The Last Stand of Charlotte Dodd: Fun, Action Chick Lit Spy Saga

by Holly Kerr

  “That good, eh.” I lean back into him. I may have lost memories of myself, years of events and experiences, but I have Ham here, and years to make more. “We need a big tree.”

  Ham’s arms tighten around me. “How big would you like?”

  “Bigger than you.”

  “I am very big,” he says, without a hint of flirtation in his voice.

  I laugh with delight. “Yes, you are. I want the tree to touch the ceiling, big enough for Mister to drop onto your shoulder after he climbs to the top.”

  Ham groans. “I don’t want your cat climbing the tree. And I definitely don’t want him to drop on my shoulder.”

  “But you know he will because he likes you.” I raise my head enough to kiss his chin. “Almost as much as I do.”

  “I like you, too. We’ll get you the biggest tree that can fit through the door.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “On Dasher…on Dancer…

  On Visa…on Mastercard…”

  Unknown

  Despite last night, or maybe because of it, I wake up feeling refreshed. There’s no lingering grogginess from waking up out of a dream, of pulling myself out of my memories. For the first time all week, I didn’t dream about Bryton.

  Ham leaves for Head Office early but leaves me coffee in the pot and a note requesting my presence at Sheridan Nurseries at three o’clock that afternoon.

  I hug myself and pick up Mister weaving between my ankles. “We’re going to get you the best tree.”

  I have nothing scheduled for the morning and take the time to do my wifely duties, the ones Ham usually does for me. At least he organizes them. Because of our schedules, we have a housekeeper that comes in three times a week and a laundry service.

  I strip the bed and tuck the sheets and dirty clothes in the pillowcase and leave it by the door. And then I pick up the dirty dishes we left in the living room.

  Chores complete.

  Being an agent with NIIA means that things often happen fast, or not at all. There’s a lot of downtime between missions, and while logistics and training take up a fair amount of time, there are days and weeks where I have nothing pressing to do.

  Today is one of those days.

  I stand in the living room with hands on hips, wondering where to put the tree when we bring it home later. In the corner? Against the back wall? In front of the window.

  There’s enough space in this room for three trees and it would still echo with emptiness.

  I do love it, though. It’s a three-bedroom loft apartment, with almost two thousand square feet of vacant room. Kitchen is at one end, with the island and tiny table, and bedrooms at the other. The living area is in the middle—couch, chair and wall-mounted television between the many windows. Ham uses one of the empty bedrooms as an office, filled with an old-school PC and a desk with papers and files rather than tablets and invisible screens.

  I like his office. It smells like Ham, the only room that says, hey, I live here.

  Ham has been here since he started working at the Agency, the day after he turned eighteen. Not that I remember that, but it was one of the first things I learned about him. My brothers told me long ago that I’ve known Ham all my life. His uncle and my grandfather created NIIA, with the plan for the two of us to eventually run it.

  That’s always been the plan, but in all the years I’ve worked there, and in all the time that I’ve been back, I’ve never once stepped up to take my share of control.

  Do I even want to? Even if I wasn’t in the picture, Ham's entire life would revolve around the Agency. As it is, I rank a distant second place. I acknowledge and accept that. He has a calling to help the country and I have to admire it since I have the same calling.

  But he’s thirty-one now, and we’ve been married for an entire year.

  “Maybe we need more furniture,” I say aloud to Mister. Some bookshelves—not that either of us have many books—and maybe a lamp. Another chair, something less foreboding than the studded black leather.

  What would the place look like if we had a baby?

  I take a moment to imagine the space with toys strewn around, a happy, fat, gurgling Ham lookalike crawling on the floor, and take a literal step back at the surge of longing the vision brings.

  I rub my still-flat stomach, picturing what I’d look like with a basketball-sized lump under my shirt.

  I’d be giving up so much. My strength is being a field agent. It’s not arrogance when I say I’m the best at the Agency—it’s a fact.

  It also should be said that the Agency isn’t what it used to be. Am I?

  Paramaribo was a failure. From what I’ve researched, when I went on a mission, it was a success. People were saved. Sometimes even the world.

  I am a very good spy.

  But the way Ham looked last night, how he sounded…Maybe it’s time for me to take on some of the responsibilities of running the Agency. My grandfather thought I was capable of it and he was rarely wrong.

  With a new resolve in my step, I grab my coat and say goodbye to Mister and head out to buy Christmas decorations.

  ~

  Lights and balls and tinsel. Ornaments and a tree skirt. Snowmen and Santas—stuffed and glass and a weirdly mesmerizing, electric twerking Santa. I stock up on Christmas CDs and DVDs, ropes of holly and garland and find the perfect red, felt hat for Ham. I resist the Mrs. Claus costume, but I do buy two stockings that are big enough for me to crawl into.

  This is going to be the best Christmas ever.

  Because I never replaced my Mini Cooper that Benjy Lionel drowned in Lake Ontario—yes, my memories of that are still very much intact, and I hold grudges—I take transit to the mall. But since there is no way any bus driver is going to allow me and my endless bags on a bus, and Declan refused to pick me up, I call Uber to take me home.

  I sing along to the Christmas carols on the radio as the driver pretends not to hear me.

  I haven’t lost my Christmas spirit as he lets me off in front of the building, and break into the box of candy canes to give him one.

  Loaded down with my bags, I turn to head into the building when the car pulls up behind me. Thinking it’s another Uber, I ignore it until a voice calls my name.

  “Who’s asking?” I frown at the black Mercedes with tinted windows.

  “You were once a friend to my brother as well as myself.”

  “I’m nice like that. If you’ll excuse me, my arms are getting tired.” Even if I don’t remember my spy training, it’s obvious no one should be talking to a mysterious voice in a shiny new car. It’s only asking for trouble, and I get into enough on my own.

  “He needs your help.” It’s a woman’s voice, tinged with concern. Accented…Why does something about the voice sound familiar? It’s like I’m hearing the voice from a distance and straining to hear.

  I take a reluctant step towards the car. “So do a lot of people, so unless you’re throwing out some details, rather than these cryptic comments, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Bryton needs you.”

  That stops me.

  The back window of the car rolls down and I see a young woman in the backseat. Dark hair, dark eyes, a few years younger than I am. In another life, we could be friends.

  “You don’t recognize me?” Her voice is tinged with hesitation, but that smile...

  “I don’t recognize anyone,” I say curtly. “Name?”

  “Raylene Raak.”

  I step back, stumbling, and catch my breath. When someone is dead and then isn’t, it’s always a bit of a shock. “You’re dead.”

  “I was supposed to be.”

  Even with a quick glance, I can see the resemblance between the pictures of the young girl I had looked at yesterday, and the woman in the car. “How?”

  “It’s actually a remarkably short story, but one I would rather not discuss here. Can we talk somewhere safe?”

  “Where do you propose a safe place is?” This is to suss out where she wants me; if he
r intentions can be trusted. If she tells me to get in the car, I know she can’t be.

  Raylene laughs. “You’re still in special agent mode. I’m not surprised. Seamus said you might be leery of meeting with me.”

  “Seamus?” It was more like a curse than a question. “How well do you know my brother?”

  Raylene smiles. “About as well as you know mine.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Dear Heart, please stop getting involved in everything. Your job is to pump blood. That’s it.”

  Unknown

  After I tell her driver where to park, Raylene follows me into the apartment building.

  “I can take some of your bags,” she offers. Her voice is a musical array of accents—Raylene speaks in English but has the lilting South American Dutch inflection that I remember from my time in Suriname, mixed with a faint Quebecois pronunciation of certain words.

  “Sure.” I hand her a few of my bags filled with decorations. Carrying shopping bags is never a favourite pastime, especially when my arm isn’t fully healed.

  In the elevator, we stand facing the doors. I put a few of the bags down and lean against the wall. Raylene stands slightly ahead of me, her head tilted to watch the numbers as we climb. She’s beautiful, more so than the pictures of her youth gave her credit for, with long, flowing hair that would be perfect in a Pantene commercial.

  As the numbers move past twenty, she turns to me with a question in her eyes.

  “Penthouse,” I say. Her eyes are a strangely hypnotic hazel with thick lashes. I can appreciate a women’s beauty as much as the next person, but Raylene Raak seems like she’s been given the lion’s share.

  “Spy work must be going well for you,” Raylene murmurs, returning her gaze to the climbing numbers.

  “We don’t talk about work outside of the office.” The elevator gives a soft chime as we stop at the top. The doors glide open. Stepping out, I gesture with my chin. “Over here.”

  I push past her and unlock the door, leading her inside. I dump the bags by the door with a soft sigh, stretching out my back.

  Raylene follows me in. “You seem to enjoy shopping more than you used to,” she says, depositing the bags beside mine. “I remember dragging you to the boutique to help me pick out a dress and it was like pulling fingernails.”

  “I had someone try and pull out my fingernail once. I doubt anything is as bad as that.”

  Raylene blinks with surprise at my harsh tone.

  “I don’t remember you,” I continue. “And I don’t remember your brother. So let’s start from the beginning. Why are you here?”

  “Because you’re the only one who can help Bryton.”

  “I doubt that.” Leaving her to settle herself in the living room, I shrug off my jacket and shoes and head to the kitchen in an attempt to be a polite hostess. My hand hovers over the coffee pot but an image of whipped cream atop chocolate stops me.

  I put the kettle on instead and hover in the doorway in time to see Raylene straighten up from where she’s snooping in the bags. “You seem to be ready for Christmas.”

  “I will be soon. How did you find me?”

  “Seamus.”

  I roll my eyes. “Why is he helping you?”

  “Do you really not remember anything?” She pulls off her boots and wanders across the room to settle onto the couch, tucking her legs underneath her, like she’s perfectly comfortable in a stranger’s home.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “That’s not important right now.”

  Raylene gives a tinkle of a laugh. “I really don’t like knowing that I’m not as unforgettable as I think I am.”

  “My brother obviously remembered you.”

  She smiles. “Seamus has always been a good friend. Did you know that after you left Suriname, I followed you back to Canada?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “You and my brother…” Raylene shakes her head. “You were there as part of my mother’s security detail, but it was as if you were there for Bryton. Mother didn’t have any use for you, didn’t want a bodyguard around, so she made you part of our detail.”

  “Why didn’t she send me back if she didn’t want me around?”

  “Because we asked her not to. I was used to old security guards that never smiled or joked and then you came along. You were young and fun, or at least you were when you loosened up enough.”

  “I was working,” I protest.

  “You had lots of time off. My mother made sure of that. She realized that we didn’t need a babysitter, we needed a friend, and that’s what you became. Our best friend.”

  “I never had friends.” The words slip out before I can stop them. The kettle clicks to tell me it’s boiled and I turn back to the kitchen.

  “Hot chocolate, for me, please,” Raylene calls.

  “I know.”

  How do I know? Some hidden image among the thousands lost tells me exactly how Raylene likes her hot chocolate. Shaking my head with disbelief, I fix two cups and take them back to the couch.

  “Did you make it with—?”

  I nod as I hand her a mug. “Add the milk to the powder, then the water. I don’t have any whipped cream.” With a rueful smile, I settle next to her on the couch. Mister stays where he is on Raylene’s lap.

  “Umm, good.” She blows on the hot liquid before taking a sip. “Creamy.”

  “So we were friends,” I prompt. I hear the eagerness in my voice. None of my memories that have resurfaced involve me with anyone I would call a friend. Lack of time, too much work, and not wanting to put anyone in danger has kept people at an arm’s length, but before Tenley and Pippa, I never thought I was missing anything. Now I have them in my life, it’s nice to know I’m capable of making friends.

  “Good friends.” She smiles warmly, and I can see it. I can see her as an indulged teenager who only wanted to be like me. “Our parents always kept us close because of threats, so Bry and I never really had a lot of friends growing up. Once you came, we tried to make up for that.”

  “We went to the movies,” I say slowly. As I sit with her, flashes of memory keep appearing, each more astonishing than the last; a revelation of a life I’ve forgotten. Combined together, the flashes are giving me a headache. I sip my hot chocolate, hoping that will help center me, but the taste is only bringing back more memories.

  “All the time. You’d get all these classic American movies shipped in—Breakfast Club, Mission Impossible, Pretty Woman. Gremlins.” She laughs. “Bryton loved Gremlins. He liked the scary ones, and I liked the romance. You went for action.”

  The movie theatre in Paramaribo…that’s why I knew he’d be there. And after feasting on popcorn while watching the movies, we’d go next door to the bakery for…

  What did we eat? It’s on the tip of my tongue and I can practically taste the coconut. I push my questions aside with a physical ache. Answers are so close, but this is a fact-finding mission, not for reminiscing.

  “Tell me about you and Seamus,” I say instead.

  Raylene’s face falls. “I was miserable when you left. I was so angry with my mother because she sent you away.”

  “She had no need of my services.”

  “Is that what they told you?” She snorts, a rude noise which is the complete opposite of her graceful beauty.

  The sound makes me smile.

  “Bryton fell in love with you,” Raylene says with emphasis. “He wanted to marry you. Mama loved you but didn’t think you’d be a good match. She had planned out my brother’s life, knew he would someday take over running the country from Papa. He needed a First Lady as a wife, not a security guard, so she sent you back to the NIIA.”

  “Bryton loved me.” Even though I suspected strong feelings had been involved, to have it confirmed takes my breath away. I know Ham hasn’t been the only man I’ve loved, but to have known someone else and not remember it is unsettling.

  I rub my temples to stave off the headache that’s com
ing fast and furious along with the flashes of a man with warm, laughing brown eyes and a smile—

  Remembering his smile hurts my heart like nothing ever has. At least not that I can remember.

  “Did I—?”

  “The two of you were so sickly sweet together it made me want to vomit,” Raylene says before I have to say the word. “I was fifteen, remember, and a brat. I wanted to be you, and I hated that my brother got more of your time.”

  “You pretended to have threats against you,” I say slowly, shaking my head. “How do I know that?”

  “I did,” she admits. “I don’t know much about your memory issue but it seems like you’re fine with me.”

  “It’s because you’re here. I’m talking to you. Things are coming back.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Depends what the memories are, I guess.” There’s happiness with Raylene, with the odd exasperation, which I suspect is what I felt when we were friends. Would I feel other emotions as well? Pain, heartbreak?

  “I ran away when you left. It took a while, but I made it to Mexico City and somehow Seamus found me. I have no idea how, or why he was looking for me. I liked to think you sent him.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I did? We’ll have to ask him. He would have been working with MI-6 at the time.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He found me, got me out of a jam, and brought me to Canada. He set me up in a place in Montreal.”

  “Why didn’t he take you back to Paramaribo?”

  She drops her gaze. “That’s when my parents were killed. I know they were upset that I ran away…maybe if I didn’t, they wouldn’t have dropped their guard.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, any more than it was mine. The person who set the bomb was responsible, no one else.” It’s easier to tell Raylene than to tell myself, but as the words come out, I find myself believing them.

  “Maybe.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. I did spend a lot of time babysitting you, remember?”

  That brings a smile to her lips. “Bryton went into hiding too,” she continues. “Seamus said if he took me back, I’d be killed too. So he kept me hidden, kept me safe.”