Key to My Heart: An Anthology of Sweet Romance

by Alice La Roux

  My mother clears her throat nervously. “Michael…”

  “No, Denise,” he says firmly as he slams his hand down. “He’s part of this family. He can act like it.”

  I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “What a joke.”

  “What did you say, boy?” he growls, rising from his seat.

  “I’m not coming.” I smirk up at him as my mother takes Jenny, who’s been too engrossed in her new Tamagotchi to notice the argument, from the room.

  He’s towering over me now, trying to intimidate me as he screams, “You bloody well are.”

  I give an exaggerated sigh. “No, I’m not. I’m not playing happy families.”

  A cracking sound fills the room before I even register that he’s backhanded me. I push myself to my feet, and at six foot three, I stand above him, and he hates this. The clink of metal and rustle of fabric tell me he’s undoing his belt, ready to give me a hiding. My mother rushes back and tries to calm him down, begging him to stop as she places her hands over his, but he’s lost to his rage. He draws back his arm to strike, but I catch his wrist and grip tightly.

  “You’re a wanker, Michael, and we all know about your affair,” I hiss in his face, as I dig my fingers into his skin. “I don’t know why you dragged us here. I hate you.”

  “Jack…” my mum whispers, tears streaming down her face now.

  “I’m only here for you, Mum, not this piece of shit,” I say, trying to stay calm as I finally shove him away from me and into the corner, where he glowers at me.

  I storm out of the cottage and run. I don’t think about where I am headed, I just run and run until my lungs hurt. It isn’t until sand sneaks inside my trainers that I realise I am at the beach. I want Willow. I need her to calm me down. She has been my safe haven since I got here, my shelter from the reality that when I go back to London at the end of August, nothing is going to be the same.

  I finally stop at the dunes, where the last of the grass disappears into the sand, and lie back, looking up at the sky. Vibrations in the ground tell me that someone’s sat down beside me, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Willow. She finds me in the darkness, like she always does.

  Chapter Five

  I explain about our fight, my mother’s sadness swallowing her whole and how I can’t stand the man who calls himself my father. I voice it all; I let it carry on the wind as my rage blows away with each breath. Willow lies beside me, saying nothing as these weights are lifted. She just holds my hand tightly, anchoring me to her so I am not swept away. I kiss her fingers, hand still firmly in hers.

  Turning on her side to look at me, she whispers, “I think you need to go back.”

  “No way,” I grind out, as I stare straight up. The stars twinkle above us as a few clouds drift aimlessly across the night’s sky.

  Willow watches me, the moonlight reflecting in her eyes. “I know you hate Michael for what he’s done to your mother, to your family, but it isn’t really your choice to drive him away.”

  I almost growl. “What?”

  She sighs gently. “Your mum loves him. She loves you. And right now she’s being torn between the two of you. She needs you to be on her side—to support her—not adding to her burdens.”

  “How can you say that?” I shake my head at her.

  “I’d give anything to fight with my parents again. I don’t have what you have, but if it was my mum, I couldn’t hurt her like this.”

  “Willow—” She’s never really talked about her family before, and it’s like something slots into place as I realise she may not have a happy home life. We’ve never spoken about it, only touched on how she feels like an outsider in her own house. My relationship with Willow is based purely in the moment. We exist together here and now, and that is all either of us needs.

  “She might leave Michael. She might not. But it’s not your choice. You just need to find a way to be there.”

  “It is my choice. I don’t want to be around him.”

  “Stop throwing a tantrum and grow up a little. Life isn’t like this. It’s not all beaches and daisy chains.” There’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before—an edge that isn’t Willow. Something’s wrong with the carefree hippie who’s wormed her way into my life.

  “What’s gotten into you? I thought you understood...”

  For a moment or two, she says nothing, tears forming in her eyes as she slowly pulls her hand free of mine. “Jack, I’m leaving soon. My family... It’s time to move on, grow up, and I came to find you to tell you.”

  I sit up, not sure I’ve heard her right. “What? When?”

  “Soon,” she says, her voice hushed. “You know this summer had to come to an end.”

  “Yeah, but not yet. Not like this.”

  “Why? Because it had to be you leaving me behind?” She gives a small laugh. Willow once told me that the worst part of living in Pembroke in the summer is always saying goodbye to new friends. Every winter, she’s back to being alone, and she hates it.

  “It’s not like that. I was going to call and write…”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you.”

  She shuffles closer to me. “So let’s just spend tonight together and not think about it anymore. What’s the point being broken up about something you cannot change?”

  What would I do without Willow? In my head, I’ve built it up so that we’d stay in touch, she could come to London in half term, and I’d come down here at Christmas. We’d make it work. I want to make it work. I’m not ready to give up my gypsy queen.

  When I kiss her, it’s not like the other ones we’ve shared. This one is tinged with sadness, with a need to etch this moment in our memories forever in case it’s our last. I run my hands through her wild hair as she pulls me close. We’re trying to remember every touch, every sound, every emotion as we hold on tightly. This can’t be goodbye—not yet. We spend the rest of the night in silence, curled up on our beach, her head on my chest as she finally drifts to sleep.

  Chapter Six

  I let myself into the house early the next morning. I woke up alone on the beach, but the sand beside me was still warm. The plan was to talk to my mother and then go find Willow: I want to spend as much time together before she has to leave.

  My mother is sitting at the kitchen table, eyes red, as she nurses her cup of tea.

  “Mum?” I whisper gently. Jenny’s room is right above us, and I don’t want to wake her just yet.

  “Jack, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried all night,” she hisses as she stands and pulls me into a tight hug.

  “I was with Willow. I needed to think some things through.”

  She gives a small smile as she lets go and sits back down. “You and me both, baby.”

  “Look—let me just say something first. I’m sorry, I’ve been making things harder for you, and whatever you want to do with...” the word gets lodged in my throat, but this isn’t for me, this is for her, I remind myself. “With Dad...I’ll support you. I want you to be happy.”

  “Oh sweetie, Michael left last night. He decided that when we get back to London you will have to move out, and I wasn’t prepared for that. You’re my baby. It was the final straw, Jack, and I realised I’ve been so miserable lately trying to keep him with us that I was risking you and Jenny.” Tears stream freely down her face, plopping onto the kitchen table.

  “Right, enough adult drama,” she says with a sniff, pulling tissues out of her dressing gown pocket. “Things are going to be better from now on, but it does mean we may have to stay here a little longer while Michael sorts things in London. Are you okay with that?”

  I nod. It means more time with Willow. Why would that be a bad thing? Grinning, I quickly shower and change before heading to the beach. I want to find a black pebble; I want to add to her collection as a sign that we’ll never forget each other. It takes me over an hour to find one I’m happy with. It’s about three fingers across in size, perfectly b
lack with little specs that seem to shimmer in the sunlight. What makes it special is the line that runs all the way through it: it’s almost silver and none of her other pebbles will have this imperfection. This symbolises the both of us, not just her, and I feel a thrill at that.

  With the pebble safely in my pocket, the next challenge is to find Willow’s house since I’ve never been there before. I wander down into town, to the sweet shop I know she likes, and ask around. The lady who owns the Off Licence is able to point me towards a large house a ten-minute walk away. When I get there, my eyes almost pop out of my head: it isn’t a house, it is a mansion with huge gardens. There is a flurry of activity as two moving vans are being filled with boxes, but there is no sign of Willow.

  Nervously, I walk up the long driveway and try to catch the attention of a woman in a smart black dress, who seems to be organising the chaos.

  “Urmm, excuse me,” I call out, my hands shoved firmly in my pockets.

  Her brown eyes turn on me, and a smile lights up her face.

  “Are you Jack?” she asks softly.

  I nod. “Is Willow here?”

  Her smile fades just a little. “I’m afraid Willow has had to accompany her grandfather and her cousins to Japan.”

  I frown. “Japan?” She hasn’t just moved to a different part of the United Kingdom, she’s moved continents.

  “Yes. Mr. Blake has just opened a new factory over there and has decided that this time Willow should accompany him,” the woman explains, and there is a look of pity on her face that makes my lip curl a little.

  “When will they be back?”

  “I’m not sure. But wait—Willow asked me to give you this if you should come looking for her.”

  The way she says ‘if’ irks me: of course I was going to come looking for her. Willow is under my skin, she is like the sand in my shoes—inescapable. The lady hands me a glass jar filled with all of Willow’s black pebbles and a note written on purple paper.

  I nod as I take them and leave. There’s no point lingering when Willow isn’t even here. I stop in the dunes and sit, looking at the jar. Each stone has been handpicked, searched for with care and attention. Why would she leave me this? She once said that she belonged to the beach and it her, so why leave it behind? I unfold the purple paper and read Willow’s neat handwriting inside.

  Keep this jar safe

  My soul belongs to the beach, but my heart belongs to you.- Willow

  I hold on tightly to the note, the paper crumpling in my fist. She’s given me her heart and soul in a jar then left without saying a word. The weight of the glass container almost filled to the brim grounds me as I add my own stone to the collection. Last night had been our goodbye. I’d known it, but I hadn’t wanted to accept it.

  This was the end of my first summer romance.

  I trudge back to London, changed and lugging a pebble jar that would sit on my shelf for a very long time. When I think back to Willow, I picture sunshine and sand, big blue eyes, being barefoot, with bangles and daisy crowns.

  And reader, when I see Willow Blake again, ten years later, nothing has changed.

  Chapter One

  “Darling, when people come to Venice, they come for the cultural delights, not gruesome old wives’ tales,” Ava said, looking at her youngest son with despair.

  “But Mum, it’s all just so fascinating,” he replied.

  “No, it’s not,” she said and lifted her newspaper so that it blocked her view of the strange child she had produced.

  Luke sighed and stared at the early morning tourist crowd milling around the square. His eyes were pitch black, much unlike his mother’s ice blue ones, and he had swathes of unruly black hair. His mother always managed to look elegant. He always managed to look homeless.

  This was the last time he was coming on a family holiday. At thirty-four, he was able to go on holidays alone of course, but every year, his mother paid for the whole brood—children, partners, grandchildren—to jet off to a villa somewhere. For the last six years, these holidays had been for him to keep his mother company while his three brothers and one sister went of gallivanting with their own families. Just because he was not, as yet, married, didn’t mean that he should cater to his mother’s every whim.

  He watched as the familiar face of the eldest Archer son walked towards them. Michael was the spitting image of their mother. He had the same sleek blond hair and winning smile. Their dad used to say that Michael could charm the birds from the trees whereas Luke could make them disappear.

  “Morning, Mum. Luke. How are we today?” Michael asked as he sat down on a chair stolen from the next table over.

  The three old men sitting at the table were laughing but making snide remarks in Italian. Luke could understand just enough to know they were talking about his brother’s arrogance, rudeness and the likelihood of imminent karma.

  The waiter came back to the table, bringing with him fresh coffees and a breakfast selection for them to pick at, as he had every morning for the week and a half they had been in Venice. Luke’s mum tipped well, so the waiter was always exceptionally attentive. He topped up the two empty cups on the table and then with a flourish, produced a third cup, making a display of pouring the coffee into it from a great height. Once the coffee was on the table, Michael began discussing his plans for the day. He and his model-like wife were to go shopping yet again. Luke switched off and stared into the distance, thinking once more about the tales he had heard.

  Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting screech and Michael leapt up from his chair. His cream chinos were dark around the crotch and he was hopping from foot to foot whilst simultaneously trying to pluck the material away from his genitals. The old men at the next table were in uproar, laughing heartily with tears streaming down their faces. Michael’s cup lay on the edge of the table, empty, having spilt its sweet nectar straight into his crotch.

  “I might need hospital treatment!” he screamed. “Who serves coffee that hot?”

  “Darling,” their mum said serenely, “we shall get you back to the villa where I have several ice packs in the freezer. Luke, are you ready to go?”

  “Oh, no, Mum. I think I will stay here and finish breakfast, then take a slow walk back. I need the fresh air and the exercise really.”

  “Yes, you do,” she replied. “You are looking rather porky around the middle.”

  With that, she put her arm around Michael’s waist and helped him hobble towards the taxis waiting to take tourists out for the day. As they walked away, he could hear his mother soothing her favoured son as if he were just five rather than forty-five. He smiled and shook his head. Oh, to be so loved, he thought, knowing full well that two weeks once a year was suffocating enough. Michael had the unfortunate situation of living within walking distance of their mother back home. He didn’t seem to mind the daily visits, almost certainly because the apron strings had never been cut, but Luke couldn’t see his sister-in-law taking it for much longer. She was only twenty-four, they’d been married less than a year and her patience was already wearing thin.

  The waiter came back over to the table and started to clear up the mess. Luke smiled at him and asked if he could make the coffee hotter in future. He laughed, clapped Luke on the shoulder, then translated for the old men at the next table. They cackled like ancient women and offered to buy Luke a drink, but he declined. He left the money on the table to cover the breakfast as well as a substantial tip.

  He left the square, tucked his newspaper under his arm and headed down towards the water front. He had an unexpected free day, and he intended to use it in the best way possible.

  Meandering along the edge of the lagoon, he could see the tantalising horizon of Poveglia Island. He had done his research and new that it was illegal to visit the island. He knew that no tours ran there, but he also knew it was supposedly the most haunted island in the world. The macabre in him desperately wanted to say he had set foot on Poveglia Island and survived. He wanted a story to tell
when he went home this year rather than his usual, nonchalant “it was a lovely holiday.”

  Eventually, as the sun sat high in the sky, he came across a small business hiring out canoes and kayaks. He lied through his teeth, telling the man that he was a canoeing aficionado and did not need any advice or someone to go with him on his little tour around the lagoon. Well, he thought, he had been in the rowing team at university many years ago; it would probably be similar. He asked them to hold onto his paper and paid for a vessel for two hours. From the launch point, he could actually see the tip of the island across the peaceful bay, so he had no concerns.

  So as not to alarm the boat company nor alert any authorities, he paddled away from the jetty and down along the edge of the Venetian peninsular. Once he was well out of sight, he switched direction and with increased effort, he slipped across the lagoon towards the island.

  He decided to row around the edge of the island, but then discovered a canal which went straight through the centre. He followed it, and halfway along, found a set of steps with a mooring. After carefully extricating himself from the kayak, he sat on the top step trying to get his breath back. He had not been prepared for such an arduous journey in the heat. His wide-brimmed hat had protected him from sunburn, but not from sweat and dehydration. He felt shaky and in need of water that was safe to drink. He had nothing on him.

  He shuffled back down the steps to the kayak and rooted around in the storage space in the boat. He finally found a small pack which contained three bottles of water and a protein bar. He stood up a little too quickly, steadying himself on the wall. In that moment, the rope tethering the kayak slipped from his hand. He watched in a haze as the kayak drifted away from the mooring. As it went completely out of reach, he heard the tinkling of his mobile phone and saw the screen light up with a picture of his mother from where it had fallen within the dark hollow cavity of the boat.