by K. M. Hodge
My stepfather obliges the gathering and stands up to address the table. My mother smiles up at him with a relaxed smile that warms my heart.
“I want to thank you all for coming out here to celebrate with us today. These last twenty years have gone by too fast. I swear, Sal, it was just yesterday that I met you.” He looks down at my ma with tears in his eyes.
“My love,
I didn’t expect you,
But then there you were,
Tattoos, piercing, and hair Blue,
A poem half written in the margins
Of a stolen library book.
I read you, again and again.
I didn’t expect to fall so hard.
But then I heard your siren’s call,
And I dropped to my knees,
Begging for more, if you please.
You gave and gave and I took.
Years turned the pages of our book.
We made a family, we made a life.
And it only took me twenty years to make you legally my wife.”
The crowd laughs and hoots him for him as he completes another one of his silly poems.
You would think it was all in jest if you didn’t see her face. Her eyes never leave his. The crowd clinks their glasses once more, this time demanding a kiss.
My stepfather obliges them once again and bends over ma, laying a chaste kiss upon her trembling lips. He whispers something, and tilts his head to the side in a halfhearted shrug that makes her smile and her cheeks pink.
I feel the tender squeeze of my wife’s hand, which I’ve covered with my own. She’s smiling at me again, like she has the secret to happiness and can’t wait to share it. When she takes my hand and places it on her stomach, I tilt my head towards her in question. She responds with more smiles, but then I feel it—a small, faintly familiar fluttering beneath my fingertips.
It can’t be!
My beautiful and amazingly talented forty-four-year-old wife nods at me as I turn to fully face her.
“But how?” I whisper.
She looks at me with a tilt of her head and raised eyebrows.
“I know how. I mean—”
“That night in Cabo,” she says.
“That was four months ago.”
“It’s a boy.”
“A boy!” I feel my face flush and my hands tremble.
She reaches for my hands and encases them in her own. “Are you ready?”
I laugh at her question. “I don’t think we have a choice, love.”
I feel the eyes of everyone staring at us and realize we’re making a scene.
Jason looks across the table at me with a questioning stare. When we don’t say anything, he turns to Manny, my father-in-law, and taps his arm with his closed fist. “Why do I feel like our family is about to get even bigger?”
Manny looks at my wife for confirmation, and when she nods, his eyes well up with tears, as old men’s eyes often do.
She releases my hand and goes to her father, who hugs her tightly to him. His wife, Mari, and her sister, Morgan, hug her as well. My wife is passed around the table for hugs like a wedding favor.
When I feel Jason pull me into another embrace, I feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes once more.
“I’m so happy for you, son.” He releases me only to place his hand on my cheek.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Ma puts her arms around my waist and hugs me tightly to her small, frail frame. “Sweet pea, I love you, but you two are crazy.”
Her half-hidden smile doesn’t fool me. She loves to be Grandma and will relish the chance to do it all over again.
I watch as Ellie places her hands on Julie’s burgeoning bump.
How did I miss that?
Our girls swarm around her in a dizzying flurry of excitement.
As so often happens in moments like this, I think about Alex, and about how he missed out on it all. He died not knowing the legacy he would leave behind.
Now I find myself with a son of my own on the way. What will I tell him of myself and of the sacrifices the men before me have made? All I know for sure is that I need to keep their stories alive for my children’s sake, who were born with the burden and blessings of this family.
---THE END---
Want to know how it all began?
Stay tuned for the prequel: The Sally Chronicles.
~~~
And don’t forget to scroll down to read
the Special Sneak Preview of
Broometime Serenade by Barry Metcalf.
Acknowledgements
I am full of gratitude to everyone who supported me in this effort: family, friends and readers. I would like to give a special shout out to Jessica Dominguez. Your friendship, support, and help in making my work shine, means more to me then you will ever know!
I have an amazing team of fact checkers, but I would like to give special thanks to Rayne Soza, who puts up with my oftentimes bizarre medical questions. I’d also like to thank Melinda McIntosh and Lindsay Palmgren, my diehard cheerleaders, who keep me going when the going gets tough.
My editing team, Sue Fairchild and Lane Diamond, have helped me grow as a writer, and I am grateful for their hard work in helping to make this series great for the readers.
Last, but not least, I am grateful for the friendship and support of two amazing writers, Cassidy Cayman and Melissa Storm, who have helped me turn a love of writing into a blossoming career.
About the Author
K.M. Hodge grew up in Detroit, where she spent most of her free time weaving wild tales to spook her friends and family. These days, she lives in Texas with her husband and two energetic boys, and once again enjoys writing tales of suspense and intrigue that keep her readers up all night. Her stories, which focus on women’s issues, friendship, addiction, regrets and second chances, will stay with you long after you finish them.
When she isn’t writing or being an agent of social change, she reads Independent graphic novels, watches old X-files episodes, streams Detroit Tigers games and binges on Netflix with her husband. Sign-up for her mailing list to receive a free gift: Kmhodge.com/subscribe
She enjoys hearing from her readers, so don’t be shy about dropping her a line at any of these links: Website, Facebook, Google+, Twitter, Pinterest, mailing list.
What’s Next from K.M. Hodge?
THE SALLY RIDE CHRONICLE
The Syndicate-Born Trilogy – A Novella Prequel
Watch for this special prequel to The Syndicate-Born Trilogy of suspense/crime thrillers to release in the spring/summer of 2017. For more information, please visit the publisher’s website at Evolved Publishing.
~~~
Sally Ride knows how they see her: a gal from the neighborhood, married to an abusive mechanic with questionable friends. But unlike the other women around her, she wants out—out of her marriage, her town, and anything associated with her past.
When she gets pregnant after an affair with a CIA agent, her escape plans change. Now she will do anything she can, at whatever cost, to protect her child from her husband—even if it means becoming a spy for hire.
No one in her town of Ocean City suspects that she spies on them—sells them out to the cops, the FBI, and anyone else who will pay.
She does it all in the hope that, one day, she’ll break free and live out her impossible dream.
SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW: Broometime Serenade
Enjoy the First 6 Chapters of this first book in THE OZ FILES series. Or....
~~~
...Go ahead and grab your copy today at:
BROOMETIME SERENADE on AMAZON
~~~
Scroll down for the Special Sneak Preview.
PROLOGUE, PART I: JAMES & CAPTAIN NEWBERRY
February 1942
“But Cap’n Newberry,” James Planter’s exasperation coloured his voice, “I enjoy the life of a beachcomber. All I need is one lucky find... one juicy pearl an’ I’m set fer life.”
Gilbert Newber
ry smiled and handed his companion a tumbler filled with rum. Dressed in a white suit, matching shirt, navy cravat, and black shoes with white spats, Gilbert epitomised the English gentleman, more at home in a green, country estate than here on the edge of the brown, Australian desert.
“James,” he paused to squash a mosquito settling on his forearm, “nobody becomes a beachcomber unless he’s running away from something.”
The comment struck home. James lowered his eyes and turned his attention to his drink. Remembering his past, perhaps.
Gilbert smiled. Even on sweltering days like today, he appreciated the attraction of this isolated shantytown, far from home.
Situated on the rugged coastline of northwestern Australia, the rough-and-ready town had gained a reputation as the world’s largest supplier of mother-of-pearl, but the little gems inside the shells were the real draw. They had lured men from all over the world with their promise of instant riches, despite the one in a million odds.
Like many before him, Gilbert recognised the possibilities abounding in Broome. What he didn’t make from his fleet of luggers—harvesting pearl shell and the odd gem—he more than compensated for in his store. Through a combination of hard work, good luck and an astute business sense, Gilbert had amassed more money than he’d ever dreamed. Soon, he would have to return to all the trappings of civilisation he’d once thought he’d never see again.
Part of him would be sad to discard the lifestyle he’d established. He’d miss the aboriginal servants who tended his house and kept his suits immaculate despite the red pindan dust, the evenings spent dining with the elite of Broome society, and the respect accorded him as a successful businessman.
The weather, of course, he wouldn’t regret leaving behind.
During the wet season, temperatures hovered around ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, but the heat was bearable. Coconut palms, long verandas, or the insides of dwellings provided shelter from the sun. However, no one could hide from the oppressive perspiration that refused to evaporate in the intolerable seventy percent-plus humidity.
“Cap’n Newberry, almost everyone livin’ in Broome today is runnin’ away from somethin’.” He untied his red bandanna and mopped the perspiration off his red face.
The interior of Gilbert’s store, a corrugated iron structure, offered no respite from the oppressive conditions. Despite the lateness of the evening, both temperature and humidity remained high.
Mosquitoes buzzed and zoomed, targeting the exposed skin of the two men sitting and drinking in the rear of the building. Huge moths darted and fluttered in ever-decreasing circles. Attracted by the flickering flames from two kerosene lanterns sitting on upended wooden casks, they performed kamikaze flights destined for only one ending.
If the drinkers noticed the unpleasant conditions, they didn’t show it. They accepted them, and the constant intermittent swatting of annoying pests, as an everyday occurrence. They conversed, engrossed in a heated debate about life in Broome, a favourite topic. A half-empty bottle of rum sat on an improvised table between them.
James raised the small glass to his lips and drained it in one gulp. He belched. Since he’d come to live in the remote pearling town, his manners and his dress had both deteriorated. This evening, the beachcomber wore his entire wardrobe—old, torn, salt-stained moleskin trousers, loose shirt, and sweat-stained bandana. All had seen better days.
“That may be true.” Gilbert recalled how he’d departed England in a hurry following a failed career in the Army. “But most of the people who live here work for a living.” He kept his voice impassive, not allowing any hint of how close to the mark James’s comment had come.
“I tried me hand on a lugger once. I was no good at divin’. No use when it came to mannin’ the pumps, an’ I cut meself every time I tried to open a bloody oyster.”
Gilbert sighed. He liked reasoning with James as much as he liked arguing with a piece of sailcloth. The beachcomber always gave back more than he received. Not for the first time, Gilbert wondered why he put up with the man. Then he recalled what James knew.
Humouring his drinking partner was better than having him mention his suspicions to the authorities. “And what are you running from, James?” Gilbert directed the conversation away from himself.
“This an’ that.... More rum?” James licked his lips and extended his hand.
Gilbert sighed again but reached for the bottle and poured another tot. He needed to dole out the amber liquid with care, or the silly blighter sitting opposite him would drink his liquor supply dry. “Here’s mud in your eye.” During his years in Broome, Gilbert had adopted a few of the local idioms. “I’m about ready to turn in.... Big day tomorrow.” He hoped James would take the hint and leave.
His companion raised his glass and saluted. “Here’s to me findin’ that special tomorrow.” He gave no indication of departing before they’d emptied the bottle.
“You’re sailing north... just like you planned?” Gilbert took a sip from his glass. Unlike his drinking partner, he’d lost few of his manners and other affectations, despite the time he’d spent in the rough West Australian seaside town.
“Yep.” James gulped the rum and held out his glass again. “Gonna make a sweep of the northern beaches... see what’s been washed up in the last coupla weeks.”
Gilbert sighed and refilled the glass tumbler. “You’re not worried about the war?”
“The Nips? You must be bloody jokin’. The Japanese war machine’s never gonna come here.”
“Since they attacked Pearl Harbor, they’ve taken Malaya and Singapore. It’s only logical they’re heading this way.”
James drained his glass again. He wiped the back of a hand over his mouth. Like the rest of his body, it hadn’t been bathed for some time. “Nah. They don’t have the long-range fuel tanks for that kinda operation. I heard it the other day on the ABC.” He spoke with all the confidence of a man fully informed on the affairs of the world.
“So, you don’t think they’ll try to invade this country?”
He laughed and held out his tumbler again. “Nah. Australia’s as safe as houses. They’ll never launch an attack on our soil.”
Reluctantly, Gilbert refilled his drink. “I hope you’re right.” He poured himself another tot. “I’ve invested too much time and money in this business to risk losing it now.”
At the mention of money, James looked around. Gilbert’s eyes followed the direction of his companion’s gaze.
They sat in the back of the store, reclining in canvas chairs beside a large brick fireplace, the chimney of which thrust through the corrugated iron roof like a termite’s nest rising from the red pindan dirt. Of course, in Broome the nighttime temperature rarely dropped below sixty degrees, so it was an unnecessary addition built only to remind Gilbert of his homeland.
Behind them stood trestles and counters displaying the Englishman’s wares. In this one shop, every pearl diver, deckhand or lugger owner could outfit himself and his boat with any of the numerous items required for long stretches at sea.
In this modest establishment, Gilbert had amassed the bulk of his fortune, but it wasn’t his only source of income. His less-than-legal pursuits, which he tried to keep secret, represented a large proportion.
White women had always been a scarce commodity in the rough-and-tumble pearling town. Some wives tolerated the harsh conditions, but their status and the heat precluded them from menial labour. Single women—what few braved the harsh climate—worked as barmaids. With an eye towards remedying the imbalance, Gilbert had hit upon an audacious scheme. Once a year, he and a bunch of his deckhands sailed north to a remote beach. Going ashore, they’d acquire a cargo of young aboriginal women.
If the tribe co-operated, he purchased them with a bag of flour or a side of beef. If not, he took the women at gunpoint. If he killed aboriginals in the process, who’d object? Once employed as prostitutes or housemaids, the women received meals and clothes, and Gilbert collected their earnings f
or his trouble. Both illegal and immoral, but the offices of those authorities who might seek to remedy the situation were thousands of miles to the south.
“Mmm.” James returned his attention to his companion.
Does James’s interest lie in the clothes, diving suits or the other paraphernalia I sell? Or is it the legality of my business dealings that concern the beachcomber tonight? He preferred it when his companion’s fascination lay in the bottles of rum kept in cases behind his main counter.
“It’d be a shame to waste all this good product.” James held forth his glass yet again.
Gilbert stood. Much taller than James, he carried himself in the manner of trained military personnel. He poured another glass of rum, and then made a show of replacing the stopper. “You might be right.” He relaxed. Tonight, at least, James had no interest in anything other than rum. “But I’ve got an early start in the morning. Customers to outfit, and all that. I’ll bid you good fossicking on the morrow, and may fortune smile upon you.”
“I’ll drink to that.” James rose unsteadily to his feet and swallowed the contents of his glass. He placed the tumbler on the upright wine barrel doubling as a table and turned towards the door.
PROLOGUE, PART II: LUCKY JIM
March 1942
The Miss Nancy, an old lugger with paint peeling like paperbark from its hull, decking and superstructure, glided over the smooth waters of Roebuck Bay. Despite the boat’s dilapidated appearance and the patchwork quilting of its three sails, the Miss Nancy returned James Planter in safety from his beachcombing tour of the northern beaches of the remote, uninhabited Australian coastline.
In excellent spirits, he reefed in the sails and swung the tiller towards land. He hummed a little ditty and turned his gaze towards the shoreline. As the boat rounded a bend and nosed into the mangrove-lined inlet leading to Streeter’s Jetty, his euphoria faded.
