When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss

by Brooke Harris

  ‘I don’t,’ I lie, my cheeks flushing.

  I don’t want to have this conversation. Especially not right now when my father could walk outside at any minute and see us sitting together in the car. I should have gotten out of the car the moment it stopped. But like a magnet, I’m drawn to Sketch. I clutch at every second we have together. Even now, when I feel heat climb the back of my neck as I worry that my father will appear at the front door any moment, I still can’t seem to do something as simple as opening the car door and stepping out.

  ‘I see the fear that flashes in your eyes sometimes, Annie,’ Sketch says. ‘You try to hide it with a cute smile, but I still see it.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I saw it today,’ Sketch continues, ‘when I surprised you by bringing you to the orchard. You were terrified. It broke my heart.’

  ‘I just didn’t know where we were going. You caught me off guard.’

  ‘That’s kind of the idea of a surprise, Annie.’ Sketch sighs. ‘You know, the unexpected.’

  ‘And it was a lovely surprise.’ I’m quick to smile. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘What about now, Annie? I see fear in you now, and you haven’t taken your eyes of the front door since we got here.’

  Sketch grabs the car door handle again. His grip is so tight this time his knuckles whiten and his hand shakes. ‘It’s not right, Annie. Your father shouldn’t make you feel this way.’

  My eyes dart back and forth between Sketch’s hand and the front door, making me dizzy. Sketch looks like he might burst out of the car at any second, march up to my house, and punch my father straight in the face. Part of me almost wishes he would. Give my father a taste of what it feels like when a fist smashes into your eye or collides with your nose. But I know an outburst like that would do more harm than good in the long run. When Sketch left, I would pay the price.

  Sketch’s eyes are on mine. Behind the anger and frustration, I see pity. I’ve seen him look at me this way before when we were kids. The hairs on my arms stand to attention like obedient soldiers as memories of our childhood come flooding back to me. I remember the time Sketch told the cranky old headmaster that he lost his spelling copy. He hadn’t. I’d lost mine. But he slipped his copy into my schoolbag, so he would take two lashes from the headmaster’s cane across his hand instead of me. I offered to kiss his hand better on our walk home from school that day, but Sketch stuffed his hand in his pocket and assured me it didn’t hurt. Another time, not long after the missing spelling copy incident, some of the senior children were teasing me for not wearing any socks. When Sketch heard their taunting, he took off his socks and gave them to me. Sketch was as popular and as well liked as ever back then. He was a trendsetter. The following day, half the boys in the school turned up in shoes with no socks, and some even arrived without any shoes at all.

  ‘I abandoned you once, Annie,’ Sketch says, his voice low, like his head, and his words seem to drag up from somewhere deep in his chest. ‘The guilt still eats me up to this day. But I’ll never abandon you again. I promise.’

  ‘Sketch, that was a long time ago. We were just a couple of innocent kids. You had to obey your father, and it was the right thing to do. You wouldn’t have been the boy I knew if you had done anything differently.’

  ‘I tried to let you know why I left.’ Sketch sighs.

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’ I blush.

  ‘I want to,’ Sketch says. Catching the stubborn strand of hair that strays out from behind my ear, he twists it around his finger before he sets it back. ‘I walked to your house, you know. The day my father told me I wouldn’t be going to school ever again; I just got up and walked.’ He pauses and snorts. ‘Damn, that’s a long walk, Annie. I had blisters.’

  I smile empathically. I know those blisters. I used to get them all the time when I walked to the market, but my feet toughened up eventually. I think I could walk halfway across Ireland now, and I wouldn’t have so much as a cracked heel.

  I drag my eyes over the front of my house. I check the bedroom curtains. They don’t twitch. I watch the front door. Even the breeze doesn’t rattle the flimsy, timber door today. No one is watching us. I nod and promise Sketch, without words, that I’ll listen while he clears his conscience.

  ‘I stood on your front porch for ten minutes before I finally plucked up the courage to knock.’

  ‘Well, you were eleven.’ I smile.

  ‘An eleven-year-old chicken.’ Sketch groans, disgusted with himself. ‘A chicken plucked straight off my father’s farm.’

  I giggle. But Sketch’s face is poker straight. I pull myself upright suddenly and close my mouth.

  ‘Annie, what’s wrong?’ Sketch asks unexpectedly.

  ‘Nothing.’ I twitch.

  ‘Really?’ he says, concerned. ‘I see that familiar fear in your eyes.’ Sketch drags the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re afraid of me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I sigh, disgusted with myself that I’ve clearly hurt him. ‘Old habit.’

  Sketch swallows and shakes his head. I suspect he wants to call my father a monster again, but his lips flatline, and he scratches his head.

  ‘Anyway.’ He shrugs, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s letting the tension go. ‘Like I said, I came to your house. But, well, your dad wasn’t too keen on my presence. When I finally did muster the courage to knock, he told me to sling my hook. He said you weren’t home. I knew he was lying. I could hear your sweet voice carry in the wind. You were talking to your ma, I think. You were in the back garden hanging laundry or something. Anyway, your father made it very clear that you were an academic, and I was, well, I was a farmer’s son. I knew my place, so I left.’

  I drag my finger down the bridge of my nose. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘I saw you a few times around town; do you remember?’ Sketch asks.

  ‘I remember,’ I admit.

  ‘I tried to say hello, but you always had your head down or your nose in a book as you walked. I reminded myself that you were an academic. Out of my league. It hurt less that way. I eventually gave up and figured you were better off without me.’

  ‘Is that when you became friends with Bridget?’ I hear how jealous I sound, and I hate it, but I’m still glad I asked.

  ‘I like her, Annie.’ Sketch nods. ‘We’re friends. She needs friends. So do I.’

  I swallow and try to hide how much their close friendship stings. I know Sketch didn’t replace me with Bridget. I pushed him away, but their closeness still twists in my gut.

  ‘Don’t hate her, Annie,’ Sketch pleads. ‘That tough girl thing she does; it’s all an act. I think you intimidate her.’

  I look down at my lap. At the coat that Sketch has given me and the Wellington boots. I’m warm. My feet don’t sting with cold the way they usually do, and my knees don’t chatter. I’m comfortable because I’m wrapped in a stranger’s clothes. How can I intimidate anyone?

  ‘I have nothing,’ I say, shaking my head in acceptance.

  ‘You have me.’ Sketch smiles. ‘You always have; you just didn’t know it. You never talked about how hard things were for you, Annie.’ Sketch saddens. ‘I thought I knew you inside out, but you never told me about that.’

  ‘Well, you know now.’ I drag a finger under my left eye and catch a sneaky tear that dares to fall.

  ‘Maybe I’ve always known. Shame on me.’ Sketch takes my hand in his and raises the back of my hand against his lips as he kisses it softly. ‘Maybe I’ve always known, and I damn well should have done something sooner.’

  Sketch Talbot is twenty years old, but he wears the serious expression of a man twenty years his senior. ‘Annie, forgive me, won’t you?’

  ‘I have to get out now of the car now, you know that?’ I fidget.

  Sketch looks at his watch again. ‘We have another five minutes.’

  I shake my head. ‘My pa will have heard us drive in. I’m already pushing my luck
.’

  ‘Okay.’ Sketch nods. ‘Okay.’

  I reach for the door handle on my side and the door creaks open sleepily as if pleading with me not to disturb it. Sketch repeats the process on his side of the car, but his door glides open effortlessly.

  We come together between the headlights.

  ‘I had a great day,’ I reiterate.

  ‘Me too.’

  We both stand statue like with our arms by our sides. I close my eyes for a second or two; an indulgent blink as I savour the memory of the day.

  ‘You’re late,’ my pa’s voice bellows as he throws open the front door.

  I can feel Sketch stiffen without touching him, and I think his reaction is more frustration and anger than fear.

  ‘Actually, Mr. Fagan.’ Sketch clears his throat confidently. ‘We are five minutes early. Annie is a very good timekeeper.’

  My pa’s face sours as if he were sucking on a lemon. ‘Don’t toy with me, boy. We had an agreement. Four thirty is four thirty. I expected you twenty-five minutes ago.’

  I want to shout out that my pa is lying. He didn’t even notice we’ve been sitting in the car for ten minutes. He knows as well as I do that we are early for his curfew.

  ‘I believe we agreed on five o’clock,’ Sketch corrects.

  Pa lunges out the door and onto the front porch with a speed that defies his age. Sketch takes a single step forward and moves to the side, positioning himself almost completely in front of me.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar, boy,’ Pa growls.

  ‘No, sir. I’m just saying my ears heard five o’clock. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, your ears need a cleaning.’ Pa snorts. ‘It’s all the cow dung you got in there. You can’t hear yourself think.’

  Sketch head falls to one side, and I hear his teeth grind as his jaw tightens.

  ‘What are you wearing, child?’ Pa squints, trying to gain of view of me. ‘Move away from behind that boy and let me look at you.’

  I step to the side and hold my breath.

  ‘Where’d you get that coat?’ Pa grumbles.

  ‘I gave it to her,’ Sketch says firmly, brushing his shoulder subtly against mine, encouraging me to relax by reminding me he’s here.

  It doesn’t work. I’m on a knife’s edge, but I appreciate his efforts nonetheless.

  ‘Take it off,’ Pa orders. ‘Right now. Take it off.’

  I brace myself for the wind chill and slowly begin to drag my arms out of the sleeves.

  Pa’s eyes slide from me to Sketch as if they’re slipping on butter. ‘We don’t need your charity, boy.’

  ‘Sketch. My name is Sketch, sir. And I’m not a boy. I’m twenty years old. Twenty-one soon enough.’ Sketch folds his arms across his chest in defiance. ‘It’s cold outside. I thought Annie could use an extra layer.’

  ‘She’s done just fine without a coat until today.’ Pa’s lips round like he’s puffing out smoke before he continues. ‘BOY.’

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Fagan, it’s October. Winter is coming. We had snow this time last year. Annie needs a coat.’

  ‘Hard work will keep her warm.’ Pa’s eyes slip back to me. ‘Hurry up, Annie. Take that damned thing off.’

  ‘I have no doubt Annie will work hard. It’s what I’m paying her for. But she’s no use to me if the cold gets into her bones, and she gets the flu or TB. She can’t feed the cattle from her dying bed.’

  ‘Are you arguing with me, boy?’ Pa stomps his foot like a tantrum throwing five-year-old.

  ‘I’m just telling you how it is, sir. Between the hours of ten and five on Monday through Friday, Annie is my employ. We shook on it, sir, if you recall.’

  My father straightens as if Sketch’s words have slapped him across the face, and I dare to crack a subtle smile. I realise Sketch never intended to punch my father physically. But Sketch is determined to teach my father a lesson in other ways. Sketch will use his words and not his fists. And I’m once again reminded that Sketch Talbot is so much more than simply a farmer’s son.

  ‘I remember.’ Pa growls as redness creeps across his forehead and down his temples.

  ‘Good.’ Sketch wrinkles his nose. ‘Well, then you’ll understand that while in my employment, it’s reasonable to expect that correct attire—call it a uniform, if you will—shall be worn.’

  ‘All this fuss for a damn coat,’ Pa grumbles, furiously accepting defeat. ‘Well, I won’t pay for it. You can’t expect a penny out of me for that awful black thing.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Sketch says. ‘But I’m in the business of making money, Mr. Fagan—as you said yourself, no charity. I’ve no doubt that you will understand that I have had to dock Annie’s wages accordingly today.’ Sketch turns around and drops his eyes to the Wellington boots on my feet, winking at me before he turns back to face Pa. ‘Consider the boots a bonus.’

  I reach into my pocket and rummage around for the half a crown. I pull my hand back out, swallowing up the coin in my palm. And I smile as I extend my arm to shake hands with Sketch. Employee to employer. Best friend to best friend. Girl with a secret half-crown in her hand to the boy who gave it to her.

  Sketch shakes my hand, grinning like the Cheshire cat, but he refuses to take the coin. I feel his palm press the cool, silver metal back into my hand. Sketch drags his hand away, and I’ve no choice but to clasp my fingers around the coin before it falls and my father sees it.

  My father turns his back on us, bored, and walks back into the house, leaving the door open just enough to keep a lazy eye on me. He makes his way over the mantel where a half-empty bottle of port and a grubby glass waits for him.

  My glare moves from my father’s hand as he pours to Sketch’s eyes, and confused, I look for a reason he won’t take his money back. We’ve been over this. I thought he respected me.

  ‘I know you want to earn your way, Annie,’ he whispers. ‘But mucking out a pig sty is no place for a lady.’

  ‘I’m stronger than I look,’ I argue softly, mildly insulted.

  ‘Teach me to read, Annie. Teach me to lose myself in the pages.’ Sketch sighs. ‘Can you do that?’

  Sketch always had trouble with words in school, and I remember slouching in my desk so he could lean over my shoulder and copy me.

  ‘Like a tutor?’ I say.

  Sketch nods. ‘Exactly. Today’s half-crown is to buy us our first book. See, it’s not for you. It’s for me.’

  ‘Okay.’ I smile, slipping the coin back into my pocket. ‘I’ll teach you to read. But I’ll clean and cook too. This has to be a fair arrangement, and I’m sure your father would agree.’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Pa snaps, returning to the porch with a glass full of alcohol in his hand. ‘It’s a minute past five. Annie’s not on your clock now, boy.’

  ‘We’re discussing the itinerary for tomorrow, sir. We’ve a busy day ahead,’ Sketch chirps, smugly satisfied that he’s telling a twisted truth, but a truth all the same.

  ‘It’s a minute past five, Annie.’ Pa’s voice is deep and rough like the wind that scales the sidewall of the garden to bellow against me, trying to rip my coat open. ‘Don’t make me say it again.’

  I turn towards Sketch, and my lips twitch to one side, but I don’t chance words that might irk Pa even more.

  ‘Goodbye, Annie,’ Sketch says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Don’t forget your coat.’

  I hurry up the porch steps and kick my Wellington boots off before I reach the door. I try to find a way to slip inside without brushing too close to Pa, but he’s positioned himself in the gap of the open door purposely. I hurry, hoping I can make my way inside before Sketch drives away.

  My elbow brushes against Pa’s round belly as I scramble inside.

  ‘You’ll need to get dinner started. Spuds are in the kitchen.’ Pa slams the door behind us, and it rattles wearily on its rusty hinges.

  My eyes narrow as I turn around to find a grotesque smirk on Pa’s face. My eyes drink h
im in, and the taste is bitter. His broad shoulders and above average height exude strength, and age is slow to take its toll on him. I gaze at the man who created me. The man who should love me. The man who terrifies me.

  ‘Where’s Ma?’ I dare to ask, almost afraid of the answer.

  ‘She’s taken to the bed,’ Pa croaks, losing his belt as he makes his way to the arm chair beside the roaring fire. ‘She’s not feeling well.’

  I inhale sharply through my nose as I watch him sit down and get comfortable. I know he’s hurt her. I just don’t know how badly. I have to fight all my instincts not to run into her room. My eyes search the log basket next to the fire. It’s close to full, and there’s plenty of coal in the dirty black bucket on the opposite side. My father certainly didn’t fetch the fuel. I know my mother has placed it there just recently.

  ‘Put another log on, Annie,’ Pa says, noticing where I’m staring.

  Tall flames are bellowing up the chimney. Even from a couple of feet back, I can feel the intense heat scald my face. The fire is strong and roaring and doesn’t need more fuel. But I nod obediently and bend down to fetch the smallest log I can find. My eyes round like china saucers and I can’t breathe when I notice colourful paper burning on the fire. Flames devour Sketch’s painting of the orchard. My father must have found it.

  I watch as hot amber spears roar through the watercolour apple trees. Tears prick my eyes, but I can’t look away as the beautiful image burns into oblivion. I wait until the canvas is little more than crumbly ashes, and I throw a log on top. I stand and brush my hands down the front of my coat, straightening it out as if I can straighten out the twisting pain in my heart that Pa has viciously inflicted. I tuck my hair firmly behind my ear and raise my head tall as if he hasn’t just hurt me deeper than if he’d thrown my heart into the fire alongside the painting.

  ‘I’ll check on Ma,’ I stutter, concentrating on hiding my pain. ‘I’ll bring her tea.’

  Pa takes off one of his shoes and flings it across the room, knocking a picture off the wall. The frame bounces on the cold timber a couple of times before landing flat on its face, and I hear the telltale crackle of broken glass.