Secret North

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  “What makes you think I got fired?” I asked defensively.

  He just pointed at the box near the front door.

  “My boss was a creep,” I explained.

  That was an understatement. My boss was a freaking nightmare. I’d put up with his wandering hands and creepy grab-ass attempts for days longer than I should have because I’d desperately needed the job.

  “So you got fired because he was a creep?”

  I grinned wryly. “No, I got fired because I wasn’t very acquiescent. He hit on me once too often.”

  “So you hit on him?”

  “With my knee.”

  He winced. “Ouch, Bente.”

  I brought my mug to my mouth to mask my smile. “That’s what he said.”

  He didn’t have a chance to offer up a smartass reply. The intercom buzzed, halting the conversation.

  “Your ride is here,” announced Ryan, walking toward the panel near the front door. He pressed a button and told the driver I’d be down shortly.

  I took a long sip of my coffee, grabbed my bag and followed him to the door. He handed me my box.

  “Thanks for today,” I said. “You saved it from completely going to hell.”

  He held the door open for me. “Keep in touch, okay?”

  I smiled. “Not a chance.”

  He smiled back. “You just got through telling me that I saved your life. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “I never said any such thing, Ryan,” I scoffed. “You must be getting hard of hearing.”

  “It’s possible,” he conceded, shrugging. “I turned thirty today.”

  I took a step back. “It’s your birthday?”

  His smile grew broader. “All day, apparently.”

  “Well, happy birthday.” I shifted the box to my other hip. “I hope you’re doing something nice to celebrate.”

  “I am, actually. I’m having dinner with a sweet little blonde I’m rather fond of.”

  “Great.” There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in my tone. “I’m happy for you.”

  I brushed past him, escaping his space by getting into the foyer. The big jerk had the gall to call me back, and like an even bigger jerk, I turned around.

  “If you’re free tomorrow, perhaps you and I could have dinner,” he suggested. “You can choose the –”

  “You haven’t changed at all, Ryan,” I interrupted. “You screwed me over once before, but at least you were sly about it. If you think for one second –”

  He cut me off with a rushed explanation. “My date tonight is with Bridget. We’re having a family dinner at my parents’ house.”

  I suddenly felt two inches tall, and far too embarrassed to look at him as I mumbled my weak apology.

  “I was teasing,” he said gently.

  My eyes drifted up, locking his. “I don’t like being teased – not by you.”

  Ryan’s mouth formed a line. I knew he’d read between the lines perfectly. He pulled out his wallet and handed me a business card. “Please think about dinner,” he urged. “I won’t call you. No pressure.”

  The slow approach was very unlike the Ryan I used to know. He was notoriously gung-ho about everything, especially when he wanted something. I had no idea what to make of it.

  I took the card from him. “I’ll think about it.”

  He broke a sexy crooked smile – the very same one that had gotten me into trouble too many times before. “That’s all I ask.”

  3. EVICTION

  Ryan

  I wasn’t expecting any more visitors that morning, and judging by the shocked look on their faces, Bridget and Charli weren’t expecting me to answer the door either. Charli stood with her key in hand, ready to let herself in. Bridget lurched forward and hugged my leg. “Happy, happy day!” she announced.

  I opened the door wider, picked Bridget up and flipped her upside down. “Thank you,” I replied, carrying her through to the kitchen.

  Charli dumped a bag of groceries on the counter. “We didn’t think you’d be home. We came to make you a cake.”

  “And to happy day you some more,” added Bridget.

  I righted her, lowered her to her feet and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you,” I repeated. “There’s no one else I’d rather be happy day-ed by than you.”

  Bridget took off running, making a beeline for her toybox.

  I turned my attention to Charli. “What’s wrong with your kitchen?”

  “There’s no room to cook in it.”

  It was a perfectly acceptable response. There was no room to live in the cave they called home. Moving back into Gabrielle’s apartment was supposed to be temporary, but eight months later they were still there. Househunting had been put on the back-burner in favour of hectic jobs and hanging out with their girl.

  “You need to find a bigger house, Charli.”

  “Adam’s too busy and I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  I smirked at her. “Maybe he could ask his boss for some time off.”

  She set the box of cake mix down with an unnecessary thud. “He’s lucky if he gets a lunch break most days.”

  Against his better judgement, Adam had accepted a job at our father’s firm. The hours were long and from the little he’d told me, the job sucked. Dad’s expectations were high and Adam’s heart wasn’t in it. It made for a bad combination.

  Charli took the tyranny personally. “He’s punishing him, you know.”

  “For what?”

  “For leaving in the first place,” she said irately.

  “Adam is a grown man, Charli,” I pointed out. “If he’s not happy there, he’ll leave.”

  Bridget reappeared, forcing a change in conversation. She climbed onto the stool beside me and picked up the doll that Bente had left on the counter. “You’ve been playing with my girl?”

  “No, I had a friend over this morning,” I explained. “She liked her a lot.”

  The little girl studied the doll closely. “She took her arms off.”

  “Bridget Décarie, you took her arms off,” I retorted. “Her legs too.”

  She scrambled off the stool. “Don’t let your friends play with my girls any more, okay?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I doubt she saw my salute; she’d already hightailed it back to the toybox.

  “What friend?” asked Charli.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Well, I need to know whether the doll needs disinfecting.”

  “It’s my birthday, Charlotte. Be nice.”

  She pulled a face and began searching through the cupboards. “So who was she?”

  “Bente.”

  She spun back to face me. “Bente Denison?”

  “How many Bentes do you know?” I muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me she was back in town?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be that interested,” she replied guiltily.

  I stared her down. “Liar.”

  Charli opened a drawer and grabbed a wooden spoon. “I know you have a soft spot for Bente,” she conceded, aiming the spoon at me, “but the soft spot you have for screwing around always wins out. I wasn’t going to pave the way for you to rip her heart out again.”

  I walked into the kitchen and found her a bowl. “I like her,” I declared. “I’ve always liked Bente.”

  “Are you going to see her again?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Be kind to her, Ryan,” she warned. “She doesn’t deserve any more grief from you.”

  ***

  Charli’s only input in the cake making was cracking two eggs into the bowl. She retreated to the living room and left Bridget and I to it after that. I didn’t care. She’s a hopeless cook.

  Operation birthday cake was a battle of wills. I gave Bridget instructions, and she ignored them. “You’re cooking it wrong,” she insisted.

  “Be quiet and stir.”

  Despite the drama, the cake tin was finally loaded into the oven and clean-up began. Bridget lost interest
at that point and went back to her box of severed doll parts. Charli remained sprawled on the couch as if she owned the joint, and the ensuing conversation led me to think she sometimes wished she did.

  “Ryan, I think you and I should make a deal,” she suggested, staring at the high ceiling.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “A business deal.”

  She might not have seen me roll my eyes, but I was sure she heard me laugh. “I’ve made enough business deals with you to last me a lifetime.”

  Ignoring me, she continued her pitch. “I think you should move into our apartment so we can move in here.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I replied, still chuckling. “Find your own house.”

  “Adam owns half this place, right?”

  “Technically.”

  “Then technically I own half too. I’m evicting you.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that, Tinker Bell.”

  She sat upright, trying her best to appear serious. “You’re becoming very unreasonable in your old age.”

  Bridget chimed in from across the room. “Are you old now, Ry?”

  No one on earth got away with shortening my name – except her. She wasn’t going to get away with calling me old, though. “No, Bridget. I am not.”

  Charli giggled. “Did you know that my dad was only eleven when you were born?”

  “Charli, Alex wasn’t much older than that when you were born.”

  She had no smart comeback. I wasn’t lying.

  ***

  My clean-up efforts were in vain. Once the cake was cooked and cooled, Bridget went to town decorating it. There was more frosting on the counter than the cake, but she was thrilled with the result, which made it easy to overlook the mess she’d made.

  “Great job, little one,” I praised.

  “We can eat it now?” she asked hopefully.

  I looked to Charli for an answer.

  “No,” she told her. “We’re taking it to Mamie’s tonight.”

  My mother had been planning my birthday dinner for days. Supplying dessert was tactical. It meant we didn’t have to fear the marzipan topped pound cake she usually subjected us to. For some reason, she considered it to be one of her signature dishes, and to this day, not one of us had had the heart to tell her how truly revolting it was.

  4. THE WASP’S NEST

  Bente

  No one thought my sister could top the ridiculous name she’d cursed her eldest daughter, Fabergé, with, but four years later she outdid herself by naming her second daughter Malibu.

  Malibu Vienna Denison to be precise. With a name like that, she was bound to have attitude. Malibu was a growly, bad-tempered bundle of terror, but in the eyes of her mother she could do no wrong. In fairness, turning a blind eye is probably necessary when it comes to raising two precocious girls by yourself.

  No one really knew how Ivy ended up a solo parent. Both girls seemed to be immaculate conceptions. One minute my sister was single. The next she was pregnant and single.

  I’d never asked about their fathers. I didn’t even know for sure that there were two daddies; it was just an educated guess based on the fact that Malibu and Fabergé looked nothing alike. Fabergé was olive skinned with dark hair like her mother. Malibu had red curly hair and very pale skin.

  “It’s the Irish in her,” declared Ivy.

  I offered no input. I had no idea what the little girl had in her.

  ***

  Living with Ivy and her girls was akin to serving out a prison sentence, and now that I was unemployed my plan of moving into my own place was nothing more than a pipe dream.

  I was doing my time in Fabergé’s room while she bunked with Malibu. Neither girl was happy with the arrangement. When Fabergé started moving her things across the hall, World War Three broke out. It started out with pinching and slapping and ended in tears on both fronts. Witnessing it made me glad that I had no children. It also made me want to step out into the hall and deliver a few slaps of my own. I only held off because the rent was cheap and I needed a roof over my head.

  ***

  As soon as I arrived home, I headed to my room. I dumped my box of office supplies at the foot of the bed, crumpled in a heap and dissolved into tears.

  Ivy knocked on the door a short while later. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” I called, trying to sound composed. “I’ll be out soon.”

  That might’ve been a lie. I was going to need days to recover from the morning I’d had.

  My mind wasn’t even on the horror of losing my job. I’d hated it from day one. I was a journalist not a receptionist, but beggars can’t be choosers. I accepted the first job I was offered to get me back to New York.

  But in truth I’d barely given McGivern Realty another thought since I’d walked out the door. My mind was on a previous employer. Dealing with Ryan Décarie is like being stung by a wasp: it hurts like a bitch but you learn a lesson and vow never to go near the wasp nest again.

  Today the wasp came to me, and instead of running in the opposite direction, I gave the nest a big ol’ kick.

  I sat up and grabbed my box, searching through it for the business card he’d given me. It was a pointless exercise. His number hadn’t changed, and even though I hadn’t called it in years I still knew it by heart.

  That made tearing the card up a pointless exercise too, but it still felt good doing it.

  5. CHOCOLATE CAKE GIRL

  Ryan

  Considering the effort Mom had gone to, arriving on time was the least I could do. Charli and Bridget showed up late, and much to Charli’s annoyance Adam didn’t show at all.

  “You must understand, Charli,” said my father in a gentle but condescending tone. “Work comes first. It’s the way of the world.”

  “Not our world,” she replied strongly.

  The king didn’t intimidate Charli in the slightest, no matter how hard he tried. It impressed me. Adam and I had dealt with him our whole lives and were nowhere near as good at shutting him down as she was.

  “Your world must be a wondrous place,” he replied dryly.

  Jean-Luc’s battle was no longer with Adam. He had him right where he wanted him. When Adam agreed to take a job at Décarie, Fontaine and Associates, our father considered it a victory. The prodigal son was returning home to make good. The fact that they’d only come back because of Charli’s position at the Merriman Gallery never rated a mention. Jean-Luc once told her that she was fortunate to have found a project to keep her occupied.

  He still maintained that he was fond of his feisty daughter-in-law, and I believed him. She just frustrated the hell out of him, which was perfectly understandable. She frustrated the hell out of most people.

  Charli made a lame excuse to leave the room, perhaps to stop herself speaking again. Dad turned his attention to Bridget who was sprawled under the coffee table, playing with her toys.

  “Bridget, viens voir Papy,” he beckoned.

  “I’m working under here, Papy,” she replied, making me smile.

  “I have something for you,” he coaxed.

  Predictably, the little girl scrambled out from under the table to find out what it was. I groaned aloud as he reached into his wallet and presented her with a fifty-dollar bill.

  Her little eyes lit up and she thanked him.

  It was a stupid, pointless gesture and I proved it in an instant. “What have you got there, Bridge?”

  She climbed on to the couch beside Dad, waving the bill at me. “Paper money,” she replied.

  I smiled roguishly at my father. “Awesome.”

  He frowned and I knew I’d made my point. He’d have gotten the same reaction by giving her a dollar bill.

  My mother appeared a few seconds later with more spoils for Adam’s little princess. “Come, Bridget,” she instructed, holding out her hand. “Mamie has something for you upstairs.” It really wasn’t any wonder that Charli avoided letting Bridget hang out with my parents for any length of time
. The level of excess they showered on the kid grated on me, and I wasn’t the one trying to raise her.

  Bridget and Mom disappeared and Charli returned. My father wasted no time in trying to put her in her place. “I don’t enjoy tension, Charli. I hope you’ve calmed down.”

  She sat beside me, giving her the best vantage point to glare at him from. She didn’t say a word, which was far more powerful than any reply she could’ve given. We endured an awkward few minutes of silence before Bridget and Mom returned. Mom held her hand and paraded her around, showing off the new coat she’d dressed her in.

  “Magnifique!” praised my father.

  “Doesn’t she look lovely?” crowed my mother, speaking mainly to Charli. “I saw it this afternoon and couldn’t resist. It’s a fraction too big –” she tugged at the cuff of Bridget’s sleeve, “– but it should fit her by winter.”

  Charli was so rigid that her voice sounded strange as she thanked her. Bridget didn’t seem to be faring much better. She escaped her grandmother’s grasp and piled onto her mother’s lap. If I’d been any further away, I wouldn’t have heard Bridget’s whisper. “I don’t like it, Mummy.”

  “Shush,” replied Charli, equally as quietly.

  ***

  Dinner was done with fairly quickly. Mom served her stock standard stodgy roast beef and finished up with the cake Bridget had made. It was lopsided, overloaded with sprinkles and little fingermarks, and still more appealing than any dessert my mother could’ve cooked. It wasn’t an unbearable evening, but I was glad when it ended. I decided to make the most of the clear, warm night and walk home.

  I would’ve walked the girls home too but Charli had other plans. She ordered Bridget to stay put, stepped off the sidewalk and hailed a cab with the expertise of a true New Yorker.

  “You’re getting a cab?” I asked incredulously. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “We’re not going home,” she replied, hoisting a slab of cake at me. “We’re going to surprise Adam at work.”

  “My daddy likes cake,” added Bridget.