Bridges

This intriguing story, set in Seattle and Marin County, California, is currently being read by select Advance Readers. Here’s a sneak preview...

We all have bridges to cross.

She’s spent decades building both her firm’s success and her own self-sufficient life—all according to plan. But Grace finds that solid doesn’t always mean stable.

 Her world begins to unravel when a ferry accident abruptly changes everything—sending her on an uncharacteristic course of self discovery, deceit and sleuthing to discover the identity of a man whose life she could have saved, but didn’t.

That iconic Seattle skyline. Grace never tired of viewing the city from any vantage point. But arriving from the west by ferry was perhaps the most spectacular—especially in the long shadows of sunset. She fished her ear buds and phone out of her bag to queue up some music befitting the scene. It called for a tango—sensual, exotic, primitive.

“Hello, girl. You are one beautiful city,” she said quietly.

She watched, spellbound, as the ferry moved toward shore. The buildings did a slow smooth sidestep in front of, or behind, one another—like individually costumed dancers, each jockeying for center stage.

A soft wash of dark gray and purple clouds provided a panoramic backdrop for the gliding buildings. Sporadic flashes of gold highlighted the drama as the low sun broke through the clouds and reflected off glass windows here and there.

“Payne’s Gray. Cadmium Yellow. Ultramarine Violet,” Grace chanted, remembering from her childhood the fantastical color names of the buttery oil paints squeezed blob-by-blob onto her mother’s palette. Mesmerized by the colors and motion, she felt her pulse slowing. She hadn’t been this peaceful since…well, since almost a year ago.

The chilled metal railing was wet and solid under her left hand, as she pulled her jacket hood up with her right. Most passengers wouldn’t brave the cold to ride top deck, even to be rewarded with this glorious view. Most passengers weren’t like her, and that suited her just fine.

Suddenly, the ferry’s deep horn blasted out a prolonged wail that overpowered the lively tango in her ears. Grace spun around to an explosion of motion as the crew frantically sprung into action.

In an instant, she noticed that the ferry wasn’t slowing as it neared the dock. In an instant, adrenaline flooded her heart. In an instant everything changed.

Ten months earlier…

CHAPTER 1: THE CITY

Ten months earlier…

Grace squeezed her eyes shut and hissed through clenched teeth: “Please. Stop. Screaming!”

The kid’s first shriek had shattered the muted lunchtime din of Pioneer Square and had sent a bolt of adrenaline down Grace’s spine, causing her to slosh iced tea down the front of her camelhair jacket.

“All I ask for is one hour of peace and solitude.” She dabbed at the tea with her cloth napkin. “One hour!”

She treasured her daily escape from all the pressures and demands of her office. She always dined alone, at the same reserved outdoor table, weather permitting. This single hour was one of the few rewards that she granted herself.

 But today, a screaming toddler was shattering any hope she had of finding a bit of tranquility. She’d felt edgy and unsettled for days, and realized she was probably over reacting to the kid, but still…

The boy let out another scream and began jumping up and down on top of the table while holding on to the umbrella pole.

Where’s the waiter? Surely he could demand that these people quiet their kid—or leave. Grace raised her sunglasses and slowly turned to glare at the parents who appeared completely oblivious to the impact their kid was having on other diners.

“People who can’t control their offspring in public should perhaps stay home,” she muttered under her breath. She sighed deeply. She was clearly not herself today.

The couple smiled at each other in apparent parental delight and cooed at their son. The little boy screeched and pointed at a bizarrely dressed man who was flailing his arms and staggering around the Square, jabbering at tourists standing in line for the underground tour. The parents turned casually to see where the kid was pointing.

Oh crap. They made eye contact with the man. Grace shook her head. Never, never make eye contact with these guys. One of the first rules of city life. 

Seattle had perhaps more than its share of the homeless, the disenfranchised, and the mentally ill, in spite of the often-inhospitable Pacific Northwest weather.

“Tourists,” she said, watching the couple fidget as the man staggered toward their table.

He was one of the more unusual ones—with multiple layers of mismatched clothing as though he had to wear everything he owned for safekeeping. Darting pale eyes gave him an eerie, not-of-this-earth look, and his dark, matted hair stuck out haphazardly from under a crinkled aluminum foil hat.

She pressed her eyes shut again, and tried to tune out his nonsensical ranting.

Panhandlers had always been a part of her surroundings—growing up in San Francisco, at college in Berkeley, and now in Seattle. The universe kept shoving in her face the plight of the less fortunate. But she’d had battles of her own to fight, leaving little energy for empathy.

A double chirp from her cell phone announced a text message. She pulled her phone across the tea-stained tablecloth, out of the dappled sunlight and into the shade of the umbrella. The text was from Drew Donati:

“I think you’re hiding and that’s not like you. C’mon Grace. You need to brave up and face this.”

She pushed the phone away in irritation. She took pride in doing the tough things in life with courage and competence, and this text rankled her. But in this case, she thought perhaps Drew was right. No, she knew he was right. This had been coming.

With a resigned sigh, she collected her American Express card, phone and bag. It took some effort to push back the heavy chair—its iron legs scraping harshly along the old bricks. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the couple cringe and give her a dirty look. She turned slowly, meeting their scowls with an ingenuous smile. Then she scooted her chair an unnecessary additional few inches.

She stood and gave a brief nod to the waiter who had been conveniently absent during the child debacle.

She hadn’t gone six steps before running into a cluster of gawkers blocking the sidewalk outside the kilt store. Male mannequins in the window sported kilts in khaki, brown, and gray. It was commonplace around Seattle for men to wear kilts, and locals took little notice . However, the spectacle consistently caused tourists to do double-takes and snap photos.

Would be nice to be a guy sometimes, she thought. In so many ways life would’ve been easier. Especially considering the herculean effort she’d made to prove herself in her field.

Grace pushed her way through the clot of the curious kilt-oglers, then hesitated at the edge of Pioneer Square. This place was her sanctuary. At its borders the world, and all its demands, awaited her.

So did a thundering mob heading straight toward her. Coming down First Avenue was a green tide of Sounders soccer fans—chanting, pounding drums, waving banners and migrating south toward the stadium as if drawn to the Mother Ship.

 “Hmm. Game today,” she muttered.

Altering course to avoid the raucous throng, she turned and headed up the steep sidewalk on Columbia. Now on the shady side of the street, she pulled up her jacket collar against the cool October breeze coming off Puget Sound.

The hill climb made her calf muscles burn a bit, reminding her that she’d have to skip her late afternoon run today because of a scheduled conference call. Her running partners would understand. Business first.

At the intersection of Second and Columbia, she waited with a growing group of pedestrians to cross diagonally at the signal change. She stared at the flashing red Do Not Walk sign—the words morphing into: Face It…Face It…Face It.

“I know. I’ll deal with it. Okay?” Her forehead furrowed.

Grace crossed the street into the weak sun that did little to warm her spirits. But she firmly resisted being hi-jacked by emotional distraction, and instead shifted to thoughts of what always brought contentment and focus: work…her office…her people.

She pulled her laptop bag closer and gave it a little squeeze. There. She felt better—more in control. She could do this.

***

Grace’s structural engineering firm occupied nearly half of the thirty-sixth floor of the north tower at Fourth and Madison. Her own office had long, western views over the city toward Elliott Bay and northward to the Space Needle.

From her high urban perch she could study the varied geometric shapes of the built world juxtaposed to Mother Nature’s ever-changing backdrop of water and sky. Her City. The Emerald City.

She employed thirty-two people: twelve structural engineers, three civils, two mechanicals, and the requisite support staff. Having grown the company from a one-woman office to a major industry player, Grace had earned the respect of her employees, colleagues, and clients in a traditionally male-dominated field. It was her creation, her baby. And she nurtured, and defended it with the ferocity of a mother jackal.

Harrington Engineering’s international accolades were a result of its unique bridge designs using unorthodox solutions and materials on difficult sites. Grace’s steady hand at the helm continued to guide her team through the conflicting currents of design innovation, budgets, ever-increasing governmental constraints and liability exposure.

By corporate standards, she was considered young at age forty-two to command such an industry behemoth. She was the face of her company—the one who traveled the most and negotiated all of the contracts. She insisted on reviewing, stamping, and signing every set of plans that left the office. That made her what: Protective? Controlling? A perfectionist? Her staff had varying opinions, but none of them ever questioned her competence.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a bit of a control freak,” Grace admitted at an office event. “Maybe that’s what it takes to accomplish all this.” She gestured around the office.

Her employees respected her dedication to both the firm and to them. She was a fair and accessible boss who valued their work and compensated them accordingly. She made an effort to know every employee’s name and a bit of personal information. Luckily, there wasn’t much turnover at Harrington Engineering. Some speculated this was because Grace didn’t want to learn any new names.

***

Reaching her building, she spun through the revolving door and strode to the elevator. The authoritative click click click of her heels on the marble floor echoed through the stark lobby. Exiting at her floor, she met her assistant Ashley leaving for a late lunch.

“Your conference call with Sunderland this evening was postponed until tomorrow night. I checked your schedule—you were available—so I confirmed.” Ashley was an indispensable right-hand-woman.  At only twenty-four, she had a grown-up air of efficiency that Grace both admired and required. 

“Good. That’ll work. Has the contract for that project gone through legal?” Grace asked, already knowing the answer, and also aware that her asking would insult Ashley. After a pause, when Grace could tell with amusement that Ashley was carefully checking her words and her response, the young assistant said:

“Yes. Kyle signed off on it yesterday. It’s on your desk. Next to your rebar.”

Grace kept a three-inch diameter rusty chunk of rebar on her glass desk—a precious gift from the crusty old-school contractor who was Grace’s mentor on her first bridge project. His acknowledgment of her work meant more to Grace than any of the gleaming award plaques hanging in orderly rows on her office wall, including the award for that very same bridge.

When she picked up the heavy piece of metal—feeling the heft of it—she’d picture the bridge, and the cars driving across it at that exact moment; the drivers taking for granted the extremely complex structure supporting them above the waters below.

The rebar was just a cold piece of metal. But whenever she needed to think, it was her anchor that she’d shift from hand to hand while pacing her office.

 “All right then. I’ll see you after lunch,” Grace said. She pressed her lips together to hide a grin. Testing her assistant’s composure was always entertaining.

Ashley stepped into the empty elevator and turned—a poised smile on her flawless, young face. She disappeared behind the sliding mahogany doors, and Grace was left lingering in the carpeted reception area of her own company—her home.

“Okay, well I guess this is ironically fortuitous, huh?”

This was the only night Drew had free this week. Now they could have dinner together after all.

She strode down the hallway and into her office, then closed the eight-foot tall glass door behind her. Something seemed out of order. She stood with hands on hips, surveying her office with squinted eyes.  The bank of books on the north wall looked correct. The three Ficus trees seemed to be in the right spots. The tan, black and teal Persian rug lay well-behaved under the contemporary black leather couches…

“Aha,” she said.

She walked to the westernmost couch and scooted it two inches so that its legs slid into the four slight depressions in the wool carpet. She’d have Ashley talk to the cleaning people about their sloppiness.

Much relieved at having solved the mystery, she went to her desk and eased into her tall leather chair, then swiveled to look out at the water and the city. Crossing her legs, she leaned back and reached for her rebar.

“What to do about Drew…” she said to the city below.