Read It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead Online
Authors: Julie Frayn
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Contemporary Fiction
It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead
“With
Suicide City, a Love Story
, Julie
Frayn came out of the gate with one of the best debut novels the indie
publishing circuit ever produced. Then came this book — a stunning follow-up of
love, redemption, hope, and hurt that can only be described as ‘Read this damn
book. Now!’”
~ Scott
Morgan, award-winning journalist and bestselling author
“Julie Frayn shows once again how to write
a novel that plays more like a movie.
It Isn’t Cheating if He’s Dead
is
an accurate portrait of life after the loss of a loved one. The simple facts
that healing has no timeline, there is no expiration date on grief, and tragedy
can result in a positive outcome when those left behind choose to learn from
their loss, are beautifully portrayed.”
~
Amber Jerome-Norrgard, poet and bestselling author
"Ms. Frayn wields a deft hand when dealing with
life's grit, yet warms the heart at the same time. Her voice is as fresh and
real as her characters. Bravo.”
~
Kymber Morgan, author of
Wild for Cowboy
and
Shafted
It Isn’t Cheating if He’s
Dead
By Julie Frayn
Copyright 2013 Julie Frayn
All rights reserved.
License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events
are products of the author’s imagination or have been used strictly for
fictional purposes. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events
or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system
or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of
the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a
review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.
ISBN 978-0-9918510-2-7
About the cover
The first cover for It Isn’t Cheating if He’s Dead was quite
literal, using objects in the narrative. But it focused on the past, and on a
character who, though critical to the story, is not central. The new cover
comes from a metaphorical angle. It represents the main character, Jemima
Stone, drowning in grief and guilt, but doing her best to surface and live on
after tragedy and heartbreak. The flowing material represents a wedding dress
for the marriage that never was. Jem is trying to kick it free and get on with
her life. And it is beautiful, don’t you think?
Ebook Cover Design by Dane Low of www.Ebooklaunch.com
it isn’t cheating if he’s dead
acknowledgement of her
existence
Not every knock brings opportunity. Not the
promise of something wonderful. Sometimes you have to open the door anyway, so another
can be allowed to close.
Jemima Stone balanced her cell phone
between her shoulder and her ear. The accordion file she couldn’t cram into her
overloaded briefcase was squished under her arm, her elbow squeezed against it
while she fumbled the key into the lock. The deadbolt resisted and she gave the
brass knob a hard twist until the door popped open.
“Yes, Richard. I know you’re innocent.” That’s
what they all said. She pressed the toe of her sensible black pump against the
door and pushed it shut. It bounced against the warped jamb.
“We’ve got a decent case. But I’m not sure
how to get around the fact that your brother is testifying for the
prosecution.” She shouldered the door closed. Her cell phone slipped against
her sweaty cheek, the accordion file slid back, spurted out from under her arm
and hit the hardwood. The worn cardboard broke open and spewed paper all over the
entryway.
“Damn it.” The phone fell. She let her
tattered, years-old briefcase slam into the oak, and snatched the new smart phone
before it cracked open against the floor like her last one. “No, no. Not you
Richard. Sorry.” She ran her free hand through her hair. “I want you to be absolutely
certain of this innocent plea. That video he has of you huddled over your
mother’s jewelry box is pretty compelling.” She kicked off her shoes, aimed for
the mat inside the door. Missed again.
She rolled her eyes and tapped one bare foot.
When would she find an actual innocent client to defend?
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Expectation of
privacy. Not sure it applies when you sneak into someone else’s home.” She
started up the stairs, unzipped her skirt and unhitched her bra along the way.
“Yes Richard, I believe you.”
Like hell she did.
“I’ll try to get it excluded. Talk to you
later.”
She stepped into the bedroom, ended the
call and tossed the phone on the night stand. Her grey pencil skirt fell to the
floor. She stepped out of it and left it where it landed. She tossed her old
black suit jacket and outdated, pink paisley blouse with the hole in one armpit
towards the small chair in the corner. Her aim as true as ever, they landed on
the carpet. Her support bra and black lace thong followed right behind. She
flopped face first into her billowy comforter and groaned, then rolled onto her
back.
Defending the wrongfully accused in real
life was nothing like in books and movies. Where was Atticus Finch when you
needed him? It would help if her clients were all innocent like they claimed to
be. She had to believe them. Or at least say she did.
The clock radio glowed ten-fifteen. Another
fourteen-hour day slogging through evidence and interviewing witnesses, trying
to find the oomph to defend the indefensible.
Her cell phone rang. She snatched it from
the night stand and eyed the screen. “Shit, really?” Did they all think she
lived and breathed their cases? Their lives? What about her own life? Screw it.
She pushed the ‘ignore’ button. Edward wasn’t going anywhere, stuck in the
remand centre, waiting for sentencing. Too late, buddy. The judge saw through
your lies and found you as guilty as you are. Filing an appeal could wait until
morning.
Where the hell did her passion go? That
drive and compulsion to prove the prosecutors wrong, get her clients cleared at
all costs? All legal costs. Swirling the drain with her clients’ morals and
ethics, that’s where. They were more like the accursed than the accused.
She ran the tap until steam poured out from
behind the shower curtain, then stepped under the pounding water. With every
scrub of loofah against her soft, pale skin and every rinse-and-repeat of sweet,
flowery, herbal shampoo lather in her auburn hair, the guilty and the liars
washed away. For today. It’d be same old, same old come morning. How could she
be jaded and aching to retire at the ripe old age of thirty-one? She’d never
make partner at this rate. Did she even want that anymore? Nothing in her life
had made sense since four years ago this coming June twelfth.
Jemima pulled on the yoga pants and tank
top that lay across the end of her bed where she’d discarded them when she got
dressed that morning.
Gerald’s small mahogany chest sat on the
right side of their dresser. She hadn’t opened it in two years. Hadn’t even
moved it. Just tidied around it when she tidied at all.
With the tip of her index finger she wiped
a thick layer of dust from the small latch. She stared at the chest and scraped
her top teeth over her bottom lip. She lifted the latch and opened the lid. The
ring she’d given him to commemorate their engagement sat on top of a pile of
coins. Business cards were strewn about the burgundy velvet-lined interior. A
lone bottle of clozapine lay tipped on its side, the little green antipsychotic
pills long since expired. He’d left behind all the things that had worked so
hard to keep him sane.
She knocked the lid closed, flinched at the
crack of wood on wood so loud in the quiet house. The very quiet house. She’d
known he was off his meds. But why didn’t he take his damn ring?
She pulled the drapes and stared westward.
There were no mountains in the dark. No purple silhouettes, no white capped
spring peaks. She lived spitting distance from the most beautiful mountain
region on earth, but she rarely bothered to leave Calgary, satisfied to just
soak it all in from afar. She made a mental note to look out the window in the
morning. And maybe take a drive out to Banff next weekend.
A quiet rap at the front door shook the
leaded glass in its frame. She glanced at the clock. Ten forty-five. Who on
earth would be coming by at that hour?
At the entry, she drew back the white lace
curtain from the small window that overlooked her front porch. It wasn’t
necessary. The curtain was sheer. She’d recognized the trim and solid form of
Detective Wight halfway down the stairs, the angle of his square jaw, a mirror
reflection of his jar-head haircut. He was all slants and corners and points
and sharpness, his voice crisp and tight and all business. Oh what ripped
muscles must live inside that well-pressed suit?
A spasm grew in her stomach. He never
showed up this late. His regular updates were Saturday afternoons or early
evenings. Was today the day?
She smoothed the front of her pants with
both palms and shook her hands in a vain attempt to ease the tension from her
arms. She twisted her head side to side and released a loud crack from the base
of her neck. She sighed and reached for the doorknob.
The brass was cold in her hand and took
extra effort to turn. When the tumbler released the latch and the wood of the
eighty-year-old door popped open, the hinges creaked.
She really should get that fixed.
“Hello, Detective.” She didn’t open the
screen. Didn’t offer to let him in. Her heart weighed a hundred pounds.
“Hi, Jem. It’s Finn, please?”
He was soft spoken tonight. Even his face yielded
its rigidity, his eyes soft, like his sculptor had smoothed out the rough edges
of his clay.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Finn.”
He pulled the screen wide to give room for his
broad shoulders to pass, and stepped across the threshold.
