Masked Indulgence

by Michelle Love

  It was only when they were having dinner with Levi’s parents at their home that India finally believed that Levi was right. She was showing Belinda, Levi’s sweet mother, the photograph from her sonogram and Belinda, proud, was telling her the baby would have his father’s profile.

  “I hope so,” India smiled. Belinda patted her hand and got up.

  “We didn’t get photos when I had Levi, but I have some baby photos.”

  Levi, who was sitting out on the porch with his dad, groaned loudly and shouted through the French windows. “Mom, not baby photos.”

  The two women laughed and Belinda opened the cabinet and brought out an album.

  “I think it’s this one.” She sat down next to India, and they flicked through the photos. When they came to the third page, India’s heart almost stopped, and she gasped. Belinda looked at her with concern. “What is it?”

  India pointed to a man at the edge of a gathering of friends and family. “Who is that?”

  Belinda’s face softened. “He was to be Levi’s godfather he was my and Jacob’s oldest friend, Theodore Marcham. He was a fire chief in your old haunt, Detroit. A week before Levi was born, on Christmas Eve, actually, he died in a house fire rescuing a young woman.”

  “Teddy,” India whispered, unable to take her eyes from her angel, her savior. Belinda watched her carefully.

  “Yes, that’s what we called him … India, are you okay?”

  Levi and his father, Jacob, came in from the porch. Levi sat down next to his wife.

  “Sweetheart?”

  India looked at the love of her life through tear-filled but shining eyes. She touched the photo of Teddy and understanding dawned in his eyes. He placed a hand on her swollen belly and brushed his lips against hers.

  “Yes, she’s okay, Mom,” he told his mother. “We just decided on the name of our baby, I think.”

  India nodded and wiped the tears away. “Yes, we did, of course, we did.”

  Teddy Granger was born—when else?—on Christmas Eve and his parents watched him sleep until they themselves could stay awake no longer. At the stroke of midnight on Christmas Day, India opened her eyes and smiled at the figure at the end of the bed.

  “Merry Christmas, Teddy,” she whispered to it before it faded away, leaving only its smile behind.

  The End.

  The Snow Angel Book 10

  When Ellie Aherne, a Dublin-based artist, starts to work for writer Sam McMahon, there is an undeniable attraction between them. Ellie, however, lives with her long-term boyfriend, Joe, and won’t betray him no matter how she feels about Sam. But Joe starts to act in a strange and distant way towards her, and when she confronts him, his temper explodes and to Ellie’s utter shock, he assaults her. Frightened, she turns to Sam and a sexual relationship begins. As Christmas approaches, Ellie has to consider the possibility that Sam, and not Joe, might be her future. Over the course of three days, Ellie’s life is turned upside down, and she begins to wonder who Joe really is and whether he will allow her to be happy without or without him …

  Dublin, Ireland, 1993 …

  When the weather broke, Dublin was like a sulky teenager, indignant that the unexpected Indian summer was gone, but secretly relieved that the status quo had been restored. Dubliners shrugged and washed the streets along with the rain, the beggars on the Halfpenny Bridge, quietly mumbling about change, letting their necks get damp.

  High above the city, the candy-striped twin chimneys of the ESB power station came into view. From his seat on the tiny plane, Sam McMahon felt his heart lift. He was home. As the craft banked, Howth jutted proudly from the mainland, and as the airport got nearer he could see the Dublin Mountains, dark and beautiful in the distance. When the plane had coasted to a halt on the runway and the mass of passengers began to mill around, banging overhead lockers and filling from the door, Sam sighed happily. Even three days away from this city was enough.

  In the arrivals hall, he picked out the tall form of his brother quickly, and Doug hugged him in warm greeting.

  Fighting their way through the harassed businessmen and excited tourists, they made their way to Doug’s ancient Volvo and Sam sank into the shabby passenger seat with relief. They chatted and laughed for a few minutes before falling into companionable silence. The rain was harder now, insistent, and a chill of air caught Sam on the chest. He cared little. For all the exotic, far off, wonderful places he had been, nothing compared to the warmth and friendliness of this city. He sank further into the seat, laying his head back on the rest and watching the suburbs flow by.

  Ellie Aherne sat, shifting distractedly in the uncomfortable plastic chair. The editor’s office hung with a stale smoky smell, and the desk, where it wasn’t littered with paper and her portfolio, was thick with oily grime. She suspected the coffee cup nearest to her had taken root. From outside the closed office, a gaggle of sound could be heard.

  Pol Flaherty ran both a small publishing house and a reasonably successful local paper, and here was his base, a small office building just off Smithfield Village. A nervous looking secretary would drift in and out of his office, bringing coffee and tea. Ellie could never work out why she looked so intimidated; Pol was one of the few editors she’d come across who spoke to his staff with anything resembling respect. She liked Pol despite his aversion to hygiene.

  She looked at the various photographs on display. They mostly consisted of those huge frames prints of sunsets and lions with inspirational clichés stuck on the bottom, the kind of thing bosses felt would motivate an overworked, underpaid, and despondent workforce. Ellie considered that kind of thing deeply patronizing and it ruined a perfectly good photograph. She was distracting herself, trying to ignore the unease inside of her, trying not to think of the strange events of earlier that day. That’s all it was.

  She had woken to find her boyfriend Joe already gone. Or maybe he had never come home. Again. She was so sure, so certain he would never cheat on her, but lately, she had wondered. He had been so moody with her, and whenever she tried to talk to him, he would get annoyed. Then, this morning she had gone downstairs to the kitchen and found one of her paintings on the floor, ripped and smashed. It looked like a foot had been stamped through it. The shock of it, the spite of it, had made her catch her breath But then, Joe had been acting so strange lately …

  Pol glanced up at her and gave her a smile, and she forced herself back into the moment.

  “This is great, Ellie. Okay, it’s yours. It’s a series of children’s books, new editions of fairy tales, old stuff, you know the routine, blah blah blah.” He waved his hands in the air, and she giggled. He sat back in his chair and studied her. “Freelance stuff keep you busy?”

  She nodded. “It will now, thanks to you. Yeah, pretty much, don’t have to work for food money down at Superquinn anymore, put it that way. Well,” she grinned, “not at the moment, anyway.” She started to slide her prized illustrations back into the plastic sleeves. He said nothing while she packed up her portfolio.

  “Never thought of having an installation? Some show somewhere, Hugh Lane, maybe?” She shook her head.

  “I have no discipline, Pol,” she said, “I’d have to have some structure. That’s why I enjoy illustrating for specific titles. Besides, I can draw, but a proper grown- up artist? Don’t think so.” She grinned at him.

  “Don’t sell yourself short. There’s a lot of mediocrity out there, believe me, and you’re better than most. God, a lot of shit.” He stood and looked out over his staff. “I’ve got good people here. It’s the easiest place in the world to manage, but the paper’s a different story, though. I need to spend more time there. This place, I need to bring in an associate to run so I can concentrate on getting the paper right.” Ellie looked up. He looked drained and older than his thirty-three years.

  “What’s up, Pol? Dissent in the ranks?”

  Pol smiled wearily. “Ah, sure, it’s nothing. People not pulling their weight. Nothing needed but a kick up the ass
.”

  “You could stop making them look at those,” she nodded to the photographs she had noticed earlier, “they’re enough to make anyone rebel. Or vomit,” she added as she caught sight of a particularly nauseating motivational quote on an otherwise lovely picture of the Indian Ocean.

  He chuckled, a deep throaty sound. “You’re not wrong, Ms. Aherne. Oh, now, here’s something else.”

  He rescued a sheaf of papers from beneath a mound of newspapers. “A friend of mine, Sam McMahon, is looking for an illustrator.” He paused, concentrating on the letter in front of him. “Quite a lot of work here, but if you are interested ...”

  He handed the letter to Ellie, who quickly scanned through it. Sam McMahon, a Dublin-born writer, was famous for his histories and essays on various subjects—he had been a psychologist who worked for the police and solved many horrific murder cases for them. This time he was tackling the history of love.

  “Love and its Darkness,” she read out, and then looked up at Pol, eyebrow raised. “Sounds a bundle of laughs. Seriously, though, I’d like to meet with him to discuss it, if you think my work is appropriate.”

  Pol nodded happily. “Sure thing. Now, I have meetings with a couple of my writers so I must away.” He pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  Drumcondra was busy, the roads filling up with commuters to and from the center. Sam watched the snapshots of life flash past the dirty windows of the car. It was Friday, and stacks of rubbish were piled up along the pavement. As they pulled into O’Connell Street, he saw groups of men larking around, laughing, eyeing up the impassive Irish girls. No doubt stag parties, taking advantage of the cheap flights from the continent. Doug parked the car at the police station, and they walked down into Temple Bar. The rain had swirled up the dirt from the street, and the pavement felt grainy beneath their feet. Surprisingly, the city center was relatively clear and as they rounded the Bank of Ireland, a movement caught Sam's eye.

  A girl with waist-length hair was running through the rain, a few yards ahead of him. The spray made her form seem distant, ethereal. Her jeans and shirt were sodden. She disappeared down into Temple Bar, and when they too entered the main street, she turned, caught his eye, flashed him a brilliant smile that made his heart beat faster, and was gone. Sam was disappointed. He liked the freedom of her movements; there was something childlike, uninhibited about her, something familiar, which made him smile. It was as if she had been an apparition, a memory he had long ago buried. They reached the door to Carmel's Bar and pushed the door open, letting the warmth and noise flood over him.

  Ellie knew Joe was home because as soon as she shut the door, she felt uneasy. “Hey,” she called, before going into the living room. Joe was cleaning his camera equipment. He glanced up at her.

  “Where have you been?”

  Snapped, not asked. Ellie’s chest constricted, and she didn’t answer straight away, just put her portfolio away. “Just a job interview.”

  “Good. We’re not bringing in enough money at the moment.”

  Ellie flushed. Bastard. She was the main provider for both of them, and Joe knew it. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was still with him. Instead, she said nothing but went to find some food.

  She pulled open the refrigerator and stared into it, fighting back the tears. Why did she always feel like crying lately?

  It was December, almost Christmas, but she couldn’t feel less like celebrating. It’s because deep down, you know, don’t you, Ellie? One of you is going to leave, and it should be you. It must be you.

  She ignored her own instincts. A moment later, she jumped as Joe came up behind her, cupping her breasts in his hands roughly, his mouth on her neck.

  “Were you with that editor again? Pol, is it? The one wants to fuck you?”

  “Don’t be coarse,” she snapped but then groaned as Joe pushed her up against the closed door of the fridge and tugged her jeans down, and took her from behind. Ellie closed her eyes. Joe was always nasty when she refused him sex and she really didn’t want to fight. But she knew it was ending, knew she wanted a new life without this angry, spiteful man in it.

  Why did you stay so long? she asked herself, grimacing as Joe finished with a loud grunt. He pulled out and left her to clean herself up. She felt like a sex toy, not a girlfriend, not someone who was loved or respected. She went to take a shower and cried hot tears, leaning her head against the cool tile.

  Leave him.

  I will, she promised herself. As soon as I have the money from the new job—if I get it. I’ll just go, leave him, and leave everything except my clothes, books, and art stuff. He can take everything else. Just to be free, she thought, and wondered how she had ever turned into this woman.

  Pol called her later that evening. “Sam McMahon wants to meet you—can you make ten a.m. tomorrow?” He mentioned a coffee shop she knew and Ellie felt her spirits lift.

  “Looking forward to it,” and she thanked Pol again.

  She went to bed early, snapping off the bedside lamp when she heard Joe come up the stairs. She turned her back to him and pretended to be asleep, but he simply dropped onto the bed beside her and was soon snoring.

  Tomorrow, Ellie thought to herself, tomorrow I’ll start my new life.

  Sam looked up as the girl he’d seen running through the rain walked in. He knew, straightaway that she was here for him. He stood and smiled at her. “Ellie?”

  She chuckled, recognizing him from his photo. “Hello again.” She shook his hand, and he ordered her a drink, tea with lemon. God, she was even more beautiful close up; her large brown eyes were framed by black lashes and her long hair was pulled up into a ponytail. Her smile was wide and merry, and as they began to talk about the job, he found her intelligent and articulate.

  “So it’s called Love and its Darkness?”

  He nodded. “I used to be a homicide detective and saw a lot of crimes of passion. I’ll be focusing on the psychology behind it.”

  “And you need illustrations for that?” Elli looked uncertain.

  He nodded. “Yes, believe it or not. I just don’t want to use crime scene photos. It’s disrespectful.”

  Ellie looked at him with a small smile on her face. “I like that. Respectful.”

  God, her smile. He wanted to reach out and sweep a hand through her dark hair, feel the soft strands brush through his fingers. Sam felt his chest start to tighten, and he looked away from her, clearing his throat. “We can start after Christmas if you like. I’ll pay you a retainer for your services upfront and an agreed sum for each; I thought this would be commensurate.”

  He pushed a piece of paper to her which had a fee per illustration on it. Ellie’s eyes opened wide.

  “Sam, no, that’s way too much.”

  “No, it isn’t. I hate it when artists take less than they should for their talent. You’ve worked hard to get as good as you are—and you’re really good, by the way. If anything, I’m short-changing you.”

  Ellie had blushed bright red again – God, she was adorable. “Well,” she stammered, “thank you. Thank you, Sam, you really don’t know how much this will mean to me, to my life.”

  There was something going on her in her lovely eyes that he didn’t quite understand. “Ellie, some of these illustrations will be quite traumatic. If you’re ever uncomfortable with any of the subject matter, talk to me, and we’ll work something else out. I’d like us to become good friends and colleagues.” And lovers, but he kept that thought to himself. Who knew what her situation was? He dug a rather crumpled envelope from his jacket. “Your retainer plus my contact details. Do you think we could make an appointment to go through the project and set up a work schedule?”

  Ellie nodded. “Of course. Anytime you want—I work from home and I haven’t got a lot of work at the moment so … actually, would you like to come to my home for some dinner? I’m not saying I’m a Michelin starred chef, but I can knock up some pretty decent chili and our fridge always ha
s beer.”

  Sam didn’t miss the “our fridge” part, but he smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “Come tonight, if you’re free. I’ll show you some more work, and we can talk.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Joe sat silently, upright in the chair, arms resting on the battered wooden table, eyes tight shut. His mind was totally focused, contemplating where his life was going now. He was thinking of his parents’ words.

  “Darling,” they would tell him proudly, “one day the world will be at your feet.” Remembering, he smiled. Yes, it would be, soon, and everyone who had ever doubted him would shake their heads in disbelief at his achievements. He casually flicked a pen in his fingers, scratching the table with the cracked nib. Everyone who had laughed and told him he wasn’t good enough. The so-called friends who had merely tolerated him, the teachers who had mocked him: “... an unexceptional scholar...” He remembered that particular school report oh so well, his parents’ outrage, not at him, but at the school which had not recognized their beloved son’s talents. What did they know?

  He got up from the table and strolled into the kitchen. The dusty window diffused the light on the cheap white work surfaces, a dusting of crumbs, this morning’s breakfast. Ellie had been quiet this morning, withdrawn. He knew she was thinking of breaking it off with him—he couldn’t allow it—would not allow her to leave him. Joe wasn’t the type of man who was dumped, no fucking way. The phone rang, and he looked up, irritation flaring as it broke into his thoughts. He let it ring and leaned his forearms on the counter, ignoring the crumbs that stuck to his skin and disappeared into his own world. He would try and get things back on track with Ellie—he needed her if his life was going to be a success. A beautiful woman on his arm and his rightful place as Ireland’s premier photographer. His photos of Ellie alone would make sure of that—yes, he would have to keep her around—she was the Shrimpton to his Bailey, the Diana to his Testino.