About Three Authors

by Patti Roberts

  Gathering up her luggage, she walked quickly down the hall, then down the back stairs of the retreat. To avoid being seen, she walked the long way around the tree-lined fence to the front gate, then waited for the taxi to pick her up.

  Within ten minutes, she was seated in the back seat of the taxi, and had instructed the driver to take the Kuranda Range. Although a slightly longer journey to Cairns, it was far less brutal on her stomach than the Gillies Highway, with all its sharp twists and turns. She had taken the trip down the Kuranda Range to Cairns with Elise on the day they had gone shopping. She had found the trip far more enjoyable, and had not felt sick once.

  Alone and confused, with tears running down her cheeks, she began to wonder if leaving the retreat without saying goodbye to Polly, Mallory and Elise, her mother, was the right decision. Elise, after all, had all the answers to her questions. Should she tell the driver to turn around and go back? She looked at her watch. Too late. If she turned back now, she would miss her flight home, and the cost of another airfare was not in her budget. But where is home? The place I grew up? Or the apartment I’ve shared with Roger, the cheating bastard, who is now living with my pregnant best friend. Liars. All fucking liars. Her mind scurried around like cockroaches trapped in a kitchen sink.

  She sank back into the taxi seat and closed her eyes. The last week at the retreat, getting to know Elise, Polly and Mallory, had been so great. It had been just what she’d needed to distance herself from the Roger and Mandy fiasco. Then there had been the magical time that she’d spent with Gary, and falling hopelessly in love with him, regardless of how many times she’d told herself how stupid it was. As impossible as the situation was, it did not stop her from wanting Gary Parker with a force that was almost painful. Was he feeling as miserable as she was, or had it been easy for him to let her go?

  She wanted to feel his body against hers when she woke up in the morning, his arms wrapped around her. She wanted to drink too much and rip his clothes off, then make love in his big timber bed while the storm raged outside. She wanted him to feed her strawberries, while she lay back and stared up at the stars in the endless, ink-black sky at night, the water lapping thirstily at the lake’s edge. She wanted to feel his sweaty flesh pressed up against her as they made slow, passionate love. She felt a desperate longing in her heat that ached for him in a way she had never known before. Stop thinking about the impossible; it’ll do you no good, you bloody idiot. It was just a stupid holiday romance. Wrong. It was an epic holiday romance, but it was just that, a holiday romance. Stop thinking about things you can never have, she told herself.

  Her mind drifted to Clive. She pictured his handsome face, and thought about all his endearing messages. She had always liked Clive; he was a straightforward, down to earth kind of guy that everyone took a liking to the moment they met him. Had Gary and Clive known each other, she imagined that they could easily have become friends.

  Was Clive the one she was really meant to be with? What if he was the one? Not just a holiday fling, but the real deal? Would he make her feel the way Gary had, if she gave him a chance? Would Clive send a bolt of electricity through her when he touched her bare skin, make her lips tingle, and her heart skip a beat when he kissed her? Would their bodies climax together like thundering waves on the shore? She didn’t think it possible, but then again, what did she have to go by? She had only ever fantasied about Clive in her head. Was it possible that Clive could have the same effect on heart, mind, body and soul that Gary had?

  She tried to clear her mind of both of the men by staring out the window of the cab, then reached absently into her bag, looking for her phone, and cursing when she realized that she’d left her own phone in London. She asked the taxi driver to turn up the radio station, hoping that the music might drown out her nagging thoughts for a while, granting her momentary solace. She scolded herself, telling herself that in the big picture of things, none of it mattered, that her life would go on regardless. Then, just when she’d thought she might have been on top of the chaos, thoughts of Roger, Mandy, Gary, Clive, her parents, Uncle Steve, and all the lies that constituted her mundane existence, washed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her feeling wretched and utterly exhausted. Who was she kidding?

  She tried to get it straight in her mind. Her father, William; although she’d never been as close to him as her mother, she loved him, and he would always be her father. Victoria would always be her mother. Her beautiful, loving mother, who fired off quotes like a jackhammer at any given moment as though she were reading the lines straight out of a book. The mother who gave her reassuring hugs and whispered “I love you” for no reason at all any time of the night or day. The woman whose Christmas hero was not Santa and his reindeer, although they came in at a very close second, but Clark Griswold and his dysfunctional family. The woman who had tucked her into bed at night, and had snuggled up with her after a nightmare had woken her up, was the very same woman who had made her handmade handkerchiefs to dry her tears, and who had knitted matching socks, jumpers and scarves to keep her warm during the long winter months. That woman was her mother, and no DNA test would ever change that.

  Becky had definitely felt a special kind of kinship with Elise, there was no doubt about that. Their shopping day together had been especially nice. They had spent quality time getting to know each other, like going to the hairdresser’s, and going dress shopping together. They had shared a lovely lunch in an expensive restaurant. They had done all the special little things that Becky had always wanted to do with her mother, but Victoria was a simple, no frills homely woman, who preferred to make her own clothes, eat at home, and have the same woman cut her hair year after year. Becky had loved and respected her mother for all of those things, and more, but sometimes she wished they could have done more things together, just the two of them.

  Becky sat up and brushed away the fat tears that tumbled down her cheeks. She opened her shoulder bag again, found her handkerchief, and mopped up her tears. She checked her airline ticket for the umpteenth time, then checked her watch. It was all just a momentary distraction in a last-ditch effort to take her mind off the things that she didn’t have any answers for. She put the ticket back in her bag, then looked out the window again, trying to lose herself in the wooded bushland flashing by on each side of the winding road. Her eyelids began to grow heavy, and she was pleased with the thought that she might be able to sleep, at least for some of the flight back to London.

  Heathrow airport was teeming with bodies; the young, the old, the short, the tall, the fat, and the thin. People were hugging, talking, checking their phones, or rummaging through handbags. It appeared that everyone had a definite purpose to their lives; that they knew exactly where they were going, when, and with whom.

  Becky stared into the mass of animated faces, searching for just one. Then she saw him, his hand waving briskly above his head, the grin on his face unmistakable. As if on cue, tears began to pool in her eyes. Was she ever going to stop crying? she wondered, not bothering to brush them away. Was she ever going to feel happy again? These were just more questions she did not know the answer to with any certainty.

  She pushed her way through the crowd and walked straight into his arms. She dropped her carry-on bag at her feet, then let her head fall against his broad chest. As a teenager, she imagined resting her head against his chest a thousand times, only she had never been crying in any of her daydreams.

  His hands wrapped tightly around her. “I’m so sorry, Beck. All that stuff with Roger and Mandy, the long flight. You must be exhausted?”

  She nodded against his chest, her weary body grateful for the support.

  Clive picked up her carry-on bag. “Come on, let’s go grab your luggage so I can get you home, or would you rather go somewhere to talk first? The pub maybe? Wherever you like, I don’t mind.” He reached up and touched Becky’s face briefly with his hand, then squeezed her arm with a worried expression on his face.

  Her eyes were red-rim
med and empty, void of her usual spark. “Are you going to be okay, Beck?”

  “I just really need to speak with my uncle first. Can you take me to Dad’s house? He’s been looking after the place while Dad’s been away.”

  “Sure, but I thought we might be able to catch up after that, if you’re up for it? You know, talk about us.”

  “I know. But I am really tired. Tomorrow, okay?” she said, trying to maintain a casual smile, when all she wanted to do was scream, and cry, and stamp her feet. “Everything is just so complicated right now, Clive. Something’s come up, so I’ve really got to speak to Uncle Steve before anything else.”

  “What’s up? Is there something I can do?”

  “Yes. You can take me to Uncle Steve, so I can ask him why he never told me he was my father.”

  Clive stopped walking, then stumbled forward when a man walked straight into the back of him. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as the man grunted and walked around him.

  Becky looked back over her shoulder. “Yeah, it kind of had that effect on me, too, when I found out.” She turned around to look at him, people flowing all around them like an unleashed river. When Clive didn’t move, she said, “Clive. Are you coming?”

  Clive shook his head. “Sure. Of course. Jesus. Did you just find out about all of this? When did all this happen?”

  “The day I was conceived, I imagine.”

  In the car on the drive home to her father’s house, Becky filled Clive in about her holiday, the authors, and her newly discovered heritage. She left out her feelings for Gary.

  Chapter 18

  Tell Me Why.

  Clive deposited Becky’s luggage down, in the front hall of her parents’ house. Uncle Steve was standing to one side, his hands clasped together in a tight knot. His face was drawn, the look in his eyes a mixture of both happiness and apprehension.

  Clive reached out and touched Becky’s arm. “Call me, Beck, okay? I’m here for you if you need me, and we still have to have that talk.”

  Becky nodded. “Thanks, I will,” she whispered.

  Clive kissed her forehead, shook hands with Uncle Steve, then closed the front door quietly behind him.

  “Beck, I-”

  Becky faced Uncle Steve straight-on, her arms dangling by her sides like a rag dolls, her lips pressed firmly together. “Is it true? That’s all I need to know right now. Are you really my father?”

  Uncle Steve held his arms out. “Let me-”

  “Yes or no? Are you my father? It’s a pretty simple question, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Yes, it is, but the answer isn’t quite as simple, not really.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Will you please come and sit down? I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we can talk. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  Becky didn’t move. “I don’t want a cup of tea.” She stamped her foot once, then twice.

  Uncle Steve forced himself not to smile when Becky stamped her feet. It reminded him of the time when she’d been seven. He had put the last of the milk in his coffee, not realizing that she hadn’t had her cereal for breakfast.

  It was a big day at school that day, and how was she supposed to do well in her math test without a good breakfast? She had stamped her foot then, too. The look on her face had been as serious and as unforgiving as it was right now.

  “Well, I do need a cup of tea,” Uncle Steve said, nodding towards the lounge room. “Come on, come sit down. This talk is well overdue, and frankly, I’m glad to be finally having it. It’s just a shame that you had to find out the way you did. It must have been one hell of a shock for you, so I’m really sorry about that.” He reached out a hand to her, but Becky ignored it as she walked past him.

  She pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table and waited for him to join her.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cuppa, Beck?”

  “I’m sure.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “I could really use a beer, though, if you have one.” A smile lifted her lips for the briefest of moments, then quickly faded.

  Uncle Steve took two bottles of beer out of the fridge, opened them, and then handed her one across the table. “I guess this is one of those times when a cup of tea just doesn’t cut it.”

  With her eyes closed, she took a good long swig of the beer, then put the bottle down on the table.

  Uncle Steve remained standing on the other side, and without taking a drink, he put the bottle down. “Yes, Beck. The simple answer to your question is yes, I’m your biological father.” He smiled a wounded smile, his eyes an apology, pleading for forgiveness.

  Becky stared up at him, unblinking and unmoving, the palms of her hands flat on the table in front of her. A moment later she stood up, tears pooling in her eyes. She walked around the table, then wrapped her arms tightly around Uncle Steve, her head resting against his chest. “Thank you so much for telling me the truth. That’s all I wanted.”

  Uncle Steve’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I love you, Beck, and if it meant keeping this secret from you all these years to make sure you were happy, then it was a secret I would have taken to my grave. You have no idea how many times I wanted to tell you the truth, tell you I was your father, but then I realized I only wanted to tell you for me, for my happiness, not yours.”

  She nodded against his chest.

  “You never wanted for anything. You were always such a happy kid. I didn’t want to take that away from you. I didn’t want to burden you with any of this. I always figured there would be plenty of time to tell you when you got older, but the time never felt right, and here we are, and well, it still doesn’t feel right. William and Victoria were the best parents, and they loved you so much. There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t have done for you, you know that, right?”

  She nodded again. “I know.”

  He held her at arm’s length, looking at her from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I’m so sorry, Beck.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. In the corner of the handkerchief were the initials SJ.

  Becky brushed away her tears, then blew her nose. “Mum sure did make an awful lot of handkerchiefs.”

  “I think her handkerchiefs will outlive us all.”

  Becky laughed and shook her head. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” She looked down at the handkerchief scrunched in her hand, and felt a wave of sadness wash over her again.

  Uncle Steve squeezed her hand. “Do you remember me telling you the story about the woman living in Scotland, the one that your mother always kept in contact with?”

  “Elise, my mother,” Becky said. “I remember.” It was strange hearing the words coming out of her mouth. Elise, my mother. She had thought about those words from the moment she’d found the photograph in Elise’s room, but she’d never said the words out loud. She said the words again to try them on for size. “Elise, my mother.” A large part of her felt guilty for saying the words out loud, especially in her mother’s home. She blew her nose again and sat down.

  “Yes. Elise is your mother.” He told her the story again, adding the pieces he had left out. Becky listened hungrily to every word, putting the pieces together in her head, like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, which was her life. She hung on every word, eating the bittersweet memories up enthusiastically. She made them both a cup of tea as Uncle Steve continued to answer all of her questions.

  “Are we good?” Uncle Steve asked an hour and a half later.

  “We’re good,” she replied. “But you know I’d feel weird calling you dad, right?”

  “Right.” Uncle Steve let out a long breath and patted her hand, so grateful he had not lost her in the tangle of deceit. “I got used to that a very long time ago.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “What about Elise?”

  Becky pursed her lips. “I can’t talk about Elise just yet, but soon. I just had to get us sorted out first.”

  “Okay, fair enough. You take your time, love. I know this must be a lot for you to diges
t.” He looked around the kitchen, searching for something to say, his eyes eventually resting on the clock on the wall. “Stay for dinner?”

  “Sure. When are Dad and you-know-who getting back?”

  “Couple of days,” Uncle Steve said. “You know, maybe you should cut your dad some slack with the whole Felicity thing? You know the kind of woman your mum was; she’d want your dad to be happy. She’d want you to be happy, too, Beck.”

  Becky screwed up her nose and shrugged. “I know, but one thing at a time, okay?” She changed the subject. “What are we having for dinner, Indian?”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Uncle Steve replied. He tugged the Indian menu off the fridge door. “So what’s going on with you and Clive, anyway? The lad is obviously smitten with you, and if I remember correctly, you’ve had a huge crush on him for as long as I can remember.”

  Becky shrugged, then rubbed her face in her hands. “It’s complicated. I’m catching up with him tomorrow to talk. Next subject.”

  Uncle Steve took his spectacles out of his top pocket, sat them on the bridge of his nose, and then scanned the menu for a long moment. He looked up at her. “By the way, I really liked what I’ve read so far on your article about the authors. It’s a good piece.”

  Becky grinned. “Maybe I should retitle the article “Two Authors and a Mother”.”

  He had pored over the photographs of Elise for ages, his fingers tracing her lips, her hair. She was older, yes, but the persistent tugging at his heart told him what he already knew. He was still in love with her. Their recent telephone conversations hinted that perhaps Elise was feeling the same way that he did. He desperately wanted to ask Becky a million questions about Elise, but he couldn’t. Right now, it was more about the questions Becky needed answers to. “Let’s stick with “About Three Authors”. It sounds a lot less confusing, more reader-friendly.” He looked back down at the menu. “Now, what do you want for dinner? The usual? Butter Chicken?”