Waiting for Callum (The Waite Family Book 2)

by Angel Devlin

  “I’ll call him straightaway.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ring me tomorrow?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I sat back on the sofa stroking my daughter’s hair and telling her that the television was broken but a man was coming around to mend it.

  Footsteps sounded up the path and I made my way to the front door to let in Callum Waite. I’d only met him in passing when he’d been working in Violet’s house and so it seemed strange to be letting him in at ten o’clock at night. I laughed thinking of if anyone had seen the widow letting a strange man in at this hour. Brenda who served at the mini-supermarket would be in her element.

  I noticed Callum look at me weirdly. I was probably looking back at him the same way. To this virtual stranger on my path. He had similarities in his looks to Milo in that you could see they were brothers if you knew them both, but Callum was a lot slimmer and a little shorter. Where Milo held himself with confidence, there was a reticence with Callum, a gentleness. Or maybe I was reading too much into the fact he was waiting to be invited in?

  “Sorry, Callum. Come in. I’m having strange thoughts. Excuse me.” I stepped back to let him inside.

  “It’s Cal, and don’t worry about it. The dark will do that to you. Makes you think of monsters and things that go bump in the night.”

  I looked wide-eyed in the direction of my daughter expecting a panic about the word monsters but there were tiny little snores coming from the sofa. Typical.

  “So I put the light on and there was a ping and then everything went off.” I attempted to explain. “That’s my technical term for you, a ping.”

  He smiled. “Okay, so I’m guessing you don’t usually look at the fuse box.”

  “Nope. That would be… have been, Rob’s domain.” I told him.

  “Well it’s—"

  “In the box near to the side door.” I finished for him. “I know where it is, just not how it works.”

  “Yeah, so can I go through?”

  “Unless you can repair it through telepathy.” I said sarcastically. God, my mouth just didn’t know when to quit. “I’m so sorry. Yes, of course. Let’s go through.” I walked through the kitchen, through the side door and pointed to the box on the wall near to the downstairs loo. He opened it and shone a torch inside where there were all these weird looking parts with switches.

  “So that’s the main switch.” Cal shone a light on one part. “That’s not been tripped. If you see here, that one is up when it should be down. It’s your lighting. My guess is your bulb went and tripped the circuit. My next question is do you have a spare bulb for your living room?”

  After removing the bulb and changing it for a new one, Cal flicked the switch back and all the electricity came back on.

  “Oh thank God.”

  “Well, it was me really, but I guess the big guy created everything in the first place.”

  I tilted my head at him. “Thank you, Cal. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you came round tonight. I’m glad Violet moved in, or I’d never have known you were there.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. I presumed it was going to be his sympathies.

  “I want to ask how you’re doing but I realise that’s the stupidest fucking question ever, so I’m not asking it. But the thought is there.” He said.

  It was no good. I actually sniggered.

  “Oh thank you, Cal.” I began to full on laugh. It was entirely inappropriate, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Fuck, take back what I said. I am asking it. How are you doing?”

  The more I looked at the pained expression on his face, as he shook his head and berated himself, the more tears began to run down my cheek. But they weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of relief, because as Callum Waite stood in front of me, he didn’t know what to do either.

  And that made two of us.

  Chapter Six

  Callum

  I’d been in the living room watching some car salvage programme or something equally brain numbing when I’d got a call from Violet. At first, I’d worried about Milo, but instead I’d found myself getting my tools together to go around to Becca’s house.

  I’d seen the curtains were open, the windows open too, but I didn’t know if she had someone just looking over the place for her while she was at her parents’ home. Now I’d been asked to go and help her with a power cut. What the hell did I say to her?

  Turned out, I’d said the wrong thing and had the woman standing in front of me in fits of hysterical laughter, tears rolling down her cheeks. The more awkward I felt, the more I tried to apologise, the more she laughed.

  Eventually after a few extremely awkward minutes and two attempts at stopping, Becca stood in front of me, rubbing at her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Cal.” She took some deep breaths. “Basically, I don’t know how this widow shit works and I hate it. I’m trying to behave how people think I should and the fact you said you wanted to ask but thought it a bit pointless, well, that just hit the spot.”

  I wasn’t quite sure they'd been my words, but I wasn’t arguing with the woman.

  “You don’t know how to act with me. I don’t know how to act with anyone. My head is a mess.”

  “That’s understandable. You just lost your husband.” And he might have got someone else pregnant.

  “Yeah and with that has come information that I don’t know what to do with. But you don’t need to hear that.”

  Becca looked like a woman who wanted to talk. Wanted to but felt she couldn’t. She was smacking her lips like they held an ocean of words behind them, but they threatened to drown someone if spoken.

  “Becca.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Now the leccy is working, are you going to make me a cup of tea? Seems the least you can do, and then, even though we’ve barely spoken before, you can say what’s on your mind, and I vow to never repeat it. Use me to get whatever’s eating at you off your chest.”

  She stood there, mulling over my words.

  “Can I just put Laurel in her room?”

  “Of course.”

  And that’s how I found myself on the sofa in Becca’s living room waiting for her to come downstairs and make me a drink and to confide in me about the reality of what had just happened to her. And rather than want to run for the hills, away from a newly bereaved woman and her raw emotions, instead I got up and filled the kettle myself.

  I heard her footsteps pad down the stairs and so I busied myself in the kitchen getting mugs ready just so I wouldn’t be staring at her when she came in.

  “Are you sure you want to stay for a drink?”

  “Sure. Want to tell me where the tea and coffee are kept and what you want?”

  “I’m giving you an out, Cal. I know you Waite guys are good guys, but you’re free to go.”

  I turned to her and waved the kettle. “You said I could have a drink, so I’m staying. So, tea or coffee?”

  Becca walked over and opened the cupboard above my head. “In here, but I’ll pass thanks. I’m going to have a whisky if you want to join me?”

  “You drink whisky?”

  Becca’s mouth quirked at the edge. “Do you know how many times I’ve been asked that question? What is it about whisky that makes it unusual for a woman to want to drink it? Is it a tough drink with its smoke and peat tones? Are women not strong enough to take it?”

  “You’re right. It was an arse of a question. Personally, I prefer a pina colada.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “Why do women do that face when I say I like a pina colada?”

  “You’re right. Sorry though, I don’t have any.”

  I sniggered. “I’m messing with you. I love whisky. Yes please.” I put the kettle down.

  “Oh my god, you fucker.” Becca pushed me in the arm. Then she reached for two tumblers and went into the wine rack for the whisky.

  “Neat, lemo
nade, water, or just ice?”

  “How you’re having it.”

  “Tonight, I’m drinking it neat. Fuck it. Though if I pour myself a third you have permission to take it out of my hands. I have my daughter to think about.”

  I followed her into the living room and took a seat. She poured us both a drink and handed mine to me, taking the other seat on the sofa. I almost raised it to hers in a cheers, enough that my hand went forward and then back again. She noticed and shoved her hand forward.

  “Here’s to conversations between kind-of neighbours about the fucked-upness of life.” She clinked her glass into mine. “It’s not strange at all to talk to a virtual stranger about how your marriage might not have been all you think, is it?” She took a large mouthful of her drink and didn’t flinch. In fact, she closed her eyes, smacked her lips together and seemed to relish the burn.

  I met her gaze. “We’re not strangers. I have a fact for you that you haven’t realised. Do you remember the night you met Rob?” I asked her, deciding to be straight with her.

  “We went to an Indian.” Her brow furrowed, waiting for me to elaborate.

  “He was late and you conversed with a stranger in the doorway. That stranger was me.”

  Becca’s eyes widened. “Shut the front door. How’d you remember that? I remember talking to someone but nothing else. It was years ago.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, not about to tell the widow that I found her unforgettable. “I’ve a good memory, but so, see, we’re not strangers. We’ve known each other years.”

  “I think that’s reaching, but I need to fucking talk to someone so I’m going along with it anyway.”

  Although I knew what she was about to say, I decided to keep my mouth shut and let her tell me herself. To unburden herself.

  She took a deep inhale and exhale. “At the funeral, a pupil Rob worked with came up to me and announced she was carrying his baby.”

  I widened my eyes and waited to see if she said anything else, but there was silence for me to fill.

  “And what’s the evidence in either direction?”

  “There’s nothing. Nothing at all. Just her word. I’ve begun to look through his things, but there’s nothing.” She paused again. “Nothing so far. And I find myself in the unusual situation of mourning a husband I loved dearly, the father to my child, with a question mark about how he loved me back thanks to a stupid teenage girl who probably just had a crush on him. Her counsellor. Her saviour.”

  “Fuck, Becca. That’s rough.”

  “Yup. The school have opened or are opening an investigation and all I can do is look through all of his things. Something I felt I’d be able to take my time with as I mourned him. Life is as they say a fucking bitch.”

  I leaned over, grabbed the bottle and topped up her glass. She looked at it. I could see the debate on her face.

  “Becca. Drink the whisky. You said to stop you after a third, this is only your second.”

  She took a sip. “I don’t even know how I find out if Rob was the father. He’s been buried. He can hardly supply DNA. And can you tell now, or do you have to wait until the baby is born?”

  I pulled out my phone and typed into Google ‘Can you do a paternity test before birth?’ I clicked into the NHS site’s information figuring that would be reliable information.

  “You can but it says sometimes you have to go to court for it as it could lead to people requiring terminations. They’d need DNA from Rob, blood test/cheek swab and they need to take fluid from the pregnant woman, an amnio.”

  “Lengths I’m not prepared to go through for what could be a troubled teenager’s imagination, so I guess unless evidence of the possibility turns up in the meantime, I just have to somehow ignore it until such time as she might have a baby. Fucking fabulous.” She took another swig.

  “Have you checked his emails? His belongings from the school?”

  “No. I haven’t had time, and school's closed, though the caretaker will be around.”

  “Well, maybe that’s your next steps, and to let the school get on with their investigation, and for now try to concentrate on your new situation which would suck however you lost your husband.”

  I note Becca’s taut jaw.

  “Whatever you find out in the future; right now, the husband you loved so very much passed away tragically. You have every right to let yourself go, to mourn his passing, regardless of what information comes forward. Don’t block it, Becca. Not facing things just hurts you in other ways.”

  “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience?”

  I made a scoffing noise. “Oh you don’t want to hear my story, Becca. I’m the villain in my piece.”

  “Really?” The frown lines were back on Becca’s brow. “I find that hard to believe, but then again I barely know you, and then again maybe my whole ‘good guy radar’ is broken. However, I thought you were talking about your mum. I know from Jules that you’ve had a secret turn up.”

  I was such an idiot. Of course she meant about my mum. About my half-brother.

  “It’s certainly a challenging time. I’m taking Eli bowling Saturday. Trying to get to know him a little better.”

  “Must be the time for random half-siblings to pop up. That’s what Zoey’s baby would be. The half-sibling of Laurel. I don’t want to know it or her if it’s true. Does that make me a heartless bitch? I want my family left alone.”

  “You’re bound to have all sorts of thoughts. Just let them come and then go, Becca. She might not even be pregnant.”

  “So do you now want to know where your mum is?" Becca's voice rose. "Sorry that was rude of me to blurt that out. You don’t have to reply.”

  “You’ve just confided in me about your husband. I have no problems in telling you about my mother.”

  “Just not about whatever you did in your love life?”

  “One secret at a time, hey?”

  “Sorry. I might have been widowed but I’m still a nosy bitch with no boundaries.”

  I laughed. Becca was not what I expected to find tonight at all. Yes, she was grieving; yes, she was troubled; but she certainly didn’t pull any punches with people.

  “I was nine when mum left. It was devastating. I always said that if she’d died it would have been better. I know that’s slightly insensitive given your current situation; but that way you know the outcome, you know they aren’t coming back. My mum went and was never heard from again. Now we’ve found out she had another son and abandoned that child too. What if there are more out there? And you say you wouldn’t want anything to do with Zoey’s kid if she was pregnant, but that’s like my dad telling Eli to get lost. It’s not Eli’s fault is it?”

  Becca finished her second whisky and sat with her head in her hands. “What the fuck am I going to do, Cal?”

  I moved closer to Becca on the sofa, putting an arm around her shoulder. Her body shook and I realised she was crying. I held her while her tears flowed until she eventually stopped and pulled away from me, rubbing at her face.

  “Sorry. Shit, bet you're so glad you came round.” She said, sniffling.

  “Let me get you something to wipe your eyes and nose.” I’d spotted kitchen roll on the side when we were sorting out our drinks, so I fetched the roll and pulled a sheet off for her.

  “Everything is too much for my head. I just need some normal.” She pointed to the mail on her coffee table. “I haven’t opened those yet. More sympathy cards. If I open them, I have to admit to myself that my husband died and he’s never coming back. And also, what if she sent something? What if there’s something there I don’t want to read?”

  “Becca, you don’t have to open them today. There’s no rulebook on being a widow.”

  “You mean I don’t have to walk around dressed in black for a month?”

  “No. Do what you want. Look, why don’t you come bowling with us?”

  She started to protest.

  “Hear me out. Vi’s going, along with me, Silas, Mil
o, and Finn. I think my dad’s going to come too. Oh and Angela, Finn’s mum. You can bring Laurel, it’s family friendly. She’ll enjoy all the fuss. You can just either bowl or sit and talk to Vi.”

  “It’s not very seemly to be out so soon after my husband’s death, is it?”

  “Wear black then.” I winked. “Look, you don't have to decide now. It might be too soon, but the offer is there, okay? And I’m sure it will turn into a regular thing because it’s a great way for us to get to know Eli better, so anytime you hear we’re going from Vi, feel free to tag along.”

  Becca had drunk her way through a third glass and I could see the alcohol taking effect. Her eyes were drooping with tiredness.

  “Right, I’m off, Becca. That’s your last drink, so I’ll just put the bottle back away in the cupboard for you.” She didn’t protest as I put it away.

  When I returned she was almost asleep on the sofa. But I knew that’s not where she’d want to find herself in the morning. “Come on, Becca. Let’s get you up to bed.”

  “Laurel’s room.” She mumbled. I was confused for a moment and thought she meant she wanted to know Laurel was okay.

  “I’ll just check on her for you.” I said.

  Dashing upstairs, I opened the door of what I knew from the layout of the houses would be the second bedroom, just a fraction. I saw the sofa bed was opened and realised that this was where Becca was sleeping.

  Heading back into the living room, I put an arm around Becca and slowly walked upstairs with her. I was sure it was more exhaustion than alcohol affecting her. As carefully and quietly as I could I guided Becca to her sofa bed until she was curled up on it. As I walked past Laurel’s small bed, her eyes opened for one brief moment and she said, “Dadda.”

  My heart shattered. For the dad that wouldn’t come home to her beautiful face, for the daughter who wouldn’t see her father again, and for the word that would never be uttered to me. Her eyes closed again. I moved stealthily out of the room and left via the front door, posting the keys back through the letterbox. Hoping we had a bottle of whisky in our house because I wasn’t done drinking tonight. Not by a long shot.