Found in Silence Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Lisa Sorbe

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design and Formatting: Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae & Allusion Graphics

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9993480-3-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9993480-2-4 (ebook)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  To My Champion Auto/Carquest Family

  Valentine’s Day

  Life isn’t worth anything if you’re not wanted.

  Which is maybe why Clark’s words hurt so much.

  But I can’t let him know that, of course.

  You’re not going to be pretty forever, you know.

  I was getting dressed when he said it, having just snapped my new black bra into place. Already naked from the waist down, he might as well have just unzipped my flesh and ogled my insides with how exposed his comment made me feel. I didn’t even flinch, although the words felt like someone rammed a tire iron into the back of my neck. Little did that asshole know he’d just triggered my greatest anxiety.

  Now he’s waiting for my reaction, and I refuse to give him one.

  My smile is sweet as I pull up my panties, flicking my wrist so the rose gold Tiffany bangles he gifted me just a few hours before jangle loudly. I suspected the designer bracelets might be my Valentine’s Day present, considering I’d hinted enough about them throughout the course of our short, three-month relationship. Which is why I waited until I got them before breaking up with him. I mean, these babies cost over ten grand. Obviously I was going to get my hands on them before kicking him to the curb.

  I take my time slipping into my clothes. The slinky red slip dress I wore to our Valentine’s Day dinner at The First Edition slides over my skin like silk, and I make sure to face him as I pull it slowly over my head and down my form, giving him one last view of the body he’ll never see again. A body honed by hours of exercise and blessed by good genes. My ebony hair tickles my flesh as it cascades down my back, thick and wavy and completely gray-free.

  The jerk doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Your pettiness is unbecoming, Clark.” I make my way over to the bed, where he’s still sitting up against the headboard, hands clasped behind his blonde head, strong body all hard and naked and sprawled out like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Even though he’s thirty-nine and seven years older than me, he looks every bit as good as I do. And he knows it. A plastic surgeon who doesn’t need what he’s selling because he was born perfect – the right amount of pretty with just a pinch of rugged. I stare down at him, the fact that I can still feel him between my legs not lost on me.

  I won’t miss him, per say. But I’ll certainly miss the sex. The man is one good fuck.

  Which is also why I waited until after we were finished in bed tonight to tell him we were through.

  “Did you really expect a different outcome here?” I ask, keeping my voice even. What kind of man expects a woman to stay with him after learning he’s cheated on her?

  An arrogant asshole, that’s the kind.

  Truth be told, I’m not really all that mad about the cheating. I mean, it happens. It’s human nature, a primal urge. Simple as that. If anyone says they’re one hundred percent faithful to their partners, they’re fucking liars.

  No. I’m not that pissed about the cheating. It’s the fact that he blabbed about it to a few of his friends, who told a few of their friends, who mentioned it to my friend. The fact that Victoria, of all people, was the one to tell me that my rich, handsome boyfriend cheated on me with some cheap stripper?

  Well. No one humiliates me like that and gets away with it.

  Why couldn’t he just have kept his stupid trap shut?

  “Baby, come on. I still can’t believe you’re going to take the word of that conniving bitch over mine.”

  I reach down and slide my manicured nails over his chest, skate them across his toned stomach, and feather them over his length. He’s still hard, something I’m also going to miss. A man who can have multiple orgasms back to back is a sad thing to waste.

  “Victoria is my best friend,” I say, wrapping him loosely in my fist and slowly sliding my hand up and down. He sighs, his body stretching as I continue to work over his favorite body part. “Someone I’ve known a lot longer than you, Dr. Stone. I’m pretty sure I’d take her word over yours any day.” I remember the satisfied glint in her eyes when she broke the news. The way her thin, overlined lips perked up at the edges as she waited for my response. I could almost feel the anticipation in the air, her excitement at my humiliation palpable. My own expression remained nonchalant, although the billowing heat of shame that rose from my core and rouged my cheeks betrayed my indifference.

  I squeeze harder.

  “She… Oh, god...” He moans. Reaches over and slides his hand up my dress. His fingers bite into the smooth skin of my thigh. “She’s so fucking jealous of you it’s not even funny.”

  Well, of course she is. If your friends aren’t jealous of you then what’s the point? If they don’t worship the ground you walk on and spend their days pining to be by your side, even daring to wish they actually were you, what’s the use of having them around?

  “So, are you saying you didn’t fuck that slut stripper from the bachelor party last week?” I pump my hand faster, the bangles clinking. As annoyed as I am with Clark, the sound tempers my irritation. It lets me know I’m in control.

  Men are so easy to manipulate when they’re horny.

  He doesn’t even try to deny it. Just looks up at me from under hooded lids, his breath quickening. “Jen, come on. Like I’m the only person you’ve been with since we got together.” His hips start thrusting up to meet my hand, his body flexes, and I know he’s close. I’ve been in his bed enough to recognize his tell signs. “Oh, baby… That’s it. Daddy’s sorry. You know I am…”

  “Clark?” I purr.

  “Mmmm… Yeah, baby?”

  I stop abruptly, withdrawing my hand and wiping it against the sheet. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Clark’s eyes fly open, wide and glassy. He grunts, confused.

  I back away, blowing a kiss before lifting my bangled wrist to flip hi
m off.

  “You’re a cold bitch, Jen Malone. A cold fucking bitch.” But he says it with a smirk. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, and he gazes up at me with something akin to respect.

  Now that I’ll take as a compliment.

  Four Months Later

  I should just let the call go to voice mail.

  I’ve just climbed out of the pool after finishing a fifty-lap workout and am drying off when my cell chimes, the old Petula Clark song Downtown blaring as the device rattles against the glass of the patio table. The song makes me feel dusty, but it’s my mom’s favorite which also makes it an easy way to tell when she’s calling. Whenever this ringtone sings out from wherever my phone is hiding – my purse, my pocket, the top of the nightstand of whoever I’m dating at the time – I usually ignore it, knowing she’s just going to want something I don’t want to give. But I pick it up this time because things between my parents and I have been tense lately, and pissing either of them off is the last thing I need right now.

  “I meant to drop off the pies before Emilia’s tap class, but it seems I’ve completely lost my head and left them sitting on the kitchen counter.” My mother laughs like her absentmindedness is amusing instead of a huge inconvenience. “I’d swing by home and get them, but I’m afraid I just don’t have time. I have to drop Emilia off at Mary Jo’s before picking your father up from work. We’re heading straight from the hospital to Des Moines for John and Shirley’s anniversary party and, if everything goes smoothly, we should just make it by the time dinner starts.” Static holds the line for one second, two, three, four, five.

  I know what’s coming. But I don’t engage.

  “Unless your plans have changed and you’d like to keep Emilia home with you tonight, of course.”

  There’s hope in her voice, which I ignore. “Can’t you just take them tomorrow?” I sling the towel around my waist and pull a floppy hat over my wet hair to keep the sun off my face. At thirty-two, I’m wrinkle free and intend to stay that way. In the distance, I hear our landscaper, Arnie, start the riding lawn mower he uses to go over my parents’ property with every Thursday morning. Which – since he’s as punctual as a rooster crowing dawn – means it’s ten o’clock on the dot and I’ve got forty-five minutes before I have to be in Eduardo’s chair for my tri-monthly keratin treatment. “I’m busy today.”

  There’s a pause as my mother considers my words. The tension on the line is thick, so I study my nails while I wait for her response, noting the chipped red polish and promptly adding a mani-pedi to my day’s to-do list. I’m thinking black berry on my nails and maybe a nude blush for my toes…

  My mother sighs. “I’m on the dessert roster today, so Betsy is expecting them. And I’m not sure what time we’ll be back in town tomorrow, what with your father wanting to stop at that new exhibit at the Science Museum in the morning. Plus, the pies won’t be fresh if we wait.”

  I snort. “Oh, please. Like the homeless care if their desert is fresh. They’d eat mud pies as long as you served them with bottles of Wild Turkey.”

  “Jennifer Anne!”

  “What?” I snap back. “Don’t act like it’s not true.” Then I sigh, knowing I’m treading on thin ice. The conversation my parents and I had last week – while not entirely cutting – clued me in to the fact that I’m starting to lose my hold over them. I blame my brother; his recent move to Scotland to be with his quote unquote soulmate has them suddenly scrutinizing me. Ever since Fox called home with news about his engagement a few weeks ago, it’s been hell. It’s like they suddenly feel this need to hassle me about my future, my choices. Their incessant curiosity about where my life is headed is not only exhausting, but irritating as fuck.

  But right now I need them, so until things go back to normal around here, I’m just going to have to play the game. So I force a smile onto my face, hoping it will reflect in my voice. The lilt in my words, however, sounds completely fake, even to me. “Fine. Of course. No problem. What time do they need to be there?”

  My mother hates confrontation, and her relief at my acquiescence is obvious. “Dinner starts at four, so no later than three. They need time to plate them.”

  I roll my eyes and resist making a comment about savages not needing utensils, much less plates. “I can bring them over after my hair appointment.” A trip to Cedar Hill’s Soup Kitchen certainly wasn’t on my list of things-to-do-today, but if it keeps the peace…

  Background noise filters through the receiver – the sound of children’s laughter, the tap-tap-tap of metal plates against the hardwood floor, lively piano music – and memories from my own dance days at Jaqueline’s Studio for Performing Arts rush through me. Like most of my friends in my inner circle, I’d grown up taking tap and ballet, jazz and hip hop. But ballet in particular? I was hooked. The dancers were so glamorous, perfect, the way they traipsed across the sage, their feet fluttering, their bodies lighter than air. The admiration and respect they garnered by simply turning words into movement. My parents took us to see the Nutcracker while on winter break in Chicago when I was six, and by the time I stood up with the rest of the audience and smashed my hands together in applause at the end, I knew I wanted to be a ballet dancer more than anything else in the world. I’d wanted people to clap like that for me. For years after that, I spent almost every afternoon in the studio. I was good. Really good. Jaqueline herself fawned over me, complimenting my form, my turnout, my slender frame. It made my friends in the class green with envy – an added bonus, for sure. All that attention just made me love the dance even more. I started pointe at eleven, adoring the satin shoes with their sleek ribbons and the powerful way my core would tighten when I lifted up, up, up. By fifteen though, I grew tired of it all. When serious talk of my future entered the studio – with names like Julliard and the San Francisco Ballet getting thrown around – I started backing off. By sixteen, my ballet shoes were nothing but a decoration on my canopy bedpost.

  Commitment. It’s not my strong suit.

  And by then, I’d found painting – throwing myself right out of one art form into another.

  But painting was different. It was something I did for myself, not for recognition. Which somehow made it… different. Took the pressure off, in a sense. For the first time in my life, I didn’t care what people thought. Painting was like balm to my soul.

  But, like ballet, I eventually gave that up, too.

  My mother’s worried voice trills in my ear, ruining my flashback. “It’s supposed to be nighty-eight today, so don’t leave them in the car. The cherry pies might be okay, but the cream will melt or, god forbid, give someone food poisoning if they’re left too long in this heat.”

  I’m pretty sure the street trash and drug addicts that dine at the soup kitchen have hard stomachs. But again, I hold my tongue.

  “Yes. Of course. I understand.” Meaning that I’ll have to drive all the way across town after my hair appointment, pick up the damn pies, and haul ass back across town to drop them off. Granted, Cedar Hills isn’t the biggest city, but at roughly sixty miles across – a fact I learned back in my grade school social studies class and haven’t been able to shake since – it will be time consuming.

  And time is something I’m loath to give.

  My mother puffs a sigh of relief, and the piano music and rap of tap shoes in the background falls silent. The chattering of voices can still be heard, and one in particular pricks my ear. “Grandma? Watch this! Watch!”

  Emilia. Always loud. Always screaming. And always twisting my insides up in ways that make me feel things I don’t want to feel.

  I can hear the sound of tap shoes stuttering against the hardwood, their beat clunky and off. But my mother coos like my daughter has just performed the most amazing dance step rather than merely stomping her feet around on the floor. “Oooh, Emilia! That was wonderful!”

  I roll my eyes. There was no grace in that jig. None.

  And that’s why I can’t be a good mother. Why I will probably never b
e one.

  I can’t fake enthusiasm. Love. The type of selfless, upbeat personality that children need in order to thrive.

  My mother is still laughing when she turns her attention back to me. “All right. Well, anyway… Thank you, dear. I really appreciate you doing me this favor.” Then, “Emilia? Do you want to say hello to your mom? Quick sweetie, because we have to go…”

  My mouth is open in protest when my daughter’s voice pierces my ear drum. The connection cracks and sputters under the strain of the high decibel. I cringe – in pain and annoyance – as I jerk the phone away. “Momma!” she yells. “Mom, Mom, Mom! Hi!” Her feet are clapping against the floor, and I can tell she’s jumping up and down. At five and a half years old, the girl has so much energy it’s exhausting.

  “Hello, Emilia,” I say, my voice clipped. I slip my feet into my flip flops while I listen to her giggle and ramble on and on and on about tap class, her little voice practically breathless as she fills me in on the end of summer dance recital. In the background, I can hear my mother urging her out of her shoes.

  “And we got to pick out our costumes today and guess what I’m going to be?” I don’t get a chance to even wonder as she blurts out, “A BEE!”

  I make my way across the yard and through the French doors of the guest house, a place I claimed as mine the minute I moved back in with my parents. The chill from air conditioner hits my damp skin and pulls goosebumps from my flesh. I shiver involuntarily, even though I love the feeling of being wrapped in forced air after coming in from the pool. It’s a sign of summer, of youth, of vacation and lazy days and the promise of wild nights. “That’s nice, Emilia,” I say automatically. I have no interest in this conversation whatsoever.

  Sometimes I wonder how my daughter can still love me as much as she does.

  Maybe someday she won’t.

  And, to be quite honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  You’re a cold bitch, Jen Malone. Clark’s words from months ago ring out like a gong in my head.