With Christmas only days away, Bay Harbor would normally be packed to the brim with vacationers from all over the world. They would come to the northern latitudes expecting ice, snow, and cold weather, which they would take shelter from in climate-controlled resorts and rent-by-the-week cabins. They wanted to sip hot cocoa in front of the fireplace, bundle up and hit the ice-skating rink, and throw snowballs in the park. But now, instead of a winter wonderland, Bay Harbor had become a sloppy, muddy mess. And all tourism had been banned for the season because of a cholera epidemic that had swept through the United States and a dozen other countries.
The travel bans had crippled the American economy, and the residents of Bay Harbor had suffered worse than most. Thankfully, Brad still had his job with a large resort. But now he spent his days on the phone with angry clients, reminding them that he had nothing to do with the bio-terrorist attack that unleashed the genetically engineered cholera on the world. What did they want him to do? Develop a vaccine in his basement and distribute it to five hundred million people?
As Brad eased into his driveway, a blob of slush slipped off the naked branches of a maple tree and landed on the center of his windshield. He cursed and turned on his wipers, which only smeared the mud and road salts back and forth. He tried to turn on the washer fluid nozzles, but they were completely clogged. His foot covered the brakes as he slowly eased forward, his attention on the smeared window and ineffectual wipers.
“Work, dammit,” he muttered. Then, as the first drop of wiper fluid began to spurt onto the windshield, Brad heard a sickening crunch beneath the tires.
He closed his eyes and put the transmission into Park. “You have got to be kidding me.”
After taking several deep breaths, he opened the door to survey the damage. A tricycle was wedged beneath his door, and it had left behind long gouges in the paint. He tried to pull the tricycle free, but it didn’t move. The veins in his forehead bulged, and his face darkened from pink to red to purple. He took a deep breath, braced his abdomen, gripped the trike’s handlebars, and gave one last tug. The handlebars creaked, then shifted in his grip. He wasn’t expecting the sudden movement, and his feet slipped out from under him. He hit the driveway hard, landing square on his back.
For several seconds, he couldn’t breathe, and stars dotted the edges of his vision. The impact was enough to dampen the fires of rage burning within him, but only temporarily. When he caught his breath and got to his feet, his anger reached critical mass. Jumping back into the car, he slammed the transmission into Drive and punched the accelerator. There was a screech of scraping metal as the tricycle carved fresh lines into the car’s glossy paint. When Brad reached the front of the driveway, he parked, climbed out, and slammed the door before storming into the house.
“How many times?” he shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you kids to clean up your damn toys?”
His wife, a petite woman with brown hair and a growing number of grays, sat up on the couch. Her eyes were bleary—she’d been sleeping. Again. Brad took a moment to survey the house. The carpet had not been vacuumed, there was dust on the television, and there were plastic toys on the furniture. If he was a gambling man, he would bet that the dishes hadn’t been done either, and he doubted if Martha had even started cooking dinner.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” his wife said in a soothing voice.
Brad was fuming. As he marched into the kitchen, he said, “I don’t even know where to start. What the hell did you do all day? Because you definitely weren’t cleaning up after the kids.”
“I’m sorry.” She moved to the edge of the kitchen and wrapped her arms around the base of her ribs. “The kids were enjoying the warm weather—we spent the day outside.”
Brad gripped the lip of the kitchen sink and clenched tight. “One of those brats left a trike in the driveway, and now there’s a huge scratch on my car. Do you have any idea how much that will cost to fix?”
Martha blinked. “You ran over Jimmy’s trike?”
Brad whirled to face her. “Are you being serious right now? We’re looking at a nine hundred-dollar paint job, minimum, and you’re worried about his stupid toy?”
She winced and shook her head. “No, that’s not how I meant it. I just…just…”
“You just what?”
Martha lowered her gaze to the grimy floor beneath her feet. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”
Brad pushed away from the counter and shoved his way past her. “This is the shit I have to deal with after working my ass off all day.” He returned to the living room and sank into a recliner. “Get me a drink.”
There was silence for several moments before the stoop-shouldered woman came into view and spoke. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
He glared at her, and his hands began to tingle. If the chair didn’t feel so good on his sore back, he would have crossed the room and backhanded her. “Gin and tonic. With lime.”
She nodded and backed away. As soon as she was in the kitchen, Brad called after her. “And make it a double!”
She took longer than she should have, mixing up his drink. And when she brought it to him, her eyes were red and glassy.
Always crying, he thought. He had never met such a pathetic, thin-skinned person in his life. And for some reason, he’d decided to marry her. What the hell was he thinking?
Anyway, there was nothing he could do about it now. They had two kids together, even though she took birth control pills. Secretly, he wondered if she had intentionally forgotten to take her dose in an attempt to put him on a leash. Well, the joke was on her, because he was screwing the new bartender at his favorite restaurant—a much younger, much hotter woman than the leech he had married.
Reclining in his chair, he took a long drink from his glass. As the alcohol traveled toward his stomach, he felt a pleasant warmth blossoming in his chest. He finished the gin and tonic in less than two minutes, then he lifted the glass and shook it, clinking the ice around. “Another. And why don’t you order a pizza, since you obviously haven’t gotten around to cooking anything.”
After a long silence, he heard her speaking to someone on the phone. “Yes, I’d like a large pizza with bacon, sausage, and pepperoni.”
What Brad didn’t hear was the sound of a fresh drink being poured. He rolled his eyes. “You can talk on the phone and mix a drink at the same time.”
A cupboard opened, and a glass clinked against the counter. Martha said, “Thirty minutes? Okay, thank you.”
Brad waited for another sixty seconds and exhaled through his nose. “I’m still here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Martha hurried into the living room, taking short steps and holding a full glass with both hands. She placed it on the end table beside him and took a step back, watching while he took the first sip.
This drink was stronger than the last one, which was good, but also annoying. She was trying to get him drunk enough to make him pass out before he lost his temper. “I know what you’re doing,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy.” He grabbed his crotch. “You’re going to help me relax tonight. And I want this house clean by tomorrow morning, got it?”