Wrong Man Wright Time

217 Pages·2020·1.01 MB·english

by  Niomie Roland [Roland

Wrong Man Wright Time
Niomie Roland
Wrong Man Wright Time
Copyright © 2020 Niomie Roland

All rights reserved.

Wrong Man Wright Time is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons
living or dead is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic,
recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author, Niomie Roland.
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
Epilogue
Epilogue II—The Pink Lady
Dear Reader,

What would you do if you woke up in the year 2000, tomorrow? Would you live your life the exact
same way knowing everything you do now, or would you change things? What would you change?
What mistakes would you avoid making?
If I were to wake up in the year 2000, I would be seven years old and still living in my native country
of Saint Lucia. I don't think I would change anything at that point. But if I were to age till my teen/
young adult years knowing everything I do now, I would focus more on my Secondary School
Education, spend more time not being annoyed with my grandma and I would definitely avoid some
friendships and romantic attachments.
My heroine Ryha gets a chance to relive the past twenty years of her life. She is intent on fixing things
with her future husband, but the path to happily-ever-after won't be painless & obvious. She will need
to make some tough decisions after some very excruciating revelations. Will she choose the path she
did before or grasp the tendrils of a new one?
Keep swiping to read.
I hope you'll enjoy Ryha's adventure.

XOXO,
Niomie R.
I

April 2020
Paradiso Falls

LOCKDOWN. STAY AT HOME. QUARANTINE. What in the name of God did all that mean?
Ryha had spent more than two hours at the grocery store, most of it dodging fast-moving carts and
struggling not to get flattened by frantic customers hell-bent on stocking up on anything and everything
they thought they might need over the next days, weeks or, God forbid, months, or however long
they’d all be trapped indoors.
In just 24 hours, stay-at-home orders were to go into effect.
The Coronavirus. COVID-19, they were calling it. Since the start of the year, they’d been assured that
everything would be fine, that although the highly infectious disease was spreading like a vicious
rumor throughout Asia and Europe, the threat to the United States was minimal. Nothing to see here;
carry on.
Now, in early April, everything had changed. The disease was taking root, and across the country,
governors of most states were issuing orders in varying degrees of severity. Schools and many offices
would be closed, entertainment spots like movie theaters, museums and bowling alleys placed on
hiatus, and everyone was being advised: if you don’t need to leave the house for urgent matters, stay
at home.
All Ryha had wanted to do was collect her birthday cake order, pick up a nice wine, and head home.
But everywhere, all around her, people were squabbling and arguing, literally getting into fisticuffs
over giant bales of toilet paper and gallons of chlorine bleach.
What the heck? It was like Black Friday, only the prices for most commodities were going up, not
down.
She finally escaped with her precious goods in her hands, panting hard, weaving between cars in the
parking lot as drivers cursed and fought over spaces and harried attendants spun this way and that,
unsure how to untangle the snarl of traffic.
Paradiso Falls was a relatively small city, normally quite sedate, but today, out on the street, it was
like a scene from The Fast and the Furious. People drove around like they were doing stunts on a
movie set. Horns blasted, people cursed, and pedestrians jaywalked; everyone in a hurry to go
somewhere.
She had planned to stop in at the drugstore to fill her prescription for seasonal allergies; without it,
she would spend all of spring sniffling and sneezing. But she’d have to make do with whatever she
had at home in the medicine cabinet. There was no way she was going back into that fray.
At least she had the important stuff. She glanced at the cake on the passenger seat next to her, which
she’d actually buckled in with the seatbelt. A good idea, considering how everyone else was driving.
It was a gorgeous cake. A lovely fluffy lemon sponge with a Limoncello filling and the number 45
iced on top. She preferred chocolate and would much rather have a Sachertorte for her birthday,
maybe with a line of Ferrero Rochers around the edge, but her husband, Dexter, liked lemon.
It saddened her that this would be her first birthday without her parents. As a matter of fact, her
birthday had fallen three weeks to the day after their funeral. There’d be no Happy Birthday calls
from them, no chance of a visit, or her mother and father’s congratulatory hugs and kisses. Not this
birthday, and not for any more to come.
Try to be happy, she heard her mother’s voice say. You’re going to be fine.
She parked in their expansive driveway, a bit far from the door, as Dexter had parked his light gray
Mercedes Benz S-Class saloon right up to the doorway, not leaving her any space. By comparison,
her little Suzuki Swift looked like a small red ladybug next to a goliath beetle.
She got out, slinging her handbag over her shoulder and tucking the bottle of wine—a nice Pinot
Grigio which, she’d read on a wine fancier’s blog, went well with lemon cake. Carefully removing
the cake from the confines of the seatbelt, she balanced it gingerly and crab-walked to the door.
To her surprise, it was slightly ajar.
She stepped into the pristine, well-appointed foyer, inhaling the scent of furniture polish—lemon
again—that their housekeeper had diligently used to buff the dark hardwood floors that stretched
across the entire lower floor of their expansive house. Ryha was never really sure why that darkness
always had a momentarily dampening effect on her whenever she stepped in. The low mood always
passed, of course, but given her druthers, she’d probably have picked pale gray marble, or even
earth-baked terracotta tiles. They brightened up any space and were far less dour.
“I’m home!”
She placed the cake on the kitchen counter and stuck the wine into the fridge, sniffing around for the
scent of dinner. Usually, Dexter cooked them a nice meal whenever they were celebrating a birthday,
but maybe this time, he’d ordered out.
Back into the dining room, looking around with anticipation.
She always received flowers, an oversized, lavishly expensive bouquet from her favorite shop, every
birthday, Christmas, and anniversary. Dexter was meticulous about things like that; he even had an
app on his phone to remind him.
But the table was gleaming, empty save for a small pile of mail that he’d probably just brought in
from the mailbox.
“I’m home, sweetheart!” she called out again, removing her shoes before climbing the winding
staircase to the upper floor. “Dexter?”
Her voice echoed through the four bedrooms, all empty except for the one she shared with her
husband.
That’s where she found him, kneeling on the floor, his back to the doorway, so intent on what he was
doing that he probably hadn’t even heard her arrive. This made her smile. He could be focused to an
obsessive degree sometimes.
There were two large suitcases on the floor, open. He was folding clothes and carefully placing them
inside, meticulously lining the heaps of clothing so they were dead straight.
She felt a flush of pleasure.
Three years ago, on their seventeenth anniversary, she’d come home to find two cases packed and
standing by the door, and her husband dressed and waiting. He’d all but kidnapped her, bundled her
into the car and driven her to the airport, whence they’d flown to Athens, where they’d spent a
delightful two weeks exploring the city’s ruins, trying new foods, and making love. They’d been going
through a rough patch at the time; she’d actually begun to feel as if he was drifting away from her, but
that trip had helped to heal the little rifts.
The growing distance between them had been worrying at the time, but she told herself it was normal
in all marriages. Couples drift away from each other, then they made the effort to meet on common
ground and rediscover each other. Become whole again. By the time they returned to the States, she
was as in love with him as she had been two decades ago when she’d said yes to marrying him.
And now, he was doing it again, the sweet man.
She wondered where he was planning to take them. They’d always talked about Bruges, with its
canals, cobblestone streets and chocolate shops. Or maybe Alaska. She had a bit of a whale fetish:
she had a whale pendant made of mother-of-pearl, a whale keyring, even hand towels embroidered
with–then she stopped.
Lockdown.
Oh, good grief. Hadn’t he heard?
All over the world, airports were shutting down as countries were closing their borders. Unless he’d
rented them a cabin in the woods somewhere nearby, whatever he was planning would have to be
postponed indefinitely.
She stepped in, bent forward, and kissed him on the back of the neck.
“Hey, babe.” She laid a slender hand on his shoulder, the mocha of her skin contrasting with the
brilliant white of his expensive cotton shirt. He always wore cotton, and it was always white. She
often wondered how he managed to keep his clothing so perfectly clean and unstained, but he was a
precise, meticulous man, and neatness came easily to him.
He didn’t look up.
She squatted next to him in one lithe, smooth movement. Years of dancing kept her slender form
flexible. “Where’re we going?” Then she giggled. “Or, rather, where were we going? I’m sure you’ve
planned a wonderful trip, but the governor is sending us into lockdown tomorrow, haven’t you
heard?”
Dexter froze, and for several seconds Ryha had the sensation of being suspended in time.
As if the whole world was waiting. Nothing moved, either inside the house or outside of it. Then he
turned to face her, his eyes steady, and inside their black depths, she saw nothing.
No emotion. No feeling. No recognition of their couple hood, their two-ness.
She recoiled. “Dexter? Darling?”
He looked away as if it was unbearable to hold her gaze, and returned to his packing: shirts, jeans,
pajamas. The top of his head, which was thinning just slightly, had a gleam of perspiration on it. A
single bead of sweat traveled down his chestnut skin to his carefully shaven jaw.