Prologue

East of Niece
Prologue

By Randye Lordon

The silver Mercedes took the hairpin turns as easily as fingers sliding into worn leather gloves. Jules Mason held the padded steering wheel in his capable large hands as he captained the fine piece of machinery. "You know, babe, I'm thinking maybe I'll get one of these cars when we get home. Never did want a German car before, but you gotta give them credit; they know how to make a fine automobile." He glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of himself, at least a shock of his white hair, a portion of his bushy right eyebrow, and his chestnut brown eyes. He was everything he could want -- virile, powerful, comfortable with himself, and still in love with the same gal after all these years. "Yes indeedy, this handles like a good mare. Makes me think of Buttercup. Remember her?" His smile was tinged with a lasciviousness only Nan could read. Missouri, 1962, spring: a picnic ride, Nan on Buttercup, Jules on Bruno. At the edge of a cornfield, they conceived their first child, Ryan, who never made it to his eighth birthday. After all these years, it still hurt.

Nan chewed her lip and glared at the road ahead of them. "Honey, slow down. Lord, I hate these curvy roads. It's easy to see how Princess Grace and that poor dear Stephanie had their accident here. I do hope Gavin's careful -- "

"Don't go there, Nan. I'm telling you, it's just that kind of attitude that's turned the boy into a sissy."

"He's not a sissy," she said as she reapplied her lipstick. Her words contorted as she tightened her mouth to accommodate the same color she'd worn for the last twenty-five years. She glanced past her reflection in the vanity mirror at the car behind them.

"Right, excuse me, dilettante," he said with contempt. "Let me tell you, sweetheart, no true Missourian could ever be a dilettante. Rich broads with half a brain cell and time to kill are dilettantes, but not a grown man from Missouri."

"Jules, would you please slow down?" Nan held on to the door handle, flattened the soles of her Clergeries on the floor and said, "And I hate when you call me sweetheart in that tone of voice. Slow down, goddamn it!"

Jules eased down on the brake. The car had suddenly picked up speed, though he wasn't accelerating. He felt no resistance when he depressed the left pedal. The car, in fact, seemed to go faster. He held his breath and concentrated. Nan knew from one glance at Jules that there was trouble.

"Good fucking God," he muttered as he floored the brake and felt the car gain momentum. Thankfully, the road to Nice -- at least what he could see of it -- seemed fairly clear. He didn't know these roads. Didn't know what to expect. He tried to downshift, but removing his hand from the wheel for only a second was enough to have them fishtailing. Shit. He could feel Nan beside him, feel her fear blending with his own. "Jesus." He heard the shrieking of tires against the pavement as he frantically tried to keep the car on the road. He didn't dare look at the speedometer, but he knew they had to be going over ninety miles an hour. Fuck. Nan was remarkably quiet. He was able to keep the car in their lane, on the twisting road. He pulled the emergency brake. Nothing. He felt his chest constrict as he understood, in an instant, that they were either going to have a head-on collision with an oncoming car or find themselves over the cliff. Before the thought was even fully realized, before Nan could complete her reach to extract the keys from the ignition, before they could see that the needle was over 130 kmh, Jules and Nancy Mason's rental Mercedes cut through the side railing as if it were butter and sailed gracefully past the treetops to the ground below.

The couple held hands in a viselike grasp, their heads drawn together, instinctively trying to shield themselves from an impact that would kill them both instantly.