The Three Rs

by Ashe Barker

  Cain Parrish.

  I’m the one to move first.

  “Excuse me.” I make to step around him, but his hand on my elbow stops me.

  He’s not rough—I couldn’t honestly claim he manhandled me. He just touches my elbow with his fingers, but I jerk away as though he’s burnt me.

  “I don’t know you. Leave me alone.” My own reaction scares me as much as anything he might be about to do. He’s obviously been stalking me, for Christ’s sake. Now I’m determined to get away. I turn on my heel and start marching off in the opposite direction to avoid trying to pass him again. I hear the van door slam shut, then he falls into step beside me. He slips his arms through the sleeves of a black leather jacket, which he must have grabbed from his van when he realized we were going walkabout.

  “I want to talk to you, Miss Fischer. We can talk here, on the street, or I could drop you off somewhere and we can talk in the van.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know you.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll talk as we walk then. I’m Cain Parrish. You and I are business partners, Miss Fischer. Or can I call you Abigail?”

  “We’re not anything. Please, just leave me alone.” I pick up the pace in some ridiculous attempt to leave him behind.

  He just lengthens his stride. “Where are we going, Abigail?”

  I stop, turn to face him. My heart is thumping in my chest, my breath catching in my throat. This man frightens me. He’s been nothing but polite, but he terrifies me nonetheless. His size frightens me, as does his obvious strength. He’s affluent as evidenced by his casual elegance, even down to the designer stubble on his chin, and that unsettles me. But most unnerving of all is the fact that no matter what I say or do, he’s pursued me relentlessly, first through his solicitor, and now in person. He wants something, and he’s determined to have it.

  “Can I buy you a coffee?” He gestures with his head across the road to a small transport cafe. I’ve had bacon sandwiches from there occasionally, and they do a decent mug of Nescafe. Seeing no realistic alternative, and preferring the relative safety of a public place since I seem unable to shake him off, I nod. He reaches for my rucksack, still dangling awkwardly from my right shoulder.

  “Here, let me help you with that.”

  And before I know it he’s escorting me across the road, his right hand once more on my elbow and my rucksack dangling from his left. He opens the door to the café and stands back to let me go in first. Inside there are only three tables, and two of those are taken by burly workmen enjoying their greasy spoon breakfasts. Mr Parrish motions me toward the one remaining table, and I take my seat. He drops my rucksack onto the chair next to me.

  “Coffee?”

  I nod.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Strong please. With milk and three sugars.”

  His eyebrow quirks at the mention of three sugars, but he makes no comment. He goes to the counter to order our drinks, and I contemplate grabbing my bag and making a run for it. I abandon that thought—I wouldn’t get more than a few yards, and I have an uneasy suspicion he’d have no qualms about rugby tackling me to the ground. He seems determined to have his say.

  A couple of minutes later, he’s draping his jacket over the back of the seat and shifting my bag into the seat opposite. The seat next to me is now free and he eases his long legs under the table, effectively boxing me in. I’d have to climb over him to get out. He shoves my coffee toward me, and I pick up the mug to sip slowly. It’s as good a reason as any not to have to talk.

  “Well, it’s obvious what James saw in you. I’d happily fuck you myself if our circumstances were different. What attracted you to my uncle though? Or are you just a greedy little gold digger?”

  My companion is obviously feeling chatty. I already knew that, he’s gone to considerable trouble to engineer this conversation with me. Still, his opening line took me by surprise.

  Shocked at his crudeness and stunned by the implication of his words, I put my mug down on the Formica table with a splash and a clatter then make to get out of my seat. If he wants to insult—or proposition—someone, he can look elsewhere.

  “Sit down, Miss Fischer, you’re going nowhere.”

  “I bloody well am. This conversation’s over.” I’m on my feet now, and reaching across the table for my bag.

  He makes no move to stop me. Indeed, he makes no move at all. He just sips his coffee—black, I notice—and waits for me to get tired of glaring at him from my lofty height of five foot four. We’re drawing some puzzled stares from the other tables, but no one seems inclined to intervene. Yet.

  “Excuse me, please. I want to get out.” I try for a note of firm resolve, a tone that says ‘you don’t scare me, you can’t bully me’.

  He’s clearly unimpressed. “Sit down, Miss Fischer. People are looking at you.”

  Faced with a choice of clambering onto his lap or sitting down again, I sink back into my seat. Cain Parrish nonchalantly uses a paper napkin to mop up the spilled coffee on the table in front of me, before handing my mug back to me.

  “Right, where were we? Ah yes, I was just asking you how you’ve managed to con my uncle out of his business. My business.”

  I glare at him, not deigning to answer. He shrugs.

  “I have all day, Miss Fischer. And the coffee here’s not bad.”

  Well, that’s true at least, worse luck. I pick up my mug and take a couple more sips, ready to wait him out. Eventually though, I’m the one to break the silence.

  “I didn’t know your uncle. I never met him. I’ve no idea why he put me in his will. If you think the business should be yours, you’re welcome to it. I want nothing to do with you, your solicitor, your building firm. Nothing.” There, that should be clear enough.

  He drains the last of his coffee before replying, “It’s not that simple, though, as I think you very well know.” He dumps his empty cup on the table then leans to one side to reach into the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out an envelope, this time a thick brown one, and tosses it onto the table in front of me. “I daresay you’re familiar enough with the terms of my uncle’s will, but just in case you need to refresh your memory…”

  Nothing on God’s green earth is going to compel me to take that document from the envelope and make a complete fool of myself in front of this infuriating and terrifying stranger. I glare at the offending article then shove it back at him.

  “I’m not familiar with the will, and I’m not going to be. I have no interest in any of it. None at all. Now please, let me go. I have things to do even if you don’t.” Again I reach for my bag, and again he stays in place, blocking my way.

  I try again, abandoning all thoughts of using my inheritance as a stepping stone to my own future. “You can have it. I’ll sign whatever you need me to. I never asked for anything from your uncle. How could I? I never even met him. It’s yours, all of it.”

  His eyes narrow, and despite the relative safety of being among other customers, I find myself backing away the two inches or so available before my shoulders hit the wall behind me.

  “You can’t give your share of the business away, and you can’t sell it. Except to me. And there’s no way I’m paying you a fucking fortune for what’s rightfully mine.” His tone is hard enough to split rocks as he delivers his salvo.

  His icy composure is definitely slipping. And even though he intimidates me, I can’t help bristling. Who is he to tell me what I can and can’t do?

  “Who says I can’t give it away? If it’s mine like you say it is, I can give it to the bloody cat’s home if I want.” I’m still unnerved by this whole mad episode, but now he’s started to really piss me off as well, and my stubborn streak is emerging. I could get myself into some real bother here, but I’m on a roll and there’s no stopping me. “For the last time, I didn’t ask for it, I’ve no idea why your uncle left it to me and I don’t want it. If it’s rightfully yours, then fine, enjoy it. Now, I really must be going.
Either you shift, or I start screaming.”

  The vile man just smiles at my threat, but the smile is cold and doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s playing with me, and he’s winning because I’m losing my cool now and he’s icy calm.

  “Do please feel free to scream, Miss Fischer. And when you’ve finished, I’ll still be here, and so will that.” He nudges the brown envelope with his finger. “It seems I’m fucking stuck with you, at least for now. So you can stick your fingers in your ears and whistle all you like, you can hang up on my solicitor and you can try to run away from me, but none of this is going away. So the question now is—how am I going to deal with you? And I should make it clear, Miss Fischer, that I’m getting pretty pissed off with your lies. And with your bloody attitude. I want to talk to you, that’s all. I’ve tried polite, so what’s next?”

  Polite! On what planet would that gold digger remark be considered even vaguely polite?

  I stare at him, trying to gather my wits. His thinly veiled threat is not lost on me, although he has yet to elaborate on ‘what next’. And whilst I have a temper, I also have a perfectly functional instinct for self-preservation and I know I can’t push him much further. I need to end this, persuade him to let me leave so I can think this whole thing through. It’s also obvious that there’s something I really need to know about in that will, so I’m going to need to take a copy of it to Sally as soon as possible. I take a couple of steadying breaths.

  “You’ve not been polite, Mr Parrish. You’re trying to bully and insult me, you’ve called me a liar, and worse. If that’s your idea of ‘talking’, I’m not impressed so far.” I can hear the slight tremor in my voice as I answer him. I wonder if he can, and if so, will he take advantage of my weakness?

  He draws in a long breath, lets it out slowly. Then, “You’re right, Miss Fischer. I apologize. Would you prefer to talk to my solicitor then—he’s very polite?”

  I glance at him, not sure if that’s another veiled threat, this time of some form of legal action, although what on earth he might want to accuse me of is beyond me. I need to take the heat out of this if I can, get myself some time to think, to understand and to re-group.

  “Mr Parrish, I assure you I’m as bewildered as you appear to be. Could I keep this for now”—I pick up the brown envelope—“and read it later? I’ll phone you when I’ve read it, and we can talk again if we need to.”

  At first I think he’s about to refuse. Maybe it’s the only copy he has and he thinks I’m going to burn it or something. But then, he nods. “All right. That’s your copy in any case. And make no mistake, we will need to talk again. You have twenty-four hours, then if I don’t hear from you I’ll be coming to look for you. You really don’t want me to have to do that.”

  Another threat. I don’t care for this habit he’s forming and he needs setting straight.

  “I said I’ll phone you, and I will. You have my word.” I lean across the table to shove the envelope into my rucksack, then turn to Mr Parrish, my hand outstretched. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  At first I think he’s not going to shake my hand. He’s gazing into my eyes, and I’m struck by the deep dark gray of his as he seems to be assessing, gauging my trustworthiness. I hold my breath. If he refuses to accept my promise and let me leave, I have no way that I can see of finding out what that will says about me. Long moments pass, then suddenly he seems to decide in my favor. He takes my palm in his and squeezes it lightly. His handshake is warm, firm and over far too quickly. He may be overbearing and arrogant, but his touch makes my toes curl. How very odd.

  “Tomorrow, Miss Fischer. Now, can I drop you anywhere?”

  I stare at him, startled by the abrupt shift. “What?”

  “You were headed somewhere before I waylaid you. Can I offer you a lift?”

  I shake my head. “No, no thank you. I’m fine. I’ll get the bus.”

  He smiles at me, and this time it does reach his eyes. He’s dazzling, and my toes curl again. Cain Parrish can ooze charm when he decides to turn it on.

  “Please, it’s no trouble. Where would you like to go?”

  Well, since he’s offering so nicely now, and perhaps because the moisture gathering in my pussy is addling my brain, I agree, “I was going to Cartwright Hall, actually. It’s an art gallery. In Lister Park. And yes, a lift would be nice. Thank you.”

  His eyebrows rise slightly at the mention of an art gallery, but he makes no comment. Instead he reaches for my bag and stands up, once more stepping back and gesturing for me to precede him. He does have good manners, when he chooses to show them off. And the most gorgeous eyes.

  The short drive to the park gates is passed in companionable silence. Mr Parrish pulls up and reaches behind my seat for my bag. He hands it to me as I open the door. He starts to unfasten his seatbelt, and apparently intends to come around and help me out. I quickly assure him I’m fine and scramble down onto the pavement.

  “My number’s on your answering machine.” He glances at his watch. “Twenty-four hours then. I expect to hear from you by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  I nod and thank him for the lift. His tail lights are just disappearing around a bend in the road as I remember I deleted all his messages. I don’t have his phone number.

  Chapter Three

  I think it’s fair to say the calming effect of Cartwright Hall was entirely lost on me today. I wandered the familiar hallways, admiring my usual favorites then ate my lunch as I so often do perched on one of the padded couches arranged down the center of the long gallery. My mind was a blank. Or maybe it was a swirling mass of disjointed impressions and half-formed questions. An image of flexing biceps and glittering slate-gray eyes kept flashing across my consciousness, and all the while I knew that tomorrow would bring an angry Cain Parrish back to my door.

  I promised, and now I might not be able to keep my promise. I don’t have his number so I can’t phone him. I can’t look his number up. I do know the name of the building firm he owns. We own. But no contact details unless those are mentioned in the will. If not, maybe Sally could find him from the phone book for me. But not all numbers are listed, I know that. Shit!

  By two thirty I’m on the bus heading back to work, though my thoughts are a long way from polish and disinfectant. By five to three I’m stationed outside the year five classroom, every bit as eager for the bell to go as any of the children laboring over their Ancient Egypt topic work. At three o’clock, even before the buzzer stops, they’re filing happily past me, pharaohs forgotten as they head for the cloakrooms. I absently fall in alongside Sally as we escort her noisy charges there, and see them safely into their coats. These are ten-year-olds, so don’t need help buttoning and zipping, but there’s always the chaos of lost shoes and missing book bags to sort out. But five frantic minutes see the cloak room emptied, and we sit down together on one of the tiny benches under the coat hooks.

  “I’m sorry I ran out on you yesterday.”

  Sally looks at me, her expression impatient.

  “And I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls.”

  Again, that look.

  “I should have listened to you…”

  She’s had enough. “For fuck’s sake, Abbie, what happened? I can tell by your face something’s been going on, so quit all the groveling and tell me.”

  “He came. Here. Mr Parrish. Cain, the nephew. He was waiting outside when I finished work this morning.”

  Sally’s face is incredulous. “Shit! Here? What happened? What did he have to say?”

  “Well, I think it’s fair to say he’s not best pleased with how things stand. He seems to think I’ve somehow managed to con his uncle into leaving his business to me. I told him I’d never even met the old guy, but he’s having none of that. Pretty much called me a liar.”

  “Bloody hell, the prat.”

  I stop, flatten my lips thoughtfully. ‘Prat’ would not be my description of Cain Parrish, but I can see where she’s coming from. I continue, “Yes, wel
l, I told him he could keep his business, I wanted nothing to do with it. And this is where it gets really weird. He said I couldn’t give it away, and I could only sell it to him. But he won’t buy it because it’s rightfully his anyway. Apparently it’s all in his uncle’s will. He was convinced I knew all about the will, what it said.”

  “And of course you don’t. How can we find out then?”

  “Ah, well, that’s easy. I have a copy of the will. It’s here.” I dig into my rucksack and pull out the brown envelope. I hand it, still unopened, to Sally. I was hoping you’d have time to look at it and tell me…”

  Sally grabs the envelope, her eyes gleaming with curiosity now. Mine too, I daresay. However unwelcome all this might be, it’s certainly intriguing.

  “Too bloody right I will. Not here though.” She glances around the empty cloakroom, as if expecting to spot some dawdling year five still tying his laces and eavesdropping on us. “No, for this we need wine. And pizza. And probably Ben and Jerry’s ice cream too. What time do you finish?”

  “Six. I’ll be home by half past.”

  “Right. I’ve got some stuff to finish off back in my classroom, but I’ll be at yours by half-six then, with all the supplies.”

  I smile. I might well have slipped into some parallel universe where dead builders leave their property to perfect strangers, but in my experience there are few things that can’t be put right by a generous helping of Ben and Jerry’s. Six-thirty it is then.

  * * * *

  It’s only twenty-five past, but already Sally’s ringing the buzzer on my door entry system. I buzz her into the building and leave my own door off the latch for her to come straight in.

  “Right, cheese, mushroom and pepperoni, two bottles of Chianti and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food. How’s that? Will two bottles be enough?” She dumps the lot on my tiny kitchen table and levers open the lid of the pizza box. The delicious aroma wafts out, and we both forget about wills and building firms and sexy builders for a few moments as we help ourselves.