Timber

I’m a bit of a hippie; you have to be to live in Bodega Bay. I do yoga every Tuesday and Saturday, and in between, I work as a life coach. It’s a simple life that’s drama-free, and I like it that way. But never in a million years did I think coaching would unleash a hellish nightmare.

When Peter Darkwood contacted me wanting my services for his wife, I was seconds away from declining. It never works out well when someone calls on another person’s behalf. But learning he was a psychiatrist, someone who literally helps people, I was intrigued to listen.

His wife was a celebrated artist who had fallen into a funk of self-doubt. She stopped working and rarely socialized; her bed had become her new best friend.

Peter assured me she wasn’t clinically depressed but simply needed a good kick in the butt. I trusted the doctor’s professional assessment and took on the challenge.

But things turned unexpectedly as I delved into his wife’s fragile psyche and uncovered a chilling secret that quickly had me questioning my involvement with the couple.

I soon found myself facing an agonizing choice: Keep quiet or sound the alarm, risking my life.

Timber is a psychological thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat and have you reexamining the boundaries of trust and loyalty. Are you ready to get coached?

I had stepped onto the terrace for fresh air and to clear my head. I soon found myself drawn to the granite parapet, where I climbed up and swung my feet over so I was perched on the edge, legs dangling beneath me. It was a straight drop, forty stories to be exact, until “splat.” 

It was a lovely Manhattan night, and I was attending a rooftop party filled with a guest list full of New York’s fabulous Who’s Who. I knew everyone there by their first name. Of course, they knew me too. Timber Darkwood, the darling ceramist of the art world. In fact, the party was being thrown in my honor.

I leaned forward ever so slightly, thinking all it would take was a scoot forward, a placement of my trembling palms, and a decisive push.

Of course, I didn’t always look at life this way.

I’d fallen in love with New York from the moment I first watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I was eight years old at the time, but I’d been convinced I was the next Holly Golightly, and that New York was where I needed to be. I’d wanted to be a fabulous socialite in a magnificent city. I was convinced Holly and I were the same in every way, twins in my mind.

I, too, had grown up in a small town. Almost nobody would have heard of Corbin, Kentucky, if Colonel Sanders hadn’t started cooking his tasty fried chicken from a roadside stand. I remember begging my mother day and night to buy me a DVD of the movie until she couldn’t take it anymore and gave in.

Every free moment I had was spent watching that movie, memorizing Holly’s lines and practicing her walk, her glances, even the way she lowered her sunglasses, until I had it just right. Eventually, I learned how to style my hair like her, and I even took up sewing to recreate her outfits. 

My mother thought it was cute. My father thought it was a wasteful phase and loathed the energy I put into it. He was a serious man who thought I could fill my time more productively.

But I had been convinced that if I could get out of Corbin and make my way to New York, I’d meet wealthy men who would find me irresistible, shower me with gifts, and give me the life of a famous Manhattan socialite, just like Holly. And eventually, I’d meet my Paul Varjak and leave those wealthy men for true love.

I had kept my promise to myself and, against my parents’ wishes, purchased a one-way bus ticket to New York City the day after my eighteenth birthday.

My family never understood my calling. I wanted nothing more than to be free like Holly. I wanted to follow my passion. I was a creative spirit that could not be tethered down in Corbin.

I wouldn’t say life in New York was a breeze. In my early days, I survived by waitressing and living in a small closet in a six-story walk-up in the East Village. There, I met other creative and like-minded individuals. I might not have lived Holly’s life then, but I’d at least found my tribe.

With the help of my friends, I snagged a scholarship and attended the prestigious New York University. During that time, I attended parties and met men. These important men introduced me to even more important and wealthy men. Most of these men worked on Wall Street and had more money than I could imagine. Slowly and steadily wasn’t the right way to put it. My Holly Golightly lifestyle came fast and furiously through these men.

Before I knew it, I no longer hung out in the East Village during school breaks. Instead, I sunbathed alongside the crystal-clear waters of Capri or dined at the finest French restaurants in Paris.

As tempting as it was to drop out of school and latch on to one of these men, I had discovered another passion: pottery. I wanted to be a famous artist—I wanted to be someone. Women like me who lived fabulous lives because of their rich boyfriends were widespread. I did not want to be grouped with them. I wasn’t interested in being a man’s “it” girl for the month. And, plus, it’s impossible to keep a free-spirited woman like me on a leash. It was a necessity that I earn my own money. So, I took school seriously and received my degree in fine arts.

Fast forward five years, and I had my first pottery showing at a small but posh gallery in Chelsea. Every one of my pieces sold, and my art career was born. I no longer needed a man to pay for my socialite lifestyle. I could afford it all by myself. But what’s a girl to do if they still insist on paying for everything?

My career continued to flourish, as did my bank account. My dream of becoming Holly Golightly had materialized. All I needed to complete my dream was to find my Paul.

Instead, I found Peter.

I met Peter Darkwood at a dinner party. He was a psychiatrist studying people’s minds, which I found intriguing. If I ever wanted a man to understand me, to know how I felt and what I thought, I figured Peter had a great shot at doing that.

Did I mention his incredible looks?

I was smitten the moment he introduced himself to me. Handsome men in New York are a dime a dozen. But intelligent, handsome men are rare. Peter wasn’t one of those men who saw their arrogance as confidence. He was confident in a different, slightly awkward way. He had no problem approaching me cold, but once the initial introduction passed, he stuttered, fidgeted, and eventually blurted out that his favorite color was light blue. I found that endearing and cute.

We started dating immediately, and a year later, we were married. We supported each other equally, and because of that, our careers thrived, making us one of New York’s esteemed power couples. We knew everyone, and everyone wanted to know us.

Sounds like a great life, doesn’t it?

“Timber!”

I didn’t have to turn my head to know it was Peter. He’d found me.

“Are you crazy? Darling, come down from there before you hurt yourself.”

You have no idea how much I want to hurt myself, dear.

Peter helped me off the parapet, wrapping me up in his arms like he always did before kissing me. Those kisses always reminded me of our first kiss. I loved Peter more than anything. He was my Paul.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just need a moment.”

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked as his blue eyes stared into mine and that smile pointed to his dimples. “Tell me, my love.”

“I think I need a break.”