Temptation, Alaska

Prologue

One year and a day from today

Happiness is easy.

Fine, I know. Don’t believe everything you hear. But when someone tells me there are ten indisputably simple, little secrets to a happy life, I have to listen. Right?

So here goes:

1. Retain a healthy disrespect for authority.

Try it. You’re really going to like it.

2. Never let a man become more important to you than you are to yourself.

Sure, you say you won’t, but. . .hey. I get it.

3. When the wind blows you this way and that, don’t be fooled. You get to choose.

Good one.

4. Hold onto your power like it’s a ticket to the final Stone’s world tour.

Are the Stones still touring?

5. Don’t leave without the monkey.

This will become clear later, I swear.

6. If that grudge you’re carrying around won’t matter ten years from now, let it go.

Fine.

7. If it in any way reminds you of Barbie, let it go.

Duh!

8. Don’t do it if you hate it.

Really?

9. Try not to hate.

10. Go for it, if it’s not illegal, immoral, unethical or going to kill you.

A year ago, I had to wonder: Could happiness really be that simple?

Chapter One

I was pretty clear on one thing one, though. There are no guarantees in life. So, in case the Ten-Secrets-To-Happiness thing turned out to be wishful thinking or a boatload of plain old BS, I decided I needed some rules to live by when The Ten-Secrets go awry. Starting with Rule #1: Waking up in the morning should in no way resemble the opening shot of a Masterpiece Theater mystery series. Rule #2: Rule #1 has to mean something.

Unfortunately, the day started out exactly like a Masterpiece Theater mystery series. The sun was beating down on a rosy set of stained glass windows, casting alluring shadows over my prone body, where I was wrapped in a cocoon of decadent Egyptian cotton and combed silk. My hair spread out against a nest of sumptuous pillows, and a decidedly delicious aroma of lemon and ginger floated in the air above and around me. Perfect. Except for a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on ruining the idyllic scene. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to bring back the elusive dream behind my uneasiness. A light mist of rain caressed my face. Angry voices invaded the dream as I caught a flicker of wisteria vines against a window, then nothing. I reached deeper. There. . .I almost had it; but it slipped away. All but an edgy kind of excitement balanced by a healthy dose of dread.

It was no good. I shook my head and gave up. Slowly, I rolled over in bed, warm and sleepy-eyed, and brushed the arm of the man lying beside me. A vision so sweet and vulnerable, I almost cried, (If I hadn’t reminded myself, right then and there, that crying wasn’t going to solve anything). At least his vulnerability struck me that way to me at the time. Soft brown eyelashes against translucent cheeks. One freckled hand tucked beneath a crumpled pillow, the other resting comfortably across the curve between my bare hips and breasts.

In truth, it was a miracle I didn’t scream.

Because, God help me, I’d never seen that room, that bed or that man before in my life. Oh. Right. I admonished myself. It was only a dream. I closed my eyes again, willing his image away. Sweat pooled under my arms as a chill moved up my back. Only a dream. My breath came out ragged and noisy. I held it, as the warmth of his hand spread across my flesh, chasing the chill away. I chanced another peek. He was still beside me, asleep. As content as a dog by the fire. If this wasn’t a dream, a mirage, or even temporary insanity, what was it?

Morning, sunshine, the apparition said on a sigh. His lips brushed my shoulder and I shivered despite myself. He gave my hand a gentle tug and said, more cheerfully than any morning really deserves, Rise and shine, babe. We’re gonna be late. (Like there was any we in all of this.)

Before words could form in my mouth—well, other than, Get out the hell out of here before I call the police, followed by uncontrollable screaming, of course—the hand was gone. Stupidly, I missed his warmth, until common sense returned. I stayed put, clutching the covers pathetically as I peered through one slightly-parted eyelid, hoping the stranger had disappeared. Nope. Still there. Still a curious mix between Barbie’s dream date and the boy next door. So probably I was safe. But I’m getting off track. He was still there.

By the time I peaked again—squinty-eyed and dopey with sleep, or more like shock—he already had one leg in his jeans, having skipped the whole boxer/brief debate.

I’m making it sound fine, even safe, knowing I’m actually only kidding myself. That was exactly five minutes and ten seconds ago and here I am, still in a strange bed with luscious sheets and no idea who the guy is and how the heck I got here in the first place.

Now he’s zipping, now leaning into a well-worn U2 T-shirt, rubbing his jaw and stretching lazily, heading for the bathroom, like there isn’t a single thing wrong with this picture.

Hello. New rule: Don’t wake up in bed with strange men.

Period.

Chapter Two

Present: 2012

Holy mother of the strip tease. Now he’s chucking the clothes he just slid into, and what am I supposed to do?

I couldn’t help but notice the skin beneath his shirt is freckled so lightly he reminds me of a cinnamon bun—in the best possible way. His arms below his sleeves and his neck are sunburned to a painful red. His hair is red, too. Carrot, really.

Damn, I smell like a monkey, he complains as he pulls the shirt over his sleep-ruffled hair. I’m hitting the shower.

In an instant, he’s in the next room, shooting back at me, If you’re not up by the time I get out, sleepyhead, I’m coming after you. And you know what happens then. You got that? Not even bothering to wait for a reply, the water is already pounding from the shower head, making conversation impossible. Reprieve.

Or not. From my one-eyed pose, I catch a glimpse of his head peeking out of the bathroom door, as he threatens, And don’t think I won’t, crab cake, before firmly closing the door behind him.

Crab cake? How many names does this guy have for me? Or maybe he’s so bad at remembering names he makes them up as he goes. Babe. Cutie. Cookie? I shove the thought aside quickly, because what the heck am I doing? I don’t have time for this. I have to get out of here.

I throw the covers into a heap on the floor and hop out of bed, noticing my head is aching and my back is complaining like I’m ancient. I have, I figure, tops, five minutes if he’s a monkey-bath type of guy, and thirty, if he’s a clean freak. Probably somewhere in between, but no sense taking chances.

I’m naked, it turns out, but again, no time to stop and worry about things I don’t remember and can’t change. I set about correcting the naked part. Fast. Dresser first, with it’s rows and rows of neatly folded, pastel-colored cotton panties and matching bras lined up like candy in a confectioner’s window. Closet next. All combed cotton and brushed silk. Banana Republic, Kenneth Cole and the like, in muted tones with fabrics as soft as ocean waves. Quickly, I grab the first matching set of panties and bra and toss them on, along with pants, top, and coordinated, cashmere sweater set.

Neatly stacked quilts are piled high at the foot of the bed. An abundance of thick cotton sheets, duvets and pillow shams fill another closet; rows and rows of CDs, alphabetized and labeled, line one wall. Not a lipstick or hairbrush on the dresser. Not an open book.

Everything in the room, neat and clean, screams spring, from the peppermint candy-colored panties to the butter-yellow curtains. I imagine all the winter clothing carefully folded, inventoried and packed away in plastic containers in an attic or basement, waiting for winter to arrive.

Who is this color-coordinated control freak and what am I doing in her bedroom?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before fleeing down one polished mahogany staircase after another—three in all— heading for the front door, passing rooms full of warm wood finishes and old world charm.

Except for the sound of the shower coming from above, everything is as quiet as a convent on New Year’s Eve. I hit the first floor landing running. Across from the entryway is a conservatory the size of a small 7/11, complete with an enormous Bösendorfer grand piano. For the briefest moment, I’m tempted to slide back the cover, run my hands over the perfect keys and let the music soak into my bones. Instead, I grab the purse lying on the mission table by the entryway.

A door slams. I imagine the smart-mouthed man exiting the shower, toweling off. I clutch the purse to my chest, ready to make my getaway. I throw open the door and put one foot over the threshold. I am one step away from a wisteria-covered path, the street beyond and freedom, when the cold tile beneath my feet reminds me I am as barefooted as a newborn, save for my perfectly manicured toe nails. In peach.

Back to the hall closet, hoping for anything that will do at this point—sneakers, mud boots, come-and-get-me heels, flip-flops—I grab a pair of runners, slip them on, and, on second thought, pull a heavy, cashmere overcoat with fraying collar off its hook and throw it over one arm. I’m on the sidewalk with minutes to spare, but not before I palm a small, framed photo from the table. Out on the sidewalk, I stop and remind myself to breath. I take in the photo that, for some reason, seemed important enough to steal: a little blurry, but there we are. Goofy smiles all over our faces like two kids splitting a Popsicle, our hair blowing in the breeze as we cling to each other like monkeys in a tree.

It’s only after I’ve half run, half walked for the better part of an hour that I get the full picture of how serious things are. It’s clear this wasn’t some drunken or roofie-induced one-night stand. Now what?

Thoughts scatter around my head like dandelion seeds in the wind. The population of Seattle is 563,374; there are only eight planets left, since Pluto got kicked to the curb; it takes two minutes to microwave popcorn (three if you have an older microwave); there are 1047 calories in a plain, large movie popcorn; a Greyhound is made of vodka and grapefruit juice.

Question? If I know all this, why don’t I know anything about pastel underwear and red-headed strangers?

Why don’t I know who in the world I am?

Chapter Three

Past: Seattle, 2011 – Sarah

Welcome to the world, Sarah Lee Jacobsen, January 27, 1974, Seattle, Washington, United States of America. Heir to a frozen baked-goods fortune? Not even close. Unfortunately named? Well, you said it.

Not that the name didn’t suit her. Because sweet was one of the first things that came to mind when people met Sarah. Not that they’d say it. Because most people were smart enough to know girls don’t like to be called sweet, like boys don’t appreciate being called cute. At least that was what these same people sensed about Sarah: That saying she was sweet wouldn’t be the compliment they’d intended; so they kept their mouths shut, at least in front of her, so as not to offend the sweetest person they’d ever met in their entire lives.

Truth was, Sarah often found herself having very un-sweet thoughts, before she would shake her head and ask herself what the heck she was thinking. Like the time she desperately wanted to race outside in a sun shower—stark naked. Or the innumerable times she could barely contain the desire to yell back at her mother or boss or anyone for that matter, without guilt, remorse, and most of all, without fear of being considered an obnoxious, ill-mannered brat.

And there was more. Things no one would ever guess, unless they looked very closely, and only if they knew what they were looking for. Because such rogue thoughts never crossed Sarah’s sweetheart lips. Her errant thoughts were. . . not time bombs, but more like rosebushes in January. Like growing pains. Like flour, oil, pickles and eggs hitting the mixing bowl. On the rare occasion when an unwelcome thought sneaked up on her, like the rumblings of an approaching train, Sarah would brush it aside and do what she always did. The right thing.

Shortly after Sarah Lee turned two, her mother (who had named her Sarah after her own mother, a darling of the DAR, and Lee, after herself) had been asked the unbelievably crass question, Are there any more in the oven? Without hesitation Lee changed Sarah’s name. Sarah became Catherine and not a single person, if they knew what was good for them, mentioned it again. Sarah, now Catherine, often wondered, while growing up and even now, sometimes, if anyone existed on God’s green planet with the nerve to cross her mother, Lee Atherton Jacobsen. Catherine didn’t, that was certain.

For a time, when her name was first changed, two year old Sarah would answer, I’m Sarah, when people asked. But in the end, slowly and irrevocably, she accepted the change (as was her nature, even as a child) and moved on.

Go back upstairs and fix your hair, Catherine, and please hurry, or we’ll be late, her mother said, in a voice that left no room for dissent; of course, Catherine obeyed, taking the steps in twos.

Robert. There you are. Here, Lee said. Let me. She reached up to capture her husband’s perfectly-knotted tie and began the process of re-tying it to her exacting standards, at the same time as she inspected him for signs of any imperfection she could eradicate before his well-shod feet crossed the threshold to meet his public.

That’s better, she announced, as she briskly ran her hands down the sleeves of his jacket, before taking his hands in hers and examining his nails for ragged or torn cuticles. It would never do for the Senator from Seattle’s 7th District, only months before election day, to look anything other than perfect.

Lee, born into a world of good breeding, old money and politics, wore the uniform of the Republican Senator and candidate’s wife like a religion, facing the world meticulously coiffed and groomed. Sincere. Pristine. No Prada or Manolo Blahniks to offend the less fortunate. Nothing to hint at a sense of entitlement.

What is keeping Catherine? The car has arrived and. . .

She was about to launch into one of her pat lectures from The Book of Lee, as Catherine called it—another uncharitable, but accurate thought Catherine had to brush away on more than one occasion—when Catherine tripped down the back stairs, arriving in the foyer in time to bump into a roguishly handsome man, well know in Seattle for his place at the top of The Best Looking Men in Seattle list that year, as he walked in the front door. He draped his arm affectionately around her shoulder and their heads touched as they laughed carelessly; they only looked away from each other when they noticed Lee tapping her foot impatiently and glaring at Catherine.

Matt, darling, Lee said, and reached up to her full height to embrace him, generously smearing his cheek with Este Lauder Deep Berry lipstick and engulfing him in her Red Door perfume. If it were possible for a man to be flawless, Matt was, at least from the look on Lee’s face.

Mom! Matt lifted her up into a bear hug that made her gasp and swung her around until she threatened him with signing him up to chair the next museum charity event if he didn’t put her down right this minute.

Which he didn’t. I’ll let you down if you promise the first dance of the night to me. Right here. Right now. Take it or leave it. He set her on her feet after he threw her back into a well-executed dip. When she was vertical again, she warned, I’m not having any of your shenanigans tonight, Matthew Jefferson Jacobsen. But her smile betrayed her pride and affection, as she scolded and then she grabbed her son into another hug, as if she hadn’t seen him in years rather than the two weeks it had been.

Funny how only Matt could get their mother to dance in the entryway of their grand home on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, with its drippy Austrian crystal chandelier from the 1820’s elegantly mirroring the hundreds of flawless white roses overflowing their Lalique vases. Catherine breathed in the bouquet of the flowers, and for a second, almost spun in happiness.

Staying out of trouble on the campaign trail, Son? Richard joked as he came up behind Matt and clapped him on the back in an affectionate, if awkward manner.

Catherine swallowed a laugh as her twin brother, who she knew from personal experience had sweet-talked his way out of more awkward situations on the campaign trail than Houdini had water tanks, and their father launched into a monologue on the benefits of Matt’s door-to-door efforts on behalf of Robert’s campaign.

Enough! Robert. Matthew. The car’s waiting. Catherine, I thought you were doing something with that hair. Oh, never mind. We’re late. You can fix it in the car.

Coming, said Robert. Coming, echoed Matt and Catherine. Without question. In perfect harmony. . . or if harmony wasn’t quite right, at least in unison.

Chapter Four

Past: Seattle, May, 2011 - Catherine

Fifty seconds, six hours (Catherine knew because she’d surreptitiously checked her watch), three days and five months to go before Election Day. Which meant, at this rate she had sixty-seven tepid, overcooked roast beef dinners, twenty-three seedy motels in precincts they had no chance of winning, and six thousand, seven hundred and forty-two smiles that couldn’t look forced (though God only knew how anyone could smile that many times in one lifetime without breaking something) to go.

One hour, twenty-two minutes and. . . seventeen seconds before she could relax the aching muscles in her jaw, chuck her too-tight heels and panty hose and relax. If only David were here, she thought. True, he was every bit as uptight as her mother. But whenever David (i.e. David Forrest, the youngest partner in Wentworth, Kent and Forrest, one of the most respected law firms in Seattle) was in attendance, Lee made a point of turning her considerable attention on him, which kept her considerable attention off of Catherine. A win-win situation if ever there was one.

To Lee, David was the perfect future-son-in-law. With David, there was no chance of him undoing Catherine’s composure by tickling her knees under the table at dinner. No chance he would ever whisper lewd but delicious suggestions in her ear during cocktails. No chance of his mimicking Catherine’s father when he was reasonably certain neither Lee nor a camera were pointed in his direction. With David there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he’d ever suggest he and Catherine slip away for some fun, after the latest round of speeches. Damn. No chance of any of these things, Catherine thought, then brushed the thought away.

In one hour, eighteen minutes and eleven seconds, the event would be over and Catherine could relax with Matt over their usual: Dove bars and Cokes. That is, if he didn’t have a date with one of the ubiquitous, goddess-like creatures who flocked—like penitents to confession—to the campaign trail in hopes of getting close to Matt.

Relaxing with Matt and dissecting who did what and with whom under the tables, in the ladies room and behind the potted plants, was how Catherine survived the horrors of campaigning, something she and Matt been doing since their father’s first run for office when they were fourteen. That is, those times when Lee didn’t find them first for her after-campaign-event debriefing, wherein every handshake, casual comment, raised eyebrow and dropped napkin (Catherine hadn’t meant to do it, God help her.) would be analyzed to death.

Catherine was counting the seconds before she could kick off her shoes and breathe, really breathe, as she listened halfheartedly as her father made a long and convoluted case for unrestricted, governmental phone tapping. She was stifling a yawn when Matt, who was outside of Lee’s line of vision, slipped away to the rear of the hall, ignoring his father’s speech entirely. Catherine watched as a dark-haired nymph pressed one hand emphatically to Matt’s chest. Catherine couldn’t quite remember where she had met the woman. She squinted, trying to pull the memory forward, then gave up. Another campaign groupie, no doubt.

Lee caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible frown. Code for Pay attention. If you don’t, why should they? Okay. But why hadn’t Matt’s sneaking off with a bimbette warrant the evil-eye? Why was it his misdeeds always seemed to fly under Lee’s radar? And where on earth was it written Matt got to be the good twin and all she got was trouble, no matter how hard she tried? Surely Catherine’s momentary inattentiveness never did. Fly under the radar, that is.

And deservedly so, Catherine reminded herself. As Lee had said on too many occasions to count, people can be so easily swayed. One ill-timed burp and they’d vote for the other guy. And wasn’t being good a small price to pay if it helped her father? That’s why she would smile and shake hands and listen to endlessly boring discussions on social security and estate taxes, then afterward, sit attentively as Lee dissected in detail how Catherine was to do it all much better the next time.

Only then would she break out the Dove bars and the Cokes, kick back with Matt and brush it all away.

No date, huh?

Catherine bumped Matt’s shoulder with hers and grinned, as they sat side by side on top of the garden wall behind their parent’s house. A gloriously full moon quivered above them, as if it might fall into their laps with one good breeze.

Don’t worry, Catherine teased, when she caught Matt’s shrug. I’m used to being your leftovers.

Good. Because I love leftovers, Sis. Cold pizza. Spaghetti sandwiches. Flat beer.

Ugh.

And you, he joked.

Catherine bit into her Dove bar, sighed and leaned into Matt, two perfectly matched puzzle pieces. Okay, Matt. Spill. How do you do it?

He shot her an innocent look—one that didn’t fool her for a second. It was a question she’d asked him more than once over the years. One he never had an answer for. Still, he gave his standard, Do what, Sis?, before he reached for her hand, turned it over and wrinkled his brow, as if he were reading her fortune.

Sneak off with a babe in the middle of Dad’s speech to some of his biggest contributors and still come off looking like . . . I don’t know what. She paused for effect. When we both know you’re really Rosemary’s baby.

Cathy, Cathy, Cathy. The sooner you accept things as they are, the sooner you can get on with your own pathetic life and stop drooling over mine. He bit off a piece of his Dove bar for emphasis.

Well, you’re a freckled face baby—, she said, hitting below the belt.

You really want to go there?

Knowing when to quit, she unwrapped a second ice cream and handed it over. Matt was the only one who realized she was more Rosemary’s baby than he would ever be. Thanks for the save, by the way.

He sent her a blank look. Totally fake. High School acting at it’s worst.

Your diversionary tactic with Mom, as if you don’t know.

What? I love dancing with Mom.

Yeah. And saving my ass. She stuck out her tongue, elbowing him affectionately.

It hardly needs saving.

You thought so.

Well, I’m totally unreliable in my judgments. Isn’t that what you always say?

You’re perfect. That’s what I always say.

She smiled and licked the side of her melting ice cream bar, savoring the cold, rich chocolate melting in her mouth, snuggled harder into Matt’s shoulder and forgot all about getting him to spill the story on his dark-haired stranger, including what made that particular bimbette worth risking Lee’s wrath over. Because when you’re truly happy, why ruin it with questions and accusations, jealousy and envy? Even though, whether she was ready to admit it or not, Catherine was beginning to think she could use some of what Matt had in her own life.

Long after the clock struck midnight, she arrived home too exhausted for her usual nighttime routine: remove makeup, brush hair out, braid it, slip off uncomfortable dress and carefully hang clothes out for the cleaners, place shoes on the shoe rack, shower and slip between the covers. Nude. Her guilty pleasure.

Her thoughts returned to Matt’s disappearing act. The slight wave of the stranger’s hand and tilt of her head that had called to Matt. The urgency of the exchange. God, she hoped the poor girl wasn’t pregnant. Even Matt, Lee’s golden child, would never survive that one.

Catherine shook off the thought, checked the phone on her night stand and found there were no messages from Lee.

Hallelujah! A perfect evening.

Chapter Five

Present: Seattle, May, 2012

Finding my way on the streets of Seattle, I was beginning to feel as if I was lost in one of those spooky Halloween corn mazes. If I hadn’t stumbled across the Fremont Public Library, who knows what I would have done? The library, where I am currently hiding, so far in a back corner where even the librarian can’t find me,