''s schemes, along with a heartbreaking betrayal, culminate in an event that changes her life forever. Will she fail Agnes as she failed her own mother years ago? Will she lose the man she loves? Or will she find her own strength and realize happiness at last?

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Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	28 octobre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781506905549
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0630€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Edge of Memory
Maura Beth Brennan

First Edition Design Publishing
Sarasota, Florida USA
The Edge ofMemory
Copyright©2017 Maura Beth Brennan

ISBN 978-1506-905-53-2 PRINT
ISBN 978-1506-905-54-9 EBOOK

LCCN 2017963736

December 2017

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
To Dad, the best storyteller of them all. And to Mom,
the best listener. We miss you both.
September 13

Hospital Recovery Room

She thought what happened when she was a child would be the worstshe’d ever experience. To have witnessed the murder of the person she lovedmost in the world. To remember little except the fear that she had beenresponsible.
But, she believed she could change her life. She was so close. Shethought she had found someone to love her. She was wrong.
And then—yesterday. The attack.
She hasn’t learned what happened to the others. And when they askher what she remembers, what will she tell them? What does she remember?
A screaming voice, full of rage, then realizing the voice washers.
The crush of bone, the shock of pain.
The pinpoints of light exploding before her eyes, and the darknessrushing in around her.
And thinking, before she fell into that darkness, This can’t behappening again.
Chapter 1

The Office, Five Months Earlier

The sequence of events that changed her life slipped intoalignment on a Thursday afternoon in April.
Harriet had arrived at the office early that morning after arestless night. She stopped in the ladies’ room on the way to her desk andstared at her reflection in the mirror.
“You have got to do something to change your life,” she commandedthe image scowling back at her. Why did she even bother to look in the mirror?Out of habit, she smoothed her drum-tight ponytail and noticed that she neededa dye job. Ugly black roots frowned from her scalp. The bleached-blonde hairwas her only concession to anything approaching concern with her looks. It madeher feel better somehow. Her mother had been a blonde; at least she couldremember that much. There was no makeup to touch up, as she never wore any. Shesighed and made her way to her desk.
“Hey, Harriet, how’s it going?” the cheerful receptionist at theentrance to the office trilled as Harriet walked past, head down, lost in herthoughts.
“Great, Kathy. Wow, you sound disgustingly perky today.” Harrietcocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “Same as yesterday. And the day beforethat. It’s a bit monotonous if you want to know.” She put her hand to her chestin mock concern. “How do you even manage it? It must be exhausting.”
“Oh, come on, Harriet.” Kathy giggled and shook her head. “You’renot nearly as grumpy as you let on. You and that sarcastic sense of humor.”
“Well, don’t let the word get out. It could wreck my reputation,”said Harriet as she continued to her desk, leaving Kathy hooting and callingafter her.
“Hah. Not much chance of that.”
Conversation was not Harriet’s forte, nor her favorite pastime. Atthe office, except for Kathy, she spoke just enough so as not to appear rude.She realized her social skills could use some improvement. The last few weeks,she’d been thinking she would work on that.
Most of the people in the office were cordial, and this temporaryjob wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for one of the senior partners, JonIngram, who was, in Harriet’s opinion, a total jerk. She was working at a lawfirm where one of the secretaries—Mr. Ingram’s secretary, to be precise—was outon maternity leave. The firm was big enough that she didn’t feel too strangenot socializing and small enough that she could find her way around and learnthe procedures she needed to know. She wasn’t a legal secretary, but she’d doneenough temp work at law firms that she could hold her own pretty well. For awhile now, she had enjoyed the freedom and flexibility of having a successionof temporary jobs, although the pay wasn’t great. But over the last few weeks,a nagging discontent kept surfacing, and she wondered if it might be time tomake a change.
The morning progressed without incident, but later, as she sat ather desk in a cramped corner, she braced herself. She had left a typeddeposition for Mr. Ingram to review when he returned from lunch. She had nodoubt he’d come charging out of his office after he looked it over, screamingabout some typo or other mistake, whether it was due to his abominablepenmanship or not. Why did the man insist on writing everything out inlonghand? It was like he was stuck in the Middle Ages.
In another few weeks, maybe she’d ask the temp agency to find hersomething new, something other than a legal office. That was the beauty of tempwork; if she didn’t like it, she’d leave and go someplace else. She resolved tomake a list when she wrote in her diary tonight, outlining her options and sometypes of work she might like to try. Then she could decide what direction totake. She wasn’t getting any younger, she told herself, wincing at the triteexpression. Her thirtieth birthday was coming up in May.
Just then, Mr. Ingram swept past her desk on his way back from histwo-hour lunch, enhanced by liquor, she was sure. To amuse herself, she began asilent count and before she reached thirty, he came rushing out of his officelike his hair was on fire, screaming about some petty mistake she had madetrying to decipher his pathetic scribbling, and demanding she fix it.
“What an idiot,” Harriet mumbled, almost hoping he would hearher.
As she took the paper he practically jammed in her face, she gavehim her most polished artificial smile and said, with exaggerated politeness,“Certainly, Mr. Ingram.”
She watched him lurch toward his office in a huff. Mr. Ingram wasa short, thin man with colorless hair. His posture was poor, and since he wasalways rushing, he appeared to be permanently angled forward. Harriet smiledand added under her breath, “Yes, Igor.” She pictured Marty Feldman in YoungFrankenstein , hunched forward, entreating, “Walk this way . . . ”
She had just begun correcting the page on the computer when shedetected strange grunts and gurgling sounds coming from Mr. Ingram’s office.She was accustomed to hearing grumbling from that office when he complainedabout some transgression on her part—a misplaced comma or spell-check error,for instance—but these sounds were especially bizarre. She became concernedwhen the gurgling morphed into strangled gasps. Harriet peeked around thedoorway of Mr. Ingram’s office and was horrified. She saw him lying on theplush burgundy carpeting, grasping at the air with one claw-like hand, his facea grimace of speechless rage. His face color almost matched the carpeting, andHarriet noticed that one side of his mouth was turned down and half of his faceappeared frozen.
“This can’t be good,” Harriet mumbled as she rushed to Mr.Ingram’s side and dialed 911 on her cell phone. When she got the operator, sheasked if there was anything she could do and was instructed to stay by theman’s side, note his symptoms, and speak in a calm voice to assure him thathelp was on the way. Harriet did as suggested, and because the poor man lookedlike he was choking, loosened his shirt and tie.
When the EMTs arrived, Harriet gave them as much information asshe could. As they wheeled Mr. Ingram into the ambulance, one of the paramedicstold Harriet that her calm action most likely prevented the man from sufferinga more massive stroke. “We got him started on IV meds right away,” the man toldher. “That’s crucial in a case like this. Good thing you found him when you didand acted so quickly.”
Everybody standing around to watch the excitement gave Harriet apolite round of applause. She, who had worked at this office in relativeanonymity for four months, became a bit of an office celebrity. All afternoon,coworkers who had previously ignored her stopped by to gossip and makeconjectures as to Mr. Ingram’s prognosis.
Kathy was especially impressed. “Wow, that was crazy, huh? You’re,like, a heroine or something.”
Harriet shrugged and barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s me, aregular hero,” she said, remembering another time when she should have acted tohelp someone, and didn’t.
“Well, I guess you saved him from something much worse. What’sthat you call him? It always cracks me up.”
“Yeah, poor old Igor.”
“Right.” Kathy laughed. “But, Harriet, what’s going to happen now?Do you still have a job?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Baldwin came by to tell me they probablywon’t need me until Mr. Ingram comes back. But by then, Patricia will be backfrom maternity leave. So, I guess I’m out of a job, at least around here. Nicereward for a good deed, huh?”
Before Kathy could reply, the phone rang. By the second ring,someone screamed over the partitions, “Where’s the temp? Doesn’t she have toanswer that?” Harriet waved to Kathy and picked up the receiver. She didn’tmind answering the phone; it broke the monotony. She often entertained herselfby trying out different voices and accents. Her British one was especiallygood, but she was partial to the Australian. This time, since Kathy was stillwithin earshot, she answered as herself.
“Good afternoon. Mercer, Baldwin, and Ingram.”
“Oh, good afternoon, dear. Is this Patricia?” The voice on theother end of the line had a compelling quality to it—exaggerated vowels, crispconsonants, oozing confidence.
“No, ma’am. This is Harriet. I’m sitting in for Patricia for