Star Promise

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  Adam swept his hand across the top of her head. “No thank you, baby. I’m good.”

  “We could make a deal,” she offered.

  “No deal.”

  “A lovely deal.”

  “Absolutely no deals,” he said strongly.

  I studied Bridget’s expression in the mirrored door of the elevator, marvelling at the determination on her face. Whether Adam realised it or not, the deal for the compass was going to go down. It was just a matter of when.

  ***

  It was kisses all round when Fiona greeted us at the door, but that didn’t distract me from the awful aroma of whatever she was attempting to cook.

  “I have something for you, Bridget,” she said, leading her away by the hand.

  “A horse?” she asked hopefully.

  The queen’s quiet giggle echoed around the foyer. “Not today.”

  As soon as they were out of sight, Adam leaned down to whisper. “What is that smell?”

  I patted his chest. “It’s your favourite, darling.”

  He scowled. “If it was cooked by Mom, it’s not my favourite.”

  I didn’t dare tell him that she was cooking Bambi while he was standing so close to the front door. I didn’t want to be left there to explain why Adam had done a runner. I took him by the hand instead, and pulled him into Décarie land.

  ***

  Jean-Luc wasn’t home yet and Fiona had enlisted Bridget’s help with dinner, leaving us to rattle around in the museum-like lounge room by ourselves. It gave me a chance to take another look at the magnificent show of china and crystal in the display cabinets. Even after checking them out a hundred times, I always managed to find something new.

  “Did you play in here when you were kids?” I asked curiously.

  “No, never.”

  I turned around but couldn’t see him.

  “Where did you play?” I scanned the room.

  “On the roof or at the park.”

  I followed his voice to the centre of the room. Adam was hidden from view, sprawled along the couch. As I leaned over the back he pulled me down on top of him.

  “She’ll skin you alive if she catches you abusing the furniture this way,” I warned.

  He pressed warm lips against my neck. “There are worse things she could catch me doing,” he murmured.

  I wanted to push him away and tell him to get his act together. The problem was that Adam’s act was perfectly together. It made telling him off impossible.

  “Adam, stop it,” I whispered.

  The line of kisses he was trailing across my skin was almost paralysing, and he wasn’t even close to stopping. I gave in after just a minute, raking my hands through his dark hair as I pulled his mouth to mine.

  Nothing on earth compared to being touched by him. My whole body sang to music that only we could hear. It didn’t matter that we were making out on his parents’ couch. Nothing mattered, which is why neither of us noticed our daughter wander into the room.

  “Stop kissing,” she demanded in a tiny voice.

  I tried to move but Adam’s arms remained locked around me. The best I could do was turn my head. “What’s wrong, Bridge?”

  She stood just inches away looking dangerously close to tears. “Mamie gave me a present,” she whispered. “I don’t like it.”

  It could only have been the creepy doll. I was almost glad that she didn’t like it. I’d been dreading the thought of her proudly carting it around with her since I first laid eyes on it.

  Adam freed me, allowing me to sit up. “Where is it?” I asked.

  When she pointed toward the kitchen, Adam reached for her hand. “Are you okay?”

  Bridget shook her head but didn’t say a word. The poor little girl looked terrified. There was no need for her to explain why. Fiona came waltzing into the room a few seconds later cradling the doll from hell in her arms.

  “Darling, you left your baby in the kitchen.” She tried handing it to her, but Bridget was having none of it. She piled on top of her dad, who was still flat out on the couch.

  I took it instead, trying to save the queen some hurt feelings. Adam wasn’t as considerate. “Mom, that’s awful,” he told her.

  Fiona ripped the doll from my grasp. “I’ll have you know she’s incredibly special.”

  She sounded truly offended. Even Bridget picked up on it. “She’s nice, Mamie.” Her little white lie backfired instantly. The queen gently positioned the doll in Bridget’s lap as if she was placing a real baby. To her credit, Bridget didn’t protest, but she clung to Adam’s shirt as if depending on him to keep her safe.

  “You must treasure her,” Fiona instructed. “What’s her name?”

  Not much thought went into Bridget’s reply. “Treasure,” she blurted, making it sound like a question.

  “Trashure,” Adam murmured.

  I slapped his leg. The queen scowled. And Bridget discreetly knocked the hideous doll off her lap, letting it fall to the floor.

  ***

  Treasure didn’t eat much. I know that because the queen insisted that she sit next to Bridget at the table. Every time my poor little girl edged closer to Adam, Fiona would push the doll’s chair closer.

  Freakish dinner companions were the least of our worries. I’d never eaten venison before but I was pretty sure that it wasn’t meant to be grey. I tore my eyes from my plate in time to see Adam’s reaction as Fiona set a plate in front of him. He looked a little grey too.

  Dinner suddenly became a magic trick. The meal was spent shoving it around our plates and hiding it under vegetables. Bridget ate like a bird at the best of times, so no one took offense when she set her fork down and claimed to be full.

  The only person without a game plan was Jean-Luc. If he thought it was awful, he wasn’t letting on. “This is magnificent, my darling,” he praised. Fiona beamed. “Outstanding,” he added. “A touch of mustard would complement it nicely.”

  Jean-Luc had a game plan after all. It kicked in the second Fiona rushed to the kitchen to fetch his mustard. He shamelessly scraped most of his dinner on to Bridget’s plate.

  “No, Papy,” she scolded. “I hate it.”

  “I know, my love,” he replied sympathetically. “I advise you not to eat any more of it.”

  Bridget was unimpressed by the notion of being an accessory after the fact. She turned to Adam and asked to be excused.

  “Of course,” he replied, helping her off her chair. “Go play.” She took off in a hurry.

  “And then there were three,” announced Jean-Luc, refilling my wineglass.

  “Technically four,” corrected Adam, giving Treasure a poke.

  Jean-Luc laughed. “When I suggested that Bridget find some real friends, that’s not quite what I meant.”

  I frowned across the table at Adam, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. The silent plea for an explanation didn’t go unnoticed – nothing gets past the king. “Is everything alright?”

  “We’ve enrolled Bridget in dance classes,” replied Adam, refusing to look at me.

  “That’s wonderful news,” he approved. “She’ll learn discipline and dedication.”

  I rolled my wineglass between my fingers, fighting the urge to snap it off at the stem. “I thought it was about making friends,” I reminded him. “That was the instruction, wasn’t it?”

  Adam muttered my name weakly. I ignored him, keeping my focus on the king.

  “Instruction?” asked Jean-Luc.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I give no instruction where my granddaughter is concerned,” he replied. “I merely spoke with her father and suggested that you consider broadening her horizons.”

  “When?” I snapped.

  He frowned. “As soon as possible.”

  “No,” I clarified, “when did you discuss it with her father?”

  “We spoke yesterday, Charlotte,” admitted Adam.

  I took a long moment to think things through. Bridget grew faster than we did, and push often
came to shove when it came to moving to the next level. I just resented it when the shove came from the king. I wanted her to explore new things, find friends and be happy. We all did. It’s what made this family so special.

  I looked at Adam and quickly let him off the hook. “I’m not mad at you,” I assured him. “I want to be, but I’m not.”

  It was important that we leave it at that. Adam knew it too, which is probably why he didn’t reply. There wasn’t opportunity to continue the conversation anyway. Fiona reappeared with a huge dish of mustard, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw the king’s empty plate.

  “I’m sorry, Fi,” he said regretfully. “I couldn’t wait. It was just too good.”

  Her confused look gave way to a smile. “Never mind, darling.” She picked up his plate. “I’ll get you some more.”

  8. JUVIE

  Adam

  Love must be invisible. No one ever sees it coming. It sneaks up behind you, bashes you over the head and leaves you in a state of stunned confusion for the rest of your life.

  Ryan was its latest victim. After years of dodging anything more meaningful than a quick roll in the hay, he’d been bashed over the head by love.

  I still couldn’t quite believe the news that he’d moved Bente in, but Charli swore she’d heard it from Bente herself.

  I was staying out of it on the off-chance that my mother didn’t know. In my experience, clueless was the best position to be in when drama took hold, and there was no greater drama than having a woman lay claim to one of her sons.

  Part of me envied him. For Ryan, everything was exciting and brand new. Walking into my office that morning was a reminder that I had nothing exciting or new going on. I was stuck in the monotony of a nine to five job that I was slowly growing to hate.

  Mercifully, I was always busy. Once I stepped out of the elevator I didn’t have time to dwell. I got on with what I needed to do, then went home to my girls.

  Very occasionally, I’d catch a break, but never from my father, so it was hard to hide my surprise when he walked into my office and told me I needed to go home.

  “Mrs Brown is feeling unwell,” he explained. “You’re needed at home.”

  I closed my laptop. “Why didn’t she call me?”

  I could see the tension in Dad’s jaw. “She called Charli,” he replied. “Charli called me.”

  In an extraordinary move, the king sat down in the chair opposite my desk. I’d never known him to come past the doorway.

  “The girl thinks I’m an ogre,” he added.

  The best I could do was word my reply gently. “You’re pretty hard on her, Dad.”

  “I’m fond of Charli,” he insisted. “I just have a low tolerance for her nonsense.”

  Charli’s so-called nonsense was the only thing that kept me going some days, but telling him that would start a conversation that I wasn’t interested in having. “Why did she call you?”

  Dad sighed as if explaining was a chore. “She said you haven’t arrived home before nine every night this week.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Charli demanded that I send you home early today to relieve Mrs Brown so she doesn’t have to.”

  I hated the way he twisted facts to make them fit his story. “Charli can’t take any more time off,” I said, setting him straight. “Mrs Brown bails a lot.”

  He stared at me, straight-faced. “I told her no.”

  Of course he did. “So why are you sending me home?”

  “Your wife is persistent.” Dad took his phone out of his shirt pocket. “She followed up with a text message.”

  My father needed reading glasses, but wouldn’t admit it. He held the screen at a distance, squinting while he read Charli’s message out loud. “I know where you live, old man.”

  I grinned across at him. “She’s not the least bit intimidated by you, you know.”

  Dad’s expression was odd. He wasn’t annoyed. He was fighting a smile of his own. “That may be,” he agreed. “But I am marginally afraid of her at times.” He handed me the phone. “Look at the picture she sent.”

  Charlotte Décarie is fearless. She had texted him a picture of herself in his precious private office. She was leaning back in the chair with her feet on the desk as if she owned the joint.

  Even Dad was impressed. “I like her tenacity,” he told me. “If the girl was capable of knuckling down and getting a law degree, I’d hire her in a second.”

  I handed back his phone, grinning. “I’ll let her know.”

  “Say nothing,” he demanded. “She’d probably do it to spite me.”

  ***

  I arrived home just after three. I barely made it in the door before I was met with a huge hug and shrieks of delight – and not from Bridget.

  “Such a good boy,” declared Mrs Brown, pinching my cheeks.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” I told her. “I hope you feel better soon.”

  She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Nothing a few days’ rest won’t fix,” she replied, edging toward the door.

  Mrs Brown didn’t look ill. She looked fed up, and I was scared to find out why. I looked past her at the trash heap that used to be our living room. “Where’s Bridget?”

  Perhaps she was lost under the mountain of toys that were strewn in every direction.

  “Playing in her room,” she replied. “She ran out of space in here.”

  I held the door open and Mrs Brown made a dash for freedom. “I know this isn’t working out,” I said as she passed. “We’ll make other arrangements for a while. Take a week or two off.”

  The first thing I noticed when she turned to face me was the look of relief on her face. The second was a tinge of sadness. “I have looked after Fiona’s babies for twenty-nine years,” she said proudly. “I want to do it for another twenty-nine, but I’m not a young woman any more, Adam.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  When I kissed the back of her hand and thanked her for all she’d done for us, I was referencing much more than the time she’d spent with Bridget. Something about the shine in her eyes told me she knew it too. “I’m proud of you,” she replied shakily. “More now than ever before.”

  ***

  Bridget nearly jumped out of her skin when I rounded the doorway to her bedroom. The kid was up to no good, and the speed in which she threw the doll in her hand under the bed proved it.

  “Hi Daddy.” Her voice was sickly sweet – more proof. “I love that you’re home.”

  I folded my arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Me too. What are you doing?”

  Her little shoulders lifted. “Just playing with Treasure.”

  She sounded casual but wasn’t, and her terror amplified when I reached under her bed and grabbed the discarded doll. Bridget fell apart, with good reason. The ridiculously lifelike doll had had a makeover. Half of its face was covered in red scribble. “What did you do?”

  She whimpered an answer. “She was too scary before.”

  Smudging my thumb across the inky stain did nothing. “And she’s not scary now, Bridge?” I asked, waving it at her. “She’s hideous.”

  “Don’t tell Mamie,” she begged.

  I was at a loss. My eyes darted between my daughter and the Halloween prop in my hand. The easiest solution would be to throw the doll back under the bed and pretend nothing had happened, but Bridget would learn nothing and continue honing her skills in terrorism.

  “I’m not going to tell Mamie,” I told her. Pure relief washed over her, but it was brief. “You’re going to tell her.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to.”

  “And I don’t want to visit you in juvie,” I retorted. Bridget frowned, forcing me to elaborate. “Jail for little girls.”

  “Mamie will send me to jail for this?”

  “Probably,” I replied, walking out of her room. “That’s where little crooks belong.”

  Bridget followed me, slamming into the back of
me. “I’ll tell Mamie,” she assured me. “Take me there now, please.”

  I could understand her urgency. Like getting out of Dodge, confessions are best made quickly. I peeled her off my legs and sent her back to her room to bag up the evidence.

  She reappeared a minute later, dragging Treasure behind her in a pillowcase. “She won’t fit in my bag,” she explained. “It’s still got all the money in it.”

  I nodded, resigned to the notion that my world turned on a different axis to most. Some days were stranger than others, and this was one of them. My angelic little daughter looked like a serial killer gearing up to dump a body. “Let’s do this, Daddy,” she ordered. “I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t think they have good toys there.”

  ***

  If Bridget ever did end up on trial, I was confident she’d be able to defend herself. The child was a born defender. She sat her grandmother down, admitted to her crime, and then gave her shady version of why she’d done it.

  “I’m sorry, Mamie, but it’s a really scary baby,” she said, slapping her hands down on her knees. “I had to make her pretty.”

  My mother’s eyes drifted away from Bridget and locked on me. “How bad is it?”

  Bridget answered for me. I almost thanked her. “It’s bad, Mamie,” she said seriously.

  When Mom demanded to see for herself, Bridget whipped Treasure out of the pillowcase and waved her in the air.

  My mother gasped but didn’t say a word. I’d never seen her rendered speechless before. She looked so distraught that I wondered if she was about to cry.

  “I coloured her mouth red,” announced Bridget.

  “And her cheeks, ears and eyes,” added Mom, futilely trying to wipe it off with her fingertips.

  “Bente has red lips and she’s lovely,” reasoned Bridget. “And now Treasure is too.”

  Mom dropped the doll in her lap and stared at her granddaughter. If Bridget found it unnerving, she did a good job of hiding it. She bounced around, swinging her little legs as if she didn’t have a worry in the world.