The Woodsman

by Blake North

  We all laughed. I smiled at Estella.

  “I take it this is a habit of his,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she nodded, smiling at me. “Daddy’s nickname is Mr. Late. At least, it is with family and friends. In business circles it’s Mr. Punctuality.”

  He laughed and I smiled at him, remembering how insistent he had been about meeting times when we had first met, what seemed a lifetime earlier in his office.

  “All true, sadly enough,” he said, pulling a face. I laughed.

  “What do we do if he’s late?” I asked Estella.

  She grinned at me, eyes sparkling. “We have to punish him…maybe Mrs. Delange can hold back dessert.”

  Beckett pulled a face at her and we all laughed. I smiled at Estella and she smiled back. It seemed that for the moment, at least, she had decided to accept me.

  I smiled at Beckett, grateful to him for having sorted that one out. He smiled back and stood, with a regretful expression, pushing in his chair.

  “Well, Mr. Punctuality has to leave,” he said gently. “Before I get re-named and my business name becomes Mr. Late.”

  “We wouldn’t mind,” Estella said, “as long as your family name is Mr. Punctuality.”

  She looked a little wistful and I smiled at her. I could feel sorry for her, always wanting her father to be closer, to care about home more than he cared about work. In that moment, I felt the same way.

  All I could do—all we could both do—was look forward to that evening. When he would come home.

  I finished my coffee, chatted a bit with Estella, who seemed subdued now that her father was away again. I detected a forced note to our conversation, as if she resented my being here, but hid it well.

  Maybe I’m just being hypersensitive to it all, I told myself. After all, I was the newcomer here and there was a lot to get used to. I tried to be as understanding as I could. It wasn’t like she was rude or standoffish, after all. We talked a while longer and then headed upstairs to my suite of rooms.

  When I was alone my happiness returned at once. I flopped down on the bed, which was still disarrayed from our night together, and looked up at the ceiling, a smile of amazement on my face.

  I still couldn’t quite believe it.

  Memories of the night before played through my mind; a fantastic reel of noises, feelings and imagery that I would store there indefinitely.

  I sat up and looked at myself in the mirror, staring at my reflection with a kind of amazement and disbelief.

  The reflection looked back at me; the same face as I had seen there yesterday, as looked out at me every day. Except this morning it was different. My eyes shone and I was flushed with a new light, as if a candle flame burned within me.

  Beckett, I thought. He had brought me this intense happiness, this feeling of wonder, as if the sun was always shining and the birds sang madrigals in the trees outside.

  But I had also learned so much about him. I had learned he was vulnerable. That he had made mistakes in his youth. And I had learned how badly those mistakes had risen up and recurred on him.

  I wanted to be able to help him.

  But what could I do?

  All that could be done, I reminded myself, I was doing. I was standing in has his excuse, the explanation for where the money was going. Because I had no doubt that it was still going; probably to an account that everyone supposed was mine. Perhaps it was even in my name. I was sure he could have made that happen.

  All I wanted at that moment was to help him. To be able to make those people who hovered on the edge of his life disappear. Take them out of the shadows of his past and make sure they could never come back; never hurt him or his loved ones again.

  The intensity of my response surprised me. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled at myself.

  “You really are in love with this guy, aren’t you?” I asked myself.

  I said nothing, but the funny smile that quirked my lips—a half-shy, half-proud expression—told me everything. I sighed and reached for my makeup brush, settling down to put on a proper face. I really had fallen for this man, and fallen hard.

  It was, all things considered, not the smartest thing I could have done; if I could have stopped it happening at all, that was, which wasn’t really possible. I had absolutely no idea what I would do if anything changed: if he suddenly decided the drug traffickers were no longer a threat to him, and changed our relationship, ended the playacting for good. The only consolation I had at that time was that at this moment he didn’t know what he’d do either.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN – HAYLEY

  Life passed in a strange dream for a few days. I spent the nights with Beckett—glorious, wonderful nights in which I reached places of pleasure I’d never dreamed to find—and the days were spent in quiet work. I had kept up one or two of my old contracts, just in case. Estella kept to herself. Her own schedule of social visits and other commitments were kept private, and I never questioned her comings and goings. She was always polite and friendly, but she was strangely aloof. I asked Beckett about it one evening. It was about three days since our wedding, and I was planning my interview with the editor of Instyle, a style and celebrity lifestyle magazine.

  “I wonder if she doesn’t resent me sometimes,” I said quietly.

  Beckett frowned. “I would be surprised if she did,” he said slowly. “After all; you’re such a nice person.”

  I snorted at him. We were sitting on the sofa together in an upstairs parlor, my legs curled under me, head on his shoulder. His arm tucked me close.

  “Be that as it may, she’s still worried,” I said frankly. “After all. You’re her dad. I’m some stranger. I don’t belong here.”

  “Yes, you do.” His eyes were hard. “You’re my wife.”

  I sighed in exasperation. “No, I’m not.”

  He gave me an icy glance. “Fine. Can we change the subject now? I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  I breathed out impatiently. “Beckett, we have to discuss this. She’s your daughter.”

  “I know,” he said. He looked down at me, his face soft. “Sweetie, I know you’re concerned. But we can’t do anything about it. She has to come to terms with it. I know,” he added, face shifting into a slight frown as an idea occurred to him.

  “You know what?” I asked, stroking his brow.

  “We’ll go out together somewhere. Maybe the theater or something. We just need to get to know each other a bit better. She’ll accept you. She’s a nice person.”

  “I know,” I said, sighing. “She seems to be. There’s just…I feel bad.”

  “Why?” he asked. He looked down at me, a frown on his handsome features, intense and inquiring.

  “Because…because I don’t belong here,” I explained tiredly. “I’m not part of the family and it makes her uncomfortable and…I just cause trouble,” I said.

  “Hayley, listen to me,” Beckett said, taking my hand and lifting it to his lips. “You are not a troublemaker. She has barely recovered from my divorce—it took a lot out of her. I know it was three years ago, but still. Time doesn’t really measure pain. Now I’ve married again. She has a divided loyalty. She’ll settle into it. Trust me. I trust her.”

  I sighed. “I’ll try to trust that, Beckett,” I said softly. “But I know she doesn’t like me. I just feel it sometimes.”

  Beckett nodded. “I’ve noticed she’s quiet with you; like she doesn’t quite know what to make of you.” He agreed. “Well, we’ll see. I’ll get us tickets to a play tomorrow. We can try that. See if we can forge some bridges here between all of us again.”

  I smiled at him. “Oh, Beckett,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You always want to do something to make things right. To fix things. I really like that about you.”

  He flushed pink. “Thanks, Hayley,” he said quietly. “It’s nice to know that’s appreciated.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Now,” he said softly, “I thi
nk that some relaxing is in order.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Yes,” he purred. “And I think I have some ideas about it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Like…” he kissed me. “How about you come to my room, and I’ll show you?”

  “Oh yes…” I murmured. His mouth had moved to my neck and I closed my eyes, feeling raw fire lick through me, consuming me from within. I wanted him now.

  We went to bed together. The night was as wonderful as he had promised, but in the morning I still woke with a nagging feeling of something yet needing resolution.

  We had coffee together in the dining room. Estella was still asleep. Later we had breakfast.

  “Don’t forget to book the tickets,” I called to him as he went toward the door, heading outside to the car to work.

  “I won’t,” he called cheerily, shrugging into an elegant jacket. “See you later.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  I had another cup of coffee and then went upstairs to my bedroom. I worked in the spare study room that had slowly become mine, and tried to throw off the strange feeling that all was not quite well in this house. It was silly. I was in all manner of ways happier than I had ever been before.

  “I should get dressed for that interview,” I told myself about two hours later. It was going to be just before midday.

  I went for the interview. The driver took me into town to a vast, high building and I spent a nerve-wracking hour on a couch with a lady with impeccable black hair and vermillion-painted nails, talking about my life. Fortunately, the story Beckett wanted out in the media was so close to real life that maintaining it for an hour was almost effortless. The only lie I had to tell was about where I had met him, and how.

  When I got back home, two and a half hours later, I went for a walk in the gardens. Before I knew it, the time was six o’ clock and Beckett was home again.

  “Okay, everyone!” he said, bursting into the sitting-room where I was checking my phone and Estella had just arrived, drawn by Beckett’s homecoming. “I have tickets to Aladdin.”

  “Oh?” I smiled. It had some good songs. I liked the musical version.

  “Oh, Daddy,” Estella said, sounding a little exasperated.

  “What?” he asked, smiling with a rueful expression on his face.

  “It is so Nineties!”

  They both laughed. I smiled at him. He seemed completely okay with that, and we went to get ready.

  “I’m quite excited,” I confessed to Estella as we walked down to the car. “I love your dress, by the way,” I added. It was black but intensely simple, like most of the things in her wardrobe—pared down, minimalist and screaming high end.

  “Estella designs her own clothes,” her father told me proudly. She gave him a look.

  “You don’t have to tell everyone, Dad.”

  “Sorry,” he demurred. “But I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

  “Even so,” She replied stubbornly, though I noticed she looked glad, though.

  I was surprised she counted me as “everyone”, and I hoped Beckett had noticed that distinction. He seemed oblivious to everything but the excitement of being out with us. He was grinning as he stood back to let us in ahead of him.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Now. Do we want coffee quickly, or should we take our seats first?”

  I paused. I thought it would be better to go up. We had about ten minutes before the show started, and I didn’t want to come in late. Estella looked wistfully at the cafe opposite.

  “Coffee?”

  “Aw! Thanks, Dad.”

  We had coffee. We were two minutes before the time when I couldn’t help starting to fidget. I lifted my bag and put it over my knee. Lifted my coat from the chair and laid it on the top. I hated the idea of walking in as the performance started. It was so rude!

  “…and then we decided that we’d focus more on the cut of the wood, you know…like the curvature of the sides of the tableware more.”

  “Oh,” Beckett replied to his daughter’s narrative. “Interesting. Go on?”

  I coughed. I hadn’t meant to, but I felt so uncomfortable, and they showed no signs of moving. Two pairs of eyes looked at me in mild inquiry. I sat back, hating myself for disturbing them.

  “What is it?” Beckett asked, sounding concerned. “You’re okay, Hayley?”

  “She wants us to leave,” Estella said flatly. “The play’s going to start in a minute or two.” She gave me a flat glance, expressionless and resentful, then stood.

  “Where are you going, sweetness?” her father asked, looking puzzled and hurt.

  “The show’s going to start. We should go.”

  Her voice was hard and tight. I felt bad. Beckett looked miserable. He shrugged and stood and followed her into the auditorium.

  We sat in the best seats and had a spectacular view over the stage. I loved the music and swayed with it often, something that seemed to amuse Beckett. I caught a sweet smile on his face once or twice.

  At the interval, Estella was still frosty. We went down to the foyer again and went to the same cafe. She was listless and said nothing as we sat.

  “What is it, sweetie?” Beckett asked quietly. She gave him a look.

  “I don’t want to start talking,” she said coolly. “I might delay us. Apparently getting into the auditorium is more important than me catching up with you after six months apart.”

  Beckett looked sad and my heart contracted, aching for him. “Sweetie, please…” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said, sighing. “I was just really hurt by that…I hardly ever see you!”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  His voice was so gentle, so racked with regret, that I closed my eyes. I shouldn’t be here. I was making it hard for them. Why had he put me here in this position? His daughter hated me! There must have been a simpler way.

  The rest of the show passed by in strained tension, though Beckett and his daughter seemed closer after their discussion in the cafe. I felt more excluded and kept myself to myself, watching the show. On the way back, in the car, I found it hard to speak up and join in the lively chatter.

  “…and did you see the costumes in the end part?” Estella was saying, giggling. “Some of them seemed really old-fashioned! If I was doing them, I’d never use so much organza…”

  “What would you use?” Beckett asked, interestedly.

  “Oh, I think I’d stick to more draped fabrics. Some of these new glittery nylon blends would look so much more modern and relaxed.”

  “True,” Beckett said gravely. “You’ll have to show me.”

  “Like this…” Estella dug her phone from her handbag, evidently finding a picture online to show him what she meant. I sat beside him, feeling listless and like an extra in a bad show.

  When we got home and Beckett and I went upstairs after a coffee in the sitting-room together, he pulled me toward him, a concerned frown on his brow. “What’s up, Hayley?” he asked. “You’re all quiet.”

  I sighed. “I just don’t belong, Beckett,” I explained tiredly. “I don’t belong.”

  “Yes,” Beckett said seriously, “you do. Do you want me to show you how much I want you?”

  I laughed. “Oh, Beckett! No…”

  But there was no stopping him when he was in a mood like that. I knew that now as well as I knew anything. I was picked up and bodily taken to the next room, his mouth covering mine and my giggles stifled by his lips.

  Our night was passionate and wonderful, but when he left in the morning, I was still sad. I didn’t belong here. Nothing he could do—no matter how passionate, how kind—could change it. I sighed. His daughter and I would just have to work it out on our own. We had to, for both of us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY – BECKETT

  I was in the meeting with my executive officers, trying to pretend that I was keenly interested in the rise of our profits since the introduction of a new campaign. I was far more interested, I had to confess to myself,
in my thoughts of the previous night. Of her.

  Hayley, I hope you know you are the sexiest woman in the world right now.

  I couldn’t blot out the memories of the previous night. She was everywhere with me. I caught a trace of her scent, heard the sigh of her voice. Saw her soft body lying before me on the bed, face contorted in the sweet wonder of our coupling.

  All I wanted was to be with her again.

  I had taken the precaution of leaving my phone in my office. I knew that if I had brought it to the meeting room with me I would have been tempted to distract myself by texting her, and that would have been an unforgivable offense. I needed to hear what was being said.

  Come on, Beckett Sand. Listen to the people, then! You need this information.

  I did. I could listen, if only just. I sat back and concentrated on the figures on the slide, squinting at the numbers, paying attention.

  I surprised myself by being able to ask sensible questions. At least, I thought they were sensible and no-one else took the trouble to contradict me if they were not.

  Then, finally, as if by a miracle, at the end of a long, tedious day I thought unending, I was sitting behind the wheel of my sports-car, driving home.

  “and I…love you…”

  I sang along with the car radio, astonishing myself. I am Beckett Sand and I never sing. Mainly because to do so would be to deafen the populace for three square miles. But this time, I did sing. My heart was absolutely full of a bubbling sort of happiness, a sort of crazy, reckless silliness that made the world wonderful and anything possible—even singing.

  I was still smiling as I rolled in along the drive of my home, relieved to be back and relieved, also, that today there had been no sinister messages. For the moment it seemed as if my plan had worked. They had what they wanted—a guarantee that the means of payment to them was under cover—and they were content, it seemed, to leave me alone and not threaten my family and loved ones anymore. I was grateful for the fact that it had worked.

  “Good evening, sir,” the guard on duty at the gate said.

  “Good evening, Spencer,” I said cheerfully. “Anything to report?”