The Hermit of Blue Ridge

By Cary Marc Grossman

Author Jeremy Woods has found perfect isolation, high in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where he can write in peace--until a strange, strikingly beautiful girl crashes into his cottage, and his life. Showing up at his door during the worst blizzard of recent history, the girl is half-frozen from exposure, with dangerously frostbitten fingers and toes. The roads down into town are too inundated with snow to seek medical care for her--Jeremy's cottage rests 8000 feet high at the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, with no other shelter for miles. How could the girl have survived the journey on foot?
At first, Jeremy is intrigued; the girl displays remarkable artistic talent, able to create stunning sketches with almost photographic detail. Her work takes on an eerie quality, however, matching that of Jeremy's first love, Priscilla--a hauntingly original artist murdered at the tender age of eighteen--to the most minute detail. Even more troubling is Jeremy's growing attraction to his guest, whose name he learns is Sarah. As they grow close and Sarah starts painting, Jeremy realizes something is terribly wrong--Sarah's portraits, while brilliant, include disturbing portrayals of Priscilla's abduction and homicide.
A haunting, evocative love story, Cary Grossman's fourth work of speculative fiction depicts two damaged people struggling with the ghosts of their past in the hope of keeping the comfort they have found in one another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cary Marc Grossman
• Release date: Dec 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370465361

Cary Marc Grossman

After dabbling in half a dozen rock bands on the Jersey shore, Cary Grossman returned to his native region of northern New Jersey, where he spent over three decades in retail management. He wrote much of his first novel, Chopin's Ghost, on a pad kept in his shirt pocket.

Book preview

Chapter 1

She showed up one blustery afternoon during the worst blizzard of the year, leaving tracks on the powdery virgin surface of the steep hill leading up to Jeremy’s cottage and giving the door a tentative pounding, as if testing to see if anyone inhabited the place before breaking in to escape the storm. The trees stood blanketed in snow, their lithe frames clothed in thick globs of fluff like marshmallow ghosts stretching up to a sky of thick gray wool. Snow didn’t simply fall this high in the mountains, but blew in great sneezing gusts, hurling itself at the little cottage in heaps and piles, collecting in dunes on the porch, creeping up the panes of windows, and rising in slopes and promontories on the roof until gravity brought it down in tiny avalanches.

The cottage rested on a hill, so that one could look upon it only from below, even when standing at a distance of only a few feet. Nestled eight thousand feet up a steep peak high in the Blue Ridge Mountains, it was Tudor in style, with a ground floor and chimney consisting of brown and red brick, and an upper level of cream-colored stucco with the traditional brown moldings. Decorative black hinges extended more than half the breadth of the heavy oak door, which, along with the casement windows, was embellished in gold stone mottled with black. Other than that, the cottage was quite ordinary, except for the pretty gardens of shrubbery and flowers adorning the front and side in the warmer months.

Meteorologists on all the local stations were already calling this the worst winter in the history of Ipiros. The North Carolina wind at this elevation could make easy work of burying road, car, and front door in snowdrifts taller than a man could clear without special equipment; Jeremy had seven years ago built a sturdy garage to house his pickup truck and plow. Braving the eight miles into the town below was too treacherous when the snow was deep, and still a weighty affair when it was shallow as the road could be menacing when icy. Jeremy did his winter shopping over the course of a few days at the first sign of frost, stockpiling enough supplies to survive a siege.

Nature provided its own insulation up here, the tiny flakes from the first storms filling the thinnest cracks and crevices and freezing solid after one good dose of sleet. A thick, clear enamel of ice protected the edges of the window behind which Jeremy sat at his computer, oblivious to the frozen hell the sky was hurling over the western side of the mountain. At the bottom of a long, gray cobblestone walk was his mailbox, often ignored.

Jeremy loved days like this. Clothed in splendid isolation, far from the insanity of society and the memory of two broken marriages, he had just begun work on his fifteenth novel. He had enough wood split and seasoned to last far into the following winter, two spare generators out back in case the power went out, and plenty of food stores in the basement and pantry. The tall radio tower anchored fifty yards north of the cottage maintained the TV reception, phone, and Internet access on which he kept a strictly limited contact with the outside world. Weeks before the deep freeze had set in, he had driven into town and changed delivery of his mail over to his post office box. He’d spent the morning attending to housekeeping chores and placed a hearty stew with beef, peas, onions, kale, and mushrooms, into the slow cooker. He’d swept out the fireplace too, and now a toasty blaze had the living room deliciously warm.

Jeremy never heard the girl’s approach over the gentle roar of the fire and the banshee wail of polar wind, but Sam was already barking, his great booming voice cannoning through the living room. The first feeble beats of a closed fist on wood began to make their way through as the seventy-five-pound blend of boxer and pit bull flailed his great bulk against the door, pawing at it while he warned of impending doom to trespassers. It was all Jeremy could do to pull him away and give a firm, Sit, at which the dog dropped on command.

The gray flannel poncho the girl wore made her shapeless. She was trembling with cold, her lips blue, her teeth chattering. She looked to be about sixteen years old. The skin of her face was pallid, her turned up nose red and chapped, the tender eyelashes caked with tiny bits of ice. Her dirty blonde hair was likewise wet and frozen, and she fell to her knees, a single loud moan escaping her throat before she collapsed on Jeremy’s front mat, convulsing in frigid, almost violent need.

What choice had he? She was alone—a quick glance outside told him that—and near death of exposure. His cottage was the only shelter, indeed, the only sign of life for miles. He would wonder later about where she came from and how she had made it across eight miles of steep, unforgiving mountain range, far from any vestige of what people called civilization. Dropping down, he gathered her diminutive frame in his arms, kicked the door closed, and carried her to the fire with Sam right on his heels. He set her gently on the wool rug and peered into her large hazel eyes.

Can you understand me? She was shaking too violently to speak, but she nodded. I’m going to take off these wet things so you can get warm, okay?

Having seen fifteen winters up here, Jeremy knew that the first order of business was to check the extremities for signs of frostbite. He removed the boots and the thin woolen mittens she wore, taking care to move her fingers and toes as little as possible. There were ugly patches of white, red, and greenish yellow on her fingers and hands, and while they concerned him, he knew they were treatable. But the toes on each foot were bright red and blistered, with the first two almost black. These would need immediate attention and he couldn’t, at this early stage, rule out the possibility of permanent damage. She had gotten here just in time; another hour out there might have finished her. He wondered if he could save the blackened toes.

Sam sniffed, whimpered, and barked loudly. Down! snapped Jeremy, pointing a finger to the floor. He turned back to the girl and pulled at the poncho. Gonna take this off you. You need to get warm right away. Your hands and feet have frostbite, so try not to move your fingers and toes. We’ll deal with them in a minute, but first we have to get you warm.

The dog lay silent, but alert. The poncho was frozen stiff and hard to get off, the girl trembling too violently to offer much in the way of assistance. Underneath was a child’s white undershirt, soaked to the skin, and a pair of black jeans, frozen solid from the knees down. Look at me, Jeremy said, nudging under her chin with the tip of his index finger. I’m not...I’m not looking to do anything I shouldn’t be doing, but your jeans are frozen and they need to come off.

They were button-fly jeans. He pulled them open and slid them down to her knees. Don’t move. Gonna fetch that chair over there so you can sit. Grabbing one of the uprights from the kitchen table, he sat her down before carefully slipping off the jeans and helping her back to her feet.

She stood now in just the undershirt and a pair of girl’s white underpants. We should get this off too, Jeremy said, taking the hem of her undershirt. Don’t worry, I won’t look, and I’m going to cover you right up with this afghan. The girl raised her shivering arms, allowing him to remove her undershirt, and he pulled the thick wool coverlet from the sofa and draped it over her trembling shoulders. Her breasts were small but shapely, the nipples slightly darker than virginal pink and stiff with the cold. He wrapped the afghan around her.

Now, without moving your fingers, just hook your thumbs under the waistband of the panties and slide them down. The girl did as she was told. The panties dropped to the floor but she was unable to step out of them. Don’t worry about it, he said, helping her back into the chair and tugging the panties from around her ankles.

I’ll be right back. Gonna get a towel for your hair and a tub to immerse those feet—we need to get them warm right away. He ran up to the bathroom and grabbed a towel off the rack, reaching under the sink for the little metal tub he sometimes used to soak his feet after working in the snow for a long time. Then he pulled the heavy quilt off his bed and ran back downstairs. He dried the girl’s stiff, frozen hair as best he could, wrapping the towel around the back of her head and swaddling her tight with the quilt while the big helpless eyes looked up at him gratefully. Then he went and filled the little tub with water from the kitchen sink, checking to make sure it was warm—not hot.

Lifting the girl’s feet, he placed them carefully in the tub. You just relax and get warm, he told her. Gonna go heat you up some soup.

The stew would have been better, but Jeremy wasn’t sure if the beef within was fully cooked yet, and getting something hot into her was the most immediate concern. So he grabbed a can of Manhattan clam chowder, poured it into a saucepan, and set the electric stovetop to high.

He’d given up smoking as a daily habit years before, but always stocked the place with a carton before winter set in for when he was anxious or when he was stuck on whatever book he was working on. He kept them on the top shelf of the overhead cabinet in the kitchen, away from the temptation that easier access would have afforded, and he reached up now to tap one out of an open pack. It was stale—it had been weeks since his last cigarette—but he didn’t care. He lit it with a wooden kitchen match, inhaling deeply and spitting a flake of tobacco into the sink.

Standing, he took another pull on the cigarette and ran the occasional spoon through the soup, pondering the condition in which the girl had arrived at his doorstep and the brand of desperation required to instigate such an act. How could she have known of the existence of a single cottage at this elevation in a remote stretch of the Blue Ridge Mountains? And if she hadn’t known, then what in hell had she been doing out there?

The soup was simmering. Jeremy turned off the burner and poured half of the steamy liquid into a fat ceramic mug. The girl was no longer shaking, but he didn’t want her using her frostbitten hands, so he was obliged to feed her. Your toes might start hurting as they warm. This is good—it means there’s no nerve damage. You want to use your hands and feet as little as possible until they’ve healed. Going to give you some ibuprofen for the swelling.

She was hungry, and when the soup was sufficiently cooled she took the mug between the heels of each hand and drank it down, pausing after each gulp or two to chew at the bits of clam, potato, and vegetable. Still lying prone, Sam crept closer to sniff at the girl’s ankle. Satisfied, he dropped and lay splayed on the floor with his chin between his paws.

Jeremy looked down at the girl’s toes. They still showed the same colors. He smiled, careful to keep the worry from his face. There. Let’s get them wrapped. He fetched the first aid kit—he always kept it in the kitchen—and made little pillows of cotton balls wrapped in gauze. These he inserted between the affected toes. Then he covered her toes across the width of each foot in two layers of gauze and affixed the dressing with white adhesive tape. He gave her two ibuprofen tablets with water, and fetched the rest of the soup, which she downed just as greedily as the first offering. In the time it took him to put the mug in the sink and fill it with warm water to soak, she had collapsed onto the rug in front of the fire, snuggling up to Sam, her cheek nestled into the brindled fur at the nape of his neck, both of them fast asleep.

Chapter 2

Are you hurt? Or ill? Is that why you can’t speak? Jeremy pointed to his ear and made a circle with his index finger. Are you deaf?

Under the kitchen light, the girl’s hazel eyes had just a touch of aquamarine. Jeremy’s old blue jeans were baggy on her, and the thick wool sweater from his dresser drawer made her just as shapeless as the poncho had. Even now, in their first few hours together, he couldn’t help noticing how familiar she seemed, though that was impossible—he’d been alone in these mountains, surely, almost as long as she’d been alive. The lack of any lines on her face betrayed her youth, yet the intensity in those striking, wide-set eyes spoke of need and hinted at experience—not all of it cheerful. Again Jeremy found himself wondering what had prompted her to brave the arctic hell that raged beyond the walls of his house.

They sat at the supper table his father had made many years ago, before Jeremy was a writer of fiction. The sky through the kitchen window looked like a bruise-colored explosion, with burgundy fireballs and blue-gray mushrooms of cloud smoke. The coming night would turn it to solid black in less than twenty minutes, Jeremy knew—the sky and he were old friends.

There was an old radio from the 1920’s on the isthmus counter that had belonged to Jeremy’s grandfather. The old wireless, Jeremy’s father had called it, because that’s what his old man had called it. Jeremy’s father had stuffed one of the kitchen drawers with spare parts for it, back when such parts were still available. The radio splashed the kitchen now with Strauss’s Symphonic Fantasy, Op 16.

Do you not speak English? Jeremy asked. There was no purse with your things, no identification. The girl frowned at this. I just want to know if there is anyone I could call, to let them know where you are and that you’re all right.

She gave a slight smile, as though she understood. The bulky bandages on her fingers made it difficult to hold her spoon and Jeremy told her not to worry if she spilled some stew, but she managed to get some into her mouth. The smile grew larger and she rubbed her belly.

You like it? He pushed the basket of rolls toward her. Made them myself. Go on, try one.

He didn’t have to ask twice. She took a roll in both hands and tried to rip it in half, grimacing with the pain in her fingers.

Let me, he said, taking the roll from her to split in half before handing it back. You must understand that it’s very similar to a burn. It’s going to hurt for a while. Your toes will take weeks to heal, and if the black ones don’t look any better in a couple days, we’re going to need to get you to a hospital. You’re very lucky you got here when you did.

He’d had to carry her to the table, as she could do little more than hobble around on her heels to keep the weight from her toes. When she had to use the upstairs bathroom she waved him off, crawling on her knees and the heels of her hands.

She took the roll and dipped half in her bowl of stew, soaking up the broth before devouring it with the occasional expression of ecstasy to let him know how much she enjoyed his cooking.

I just want to know if there’s anyone I can contact.

Another frown. She looked purposefully down at her bowl, taking a chunk of beef with her spoon and offering it to Sam, who sat on the braided rug next to her chair, paying rapt attention to each morsel as it traveled from table to mouth.

You’re going to spoil my dog, you know.

She smiled at him.

He’s sitting there because he knows you’re an easy target.

The girl leaned over, bending toward Sam and puckering up. Sam licked her mouth and wagged his tail. Jeremy got up and fetched two glasses from the cabinet by the sink. He filled one with water and placed it in front of the girl, explaining, I’m sorry, but I have no soda. Then he took a jug of wine from one of the bottom cabinets and filled his glass.

The girl frowned at her glass of water and looked at him with reproach.

You’re too young.

She rapped on the table. With her unbandaged thumb, she traced the numeral eighteen on the kitchen table.

The drinking age is twenty-one, young lady. He raised his glass.

The rap came harder this time, angry now.

No. Drink your water.

She slammed her fist onto the table. Then she took her glass and put it on the floor in front of the dog. Sam sniffed at it and turned away.

Jeremy sighed and got up. If that’s the way you want it. He walked around, picking up the water glass and putting it in the sink. When he returned to the table, his glass of wine was in front of the girl and half of it was gone. She ate her stew contentedly.

He stood over her and glared. Now, look—

She took another sip of wine and made a look of astonishment, pointing up at him, her eyes a question mark.

Yes, I made it.

She shook her head, impressed. Then she grabbed his hand in both of hers, her eyes huge, the pretty mouth full of drama. She gestured to both her hands, and pointed to her bandaged feet. Then she kissed his hands.

You’re welcome.

She pointed to his chair. Sighing, he got another glass for himself and filled it. The girl drained hers and tapped it on the table, smiling and nodding.

No, you’re not of age.

She tapped harder. There was a glow in her cheeks now, and he couldn’t help noticing how adorable he found her.

This is it, he said, pouring. You’re not getting drunk.

She took another sip and rolled her eyes in ecstasy.

Thank you, it’s made with blackberries. I like it too. Can’t you speak to me? I worry that there’s someone looking for you, worrying over you.

She smiled at him and raised another spoonful of stew. Then she furrowed her forehead and gestured with her spoon toward him and his bowl.

I know, but I’m trying to talk with you.

She frowned for a second and gestured again. She wasn’t interested in talking. She wanted him to eat with her.

They sat, eating and drinking while the evening sang with Strauss to the accompaniment of the wind outside. Afterwards, Jeremy placed her gently on the sofa and handed her the remote for the TV. Then he made them coffee before settling back behind the computer to resume his work, impatient to be back in the womb that writing offered. Sam picked a spot between the two of them and lay down.

She watched television for a few minutes, flipping through the stations like any teenager would, before turning it off and reaching for a handful of the magazines he kept stacked on the lower level of the coffee table. These were strictly science and astronomy periodicals, with not a glamour or gossip monthly among them, and her preference for them over the TV impressed him.

She seemed to realize his need to work and occupied herself reading without bothering him, but when he poured himself a whiskey, she rapped the coffee table with her fist and pointed to her empty coffee cup.

Absolutely not.

She thumped harder, looking offended.

This isn’t like having a cup of wine with dinner. You’re not a grown-up.

Slapping the table, she sat up on the sofa and pulled the front of the sweater up to her chin.

Stop that! Jeremy was careful to stay focused on her eyes. And just because you have breasts doesn’t mean you’re a grown-up. He turned back to the computer but could feel her eyes, and her disapproval, on his back like a heat lamp. Impatient now, he pushed his chair away from the computer.

Her eyes were really quite lovely, bright and powerfully expressive under gracefully bent brows. How could he explain to her that sinking deep into the writing of a new book was the only way to deal with the loneliness of his self-imposed exile?

If I give you the tiniest dram of whiskey, will you leave me the hell alone and let me work?

She held her bandaged index finger out, pointing sideways, a clear indication that one finger of his Scotch would be plenty.

What the hell. They were snowed in, miles from civilization, and she had frostbitten feet. A swallow or two of whiskey wouldn’t kill her. He walked over, took her coffee cup, and rinsed it out at the sink. Then he poured a small amount of Scotch in a glass and placed it in front of her. Here, brat. Now let me work.

He had returned to his chair and sat down, his hands poised over the keyboard, when he heard a distinct rubbing sound, like a squirrel scouring a tiny fry pan. Turning back, he watched the girl moving her glass over the table in a small circular motion, swirling the whiskey around with her other hand resting lightly over the brim. She leaned closer, placing the tip of her nose between the brim of the glass and her hand, and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent the way a wine connoisseur would appreciate the bouquet of a particular vintage of Bordeaux. Holding the glass between both of her bandaged hands, she took a small sip and sucked in air with the whiskey still in her mouth, relishing the fumes of smoke and peat before swallowing. Then, instead of bolting the stuff down as he’d expected, she placed the remainder back on the table and returned to her magazine.

Jeremy shivered as though he’d seen a ghost. Who was this girl? How many teenagers had such a discriminating palette?

What’s your name, I wonder, he said softly. She looked up for just a moment, saying nothing, her eyes showing the browner side of hazel now. Then they dropped back to her reading.

Outside, the snowfall thinned and stopped. The wind, however, continued unabated, rising and falling like the breath of the sky. When Jeremy next looked up from his work, the clock on the living room wall read eleven-thirty and the girl lay on the sofa fast asleep, the whiskey glass empty, the magazine still open under the crook of the arm nestling her head, with Sam curled over her feet. She looked so familiar in sleep, the blonde hair cascading over one eye, the mouth closed at the edges and parted just slightly in the middle.

Jeremy put the computer to sleep, turned off the radio, and pulled the quilt over the girl’s slumbering form. Then he returned to his chair, sat down, and stared at her for many moments, wondering who she was.

Chapter 3

Five-thirty, and Jeremy knew he’d never get back to sleep. Better to make coffee, check the morning’s Internet headlines, and then get to work. There was no drug or drink capable of providing a better, more vivid escape from civilization than sinking into one’s own creation, surrounded by miles of uninhabited mountain. A coffee, a bowl of steel-cut oats, half an hour or so of housekeeping, and then endless cups of tea with lemon while he wrote away the rest of the morning—paradise. Around noon, a brisk walk with Sam and a game of fetch, or chase. It would start with him chasing Sam before the tables inevitably turned.

A roast, seasoned and set to cook. Or a slow-cooking stew or simmering sauce, something that would take all afternoon, and then back into the book, the wireless spraying music every which way. Wine with dinner, whiskey after, and then it was either a good movie on cable, or coffee and right back into Bookland, the only place in the world where he knew what he was doing.

This, to Jeremy, was a perfect day.

Of course, today he could work only until his guest woke, and then it was time for some serious answers.

Coffee to start. But a quick stop at the bathroom first. He pulled on his jeans and headed down the hall, stopping short when he saw a flickering light coming from within the open bathroom door.

Fire?

His pace quickening, he rushed to the doorway to discover the young lady in the bathtub, the two emergency table candles he kept on the kitchen counter resting on either side of the bathroom sink, the reflection of their flames bright in the mirrored wall tile opposite the tub. She had removed the bandages from her feet and hands. Her blonde hair was a shade darker when wet and it clung to her neck and shoulders, her bare breasts bobbing at the water’s surface, the exposed skin wet and slick—likewise, the knees poking above the water, the flash of thigh. Sam lay beside the tub, looking up at Jeremy as though he was intruding on their solitude.

Jeremy was a statue. The girl glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway, looking. Though instantly alert, she made no attempt to cover herself. Instead, she pointed to the toilet, the sink. Do you need to use the bathroom?

No, no, enjoy, he said, pointing to the tub with a quivering hand. The water is good for the frostbite, as long as it’s not too hot. I’ll put fresh bandages on when you’re done. He made an awkward gesture to the hallway. Going to go make some coffee.

She smiled and nodded. Coffee sounded good.

Outside, the snow had slowed to a gentle shower. Jeremy tugged on his boots and went out shirtless in the snow to take a leak behind the garage. Adorable and intriguing though the girl was, she was a break from routine, and that, for Jeremy, was never comfortable.

Back inside, he put on a pot of coffee, watching the early news on TV and then ignoring it to fire up his computer and check the previous day’s writing. He was getting a second cup of coffee when he heard the girl moving slowly down the steps on her heels. Sam stayed right behind her, as though ready to yank her back if she lost her balance. At the foot of the stairs, she mussed the fur on the back of his neck and hobbled across the living room, walking slowly past Jeremy to the kitchen and pouring coffee in the cup he’d left for her.

Let’s have a look at those toes.

She sat down at the table as though unaware of what he’d said. Jeremy stood, walked over, and pointed to her feet, bending next to her. Turning in her chair, she presented them for his inspection. The two front toes on each foot were still black, but duller and not as dark, indicating that they were not gangrenous. Better today, he told her. The black spots are lighter, and that means the circulation wasn’t damaged. If they had turned green, I would have had to brave the roads with the plow and get you to a hospital.

She reacted almost violently to this, slamming her heels against the floor and bolting to her feet. Sam rose, instantly alert.

Hey, hey—take it easy!

The girl drew her upraised index finger back and forth across her chest, shaking her head. She pointed to herself, and then to the door, the anger on her face making it clear that she would leave if he dare attempt bringing her to a hospital.

"If they turn green, that means gangrene, he scolded. Do you understand gangrene? In such a case, they would have to come off or they could kill you!"

The girl looked around. She pointed to the knife rack on the counter, and then to Jeremy. She drew her finger back and forth across her chest again.

Then you cut them off. No hospital.

Jeremy stood. A head taller than she was, he used his height to full effect, glowering down at her. "Let’s get something straight. You are not in charge here! You leave and you’ll lose your toes, maybe your feet, and most likely your life! So until the roads clear, you will put yourself in my care simply because you have no other options. Sit."

The girl sat down. So did Sam, and Jeremy couldn’t help laughing. Let’s see the fingers.

She raised her hands obediently. The patches of yellow and red were a little duller, but still bright enough to be worrisome. The girl sipped at her coffee.

Are you a runaway? Jeremy asked.

No response.

Do you always bathe with the door open?

The girl looked up, but Jeremy couldn’t be certain of whether she understood.

Why do you not speak? He leaned forward, peering into her eyes. "English? Ingles? Americana?

She looked puzzled. Yet she obviously understood English.

Jeremy grabbed a spiral notepad and pencil from his desk. What is your name? he scrawled, handing it to her.

The girl looked blankly at the writing on top of the page. She gave him a curious look, then carefully took the pencil and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and laying the pad over her knee, grimacing over the pain in her still-tender fingers. Ah, now we come to it, thought Jeremy.

She seemed quite busy, and it took a moment before Jeremy realized that she wasn’t writing. Though it had been more years than he would have cared to admit, this was not the first time he’d been sketched. He knew the difference between the scritch-scratch of someone jotting down an answer and the long, graceful rub and scrape of an artist, and he recognized the way the girl’s eyes moved between the paper and him, taking a quick scan of a particular aspect of his face and then committing it to the notepad. It was less than five minutes before she put the pencil down and placed the pad on the table in front of him.

Blinking, Jeremy stared at the drawing, no bigger than his hand from wrist to fingertips. It was a quick hint, an insinuation of his likeness, a mere suggestion at what she might have done had she devoted more time, yet it captured his every aspect, the dark intensity of his brow and his deep-set eyes, the prominence of his unshaven chin, even the hints of gray in his thick, dark hair. He looked at the girl sitting there, regarding him with the faintest intimation of a smile, her eyes showing the greener side of hazel with a mixture of triumph and amusement.

Chapter 4

Jeremy met Priscilla exactly one week after The Great Doug Glaser Fight of 1986, the cause of