Cavanagh - Serenity Series, Vol I (Seeking Serenity)

by Eden Butler

  “I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.” He takes a breath as he scans my face. “I’ve missed you. Missed those millions of freckles, those grey eyes—” He tries reaching for me again, fingers nearing my face, but I move my chin down and myself out of his reach.

  I say a small prayer of thanks as my cell rings and Winchell’s smiling face appears on the screen. “I’ve got to take this.”

  He reaches for me, but I manage to avoid his touch, eager to be away from him. I walk ahead, toward the coffee shop but stop short when he comes behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I really am. You don’t have to tell me how badly I screwed up, but I missed you. Can’t we—can’t we be friends?” he asks.

  Friends? There was a time when he was more than my friend, when he was my world. There was a time when I hung onto every word he spoke, when I watched endlessly as he practiced the game we both loved. He was happy then, out on the pitch in his element. We’d leave the match and go back to my apartment and celebrate or sulk, depending on Cavanagh’s performance, naked, laughing, touching, discovering the intimate curves of each other’s bodies. He’d been my friend first, then my lover and then his selfishness took him away from me. He left as though nothing we’d been to each other mattered. He walked away and didn’t look back.

  My phone keeps ringing and I hit the accept button before I twist away from him and his pathetic little frown. “I don’t think so, Tucker. Not now we can’t.”

  THREE

  Second glass of wine. I need to slow down but Ava Winchell is one ahead of me and I believe keeping up with her is only polite.

  “So? Tucker’s back?” The smile on her face stretches and I know she is fishing.

  “What about him, you horny old biddy?”

  She laughs at that, but doesn’t deny my accusation. “I’m just asking. It’s been a while, right?”

  “You’re keeping score, Ava? Jeez.”

  She takes another sip of wine and rests against her chair, relaxed. “Do me a favor. Let me live vicariously?” She looks around the restaurant, checks to see if anyone is eavesdropping on our conversation before she speaks. “Mr. Winchell has been in New York a long time.”

  I choke on my wine. “You’re worse than Sayo. She’s forever trying to match make.”

  “Not interested?” Ava sits back and holds her wineglass in one hand as she relaxes against the armrest.

  Either I am uncomfortable by her invasive questions or my subconscious is forgetting what it felt like to have my heart ripped out of my chest. I manage a smile at the thought of how good Tucker looked today, but I don’t tell my godmother the truth. Ava never knew the details. I hadn’t been eager to share my humiliation with her. Him being back must make her think I’m willing to pick up where we left off.

  “No time.”

  “Oh, honey, if you don’t have time for that, then what’s the point? You have to live a little.”

  “Chocolate. Chocolate is the point.”

  She lifts her glass in a toast and we both take another drink. Ava Winchell was my mother’s oldest and closest friend. They’d gone to college together, pledged the same sorority and when the accident happened, Ava took it upon herself to meddle into my private life. It doesn’t bother me. She is a sweet, intelligent woman and had been a great friend to my mother. She understands the loss. Ava knows what it is to have a good day, to hear great news and race to the phone, eager to share, then the abrupt emptiness at the reminder that Mom isn’t there to answer the call. It’s a stinging, brilliant pain that has only deepened as the days meander along.

  Ava and my mother shared a bond that I can recognize. My friendship with Sayo, Mollie and Layla is years long but I don’t know what it’s like to love someone for as long as they did. Still, the recognition of that bond flirts in my understanding. When Mom died, it was Ava who held me in the hospital. It was Ava who chose her coffin, her dress. It was Ava that offered up the foster of motherly love I’ve needed this past few months.

  Having a relationship with the university President also didn’t hurt my application for assistantship. A little nepotism isn’t all that bad.

  When she polishes off her wine and motions the waiter for another, I know something is wrong. Ava only drinks this much when she has bad news. Or when she is pissed at me.

  She is fidgeting—pulling on her the sleeves of her red, tailored jacket and straightening the long, black braids that fall across her forehead. Ava’s skin is like caramel, reflects the gorgeous Caribbean features on her heart-shaped face. She wears black-rimmed glasses and a gold beaded necklace from Ghana. Presently, those beads are being twisted between her long fingers. I won’t ask her what the problem is. I know she’ll tell me when she is ready. I smile when she gawks at the waiter’s ass as he bends over to pour her wine. Her husband has been gone a while. She drinks from the fresh glass, gulps down half of it and I sit up straight. This isn’t going to be good.

  “Autumn, honey, I’ve got to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay. Do you have enough liquid courage yet?”

  She nods, then starts drumming her red nails against the table. I’ve never seen her so nervous. I take her hand and hold it. “Ava, are you sick?”

  “No, no, nothing like that, sugar.” She waves her hands as though she is psyching herself up to speak. One deep breath and then she steadies her eyes right into mine. “There’s no easy way to say this and let me add a caveat; you have every right to be angry, so don’t think you’re going to hurt my feelings by yelling.”

  “O—okay. What is it?” My heart pumps a little faster than normal as I wait for the bomb to drop.

  “I got a phone call this afternoon.”

  “Oh God, Ava, is it about the rugby team?”

  The somber expression on her face converts into confusion. “What about the rugby team? What have they done now?”

  “Nothing. It’s…what’s going on? What phone call?”

  “Autumn, Joe Brady called me today.”

  There is a small second where the name doesn’t immediately register, just a blink of ignorance because Joe hasn’t been a consideration for so long, but an instant later I feel a small simmer of anger crest. My hand grips into a tight fist when I squeeze the napkin into my palm.

  “Joe Brady?” She nods then begins running her top teeth over her bottom lip, a nervous, agitated gesture. “Joe Brady called you?” Another nod. “Today?” And another. “Why in God’s name is my father calling you, Ava? What the hell did he want?”

  “He’s in town.”

  For a moment a great swell of my percolating anger mixes with irrational fear. I scan the restaurant. There are couples and families surrounding us, dishes and flatware clinking, menus upright, but no sign of him. I look past Ava toward the bar, but only see girls downing pink drinks and a group of boys screaming at a game on the widescreen.

  “Is he—?”

  “Autumn,” Ava begins, pulling my hand across the table. “I wouldn’t do that to you. He called to let me know he just made it into town two days ago and asked if I would give him your number. I refused, naturally.”

  “What the hell is he doing in Cavanagh?”

  “I don’t know, honey. He did mention hearing of the accident and I do believe his first concern was your well-being.”

  “Well, he’s five months late, isn’t he? In fact, he’s eight years and five months late.” The waiter walks past and I wave for the check. Ava is staring at me, her eyes narrowed with concern. It is instantly difficult to breathe, which only pisses me off. I will not let all the anxiety filter into my chest. Joe isn’t worthy of that. I grab my wineglass and down the contents, annoyed that I can’t make my hand stop shaking.

  “Are you alright?” She moves next to me, holds my hand. “I think this reaction is why he contacted me first. He didn’t want to upset you and he knew that I’d know where you’d be.”

  “He wouldn’t have had to contact you if he’d actually kept in touch with m
e after he left us.” She nods, a silent agreement. I pull my hand away from her and take the check, but Ava slides the plastic folder toward her.

  “What would you like me to say if he calls again?”

  “You could start with ‘Why did you abandon your wife and child?’”

  Ava pulls out her credit card and pushes the bill toward the edge of the table. “I think that’s a question you should ask.”

  My vision blurs, my eyes unblinking. Fourteen. I haven’t seen him since I was a fourteen year-old kid. That night, I woke up to him sitting on the foot of my bed crying. He smelled of whiskey and his eyes were swollen and then there was a rush of apologies and incomprehensible phrases that all sounded like goodbye. He gave me no explanation for his sadness. He just held me while I drifted in and out of sleep. Then, he shuddered and whispered, “I hope one day you’ll forgive me,” before he shut my door. In the morning, he was gone and my mother was sleeping on the sofa with a crumbled Kleenex fisted in her hand. Joe Brady is a coward. A worthless coward.

  “I don’t want to see him, Ava. If he calls again, tell that bastard to stay the hell away from me.”

  My godmother’s lip print is stained on my cheek. Wiping the color off is impossible. It is thick, expensive I’m sure, and doesn’t budge regardless of the efforts I make against it. The cool night breeze floats against my face and despite the unsettling news from earlier, I smile when the delicious scent of the bakery on the corner invades my senses. Cavanagh is safe, that’s true of most small towns, and I enjoy being able to walk from my apartment to campus and into the quaint easy bustle of downtown without worrying about being attacked. The rugby pitch, apparently, isn’t as safe.

  My reflection is fractured, disjointed in Donoghue’s Hardware store window and the handkerchief from my bag is warm next to my skin. Distracted by the task of scrubbing my cheek clean, I don’t notice the form behind me until he speaks.

  “You tattled, did you?”

  Cavanagh is safe, but I’m not an unprepared idiot. My hand is around the mace in my pocket and extended outward before I see Declan standing in front of me. He stretches his long fingers in surrender, but his face is deadpan, curious. When I lower the mace, Declan slips his fists into the pockets of the thin, brown jacket. I know an argument is brewing. My impression of him in my classroom earlier today is likely correct: smug, condescending, vulgar. He stretches his mouth into a firm line and he glares at me as though I am a stubborn spot on the top of his boot. I’m not in the mood for him, for his annoying little grumbles so I shake my head and walk away, but typical of every insufferably stubborn man I’ve ever known, he follows me.

  “Not going to deny it?”

  Ava’s news about my father has my nerves on edge. I’m anxious that I’ll turn the corner and see him waiting for me. I really don’t need Declan to add to my bad mood by picking a fight with me. He pulls on my elbow and spins me around and the small thread of patience I held breaks completely. I hope that my angry expression is vicious enough to make him realize just how stupid it would be to piss me off.

  “I am not the girl and this is so not the night. Back off.”

  He lifts one dark eyebrow underneath his shaggy hair and seems mildly impressed, but a second later, a bored grimace appears to accentuate the dimple in his cheek. “You were with the president.”

  “And?”

  His cheeks have taken on a pink hue, as though he’s either very annoyed or slightly drunk. “Did you not say you didn’t want anyone in a mess?”

  “I did.”

  “So what did you say to Winchell? Did you tell her about last night?”

  I shouldn’t be surprised by his self-serving attitude. It’s been my experience that most men are solely focused on things that concern them and them alone. I release some of my anger, eager to put this bullying Irishman in his place.

  “You know, it must be lonely living in a world that revolves solely around you.”

  He smirks again. I’m starting to believe this guy has one superior, arrogant expression. “Insult me all you like, McShane, I’m not fussed.”

  The casual use of my surname bothers me. It seems that hearing my first from his lips would require an exertion he can’t be bothered to manage. “Clearly you are. If you aren’t, why are you bugging me?”

  “Just trying to see how deep the well of shite is I’m in.”

  I walk away, folding my arms across my chest to keep off the chill in the air. Naturally, he follows at my side. “Get over yourself, Declan. Dr. Winchell is a family friend. We were just having dinner.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that, am I?”

  What an unbelievable prick. “I really don’t give a shit what you believe.”

  I don’t want to give this jackass the satisfaction of knowing he irks me, but I can’t stand on the sidewalk arguing with him all night. I also can’t hold back the litany of filthy oaths I muttered under my breath.

  “What else am I to believe then? You and nancy boy Tucker are doing your best to piss me off.”

  “Oh and how are we accomplishing that very easy task?”

  Once again he stops me. He holds onto my arm longer than it takes to make me pause. His grip is snug and I feel a flush run over my chest, up my neck.

  “A book sale?”

  I shake my arm free from his hold. “He thinks you could stand to be taken down a peg or two.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s an expression. Tucker didn’t buy your apology. Neither did I. Working on the book sale will help you learn humility.”

  He arches his neck into a frustrated twist. “It’ll piss me off. And I don’t give a shite what Tucker thinks I need. I’m not here to kiss arse. I’m here to play.”

  “All that playing you’re doing is what got you into trouble in the first place, isn’t it? Besides, Tucker said—”

  “Oh sod Tucker Fecking Morrison.” I frown. It’s not like I haven’t said something similar about my ex in the past year, but Declan’s anger at Tucker seems extreme. It can’t just be the ridiculous amounts of testosterone I know fills the rugby pitch and Declan being pissed about having to apologize to me. Whatever it is, he ignores for a moment and his irritated sneer and curled lip disappear. “That’s right. You fancy him, don’t you now?”

  “Hardly.”

  His smile is wide, incredibly condescending and I can only sigh at what I’m sure will be more sarcastic jibes. “Well now that’s a shame.”

  “And why is that?”

  I don’t like the ridiculous grin on his face or the way his eyes light up with humor. “I just think it might be good for you to have a nice ride, even if it is with Morrison.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re wound so bleeding tight it’s a wonder you don’t pop.”

  This guy really is full of himself. A five minute conversation and he thinks he knows me? “And how would you know that exactly?”

  “I did kiss you.” Declan takes a slow step in my direction, his eyes narrowed and unflustered. There is a crinkle of electricity in that expression and my throat constricts. “Drunk as I was, I could tell you liked it. You weren’t all frigid, not for the whole of it. I felt your…a…” he looks down at my chest and his eyes linger between my two top buttons, “bits that were keen.”

  He can’t be serious. For a moment I can only manage to gawk at him, pausing to measure the expressions on his face. Declan wets his bottom lip and I can do nothing but laugh. I didn’t realize men were really this obnoxious. He doesn’t seem to like my reaction. His face hardens, becomes guarded and severe and his cheeks grow an even deeper shade of pink.

  “You think you rocked my world?”

  “I did in fact, I’m guessin.”

  I’m about to lie to a complete stranger. I have zero plans for getting back with Tucker. Besides, by his comment, I get that Declan knows nothing about our history. I move in for the kill and Declan doesn’t jolt away from me when I touch his face.
His green eyes darken and he bites the inside of his lip. The crackle of energy returns, but I know it is forced, that my slow, intimate movement has elevated the tension exactly how I intend. I lift my hand, rub my thumbnail across his bottom lip and he swallows, the sound of his throat working is audible.

  “Funny, because I recall my world getting rocked a lot harder those few minutes Tucker and I were alone in my classroom.” I drop my hand and step back, just a bit smug when I see Declan’s flustered gape. As I continue down the sidewalk, I know he’s watching me. I know he’s frustrated, likely angry that I got to him. My heels click against the pavement, but the sound is drowned out by Declan’s low curses echoing behind me.

  FOUR

  We were singing along to Fleetwood Mac. It was our song, something she’d taught me to play on the guitar when I was eleven. It was an effort of impossible lengths, learning that song. Lindsey Buckingham wrote some seriously complex chord changes. But I was determined and she was a great instructor and after two months of endless practice, I could play “Landslide” without stopping more than once.

  She turned up the volume and I laughed at her attempt to match Stevie Nick’s deep, sultry rasp.

  “Mom, please. It’s Stevie’s song. Let her sing it.”

  “Come on, sweetie. Sing with me.”

  The rain came down so hard that even the wipers on high couldn’t keep the windshield remotely clear. Lightning and thunder cracked against the black sky. There were brief strikes of blinding light, crashing, unrelenting rain, then blackness. Utter inky blackness, broken only by the sparse streams of headlights.

  “I talked to Ava about getting you a faculty position once you graduate.”

  “I told you not to do that. I told you that I could—” I don’t know how the rest of that sentence ended. I don’t know if it ended at all. I remember the rain, the way the wipers slid so hard against the glass that the car shook. I remember the high squeal of brakes, the deafening screech of tires, the smell of smoke and then, the blood.