Avery Markham sat at her kitchen table. She'd been alone for less than a year, struggling to get through the days, one day at a time. Her laptop was open, and she stared at a map of the United States. She was fifty-one years old, a young widow, with decades of living still ahead of her. She could go anywhere; where would she go? She'd never particularly liked Iowa, would never have chosen it, and now had no compelling reason to stay.
She took a sip of coffee, inhaling deeply, appreciating the rich, bitter aroma that was such a familiar part of her morning routine. Restless, she walked to the window, pulling the edge of one curtain slightly back, gazing out at the lightening sky as if it might hold the answer.
Where have so many years gone?
She remembered the first time she saw Andrew Markham. He did not make a favorable first impression.
Avery Beall grew up in New Canaan, Connecticut, the only child of wealthy, well-educated parents. Carmeline and Palmer Beall placed a premium on quality education, enrolling their daughter in pre-K at the New Canaan Country Day School, just a few miles from their secluded estate.
Unexpectedly, Palmer Beall's Manhattan law firm transferred him to their London office, a significant promotion, when Avery was thirteen. The move came the summer after she completed the eighth grade, and Avery accompanied her parents abroad, returning to Connecticut for her enrollment at The Hotchkiss School.
Avery and her cousin, Hailey, had applied to several private prep schools in New England and had been accepted at most of their choices, but both girls chose to remain in Connecticut. The Bealls were confident that Avery's aunt and uncle would provide a stable home for their daughter during school breaks. Both sets of parents eagerly accepted plans for the two girls to spend summer vacations from school in England during their high-school years.
Although the cousins were only four months apart in age and had been extremely close all their lives, they went their separate ways when Hailey was accepted at Stanford, an application she considered a long shot.
Avery loved crime novels and hoped for an eventual career with the FBI. She researched the best schools offering an undergraduate degree in criminal justice and decided on Northeastern. She had remained in Boston and was in her first year at Harvard Law when she encountered Andrew Markham.
The weather was as bleak as her mood when she spotted a parking space right in front of the bakery near the law school campus. The corners of her mouth turned up with glee as she pulled her car forward, shifted into reverse, and turned the wheel, preparatory to backing in. Her momentary pleasure turned to shock and then to fury as a sleek silver Porsche Targa slipped in nose-first.
Avery opened her driver's door, stepping partway out, slush seeping through the thin soles of her leather ankle boots within seconds.
"Hey!" she called. "That's my space! I was just about to back in."
"Sorry, sorry," the Porsche's driver called back as he thumbed his key fob. The car emitted a chirp, its headlights flashing briefly.
"Asshole!" Avery yelled. He raised his arm over his head and waved, acknowledging he'd heard but clearly having no intention of doing anything but continuing on his way.
Entering the room where her civil procedure class was held, Avery slammed her books down on the desk. Yanking off her scarf and gloves, she slung her jacket over the back of the chair and fell into her seat.
