Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6

by Alvarez, Tracey

  “I talk to you. I kicked your butt at quiz night and played poker with you and the guys last Tuesday.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  A ghost of a smile crept onto her lips then fell away. “No. It’s not the same. But it is what it is. And it’s the best I can do for now.”

  “Can I come in?”

  A small vein in her throat pulsed, and her fingers gripped the edge of the door. She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

  “Holly.” Couldn’t she see she was killing him by locking him out of her life? “This no-man’s-land of trying to pretend we still have some sort of friendship sucks. I miss you. I want to be with you.”

  Her expression didn’t change and neither did the half-shut door.

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t condemn me for wanting to keep the past in the past. Believe me, I’d do anything to erase my first five years, to not have these scars. I’m trying to be a better man for you—a stronger man. Is that so wrong?”

  Holly leaned a hip against the doorframe. “Can I tell you another renovation story?”

  Ford calculated how many minutes he had before someone, probably Rutna, arrived to chase him away. Still, another renovation story would be more words out of her than he’d had all week. “Go ahead.”

  “About the time Mum and Dad were renovating, they found an old, roll-top writing desk in the garage that used to belong to Dad’s mother. Mum hated it because even though it was made from oak, the top was scratched and scarred, with a black stain where Grandma had once spilled an ink bottle. Dad took some photos and sent them to an antiques dealer, suggesting he’d sand and re-varnish the surface if the dealer thought it would raise the value. The dealer replied within minutes, telling Dad he wasn’t to go anywhere near the desk with a sander or varnish, because the real value of that once beautiful oak was in its history. The scars, the indents of nibs pressed a little too hard, the ugly ink stain— it all gave the desk character, made it authentic.”

  She straightened and stabbed a finger at him. “You’re that desk, just like you’re that matai floor. You can’t erase who you were or your whakapapa, and I’d never want you to. And I don’t want you to be perfect; I want you to be mine—all of you. I won’t settle for less.” Her eyes flashed fire—a return to the old Holly.

  “Not like I finally figured out I did by settling with my parents and siblings. You told me once you wouldn’t be a second-best substitute for Harley. Well, I won’t settle for a second-best love, either, which leaves us right where we started. Unless you’re here to tell me something’s changed?” She raised an expectant eyebrow.

  Ideas whirled around his brain like mini tornadoes, but nothing flung out of the vortex onto his tongue, so Ford stood there like a giant dumbass. Which he was.

  A small elbow dug into his hip, and he glanced down. Rutna held a shopping bag and gave him a black-eyed glare.

  “Move, please. I making Holly khao kai jeow. Not enough for big man; you leave now.”

  One glance at Holly’s guarded expression convinced him that arguing would be a wasted effort. She’d said her piece, and he’d once again screwed things up.

  “I love you, Princess Leia.” While not an accurate quote from Return of the Jedi, maybe it would be enough to cut him a break.

  A split second of warmth and laughter and a scripted I know sparked in her eyes. Then the spark fizzled and died. She moved aside for Rutna and disappeared into the living room. The TV sounds switched on again.

  “Rutna?” Ford said, and she turned around. “When she’s upset she’ll try to live on chocolate.” He shoved a hand into his pants pocket. “So thanks for looking out for her.”

  Rutna’s gaze softened. “You love her; she love you. Is like game you play. Chest?” She tapped two fingers against her palm, miming a board game.

  “Chess.”

  “Yes. When you stuck—no go forward, no go back.”

  “Stalemate.”

  “This time, no one win.” Rutna sneaked a glance over her shoulder toward the living room. “Next time? Maybe you win.” She gave him a curt nod and shut the door.

  Ford sighed and walked away.

  Rutna was dead right. He and Holly were in a bloody stalemate.

  * * *

  Ford’s phone rang as he entered the house. He snatched it up and snarled into it—probably “hello” but just as easily could’ve been “what!” With his head all over the place, the last thing he needed was polite chit-chat with his mum or to come up with an excuse for one of the locals asking him to do a spot of handy-man maintenance on his day off.

  “If you’re answering your landline, it means you messed up again.” His brother’s voice drove into his eardrum like an icepick.

  “What are you? Bloody psychic now?”

  Ford stalked into the kitchen with the handset and opened the fridge. Bare shelves except for a half block of crusty-looking cheese and a solitary bottle of Harley’s fancy craft beer Ford hadn’t been desperate enough to touch since his brother returned to the States.

  “Twin GPS. Or maybe a Vulcan mind-meld.”

  “Liar. Mum put you up to this?”

  “Nah, Mum’s probably at church.” Harley left an expectant pause. “Like you were meant to be, or so a certain boat captain told me.”

  Bloody Ben.

  Ford reconsidered the wuss factor of craft beer and the notion that Happy Hour started in the p.m. hours.

  “He’s worried,” Harley added. “Which makes me worried. And I don’t like being worried; it makes me pissy, and pissy doesn’t convert well to the blank canvas.”

  “All about you, right?”

  Harley chuckled. “Betcha ass.” Then his voice hardened. “You know what makes me go from girlishly pissy to manly bloody-ropeable? Finding out from one of our mates that Holly dumped you.”

  Wussy beer or not, Ford needed something. Propping the phone between his ear and shoulder, he twisted off the cap and then took a drink. His nose crinkled at the taste.

  “You done wasting my beer?”

  “It tastes like cat pee. How d’ya know I was drinking your beer? Did you set up a nanny cam?”

  “I should’ve,” Harley said dryly. “Goes to show how bad it’s gotten if you’re drinking before ten. So, what gives? Why’d she dump you?”

  “She didn’t dump me, and I didn’t call you with an official announcement because I hadn’t given up on her.”

  “Hadn’t? As opposed to now?”

  Ford drained half the bottle and winced. “Now’s not looking too good.”

  “You love her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, man,” Harley said, with an earnestness Ford had never heard in his brother’s voice before. “Do you love her, love her. The real deal. The kind that rips your nuts off and shoves them down your throat at the thought of ever being without her.”

  “You should really take up slam poetry.”

  The words were a knee-jerk reaction to keep his mind from gnawing on the fact his brother was right. He loved Holly with a ball-ripping-off kind of love, and he hadn’t a clue how to fix things.

  “Yes or no answer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she canned your butt because you still won’t talk about our pre-school years?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Harley huffed out a sigh. “Then you’re an idiot.”

  Truth sucked, especially when it was true. “I am.”

  New York sounds drifted down the line—the distant honk of cars, the soft, accented voice of a server asking Harley if he needed another refill.

  “I don’t know what to do, Harl. Grovelling didn’t work.”

  “Worked for Benny-boy. That and the karaoke job you two pulled off.”

  “Won’t work for me,” Ford said.

  “Nope. But I can tell you what you need to do before any grand romantic gesture you might be cooking up.”

  Ford poured the remains of the beer into the sink. “I’m listening.”
<
br />   “You won’t like it.”

  “Well, your advice does have a reputation for total suckage.”

  “Trust me. You ask the old man, font of all wisdom, and he’ll tell you the same thing. You gotta make your peace with Pania.”

  Ford’s stomach mimicked a rollercoaster and had a similar queasy effect on the wussy beer. “I’ve made my peace. Past is in the past—that’s what I’ve been telling Holly from the get-go.”

  “Now who’s the liar?”

  Ford snorted. “As if you’ve squared things up with Pania? Didn’t see you spilling your guts at the tangi.”

  “The night before I left, while you were at Holly’s, I walked up to the cemetery. I said my piece, dealt with my demons and forgave her.”

  “Really? Just like that?”

  “Let’s say I made a start on the forgiveness stuff, anyhow. Ford…” Harley blew out a lungful of air. “I’ve never asked you for a damn thing, have I?”

  No. His brother never asked anyone for anything—asking for something created ties, no matter how small—and Harley didn’t do ties if he could help it.

  “What do you want?” Though Ford knew what his brother would ask before he spoke—Vulcan mind-meld or whatever.

  “Promise me you’ll go to the cemetery. Scrape that chip off your shoulder, and try not to screw up the rest of your life.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Start by remembering one good thing—even if it’s only that Pania gave us to Mum and Dad.”

  Icy tendrils skimmed down Ford’s spine. “Mum and Dad took us—before any authorities got involved.”

  Harley swore. “In all these years, have you never talked to them about this? Seriously?”

  “They came up to Christchurch, we stayed in a motel with them that night, then the next day, we drove back to Bluff. End of story.”

  “And how did they know to come to Christchurch?”

  Ford dumped the empty bottle into recycling with his jaw clenched. “Dad rang to check up on her, I guess—and got suspicious. Or she rang him, bitching about what rotten little brats we were. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter,” Harley said. “She’ll never make Mother of the Year, but Pania did one thing right in her miserable life. She rang her big brother and begged him to take us. Not because she hated us, because she hated herself. She couldn’t cope, and life lesson—teenage girls without the support of their family can make crap mothers.”

  Though the revelation shook the stable ground under his feet, Ford snapped, “Most teenage mothers don’t beat their kids.”

  “No. She doesn’t get a free pass from me either. But you and me, we can’t live under this makutu for the rest of our lives. We suffered, then Mum and Dad gave us a second chance to break that curse. So live in freedom, Ford. Don’t squander that second chance.”

  Ford’s chest locked tight, and his eyes stung. Goddamn allergies. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I hear you.”

  “Good,” Harley said. “So get your head outta your ass, and listen to me for once. Gotta go, there’s a blonde two tables over who looks as if her date stood her up—douchebag’s loss is my gain. Later.”

  The phone went dead, leaving Ford alone with his thoughts.

  Alone being the operative word. At least it was a word he understood and knew intimately. Forgiveness, on the other hand…

  That was uncharted territory. But if there was even the remotest chance of getting Holly back, he’d take that one man safari into such a dangerous wasteland.

  Chapter 22

  Writteninthestars.com Daily Horoscope.

  Pisces.

  How much are you prepared to risk for love today, Pisces? If it’s not everything, if you’re not willing to put your heart on the line, then you’re doing it wrong. Risk everything; play for keeps.

  There was only so much resistance a girl could muster against a determined man who loved her.

  Friday morning, a week after she’d sent Ford away for the second time, persistent hammering on her front door woke her up. She’d opened the door, and there he was—her big, bad-ass alpha wolf, all fifty shades of dirty hot and determined.

  Holding two ferry tickets in his hand.

  “I need to show you something, and I’m asking you, as your friend, to say yes,” he said.

  “I have work.”

  “I’ve already cleared it with Carolyn.” He slipped the ferry ticket into the breast pocket of her pajama top. “Please, Holly.”

  Which was why, thirty minutes after the one-hour ferry crossing, Holly found herself sitting beside him in his Thunderbird, going on his self-proclaimed “Just Friends Road Trip.” She didn’t buy the Just Friends bit for an instant, but the spineless part of her—the part that constantly had to invent more and more excuses about why they couldn’t be together—threw up its tiny hands in surrender at the single, heart-breaking crack in his voice as he’d said her name.

  Rather than attempt beyond awkward small talk during the long drive north with a stubborn mule who refused to tell her where they were going or even why, Holly chose to nap. Sometime later, she slitted an eye open. Instead of the endless green fields or stretches of coastline, they’d finally come to the end of their seven-hour drive from Invercargill. She’d dozed off to the lullaby of the Thunderbird’s V8 engine purring, but by then, she’d figured out their destination. And she was right.

  Christchurch.

  Her brow crinkled, and the first tingle of unease scurried down her spine. Definitely Christchurch, but not the more upmarket suburb of Papanui where her parents and sister lived.

  “Woolston.” Ford glanced over, supplying the name of the suburb.

  One of many parts of Christchurch that had been hit hard in the 2010 earthquake.

  Nerves of a different kind began to tingle through Holly. A bittersweet witch’s brew of fear and hope. They cruised slowly down one of the main streets, many of the houses in various states of disrepair. Some had junked cars in the fenced-in yards, others with a bunch of bored kids tossing a rugby ball around on the grass verge between fence and road.

  Ford hit the turn signal, and they drove down a narrow street, stopping outside a one-story house. Paint peeled off the clapboard sides, and ripped net curtains hung limply in the windows. A high fence surrounded the property, with one part constructed in fresh timber, as if repairing some recent damage. A toddler in nappies and a dingy white tee shirt trundled along the concrete driveway on a plastic trike. The boy looked up at their approach with a dull-eyed gaze, turning the trike in an awkward circle to face the opposite direction.

  Ford killed the engine and glanced past her. The boy lifted his gumboot-clad feet, and the trike rolled slowly down the slight incline. Ford’s mouth curved for a moment then flat-lined. He scraped a hand along his jaw and met her eyes.

  “Twenty-seven years ago, that kid would’ve been me. This was our house, number nine. It hasn’t changed much on the outside, and I guess the inside remains much the same. Two small bedrooms, one bathroom with a chipped, old tub, living room with worn-thin carpet and cheap drapes that were useless during a Christchurch winter.”

  Ford glanced down at his hand, bunched into a fist on his knee. “Harley and I hated those freezing winter nights. Having to get up in the dark, stumbling to the toilet too scared to turn on a light because it would wake Pania.”

  Holly’s heart gave a sudden lurch in her chest. The hallway light…

  “Why have you brought me here?” Holly unclipped her safety belt and turned sideways in her seat.

  “I spent the first five years of my life hiding from pain and the last twenty-four years hiding from myself. You were right; I needed to sack up and stop hiding all this crap from you. I need to sack up and face it with you.” He shrugged. “So here we are.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

  “I’m sure. Two nights ago, I took a walk up to the cemetery to kōrero with my mother’s kēhua—her spirit. She didn’
t do much of the talking”—his lip curled in a mockery of a smile—“but for the first time, I did.”

  “You faced it head on.”

  “About time I stopped being such a chicken.”

  Holly shook her head. “Why would you think you’ve ever been chicken? There’s nothing weak or cowardly in you. You’re a goddamned phoenix.”

  “That’s not what my mother told me for the first five years of my life. I was the weaker twin, the one who’d run and hide to avoid a hiding.”

  “Pania hurt you and Harley—abused you?”

  Holly’s voice cracked on the last two words, and her blood slammed into her eardrums as second after second passed while Ford just stared at her.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “And I’ll tell you what I can remember.”

  “Tell me what you can, a little at a time. It doesn’t have to be everything all at once.” Something inside her shifted, opening from a clenched fist into a palm loose and open and peaceful. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “We have?”

  “Eons.”

  He gave her a half smile then ducked his head. “In a nutshell, yeah, Pania hit us—when we misbehaved or even when we didn’t. The slightest thing could set her off. If she wasn’t hitting us, she’d leave us alone in the house for hours. Sometimes, she’d lock us in separate rooms while she went out for the night—so we wouldn’t get into double trouble while she was gone. I didn’t mind so much, but Harley, he’s a people person at heart, even if he acts the part of lone wolf. And being kept apart…” Ford hunched his shoulders, a flush of dull red appearing on his throat.

  “You needed each other. He was all you had.”

  Ford’s lips thinned then relaxed. “Other than you, he’s the person I love most in the world, even though he’s a jackass ninety percent of the time.”

  “I’m glad Harley was the one good thing in your childhood.”

  “There were other things. Things I remembered up at the cemetery that were buried so deep it was like finding a tiny nugget of gold in a sluice-pan of filth. I remembered her singing old Eagles songs and dancing with me and Harley in the living room.” Ford crooked an eyebrow. “She was pretty smashed at the time, but it’s a good memory.”