by MK Schiller
“Still, I hit a woman. It just tarnishes this whole thing,” he said, holding up the bouquet he’d caught. “I might as well start buying wife beaters and drinking beer from a can.”
“It was an accident,” Rick said.
“Yeah, my nose got in your way,” Billie said, holding the ice pack. She offered him a sweet smile, but Dillon couldn’t see through his own guilt.
“I ruined your wedding,” Dillon said to me, ignoring Rick. The poor boy was completely distraught, but before I could reply my husband did.
“This will just be another great story. We’ll be laughing about it in a few months. And what family is complete without its share of funny stories.”
“Oh, he’s definitely going to fit in,” Adam said. “Welcome to the family, Dad,” Adam said, clapping Damien on the back.
Damien raised an eyebrow, shooting Adam a warning expression. “Thank you, Adam, but if you ever call me that again, we’re gonna have issues.”
“Understood,” he said, chuckling.
“This isn’t the time for you to joke around, Adam,” Dillon replied.
“Calm down, Dills, I’m fine,” Billie said.
“Well, this is yours,” he said, putting the bouquet in her lap.
“No, you caught it. It’s yours.”
“You guys could just share,” I suggested.
“It doesn’t work that way,” they both replied.
“I don’t think I’m ready for it anyway. I want you to have it, Billie. Take it. I promise I’ll make this up to you.”
She giggled, pulling his tie. “Are you going to become the man of my dreams and whisk me off into the sunset?”
He sighed, rolling his eyes, but a playful smirk crossed his lips. “Honey, these flowers aren’t that magical.”
The hearty, robust laughs that followed were probably heard throughout the whole hotel.
I figured out that the best F-word is the one you always carry with you. The one that gives you strength and hope.
Family.
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
What’s Her Secret?: A Girl by Any Other Name
MK Schiller
Excerpt
Chapter One
Excerpt from Raven Girl
The worst part of being a kid was that you never knew how good you had it until it was too late.
Childhood was simple. My parents told me it was because I didn’t have bills to pay or mouths to feed, but it was more than that. It was because nothing was planned. When you didn’t plan for it, you didn’t worry about the consequences. They just happened naturally without the coercion, manipulation or mindfuck games that came with becoming an adult.
I never planned for Sylvie Cranston to be my best friend. I never expected her to be the muse in all my dreams, or the girl who later haunted my nightmares. I certainly never planned to fall in love with her, but that was exactly what happened.
Everyone told me I needed to move on. That was like asking me to pierce my own flesh and crush my empty, beating heart. They wanted me to toss it away and continue to breathe. How could a man function without his heart?
Age 10
“Caleb, the neighbours are moving in. Come on, I need you to carry the casserole.” My mother’s hurried voice echoed down the hall to my room.
I didn’t think that woman knew the term ‘lazy Sunday’. I had no desire to meet the new neighbours let alone bring them a casserole. I wanted to get out of my Sunday suit and fish before it was time to worry about Monday.
“Why can’t Mandy carry it?” I asked. My little sister and my momma were pretty much a package deal. Wherever Amelia Tanner went, Amanda Tanner followed. Mandy was my momma’s mini-me with long, curly red hair and dark green eyes that my father fondly referred to as sharply sweet. They even had the same pattern of freckles across their noses. However, my momma was elegant whereas my sister was as clumsy as a blind dog in a figurine factory.
“It’s way too heavy for her, and I’m not risking it. I worked too darn hard on it. Now get your butt in gear and help me.”
I begrudgingly walked out of my room to the foyer where the two females in my life waited for me impatiently. “Can I at least change first?”
My mother sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “They’re going to see you looking like a bum every day this summer. At least make a good first impression. I hear they’re from up north, and we want them to think of you as a perfect Southern gentleman, not the wild ruffian you are.” I shook my head, but didn’t protest. You didn’t argue with my mother. Even a peaceful protest was out of the question. “You know, there is no hospitality like the Southern kind, so let’s go show these folks how lucky they are to be living here.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, but it was exactly what I wanted to do. She smiled at me, ruffling my hair. “You never know, they might have a little boy your age.”
“Geez, Momma, you act like I’m five. I’m not a little boy and I don’t need a playmate.”
“You sure are throwing a temper tantrum like a little boy,” Amanda chimed in, who actually was five.
“You will always be my little boy. Now come on,” my mother stated.
I led the procession of Tanners, carrying the cheesy casserole dish that felt like it weighed at least twenty pounds. We marched outside our little brick ranch, walking all the way out to the sidewalk and crossing over the ten slabs of cement to the driveway of another almost identical brick ranch. It was easier to cut across the grass, but I knew better. My momma would have a few remarks if I dared cross the patch of grass between the houses. It was not proper. It was not neighbourly. And we had manners. This philosophy applied even though the other house had been vacant so long it was more like weedy thistle than a real lawn. Still, my father mowed it down once a week for appearances’ sake when he tended to our lawn. “Can’t let the neighbourhood go downhill,” he’d say. I knew with his promotion to sheriff, he would be working longer hours, and the chore would soon be mine. At least I’d only have to mow our lawn.
I stepped aside so my mother could knock on the door. A moving van was in the driveway and several men were unloading it. The whole thing was a little weird. No one ever moved to Prairie Marsh, Texas. Sure, there were people who left to pursue life in other parts of the country, only to return homesick or bitter from their experiences, but it was a strange occurrence to see a new family here. We were a small town in the middle of nowhere, East Texas. Even at ten, I knew that much.
A tall dark-haired man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt answered the door. This was strange too. People around here either wore Sunday clothes or regular clothes. This man was in semi-Sunday clothes. If you were doing heavy lifting, you definitely wore jeans. I doubted he would fit in.
“Well, hello, we’re the Tanners, your neighbours next door. I’m Amelia. This is my son, Caleb, but you can call him Cal. And this little princess is Amanda, but please call her Mandy.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry Cranston.” He shook my mother’s hand and smiled widely at Amanda. I one-armed the casserole dish to shake his hand, happy he wasn’t ignoring me like most adults. “Nice grip, son.”
We walked into the three-bedroom replica of our house I’d always known as Mrs Miller’s place. Mrs Miller had died last year and her son had sold it, but that had been months ago. We’d begun to think the new owners had changed their mind until my mother had spotted the moving van this morning. The old house appeared new again. The oak floors were so shiny they looked wet, and the furniture was brand new with the store tags still on it. The whole house smelt of fresh paint and lemon juice. That would please my mother. She liked a clean house.
I held up the casserole and thankfully Mr Cranston took it from me before I dropped it. I had no idea how my mother made that pan feel heavier than my dad’s old medicine ball in the garage, but she did. My dad always said, “The heavier the casserole, the better it is.” If that was the case, I was pretty sure my momma made the
best casserole in the county.
“I hope you like this,” my mother said, pointing to the pan.
“It smells divine.”
Did he say divine?
“My husband, John, would be here too, but he’s on duty today. He’s the sheriff.”
“I’ve heard. I’ll feel very safe living next to the sheriff.”
“We don’t want to intrude. We know y’all must be busy today.”
“It’s no interruption. The workers are still bringing in boxes.” Mr Cranston went to the kitchen and set the pan down slowly, as if he was afraid it might break. “Thank you for this. It’s been so long since we’ve had anything homemade.”
“Oh, your wife doesn’t cook?”
Mandy started snooping, picking up random items and turning them in chubby fingers. I grabbed her arm before she could touch one of the walls and smudge her grimy fingerprints on it. The ‘princess’ had a problem keeping her hands to herself. I stood with her against a corner, hoping my momma wouldn’t ask for a complete breakdown of the man’s dietary history.
“My wife passed away six months ago. It’s just Sylvie and me.”
Oh boy, this wasn’t good. My momma’s gossip senses were spinning. I knew she was already lining up a number of churchgoing single ladies to set Mr Cranston up with when he was ready.
“I’m so sorry,” my mother cooed. I knew what that meant. I’d be bringing over a casserole to this man every week.
“It’s been difficult on my daughter, but we’re adjusting.”
“I can’t even imagine. A girl needs her mother.”
“Can I offer you some coffee?” Mr Cranston said, gesturing to the round oak table by the kitchen.
“Maybe one cup if you’re sure.” My mother took a seat. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if I could ask to leave. Unfortunately, Amelia Tanner had other plans for me. “How old is Sylvie?”
“She’s ten.”
Momma clapped her hands together, forming a huge grin. “Cal’s ten. That’s wonderful. They’ll be in the same grade.”
Mr Cranston smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, as if it was painful to make the muscles in his face work. “That’s great. She has trouble making friends. It’ll be nice that she’ll have someone her own age next door.”
The last thing I wanted was to hang around some girl. Obviously, if she had issues making friends, there was a reason for it. Sylvie Cranston was going to be as irritating as a pound of blood-hungry mosquitoes trapped inside a camping tent.
“Where is your daughter?” my mother asked, adjusting a loose red curl from the heavy bun that sat on the nape of her neck. My father said she looked like Reba McEntire, and my mother always disagreed, but it was funny that she wore her hair like Reba had in The Gambler.
Mr Cranston’s eyes searched the room and he scratched his head like my father did when he lost his reading glasses. Did he not realise his daughter wasn’t here? “I’m not sure. She has a way of disappearing. She’s probably in the backyard.”
“Cal, why don’t you take Mandy and go find Sylvie.” It wasn’t a question. I sighed, but caught myself when my mother turned her sharp green eyes on me. Momma always received compliments on her eyes, the same eyes Mandy had, but I always thought they looked mean, especially now. I had my father’s grey eyes and sandy-blond hair. Momma referred to it as ‘model’ hair, but I really didn’t care for that expression. “That way us adults can talk. Go on, you two.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I tightened my clasp on Mandy’s hand, knowing expensive items had a tendency of shattering in her presence. I also knew it would be my fault if they did. For some reason, I’d been assigned the role of my sister’s keeper.
The former Miller, now Cranston, backyard was a carbon copy of ours, except we had a swing set and there was a noticeable shift between the lush green of our yard and the canary colouring of theirs.
It didn’t take long to find Sylvie Cranston. She was walking along the back of the property where the grass blended into a field, which led to the woods behind our houses. If you followed it down the path for a short distance, it would lead to the best fishing lake in the world…or at least, my world. I wanted to be there right now.
The girl was so skinny, I thought a strong gust of wind could knock her over. She was tall, though, with long brown hair that curled in a hundred different directions. She wore a long blue flowery dress that came down to her calves, and appeared to eat her up. It looked like something my momma would wear to church. There was a red bow in her hair that dangled as if it might fall out any minute and pink Converse shoes on her feet with black socks. It was weird. She was weird. I wondered if the Cranstons belonged to one of those nutty religions that made girls wear dresses all the time. That was just what I needed. Next-door cult neighbours.
I thought she didn’t hear us because she didn’t look up. It didn’t stop Mandy, though. She bounded down the steps and ran straight up to Sylvie.
“Hi, I’m Mandy and this here’s my brother, Caleb, but you can call him Cal. You’re in the same grade. We live next door. I like Barbies. My favourite colour is pink just like your shoes. Maybe when we get to know you better, you can babysit me when you get older. My daddy’s the sheriff.” Mandy’s face reddened, matching her hair colour, as it always did when she talked without taking a breath.
Sylvie smiled and bent down so they were at eye level. It was then she took off the ear buds, and the lyrics floated in the air between us for a few moments until she turned off her Walkman. It was a familiar tune, but the name escaped me. The few lyrics I heard would stick with me until dinner that night when I slapped my hand to my forehead and yelled out, “Crazy Love, by Van Morrison.” I only knew it because my father sang it to my mother occasionally. It was definitely not the type of song one typically heard on a Sunday in Prairie Marsh.
Sylvie didn’t say anything to Mandy. She just stroked her hair and sat on the ground. Mandy didn’t stop, though. She went on and on talking about the merits of Prairie Marsh like it was an urban metropolis of sophistication. She extolled our many attractions such as the Summer Saturday tractor pulls, the Fourth of July fireworks and the fact that we were due to get a Walmart next year. For her part, Sylvie listened and nodded, crossing her legs, tenting her hands and resting her chin on them, like she was actually interested.
Mandy ran off towards the field after a few minutes. “Mandy, don’t go into the woods,” I yelled.
“I’m picking Sylvie some roses,” she declared, giving me a warning glance. Mandy didn’t like it when I told her what to do. Little did she know I never asked for that job.
“Fine, but stay where I can see you. By the way, those are not roses, dummy,” I replied, gesturing to the wild daisies that grew at the edge of the property. Mandy was under the impression all flowers were called roses.
Sylvie turned to me then, glaring at me with the darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen. “A rose by any other name still smells as sweet,” she said, waving her finger at me. “That’s Shakespeare for your information.” Her voice froze me. I’d heard the unmistakable cadence of an East Coast accent on television and in the movies, but it was still strange hearing it in real life. It was sharp and clipped, and for some reason it made me smile.
“I know that,” I spat out. No, I didn’t. I had no clue who Shakespeare was, but I wasn’t about to let this girl think she was smarter than me.
Mandy was humming to herself picking those stupid daisies when Sylvie came and sat next to me on the steps. I tried not to grimace.
“Why are you so mean to her?”
“I’m not, and it’s none of your business.”
Mandy came up just then. “Look,” she exclaimed, dropping a dozen or so daisies in Sylvie’s lap.
“They’re so pretty. Do you want me to put some in your hair?” Sylvie asked, taking one and sniffing it, although I was pretty sure it held no scent.
Mandy squealed in that loud little-girl voice that usually gave me a headache. She sa
t on Sylvie’s lap and I watched as Sylvie threaded the daisy heads through Mandy’s hair. I should have been bored, but I wasn’t and I had no idea why. I was a little surprised at how my sister responded to this stranger. Mandy was an outgoing kid, but her instant liking for this odd girl seemed out of character.
“Can I do you?” Mandy asked, pulling Sylvie’s long hair towards her.
That was when I noticed the red circle at the nape of Sylvie’s neck, which had been covered by her long hair. Sylvie quickly pulled Mandy’s chubby little hand away and readjusted her locks back in place, hiding the mark. Mandy’s eyes went wide. Not over the mark, because I doubt my sister had seen it and if she had she probably wouldn’t even know what it was. No, Mandy was upset because she thought Sylvie was mad at her. Sylvie must have sensed it too because she patted Mandy’s hand.
“I’m sorry, I’m picky about my hair. It’s not as beautiful as yours.”
“I think it’s very pretty, like Barbie’s hair but brown and curly.”
So nothing like Barbie’s hair.
“Can you get some more of these?” Sylvie asked, pointing to the few daisy heads that remained in her lap. “The bigger ones? I’ll make you a crown out of them.”
Mandy bobbed her head so hard I thought it might fall off. Promise the princess a crown and she forgot about everything else. Mandy ran back towards the field, looking determined in her new mission. “Is that ringworm or a bite mark?” I asked Sylvie when Mandy was out of earshot.
“None of your business, Cal.”
“If it’s ringworm, it’s everyone’s business. I need to know so I can stay away from you. I don’t wanna catch that.”
She considered my statement for a while as if she wasn’t sure what it was. “It’s not ringworm,” she said quietly.
“Who bit you?”
“A vampire. I’ll probably turn into one myself.” She stared at me, narrowing her eyes. “I promise not to turn you into one if you won’t tell.” I almost laughed at her lame attempt to intimidate me, but I was too lost in what she’d said. The fact that she’d told me not to tell made me want to tell even more. Then she added in a hushed, sad whisper, “It won’t happen again.”
