Old Enough (The Age Between Us Book 1)

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Told you, revenge.”

  “You didn’t say you’re her dead fiancé’s brother, Mr. Benjamin James.”

  “Ah. You discovered my name. I suppose it was bound to happen. A famous man can only go nameless for so long.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re his brother?”

  “Does it make a difference?” His sigh is theatrical. “For reasons that speak for themselves, I was hoping to remain anonymous, Mr. Brian Michaels.”

  He’s checked me out, too. So what? Wouldn’t have been hard. My number is listed.

  “Take my advice,” I say. “Forgive and forget. Move on.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  “She’s suffered enough. Your brother’s death was–is–hard on her. Consider your revenge done. Tenfold.”

  “There are other means than you, Mr. Michaels.”

  I squeeze the phone so hard the plastic cover snaps with a clack. “If you come near her, you won’t have enough fingers left to count to ten. You’ll never play the piano again. Do you understand?”

  “No need to get dramatic. Just do your job and earn your fifty grand.”

  “If I catch as much as a whiff of you near her, I’ll come for you. Remember that when you close your eyes at night.”

  There’s a smile in his voice. “I’ll wait for my goods, but don’t make me wait too long. I’m not a patient man, and someone else may be eager for that fifty thousand. Do I need to start looking for someone else?”

  “No,” I grit out.

  “Good. I knew you’d understand. Goodbye, Mr. Michaels.”

  The line goes dead.

  I swear to God, I’ll kill him if he sends another prick after Jane. Doesn’t matter. No one else is sticking his dick into her. Not for the rest of forever. I’ll be there, right beside her, inside her, to make sure it never happens.

  I’m about to get out of the truck when headlights illuminate our gate. I’m not going for the gun stashed in the house. Not yet. It’ll be a damn stupid move to try and break into our house. Everyone on the block and in a hundred-kilometer radius knows it. I’ve set an example with my mother’s hijackers, and I’ll do it again.

  Shading my eyes with a hand, I squint at the vehicle in my rearview mirror.

  Corvette.

  Fuck.

  This is worse than an attempted burglary. I’d rather deal with ignorant perpetrators.

  Monkey and one of his men get out. I have no choice but to meet them.

  “Brian,” Monkey calls out in greeting, gripping my shoulder.

  He’s got a pink teddy bear by its ear. The guy with him is carrying a bouquet of flowers, the colorful, cellophane-wrapped kind from the supermarket.

  “Since you didn’t come to me,” he says, “I came to you.”

  He walks past me toward the garden gate. I want to stop him, to say my mother is sleeping, but it’s not even seven, yet. It’s the hour most people sit down to dinner.

  I rush after them up the path. It’s as if I’m looking down on myself from the sky as I unlock the door. I’m watchful. Vigilant. I won’t let him or his guy touch my mother or sister. They both carry guns, but armed or not, if I lay my bare hands on them, they’ll go home in a hearse.

  Monkey steps inside, looking around as if he’s inspecting a hotel room for a long stay. His goon stays a pace behind.

  “Where’s that beautiful mother and charming sister of yours?”

  The hair in my nape stands on end. I’m about to say Sam’s in the shower and my mom passed out when my mother rounds the corner.

  “Monkey.” She pulls the ends of her robe close, her mouth slightly agape. Then she starts to ramble. “This is a surprise. Come on in.” She moves around the room, pulling books and magazines off the sofa bed and chairs. “Have a seat. How’s Ingrid and Lindy?”

  Monkey flicks his fingers at the guard who presents the flowers.

  “These are for you.”

  “Oh, thank you.” My mother reaches for the bouquet. “That’s very thoughtful, but it wasn’t necessary.”

  Monkey wags a finger at her. “Never say you don’t deserve to be spoiled. You look good, Jasmine. How’s life treating you?”

  “Good, thank you for asking.” She clutches the flowers to her chest and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

  He holds up the bear. “I brought something for Sam. Where is that pretty little girl of yours?”

  My mother doesn’t as much as glance at me. She does nothing to give away her apprehension, and I take my hat off to her for that.

  “Sam,” she calls down the hall. “We have visitors.”

  My sister comes down the hallway in no particular rush. Her face, unlike my mother’s, is wary. It’s not often we have visitors other than Clive, Eugene, or Tron.

  Monkey holds out the bear. “This is for you, young lady.”

  Sam is clever enough to take it and say, “Thank you. She’s very pretty.”

  Monkey looks around again, waiting for something.

  “Uh, we were just about to have dinner,” my mother says. “You should stay. Sam, set two more places at the table.”

  “That’s generous, thanks,” Monkey says, “but Ingrid’s waiting for me to have dinner ourselves. I’ll just have a quick drink and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “Of course. Gin?”

  Monkey pulls a face, which he manages to smooth over with a smile.

  My mother hurries to the door. “Come help me, Sam.”

  When they’re gone, Monkey walks to the chair facing the coffee table. He adjusts the sleeves of his jacket and sits down, elbows resting on his knees. The guard remains standing. So do I.

  “So.” He rubs his hands together. “Are you waiting for me to lick your fucking arse to take a job in my business?”

  I cross my arms. “No.”

  “Then where the hell have you been? I thought you were supposed to come see me about that job.”

  “I was busy getting my life in order.”

  “Getting your life in order, huh?” He laughs. “Did you hear that?” he asks his guard, pointing a finger at me. “Getting his life in order.”

  “Yeah. In fact, I already have a job.”

  Monkey’s smile vanishes. “You do, do you?”

  “One that’ll pay for a palace, as you’ve put it.”

  “What’s wrong with working for me?”

  “I need to prove that I can make it on my own.”

  “I don’t give a horse’s arse’s damn. You don’t need to prove yourself.”

  “Not to you, to myself. And Lindy,” I lie blatantly. “Don’t you think Lindy would like to know the guy she marries,” fuck, I almost choke, “can make it on his own? No woman wants to think a man is only after her father’s money.”

  He gives me a piercing look. “What kind of job?”

  “Advertising.”

  “You want to be a pansy worker?” he asks incredulously.

  “It’s where the money is.”

  “That’s what he’s studying,” the goon adds. “Advertising.”

  Monkey looks me up and down. “This is for Lindy, eh?”

  Fuck. Fuck. I’m going to hell. “Yes.”

  He sniffs. Silence stretches as he puts his fingertips together and studies his nails. My heart is about to climb out of my throat. If Monkey orders me to start at his business tomorrow, I can’t say no. Not if I want my family safe and me not going to jail. The police already have a warrant of arrest with my name on it. The only way out will be to kill Monkey and wipe out his whole gang. It’ll be like taking on a war, man alone.

  Finally, Monkey looks up. “Fine. Give it a shot. Why my daughter wants a pansy instead of a man I’ll never understand.”

  He gets to his feet just as my mother and Sam reenters, each carrying a drink.

  Bowing slightly in my mother’s direction, he says, “It was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger, now.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Michaels,” the guard says res
pectfully, a sliver of pity in his gaze.

  My mother’s reply comes lamely. “Your drinks.”

  “Maybe another time.”

  I move to get the door, but Monkey stops me.

  “We’ll find our way out. We don’t want to keep you from your dinner. Take care.”

  My mother stares at me when the door closes, her face alight with composed fear and confusion. “What was that, Brian?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Go wash your hands, Sam.”

  “I made bangers and mash,” my mother says, but she’s looking at me, not at Sam.

  I take the glasses on my way to the kitchen. “That sounds great.”

  It’s an even bigger lie than the one I’d spun about Lindy.

  Nothing sounds remotely great.

  Jane

  I feel guilty about avoiding Dorothy, and even more so about not thinking about Evan as much as I used to. It’s like I’m cheating on his memory, or worse, forgetting all together, which is why I agree when Dorothy invites me for coffee at the Menlyn Park shopping mall on Saturday while Abby is at a tennis tournament.

  Dorothy waits in front of Mugg & Bean, wearing a Valentino dress.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” she accuses when I kiss her cheek.

  With Benjamin around, of course I have. Well, Brian also took up all my free time.

  “Shall we get a table? I’m dying for some caffeine.”

  I scan the buzzing room for an unoccupied table when my gaze lands on Debbie. She’s done away with the dreadlocks. Hair extensions curl over her shoulders. She’s looking gorgeous wearing no make-up other than mascara and lip gloss. Clutching a mug between her palms, she’s having an animated conversation with her companion. I can’t see her friend’s face, but the asymmetrical haircut is unmistakably recognizable.

  Loretta.

  She must’ve felt my stare, because Debbie’s head turns in my direction. Her eyes widen for a split-second before she schools her features. I wish I could pretend I haven’t seen them, but it’s too late, and ignoring them will be rude.

  Dorothy points at a table at the back where a couple is getting ready to leave. “There’s a table. Go quickly, before someone else takes it.”

  We have to pass right by Debbie and Loretta. Taking a deep breath, I stop when we’re next to them.

  “Oh, hi, Jane,” Debbie says, faking surprise as if she hasn’t seen me at the door.

  Loretta turns her neck so fast she almost spills her drink.

  “Janie!” Loretta says. Then in a much colder voice, “Dot.”

  Dorothy’s tone isn’t much warmer. “Hello, Loretta.”

  “This is Debbie,” I say to Dorothy, “Francois’ girlfriend.”

  “Fiancée,” Debbie says pointedly, holding out her hand.

  The light catches a cluster of diamonds on her ring finger. I knew it would eventually happen, but it still comes as a shock. I feel like the world’s biggest fool. Couldn’t Francois or Abby tell me? Or Loretta?

  “Congratulations,” I say. “Have you decided on a date?”

  She makes a big gesture of laying a hand on her stomach. “We’re waiting until after the baby.”

  “The baby?” Dorothy looks between Debbie and me.

  “Debbie is four months pregnant.”

  I can almost see the calculation taking place in Dorothy’s mind.

  “Aren’t you…?” Dorothy narrows her eyes. “We met at a cocktail party at Jane’s house. You’re Francois’ secretary.”

  “Ex-secretary,” Debbie says.

  “Did you quit before or after your affair with Francois?” Dorothy asks.

  Debbie’s dark skin pales a shade. Loretta coughs and hides her face behind her cappuccino.

  I grab Dorothy’s arm. “Let’s get that table before the waitress gives it to someone else. Nice running into you. Enjoy your coffee.”

  “Wait.” Debbie rummages through her bag and produces an envelope. “This is for you, Jane.”

  I reach for it as if it could be a venomous snake. “What is it?”

  “An invitation to Abby’s birthday party.” She smiles sweetly. “We’d love to have you, of course. If you can make it. I hope you have nothing planned for that Saturday.”

  Dorothy’s mouth drops open.

  “Of course I’ll be there.” No damn question about it.

  “Good.” She bats her eyelashes. “I’ll mark you down on the RSVP list.”

  “Congratulations again.”

  I steer Dorothy away before she says more.

  “What on earth was that all about?” Dorothy asks when we’re seated. “What does she mean by inviting you to your own daughter’s birthday party?”

  “Debbie’s throwing the party, and before you say anything, Abby asked.”

  “What? That’s crazy. Jane, you mustn’t stand for it.”

  “Dorothy, please. This is what Abby wants. Can we just leave it at that?”

  She leans over the table. “That’s the woman Francois left you for? When you told me, I couldn’t put a face to the name, but now that I’ve seen her, I remember her clearly. What a bitch.”

  “They really seem to love each other.”

  “First, she steals your husband, then your house, and now your daughter and your friends.” She shoots a nasty look in Loretta’s direction. “Is she trying to steal your very life?”

  “Ralph and Francois are best friends. It’s only natural for Loretta and Debbie to socialize.”

  “May I remind you? Loretta met Ralph because of you. If you hadn’t introduced them, they wouldn’t be married today.”

  “That doesn’t give me exclusivity on Loretta’s friendship.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re a better person than me. I would’ve expected more loyalty than that.”

  “Can we please talk about something else? Tell me how you are.”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course.”

  She studies me speculatively, as if she can’t make up her mind. Finally, she says, “I’m going to Venice.”

  “Oh, my God. When? For how long?”

  “I’m thinking about Easter. It’ll just be for a week. Benjamin and Esperanza are busy, especially now that Benjamin is becoming so famous.”

  My whole body goes tense. I try to smooth a smile over the rigid muscles in my face, but I guess it turns out more like a grimace, because Dorothy’s face falls.

  “I miss my grandson, Jane.”

  “You don’t have to justify your actions to me. You’re more than entitled to visit your family.”

  “Benjamin…” She toys with her napkin. “He’s been suffering, too.”

  “I’m sure he has.” I mean it. Evan and he were close. “I found a place to rent,” I say to change the subject. “You must come and visit.” When Benjamin is gone. “You’ll like it.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “I wish Abby was. She’s not so fond of the place.”

  “Give it time. It’ll grow on her.”

  “Oh, and she had her first period.”

  “There you go. Changing hormones. It’s always hard having a budding adolescent in the house. She’ll come around.”

  “The divorce has been hard on her. She adores Francois. It’s tough not seeing him every day.”

  “As much as I disapprove of his actions where relationships are concerned, he’s always been a good father.”

  I look at the friend that could’ve been my mother-in-law if things had been different. “Am I a good mother?”

  She reels. “Where did that come from?”

  “Sometimes,” I shrug, “I just wonder. Francois seems to be so good at it. No wonder Abby prefers to be with him.”

  “Francois has always been working. You stayed home and enforced the discipline while he returned from the office to dish out the fun. It’s a universal thing with working dads and stay-at-home moms. Believe me, I know. It’ll change as she grows older.”

  “I don’t know.” I
study my hands. “It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  I dare to meet her eyes. “I wasn’t planning on falling pregnant. I didn’t want it when it happened.”

  The unsaid spreads between us. It becomes thicker and heavier until I think she’s going to say something to finally acknowledge it, but then the air lifts and the feeling is gone.

  “Oh, Jane. It doesn’t mean you ever loved her less.”

  No. From the minute I saw the first sonar, I loved her more than life. I already knew then I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her. Still, there was that moment, that moment when I saw the two lines on the stick, that my heart sank, that I felt–believed–it was a mistake. Could a moment be so tangible as to imprint on an unborn life? Babies sense sentiments, even in the womb of their mothers. What if Abby sensed that for the most fleeting of moments I didn’t want her?

  “It’ll be all right,” Dorothy says, reaching for my hand. “You’ve got to believe that. More importantly, you’ve got to start living for yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been living for Abby and Francois. Now he’s left you, and Abby’s growing up. You’ve got to start thinking about you for a change. You can’t make your daughter happy if you don’t make yourself happy, first.”

  “I’m not unhappy.”

  “You haven’t been happy, either. Not for a long time.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve been content.”

  “Exactly. There’s a big difference between happy and content.”

  What about ecstatic? Is it wrong to be ecstatic at my age? Do I dare behave like a lovesick teenager when there are bigger things to consider, like Abby’s future and happiness?

  “You know what?” Dorothy says, picking up her bag. “We don’t need coffee. We need a bloody stiff drink.”

  “It’s eleven in the morning,” I exclaim.

  “Who gives a shit?”

  She grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. “Come on. There’s a restaurant next door that serves alcohol.”

  “Now you sound like Loretta.”

  “Don’t you dare compare me to that traitor. She’s not worth my old shoes.”

  “Dorothy! That’s nasty.”

  “Well, sometimes even a lady has to know how to be a bitch.”

  With that, she pushes me to the door, past my problems and insecurities, if only for a couple of hours.