by Ashe Barker
I should be deliriously happy. I know that, and I’m trying. I’m really trying. I know how lucky I am, I have absolutely no illusions about that at all. But still, there’s someone missing. Someone I want, more tonight than I have for many months now.
My mother—I wish she was here, wish she could see me now. I wish she could meet Tom, even more I wish she could meet her grandchild. But it’s not to be, she’s gone. Lost to me forever.
“Ashley, are you sad?” Rosie’s innocent question somehow manages to permeate the din and chatter, falling like a party-pooping stone into the middle of our happy babble. Suddenly you could hear a pin drop, and all eyes are on me. I swipe away a tear, somehow manage to conjure up a watery smile, determined not to put a damper on proceedings.
“I’m fine, really. Really.” I look around me at the anxious, caring faces, old friends, newer friends. And family too. And it’s that family that now steps forward, in the form of Ayla, my sister.
Ayla’s nineteen, and absolutely stunning. She’s tall, slim, shoulder-length dark brown hair, thick and waving. Clever too—apparently she’s something of a mathematician, like Eva. She’s talking about transferring to a university in the UK to complete her degree, and Eva’s using her influence to help make it happen. I hope it comes off—it’ll be nice to have Ayla stay around a while. I suspect Isaac Appleyard, Seth’s youngest son, won’t be found weeping at the prospect either, but the less said about that around Bajram the better, probably.
Ayla’s hand is on my arm, her soft, dark eyes smiling at me, warm, like her father’s. My father’s. “I have something for you. A wedding present. From your parents. My father asked me to give it to you if the moment seemed right. I think it might be good to give you the gift now. Yes?”
I look at her quizzically, tempted to correct the slight grammatical mistake, but what does it matter? I get her meaning. My father has asked her to pass on his wedding present. I nod, and thank her as she passes me a cardboard box. Not gift wrapped, it’s a Turkish shoebox I think. Quite old, more than a bit dog eared around the corners and edges. The lid’s been fixed more than once with Sellotape. I look at it, trying hard not to register my surprise. But this is not a toaster, I daresay.
“Open it,” Eva urges me, perched on the arm of the settee alongside me.
“Yes, yes, Ashley. Open it. What’s in it?” Rosie is desperate for a peek, is already poking at the lid, trying to lift up one corner.
“Rosie, be patient. It’s Ashley’s present.” As ever, Grace’s authority is absolute and Rosie subsides into restless bobbing about on the floor in front of me.
But to be fair, my curiosity is at around the same level as Rosie’s so I don’t hang about. With a puzzled glance at Ayla who clearly does know what’s in there, I carefully lift the lid.
Letters.
Lots and lots of letters. In my mother’s handwriting. Her letters to my father. Years and years’ worth of letters. Collected over two decades, he’s saved them all, every last one of her letters to him. I stare, dumbfounded, beyond surprised, beyond comprehension.
My mother’s letters, her words, all here, all saved and now handed to me. Just when I most needed to hear her, she’s here. With me. Forever. I thought she was gone, quite quite gone. I thought all I had left of her was her house. But she’s back, her words, her thoughts, her private thoughts shared only with my father. And now shared with me.
I make no attempt to stem the tears streaming down my face, just lean forward to hug Ayla, sobbing into her shoulder. A little taken aback at first by this outpouring of emotion, she nevertheless rallies and returns the hug, and we’re soon joined by Eva and Rosie.
It’s maybe ten minutes before I’m collected enough to even contemplate starting to read any of the letters. Eventually though, I’m gazing into the box, wondering which envelope to pull out first. As ever, it seems, Ayla reads my mind.
“My father says they are in date order. And he’s marked the ones he felt were most – significant.” I look again, there must be a hundred or so individual envelopes all crammed into the shoebox. I rifle through, and see that some of the envelopes are marked with a red felt tip dot—obviously the ones my father thought I should read first. It’ll take me a long time to read them all, but I will, every single word. For now though, I’ll do as Bajram seems to be advising, and start at the beginning.
I look back at Ayla. “Have you read them? Do you know what’s in here?”
“No. They were private, Susan’s letters to my father. Your father. No one else but him has ever seen them. And now, he wants you to have them.”
I nod, no further words necessary. I pull out the first envelope, the one at the top of the pile. I open the envelope and start to read.
Susan Spencer
11 Bridge Gardens
Gloucester
UK
15 January 1992
Dear Bajram,
Thank you for your letter, and for the photographs. It was kind of you to think of me and send them on. I miss Side, especially now when it’s so cold here.
And of course, I miss you. I knew I would, but we would never have been happy, not forever. And it does need to be forever, you have to realize that. We’d both have to make such great sacrifices, it would wear us down, destroy our love eventually. You know I’m right. Please, tell me you know I’m right.
Aysin is your forever, not me. Your father was right, you belong there and I don’t. I really, really don’t. I belong here. So—I want you to be happy in your marriage, and in your life. Aysin is right for you, and you did love her. Before me. And after me too.
My life is here, and it’s a good life. Especially now. There’s something else I must tell you, even though it makes no difference to my decision. Our decision. But still, you need to know this.
We have a daughter. She was born two weeks ago, and is absolutely beautiful. I’ve decided to call her Sharon. She takes after you—see the photograph if you don’t believe me. Her eyes are shut in that picture, but she has your deep brown eyes and your black hair. No English Rose, my little Sharon. But she’s perfect, in every way.
Make no mistake, Bajram, I don’t expect anything of you because of this. I’m fine, we’re fine. My parents are delighted with Sharon, we’ll be living with them. I have a good job, I can support myself and my baby and I’ll understand if you don’t want to be involved at all.
But if you do, if you want me to keep in touch, send you pictures, news as Sharon grows up, that sort of thing, just let me know. I’ll be happy to keep in touch with you, but I don’t want to cause any trouble in your future life.
Whatever happens, whatever you decide, please don’t worry about me, about us. We’ll be absolutely fine.
With love and all best wishes,
Susan
Coming Soon from Totally Bound Publishing:
Re-Awakening
Ashe Barker
Released 7th February
Excerpt
Chapter One
As the car pulled out of her driveway, Imogen flicked over the ‘Vacancies’ sign in her street-level window to indicate that she once again had space for a weary traveler or two. It was February, definitely the quiet season in the Yorkshire Dales, but there was always the possibility of passing trade. A stray hiker or maybe a die-hard Three Peaker who didn’t mind the rain and the fog and the probability of being cut off for days by sudden snow. And she had to face it, she needed the business. After Easter things would pick up, always did, but until then…
Imogen’s little guest house was situated in the hamlet of Countersett, close to Bainbridge, in the heart of the Dales. The perfect getaway for intrepid outdoorsy souls or those seeking solitude and inspiration. All Imogen was seeking was a decent living, but every year that seemed more and more difficult to achieve. Foot and Mouth hadn’t helped, but that was years ago now. These days it was the recession, and ever more severe weather that reduced the once steady flow of hungry, tired tourists to a meager trickle. The
family whose tail lights were now disappearing around the bend in her lane had been her first customers this week, though between the five of them they’d occupied all three of her available guest rooms, so she’d been glad enough to see them. Imogen had a sinking suspicion they might be her last. She had no more bookings for ten days, and meanwhile she had electricity to pay for, she badly needed to order a new load of logs, and her washing machine was on its last legs.
She saw no alternative if she wanted to carry on basking in such luxuries as light and heat. She needed a job. Anything would do, as long as it brought in a steady wage, and left her free in the mornings to dish up hearty breakfasts to any guests she might just manage to drag in off the fells. Sighing, reluctant to compromise on her dream of running a successful country guest house, but at heart a pragmatist, Imogen headed into her large kitchen to fire up her laptop. She Googled ‘temps in North Yorkshire’ and sat back to see what emerged.
An hour and a half later, Imogen had managed to register with three temp agencies. She’d possibly been a little overenthusiastic regarding her range of skills, but needs must. She had to get in the door, get in front of some prospective employer at an interview, then, maybe, she could sell herself. She was personable enough, if unremarkable in her appearance. She would never see her forty-second birthday again, but Imogen knew she looked no older than thirty five. Small and slim, she was always on the move, always bustling around, always busy. She kept herself fit, loved walking and cycling and chose not to own a car. Well, she might choose to own one if business ever picked up enough. Pedal power was cheaper, though. Shoulder-length ash-blonde hair—these days helped along by regular visits to a salon in Skipton—and a deft hand with cosmetics meant she could look decent. Presentable even. Add to that honesty, trustworthiness, reliability, reasonably literate. And she was definitely good with money despite having none to speak of. She could do shop work for sure, and would probably manage okay in an office, at a pinch. She wasn’t going to win any prizes for accurate typing, but she could find her way around a spreadsheet. Oh yes, she was definitely employable. Now all she had to do was convince someone who could offer her a job.
* * * *
Her somewhat strained job prospects were still exercising Imogen’s thoughts as she cycled back along the lane to her house later that afternoon. She was wondering about maybe finding some way of working from home—four buses a day into Skipton would make commuting to work something of a tall order in any case. Perhaps she could become an internet entrepreneur. Ebay was created for the likes of her, surely. Except she’d need a reliable broadband connection and mobile phone signal for that, and Bainbridge was not exactly speeding up the fast lane of the information super-highway.
Maybe she should think about marrying someone rich. That could be a good career move. She wasn’t even that fussed about the marrying bit, just the company would do. Well, except for the sex. Anyone of her age, single, and who was prepared to move out the back of beyond to live in her idyllic country retreat with her, would probably be into vanilla stuff. Too bland. Too—predictable—for Imogen’s taste. Not that she’d tasted much of anything for years now. Not since Sean.
She was amazed to feel tears pricking at her eyes. Christ, she’d thought she was past all that. Six years on, and she really, really should be past all that. Past sobbing at the sight of his picture tucked away in a drawer in her bedroom. Past gulping back her tears at a snatch of memory—a moment of remembered shared pleasure coming back to taunt her lonely present. Over the years she’d been alone, Imogen had trained herself never to glance in that rearview mirror. She had to move on, had to keep on trying to move forward. She would get there.
She supposed her problem lay in not really knowing where ‘there’ was. What was she looking for? If not a life with Sean, then what? There must be something else for her, but she hadn’t found it yet. Maybe she never would. She’d convinced herself that this guest house was her future, now she suspected it might be a millstone instead. She wondered if it had been a challenge to begin with, a huge responsibility that had the sole purpose of sucking up her attention, her energy and her drive. She needed to fill her days, and her nights with something. Anything. A distraction. And now she was failing at this, too.
She reached her gate, dismounted and unlatched it. She pushed her bike through, brushing the tears from her face with her gloved hand. Angrily she sniffed, determined not to give in. Not to spend another evening gazing at the television and lecturing herself on the evils of pouring another glass of wine, only to eventually stumble off to bed with no idea what she’d watched for the last three hours, and an ever increasing row of empty bottles waiting to go to the bottle bank.
She rounded the corner of her house and stopped dead. A car was in the driveway. A nice car, one of those large, smooth, purring things. As she came closer, she saw it was a BMW, its dark gray bonnet gleaming in sharp contrast against her brick-red gravel chippings. The car was empty, and as she stood admiring the sleek lines, Imogen balanced her bike against her front porch and glanced around for the occupants. They had to be here somewhere, there wasn’t another property for half a mile, nowhere else they might be. She reached out, laid a palm on the top of the bonnet and felt the warmth there. The car had not been standing idle long.
The crunch of footsteps behind her settled the matter. She turned and saw him.
Young. Ridiculously young to be let loose with a car like this. Her first impression was one of incredulity that this beautiful machine might be entrusted to the care of, well, someone like him. Someone with long, dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, full lips that smiled to reveal strong, straight, white teeth. And a tattoo of an angel on his tanned forearm. She had to admit, the artwork was impressive as he reached out to offer her his hand. Not to her taste, of course, but still…
“What? Sorry, I…”
He’d said something, but she hadn’t caught it. Too busy staring. And lusting after his car. And her eyes were still blurry, though that shouldn’t impair her hearing.
“I saw your ‘Vacancies’ sign. Wondered if I could hire a room. For the weekend?”
His hand was still outstretched, and belatedly Imogen took it. A brief shake, then, “Yes. Yes, that’ll be fine. The weekend? What’s that—three nights?”
“Yes, if that’s okay. Till Monday.”
“Monday. Right. Just bed and breakfast?”
“And evening meal, if you do that? I can’t be bothered looking for restaurants if I don’t have to.”
“No, of course. Evening meal’s fine.” Her head was busy totting up the tariff, and wondering if this unexpected windfall of a customer might stave off the evil day when she had to go out to work. Probably not. But it all helped. Maybe he’d recommend her to—someone. “Please, come inside. I’ll show you the room.”
She unlocked the front door and automatically toed off her calf-high Wellington boots as she went inside. He noticed, made to remove his polished leather shoes too, but she stopped him. “No, no. It’s just that I’ve been on the moors. It’s muddy. You’re fine.”
He nodded, murmured his thanks as he waited for Imogen to slip into her indoor pumps and lead the way upstairs.
She decided to offer him her best room. A double really, en suite, with its own kettle. And a sofa. And the best view of the moors. She’d offer it to him at the normal single rate. She opened the door at the end of her upstairs landing, stepped back and gestured him inside. She watched nervously as he cast his gaze around the room. Imogen was proud of the traditional oak furniture and—she hoped—classy but understated décor. His brief nod seemed to indicate he liked what he saw.
“Yes, thanks. This is really nice. It’ll do fine. Do you accept credit cards?”
Ah, awkward. Imogen really preferred cash. She didn’t have a terminal for accepting credit card payments, and checks too often bounced. She hated asking her guests for cash up front, but she had to be realistic. She was searching for a tactful way to explain, and was rel
ieved when he seemed to pick up on her concern. He was quick to offer reassurance.
“No? Not a problem. I’ll nip down into—where? Where’s the nearest cash machine?”
“Er, Bainbridge. In the co-op. I’m sorry, it’s just that we don’t have much call for… Most of my customers pay in cash. Or a check would do.” He really didn’t look the bouncy type.
“Cash works fine. How much?”
“With evening meal, it’s forty-five pounds a night.”
He nodded, smiled briefly. “A bargain. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
And he was gone, clattering down the stairs and out of the door. Imogen heard his engine roar into life, and the crunch of gravel as he reversed out into the lane
Well, he won’t be back, she thought to herself. Wonder if I need to drop my prices? And I really should have got his name before I chased him out.
Order your copy here
About the Author
In 2010, Ashe escaped a career in the public sector and started to write. Now she counts herself one of the lucky few who spend their time doing what they love.
Ashe has been an avid reader of women’s fiction for many years—erotic, historical, contemporary, fantasy, romance—you name it, as long as it’s written by women, for women. Now, at last in control of her own time and working from her home in rural West Yorkshire, she has been able to realize her dream of writing erotic romance herself.
She likes to write about people, relationships, and the general cock-up and mayhem that is most of our lives. She often writes about places she’s known but her stories of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of her own imagination, with a hefty dose of kink to keep it interesting. We all need to have a hobby.
