Bridge Over Shallow Water (Murky Midlife Waters, Book 1)(Paranormal Women's Midlife Fiction)

BRIDGE OVER SHALLOW WATER A PWF SHORT WITH SNAP MURKY MIDLIFE WATERS BOOK ONE JB LASSALLE CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Acknowledgments About JB Lassalle CHAPTER 1 I was pretty sure if even one tire of my beat-up car crossed over the bridge before me, the entire thing would collapse adventure-movie style and send me plummeting to the swamp water below. In my mind, a dozen alligators snapped from below, eager to rip me to shreds. My Jeep wasn’t in great shape, a holdout from my college years that even my soon-to-be-ex-husband couldn’t convince me to get rid of, but I trusted it more than this warped wood and rusty nails calling itself a bridge. A cobweb infested light flashed green from a signpost. The bridge was one lane wide, so the light was intended to keep cars from colliding in the center. I had to assume there was a light on the other side, and that it flashed red. Yeah. There was no way. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, the engine shuddering while it waited for me to decide. I held my breath, willing myself to move forward. But thoughts of how many ways this could go wrong invaded my brain. How long does that light give cars to cross? When was the last time someone had checked the bulb? I peered through my cracked windshield at the faded sign attached to the light. North Bridge to Treater’s Way Eight miles Thick columns anchored the bridge, extending deep below the muddy brown surface of the Gulf, each marked with jagged water lines. These green, moldy badges of honor told a story about hurricanes past and changing waters. The air was thick with their mildewed stench. A maniacal laugh escaped me. Worrying about a bridge’s anchors, when I had none of my own, was the ultimate irony. These days, I felt as adrift and weathered as this dated piece of construction looked. Coming home to the site of my husband straddling his very naked secretary had shaken my foundation. I was weathering my own storm, and my water lines were way over my head. So, who was I to judge based on appearance? For the last month, I’d hidden in my pop’s house, ignoring the requests for interviews and faux-sympathetic clucks from false friends. I’d only taken my daughter’s calls, grateful she was thriving in her college dorm and shielded from controversy. So far, no one had tracked down the mayor’s daughter to ask about his affair. My Aunt Ruth’s postcard begging me to visit her in Treater’s Way was the lifeline I didn’t know I could grab. I retrieved the card and stared at the lovely landscape image of Bridge House, the family bed & breakfast I hadn’t seen in over thirty years. It loomed larger-than-life atop the small island that marked the boundaries of Treater’s Way, resting on the rocky shores of the bayou, a mansion somehow floating in the center of Louisiana. Its tall columns and stately balconies were buried deep in my memories, as was my time living there. We would have taken this bridge, Pop and I, when we left Bridge House all those years ago. But the memory of it was lost in the haze I’d long associated with that day, and with my childhood. If it wasn’t for Aunt Ruth reaching out, I would have forgotten it entirely. I returned the card to my pocket and peered across the bridge. Somewhat evenly spaced slats provided a road to drive on. I couldn’t see what was underneath them, but according to the internet there would be a floor system. Maybe if it was called a road system, I would feel better. Allegedly, it supported cars, and allegedly no one had died on this bridge. The barriers were a series of lovely arches, an intricate design that left me wondering how wood curved like that. It was barely taller than my chest, definitely shorter than my Jeep. It mirrored the arches underneath that curled over the shallow water like waves. Arches were good. Arches meant support. I shielded my eyes from the setting sun, shivering as a mild wind blew from behind me, as if nudging me forward. Crossing it would be bad enough. But crossing at night would be way worse. The tops of dense trees on the other side sent long shadows over the water. I really, really didn’t want to meander through a forest in the dark. And I needed to be away from New Orleans, even if just for the summer. I was a forty-seven-year-old empty nester who’d lost everything. On the other side of the bridge was a comfortable place to sleep and an aunt who, when I thought of her, filled me with warmth. The engine croaked and roared as if willing me on. This was all I had. This Jeep and my two suitcases were the only things that were mine. There was nowhere to go but forward. I rolled down my window. If I crashed, at least I had a chance at getting out. I yanked on my seatbelt before inching forward. As my front tires crossed the threshold, clouds swarmed overhead and blocked out the last of the sunlight. A blast of thunder startled me into pressing my foot onto the gas, and the car and I roared onto the planks. As if it agreed, the bridge groaned under the weight of my front tires. I held onto the shallow hope that, if this were an actual death trap, there would be a sign. Heavy bands of rain pelted my windshield. I flipped the wipers to their highest setting, ignoring the repetitive whine of dried-out blades. When was the last time I’d had those checked? Or the oil changed? Or the tires rotated?