John A. Heldt - Mercer Street

MERCER STREET

A novel by

John A. Heldt

Copyright 2015 by John A. Heldt

Edited by Aaron Yost

Cover art by LLPix Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, with the exception of brief quotes used in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

NOVELS BY JOHN A. HELDT

Northwest Passage Series

The Mine

The Journey

The Show

The Fire

The Mirror

American Journey Series

September Sky

Mercer Street

Indiana Belle

Class of '59

Hannah's Moon

Carson Chronicles Series

River Rising

Boxed Sets

Northwest Passage: The First Three Novels

American Journey: The First Three Novels

Audiobooks

The Mine

The Journey

The Show

The Fire

The Mirror

September Sky

Mercer Street

Indiana Belle

Class of '59

Follow John A. Heldt online at:

johnheldt.blogspot.com

In memory of Grandma, Everett, and Albert

We need to remember across generations that there is as much to learn as there is to teach. Gloria Steinem

As is the mother, so is her daughter. Ezekiel 16:44

You can't go home again. Thomas Wolfe

To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you. Lewis B. Smedes

Appearances are often deceiving. Aesop

Time moves in one direction, memory in another. William Gibson

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1: SUSAN

River Run, Wisconsin Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Susan looked at the lying, cheating bastard in the hospital bed and forgot for a moment she still had a loving husband. It was easy to forget such things after being called to an emergency room and learning that your perfect marriage was not so perfect.

"How do you feel?" Susan asked.

Bruce paused before answering. He turned his head slightly and gazed at his wife with eyes that betrayed more guilt than pain.

"Like you do," Bruce said.

Susan leaned forward in her chair, put a hand on the bed, and smiled at her spouse of twenty-five years. She didn't know what she would do with him after they left the hospital, but she knew any decision on their future could wait.

"We don't need to talk about that now," Susan said. "Get some rest."

Bruce took a breath.

"I'm sorry," he said in a barely audible voice.

Susan fortified her smile, took Bruce's hand, and squeezed it lightly.

"Let's talk about something else."

Susan started to ask Bruce if he needed an extra blanket or something to drink when their twenty-one-year-old daughter beat her to the punch.

"Can I get you anything, Dad?" Amanda Peterson asked.

"No, thank you, honey."

"Then at least let me brighten this place up. A little sunshine would do you good."

"I agree," Bruce said.

Amanda got out of her bedside chair, walked to the window, and adjusted the blinds. Just that quickly, warm, bright, comforting light flooded the private room, which took up a quiet corner of River Run Community Hospital.

"Is that better?" Amanda asked.

"Much," Bruce said.

Susan smiled sadly as Amanda fluffed Bruce's pillows and adjusted his blanket on the way back to her chair. She envied the ease with which her only child could set aside her anger and focus on providing comfort to a man who had betrayed his entire family.

Susan then turned to the older woman sitting in the corner of the room and saw more judgment than forgiveness. She had expected as much from her mother.

Elizabeth Campbell had never warmed to Bruce Peterson, a Chicago developer who seemingly spent more time with female business associates than with his own wife and daughter. She had often warned Susan that powerful men and infidelity went hand in hand and was therefore not surprised to learn that Bruce had conducted an eight-week affair with a buxom staffer he had set up in a high-rise apartment.

Susan thought about the mistress as Bruce again looked at her with repentant eyes. She bore no malice toward the woman who, according to police, had walked away from Saturday night's rollover accident with scratches and a red face. The receptionist was merely a person, a foolish girl who would probably think twice about entering into another adulterous relationship.

What troubled Susan was the nagging suspicion that this mistress had not been the first. Though she had no reason to believe that Bruce was a serial philanderer, she did not know for a fact that he wasn't. A husband who could cheat on his wife for weeks could probably do so for months or years. In fact, he could do just about anything.

The question was not moot. Susan could probably forgive a tryst in the woods that was supposed to be a fishing trip with the boys. She might even be able to forgive a long-term affair. But she could never forgive a lifetime of lies.

Susan thought about the consequences of Bruce's deceit a bit more and then, like Amanda, focused on his recovery. As much as she wanted to scream at this man and put him through a wringer, she wanted to nurse him to health first.

Susan didn't doubt that her husband would return to his feet soon. Despite some internal bleeding and massive trauma to his chest, Bruce was stable, strong, and lucid. Sixty hours after driving his Lincoln Navigator off a winding rural road in southern Wisconsin, he was expected to make a full recovery.

Bruce gazed at Susan for what seemed like an eternity, frowned, and then looked away. He stared at the ceiling, sighed, and turned to face Amanda.

"Did you ever hear back from the think tank?" Bruce asked.

"I did," Amanda said. "The director himself called Friday. He offered me a position in the research department. He said I could start October 3."

"What did you tell him?"

Amanda beamed.

"I told him I could start October 3."

Bruce laughed, or tried to laugh, through obvious pain. He took a deep breath, smiled softly, and placed his hand on his daughter's.

"I'm proud of you, sweetheart. I'm so very proud."

"I am too," Susan said to the recent college graduate.

Susan studied Bruce's face. When she saw more fatigue and weakness in his eyes, she withdrew her hand, checked her watch, and then turned to Amanda.

"Your father looks tired. We should let him rest."

"I'm fine," Bruce said. "You don't have to go."

"We do though. You need sleep," Susan said. "We'll come back. We'll grab some lunch, buy a few groceries, and return this afternoon."

"You don't "

"Listen to me for once, Bruce. Get some sleep."

"She's right," Amanda said. "You do look tired."

Bruce sighed.

"All right. I won't argue. Just be sure to "

Bruce didn't finish his sentence. He didn't finish anything. He clutched his rising chest, stared at his wife with wide eyes, and then slumped in the bed as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Susan knew something was seriously wrong even before she felt Bruce's hand become cold and clammy. The same heart monitor that had almost put her to sleep with its monotonous, rhythmic pings and wavy lines now had her sitting on the edge of her seat. Noises and numbers broadcasted not health and stability but suffering and chaos.

Susan jumped to her feet and leaned over her husband. She called his name and gave him a gentle shake. When that failed to rouse him, she turned to her daughter.

"Get a nurse, Amanda! Get a nurse!"

Amanda raced toward a door that led to a hallway and a nursing station. She didn't take more than six or seven steps before knocking over a twentyish nurse carrying Bruce's lunch on a tray.