by Kris Pearson
SHORT AND SWEET
Kris Pearson
Nineteen heartwarming short stories, most of which have been published in magazines, produced for radio, or placed well in writing contests. This is a compilation of earlier work plus some new stories. It’s no longer easy to find shorties, so I hope you enjoy these.
ISBN 978-0-473-36535-6
For more information about me and my books, visit http://www.krispearson.com
For the sweeter Kerri Peach editions, go to http://www.kerripeach.com
Love and thanks to Philip for the unfailing encouragement, and computer un-snarling. And to Frances Loo, owner of ‘Chapter’ - the lovely bookstore, café and tea-shop in Mt Eden, Auckland, New Zealand - who always champions local writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Kris Pearson
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Branching Out
The Road Home
Inseparable
Go With the Flow
Heavy Delays
The Christmas Fairy
Paving the Way
Silk
Down the Aisle
Clicking
Too Much Information
The Taj Mirage
Saved from the Pikelets
Dreamboats
Rescued and Romanced
The Boy on the Train
Kept in the Dark
Sapphire and Silver
Yours Until
Author’s Note
BRANCHING OUT
Leah Walls halted abruptly in front of the mountain of fresh foliage. A huge piece of Magnolia Campbellii had broken off in the gale, entirely blocking the stone steps to number thirty-four.
She peered upward. A pale gash showed where the tree had split. A patch of dark rot explained why it had plummeted down.
How could she get past? And how would elderly Mrs. Banks get home after visiting her sister?
Leah needed some final measurements for a previously discussed landscaping project—a courtyard at the rear of the old house. She’d been assured Mr. Banks was home to answer any questions, so that meant he was trapped behind the tangle, poor old boy. She pulled out her phone to let him know. It rang for ages before he answered it, and the line crackled.
“Mr. Banks? It’s Leah Walls, the landscaper.”
“Who? Another landscaper?”
Damn—he sounded as though he wasn’t expecting her.
“I’ve just arrived,” she continued firmly, “and there’s a big piece of tree blocking your steps. I can’t get in, and that means you can’t get out.”
“I’ll be right down.”
She consulted her notes while she cooled her heels. Mrs. Banks had requested an enlarged lily pond, a more attractive fountain, a long colorful easy-care border, and some raised herb beds surrounded by recycled bricks. Leah had some extra ideas she was keen to incorporate. Wind protection for starters—a slatted timber screen would make it a much more inviting place to sit and relax.
She soon heard descending feet and a couple of surprised curses. The greenery shook.
“You’ll never move it,” she called upward.
“Watch me. Stand clear down there.”
She bristled, sure she could handle the job better than a grouchy geriatric.
The sound of sawing followed, and a grunt. A branch whistled over. She ducked. More sawing. Another branch. She was ready for this one and kept well back. Through a thinner patch of leaves she now glimpsed a red-handled pruning saw the same as hers. Wielded by a long tanned muscular arm nothing remotely like hers. Did Mrs. Banks have a toy-boy?
“Horrible wind today,” she tried. “Shame about the tree.”
“Stupid place to plant it.”
Well, wasn’t he in a good mood!
Another piece hurtled down. A very good leg appeared—a leg with a muddy brown boot, a hairy gray sock neatly cuffed above it, and a less hairy but quite spectacular calf and thigh above that. A Celtic tattoo curled up the side of it. Leah’s eyes widened as the sawing resumed. Mr. Banks had to be at least seventy. That leg was much younger.
She took a thoughtful step backward. And just as well, because the remaining piece of tree suddenly un-snagged itself and toppled down the steps toward her, whacking the side of her van.
“Hey!” she objected, glaring up. The wrecker stood there, one hand on his hip, the pruning saw hanging loosely from his other. A tall hard-bodied man of maybe thirty—wearing only a pair of low slung khaki shorts apart from his boots and muscles. And the odd gleam of sweat. And a frown.
Leah huffed out an annoyed breath and turned to inspect the paintwork. “Look what you’ve done.”
“How bad is it?”
She started to tug at the rogue foliage and he jogged down the steps to help. Fortunately the leafy end and not the jagged timber stub had hit the van.
“Walls’ Garden Design?” he queried, heaving the big piece of tree aside with impressive ease. “What are you here for?”
“I’m re-working the courtyard,” she said, wondering how she could get a better look at him without staring.
“Can’t be. That’s what I’m doing.”
“The back courtyard.” Maybe there was another?
“Yep—the back courtyard. New pool and fountain.”
“No! That’s my job. She’s paid a deposit.”
“Too late, sorry. I’ve already done most of it. What the hell is Gran playing at?”
“Gran? Mrs. Banks is your grandmother?”
“Dad’s Mum. Did she strike you as senile?” His scowl had softened. Leah now saw genuine concern in his very blue eyes.
“Not at all. Quite the opposite. Seemed to know exactly what she was doing.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ve already bought the fountain she chose,” Leah added.
“Got it here? I can give you a lift up with it.”
“I hope she still wants it. It won’t be too bad to carry. It’s copper, not concrete.”
“Ric Banks,” he said, pulling off a dirt-encrusted leather gardening glove, and reaching out to shake her hand. She saw long fingers and well-tended nails.
“That’s not a landscaper’s hand,” she said, enjoying the scent of his warm skin and a hint of cologne on the frisky breeze.
“Guitar.” His sudden grin was gorgeous. “Have to look after them a bit.”
It was Leah’s turn to say ‘Hmmm.’ She wouldn’t mind being looked after by those hands. Or nibbled on by those even white teeth...
Ric dragged the big piece of Magnolia further away and sawed it up while she unlocked the van for the boxes containing the fancy French fountain.
“So she went for the three tiers with the cherub on top?” he said, inspecting the photo on the packing. “She was still dithering about it last time we talked.”
“That’s strange. She told me she wanted this design right from the start. I think it set her off on the whole scheme.”
He sent her a disbelieving look.
“Truly,” she added, beeping the van locked and hefting one of the boxes. He followed with the other.
She scooted up the steps in front of him, acutely aware her jeans were on the snug side. Thank heavens there weren’t many steps.
She sighed when she saw Ric’s work. The pavers were beautifully laid, the bri
ck herb-boxes built, and he’d started on the lily pond.
“You’re right, there’s no job left for me. You’ve nearly finished.”
“Good heavens no,” Mrs. Banks said briskly, trotting through a gate from the property next door. “I thought we should get my grandson to do all heavy work because he’s nice and fit, and very good at this sort of thing.”
Ric rolled his eyes and struck an ironic body-builder’s pose. Leah took this as an invitation—checking him out was no chore at all.
Mrs. Banks smiled. “And I want your help with the pretty plants, dear,” she said to Leah. “You did some lovely borders for my friend Evelyn Mitchell, and I’d like something similar.”
Leah reluctantly turned away from her excellent view and tried to remember the Mitchell job. Buxus edging and clumps of raspberry-colored Heuchera and white Flower Carpet roses? Delphiniums? Impatiens to fill the gaps?
“It doesn’t really work that way, Gran,” Ric objected. “You can’t employ two people to do one job.”
“Why ever not?” Mrs Banks asked, raising her neat gray eyebrows and looking slightly too innocent. “You each have different talents, so I’m sensibly making use of them.”
Leah tried to stifle her laugh but a small puff of mirth still burst out. Ric heard, and grinned across at her.
“A set-up, ya reckon?”
“She’s very good at it.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this.” He turned back to his grandmother. “You’re a sneaky old schemer, Gran. How’s Cecily now? On the mend?”
Mrs. Banks managed to look reasonably contrite. “Better than she was yesterday. We’ve just had a cuppa and a nice chat.”
“And spied on us with the binoculars she keeps for the boats on the harbor, I daresay?”
His grandmother chuckled, plainly guilty. “Don’t be angry, darlings. You’ve each told me you need a partner because you’re too busy. Why can’t an old lady give things a nudge in the right direction?”
“Mrs. Banks!” Leah exclaimed, amused and embarrassed in equal measure. “You mustn’t play Cupid just because your new fountain has a boy with a bow and arrow on top of it.”
“But you’d be perfect together. Your names are just right. ‘Walls and Banks’. Doesn’t that sound like a landscaping company? Cecily and I thought it was inspired.”
This time Leah couldn’t contain her laughter. “So we just need to round up a Mr Bloom and—er—Ms Ponds and that’d cover all aspects of the business?”
“Why don’t you take Leah out for a nice dinner and discuss things, Ric?”
“What things would those be, Gran?”
His grandmother flapped her hands. “I’m sure you’ll manage very well without suggestions from me.”
“I might have managed okay without you in the first place,” he said, sending Leah a hopeful glance. “You thinking of branching out?”
“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.” She flashed him a mischievous invitation.
Ric’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed and his expression intensified. His excellent chest expanded as he took a deep breath and turned to Mrs. Banks.
“Riiiiiight,” he said. “I might add the dinner to your bill, Gran—to serve you right for interfering.” He turned back to Leah. “Italian? Turkish? Seafood? Where are we going?”
She tipped her head on one side while she considered. “Cafe Magnolia on the hill above Waterfall Bay?” she suggested. “That seems kind of appropriate for Walls and Banks, don’t you think?”
***
THE ROAD HOME
Brigitte Foster sat astride the puttering quad-bike and for about the ninety-ninth time reviewed her decision to leave the farm.
Majestic and beautiful, the land made her heart swell. The shepherding job at Silver Peaks had been an incredible opportunity. She’d learned so much. Stretched her confidence. Loved working with her dogs.
But she was lonely with no prospective partner on the horizon. And in winter, in the snow, she froze here – however many layers of wool and waterproofing she piled on.
Further down the steep hill her younger dogs were in good control of the woolly mob they were driving to the yards. Fella, Ben and Hitch had long futures ahead of them. It would almost kill her to sell them, but they’d bring good prices, and that was the reality of her life. She whistled, and her signal echoed through the valley. The trio turned the mob fractionally.
She twisted around on the quad and fondled old Jess’s head for comfort. The Border Collie gazed at her with adoring eyes, one of which was clouded with cataracts. They’d started their first job together when Brigitte was eighteen; no way would Jess ever be sold.
*
Steven Summerfield scanned the online farming news and stopped when he found the ad for three working dogs. Owner giving up shepherding. Why? Illness? Retirement? No clues, except that the dogs worked well as a team, and there was an unwritten but somehow obvious plea they should be kept together. Steve needed another good dog, but not three.
The ad ended with ‘Brigitte’ and her mobile number. Maybe a foreigner leaving New Zealand? The name Brigitte sounded somewhat foreign.
He glanced at the time, then out to the leaf-strewn lawn. Brigitte, whoever she was, should be off work by now. He grabbed his phone.
“Hello? Brigitte Foster.”
Not foreign. “Yeah – enquiring about your dogs.”
“Oh.”
Was he too late? Had she already sold them? “All Border Collies? Unusual. No Huntaways?”
“Well, my first was a Collie. And she was so good, I just…” She hesitated.
“Kept going with the same?” Steve supplied.
“Yes. Three and four years old, like I said in the ad.”
He swung his feet onto the coffee table and settled into the sofa cushions. “Why are you selling?”
Nothing for a few moments, then a sigh. “I don’t want to. I love shepherding, but this place is so cold. I don’t think I could stand another snowy winter.”
“So move somewhere warmer. Where are you?”
“Outside Taihape.”
He whistled. “Yup—like a freezer up there sometimes.”
“And… also… it’s not that I’m exactly lonely, but everyone’s married here, and decent social events are pretty few and far between.”
Steve scratched his jaw. She was probably ugly as sin. Boring as batshit. Needy. A talker. He summoned up every reason why this was a bad idea, but not looking forward to yet another microwaved ready-meal on his own he asked, “Can you get as far as Hunterville? I’m south of Halcombe. We could meet at the pub, grab some food, discuss the dogs.”
He squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced, embarrassed to be practically begging a total stranger for a date. But yeah, unrewarding social events, no suitable partner in sight—not a million miles from his own situation. With his parents in Europe for a long-delayed holiday he was stuck here rattling around in the big house, keeping the whole farm going. He’d had enough of his own company.
“This evening? I could be there by seven-thirty? I have photos of the dogs on my phone.”
Huh! He sat up straight. “O-kayyyy… The Argyle on the corner? That’s a bit further for you to travel than me. Or there’s Ohingaiti?”
“Hunterville’s fine. I wasn’t planning on doing anything too important tonight.”
Suddenly energised, Steve set his feet on the floor. “Right. I’m six two. Wearing a grey jersey with a black stripe around the chest.”
“Long blonde pony-tail,” the unknown Brigitte replied. “Um… red hoodie. See ya.”
*
Brigitte sucked on her bottom lip. Why on earth had she agreed? At least she couldn’t come to any harm in a pub. If he was an old perv she’d simply leave and curse the waste of time and petrol. But six-two – he couldn’t fake that. And he’d sounded business-like. Not so old, either.
She glanced at her watch. No time for a shower or messing with makeup, but some fresh lip gloss at le
ast, and she’d brush out her hair because the wind in the hills had whipped it into a tangled mess. They’d only be talking about dogs, for heaven’s sake.
*
Steve drove up to Hunterville with the radio on full blast to keep him awake. His dad was away for weeks yet, farm-hand Hemi was unwilling to go too far from base with his wife expecting their first child any day now, and he’d given Gav the sack after finding two more concealed marijuana plots on Summerfield land. Which left him way short of manpower and stressed to the max.
He coasted to a halt outside the pub and the evening chill hit him as he stepped out of the ute. Yep, no fun working in snow for too long. You couldn’t blame the girl for wanting to get away from it.
Inside, beer fumes and the rich smell of grilling steaks and frying chips settled around him, and a long blonde pony-tail shook and jiggled over a red hoodie as its owner engaged in conversation with the barman. Her?
“Brigitte?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Bright blue eyes inspected him. “Steven?”
“Or just Steve. You’re here. Great.”
She turned to fully face him. “Wasn’t sure quite how long the drive would take. Can I buy you a beer?”
“As long as I pay for dinner.”
She began to object, and he dived in with, “To make up the petrol difference. You drove further.”
“Pffft!” she said. “I bet you drive a real gas-guzzler if you’re thinking like that.”
He shrugged and grinned. “A Steinie, then. Thanks.”
*
He had no idea where the time went, but it flew. Shearing, rugby, TV, music. The dogs barely got a mention. She’d given notice for the end of the month and had another week to go.
By nine o’clock, knowing he’d lose her soon to that long drive home on lonely dark roads, Steve gathered his courage and drew a deep breath. “Come and work with me and see if Halcombe’s warm enough for you?”
