Hera's Revenge

By Wendy Day

A curse as old as time

At 24 years old, Kat Phillips has a stable job, an apartment, and her favorite taco place on speed dial. She should be happy, but she's not. When she realizes her life might be stuck in neutral forever, Kat goes into full panic mode. She jumps in her car and heads south to the one person who she knows will understand. 

 

With her grandmother's advice comes revelations that rock Kat's world. Generational secrets come to light and a shocking possibility sends Kat on a thrilling search for answers before her next birthday.

 

The clock is ticking. With her life on the line and handsome, mysterious Jace Woods tempting her heart, Katwill have to challenge fate and change her destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clear Sky Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957707129

Wendy Day

Wendy Day is a nationally known persuasive speaker and trainer. She has been a press relations specialist, event coordinator, content provider, speechwriter, columnist, and featured talk show guest. She lives in Michigan with her patient husband, four kids, two dogs, and one very entitled cat. When not writing, she’s likely to be found daydreaming in a rowboat or curled up in a cozy chair with a glass of wine and a good book. Find out more about Wendy’s unique outlook on life at the website: www.readwendyday.com

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Wendy Day

Hera’s Revenge

First published by Open Sky Publishing 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Wendy Day

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Second edition

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Dedicated to those who choose to forgive others, even when they are not sorry.

Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. Colossians 3:13

Acknowledgement

I want to thank my family for overlooking my mediocre participation in their care and feeding. I am hoping to sell enough books to be able to recoup the money spent on takeout the past few months. They have kept our house running despite me hiding in my office more evenings than not. What a blessing it has been to be given the freedom and encouragement to explore my passion for writing.

My editor, Melissa, makes me a better writer. If there are typos in this book, they are my fault. If there are colons in the right spot, it is probably due to them.

Several friends were roped into reading drafts of this book. More than once, after sending a version I had to tell them to wait because I had decided to make major changes to the plot or characters. Their feedback made this book so much better.

Most importantly, I want to thank God. My life is such a blessing and wouldn’t be here without my faith and the grace of my heavenly father.

1

Late

I’m no beauty queen, but I’ve got a talent locked and loaded in case there’s ever a pageant for twenty-somethings who don’t know where their lives are going. It’s the same talent that got me invited to the slumber party of the most popular girl in the 8th grade, Bella Donavan. As an adult, I’m still working out how I can capitalize on the fact that I can taste words, literally. The technical name is synaesthesia. But an official-sounding diagnosis doesn’t help explain to someone that you need to break up with them because their name tastes like spoiled fish.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not like I am drooling all the time or anything. I can usually suppress the effect unless I focus on it. I need time to taste, and people usually talk so fast the flavor can’t quite take shape. But if I hear a word repeatedly, or it’s a distinctive island standing out in a garble of sound, my mouth can flood with a taste as real as if I was taking a big bite of smelly fish or sweet strawberry.

Hmmm. Maybe I have time to stop and grab a strawberry smoothie before work. I glance at my phone. It’s almost nine o’clock. Rummaging through my scarf drawer, I plucked out my lucky silk with the purple lilacs. I slip into my long black cardigan and black leather boots. If I am going to be late, I might as well look good doing it.

I slide into my messy silver Impala and fling my beat-up brown leather messenger bag on the passenger seat beside me, along with a bottle of water I probably won’t open. Instead, I’ll drink the cold can of Diet Coke that takes the helm on my center console every day. As bad habits go, Diet Coke is better than smoking, right?

It’s not just that I hate my job, which I do. It’s not just that there are no eligible men within a 300-mile radius of me, which is true. It’s just the nagging feeling that I should be further along in my life. I’m turning 25 this year, too young for a midlife crisis and too old to fantasize about some sparkling future where I’ve cut ahead of the line and become successful before all of my peers.

I am not even sure who I am supposed to be anymore. I used to have ambitions, dreams, and goals; I was supposed to be a prodigy. My undoing may have started when I was young, but since then it’s been kind of like that annoying little thread you might notice on the sleeve of your sweater, sticking up and daring you to ignore it. Hating to see it, you might nudge it down between the other threads, hoping you can pull it through the underside and magically fix it. Over time, the hole gets bigger, and it’s no problem; you can tie off the yarn and cut the excess, scrunch up your sleeves, and no one will notice… until they do. Before you know it, your beautiful sweater is just a pile of yarn at your feet, and you are topless. Wherever I am in this process, it’s somewhere between scrunching my sleeves and the dread of baring a doughy midsection. What? I said I wasn’t a beauty queen.

As I shift my car into drive, I linger for just a second on the glowing N. I’m stuck in neutral in a lot of ways, it turns out. Neutral apartment, neutral love life, neutral job- that’s me. And if neutral is all I get and all I can manage, what’s the point?

* * *

Flying into the parking lot, I jam my car into park in a spot as close to the door as possible. It’s twelve minutes after nine, making me officially late. Plucking up my bag and Diet Coke, my heeled strides are clacking and uneven as I approach the front door, and I’m out of breath by the time I step into the small, dated lobby of our building. Curls are escaping from the messy bun on the top of my head. I reach up to tuck them back in and my knee-length cardigan gets caught on one of the dusty artificial plants near the elevator. I have to yank it to pull it free, and it feels prophetic, considering I was just ruminating on ruined sweaters pulling and unraveling.

The elevator doors slide open to my floor. Grouchy old Joanne crouches like a toad behind her desk, looking at me like I’m the fly she’s been waiting to take a bite of. She narrows her eyes and taps two fingers on her wrist. Hustling past and mouthing sorry, I make a beeline for my light blue cubicle and gray desk. I steal a glance out the window overlooking the parking lot and then drop my bag on the floor, pushing the power button on my computer at the same time. As the system boots up, I snap open a Diet Coke and savor the crispy sharp sweetness on my tongue.

As I lean over to dig my phone out of my purse, I hear someone clear his throat. I see the tan loafers first, then look up to meet his eyes. Mike! I force a smile, swallowing the taste of raw fish now filling my mouth at the sound of his name. Fishy Mike and I went out briefly last year, and I tried my best; a couple of dinners, too much to drink, and a single make-out session initiated by me that ended when the alcohol wore off. My talent has ruined more than one relationship.

Pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose, he says, Hey, Kat. Some of us are meeting up for drinks later. Would you want to come? It’s a group thing, no pressure or anything. And there are Friday drink specials at Lu & Carls, he adds in a rush.

Do I have plans tonight? No. Do I want to go out for drinks with people from work? Also, no. Uh, sorry. I fold my cardigan over the front of me. He is leaning on the frame of my cubicle. I want to, but I can’t. I have to go to my parents’ house for my dad’s birthday.

Oh, he says, sounding disappointed, that’s okay. Maybe another time.

Yeah, maybe.

He turns to go, then pauses, Hey, just so you know, Tom is on the warpath again. He said your report was late yesterday, and he’s pissed.

What? It was like 15 minutes late. Tom. His name smells like spaghetti sauce.

Yeah, well, you know how he is, a stickler for rules and time.

Yeah, I know, I sigh, Thanks for the warning. I’ll avoid him today. Tom and Joanne, two frogs on a toadstool.

* * *

Hustling past co-workers, I’m out like a shot at noon to meet my best friend Emma, whose name tastes like blueberry pie; we don’t get to see each other much these days. Last year she got married in a whirl of pink ribbon and white taffeta and is busy building her life with Brandon, whose name tastes like cornbread.

When I drive up to the cute family-owned taco place by the Millpond, her shiny white SUV is already in the parking lot. It’s a recent upgrade from her Honda Civic. Apparently, having a husband with a good job is one of the many perks of marriage. I tap the last few drops of Diet Coke onto my tongue and drop it crookedly in the drink holder before I hop out.

Moments later, a perky hostess leads me through the sunlit, busy restaurant. Upstairs, there is a small table by the window looking down over Main Street.

Glancing up from the menu, Emma is staring at me, wide-eyed. She is jumping in her seat and trying to swallow a grin. She’s obviously bursting to share some news. Okay, what are you dying to tell me? I ask as I sit down.

We’re going to buy a house, she lets out a little scream and throws her hands up, beaming.

Really? That’s amazing, I reply, trying to match her enthusiasm. When? Where? I know her husband works about an hour away from Brighton; are they considering moving out of Brighton?

She waves me off. Oh, we’re not sure yet. We’re just starting to look for houses, but we are hoping to be in by the end of summer. She doesn’t meet my eyes, and I dip my head between my shoulders, pointedly trying to catch her gaze.

You guys aren’t moving far away, are you?

Probably not, she answers with a light laugh, resting her chin in her hand. I mean, Brandon would like to live a little bit closer to work, but I don’t really want to move out of town. I don’t know… he wants to move to Royal Oak or Bloomfield Hills. I’d rather not go further than Milford or South Lyon, so… not sure yet.

Bloomfield Hills? Royal Oak? That’s like an hour in traffic…we won’t be able to hang out as much.

Sitting back in her seat, Emma continues, You knew we weren’t going to live down the street from each other forever. Her eyes cloud over in troubled thought as she fumbles a bit with the menu and presses her lips together. You are my best friend no matter where I live. Besides, you were going to move to New York and leave me here.

But I didn’t. I choose to stay here with you. Okay, maybe I didn’t choose to stay here, but I didn’t decide to leave either.

Yeah, right. I’m the reason you didn’t go? Come on, Kat. Emma looks absently at her menu.

Hey, wait a minute, we weren’t talking about me, I say, I don’t love the idea of you moving away. But I’m excited for you! It’s just that I don’t get to see you very often already, and so… if you move even a little further away, it’s going to be even less. I pout a little, ensuring that she sees my very best sad face.

She nods and sets the menu down on the table. "I know that Kat, and of course I miss you, too. Critiquing red carpet outfits just isn’t the same over the phone. Maybe I should have married Todd; he still works at his dad’s dealership and is never leaving."

I shake my head, Absolutely not. Todd was awful. We blurt out at the same time, Todd the knob, and dissolve into giggles.

She looks down at her wedding ring, then rolls her shoulders back and smiles brightly. Enough of this for now. I’m starving. Do you think we should get chips and salsa to start? Maybe a margarita or two?

Of course, I say, grinning. Emma knows me better than almost anybody else in the world, even though our lives are moving in different directions. It’s weird; as teens, we promised each other we’d experience things simultaneously, somehow getting married to brothers in a dual wedding, and then having babies on the same day, even though adults with any world experience at all would consider that kind of serendipity an actual miracle. I would be a big-time fashion designer, and she would bring up our babies with a well-rounded education and a roaringly successful home daycare business. She did not hold up her end of the bargain, or… maybe I was the one who failed.

When our food arrives, she nibbles on her tacos, telling me more about the kind of house she’s looking for. My mom thinks we should get a condo, but I want a yard and maybe even a pool.

If you get a pool, I’m going to have to figure out a way to work remotely so we can hang out all summer.

Exactly, it will be just like when we were kids, except with alcohol.

Speaking of alcohol, Mike asked me out again.

Fishy Mike?

Yup.

Tell me everything.

We laugh and talk and end up eating way too much. When we’ve finished our meal, she stands, slips her black Tory Burch bag over her shoulder, and gives me another hug. We need to make it a regular thing or something! I mean, I’ve got the time. Brandon’s always at work trying to climb the corporate ladder and stuff, and I know you don’t have anybody. Her voice trails off as she realizes what she’s saying. I mean… I just, well, you know.

I laugh a little too loudly with theatrical flair, granting my friend the grace of one margarita sip too many and shuffling my private sting aside. Oh shut up, it’s fine. I’m perpetually single! You know mere mortals tend to bore me. I look to the heavens for dramatic effect. I need to meet a chiseled hunk of a Greek god to keep my interest. Hercules, maybe? I laugh. The tension seems to be sufficiently diffused, and as we part, her embrace is warm, her expression gentle. Inside, my stomach is churning.

I’ll send her a text later to ensure that everything‘s smoothed over. Back when we used to see each other regularly, it seemed like we were always in step. But there’s a slight awkwardness between us now that takes a little more effort and time before our dynamic feels natural again. I watch her drive away, her head bopping to what I am pretty sure is Beyonce playing on her radio. She is living a charmed life, and I am happy for her. I sigh out loud and head to my car. Wasn’t I supposed to be living in New York right about now, designing fabulous costumes and dating some fantastic guy? Instead, I’m stuck in a job that I’m not even good at. I know I should be practicing an attitude of gratitude, and most days I can muster up some optimism. But for some reason, today is full of angst.

I click my seat belt into place, preparing to drive back to the same office to sit in the same chair and do the job I hate. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, my palms break out in a cold sweat, and I can feel my heart pounding. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. My fingers tingle as I open and close my hands. I reach down to slide the key into the ignition and pause. Meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, I swear I see the beginning of crow’s feet at the edges of my lashes. I find some lip gloss in my purse and smack my lips together, examining the effect in the mirror. Then I fall back against the seat with a huff.

I can’t do it. I can’t spend another minute with horrible Joanne, whose name smells like burnt hair, staring me down with her beady little eyes. I can’t go home, with only my cat for company.

I punch the accelerator, and as the car squeals out of the parking lot, my empty Diet Coke can clatters to the floor. Instead of turning right to head back to the office, I hang a left.

2

Quarter Life Crisis

The sun bounces off of the cars in front of me as I ease onto the freeway. I rummage around my center console for my sunglasses and slip them on. Maybe should go to the mall or pop in and visit Emma. I could even go back to work for a few hours later this afternoon. As soon as the thought enters my mind I know it’s not going to happen. The last thing I want to see right now is Joanne the toad.

Without committing to a destination, I plug in my phone and hit play on my favorite music list. My panic begins to subside as I fly down the freeway. The music vibrates through the steering wheel and into my hands. I turn up the music and sing along at the top of my lungs. I pass the exit to Emma’s and ease on to 23 south. I could go shopping at Green Oak, but I need something more than a clearance rack or another contour brush. Adjusting my rearview mirror, I watch the Green Oak exit fade behind me, and I think, screw it. I fast forward the playlist to a Donna Summer song and drive on. Anxiety still sits in the middle of my gut, but I try to ignore it and sing louder.

Crossing the state line, I snap open the water bottle I threw in my car this morning. I call my grandma and let her know I am on my way.

Is everything okay, Sweetie?

Not really, Grandma. I need to get away for a bit.

She doesn’t ask why, just says, I’ll make up a bed for you. See you soon.

Three hours later, I pull onto the familiar dirt driveway leading back through frosted fields that stubbornly ignore the coming spring. My grandmother’s clapboard farmhouse is 40 miles off the freeway, just outside of Columbia City, Indiana, and has been in our family for generations. The paint is peeling in spots, but my mom has made my grandmother promise to stay off of ladders because last summer she fell and broke her wrist, giving us all a fright.

Grandpa died a few years ago, and Grandma leases out the farm acreage to neighbors. The property is enormous work, but even at 80 years old, she refuses to give it up and move into town. My teeth clatter as I navigate the potholes and ruts from a long winter. While I bounce around and hope my shocks hang in there, my grandma sits on the porch, watching.

She’s gently rocking in her old chair, a peaceful smile on her face and a cup of coffee between her hands. She is wrapped up to her shoulders in a wool blanket with her slipper-covered toes sticking out from underneath. I inherited my curly hair from her, and she doesn’t attempt to tame the spirals that peek out underneath the wool cap she’s wearing. Grandma loves to rock on the porch no matter what season it is. She believes fresh air is the key to keeping her young.

* * *

Leaving the keys in the ignition, I stretch my stiff arms and back, rotate my ankle a few times to stretch it out, then take a deep breath of clean country air. Ever since I was a little girl, this has been a place of refuge. I love the barns, open fields, and smell of damp hay. A little creek runs behind the property, where my grandpa taught me to fish; well, he tried to teach me to fish. I refuse to this day to touch worms or fish. My grandma taught me to sew, which suited me better, right at her kitchen table when I was eight or nine, her hands and heart guiding me then, as now.

Come in out of the cold, Katriana. She insists on calling me by my given name, which she helped pick it out. Thank goodness, because my mom wanted to name me Rose after the movie Titanic, which was released the year I was born.

My mom loves to tell me how she watched that ship sink on the big screen with a swollen belly and a tear-stained face and decided that her unborn daughter needed to be named after Rose. Luckily, my grandma intervened. Rose Phillips sounds like the tonic for stomach ailments, she said. And it tastes like that too.

I jog up the little pathway to the covered front porch and into my grandmother’s arms. Hi, Grandma. I am so glad to see you. She smiles at me and pats my arm.

Now, why don’t we go inside and sit by the fire, and you can tell me what all of this is about, she says, standing up as the rocking chair cracks in protest