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  Dee Willson is a born storyteller. Her worlds are freshly invented, meticulously considered, and richly told. With GOT she’s created a remarkably original world that looks like ours but isn't ours at all; while A Keeper's Truth dazzles us with an entirely human protagonist and a love interest who is anything but. In all her work she manages to offer what we all want: surprise and delight and laughter, a remarkable achievement.

  —Catherine Luttinger, Agent, Darhansoff & Verrill, New York

  There are two standouts in the novel. Tess is a highly credible and original lead character and I felt bonded to her throughout the book. A great lead character alone, though, is not enough to make a book a stand out but when that combines with a surprising portrait of ancient lore that reaches far beyond recorded human history, the novel really comes alive.

  —D. J. McIntosh, Author of The Witch of Babylon

  Dee Willson’s characters cast shadows sharp enough to make even the most jaded reader uneasy. She juxtaposes comfort with peril and the beautiful with the grotesque until the simplest gestures are disquieting and the only way out is forward.

  —Rob Brunet, Author of Stinking Rich

  I love finding books that don't go the obvious path... books that keep you guessing.

  —Jennifer Foxcroft, Author of Sanguine Mountain

  A Keeper’s Truth

  Copyright © 2015 Dee Willson

  First Edition March 2016

  Published in Australia

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-925296-17-4

  Also available in print:

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-925296-16-7

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-925296-18-1

  Driven Press

  www.drivenpress.net

  Cover Illustration by Vera Lluch © 2015

  www.veralluch.com [email protected]

  Cover Layout by Mumson Designs © 2015

  [email protected]

  Cover content used for illustrative purposes only.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The following story is set in Canada and the usage reflects that. The spelling is US English.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries, contact Driven Press by email: [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Tess

  Time’s Up

  Coping

  Mind Games

  Trick or Treat

  White Knight

  That Bad

  Cheshire Grin

  Do Tell

  Batter Up

  Just Maybe

  Show Time

  Men

  Relevance

  Grim Reminder

  Breathless

  Talk to Me

  Insanity

  Innate Need

  Everything

  Revelations

  Confession

  Perspective

  Precipice

  Be Mine

  Bryce

  Gone

  Paris

  Could’ve Should’ve

  Black Magic

  In the Name of Love

  Dawn

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For my mother,

  who taught me a great many things,

  like dream big.

  It is now a recognised principle of philosophy, that no religious belief however crude, nor any historical tradition, however absurd, can be held by the majority of a people for any considerable time as true, without having in the beginning some foundation in fact. . . . We may be sure that there never was a myth without a meaning; that mythology is not a bundle of ridiculous fancies invented for vulgar amusement; that there is not one of those stories, no matter how silly or absurd, which was not founded in fact, which did not once hold a significance.

  —H. H. Bancroft

  Late-Nineteenth-Century American Anthropologist

  Time’s Up

  It takes thirty seconds to die this way.

  Two seconds to register the sound of exploding rubber. One second to grip the wheel with enough force to fracture bones. Skidding sideways across four lanes with nothing but the blur of passing cars and a transport truck consumes six seconds. The screech of metal on metal seems to go on forever but in reality lasts only five seconds. Five more for the metal to fold, glass to shatter, plastic to snap into bits.

  Soaring through the air can be measured in six harrowing heartbeats. People don’t fly.

  For three seconds the physical pain is numbing, surreal. It takes the brain two seconds to make out the thick iridescent line only an inch away. But 124,000 pounds crushing bone and vital organs into asphalt is instantaneous.

  Time’s up.

  Or is it?

  Sure, everything that happens afterwards—the chaos, the heartbreak—is beyond the deceased. Only twelve know what really lies ahead, what happens to a soul, where it goes and why it returns. Twelve men know everything, have since the dawn of time, a place buried deep in our subconscious. Yet no one is listening.

  As for the dead, they leave devastation in their wake: wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters—souls with a stake in this half-minute in time, scarred for eternity. What happens when loss attacks like beasts? How do you survive without the one you love?

  You just do.

  All things considered, there are worse ways to lose your life. You could be beaten, raped of your soul, left cold and alone to die. Slowly.

  Old souls know this. Tess Morgan should know this.

  Only she doesn’t.

  Coping

  Early September

  My name is Tess. I’m the daughter of a liar. And unhinged.

  Tess is the name on the sticker stuck to my shirt above my right boob. I wonder why it says that, no one uses my name anymore. It should read: Oh, I’m sorry. Or the extended version: Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m greeted with pouty lips and sad eyes. Instant reminders . . . as if I need to be reminded my husband is dead. Meyer has been gone five months, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. The last two minutes only slightly better than the first.

  I’m standing in my daughter’s classroom, waiting for my turn to meet her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Bubbly. Actually, her name is Ms. Rainer, but since she wears no sticker herself, I’ve taken the liberty to provide her with an appropriate title, one with more verve. I hover in the back corner, pretending to be enthralled with drawings of horses stapled to the bulletin board. Well, I think they’re horses, or ponies, or some sort of animal with four legs; they really aren’t all that easy to decipher. I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m a shell, a remnant, a shadow of my former self.

  I catch a glimpse of affection, a naturally intimate gesture between lovers. His hand on her waist, her leaning into his shoulder while whispering in his ear. I draw a mouthful of air, the word widow encasing me like a tomb, and scan the crowd again, hoping to see Thomas. He’s the only other single parent I know of. He’s not here.

  It must be my turn to speak to Ms. Bubbly. She reaches out and with a strained voice says, “So sorry to learn about your loss.”

  Great, just what I wanted to hear. I look at my nametag and tighten my arms into their usual position, holding my insides, inside. I realize my lack of finesse a moment to
o late, and Ms. Bubbly drops her hand.

  “So . . . Abby . . .” I can’t think of anything more to say. My mind is mush.

  Ms. Bubbly briefs me on her first weeks with my daughter, nothing I don’t already know. Abby is quiet. Abby’s working on her printing skills, her b’s and d’s are backwards. Abby likes to play with Thomas’s daughter, Sofia, her best friend from junior kindergarten. Ms. Bubbly ends with, “Abby seems to be coping,” and I stare at my shoes, the word coping caught in my throat. “Yes, under the circumstances, Abby is doing well,” Mrs. Bubbly says, her animation dwindling.

  I realize she’s striving for sincerity, but I can’t help but wonder which circumstance she’s referring to: Abby being fatherless or my inability to raise her alone.

  “Good,” I say, because it’s Tuesday, opposite day according to the blackboard.

  Ms. Bubbly’s attention wanders, and I consider revoking her title as I mumble goodbye, head for the door, and tear the name tag from my shirt. Head down, I smack my forehead into something solid, then recoil, instinct requiring an assessment of the battle wound.

  It hurts already. Life just won’t toss me a break.

  “My apologies, Tess,” says an unfamiliar voice. A rich, masculine voice.

  My eyes follow the six feet four inches of triple-threat black—boots, jeans, leather jacket—to land on two-day stubble and a large hand rubbing the contours of a chiseled chin. Apparently life can get worse. I’ve collided with Adonis, the kind that stops your heart from beating just long enough to make you forget all the ones who came before, offering nothing but hollow promises and seasoned moves. Been there, done that, burned the shirt.

  It dawns on me he said my name, no condolences.

  “Do I know you?” I ask, my gaze rising from his chin to his eyes.

  Wow. His gray eyes and dark lashes are . . . mesmerizing.

  “I doubt we’ve met. Tess, it’s the name on your sticker,” he says, pointing to the name tag now on the floor. His hair, dark and cropped, is windblown and off kilter.

  I grab the closest chair, attempting to overcome the strangest sensation, like I’m a feather, floating.

  “You all right?” His European accent has an almost liquid quality, at odds with his rugged appearance. “Allow me.”

  Relocating his motorcycle helmet from one hip to the other and balancing it under his forearm, he bends to collect my sticker from the floor. Something shimmers, my vision suddenly malfunctioning, and for a split second he’s draped in a luxurious white fur, a blanket of sorts, reaching for a bright colored scarf at his feet, big and bare. His movements are gentle and deliberate, but fast, as if I am watching in fast-forward. With the conclusion of one blink he’s back to normal, leather clad arm outstretched toward me.

  I stand stock-still, holding the chair for support, trying to bring my eyes into focus.

  “You okay?” He thrusts the sticker at me a second time, I think.

  I survey body parts, grateful gravity has kept me intact.

  “I’ve been better.” I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to recall what I’d seen, but it’s gone, as if wiped from memory, leaving just a weird sense of déjà vu. Man, I’ve fallen apart since Meyer’s been gone.

  “You have,” he says, and my eyes pop open to stare. He’s smiling, amused. “Too much caffeine maybe.”

  Have I met this guy before? He doesn’t look like anyone I know, but there is something about him, something familiar. It’s not a good feeling.

  “Right, caffeine,” I say, lying. I gave up caffeine when I was pregnant with Abby and never looked back.

  He grins like a hyena. “Your eyes playing tricks?”

  My mother, in one of her moods, would’ve wiped that smirk away with a kiss. And he’d have let her, stranger or not. She was intoxicating. But I’m not my mother, and my brief lapse in sanity doesn’t require justification. I’m a twenty-six-year-old widow with no idea how to pull it together, so I ignore his question and settle for diversion.

  “Are you a teacher here?”

  “Not here,” he says. “I promised my niece I’d stop by to meet hers.” He takes my hand. “Bryce, Bryce Waters,” he says, planting a soft kiss on the back of my fingers.

  Stunned, I search his face for the slightest hint of perversion, a reason to club him, but I see nothing but a gentleman in wolf’s clothing. Still, I pull my hand away.

  “I’m not the teacher.”

  He tilts his head. “You’re Tess.” My name drips from his lips like melted butter and warning bells sound in my head, loud and clear. “You’ll need ice for that bruise.” He points to my head. “Take care of yourself.”

  A gritty moan vibrates my teeth when I touch my forehead and discover a bump the size of Mount St. Helens. It throbs, making me take note of the headache creeping in. Somewhere under the surface I’m mortified I plowed into this guy without an apology or concern for his chin. I can’t bring myself to grasp the emotion, so I draw a deep breath and say, “Always do,” as I shuffle past and without another word, walk straight out the door.

  Luckily, I live close, and within minutes I’m home. Other than the entryway lamp, the lights are all out and the place is quiet. A glass of water sits on the bottom stair. Grams greets me at the door, sighing, her gaze aimed at my damaged forehead. Its days like today it hurts to look at her. Meyer’s eyes. His lips. She’s uncharacteristically mute as she pats the gift she’d given me earlier, along with a lecture, setting it beside the cup on the bottom stair. The lecture, I suppose, was necessary. Apparently there is no such thing as a woman’s sexual prime, and it’s important to recognize the body has needs at all ages, under any circumstance. Grams would know, she spent thirty-six years as a leading sex therapist and a decade specializing in women’s sexual health. BOB is the gift tucked neatly in an unassuming tote bag, ready for travel, which is ironic considering he’ll never leave my night table drawer. BOB stands for Battery Operated Boyfriend, and is, hands down, the most unusual gift anyone has ever received from their dead husband’s grandmother.

  But who am I to say: I never had a grandmother of my own.

  Grams leans in and up onto her toes to kiss my forehead. “Good night.” She takes hold of her loud flower-power purse and gently closes the door, leaving me alone with BOB and the weight of the world. There was a time the quiet soothed me like a hug. I was born Tess Reit, daughter of Celeste Reit, father unknown, and my mother suffered from severe depression and was bipolar, an endless roller coaster of maxed-out credit card highs and Titanic-worthy lows. When my mother would lock herself in her bedroom, lights out, begging for silence, I gave her what she needed. I’d have given her anything in those moments, those days, and the quiet did as much for me as it did for her. Maybe more.

  Minutes wear on while I gather the energy to drag myself up the stairs.

  As I approach Abby’s room, I pause to listen to her incoherent chatter. I ease the door open and meander in to contemplate the sliver of light from between the curtains as it illuminates her face, an angel in slumber. I feel my way through the peppering of toys and books to tuck the blanket around her tiny form. While relishing her sweet smell, I catch a stray tear tickling my chin. I can’t help but think of all the moments, all the momentous occasions this little girl will experience without a father.

  Just like me.

  This wasn’t the plan. Other than being knocked-up and twenty, the reason I married Meyer was because he was stable, reliable, here. He was five years older than me and knew what he wanted, a family. He’d be the father I’d never known. Hell, he’d be the mother I never had. For five years he was all that and more to Abby.

  “She takes my breath away,” he used to whisper, watching her sleep. He’d rest his hand on her belly to feel her breathing, and she’d smile the content smile of a newborn while I watched in awe.

  Tears gather as I try to collect myself from this all-consuming hallucination: my world before the car accident.

  “Mama,” slips from Abby’s pink l
ips, and I panic to think she’s caught me lingering, crying, again. It’s a fleeting worry, stifled by her rousing grumble and diminished when she rolls over, kicking the covers, mumbling, “Push me higher, Mama.”

  I will, I swear I will.

  Taking the cue, I blindly make my way through the onslaught of toys, shuffling out and into my bedroom to tug on baggy flannels. Hiding BOB in a drawer along with unwanted thoughts of Adonis, I pick another stray hair off my shoulder. I used to have beautiful hair, rich chocolate brown, long, thick, and bone straight. Shortly after the funeral the luster disappeared and my clothes and hairbrush were covered in hairs jumping ship. Doc said stress can do many things to our bodies, and my hair took a beating. I wash my face and lean over the sink to get a closer look at my head. The collision at the teacher open house has left a plum-size purple bruise above my right eye, and between the bruise and the hair, I look about as good as I feel.

  Get a grip, says the woman in the mirror. She’s someone unrecognizable.

  An unruly laugh escapes me. I laugh again, intentionally this time, trying to mimic the noise, but it sounds fabricated, so I give up the charade. Popping a Tylenol, I turn off the light and shimmy into bed, determined to start afresh in the morning, no more tears.

  I need to accept Meyer’s gone, that I’m alone, again. I need to move on with my life. For my sanity. For Abby. I suck in a deep breath. I can do this. I’ve survived on my own my whole life, through some pretty bad shit. What’s another twenty years of motherhood?

  I drift into sleep, in search of thoughts vastly dislocated from my current life. Who am I fooling is my last conscious thought.

  “Meyer, slow down.” Buildings are flying by, colors blurring. “You’re gonna hit something.”