Healed by You

by Christy Pastore

  After security escorted him out, I left for a meeting. Heather said she was just fine, but she’d gone on a bender—pills, booze, and cocaine. Dazed and drunk she went to the Union Club and confronted Holliday during fashion week. I knew I had to get her to rehab and once I had her sobered up she agreed to check herself in.

  Some celebrities embraced their roots as a source of strength. For a lot, it was a reminder of how far they’d come, but Heather’s past was a source of pain and embarrassment.

  My heart ached for Heather. And as she slowly opened up to me about her life—the life that brought her shame and flooded her with pain. I wanted her to know that she’d come a long way, our past lives did not define us, they only strengthened us. But the demons never left her, they stayed and she dealt with it the only way she knew how to cope.

  Where Heather tucked her emotional pain way down deep, Harlow spoke freely. Nervous of course, but she wore it like a badge of courage. Saying to the world, “This was where I’ve been and this is how far I’ve come.”

  “We need to talk about our arrangement,” Harlow said, pointing her fork at me. This was the second . . . possibly third time she’d positioned a utensil in my direction. “For starters, why haven’t the details of Heather cheating on you circulated yet? I mean, what is Haven waiting for?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll text her again.”

  “Do better and call her,” she demanded, stabbing another chunk of chicken and pineapple on to her fork. “She works for us.”

  The tone in her voice reminded me of earlier in my bedroom, and my dick seemed to be recalling that moment as well. I wanted to fuck her perfect mouth, and then fuck her.

  “You don’t need to remind me of that.”

  “Here’s what I do need to remind you of then, the press is sinking us. They’re not impressed with our ‘love story’ we need to do something bold.”

  “What do you suggest? I’ve already done the Vegas celebrity wedding thing.”

  She tossed a blueberry into her mouth. “I’m surprised that you’d consider marriage again after Heather.”

  “Hey, first you marry for love then you marry for money—my next marriage will be all about the dolla dolla bills. I’m going to be a kept man.”

  She eyed me as if I was serious, but before I could respond, Nancy Brooks, the owner of the diner where the two of us were currently stuffing our faces tapped her finger to the table.

  “How is everything this evening?”

  “Delicious as always, Nancy,” I answered, dipping another fry into the special spicy Cajun sauce. In addition to the best breakfast you’d ever had, Nancy was famous for mixing in some of her classic southern recipes with traditional east coast seafood dishes.

  “I’m glad to hear that, sugar.” Her smile grew wider, and her gaze drifted to Harlow.

  I leaned back into the booth, draping my arm across the back. “Nancy Brooks, I’d like you to meet Harlow Trembley.”

  “Harlow, it’s lovely to meet you. Are you new to The Harbour?”

  “Nice to meet you as well, I’ve visited The Harbour frequently over the years. By the way, this salad is delicious.”

  “Thank you,” she said, placing a hand on her hip. “The summer salads are a customer favorite around here. Next week, it’s blacked chicken with fresh strawberries.”

  Harlow’s eyes darted to mine. “Yum, I guess I’ll be coming back here soon.”

  “Well, you two enjoy the rest of your meal. You better bring her back here, sugar.” Nancy patted my shoulder, and gave me a wry grin.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “I’m not bringing you back here for fucking salad, at least not until you’ve had the French toast with maple syrup as a sweet indulgence.”

  “Is she sweet on you, sugar?”

  “You jealous?”

  She leaned forward. “Not even a little bit.”

  “When her husband, Phil, was laid up and too sick to work, I’d help Nancy out by fixing things around this place and their house. I mowed their lawn and replaced the sink in their kitchen.”

  “That’s really sweet. I bet the neighbors sat outside just to watch you push a lawnmower.”

  That forced a deep laugh from me. A few of the patrons turned in our direction.

  “See that booth over there?” I pointed to the one in the corner. “That is where I sat with my dad. We’d come here after my horse riding lessons. Nancy would bring us two slices of fresh peach cobbler, a vanilla milkshake for me and black coffee for my dad.” I leaned forward crossing my arms underneath my chest. “Nancy’s like a second mother to me. When I bought my place here, she and Phil brought me groceries. Nancy was afraid I’d wither away—she always tells me I’m much too thin.”

  Harlow laughed. “My grandmother—my mom’s mom, she was the same way. They lived on a twenty-acre farm in northern Vermont, with an apple orchard and cherry trees. When we’d visit, she’d take Nicholas and me out to the orchard to pick our own apples and then she’d make pies, muffins, and doughnuts for days. She shoved food in front of us every chance she got.”

  “I can’t picture you on a farm.”

  “It happened. I may even have a few pictures to prove it.”

  At the sound of chiming bells, I swung my head towards the front door. A couple of teenagers walked in grabbing seats at the counter. They started discussing milkshake flavors and for a moment I swore I saw my father sitting in the booth with his notepad.

  I blinked up, pulled from my daze. The screen on my phone lit up, a message from Jennifer appeared: Buchanan Beauty photo shoot details have been emailed. You leave for Bermuda next week.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, nodding towards the phone.

  “No worries, it’s not Heather drama. Just work. Apparently, I’m going to Bermuda—Buchanan Beauty calls.”

  “Oh my God, you are so lucky. I’ve been dying to go to Horseshoe Beach. I’ve got to see for myself that pink sand exists.”

  I tapped my finger to the table. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll make that beach fantasy of yours a reality.”

  Her brows rose. “Intriguing proposal, but in case you’ve forgotten I am launching a website in the next few days. I don’t think I can jet off to some Caribbean island with you.”

  “Actually, Bermuda is in the Sargasso Sea not the Caribbean Sea, although it is often considered part of the Caribbean region. In 2003, Bermuda became an associate member of the Caribbean Community or CARICOM. I won’t bore you with the details of the organization, you can Google it sometime.”

  “Wow, impressive. I’m glad that Ivy League education of yours is doing you some good.”

  I chucked a fry into her salad. “I am a wealth of knowledge, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Uh, huh,” she said, before popping the French fry into her mouth.

  And my dick was back to thinking about her mouth being wrapped around it.

  “So, what do you say?”

  She shook her head, all that hair swirling around her shoulders. “I can’t, what if something goes awry with the site?”

  “I’m pretty sure the hotel we’re staying at has Wi-Fi, if not we’ll find you a café and that way you can check in on things. It’s only three days.”

  “In our original deal, you promised me a Caribbean vacation. My fantasy is specifically tied to a Caribbean romp. I’m standing firm on this.”

  “Original deal? Have we renegotiated terms and I am unaware?”

  She flashed me a wry grin. “If I go to Bermuda with you, then you and I are going to pop over to Aruba.”

  “Pop over, huh? It’s at least an eight-hour flight.” At present I was plotting the perfect Caribbean escape in my head and I would be calling in a favor. “If it’s a Caribbean vacation you want, I’ll make it happen. Now, back to the matter at hand—our arrangement.”

  “Have you been online since this morning?” she asked, before taking a sip of her iced tea.

  I shook my head. “Why have
there been some new developments?”

  “Yeah, I learned that Harry is being coached by his PR team. He’s using our split to garner sympathy for the World Cup. Apparently, he has a plan of his own, and according to my friend, Zanita, he’s having the time of his life though—parties, women and golf.”

  She swiped the screen on her phone, and then handed it to me. My eyes scrolled the headlines settling my focus on one with my name attached.

  Harlow deserved better than this fucking guy allowing the press to drag her name through the mud.

  England’s Brackman Hiding Secret Heartbreak

  “Pussy.” A few of the teenagers turned in our direction. “Redirect, I think the Caribbean vacation will be a bold enough move. In the meantime, I have a few other ideas.”

  CURLING MY FINGERS AROUND my mallet, I listened to the umpire rattle off the same old rules and regulations. The sky was cloudless with a light breeze rustling the tall grasses that lined the pristine field of The Harbour Polo Club. My gaze swept over the crowd scanning for a glimpse of Harlow. Despite the fact that she was wearing a yellow sundress, I couldn’t spot her anywhere.

  Elsa bristled with energy, waiting for my signal to strike and tear up the untouched field. Beneath my helmet, I looked towards Ridge. He nodded, tugging his glove tighter. Our eyes focused on that tiny white ball. My teammates held up their mallets in salute, and when the bugle sounded we charged the field ready for battle.

  “Great match,” Ridge said, as we led our horses to the stables.

  Today was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel the slightest bit sad after playing in the Stars and Stripes Polo Challenge. Our team has won the last four years which normally puts me in a good mood, but then the nostalgia washes over me making me miss my father.

  “You too, man.”

  “Should we celebrate at Rum Bar or Castle Hill?”

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I laughed. “I think I’ll be celebrating at home.”

  Ridge slapped my shoulder, and then wiped off his mallet. “Understood, man, if I had a beautiful lady at home, I’d never want to leave.”

  It wasn’t just that Harlow was my girlfriend—she was my friend. These moments were that much more special because I had her in my life.

  “Yeah, I don’t know that there’s a woman out there to keep you from being a forever bachelor, Stephens.”

  “That’s true enough,” he replied, through a hearty laugh.

  Once we’d put our gear away, we walked back towards the polo grounds for our interviews and trophy presentation. I was in desperate need of a shower to rinse away the dirt and grime. Whistles of appreciation and cheers erupted as Ridge and I entered through the gate. Walking briskly, I darted through the crowd in an attempt to find Harlow.

  Instantly, I recognized her copper hair, the warm breeze whipped at the hem of her skirt, inching it ever so slightly up her thighs. As I turned the corner, a portly man with greying hair nearly white around the temples came into view. Harlow folded her arms over her chest, as the man inched closer to her.

  I strode up to her side. “Everything okay here?”

  The man’s hazel eyes shot daggers in my direction. “Ah, Grady James, you won today’s matches by a fair margin, not bad. Although, your defensive game could you a little work.”

  Who the fuck is this man?

  “Grady, this is Monty Sinclair. I can’t say that I’d like to introduce you.”

  This man is Harlow’s father. My fists balled at my sides, at the recognition. “No, I suppose this is not a pleasant introduction for you, sweetheart.” I pulled Harlow behind me, squaring up to the motherfucker.

  Dragging his gaze over us, a booming laugh erupted from his lungs. “Harlot, is this the polo player that you’re spreading your legs for?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, moving a step closer.

  “Slow your roll, hot shot, this is between me and my daughter,” he said, scowling in Harlow’s direction. “This is a family matter.”

  “Let me shed some light, Harlow is your nothing,” I replied, shaking my head. “She is an independent woman free of the likes of you.”

  Monty inhaled a sharp breath. “Well, well, looks like someone finally wants to take up with your fat ass, Harlot.”

  He would not talk to her like this, not now—not ever. As much as I wanted to, and it wasn’t without epic restraint, I opted not to smash his face into the table or my fist. Instead, I used my words, like an adult.

  “Sinclair, you have ten seconds at best to move your ass from this spot. Harlow Trembley is none of your concern, not while I’m around. You don’t think about her, and you don’t come near her ever again. You got me?”

  He puffed up his chest. “And just what are you going to do about it?”

  “The answer to that question—I can assure you is one that you do not want.”

  Dragging his glaring gaze over us, Monty’s lips curled into a devilish grin. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “She’s all yours, kid, I hope you know what you’re in for with this one.”

  In a hurried movement, Harlow scooped up her wine glass. “Go fuck yourself, Dad,” she hissed, tossing the drink in his face. “You don’t get to be a part of my life.”

  Her smile was so big that I couldn’t help but laugh. Standing next to her witnessing the moment as she took the power back from the bastard filled my heart.

  Scrubbing a chubby hand down his face, he laughed a belly shaking laugh. “That’s good.” He grabbed a linen napkin from the table and then wiped his face.

  “The next time you find yourself at an event with Harlow,” I said, taking her hand in mine, “walk the other way.”

  I led Harlow through the onlookers some whose mouths hung open in shock, others whispering hushed musings. My singular priority was getting Harlow away from her father.

  “My hero,” she gushed, bumping my arm with hers.

  “The way you tossed that drink in his face, and spoke your mind—sweetheart, that was badass.”

  “It was pretty badass of me,” she agreed. “I feel so light right now, like I could do anything.”

  “That feeling, it’s called, closure—healing.”

  She smiled over at me. “Thanks to you, I’m going to be fine.”

  I hooked my arms around her waist. “You’re going to be better than fine, all on your own.”

  THE PAST TWO WEEKS had been all business, which kept me from going away with Grady. I launched my website and it couldn’t have gone more perfectly. After Bermuda, Grady ended up going to Los Angeles to shoot a television pilot leaving us with zero staged outings for the tabloids. As far as arrangements go, ours had seemed to be working against us or not working at all.

  England ended up dominating both the United States and France in the World Cup. Analysts now have them favored to win it all. From the look of things, Harry didn’t have any excuse for poor play. I mistakenly turned on ESPN and watched the highlights. As one announcer said, Harry Brackman was on fire. It was true enough. I’d never seen him play so well. Perhaps he was correct in ending our relationship.

  In other news, reasons for the James/Young divorce cheating scandal circulated and the tabloids took a different direction with Heather’s accusations.

  Grady James and Harlow Trembley Relationship Rebound—Revenge of the Ex’s.

  At this point, the entire scheme felt ineffective, and I’d seemed to have lost sight of why we were even doing this in the first place. I wondered if Grady was feeling the same way.

  The only thing that I was sure of was that I missed him when he wasn’t around. I missed our talks, and I had little desire to hit up any of the local restaurants or coffee shops without him. I craved his intellectual notes and fun facts.

  Grady: I may be seated next to a killer on this flight. Thinking an assassin.

  Harlow: How do you figure?

  Grady: His hands are stained reddish-orange and he looks as if he’s been crying.

  Harlow: Maybe he’s a
painter.

  Harlow: A sensitive artist.

  Grady: I’m going with murderer fleeing the country. Let’s see if he’s going straight to

  New York or has a connecting flight.

  Harlow: If he was a murderer fleeing, I think he’d pick Australia.

  Grady: He’s going to London. I see why you would think Australia.

  Grady: But, he said he just filmed a scene for a movie and his character had been killed off.

  Grady: Apparently, there was no time to shower.

  Grady: Dammit. Now, he wants to talk to me.

  Harlow: That’s what you get for peopling.

  Grady: What’s peopling?

  Harlow: In layman’s terms, basically being social.

  Grady: You kids and your new words.

  Harlow: I resent that. I’m just hipper than you, old man.

  Grady: How old are you?

  Harlow: Remember how I told you to never call a woman crazy?

  Grady: Yeah.

  Harlow: You should never ask a woman her age.

  Grady: You sound like my mother.

  Harlow: I would be offended at that comment, but I haven’t met your mother.

  Harlow: She sounds like a pretty classy lady who has manners.

  Grady: Wikipedia says that you are thirty.

  Grady: My mother is definitely a classy lady. You’d like her. I think you should meet her sometime.

  Grady: Will you be confirming your age?

  Grady: What if I told you that I’m 33? Does that help matters? A share for a share?

  Harlow: Maybe.

  Grady: Flight is taking off. I’ll text you when I get to NYC.

  Harlow: Safe travels.

  Grady suggested that I should meet his mother. Was that how far he was willing to take this faux relationship? With a smile, I set my phone onto the counter and returned to the task in front of me.

  I couldn’t decide which cocktails to feature next. At the moment, I was trying to decide between simple syrup and triple sec for the pineapple margarita recipe I was concocting. Definitely wanted a lime and pineapple garnish.