Distant Shores Read Online Free PDF

I’ll make next week such a piece of hell that by next Thursday you’ll be begging to go.”
    Elizabeth couldn’t help smiling. Years ago, when Meghann had suffered through her terrible, heartbreaking divorce, Elizabeth had treated her in exactly the same way. Tough love. Sometimes a friend had to strong-arm you; that was all there was to it. “Okay, I’ll go.”
    â€œPromise?”
    â€œBite me.”
    â€œFor the hearing impaired, I ask again, you promise?”
    This could go on all day. “I promise. Now, don’t you have some deadbeat dad to harass?”
    â€œNo, actually, but I have a date. He’s Italian. Giuliano.”
    â€œYou finally ran out of Americans, huh?”
    They talked for another twenty minutes about Meghann’s lack of a love life, then hung up. Elizabeth poured herself a glass of wine and took a pair of chicken breasts out of the freezer. As they defrosted in the microwave, she checked the answering machine. There was a message from her younger daughter, Jamie, and one from Jack. He was tracking down a big story and wouldn’t be home until late tonight.
    â€œThere you have it, sports fans,” she said aloud. It was yet another of her crazy-older-woman traits; she talked to herself. “I’m going to the meeting.”
    She took a shower, then went into her walk-in closet. She stared at her neatly organized clothes. So much of what she bought was bright and colorful: hand-painted scarves, hand-knit sweaters, batik silk-screen prints. She loved art in all its forms. Since her teen years, she’d been complimented on her fashion sense. But none of that helped her now. The last thing she wanted to do was stand out in the crowd.
    Look, there. A woman with no passion.
    After several false starts, she chose chocolate brown wool pants and a cream-colored cashmere turtleneck. She decided against a belt. It had been years since any of her good ones fit, anyway. She applied her makeup, then pulled her straight blond hair (in need of a dye job, she noticed) back into a french braid. She removed the dangly hammered-silver-and-turquoise earrings she usually wore and put in a pair of pearl studs, then studied herself in the mirror.
    â€œPerfect.” She looked as bland as a wren.
    At six, she left Jack a note on the kitchen counter, just in case he got home before she did. It was a wasted gesture, of course. With his homing skills, she’d be through menopause by the time he found it.
    Twenty-five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot.
    The community college had been built in the late seventies and looked like it. Textured concrete walls supported a flat orange metal roof. Winter-bare trees lined the pathways and gave the campus a strangely sorrowful mien. Haggard, worn holiday decorations—grayed snowmen and faded menorahs—hung from the streetlamps, rustled in the slight breeze.
    Elizabeth clutched her handbag tightly under her arm and kept going. As she moved down the interior hallways, she was glad she’d worn her loafers. Her footsteps were muted, barely noticeable. No one would hear a thing if she decided to turn back.
    Finally, she came to room 106. Unfortunately, there was no window in the door, no way to peek inside and find a reason to change her mind.
    Cautiously, she opened the door. Without allowing herself another pause, she walked inside.
    It was a small classroom, ordinary. A green chalkboard showed the eraser-swiped remnants of a math equation. In the middle of the room sat a semicircle of folding metal chairs; some of them were empty; others held nervous-looking women. Off to the left, a white-clothed table held a coffeemaker and a tray of baked goods.
    â€œDon’t be shy. Come on in.”
    Startled, Elizabeth spun around and found herself nose-to-nose with a stunningly beautiful woman wearing a scarlet suit. A name tag on her lapel read: sarah taylor
.
    â€œI’m Sarah,” the woman said,