Out of Bounds

by Kris Pearson

  In the car only yesterday, Anton had said ‘don’t fall in love with anyone else.’ How cruel he’d been! After reading Gran’s words, it was obvious he was the only man in the world she couldn’t fall in love with. But she had. She’d plummeted into love with him like a stone being dropped into a deep dark pond. How would she regain the sunlight?

  She turned her eyes back to the letter. Gran’s writing became ever more difficult to read. Jetta’s eyes burned, and plainly the old lady had found it very hard to write about her husband’s infidelity.

  He will be about thirty now. A tall dark man like your grandfather, and possibly just as untrustworthy. Don’t believe anything he tells you. For the truth, ask Mr Winters.

  Or maybe not, Jetta thought. Anton and Horrie seemed to be best mates.

  Do not let this man steal your house. Have nothing to do with him.

  She turned to the final page.

  I have saved what little I can to make your life easier. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful success in whatever you choose to do. Look for the key in my wardrobe and spend it wisely.

  All my love forever,

  Gran.

  She sat there, statue-still, mind racing in random directions. The letter made no sense at all—except that it made the most horrible sense as well. How had Gran found out? And how awful for her to spend the last years of her life (if they were only the last years?) knowing her husband of so long had cheated on her.

  Somehow her grandfather had cooked up the inheritance scheme with Horrie Winters, and in the wink of an eye half her house had been whisked away and given to Anton.

  But that was absolutely not the worst of it. The pain of losing Anton far exceeded losing a house.

  She sat on, seeing his laughing blue eyes, remembering the amazing things he’d done. Painting the cupboard doors...her impromptu birthday dinner...his frantic rescue bid when she’d been trapped in the roaring inferno of her room. How much easier it would have been to let her burn to death and claim the whole house…

  So, had he really tricked her, or was he just as much a victim as she?

  Anton had said his father was Arthur Haviland, not David, and that he was married to someone else.

  Half right anyway.

  He’d probably put himself through hell trying to help her get past her fear of men. He got big points there as far as she was concerned. He didn’t deserve her hatred.

  She skimmed through the letter again and set pages one and three aside to keep for herself. Anton/Anthony could have the middle page and make of it what he would.

  As for her, she was off. Away from the man she couldn’t have, and the house she didn’t own, and the whole twisted situation.

  Putting aside any thought of going to work, she crammed her depleted selection of possessions into her new bags, and dragged the old suitcase once more from her burnt-out room. She stashed the most recent letters in her briefcase, and stuffed the rest—hers and Gran’s—into a big black plastic garbage sack.

  She looked at all the money.

  Anton needed money. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt and tell him it was her contribution to the apartments. Easy come, easy go. She had much more than that in her unexpected trust fund.

  She scribbled a quick neutral note for him, and set the suitcase on the kitchen table with Horrie’s letter and the middle page of Gran’s on top of it. She weighed it down with the house keys. Then she called a cab, lifted her two cases and the garbage sack of correspondence out onto the front path, and prayed she’d be gone before he returned from his breakfast schmoozing.

  She phoned Bren at work, said she was off to New York early, and made her promise not to tell Anton her whereabouts.

  Then phoned the Severino design studio, apologized, and asked them to keep whatever salary was owing to her in lieu of her last few days.

  When the cab drew up, she directed it to stop at the train station so she could deposit her bulging sack of letters in a left-luggage locker. Inspiration struck, and she inquired about the next passenger service north. Flying would have been faster, but she had long dismal days at her disposal before she was due to fly out for New York. She retrieved her Kindle from her briefcase, found a secluded seat at the far end of the platform, and attempted to pass the time until departure by reading. Anton would never think to look for her there.

  She was free. With a broken heart perhaps, but free.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Three Months Later

  Anton pulled up the collar of his cashmere overcoat, and twitched his scarf higher. Wellington in a southerly storm was no picnic, but New York in early spring had even more bite. The wind whistled through barely-greening trees, and sent awnings flapping and cab doors slamming.

  He glanced at his watch for the hundredth time, trying to close out the noisy blare of horns and ignore the scent of hotdogs from the nearby stand. Surely, she couldn’t be much longer? Sheltering in a doorway off the crowded sidewalk to avoid the worst of the bitter breeze, he’d half-convinced himself she wouldn’t even give him the time of day.

  But finally there she was, threading through the hurrying crowd—a floppy red hat dwarfing her small face, a red and black plaid jacket hugging her trim body, and snug grey velour pants diving into knee-high black boots. Three months of misery evaporated, and his spirits soared.

  He stepped out of his lair. “Buy you a coffee, ma’am?” he drawled over the noisy traffic.

  “Anton!” she squealed, rearing back, shock and distaste contorting her pretty face. A white poodle yapped at her boots. Its sour-faced owner scooped it up and glared at her.

  “It’s okay,” he added quickly. “No relation. Don’t look at me like that.”

  She stayed a couple of steps distant from him, but moved close enough so no-one would walk between them. She appeared far from convinced. “Really?”

  A cab pulled up against the curb, and the crowd flowed around the opened door, brandishing coffees, shouting into cell phones, forcing her nearer.

  “Really,” he insisted over noisy engines and constant gabble. “Your Gran got the wrong end of the stick for sure.”

  “Oh thank God.” But she showed him no sign of affection. Simply stood her ground like a startled gazelle, poised to run the instant she scented greater danger. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  His optimism dipped a little, and he pressed on, hoping to convince her. “Trying to find you. To let you know I’m not your brother, not your uncle. I’m not related at all.” He took a step toward her, hoping she’d stay. “I’ll tell you the whole story somewhere warmer than this.”

  Jetta’s expression softened. “You were looking for me? Have you been waiting long?”

  A glimmer of hope warmed him. “As long as I had to. It was worth it to see you again.”

  She sent him a small smile and hitched at the bag over her shoulder. “Well…”

  “Two hot coffees and I’ll carry that bag,” he added, reaching out and lifting the bulky many-buckled tote off her. “What the hell do you keep in this thing?” he asked, weighing it by its shoulder strap and narrowly avoiding clocking a small child sucking on a soda.

  “Samples,” she said, grimacing. “And today that includes ceramic tile.”

  He slung it over his own shoulder, pleased when she didn’t put up a fight. Pushing his luck, he slid his arm around her.

  “So who are you?” she asked. “Sounds like you know?” She slanted an inquiring look up from under the brim of her hat.

  “I turned out to be Horrie’s son.”

  “What!?”

  “Not what I expected either,” he said as they fell into step. “Oldest story in the book, though. Jaded boss far too attracted by pretty secretary. Boss already married, secretary falls pregnant, boss doesn’t want to upset wife.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  He shrugged. “Shattered. Devastated. Bitter and twisted. All the usual things I guess. But I’ve had time to think, and to put
it in perspective.” He sighed, loving the feel of her compact body against his. “There was always something I liked about Horrie. Mom used to take me in to the office sometimes to visit her old boss. I never knew why, of course, but that was the deal she made with him. Several discreet visits a year so he could see his son growing up, and as many photos of me as she could provide.”

  He lifted Jetta’s hat off, and when she glanced up to object, he spun her around and kissed her, softly at first, and then with real intensity once he sensed she wouldn’t pull away. “Babes, I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured against her mouth. “Come home to me once you’re done here. I’ve waited this long. I can wait longer,” He kissed her again, sliding his hand lower to cup her peachy butt.

  “This is a public place, sir,” she reminded him with mock severity as she broke away.

  “Yeah, but no-one knows who we are. We can do what we like here.”

  She grinned. “Nice theory—but I have to work in the area for a while longer, and it’s too damn cold...” She steered him into a coffee shop. “Tell me the rest in here,” she said. “You still take yours black?”

  She placed the order, apparently perfectly at home in this alien place. Secretly glad she’d remembered how he liked his coffee, he followed as she threaded her way through tables full of people to an unoccupied space near the back. He set down the heavy bag and pulled out a chair for her. At last they could talk—or attempt to.

  He dragged his chair close to hers because of the din, raising an eyebrow at the hissing, thumping, grinding routine of the huge Italian coffee machine and the babble of conversation all around them. People shrieked into cell phones, tapped on keyboards and tablets, shuffled documents. The scent of roasted coffee beans hung dense and fragrant in the air. Jetta avoided his eyes and started rearranging packets of sugar and pottles of creamer in the middle of the tiny table. “So how’s the study going?” he asked.

  “Brilliant, thanks. Hard work, but so worth it.” She hesitated a moment or two before asking, “And you?”

  “The apartments are coming on great.”

  Finally she looked up, and her dark gaze locked with his. “Yes—but you. How are you? Working too hard, I suppose?”

  “Only way to get it done.” He loosened his scarf and started on coat buttons, then reached out for the hand that wasn’t stacking up creamer pottles. “I nearly died when I found that money.”

  She looked down, and deserted the creamer to draw a pattern through some spilled sugar. “Was it enough to get you going again?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “How much was there?”

  He stared at her, open mouthed. “You didn’t know?”

  Jetta shook her head and raised her eyes to his. “I’d only just found it. Or found the key, anyway. It looked quite a lot. I hoped it would help.”

  “Jesus,” he said faintly. “Eighty-four thou. You really didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t have time to count it after reading her letter. Poor old Gran. She must have been squirreling away cash for years. She was a real hoarder. No wonder the house needed work and the furnishings were so bad. Shame she didn’t treat herself a bit.”

  She looked aside and blinked. Close to tears, he suspected.

  “Yeah, well, it’s all gone now. The house came down soon after you left. I re-jigged my timeline to try and save some dough on the foundations.”

  Her lips parted in a soft ‘oh’ of distress. “So where are you living?”

  He sent her a rueful grin. “Mom’s spare bedroom. I’m crammed in with all her painting gear. Won’t be for too long, and at least the food’s good.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up in an answering smile. “I bet Gran’s letter had you worried?”

  He blew out a long breath. “Stopped me dead for an hour or two, but then I managed to tie Horrie down. Demanded the truth. And one thing led to another.”

  The waiter arrived with their coffees and apple pastries. Jetta pushed the sugar and creamer back into a neat line. “So tell me the rest of the story,” she said once he’d departed. “Who was the mysterious Arthur? How did his name get on your birth certificate? Why didn’t Horrie and your mother ever marry? Why did we get half the house each?”

  “Okay—the mysterious Arthur was your Grand-dad, in a twisted way.”

  Jetta flinched, and sharpened her attention.

  “I think your Gran somehow got wind of their plan and misinterpreted.” He reached over and smoothed the back of his hand down her face. “Horrie is Horace Arthur. Your Grand-dad was David John. They were obviously good friends—and they cooked up a composite man called Arthur John Haviland. He went along to the Births, Deaths and Marriages Office to register my birth—to save Horrie being implicated at all.”

  “Oh my God,” Jetta breathed. “Poor Gran. How long did she have it wrong? I hope it was only something she decided once her mind was slipping.”

  “I suspect,” Anton added, “Horrie got into a bit of mild forgery. He was very cagey about something. Possibly fudged where the Child Support payments came from.”

  Jetta rolled her eyes. “Son of a forger,” she teased.

  Anton aimed a mock-punch at her jaw. “According to Horrie, if a man claimed paternity, no-one was too fussy thirty-odd years ago. I guess computers have made ID tracing a lot more accurate these days.”

  He heaved a sigh and she squeezed his hand. “They’ll never marry,” he added. “Mom enjoys her independence, and Horrie still has his wife, anyway.”

  “Sounds like they’re going to be Charles and Di and Camilla forever,” she mused.

  He rubbed his chin. “I think they’re long done with anything romantic. Certainly I’ve never seen Horrie at Mom’s. But some of his money went into my foundations to bridge the gap. And as to why we got half the house each, he swung a deal with your Grand-dad so he could leave me some sort of inheritance. He has two daughters who’ll eventually get the family home, and his wife will never know.”

  Jetta pounced on that. “You have sisters then?”

  “Half sisters anyway. One living in London, one in Germany. Horrie doesn’t seem too keen we should meet, but he showed me photos.”

  “Time does heal rifts.”

  He nodded, past giving a damn about other people. All that mattered was Jetta. “And what about us?” he asked, zeroing in on her eyes. “It nearly killed me, discovering you’d gone. No-one would tell me where. Your flat-mates were tight as clams, even after I explained we weren’t related. I finally thought to ask one of the Severino staff.”

  He watched as she took a sip of coffee, then another. Her silence unnerved him. “So— my question again; what about us?”

  Jetta stared at him, apparently nonplussed. “What do you want me to say? What are you really asking?” She tried to withdraw her hand.

  Anton tightened his grip. “I’m saying I miss you like crazy. That being without you is hell. That we ought to be together and see where it leads.”

  “Oh,” she said, letting her hand relax in his, sending him a tiny grin, and setting down her coffee cup. “That’s quite a lot.”

  His tight-strung nerves stopped their jangling. Maybe things would be okay?

  “Do you remember when you pulled over on that bus stop and kissed me?” she asked.

  His cheeks heated, and he prayed she wouldn’t notice. “Uh-huh…”

  “You told me not to fall in love with anyone else.”

  “Oh. Well...” The heat in his face intensified. Geez—talking about love wasn’t his thing.

  “So I haven’t,” she said. Her tiny grin blossomed into a full-blown smile. “I was already in too deep with you to ever consider anyone else. I’ll be home in another two months. Will you have somewhere for us to live by then?”

  His whole body slumped in relief, and his brain fixed upon the bright point in the future when he’d have her back in his life again. “Why does this matter more to me than the entire apartment project?” he asked, truly puzzle
d.

  Jetta leaned close and nudged his shoulder. “Because maybe you haven’t fallen in love with anyone either?”

  “Not until now,” he agreed, cupping her face up in both hands and smoothing his thumbs over her cheekbones. Then he folded the brim of her hat back so he could stamp a true kiss of ownership onto her sexy mouth.

  Epilogue

  Jetta rolled the big bi-fold glass doors aside and stepped out onto the balcony. Everything around was chaos. Driveways were unsealed and garden boxes unplanted. Scaffolding still encased the rest of the apartments, and tradesmen’s vans and pickup trucks clogged every available parking space.

  Only at Number One, Ballentine Park Mews, did peace and tranquility reign. Anton had moved mountains to get their home ready in time for her return from New York. Here, the plumbing worked faultlessly, the tile gleamed, the carpet glowed like velvet, and the walls provided a freshly painted backdrop for Gran’s old watercolors, the long grey suede sofa, and the oversized TV.

  She leaned her elbows on the balcony railing and scanned the site for his tall frame. Somewhere there he’d be togged up in a hard hat and fluorescent construction vest.

  She drew her cardi fronts together and folded her arms. She’d barely left New York’s chilly spring behind and now she was back into Kiwi winter. Bad planning on her part, but the sun poured in to the apartment all day, keeping it toasty warm. She’d hadn’t switched the heating on for the entire week she’d been home.

  A noise behind made her turn. Anton—hat in hand, garish vest over jeans and thick jersey, and a huge grin just for her.

  “I was looking for you,” she said, stepping inside again and gliding the big door shut.

  “And you’ve found me.” He pulled her in for a full-body hug, nipping her ear, sliding his lips down her neck until he reached her collar. “You’re going to need something warmer than this where we’re going.” He eyed her shoes. “And lower heels for walking.”