Read Online The Remedy for Regret by Susan Meissner - Free Book Online Page B

already gotten quite adept at spending Brad’s millions, even before the wedding. But I was glad for the opportunity to be alone in my car for the long stretch of hours between Dayton and St. Louis. It was actually one of the best decisions I had made in a long time, because on the way back from the wedding, I took a side trip to Chicago to visit a friend from my sophomore year of college, which incidentally I spent at the University of Ohio. It was this same friend, Emily Trowdell, who now lives in Atlanta, who convinced me to stay in Chicago, helped me get the job in the Customs Office at O’Hare where she also worked, and who later introduced me to Simon—a friend of a friend of a friend.
    I met Antonia at O’Hare, too. She made several trips to Italy that first year and I came to know her on a first name basis because she always seemed to come through customs when I was on duty. She intrigued me and I apparently intrigued her. She told me on our second meeting she would give her left foot to have my color hair, but not her left or right arm, because she would need them both to style it. Antonia said my auburn hair was the exact color of the sky over the Mediterranean at sunset. She also told me, on our third meeting, that I was very wise to stay away from beige. I had laughed. Veronica Devere, Blair’s mother, had told me the same thing when I was fourteen. It was one of the few things I remember her ever saying to me. I went to work for Antonia at Linee Belle my second year in Chicago when she offered me two dollars more an hour than what the customs office paid, plus a regular work schedule and an impressive title—assistant manager.
    So in sense, St. Louis, with its celebrated Gateway to the West, became a gateway for me personally. I used it as a passageway to move out on my own—for the last time—away from Dad and Shelley, away from the place where my childhood was supposed to have ended and my adult life was supposed to have begun.

    My suitcase is one of the first to be deposited on the carousel and once I have it, I follow the Ground Transport signs to the rental car agencies section. I pick the one with the shortest line, but I soon discover the lone woman ahead of me wants a white Cadillac Seville, not a blue one, and that she is prepared to be adamant about it. While the flustered rental car agency explains there isn’t a white one available, I take out my cell phone and press the speed dial button for Blair’s number. I hope she will be mentally able to give me good directions to the hospital. I have no idea where anything is in relation to this airport.
    Blair’s cell phone number rings six times before her voice mail picks it up. In a sunny tone that doesn’t fit the day, Blair’s recorded voice asks me to leave a message. I quickly leave one, telling her I am at the airport, in line to get a rental car and will wait to hear back from her before I leave.
    Fifteen minutes later I am sitting in a red Camry in the rental car parking lot and my phone call has not been returned. I decide to try again and I get the same message after six rings. I hang up without leaving a second message and whisper, “This is not good,” to the steering wheel. I have Blair’s home address and the GPS on the rental will no doubt get me there, but I doubt anyone will be at home. I can call a couple of local hospitals and ask to speak with the family of a patient named Brad Holbrook and see what happens. I can look for a hotel room near the airport and at least have a place to sleep tonight while I keep trying to reach Blair.
    I decide on choice number three but I dial Blair’s number one more time before starting the car. Blair’s number rings five times and I am almost ready to hang up when I hear a man’s voice say hello.
    It can’t possibly be Brad. I do not know the voice.
    “Hello?” I say. “I’m looking for Blair. Do I have the right number?”
    There is a pause.
    “Can I ask who this is, please?”