Secret North

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  “I’ve got a few contacts,” she called from the bathroom. “I might be able to call in a favour or two.”

  “Don’t jump at just anything this time,” I urged. “You don’t need to take the first job that comes up.”

  The bathroom amplified her raspy R-rated laugh. “Yes, I do.” She stalked back into the bedroom half dressed, fresh-faced and beautiful. The second she was close enough; I reached and grabbed her. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said, hauling her across the bed.

  “About what?”

  “About letting you leave.” I rolled, pinning her beneath me. “You’re too pretty to leave.”

  “Let me up, Ry,” she replied. “I’ve got work to find.”

  I lowered my head, breathing my next words against her cheek. “Say my name again.”

  “Ryan.”

  “No, not like that.”

  She arched her back, pressing herself against me as she obscenely purred my name. “Ooh, Ryan.”

  “Lovely, but not what I meant,” I told her, chuckling. “You shortened my name. I’ve heard you do it a few times lately. I think I like it.”

  Her body relaxed beneath me. “Bridget does it all the time.”

  I kissed her before replying. “Bridget doesn’t count.”

  ***

  Despite my best efforts at making her stay, Bente left the apartment half an hour later. I had nowhere to be until late afternoon.

  I managed to drag myself out of bed to the couch. I sat for a minute, trying to come to grips with the recent changes to the décor. Two pink velvet chairs stood in a corner, breaking every design rule ever written. I almost didn’t care how ugly they were because they were Bente’s chairs. The part of me that did care was wondering if my brother knew anything about upholstering.

  Most of the unpacking had been done, with the exception of a few boxes of books and one box of junk on the coffee table. I fought the urge to sneak a peek for five whole minutes before I actually did it. The most scandalous thing I found was a yoga DVD – until I happened upon Bente’s inspiration for learning the hip-grinding rumba.

  Her prized copy of Dirty Dancing.

  My DVD player had barely been used pre-niece. It was now on its last legs thanks to constant re-runs of the mermaid movie she loved. I pulled Bridget’s disc out and loaded Bente’s, promising myself that this was one film I’d deny ever watching. I’d barely gotten through the opening credits when the front door swung open. That was the first and only hint I got that Adam and Bridget were coming over, which proved that giving them the new code to the door was a mistake. I nearly jumped out of my skin, for no other reason than fear of being caught watching a chick flick. I hid the DVD case under the nearest cushion, pointed the remote at the TV and frantically punched the off button until the screen went black.

  “Can’t you people knock?” I sounded more panicked than angry.

  Of all the mornings to practise her hand-eye coordination skills, Bridget had chosen this one. “I put the key in and turned it.” She waved it at me. “It’s easy.”

  Her father wasn’t so oblivious. “What did we just walk in on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t stay, Bridge,” he told her, staring at me. “I’ll make other arrangements.”

  “No, I want to stay,” Bridget insisted. She was already buried headfirst in her toybox.

  “You can stay, sweetheart.”

  “No she can’t,” protested Adam in a strange muted growl.

  “Why not?”

  Adam glanced at his daughter before replying. “Because you’re a freak.”

  “Why?”

  He picked up a cushion and belted me with it. “What are you watching?”

  It dawned on me that he’d jumped to a terrible conclusion.

  “Oh my God,” I growled, throwing down the remote and jumping to my feet. “You think I’m watching porn?”

  “Shush!” he hissed, glancing in Bridget’s direction again.

  I grabbed the cushion he’d whacked me with and thumped him as hard as I could. “I do not watch porn.”

  “What’s porn?” came a little voice from across the room.

  I folded my arms and smirked at my brother. She was his kid. Explaining was up to him.

  “Nothing, baby,” replied Adam.

  “Good parenting, idiot.”

  “Good uncl-ing, freak.”

  “Stop fighting,” scolded Bridget, only half-paying attention to us. “I’ll tell Mamie and you’ll be in big trouble.”

  Determined to win, Adam reached beneath the cushion and grabbed the DVD cover he’d seen me stash there. At that point, I almost wished he had found porn. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I snatched it from him. “It’s not mine.”

  “If you say so, princess.”

  I had no smart comeback. I’d been caught watching Dirty Dancing. I deserved to be mocked.

  ***

  The key to hanging out with Bridget is to keep her occupied. Staying busy keeps her out of trouble, which probably explains why we spend so much time at the park.

  “I have to shower first,” I told her. “Then we’ll go.”

  She followed me to my room, zooming past me at the doorway to take a flying leap onto my bed.

  “Please don’t bounce on the bed.”

  “I have to,” she replied, mid-air.

  I made a grab for her and missed, making her giggle. “Bridget, do you bounce on beds in your house?”

  “Course,” she answered, as if it was a stupid question.

  “When?”

  “When no one can see.”

  Nothing about her reply surprised me. It was probably one of the lesser crimes she got away with. I glanced around the room, trying to work out my next move. Turning my back on her even for a second wasn’t an option. I didn’t need to occupy her. I needed to contain her.

  Bente’s ugly dresser suddenly had purpose when I noticed that the low stool was Bridget-height. I set it down a few feet from the bathroom door and patted the cushion.

  “Sit here, Bridge.”

  She stopped jumping, coming to a stop on her butt. “All day?”

  “No, just while I grab a shower.”

  She slid off the bed and took up position on the stool, swinging her legs and looking sweet, small and totally untrustworthy.

  “Five minutes, okay?” She nodded. “I’ll leave the door open so we can talk.”

  Despite my misgivings, I stepped into the bathroom and lost sight of her. The silence coming from the bedroom was deafening.

  “How are you doing out there, sweetheart?” I called.

  “Good.”

  Even over the sound of the water, I heard my closet door slide open.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not doing nothing.” She even sounded crooked.

  “Anything,” I corrected. “You’re not doing anything.”

  “That’s right,” came a distant reply.

  The soap barely had a chance to lather. I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist and ventured into the bedroom, still wringing wet.

  Bridget was sitting on the stool right where I’d left her, but it wasn’t hard to tell she’d been up to no good. The familiar shade of red lipstick she was wearing wasn’t confined to her lips. It was spread right across her face.

  I held out my hand. “Hand it over.” She looked guilty as sin. “Now, Bridget.”

  “Can I keep this?” The big patterned scarf she waved at me was bigger than she was. “It helps you fly.”

  She was probably going to need wings when Bente got hold of her.

  “Give me the lipstick,” I ordered, gesturing with my hand again.

  Bridget bunched up the scarf like she was scrunching up a piece of paper. “I can keep this?”

  I pulled in a deep breath, trying to work out how to win. I was a lawyer, for crying out loud. Negotiating with a four-year-old should be a piece of cake. “Keep the scarf, give me the
lipstick.” Bridget produced the tube from the front pocket of her dress. I took it before she changed her mind. “Thank you.”

  “That’s lovely manners, Ry,” she praised.

  “I’m not happy with you, Bridget,” I told her.

  “I’m not happy too.” Her little face fell but I held my ground and ignored the sad pout.

  “That was really naughty.”

  I wasn’t hopeful that she’d be able to wash it off, but I sent her into the bathroom to try. While she was gone I quickly dressed and checked to see if she’d swiped anything else. Finding nothing amiss, I followed her into the bathroom.

  Bridget was making a half-hearted attempt to wash her face. “It’s stuck on,” she said in a quivery little voice.

  It was going from bad to worse. Not only did I have to try cleaning her up, tears were coming.

  “Show me.” I took the washcloth and swiped it across her cheek. “It’s not too bad.”

  That was a lie. Bente’s lips were always red for a reason. The stuff was impossible to get off. At an absolute loss, I admitted defeat and called Adam for cleaning instructions. Charli was probably the more knowledgeable option, but much harder to deal with.

  “Lipstick?” he asked, amused. “Did she steal it from your purse while you were watching Dirty Dancing?”

  “She’s your kid, Adam. I’m perfectly happy to leave it on her.”

  “Well, how bad is it?”

  I looked down at the girl in question, trying to decide. “You know that movie she likes?”

  “The Little Mermaid?”

  “Yeah.” I shifted my phone to my other ear and took another swipe at her face with the washcloth. “Well, she looks like Sebastian… the lobster.”

  “Crab” Adam corrected. “Sebastian’s a crab.”

  I put my hand under Bridget’s chin, tilting her face from side to side while I surveyed the damage. “Either way, she could now get a job as his stunt double.”

  The picture I’d conjured in his mind was obviously good because he put some effort into remedying the situation, despite the fact he’d left a meeting to take my call. “What goes on must come off, right?” he asked. “Look for anything that says ‘remover’ or ‘antidote’ or ‘face cleaner’. It’ll be there somewhere.”

  I pulled open the top drawer of the cabinet. Like the rest of my apartment, it had undergone some changes. “There’s an abnormal amount of crap in here, Adam,” I reported. “Why would she need all this stuff?”

  “Don’t ask me. Girls like crap.”

  Girls do like crap. They like ugly furniture, sappy movies and drawers full of cosmetics they don’t need. I was so far out of my depth that there was no point pretending otherwise. “Bridge, have a look in here.” I pointed at the drawer. “See if you can find something that will get it off.”

  She reached her little hand into the drawer and pulled out a small pot of something.

  “Concealer,” I said into the phone. “That means it will conceal it, right?”

  “You don’t want to conceal it. You want to remove it.”

  My brother lived with two women, and he was still clueless. That meant there was no hope for me.

  Bridget tried again and handed me a bottle of clear liquid. “Eye makeup remover,” I read to Adam.

  “Good enough.”

  “Right, I’ll give it a shot.”

  I ended the call and prepared to try my hand at graffiti removal.

  After a long few minutes, Bridget finally looked more like herself. A red tinge remained on her face, but I suspect that had more to do with the fact that she’d spent the whole time crying while I cleaned her up.

  “Can we go now?” she whimpered hopefully.

  I threw the washcloth into the sink. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

  ***

  The morning took a turn for the better once we got out of the apartment. The story of the day was a good one. It was warm and sunny, and despite the great weather the park wasn’t too crowded.

  Bridget quickly recovered from lipstick-gate and spent the next half hour running around the playground, trailing her stolen scarf behind her like a cape. I sat on a bench and watched, awed by her energy.

  It was the perfect way to kill the morning, and it got even more perfect when I received a text from Bente asking if I wanted to meet up for coffee.

  I texted her straight back.

  - We’re in the park. Come and play

  22. DESIGNER WINGS

  Bente

  I smiled at the text on my phone and kept walking toward the 59th Street entrance of the park. It had been a productive morning. Begging for work isn’t something anyone enjoys, but I was confident I’d made progress so it was worth it.

  I caught up with Ryan at the playground.

  “I didn’t know you were babysitting today,” I said, leaning to kiss him.

  Ryan shuffled across to make room for me. “Nor did I. It was a sneak attack.” His inconvenienced tone wasn’t the least bit believable. “How did it go?”

  “Good,” I beamed. “Nothing set in stone but at least I’ve put the feelers out.”

  He stretched his legs out and folded his arms. “I’ll give you a job.”

  I would never have asked Ryan to hire me, but was secretly thrilled that he’d offered. “Really?” I asked, cocking my head to one side.

  He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Of course. You’re a decent server.”

  I bumped him with my arm, making him laugh.

  “You can start tomorrow,” he added. “Don’t be late.”

  “I’ll have to make sure my boyfriend doesn’t try keeping me holed up in the bedroom then,” I said dryly. “He can be very persistent.”

  Ryan leaned in close. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  His whisper travelled all the way south to my toes. I’d barely recovered when Bridget came running over. The first thing I noticed – besides the pissed-off look on her face – was the scarf trailing behind her.

  She was clearly unhappy to see me. Cutting into her time at the park with her uncle was a massive no-no. Using my four hundred dollar Hermès scarf as a cape was a no-no too, but I seemed to be the only one who realised it.

  “You gave her my scarf?” I muttered from the corner of my mouth.

  “Not really,” replied Ryan. “She found it.”

  Bridget came to a halt in front of us. “Come and play, Ry,” she demanded, ignoring me.

  “In a minute,” he replied. “I’m talking to Bente at the moment.”

  She grabbed his hand and tried pulling him to his feet. “No, we have to go now. Please, now.”

  Ryan repositioned his hand so he was now holding hers. “In a minute.” He almost sounded cross but Bridget wasn’t fazed. She turned her attention to me. “No park for you, Bente.” A cutting glare was probably her intention, but she was too cute to pull it off.

  I’d been dealing with horrid Malibu since my return from Boston. Bridget had nothing on her, but for some reason, I felt intimidated. Holding my ground wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to at least try.

  I started by asking for my scarf back. “I know Ryan said you could play with it, but he made a mistake,” I explained.

  Bridget took a step back. “No. I really love it.”

  “I love it too,” I said. “That’s why I saved all my money to buy it.”

  “I’m sorry, Bente,” mumbled Ryan. “I didn’t know.”

  I ignored him, keeping my focus on Bridget, who’d abandoned her frown in favour of a pout. “Please, Bridget. I’d really like it back.”

  She barely paused to think about it. “No. I don’t want to.” With that, she took off running toward the playground, my Hermès scarf flapping behind her like a victory flag.

  “I can chase after her and take her down if you want,” offered Ryan. He was trying to make light of it, but I wasn’t finding it funny. Four hundred dollars was chump change to him, Bridget too, but I’d survived on Ramen noodles for months
to save for the scarf.

  He shifted his hand to the back of my head, tangling his fingers through my hair. “I’ll replace it, sweetheart.” He spoke casually, as if he’d just fixed everything. “I promise.”

  “And Bridget gets to keep that one?”

  He shrugged but didn’t speak, highlighting just how clueless he was.

  “That solves nothing.”

  “I don’t know why it’s such a big deal. There’s no problem,” he replied.

  He was wrong.

  Bridget’s little mind had formed the opinion that I was out to steal her favourite uncle. Turning up at the park after she’d warned me not to was interpreted as a hostile move. Asking for my scarf back hadn’t gone down well either, but she’d won.

  I got the impression that Bridget was victorious most of the time where Ryan was concerned. And that was a problem.

  ***

  Taking Ryan up on his offer of going home with them would’ve been a declaration of war, so I politely made up a lie about having to go to my sister’s.

  Ivy’s house was bedlam, as usual. The girls were fighting upstairs, but at least they stayed there.

  “Why aren’t the girls in school?” I asked.

  “It’s the Merry Berry Pageant tomorrow,” replied Ivy. “I thought they should take the day off and relax. I want them at their best.”

  They didn’t sound very relaxed, but they were at their best. I heard a loud thud and looked up at the ceiling. “Do you think you should check on them?”

  Ivy threw her head back and shrieked, “What’s going on up there?”

  “Just playing!”

  My sister looked at me, completely at ease. “They’re fine.”

  I followed her to the living room, carrying the coffee I’d made. Now that my chairs were gone and her couches had been pushed back into place, the room looked much more presentable – well, as presentable as the pageant palace could be.

  Ivy went straight to work. She spread a sparkly dress across her lap and switched on her glue gun.

  “Is that for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.” She held up a bejewelled orange creation, “Malibu’s doing the apricot jelly dance in the talent section.”

  I nodded. It was the best I could do. I’d grown out of the pageant phase at fourteen. Ivy was still working on it.