Chance Read online

  Chance

  By

  Christina Palmer

  Copyright © 2015 Christina Palmer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Present Day:

  PART ONE:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART TWO

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART THREE

  Chapter 22: The Present Continued

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Present Day:

  The blonde haired woman cautiously peered through the thin lace curtains of the second story window. She knew from experience, from this height and angle, there was no possibility of her husband seeing her as he got into his black Porsche and drove down their tree-lined drive. Despite this knowledge, she was wary. Her thin, nervous fingers pulled at a strand of her hair, curling it around and around repeatedly.

  Even after the sports car had disappeared through the iron gates and turned out onto the street, she didn’t move an inch. She didn't even dare to open the curtains any wider. Her lips moved silently, counting out five minutes in her head. She held her breath for a good part of that time before finally taking a deep gasp of air and continuing her count.

  …four minutes fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine…

  At five minutes, she exhaled and released the delicate lace curtain, letting it drop to close. She paused, biting her lip, as she noticed the wrinkled damp mark her clammy hand had left in the fabric. She chastised herself inwardly that it didn’t matter. She moved away from the window, stopped in front of the mirror and sighed. Looking at her reflection for a moment, she again asked herself silently if she was ready to take the final step.

  At thirty-one years old, Charlotte Tyler nee Rankin was very attractive. She had a sophisticated and elegant, rather than a conventional type of beauty. She had wavy, ash blonde hair and a flawless olive complexion. That morning, she wore a plain white shirt with faded blue jeans and a pair of white ladies' Nike sneakers.

  She plucked at her shirt in the mirror, pulling it away from her moist skin. Charlotte noticed the perspiration marks under her arms. She contemplated changing, but knew a fresh shirt would soon end up in the same condition. No, until she was free and somewhere safe, it would do.

  Turning from the mirror, Charlotte looked around, possibly—hopefully—for the last time. She was in the bedroom she'd shared with her husband, Logan. She took two steps towards the wardrobe and froze, suddenly overcome with a sense of helplessness. Fear and helplessness have been her constant companions for way too long, now. She needed to get out.

  At that very moment, she should've been rushing ahead with her plan. She should've been retrieving the suitcase she'd carefully packed for herself that morning, and then dashing through the door to start the new life she'd been fantasizing about for nearly two years. However, she wasn't doing that.

  Instead, she was simply standing there, frozen in her tracks and wasting precious time. Time she needed. Now, in her moment of truth, in the time that mattered most, doubt and fear clouded her mind like a heavy fog.

  Logan would find her. He always found her. He'd found her every other time that she'd tried to get away. What was the point in trying to run again? What would be different this time? Would she ever be able to get away from him? Would she ever escape from the beautiful, luxurious house she'd grown to hate, once it had become her prison?

  She stood there unmoving, looking but not seeing the elegantly furnished room in front of her. For the millionth time, she inwardly cursed her chance meeting with Logan three years earlier. What had started out as a fairy-tale romance and wedding had quickly turned into a nightmare—one she couldn’t wake from, a terrible situation with no clear escape.

  Chance. She wondered if people actually realized how much it shaped their lives.

  Charlotte's father had once read her a news story when she was in her teens. It was about a Russian pilot who had ejected himself from his fighter jet in an emergency. The plane had continued flying empty and pilotless across the entire continent of Europe.

  It finally ran out of fuel and crashed into a home on the Belgian/French border. The empty plane had killed the sole occupant of the house that it struck. In the house was an unfortunate teenage boy, who'd been waiting for his parents to return from an outing. He'd just happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it ended his life. There was no rhyme or reason for it, for the boy's death…it was all just chance.

  That story had made a deep impression on her. It had illustrated, in a powerful way, how a chance occurrence could change the course of someone’s life in the most devastating way. She'd pictured that boy. He wasn't much older than she'd been at the time. She could see him sitting in front of the TV. He'd been totally unaware and unsuspecting, as death literally, rained down upon him from the sky above.

  It was clear to Charlotte now, as she looked back at the past few years. Knowing now, everything that had happened—her chance meeting with Logan, had changed the course of her life.

  He had been the metaphorical pilotless jet, plummeting towards her on that dark night three years ago…

  PART ONE:

  Chapter 1

  Charlotte Rankin carefully carried the tray of drinks through the bustling mass of dancers. It was her turn to spring for and fetch this round of drinks for the girls and herself. She hated when clubs were this loud, this crowded and this stuffy. However, she was doing well, not spilling any…so far. She swayed slightly as she edged past a group of loud, drunken young men. Luckily, she just managed to keep her balance.

  The manufactured smoke and strobe lighting of the club was somewhat disorienting, especially when added to the crowd that seemed to writhe and move, almost in unison. However, she managed to emerge from the sweaty, pulsating crowd with the drinks she'd balanced, remaining relatively unscathed. She was finally able to re-join her friends at their table, have one of the drinks she'd brought there and relax. Charlotte silently wondered if she was now qualified to walk a tightrope after her magnificent physical feat.

  As usual, Sarah held court; she was Bethany’s bridesmaid, and was usually the center of attention. Both the bride to be and their other friend Louise leaned in close, listening to and hanging on to every shouted word that spilled from Sarah's mouth. The cacophony of the dance music, as well as her distance from Sarah, meant Charlotte couldn’t hear a word.

  It might be somewhat strange, however, unlike her other friends who were seated at her table, Charlotte's not being able to hear Sarah didn't particularly bother her. She had no interest in even trying to struggle to join in and hear what was being said. She preferred the idea of sitting
as comfortably as the overly warm and overly stimulating club allowed, drinking and relaxing.

  Once again, Charlotte was unable to escape the nagging feeling she'd outgrown her college friends. She simply went through the motions. She feigned hearing Sarah as well as pretending to care about what was said. She occasionally nodded and smiled at what seemed like appropriate times, which she determined by the other girls' reactions.

  However, from the enthusiastic gestures and flirtatious looks of her friends directed towards a group of four young men seated a few tables away, it didn't take a lip reader or a rocket scientist to understand what they were talking about. Apparently, the girls liked what they saw when they looked over at the table of guys.

  She glanced over at the group, remaining unimpressed. They were certainly good looking enough, but definitely not her type. Charlotte preferred men who were more 'manly.' These guys, although they looked to be around her age, were what she'd classify as 'boys.' At twenty-eight years old, she was a strong, independent woman who was attracted to strength, maturity and control in men. She didn't exactly catch any of those vibes from the table of guys her friends were gawking at.

  Charlotte wouldn't consider herself an ageist, since it wasn’t totally an age thing. It was more of a look and a feeling she got from guys. However, she'd take a George Clooney type over a Justin Timberlake type anytime. It just so happened, the qualities she looked for and found so attractive in the opposite sex, seemed to be more commonly found in older men.

  Whatever it was, because of her high—and some would say 'picky'—standards, she'd only had one serious boyfriend in her life. He was a professor at her college. Although he wasn’t her professor and he was only six years older than she was, it had still caused a minor scandal. Her father, in particular, who'd been a city councilman back then, had been most unimpressed and unhappy.

  The romance wound up not lasting very long, but that had nothing to do with his age or vocation. It was because of him being an unfaithful jerk. Charlotte grew tired of his ever-roving eye and ended the relationship. On top of his unwillingness to be faithful to her, she felt she wasn't ready for a long-term relationship, especially with him.

  Since then, she'd been on many dates and even had the occasional one night stand. However, she wasn't looking for any long-term relationship. She was generally content being single. She couldn't understand women who reeled from one long-term relationship to another in search of their 'Mr. Right.' It seemed to her, those women didn't feel complete, they believed they needed a man to be whole.

  In Charlotte's eyes, it was as if those women viewed marriage in an unhealthy way. Instead of meeting somebody they truly loved and wanted to spend their life with, it was as if they simply wanted to get married. As though they were casting for a play. They had an open role in their lives that they wanted to fill. Rather than date, each man they met was auditioning for the part of husband. That way of living seemed pathetic in Charlotte's eyes.

  She had a successful career in fashion to nurture and was in no hurry to shed her single status. This was especially true if it meant she'd need to devote time to hunt for a man. In her eyes, her time was better spent securing her future. Her mother had always said she got her drive and ambition from her father. Charlotte thought she wasn't too far off the mark with her statement. She was driven and ambitious.

  The four guys at the table kept exchanging flirtatious glances, seemingly impressed by Charlotte and her three friends. She couldn’t help but groan when they appeared to come to a consensus between them. They all stood up from their table with their drinks in hand, practically in unison, and began to weave their way towards the bridal party. Charlotte, acting quickly, leaned over and put her mouth close to Bethany’s ear.

  “I need some fresh air."

  Bethany looked disappointed, but took in the determined look on her friend's face, nodded and mouthed, “Okay.”

  Charlotte snatched her clutch and was about to breeze past the boys just as they reached her table. She giggled to herself as one of the guys; the cutest one, in fact, opened his arms in a beseeching manner before attempting to grab her. She deftly avoided his drunken grasp and shrugged, mouthing 'sorry' to him as she made a beeline for the exit.

  The doorman opened one of the double doors for her and she stepped out onto the landing of the marble staircase that led upstairs towards the fresh outside air, away from the underground dance club. The noise seemed to follow her up the stairs as she made her exit. She was quite relieved when she finally walked out the door at street level. The noise was reduced to a vague thumping sound.

  The pavement was wet. A recent change in the weather had occurred while they'd been busy drinking and dancing. However, whatever rain there'd been was gone now, leaving a clear and pleasant evening for her to enjoy. The cool night air felt so good to her after being uncomfortably overheated and cooped up underground. She set off, walking carefully in her heels, so not to slip on the damp and uneven, pavement.

  Initially, she'd intended to return to her friends. However, after being so warm and overstimulated in the club for so long with too much noise and movement, she changed her mind. Once she was out in the fresh air with only the sound of the nighttime traffic in her ears, Charlotte decided she simply wanted to go home.

  Her apartment was less than a mile away, which was an easy walk for her, even in her heels. Charlotte didn't want to disappoint her friends, but felt as if she couldn't force herself to return to the club. Plus, her friends were probably having a great time flirting with those cute guys anyway. She doubted if her presence would be missed. After she sent Bethany a text saying her headache had gotten the better of her, she started walking home.

  She took her time as she walked, taking in the sights and sounds of Chicago, late on a warm Saturday night. It was pretty quiet since it was so late. She usually only got to see the area during the crowded hustle and bustle of the daytime. It was a nice change that she appreciated.

  As she walked, since she was in heels, she opted to take a shortcut down a busy road that was an entertainment strip. The street was lined with bars and clubs. By the time she'd walked approximately one block, Charlotte regretted her decision. This shortcut was not quiet, peaceful and charming as the other road had been.

  As she walked, she passed various doors with people, mostly drunk, spilling out onto the pavement. She studiously ignored all of the shouts and catcalls of rowdy patrons that occasionally came her way. She hated when people acted like that. It was so disrespectful and irritating. Luckily, she didn't have much farther to go on this street.

  Charlotte also quickly regretted not bringing a jacket with her. The lovely, flattering and short black cocktail dress she wore, suddenly seemed inadequate. She felt as though the dress was sending out the wrong messages. She believed it made her appear as though she was looking for male attention and as if she were trying to stand out. She wanted neither of those things. She felt vulnerable in the dress—exposed. She wanted to cover herself up.

  In the distance, she was able to see the intersection she'd been looking for. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she'd be on a calm, quiet road very shortly. She'd be thrilled to escape the street that had been increasingly stressing her out. Hurrying her steps the last couple hundred feet towards it, she passed the last bar on the strip.

  The bar was marked by a glossy red door with a black awning and red trim that announced it to be the not so imaginatively titled; 'Red Door Bar.' No doorman was present in the pool of welcoming light that illuminated the few feet around the entry. She failed to notice the tall, dark figure standing in the shadows beside the door.

  Charlotte's attention had been snagged by a small group of what looked to be three teenage boys. They were standing around smoking by the mouth of the narrow alley, which was located twenty or so feet beyond the red door.

  When the teenagers spotted her, their seemingly good-natured horsing around suddenly ceased, and she got a sinking feeling in her gut. The b
usier clubs were now far behind her on the more popular section of the strip. She nervously glanced around and quickly realized it was quite isolated where she was. In fact, other than a drunk man across the street who seemed too busy throwing up to notice anything else, it was only the teenagers and herself.

  Shit! Charlotte thought to herself. She could sense the boys would give her a hard time. She just wanted to go home—to be home.

  Other than the somewhat distant light traffic and the muted music from the Red Door Bar, the only sound she could hear, was the regular click, click, click of her heels as she walked. Charlotte stood up straight, trying to portray confidence. She did her best to ignore the group of youths. She picked up her pace a bit more, keeping her eyes trained on the intersection ahead, while maintaining an awareness of her surroundings.

  Her destination was agonizingly close to her now. She thought she might just make it, that her gut and senses were wrong and she'd be able to pass unscathed. Then, almost as if it was predestined, one of the young men from the group stepped out in front of her, blocking her way. She was forced to stop abruptly or bump into him.

  While it had been expected, at least to some degree, one of the teens would make a move to harass her, Charlotte still felt a jolt of adrenalin, quickly followed by anger at the interruption of her night. All she wanted to do was to get past them on a public street. Why did they have to bother her? She made the quick decision she wouldn't be bullied by this group of teens, who were probably about ten years younger than she was.

  The boy, who'd stepped in front of her, looked as if he was about nineteen. He was wearing ripped jeans, a bandana, a sleeveless jacket and an ugly sneer on his face. She suddenly had a stray thought of being in some 'B' movie. Maybe some after school special about safety—how people, especially women in short dresses, should never walk alone on the street at night.

  The kid blocking her way was such a cliché, Charlotte couldn't help herself. She actually giggled, mostly out of nerves. Of course, that wasn't the best thing for her to do in her current situation. It certainly didn’t go down too well with the young bully. It seemed to throw fuel on the flame.