by Aria Ford
“Oh. Thanks, Auntie,” I said, wincing as the oven door almost did its spring-closed-on-your-arm trick. “Have a nice day.”
“You too, Brooklyn. Bye-bye.”
“Bye!” I called.
I put down the phone, slid the cakes into the oven, shut the door and turned to Parker with a grin on my face.
“She’s not coming,” I explained. “It’ll be just us, then.”
“Oh.” Parker, my six-year-old daughter, took that somewhat undecided. She gave me a little frown. “Just you and me, right?”
“Yup, that’s right.”
“And Daddy?”
I dropped the spoon into the sink, letting the vehemence of the gesture diffuse some of my stress. I sighed. “Daddy’s away, sunshine.”
“Oh.” She put her thumb in her mouth, looked up at me with those heavenly blue eyes. I wanted to cry.
Daddy—also known as Richard Price—was my ex-husband. I sometimes wished he had been as nice on the inside as he’d been on the outside, but if looks were deceptive then he was the master of deception. Stunning on the outside, remorseless and emotionally dead on the inside. His daughter had all the good looks, fortunately, and none of the character.
“Daddy sent his love, sweetheart,” I said. Not exactly, but the thought was there. At least it was worth saying so.
“Oh!” she brightened. The thumb came out of her mouth and she grinned. “Yay!”
I leaned on the sink. Looked out of the window. Heard her scamper into the hallway saying something about Bluey, her doll, and let myself cry.
Richard, you bastard, I wanted to swear. You could at least send your kid a card.
He hadn’t, though. He hadn’t said a word. Last thing I heard he was in Hawaii. I think he only phoned to show off.
He doesn’t feel things the way you do—the way anyone else does. He only cares about getting attention on himself.
My therapist had told me that and I finally was starting to believe her and walk away, slowly, from the crimped-up place of blame I’d hidden in for the last almost eight years or so.
“Mommy!” Parker yelled, running in. “Why’s there smoke coming out of the oven.”
I gasped. Turned around, my train of thought coming to a spectacular halt. Parker was right.
“Oh…” I held back the swearing. There was a child in the room. I bent down and together we stared into the oven. The wax wrap was smoldering. As we watched, flames kindled.
“Wow, Mommy!” Parker said, eyes like pie plates. “That’s cool.”
“No, it’s hot,” I said succinctly. “Our cake will burn!”
I reached for a towel, covered my hands and hauled out the first cake, then the second. We both coughed as acrid smoke poured out of the oven. I couldn’t help it—as I fanned away the smoke I looked at my daughter’s enchanted expression and burst out laughing.
She caught my ebullience and started giggling. Soon we were both huddled in the center of the kitchen floor, our arms round each other, howling with mirth.
One thing is sure—we couldn’t have done that if Richard was around. I shuddered to think of the recriminations, the shouting, the cruelty, that would have poured out of him had he been here now.
As it was, Parker thought it was brilliant.
“Mommy! Can we do it again?”
I laughed. “No, sweetie. If it catches fire again, we might not get the cakes out.” As it was, they were ringed with a sort of crisp collar of cinders that would have been funny if I hadn’t been worried about how to lift them out again when they cooked up.
Brooklyn, don’t be silly—just turn them upside down. They’ll fall out.
I sighed and opened the oven door again, then slid them into the same places again.
“Right,” I said, turning to Parker. “Now we have to finish the tree.”
“Tree!” she effused. “Let’s go! I want to put the angel up…”
“You can’t, honey,” I said, chuckling as I followed her up to the attic to fetch down the baubles and tinsel and other things. “You can’t reach.”
“I can climb the ladder,” she retorted, those pale blue eyes glinting with ambition. I grinned.
“Maybe next year.”
“I want to climb it now!” she insisted. “I’m a big girl, Mommy. I’m a meter tall!”
I bit back my laugh. “Yes, you’re a big girl, sweetheart. Can you carry this for me?” I asked, passing her a bag of glittery green tinsel.
“Yes, Mommy!” she nodded. She took it in both arms, running down stairs.
I sighed and found the other things, walking quickly down to the sitting-room behind her. While she pranced in with her armloads of tinsel to throw at the branches, I paused and glanced sideways in the mirror, scraping curls of hair off my damp brow.
The reflection showed me a woman of thirty-four: medium height, with a cloud of auburn wavy hair, brown eyes, and a worried frown. I wasn’t bad looking, I told myself with that constant surprise. My eyes were almonds, my lips full, and I had high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face.
I don’t know why Richard made me feel so worthless and ugly. But even now I kind of expected to look monstrous until I checked in with myself. I shook my head. I had been divorced for two years. I really should move on from those patterns of pain that had become such a habit with me.
“Mommy…” a voice came from the sitting room.
“Yes, darling?” I gasped, dumping the armload of decorations on the chair and looking around.
“Why’s there water coming through the roof?”
I stared. Her little finger pointed up triumphantly, like an Israelite spotting manna dropping from Heaven. Except this wasn’t manna from Heaven, this was water. Rainwater. A lot of it.
“Oh…” For the second time that morning I bit back a string of rude words. The roof had its issues—the landlord warned me the rain sometimes came in if the gutters were blocked. I guess I should have checked them. But I forgot. Now the roof was doing its tricks and threatening the furnishings. I swore quietly in the hallway and reached for my phone.
“What can we do?” Parker asked carefully.
“Well, all we can do,” I retorted, punching letters into my phone to look up a contact. I was frowning as I did it, because the only thing we could, in fact, do, was the last thing I wanted. Call Riley Robson.
As I found the number and pressed the button, I found myself thinking back to the only time I had actually met Riley. He had parked his van in front of my driveway and I had asked him to move it.
He had looked at me, I remembered, with those dark brown eyes. “Why?” he’d asked, giving me an insolent grin.
“Because it’s parked illegally,” I had replied.
He’d laughed. “Well, you’re not gonna call the police now, are you?”
I had felt as if he’d slapped me. How could he be so self-assured? “I might,” I’d threatened. “If you don’t get it out of my way in the next five minutes.”
He had whistled appreciatively, as if I’d done something for his pleasure. That had really made me mad.
“Okay, okay,” he’d agreed, still grinning. He’d moved the van. That was the last time we talked.
I’d seen him around, and I couldn’t exactly deny that he was sexy. Stunning, in fact, with those broad shoulders, curly dark hair and those limpid brown eyes with their heavy lids and the crow’s feet in the corners that made him look like a tanned, adventurous seafarer. But his character didn’t match up.
Arrogant, rude, unthinking…I was running through the list when the phone stopped ringing.
“Yes?”
Oh, heck. There he is too. “It’s Mrs. Price,” I said quickly. “I have a problem with my ceiling.”
“Oh?” he drawled. “What kinda problem?”
“It’s leaking. Badly.”
“Probably the gutters. You’re in number three Ascot Street?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Just near you.” I said through gritted teeth.
&nb
sp; “I know,” he said. I couldn’t help that those words made me shiver. Why did he have to be so stunning?
“Well, could you come ASAP?” I asked. “I have good furniture getting ruined in here.”
“Okay,” he drawled. “Be there in five minutes. Oh, wait…”
“What?” I said, trying not to shout.
“Where can I park?”
“Anywhere. You. Like.” I said it one word at a time. Did he have to make an issue? Right now? Three days before Christmas and in a state of minor crisis?
“Okay.” I could hear him smile. “I’ll be there now.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled. I shut off the phone with a kind of grim rage and turned to Parker.
“What’s happening, Mommy?”
“The repairman’s coming, sweetheart. It’ll be okay.”
As I walked through to the lounge with a roll of paper towel under my arm, planning to swab up the worst of it, I prayed inwardly that was true. I really wanted it all to just be okay.
CHAPTER TWO
Riley
I have to admit I’ve always been interested in the woman in Number 3. I remember when she first moved in. I was in my garage when the removal van rolled in and she jumped out. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a sweater. Nice ass, I thought.
Since then I had gotten to know her a bit better—if having an argument in the middle of the street is getting to know someone. I noticed more than the ass: the pretty face, the fiery hair, the sass. Now I stood with my phone in my hand and a funny grin on my face and an invitation to go into Number Three Ascot Street.
Hey, I thought. Christmas came early this year.
As I packed my tools and went across to my van in a leisurely manner, I found myself wondering what would happen next. I didn’t have to go far. I stopped and slid out of the door feeling strangely apprehensive. I rang the bell and the door opened. I stared.
“Hello?”
Whoever had answered the door seemed to have gone away.
“Hey!” a small voice lisped from round the height of my knees. I blinked down, surprised.
“Hello,” I replied. The little angelic face stared up, blue eyes round. She was so pretty it made me grin. “Where’s your mommy?” I asked.
“She’s upstairs.” the little girl lisped.
“Okay,” I nodded. I shrugged and went up the stairs. Chaos met me. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, decorations spilling out of boxes all over the floor. The mess was mixed with newspaper and a mop and a spreading stain on the rug. I couldn’t see Mrs. Price.
“Hello?” I called.
“Oh fu…fiddlesticks!” a voice came out from round the back of the tree. The ass appeared first, making my loins tense. Round and pert like two peaches clad in tight denim, it was a thing of beauty. I cleared my throat and tried to bring my mind back to the present.
“You called about a problem with the roof?”
“Yeah!” the word was vicious. “I did. Ten minutes ago. It’s up there.” She pointed at the ceiling just above my head.
“Where I expected the roof to be,” I grinned. She glared at me.
“Mr. Robson,” she said, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth. “I asked you to fix my roof. If I’d wanted Christmastime wisecracks I would be watching the TV. Are you going to fix it, or aren’t you?”
I wiped the grin off my face with effort. “Okay, okay,” I nodded. “I’m going.”
I went out and set up my ladder. While I climbed up I whistled between my teeth. I knew it would irritate her. I was right.
As I passed the window, I heard her in the sitting room again. She was swearing this time. Real swearwords. It made me grin. As I passed the window and went up on the roof I heard another sound, though. It was tears.
It wasn’t the little girl who was crying. I knew that immediately. Kids don’t cry like that; not the belly-aching sobs that adults make. I crawled onto the roof to clean the gutters, my own heart tearing as I heard those heart-wrenching cries.
“I can’t do this anymore…I can’t get anything right! Oh for shit’s sakes.” the woman sobbed. “For crying out loud. How much am I supposed to take?”
I sighed. Cleaning the gutters and covering the leak were easy jobs. I did them with a sort of guilt as I listened to those cries. I wished I could really help her. Fixing her roof wasn’t even a beginning.
By the time I’d finished, she was silent again. I climbed down the ladder and let myself in through the kitchen door. I stood, listening for any signs of life, but there were none. I washed my freezing-cold fingers in the sink, dried them on my trousers and went into the hallway.
There, I found the little girl. She was standing facing the wall, her little face buried in an overcoat. Her shoulders shook. She was crying too.
That was almost too much for me to bear. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She tensed, then looked up at me.
“Why’s Mom so sad?”
I wanted to say something, but I had no idea what to say. How must I know? I wish I knew.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I said. She stared at me, surprised. It was only after I had gone up the stairs that I realized that I had called her sweetheart.
In the sitting room, I found marginally less chaos than before. The floor was still wet, but someone had cleared the newspaper off the floor and the tree was up.
“Mrs. Price?”
“I’m here.”
The voice was behind me, but it sounded as if it came from the bottom of a dark well. There was so much flat, cold despair in it that it made my heart stop. I turned around.
“Oh. Okay. I just fixed it.”
“How much?” The same flat voice asked me.
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
She frowned at me. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I mean, it’s for nothing.”
“What?” Now she sounded angry. “Mr. Robson. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but I don’t like it. Now tell me seriously: How much does it cost?”
Now I felt angry. “Mrs. Price. Look,” I said, not wanting to raise my voice but not able to help it. “I’m not doing anything funny.”
Her eyes went wide and, to my horror, they dampened with tears. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She went over to the wall and her shoulders shook silently.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “Listen, Mrs. Price,” I said, sighing. “It’s Christmas.” I shook my head. “It’s on me. A gift.”
She looked up at me. “Really?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Thank you,” she said.
This close, I could see the tracks of tears down her pink cheeks and her lips glistened with wetness. My loins gave a tug and I wanted to pull her into my arms and put my tongue between those shiny, plump lips. Of course, I didn’t.
“It’s a pleasure.”
She sniffed. “I…” her voice trailed off. “At least let me give you some coffee,” she said shyly.
I nodded. “I could take that,” I said, with a grin.
She laughed. The sound of that high, tinkling laughter made every second worthwhile. Her brown eyes danced and I felt my heart glow.
“Mr. Price,” she said, voice teasing. “I’m glad to know my coffee is acceptable. “Now, let’s go down to the kitchen. This place is a mess.”
I nodded. “It is,” I said lightly.
She glared at me, then laughed. “Okay, I accept it. It’s a mess.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. As she walked down the stairs ahead of me, I found myself patting her shoulder. She jumped, her eyes staring up into mine.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I understand.”
We went down to the kitchen together. The little girl was standing by the sink, trying to wash up. I went over and, while her mother busied herself with the kettle, I lifted one of the plates out of her hand.
“Let me do that,” I
offered. She looked up at me with round, surprised eyes. Said nothing. But she turned and walked away.
“Parker?” her mother called from the depths of the cupboard. “Can you get some cookies out of the jar for me?”
“Okay, Mom,” she nodded. A moment later we heard her rummaging in the jar. She turned around to Mrs. Price a moment later. “I ate them all.”
She looked like she was about to cry. Mrs. Price caught my eye and her shoulders shook with mirth. I couldn’t help it. I laughed too. Soon we were both helpless with laughter, leaning on the table.
Parker—or so the little girl seemed to be named—looked from me to her mother and back again. The expression on her face turned from sad to bewildered to indignant.
“Okay, what’s so funny?” she asked.
That set us both off even worse.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Price said, coming around the table and giving her daughter a hug. “We aren’t laughing at you, I promise.”
Parker looked up into her mother’s face and her indignation turned into a sunny smile. I looked abruptly away. I didn’t have kids of my own—Jess and I split long before that was even considered—but the tenderness between Mrs. Price and her daughter moved me deeply and made me feel my lack.