by Ash Harlow
She climbs onto my wet, sandy lap and sits astride me. “In all seriousness, Luther, this ring is stunning. Thank you. I would love to marry you. And, maybe once or twice I did have a wedding fantasy. Perhaps we could start with one baby, and see how we like it.”
“Two,” I say, because I’m greedy.
“Okay,” she grins. “Two.”
“That’s the spirit.”
EPILOGUE
GINGER
I go alone to speak to Mom. Luther wanted to come with me, to support me, but I think his presence will inflame the situation. She’s in the kitchen when I arrive and offers me tea, glancing at my left hand and making no comment.
Luther’s ring is impossible to miss. I think aliens can see it from outer space.
We sit at her small dining table. The ever-present Sudoku book has a pen between the pages, marking her place.
“Pour the tea. I want to show you something,” she says. She leaves the room and returns moments later with a photo album.
I sip my tea and try to stay calm as she flips the pages of the album before turning it to face me. The photo she wants me to look at is a picture of Vanessa on her first day at school. Apart from the hair color—Vanessa’s hair was dark blonde, almost brown, rather than the strawberry blonde Rachel and I have—the girl in the photo is the image of Rachel.
“This is why I told you at the supermarket that I’d seen Rachel before. A mother remembers the face of her child at every stage of their life. From the newborn baby all the way through to adulthood. The face, the eyes, the mouth, all imprinted and never forgotten. When I saw Rachel, I knew I was looking at Vanessa’s daughter. Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”
I nod. “I’ve only just discovered this myself.”
“I knew all along of Rachel’s existence. The hospital gave me details that Vanessa had died as a result of septicemia after giving birth. I tried to find Rachel. She should have been here with us, but I was stonewalled by a lawyer. You know who I’m talking about. I found Jean Carson, though. She sent me a photo of Rachel. From one grandmother to another. I saw the privileged upbringing Rachel had and, legally, I expect I could have challenged custody in court, but that would have been expensive, and Luther Angstrom would have fought me all the way.”
I’m seeing another side of my mother, and I’m getting a deeper understanding about why she’s been the way she has all of these years. I’m also trying not to be hurt that she never shared this information with me.
“Vanessa adored her father,” Mom says, “and never forgave me for not letting her go to live with him when he left. She punished me by leaving when your father left, Virginia. But that’s water under the bridge. The wee girl is back in Waitapu where she belongs.”
“I’ll bring Rachel around to meet you,” I say.
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
I notice her look at my hand again. “There’s no easy way to tell you this,” I say. “Luther and I are engaged to be married.”
“Forgive me if I don’t congratulate you. That family takes everything of mine.”
“He’s not taking me, Mom. We want you to be part of our family. Rachel deserves to know you. This is Luther’s idea, and it goes against Vanessa’s wishes, but he thinks it’s the right thing to do. Get to know him. He’s a good man.”
She makes a sound and sips her tea. “Is he a good father to Rachel?” she asks.
“The best.”
“Does he treat you well, and I don’t just mean with money and flashy jewelry?”
“Of course, Mom. I wouldn’t have said yes if that wasn’t the case. I love him, and he loves me.”
“I can’t stop you, but tell that man if he hurts my girls, I’ll hunt him down.”
“With your bad knee and back?” I tease.
“I’d do it from my deathbed. You’ll have your own children one day, Virginia. Nothing makes you stop loving them.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I say, and I mean it with all my heart.
***
One Year Later
“Hurry up, Mommy, it’s time. Grandma’s here,” Rachel calls. She now calls Luther and me Daddy and Mommy.
I put the cap back on my lipstick and examine my face. The color I’m wearing today is Angel, which seems completely appropriate. I run down the stairs and find Mom in the kitchen where Rachel’s presenting her with her latest painting.
“I think Grandma’s running out of room on her fridge door for another painting,” I say.
Mom shakes her head. “I love them. They brighten the house.”
Luther joins us in the kitchen and, as usual, my heart gives an extra thump, it’s that pleased to see him.
“Are we all ready?” he asks.
“Yes, we are, Daddy. Let’s go. I’m carrying Real Mommy, remember?”
“You are? I’d forgotten,” he teases. He passes Rachel the urn which she holds with reverence. Luther picks up the basket of food and we make a sombre procession to the bottom of the garden.
Luther has managed to track down Vanessa’s ashes, where they had remained at the crematorium. For the past two months, Luther and Rachel have been building a cairn from rocks they collect on their walks. They’ve assembled it piece by piece in a beehive shape and today, on the anniversary of Vanessa’s passing, we’re going to place the ashes in the cairn.
“Shall I do it now, Daddy?” Rachel asks when we reach the cairn.
“Away you go. Just lower it in like you practised.”
We watch Rachel lower the urn, then she puts her hands together and says her blessing.
“We built this for you, Real Mommy, so that you can look out to sea as you rest in peace. And you can watch me swimming. Some days, you will see dolphins, but every day you will see the sunrise, and I will look at the sunrise, and we will watch it come up together. I hope you like it. I love you. Rest in peace.” She turns to us. “Now you all have to say rest in peace, too.”
We say our words.
“Cake!” Rachel shouts.
Mom hands Rachel a slice of cake from her birthday party two days ago. Rachel places it in the cairn with the urn.
“I promise to share my cake with you every birthday,” Rachel says. “Do the lid now, Daddy.”
They’ve found a broad flat rock which Luther fits as a lid to the cairn and Rachel promptly uses it as a seat. “I’m sort of sitting on Real Mommy’s knee,” she says.
Luther’s brought chairs down for the rest of us and we sit to eat our picnic lunch.
When we finish eating, Mom stands. “I’d like to say a few words, and then it’s time for me to go because that chair is giving my back hell. I haven’t always admired you, Luther, but I expect that’s because I didn’t know you well. Appearances can be deceiving, and you do have a lot of tattoos. But I wanted to take the opportunity today to thank you for bringing this family together. I can honestly say if it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have three generations of Houghs in one place. You returned Rachel to us, you cared for my daughters, and for that, I’m immensely grateful. You’ve healed our family, Luther. Thank you. Now, if you could just hurry up and marry that daughter of mine, I’ll be completely happy.”
“Thank you for believing in me,” Luther replies. “I won’t let the family down.
***
Thank you for reading Clusterf*ck. I do hope you enjoyed Ginger and Luther’s story. I’ve included for your enjoyment other stories set in semi-fictitious town of Waitapu, on New Zealand’s Coromandel Peninsula. Darcy & Oliver’s book, Crave, and Reuben and Stella’s story, Stellar Love.
CRAVE
Oliver & Darcy ~ Waitapu Bay
© 2017 Ash Harlow
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
READERS NOTE:
This story is set in New Zealand and uses British spelling for some common words. Therefore, ass becomes arse, and you’ll find an occasional extra ‘u’, ‘l’, and ‘ise’ throughout the story. Don’t be alarmed!
In accordance with the rules of te r
eo Māori (Māori language), the plural suffix –s has not been added when a Māori word is used in a plural context.
INTRODUCTION
Revenge is sweet, but Darcy is sweeter.
I don't go to bars to pick up women, I don't have to.
But when I see the sweet little minx sitting alone at the end of the bar, I seize the opportunity to find out more.
She's new to town and I want to keep her here, so I offer her a job.
And Darcy is more than just a great opportunity.
Tight body. Mouth made for pleasure. Legs for days.
My first taste of Darcy is my first taste of heaven.
But Darcy has demons, and so do I.
If mine show up, it could tear us apart.
It's not just sizzling attraction that binds us.
Someone is trying to take us both out.
I'll do anything to protect Darcy.
And I'll do anything to make her mine.
1 ~ DARCY
Standing at the doorway, about to beg for a job, wasn’t a measure of how far I’d fallen. I’d found the bottom of my well a year ago. A job filling mugs of beer in this sports bar was me on my way up.
Working men came to this bar, not to pick up women, but to get their day off their chest. They poured beer down their throats, and thumped their glasses back on the cracked-varnish tables with a satisfied sigh. Or a burp. Nobody cared. Manners were for home.
I entered with my head held high, crossed the floor, and at the bar, I asked for the manager.
“Andy’s not here, sorry. He was called away.” The bartender, who I had hoped might soon be a colleague, gave me an apologetic smile.
I pushed back at the disappointment. Andy, the manager, probably regretted agreeing to discuss the possibility of a bar job. Unfortunately, like everywhere else in small-town New Zealand, there probably wasn’t a vacancy for me to fill.
“Have a glass of wine, on the house,” the bartender offered.
“Thanks, but I shouldn’t—” I was close to being a charity case, but not quite there yet. Anyway, I didn’t want a drink, I wanted a job.
The bartender spun around to the bar fridge and pulled out a bottle. “Oh, come on. It’ll make Andy feel better about letting you down.”
If Andy had instructed his staff to pay me off with wine for letting me down, it seemed my appointment wasn’t about to be rescheduled. What the hell, I’d take the free drink as compensation for dressing up in my one decent outfit and making the fifteen-minute walk into town in heels.
“Thanks, Simon.” I said, as he poured my drink.
He tilted his head as if surprised by my use of his name.
“Name tag,” I said, pointing to his chest.
“Oh, right.” He blushed. “Darcy, isn’t it? Grab yourself a seat and I’ll bring your drink.”
The bar was filling with the after-work crowd and only a few larger tables were unoccupied. I didn’t want to sit solo at a table for eight, looking as though I’d been stood up, not by one man, but by an entire group of friends, so I took a spot at the bar, away from the serving area. It was darker, and I could guzzle my wine inconspicuously and get out of there.
Another day chalked up to my year of not catching a break.
It had been a long time between drinks and I sipped cautiously, the chilled alcohol flooding me with warmth. Half a glass later I felt an unnerving sense of confidence creeping through me. Breakfast was eight hours ago, so I placed my glass on the bar and ordered myself to slow down. I was more hungry than thirsty, and if I replaced food with booze anything could happen.
I swung between feeling confident and glancing around the bar, to being overcome with a sense of inadequacy. The lone girl in town with no friends. I pulled out my phone and thumbed around with it. Not that I had anyone to call, but if I faked some texting I wouldn’t look like such a loser.
Studying the weather app with way more interest than it warranted meant I hadn’t noticed Simon’s approach. He placed another glass of wine in front of me. Now the manager was overcompensating. There was enough apology in the first glass.
“Thanks, but I’m about to leave.” I held up my hand because it was possible the second one wasn’t complimentary, and I didn’t have the money to quench a thirsty bar tab.
“There’s a gentleman at the end of the bar. He sends it with his compliments.”
Oh, great. The last thing I needed was some sleaze-ball trying to pick me up. I slipped my phone back into my bag and went to push myself off the stool. “Tell him ‘thank you’, but there’s somewhere I need to be.” Anywhere but here.
Simon leaned further across the bar. “The drink is from Oliver Sackville.” His tone carried the gilded edge of reverence.
“Never heard of him, but like I said, tell him thanks.”
The barman’s eyes widened as I felt pressure on my handbag. Unprepared for a purse-snatcher, it fell from my grip. I swung fast, totally invested in fighting hard for the few belongings I had left. My fist connected with a brick wall of a chest. A well-dressed chest in a suit, white shirt, loosened tie and a couple of buttons freed at the neck.
The guy in the suit snatched my wrist like a lizard taking a passing fly. “Steady,” he said.
As a pickup line it needed work, yet I obeyed, heart pounding around my chest, ready to help me fight or take flight.
He released my wrist and returned my handbag. “Now that I have your attention,” he held out his hand, “Oliver Sackville.”
I was still fingering the spot where he’d grabbed me and I eyed his hand with suspicion.
He twitched his fingers. “Come on, a handshake and a name.”
He spoke with a rich, privileged timbre that could get him voice-over work if he needed a job—if he wasn’t so rich, and privileged. His looks caught me off-guard given the bar-room setting, and he was totally overdressed if you compared him with the other blue-collar patrons. Reluctantly I offered my clammy palm, and felt it engulfed by his warm, dry hand. “Darcy Kennedy,” I said, mustering up my own confident tone.
“Pleased to meet you, Darcy Kennedy. Let’s have a drink.”
When I looked at the bar I saw the barman had ferried Oliver’s drink from where he’d left it so that it now sat beside mine. “Do you plan to distract me and make another attempt to steal my bag?”
“I’m too distracted already.” His eyes swept over me and I should have been offended, but his looks and charm were his pass card. “And I’m not here to snatch your bag,” he added.
“If you’re trying to pick me up, your technique could use a makeover.”
“I’m out of practice. When I buy a drink for a woman I’m not usually punched, and for the record, your fighting technique could use a makeover, too.”
My face flushed. I’d never hit anyone in my life and my little display hadn’t gone unnoticed by the others in the bar. Thankfully, their drinks called to them when the fight went no further.
“You did grab my bag…” my fight was leaving me.
“To stop you leaving. You’re still here, so as a technique it worked pretty well.”
I sipped my wine trying to figure out where this was going.
“I’m guessing you’re new in town. What brings you to a sports bar?”
I glanced around. The place was a bit of a dive, and not somewhere I’d normally choose to drink, much less work. Television screens hung off the walls, broadcasting everything from horse racing to darts.
“I had an appointment to meet the manager, but he reneged.”
“Coincidence. I stopped in to see him, too, but I guess he was called out.”
“I guess.” If it wasn’t true, the manager sure went to elaborate means to make me believe he wasn’t avoiding me.
Oliver removed his jacket, hanging it on the hook under the bar beside my bag. He worked at his cufflinks, slipping them into the jacket pocket then rolled his sleeves exposing tanned, muscled forearms with a light sprinkling of dark hair. A watch. The last man
I saw wear a watch was my father, and his certainly didn’t look as expensive as the one Oliver wore. I tried to identify the make and was caught by Oliver. He gave me a sly grin.
Yes, I was watching every move. He looked as though he was preparing to do something with his hands, and part of me, the part between my legs in particular, was hoping it had something to do with me.
He rolled his shoulders. “That’s better,” he said, holding his glass aloft. “So, welcome to Waitapu Bay. What brings you here, Miss Darcy?”
God, I hated being called that. Usually. The way Oliver said it though, lengthening my name into a sexy drawl, I forgave him. I trotted out the line I’d practiced on the plane throughout my Trans-Tasman flight. “I’ve been working in Australia—Sydney—and my contract finished. I decided to return to New Zealand, so here I am.”
“But you’re not originally from Waitapu?”
“I’m from Auckland. I didn’t have the gap year after college that my friends had and I’ve been full-on working in Auckland and Sydney since I graduated. So this is me,” I said, spreading my arms wide. “Waitapu Bay for summer.”
He sat back in his chair, his dark eyes softening to that dense muddy-green you find when you bite into liquorice. We stared at each other and although it wasn’t a challenge to see who would break first, after some seconds I felt a desire to say something. I touched my throat and he smiled because the self-conscious move spoke more than had I merely averted my gaze.
He was gorgeous and for just a moment I was almost happy. Earlier today I’d been counting the coins that rattled around in my handbag, poking my finger in the corners, hoping a hole in the lining might reveal a forgotten stash of bills. Now I kept my focus on the condensation on my glass because each time I looked at him, I couldn’t pull my gaze away.
“You look nervous, Darcy.”
How could I reply? Tell him his voice warmed me like a lick of flame from a fire? Explain that I couldn’t look at him because, as shallow as it seemed, I was attracted to his handsome face and magnificent body. That I fought a desire to reach across and do something intimate, like fix the little part where his shirt was caught at the second button he’d undone.
