Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

“Surely you’re due for some holidays with the long hours you’ve been putting in,” she suggested.

  “You’d think. As you might recall, management doesn’t always see it that way. If a client says jump, we jump.”

  “But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Cate protested. “They can’t say no.”

  “They can do whatever the hell they please.” Shout might be known in the industry for creating cutting edge advertising concepts – thanks in no small part to yours truly – but nice wasn’t at the top of their list of corporate values. “Don’t stress. They just like to make their employees sweat.”

  “What will you do if they say no?” asked Maddy from across the table.

  “Fuck knows.”

  Christa’s lips twitched at my no-nonsense reply, but Maddy was still frowning thoughtfully.

  Cate didn’t appear ready to drop it yet. “I bet John would know what to do.”

  The others snickered.

  “Yeah, yeah. John Hart to the bloody rescue. Isn’t he the perfect man? My perfect man would know when the hell to butt out,” I grumbled.

  The snickering intensified into genuine laughter. It might have been funny for them, but it was less amusing to me. John Hart was the reason I was in this predicament in the first place. If he’d kept his Mr. Nice Guy nose out of my business I wouldn’t be facing the most exciting, terrifying opportunity of my artistic career. He’d thought highly enough of me to recommend my artwork to some contacts he knew and it had eventuated in me being offered an exhibition in New York City later this year.

  It was a seriously big deal. Like biggest deal of my entire fucking life. And I had him to owe for it.

  “You have thanked John, haven’t you?” Maddy asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  I had the grace to look sheepish. “In a manner of speaking.”

  She sighed. “Which means no. What’s so hard about telling someone thank you, Scarlett?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, an edge of defensiveness creeping into my voice. “The opportunity hasn’t really come up.” Who was I kidding? I felt indebted to him and I didn’t do gratitude well at the best of times. That was for people like Cate.

  Cate set her coffee cup down on the table. “Then you’ll have the opportunity to thank him tomorrow morning,” she announced.

  “I will?”

  “Yes. John’s competing in a surfing competition down at Manly Beach and he needs our support.”

  From the little I’d seen of John’s surfing, the man didn’t need any support. That surfboard may as well have been an extra limb.

  Christa gave me a naughty wink. “Oh, I think he’ll have plenty of support … of the bikini-clad female variety.”

  Cate shot Christa a stern look. Maddy turned her head toward the view of the harbor, but I didn’t miss her smile.

  “The surfing god strikes again. Christa’s right, Cate. I don’t think John really needs our support.”

  “Yes, he does,” she replied firmly. “We’re his friends and friends support each other. Besides it’s to raise money for a good cause. You’re coming, Scarlett.”

  “Who says? How do you know I’m not busy?”

  Cate crossed her arms. “Well, unless you’re planning on accidentally sleeping in a strange man’s bed again tonight, I’m pretty sure you’ll be free. We all know after a tough week of work, you prefer to mooch around your apartment and paint.”

  I blinked at her. Cate wasn’t usually so bossy. I had to admit, I kind of liked it. “Who pissed in your Wheaties?”

  “No one. Everyone else is going, so it would just be nice if you joined us.”

  “Everyone?”

  The others nodded. “Yep,” said Christa, “Max and I will be there. When he heard I was going to watch John surf, he couldn’t invite himself along quickly enough.”

  Cate giggled and waved a hand at her. “Max has absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ve been together well over a year now and I see the way you still look at each other.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “it’s disgusting.”

  Christa shrugged. “John might be cute, but he doesn’t compare to Max.”

  “I’m not going to take the bait, you know,” I told Christa.

  Her blue eyes widened in mock innocence. “Who said I was baiting you?”

  “And Paul and I are bringing the boys,” Maddy added, referring to Paul’s sons from his previous marriage. She then indulged in a small smile when she glanced at her stomach. “And Ava, of course,” she said, rubbing her belly.

  Maddy had to be the only woman in history who’d named her baby moments after she’d discovered she was pregnant. Given it was a surprise pregnancy, and she’d thought an ongoing health condition prevented her from having children, it was impressive.

  Cate’s expression brightened at the mention of the baby. “How is Ava? Is she moving much?” she asked Maddy.

  Maddy rolled her eyes. “Is she ever—”

  I tuned out. I knew how it went. The two of them would become absorbed in an incomprehensible discussion about pregnancy. It’s not that I didn’t care. I did. I just didn’t care to know the details. What was it about pregnant women that compelled them to share too much information? And broody women like Cate who wanted to know all the gory details?

  “So are you going to come tomorrow?” Christa asked me.

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “I’m not.”

  Christa smirked. “Come on. John Hart in that black wet suit of his? Even I’m excited.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “Maybe Max does have something to worry about.”

  “Not a thing. But if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’re trying to avoid seeing him.”

  “Avoid is a strong word. You know I like the guy. I just don’t want to encourage him.”

  Christa smiled knowingly at me. “Goodness knows where that would end up.”

  “In a world of pain, I can assure you. You know I don’t do—”

  “Relationships,” she finished for me. Her gaze softened. “I know. We’re not trying to be difficult. We just want you to be happy.”

  I pretended to look shocked. “Me? Happy?”

  Christa sighed and sat back in her seat. “I know you’re just joking, but sometimes I wonder.”

  I shrugged and reached for my coffee.

  Christa shook her head at my non-response and had the good sense to change the subject.

  Eight years old

  “ Ska-lit!”

  I ignored the sound of my mother’s voice and pressed down harder on the marker pen. The ink bled onto the surrounding paper, ending the fine line I’d been drawing with a decisive dark green blot. It didn’t matter. I liked messy over neat and perfect.

  “Ska-lit! Where are you?”

  I still didn’t say anything. The grating twang of my mother’s Chinese accent reverberated off the walls of my small bedroom. I couldn’t stop now. I just needed one more minute …

  I replaced the green marker for a navy blue one and added some shading to the jaw bone, to create the effect of a shadow. Almost finished.

  “ Ska-lit!”

  I jumped and the marker pen clattered onto the desk.

  My mother stormed into my bedroom, tiny and ferocious. “Why you not hear me?”

  The neighbors above, below, and on either side of us would have been able to hear her, but there was no point telling her that.

  “What’s this?” She swept the piece of paper I’d been working on away from me, sending a rainbow of marker pens flying to the far edge of my usually tidy desk. Her small, dark brown eyes squinted as she studied the picture. “This not math!”

  I bit back a sarcastic response. My mother did not understand sarcasm. “It’s Bàba.” My father.

  She squinted at the picture harder, the fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead creasing. “Bàba?”

  “Yes. I drew a picture of him. I wanted to give it to him tonight.
”

  “No!”

  She slammed the piece of paper back down on the desk and I flinched. Her tiny palm pressed down hard over Bàba’s nose and mouth so it looked like he couldn’t breathe.

  “Bàba not want art! You go to school to become good at math and English. That’s how you make Bàba happy.” She removed her hand and pointed at the picture with a stubby finger. “This not even art! You use blues, reds, greens for his face? I have crazy nü'er.”

  That’s right. I was the crazy daughter again. I wanted to explain the reason I liked art was because I could try different things, but I also understood my mother did not value different.

  “Where your math homework?” she demanded.

  I swallowed and bent down to reach in the school bag next to my desk. I presented it to her.

  She frowned, then waved the page in front of my face so the numbers and symbols appeared to be mocking me. “Why you get one wrong?”

  I shrugged. “Almost everyone got that question wrong.”

  “But you not everyone. Who got it right?”

  “I don’t know.” I hated that my voice came out a whine.

  “Julie? She get right?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Michael?”

  I didn’t answer.

  My mother scowled down at me. “Michael? He got right, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “If Michael can get right, you can get right!” my mother announced.

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to see her to know what she was doing. She would be pulling across the little white stool that sat tucked next to my desk for times like these.

  When I opened my eyes, my mother was placing a clean sheet of white paper in front of me. She handed me a lead pencil.

  “Now show me how you get right,” she commanded.

  I stole a glance out the window of my bedroom. The sun was still shining and a trail of fallen leaves was doing a dance along the pavement in the breeze. They were made up of soft greens, burnt oranges, and rusty browns. My fingers itched to pick up my markers again.

  “Ska-lit! Concentrate. One day you will understand. Daydreaming not get you anywhere. Someday you thank me.”

  I dropped my eyes and gripped the lead pencil harder, resigned to my fate. It would be dark by the time we were finished.

  Chapter 3

  Apparently I was now a surfer groupie.

  I was only one of an array of bikini-clad bodies braving the autumn weather in honor of the surfing competition. To be fair, it was unseasonably warm, but judging by the number of colorful triangles of fabric dotting the sand, these women were committed to their cause. What that made me, I wasn’t sure.

  In protest of the situation in which I found myself, I’d spent the morning so far ignoring the surfers. The people on the beach were far more interesting. Done in an abstract way, the scene would make an interesting landscape piece. Not that I usually did landscape paintings. Portraits were my thing.

  “Earth to Scarlett. Where are you?”

  “Huh?” I mumbled, still trying to figure out the best way to approach the scene.

  “Are you even watching the surfing?”

  I glanced over at Christa. She’d tucked her blonde curls into a broad brimmed sun hat and several of them were escaping and blowing in the late morning breeze. I shrugged. “The beach is far more interesting.”

  Christa sighed. “Bet you can’t ride the waves like they can.”

  They were the surfers competing in the competition. “I wouldn’t want to. Sand and salt. Yuck.”

  I couldn’t see Christa’s eyes through her over-sized tortoiseshell sunglasses, but I knew the look she was giving me. “Didn’t you used to be able to swim a stupid amount of laps?”

  “That’s different. It was in a chlorine pool.” And I’d hated it, but there was no point in bringing it up.

  “Well, John’s almost up, so try to focus.”

  “Are we too late?”

  A straw beach bag overflowing with towels and God knows what else was dropped next to me. I used my hand to protect myself from the glare of the sun and looked up to see Cate standing at my feet.

  Behind her, Maddy, her husband, Paul, and his two boys were making their way toward us.

  “No,” Christa replied, “you’re right on time. John’s up next.”

  Cate clapped her hands together. “How exciting!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  She went to work spreading out a towel beside me and then started extracting a series of plastic containers from the bottom of the bag.

  “What on earth?” I muttered.

  Cate grinned happily. “Spectator sports are much more enjoyable when you have food and wine.”

  I frowned thoughtfully. “Did you say wine?”

  Cate produced a bottle of chilled white from the bag proudly.

  I nodded, impressed. “What else have you got in there?”

  “Plastic glasses, obviously. But there’s crackers and cheese, olives, some fruit, and various other nibbles.”

  OK, so sometimes she wasn’t so bad to have around. “Nice.”

  “Can you help me spread out this towel and I’ll get it all out?”

  I stood and we laid it out together. When we were done, I noticed a few of the groups nearby eyeing our smorgasbord enviously.

  Christa plucked an olive from one of the containers. “She spent all morning running around preparing. Woman on a mission.”

  “Mission successful,” Maddy commented as she eased herself down slowly onto a towel. As beautiful as she was with her baby bump, I had to admit she was starting to slow down a little.

  Cate leaned over and kissed Maddy on the cheek, then looked up. “Hi, Paul. Hi, boys.”

  Paul and his twelve-year-old son, Jack, and seven-year-old son, Noah, returned our greetings. Jack was a younger version of his dad. He was tall and lanky for his age with sandy blond hair that was longer than his dad’s, his fringe falling across his bright blue eyes. Noah was the odd one out. His pale skin looked delicate in the morning glare and his mop of unruly dark curls hid thoughtful brown eyes.

  Noah turned to his dad. “Can we go swimming?”

  Paul studied his son, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You don’t want to watch the surfing?”

  Noah screwed up his nose, a few light freckles crinkling in the process. “Boring. I want to swim.”

  “I can take him,” Jack offered. “We’ll stay in the shallows where you can see us.”

  “What about the pool?” Paul suggested. “It looks pretty rough out there today.” The boys both seemed happy enough with that, and before he could even sit down, they ran off.

  “Are you sure? I know it’s the pool, but shouldn’t we still be supervising them?” Maddy asked quietly.

  Paul reached over and squeezed her hand. “They’re both good swimmers and I trust Jack.”

  “Careful,” I warned Maddy. “You’re sounding motherly.”

  Maddy grinned at me with that glow pregnant women have. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t reply and instead focused on the selection of food in front of me.

  “Scarlett doesn’t do motherly,” commented Cate through a mouthful of crackers.

  “You haven’t met my mother,” I replied dryly, selecting a cracker with cheese.

  “ Ska-lit!” Christa cried.

  I almost choked on my mouthful. “Jesus, Bubbles,” I croaked. She was far too good at that.

  Christa giggled. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

  Cate looked over at us curiously. “What’s your mother like, Scarlett?”

  I reached for the wine. I shouldn’t have said anything. During our university days, Christa had overheard several irate phone messages from my mother when she’d discovered I was doing a fine arts course. Christa had rolled around on the floor laughing for a good five minutes afterward. She also routinely called me “Ska-lit!” for at least half a year
after that.

  Christa considered me sympathetically. “She’s kind of intense,” she told Cate. “Well-meaning, but intense.”

  “So that’s where you get it from,” Cate mused.

  The wine I was pouring sloshed over the edge of the plastic glass. “Shit,” I hissed.

  “Cate?” Christa threw me some serviettes to mop up the spill. “Piece of advice? Don’t ever compare Scarlett to her mother.”

  “Oh. Right.” Cate frowned. She started to open her mouth and ask more, but Christa wisely chose to distract her.

  “Is that John?”

  We all turned to look behind us.

  Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  John bloody Hart. Surfer extraordinaire, all round nice guy, talented architect, and so damn amazing in a wet suit that it wasn’t just us who had turned to look. Half the beach was peering at him with undisguised expressions of lust. Or distaste, if you counted the guys.

  It didn’t help that he hadn’t done his wet suit up. It flapped behind his powerful thighs and gave everyone an impressive eyeful of that expanse of chest. Chiseled, olive skinned, and glorious. I’d almost convinced him to pose nude for me last year until Maddy had brought him to his senses, damn her.

  To further add to the distraction factor, John was like some sort of hybrid experiment in combining contrasting DNA with striking results. Like me, his mother was Chinese, but his father was born and bred Aussie. The result? Tall, broad shoulders, a strong jawline framing a face with eyes the color of obsidian, and raven hair that you wanted to run your hands through.

  Not that I wanted to.

  I cleared my throat and dropped my eyes.

  “Enjoying yourselves, ladies?”

  I looked up to see Max, Christa’s boyfriend and Maddy’s brother, watching us with a wry grin.

  Christa swatted his leg. “Where’s my ice cream?”

  “Melting from all this heat,” Max shot back.

  I heard Paul chuckle.

  Christa stuck her tongue out at him. “Hand it over.”

  Max sat down beside her and handed her the ice cream. “Looks like John has quite a fan base.”

  “I wonder why.” Cate sounded a little dreamy.

  “But can he surf?” asked Paul.