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  FRAGMENTS OF ASH

  a m o d e r n f a i r y t a l e

  Katy Regnery

  My name is Ashley Ellis . . .

  I was thirteen years old when my mother—retired supermodel Tig—married Mosier Răumann, who was twice her age and the head of the Răumann crime family.

  When I turned eighteen, my mother mysteriously died. Only then did I discover the dark plans my stepfather had in store for me all along, the debauched “work” he expected me to do.

  With the help of my godfather, Gus, I have escaped from Mosier’s clutches, but his twin sons and henchmen have been tasked with hunting me down. And they will stop at nothing to return my virgin body to their father . . .

  . . . dead or alive.

  FRAGMENTS OF ASH

  Copyright © 2018 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery

  D2D Version

  Sale of the electronic edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher

  This book is a work of fiction. Most names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any references to real people or places are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com

  Editor: First Person Edits

  Formatter: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  Cover Designer: Marianne Nowicki

  First Edition: October 2018

  Katy Regnery

  Fragments of Ash: a novel / by Katy Regnery—1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-944810-18-4

  CINDERS noun ˈsin-dərs

  (plural) ashes, fragments of ash

  What’s left when the raging fire burns out?

  When the desperate, white-hot incalescence cools?

  When the thick, black smoke turns to gray and then to white?

  Cinders.

  Fragments of ash.

  Detritus of disaster.

  Tiny pieces of “once was.”

  Delicate reminders of what is gone.

  Blown away by a gentle breeze and lost forever.

  —K. P. Kelley

  For my #RR19 girls:

  Amy, Carey, Emma, Ilsa, Julie, Mia, Suzie, and Tia.

  Kick-ass writers.

  Strong women.

  Amazing friends.

  #LuckyMe

  xoxoxo

  Table of Contents

  FRAGMENTS OF ASH

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tig’s Diary #1

  Tig’s Diary #2

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tig’s Diary #8

  Tig’s Diary #11

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tig’s Diary #15

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tig’s Diary #17

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tig’s Diary #22

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tig’s Diary #32

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tig’s Diary #45

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tig’s Diary #50

  EPILOGUE

  A LETTER FROM KATY

  Fragments of Ash Playlist

  Also Available from Katy Regnery

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ashley

  Thirty-four years old is too young to die.

  At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me.

  But then again . . .

  She was also too young to get pregnant at fifteen.

  Too young to become a single mom at sixteen.

  Too young to be discovered at eighteen.

  Too young to be an international supermodel at nineteen.

  Too young to overdose at twenty-four.

  Too young to be washed-up by twenty-seven.

  Too young to marry my forty-six-year-old stepfather at twenty-nine.

  Too young to die of another overdose at thirty-four.

  She was always too young.

  Consistent to the bitter end.

  The thought circles around and around inside my head as I sit beside her grave with my stepfather’s heavy arm around my shoulders and more than three hundred people—photographers, magazine editors, fashion designers, and other models—weeping prettily behind me.

  In an instant, I am ashamed of myself. I should be thinking kind thoughts about her—about Tígin, my biological mother, whom most of the world believed was my older sister. Only three people know that I am actually her daughter: my biological grandparents, who sit stoically on my other side, and, somewhere in the crowd, my godfather, Gus, my mother’s hair and makeup artist for the five years she took the world by storm.

  My heart clenches as I think of Gus’s eyes when he touched my arm earlier, offering brief condolences. Red and bloodshot. So much sadness.

  I clutch the onyx rosary beads and look up at the priest, who clears his throat loudly.

  “To many of you, Tígin, who was baptized Teagan Catrin-Mairwen Ellis, was nothing more than a public figure, a woman who flaunted her body for money and fame. A modern-day Mary Magdalene. But in the eyes of God, she was a child, flawed and beloved . . .”

  Beloved.

  The word makes me pause.

  Was my mother beloved by God?

  By whom was my mother beloved?

  Not my conservative grandparents, who were deeply ashamed of her out-of-wedlock pregnancy, bastard daughter, and the endless pictures of her in bathing suits and lingerie that heralded the beginning of her career as a model. Their disapproval was her constant companion, and though she tried to shrug it off like it didn’t matter, I heard enough phone conversations throughout my childhood featuring a drunken Tígin begging for their forgiveness. I know for certain that they never granted it, though they did deign to live comfortably off my mother’s wealth, in the house she bought for them—first in Ohio, then in New York—with every luxury they could imagine at their fingertips.

  Did they love her? I don’t know. I only know that they didn’t show it. And by withholding it, they forced her to seek it elsewhere.

  Elsewhere.

  I peek over my shoulder at the industry people who have turned out to mourn Tígin, pulling from my earliest memories her first few years as America’s sweetheart.

  In the beginning, when she was a natural blonde with a fresh-scrubbed face, bright blue eyes, and a winsome smile, they loved her. And my mother, starved for affection, basked in the world’s approval. But for a sheltered, religious, eighteen-year-old single mother from Loveland, Ohio, it was too much attention and too much fame. It was too much money and too much unrequited approval for a love-starved kid. And like most kids finally out from under the yoke of oppressive parents, she started acting out.

  As the years rolled on, she was increasingly erratic. She’d be hours late for a shoot, arriving with heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes and ashen skin, her flat blonde hair still reeking of cigarettes smoked the night before. No amount of help from Gus could disguise the fact that Tig’s girl-next-door smile and bright, shiny baby blues were fading under the strain of fast living. Embarrassed by her way-too-public drunken exploits and out of patience with her increasingly prima donna ways, the modeling world proved
fickle in its love, abandoning her when she needed it most.

  Invitations were revoked. Bookings dried up. Contracts were not renewed. And the world that had once welcomed her as the next “it” girl looked away, or worse: stood aside, watching her spiral into a depression that she treated with more alcohol, more drugs, more destructive choices.

  Leading to the most destructive choice of all . . .

  Her husband.

  My stepfather.

  Mosier squeezes my shoulder almost painfully, his face thickset and blank beside mine. There are no tears in his eyes. No quivering of his lips. His wife is dead, her frail body in the coffin before us, but he is placid, almost bored. He married an out-of-control, washed-up, once-beautiful supermodel and brought her to heel. The last time I saw her, she was a shell of her former self: obedient, timid, and withdrawn.

  The question circling my mind pauses at the forefront, still demanding an answer:

  By whom was my mother beloved?

  Maybe by Gus, whom she was forbidden to see after her marriage, owing to the fact that he was, according to Mosier, “a negro faggot” and a “bad fucking influence.”

  Yes, I think, as tears well up in my eyes, maybe Gus loved her.

  I remember so many nights that he brought her safely home to our Hollywood bungalow. She’d be stoned and screaming, her makeup smeared from weeping as she broke glasses and vases and shouted terrible things at Gus and me. When her tantrums finally subsided and she was limp from exhaustion, he would carry her upstairs and bathe her naked body with gentleness and respect while I held a saucepan between her mouth and the bathwater so she could puke. I remember him tucking her into bed, humming some old-time lullaby as he ran his dark fingers through her light hair and she cried herself to sleep.

  “Gus-Gus is here, li’l Tig . . .”

  As the memories fill my head with a mixture of profound sadness and even more profound gratitude, I know for certain: Gus-Gus loved her.

  As for me? Ashley Carys Ellis? Her “little sister”? Her secret child?

  Did I love her?

  I don’t know.

  I only know she is gone.

  “To you, O Lord, we commend the soul of Teagan Catrin-Mairwen, your servant. In the sight of this world, she is now dead, but in your sight, may she live forever in grace. Forgive the many sins she committed through human weakness, and in your goodness, grant her everlasting peace. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  She is gone, whispers my heart, which weeps the tears my eyes cannot.

  “Amen.”

  ***

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ashley.”

  “Your sister was so beautiful! So full of life!”

  “Poor Tígin. What a shame.”

  “You look so much like her! Have you thought about modeling?”

  I move through the thick crowd of people at my mother’s wake.

  For the occasion, my stepfather has rented out a country club in Rye, New York, close to the cemetery, and the room is full of noxious white flowers and poster-sized pictures of my mother displayed around the room on shiny gold easels. I stop in front of one and stare. The photo predates her supermodel days, and it’s always been one of my favorites.

  She is eighteen and I am two. We are sitting side by side on a bench in front of my grandparents’ stone church, wearing our Sunday best on Easter morning. Both blonde, with natural curls that frame our faces, our identical bright blue eyes look hopefully into the camera.

  My gaze shifts to her, and it’s no wonder she was discovered the same year this photo was taken, no wonder she became one of the most recognizable women in the world.

  She is tall and willowy, her limbs long and tan against the cream sheath sundress she is wearing. Even with a quick glance, you can tell her body is naturally model-thin.

  But it was her face that so captivated the public.

  Her favorite photographer, Jacques Renard, once told Time magazine that he’d never worked with someone as classically beautiful. Tig’s face was perfectly symmetrical: identical cornflower-blue eyes with long, dark lashes, high cheekbones, and a perfect, Grecian nose. Her lips were lush, but not obscene, he said, and her hair, which she kept blonde for the entirety of her career, was a stunning shade of platinum ash. The color was trademarked by Orion Beauty at one point and offered in salons everywhere as Tíg White.

  A pretty mannequin, however, wouldn’t have sold as many magazines as my mother did.

  The thing about Tig was that there was an unexpected vulnerability in her gaze, the kind of longing wistfulness that every human being can relate to.

  I recognize her expression now that I am the same age she was in the photo. She is hoping for something she believes is beyond her grasp. Dreaming of something, but scared it won’t come true.

  What was it? I wonder. What were you hoping for?

  Success? Accolades? Fortune?

  A year and five months later, my mother’s face would grace the cover of Vogue’s illustrious September issue.

  Is that what she had hoped for? Is that what she’d wanted?

  Or maybe it was something deeper and more ephemeral, like belonging, or being accepted, or feeling loved, or knowing that she was safe?

  I sigh softly. Those are your dreams, my mind whispers, not hers.

  “She was mad gorgeous. Tragic perfection.”

  Gus stands behind me, staring at my mother’s tentative smile with tears in his eyes.

  “Gus!” I say softly.

  He opens his arms to me. “How’s my li’l Ash?”

  I step into him, closing my eyes as I inhale the familiar scent of cloves from the cigarettes he smokes. You smell like fall, I think. You smell like help. You smell like goodness.

  “Don’t you cry on my silk threads, now, miss.”

  I lean back a little and look down at his shiny gray suit, perfectly fitted to his spare, wiry body. “I’m not crying.”

  “No,” he says slowly, remnants of a sad smile fading into an expression of deep concern as he looks into my eyes, “you’re not.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I say, quickly scanning the room for a glimpse of Mosier, or his sons, Damon and Anders. I relax a little when I don’t see them.

  “I waited until they went outside for a smoke,” says Gus, reaching forward to tilt my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “But I’ll be leaving soon. I’ve already been told once that I’m not welcome.”

  “You are!” I insist. “You are welcome! We were the only ones who really—”

  “Hush, li’l Ash,” he says, shaking his head as he places a finger over his lips. “Don’t say it, or it might be true.”

  He releases me and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a small silver case. He plucks a card from inside and presses the stiff cardstock into my hand.

  “Our time’s running down. If you need me, this is where I am.”

  I read the name and address of an art gallery printed in small type on the bottom of the card.

  “She was clean,” I blurt out, searching his eyes. “I saw her at Easter, and she was clean. She wasn’t drinking. She wasn’t taking anything.”

  Gus winces. “Baby doll, once an addict—”

  “I’m telling you,” I say. “She hadn’t touched anything in years. He wouldn’t allow it. She barely left the house, Gus. Where would she get enough heroin to overdose? I don’t understand! I don’t know how it happened!”

  “She always found a way. It was part of her, baby. It’s what she did when times got tough.”

  My mother was many things at the end, but as far as I knew, she was no longer a substance abuser. She hadn’t taken so much as an Advil or sipped from a flute of champagne since she married Mosier. I’d watched carefully every time I was with her—no bloodshot eyes, no slurred speech, no shakes. Not to mention, Mosier and his goons had kept such a close eye on her, it would have been just about impossible to hide it from him.

  “It doesn’t make sense, Gus
.”

  “I wish . . .” His jaw tightens as he takes a step away from me. “I wish we could talk more. Be careful, Ash,” he says, taking another step back. “Keep yourself safe, you hear? And—”

  “Gus, don’t go yet! Please stay!” I whisper, watching as any trace of tenderness drains from his face. He straightens his back and neck, standing as tall as he can, his eyes dark and wary.

  “My condolences, Miss Ellis,” he says, his voice low and formal as his eyes flick to something—or someone—standing behind me.

  “My father asked you to leave,” Damon says to Gus as he puts a hand on my lower back.

  To anyone watching, the gesture might seem conciliatory or protective—a stepbrother comforting his grieving little stepsister—but my body stiffens and my stomach churns from his unwanted touch, willing it away.

  “I’m leaving,” says Gus, looking back at me, his dark eyes sorry and concerned. “Take care now, you hear?”

  “Please,” I whimper, tears that I didn’t feel at my mother’s grave suddenly brightening my eyes and blurring Gus’s retreating image.

  But Gus, my fairy godfather, my only good memory from a fractured childhood, is already gone, and with an increase of heavy pressure on my back, I am guided away.

  ***

  Hours later, in a private meeting room at the same country club, I am seated around a small conference room table with my grandparents, stepfather, and stepbrothers as an attorney reads my mother’s will. Her estate belongs to my stepfather now, but she requested that all of her jewelry be passed on to me.

  I am handed a list of appraised items, and I’m surprised that Tig was able to squirrel away a small fortune’s worth of gems for me. I was certain she’d shot everything up her arms at one point or another.

  Tígin’s attorney, Mr. Blanchard, raises his eyebrows at my stepfather. “Is that okay with you, Mr. Răumann? That Miss Ellis keeps Mrs. Răumann’s jewelry?”

  His Eastern European accent is thick when he responds with a flick of his ringed hand and a shrug of his beefy shoulders. “What do I want with women’s things?”

  Vhat do I vant vith vomen’s things? It makes him sound like a vampire.

  Long ago, Tig mentioned something to me about Mosier being from Romania. She said that he was one of eight kids born to a poor couple at a time when the government offered financial incentives to mothers of five children or more. Apparently it was part of a program to increase the birth rate and population of the country, but it had turned a lot of women into baby machines, without the resources or desire to raise their offspring.