Storm Shells (The Wishes Series #3)

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  “Really?” I asked dryly.

  “Absolutely, and I’ll have you know that I’m prepared to use my daughter as a human shield if necessary.” He held Bridget in front of him to validate his claim. Our little girl madly kicked, cooing like a little pigeon trying to take control of the room.

  I tried not to smile, but once he cracked I couldn’t hold back. “You want to know what I think, Adam?”

  “Tell me,” he replied, repositioning the baby on his hip.

  I stepped closer to him. “I think you’re the best person I know.”

  He leaned forward, pressing his lips against mine. Bridget grumbled, making the embrace short but perfectly sweet. “Don’t get out much do you, Charlotte?” he teased.

  I giggled my way over to the small room. “Do you really think I could open a gallery here?”

  “I think you could open a gallery anywhere, but here is as good a place as any.”

  I took some time to think things through. Opening a gallery would be a great next step for me, and something I would never have considered if not for Adam’s support. It was a telling sign. As much as I’d grown in the past few years, I still needed the occasional push to move forward.

  “I like the name,” I said finally.

  His eyes brightened. “So you’ll do it?”

  I nodded, inciting a lovely Décarie grin. “You know what this means, Adam?”

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  I threw my arms wide. “You’re done. You’re going to have to find a new project to keep you occupied.”

  “I’m way ahead of you, Coccinelle,” he replied wryly. “I’ve found another boat. It’s being delivered to the shed as we speak. It’s old and rundown and needs a lot of work. It might take me years to restore.”

  I needed the occasional push, but Adam needed the opposite approach. He was still a perfectionist, driven to put everything into whatever he was working on. It was up to me to rein him in and slow him down. Dragging him away from his renovation work at a reasonable hour of the day was something I’d had to do more than once. Knowing I’d only have to walk as far as the other side of the yard to do it from now on brought relief.

  “Years? Really?”

  “Years and years and years.”

  I smiled at him, realising that for the first time ever, I felt like I fitted my life. Charli Blake grew up, took a wrong turn by becoming Charlotte Décarie, and finally found her feet as Charli Décarie.

  After spending far too long trying to pull each other in opposite directions, Adam and I had found balance.

  Our child was our middle ground. She was Bridget by name and nature. The impossible deadlocks that forced us apart over and over were bridged by a mutual desire to be deserving of her. She made us both want to be better people, and as long as we continued to walk the same road, our happy ending would always be in reach.

  Three Years Later

  Adam

  We spent a long time looking for Charli’s wedding rings – three years, to be exact. I offered to replace them a hundred times but she refused, settling for the simple gold band she’d started out with instead.

  “You wear the rings you’re married with. That’s it,” she told me.

  She didn’t have much time to devote to searching the garden these days. Her gallery had taken off in the past few years, as I knew it would. She’d sold pictures to buyers all over the world and had been published hundreds of times over. She was continually surprised by the interest in her work. I wasn’t. It confirmed something I’d always known. She was talented, creative and a genius.

  My workload was a little more subdued, and I loved every minute of it. After the bank renovation I moved on to a fifteen-metre sloop in dire need of some TLC. Six months later I flipped it for a tidy profit and moved on to another. Working from home had its advantages. It meant I could spend days hanging out with the chatty whip-smart toddler we had on our hands.

  A cottage at the top of a cliff wasn’t necessarily the best place for a curious little girl with a penchant for adventure. As soon as Bridget started to crawl we erected fencing around the yard to contain her, but I was still nervous. I knew that if she could find a way over it, she’d be rappelling to the beach in a second.

  A strong sense of adventure wasn’t the only thing Bridget had inherited from her mother. She was a little too young to grasp the concept of wishes and never-done lists, but glimmers of La La Land were already shining through. She’d learned to swim before she was two, insisted on wearing galoshes to bed, and vehemently maintained that her favourite number was yellow.

  I connected to her on a different level. Bridget loved books, which was a coup because I loved reading to her – mainly in French. She floated between two languages with her toddler chatter and I never got tired of hearing it.

  Fearing she’d spend a lifetime being tortured by secret conversations, Charli finally made an effort to learn the language too – at Bridget’s pace. Her pronunciation was terrible but I didn’t care. She had a way of making the most botched word sound gorgeous.

  Everything about Charli was gorgeous, especially that morning. I was sitting on the deck of the dry-docked yacht when she appeared in the doorway of the shed.

  “Adam, I have to go,” she called. “I can’t be late.”

  I backed down the ladder and walked toward her, making no secret of the fact I was looking her up and down. Her anxious, fidgety mood didn’t quite match the stylish grey suit she was wearing.

  “Look at you,” I crooned, drawing out the words.

  She nervously smoothed the front of her straight skirt. “It’s my hard-arse Wall Street look,” she joked. “Do you think Art Bloke will be impressed?”

  A very keen buyer on the mainland had contacted her the week before to set up a meeting. Charli was so taken aback by his call that she hadn’t caught his name. We’d been referring to him as Art Bloke.

  I leaned forward and kissed her, making sure that was the only contact we made so she’d stay tidy. “Knock ’em dead, princess. You look beautiful.”

  Her meeting was in Melbourne, which meant Bridget and I were being left to our own devices for a whole night. I was sure it was adding to Charli’s nervousness.

  “I’ll be back in the morning, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Bridget is still in bed,” she continued. “Don’t let her con you into giving her cake for breakfast. I already told her no last night.”

  “Okay, I’ve got it.”

  “And don’t forget her dance class at three. Don’t be late or Mrs O’Reilly will lock you out.”

  I wished Mrs O’Reilly would lock us out. Bridget’s dance class was the longest hour of the week and I always left with a headache. “We’ll be there,” I promised. “Now go. You’re going to miss your flight.”

  She smiled and held up her hand, crossing her fingers. “Wish me luck.”

  I blew her a kiss. “You won’t need it.”

  * * *

  I was the one who needed luck. Sleeping in had done Bridget no favours. She woke up cranky and wanted her mother. I calmed her down, carried her down the short hallway and sat her at the table. “Mom had to go on the plane, baby,” I explained. “It’s just you and me today.”

  “I can go too?”

  I kissed the top of her head. “Not today. She has to work.”

  Bridget took a long moment to think things through. “I like planes,” she said finally. “You like planes, Daddy?”

  I nodded. “Oui.”

  “You like cake?” she asked.

  I knew exactly where she was headed. The only hope I had of winning was to shut her down early. I filled a bowl with cereal and placed it in front of her. “Aimes-tu les céréales, Bridget?”

  She pushed it away. “Non,” she grumbled. “I just like cake.”

  “You’re not having cake.” I slid the bowl back to her. “You’re having cereal.”

  Bridget melted down. Tears began to flow – the awful kind – the snotty
, world-is-ending kind that made me think we were in for a very long day. Fearing the worst, I caved and broke her mother’s one and only rule.

  She had chocolate cake for breakfast.

  We ended up spending a great day together after that, right up until dance class.

  We sat in the car until exactly three o’clock. I didn’t want to spend a minute longer than necessary in that hall. Bridget didn’t complain. It was a routine she was familiar with.

  Charlotte rarely attended dance lessons. She still held the title of being the only child ever to be expelled from Joyce’s class. It bothered her more at twenty-three than it had when she was five. That meant dance had become a daddy and daughter activity.

  Once the other tiny dancers started filing into the hall, I unbuckled mine and held her hand as we walked across the parking lot, stopping twice so she could pick up rocks off the ground.

  Bridget liked Mrs O’Reilly’s dance lessons, but she was no Anna Pavlova. Her choice of footwear and pocket full of stones might’ve had something to do with her lack of grace. My mini ballerina was the only kid in class wearing a tutu, a hoodie and galoshes. I thought she looked cute but Mrs O’Reilly didn’t. She greeted us at the door with the blistering look of disapproval that we were used to.

  I sent Bridget off to join her posse and joined the other parents on the row of plastic chairs lining the side wall. No one seemed to notice me, which suited me fine. The mothers were too busy catching up on gossip and bitching about those who didn’t show up that week. I did my best to block them out, focusing on my little girl thumping around on the wooden floor, doing her best to dance like a butterfly.

  “That’s lovely, girls,” praised Mrs O’Reilly, throwing her voice across the echoey hall. “Nice, poised butterflies.”

  I doubt she was praising Bridget. I chuckled as I watched her flapping around and stamping her feet. She looked like she was trying to put out an invisible fire.

  Her technique didn’t improve when they moved onto fairy dancing. Each girl was handed a glittery wand. Most waved it through the air and kept dancing. Bridget used hers to practise her golf swing. I silently took the blame for that one. Bogan-golf sessions with her grandfather were a common occurrence for us.

  Poor Mrs O’Reilly was at the end of her tether, and she wasn’t backward in coming forward and letting me know. She yelled at me to stay back after class.

  Everyone else eventually cleared out, leaving just the three of us in the hall. Bridget continued her solo golf tournament, now sporting a wand in each hand.

  I dealt with Mrs O’Reilly at the doorway.

  “Little girls are like flowers,” she declared, throwing her arms wide. “With a little encouragement, they usually bloom.”

  “But?”

  “But, your daughter is nothing like a flower.” She didn’t even try to let me down gently. “If you want Bridget to be graceful and ladylike, maybe you should consider dressing her appropriately for dance.”

  “With all due respect Ma’am, she’s three,” I replied. “I don’t really care how ladylike she is at this stage.”

  “Her mother was just the same, you know,” she informed me, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Boisterous and unpredictable.”

  The comparison made me smile. “I’m thrilled to hear that.”

  “Perhaps – like her mother – Bridget isn’t cut out to be a ballerina,” she suggested.

  My little girl picked that moment to take an impressive swing with her wand, sending a small rock ricocheting off the wall above our heads. Bridget started giggling, a gorgeous cheeky sound that I never got tired of hearing, no matter the circumstances.

  Mrs O’Reilly was unamused. “I don’t think she’s ready for dance classes,” she said through gritted teeth.

  I nodded, hoping I looked disappointed. “I understand.”

  “I hope Charli will understand too,” she replied.

  “Well, if she doesn’t, I’ll be sure to get her to give you a call.”

  I might as well have threatened her with bodily harm. Mrs O’Reilly looked terrified.

  I walked to Bridget and scooped her into my arms. As we got to the door, I asked her to give the wands to her teacher, which she did without fuss.

  Mrs O’Reilly thanked her and said goodbye. “We’ll see you in a year or two, Bridget, when you’ve outgrown the boots.”

  I was strapping her into her car seat when Bridget finally spoke. “You like my boots, Daddy?”

  “I love your boots, baby.”

  She reached up and pressed her little fingers into my cheek. “You like cake, Daddy?”

  I countered by poking her dimpled cheek. “Yes, Bridge.” I laughed. “I like cake.”

  * * *

  Separating Bridget from her prized boots usually didn’t happen until she was asleep. Tonight was a little different. As I was tucking her into bed she lifted one foot and asked me to take them off.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Hurts,” she complained.

  I wasn’t going to argue. I grabbed the boot and wrenched it off her little foot. The reason why her feet hurt became clear in an instant. As I pulled it off, something flew out and tinkled across the wooden floor.

  I stooped down and picked up Charlotte’s wedding rings. Even when they were in my hand I couldn’t quite believe it.

  They were filthy and looked a little worse for wear, but they were found. I couldn’t begin to fathom the level of magic involved. To find one would’ve been a coup. To find both was nothing less than miraculous.

  “Where did you get these, baby?”

  “In the dirt,” replied Bridget casually.

  “When?”

  Her longwinded explanation was neither French nor English. I shook my head, not even trying to follow. Instead I tucked her up and kissed her perfect little head. “I love you, little treasure hunter.”

  * * *

  Charli’s business meeting continued the next day. I took it as a sign that things were going well. On the downside, she missed her scheduled flight and arrived home hours later than expected.

  I met her at the door and pulled her into my arms the second she was within reach.

  “I’m so tired,” she complained.

  She felt tired. I steered her across the to the couch by her shoulders. Charli kicked off her heels and grabbed my hand, yanking me down beside her. “How’s Bridge?”

  “She’s good. She’s been asleep a while,” I replied, moving her so her head rested in my lap. “She missed you.”

  “I missed her too,” she replied, mid-yawn. “What did you do while I was gone?”

  I tried to play it down, speaking very quickly as if that somehow dulled the drama. “Nothing much. Yesterday we played for a while and got kicked out of dance class. Today we went to the beach, then visited Floss at her store.”

  She didn’t seem tired any more. “Got kicked out? Oh no. What happened?”

  I smoothed her worried frown with my fingers. “It’s no big deal, Charli. She’s just not ready for dance classes.” I wasn’t sure that the dance world would ever be ready for Bridget Décarie – but I left that part out.

  “Was she sad?”

  “She’s over it,” I assured her.

  “It was the gumboots, wasn’t it?”

  “It might have been the boots. It could also have something to do with her awesome golf swing.” Charli sighed but still looked concerned. “She’s fine,” I repeated. “No tears, I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “What about you? How was your trip?”

  She stared up with tired eyes, seemingly thinking my question through. “Can we talk about this tomorrow, please? I want to go to bed.”

  I didn’t push. I had more pressing things on my mind. I expertly untucked her shirt and trailed my hand across her stomach.

  When my fingers slipped under the waistband of her skirt, she grabbed my hand. “Cool your jets, Boy Wonder.” She flashed me a lazy smile. “I want to go and
kiss our girl first.”

  “Fine.” I slipped out from under her, scooped her up and threw her over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  She must’ve really been tired. She maintained her ragdoll position the whole way down the hall. When we got to Bridget’s room I lowered her to her feet.

  I stood watching from the doorway as Charli crept across the room and gave our little girl a quick kiss and a fresh tuck up. Once she started picking toys up off the floor, I moved quickly to reclaim her.

  The hold I had on Charli as I carried her down to the bedroom was much better suited to the mood I was trying to put her in, but she felt so limp in my arms that I was sure the play at chivalry was wasted on her – right up until she turned her head and kissed my neck.

  One day apart was too long. I’d barely handled it, and the way I kissed her as I lowered her to the bed made it obvious. Her body was pinned beneath me but I was the one who was captured.

  Charlotte was my other half – the better half who constantly reminded me of all that was good and beautiful and special in the world. She’d loved and believed in me, even when I didn’t deserve it. And she’d recognised how much I loved her when I wasn’t able to prove it. I was the richest man on earth, and it had nothing to do with money.

  “I love you, Charli,” I whispered in her ear. “So much.”

  She pulled me in impossibly closer, raking her nails up my back as she pulled my shirt over my head.

  “I know you do,” she replied, sounding a little breathless. “That’s why you’re mine.”

  Being hers was a position I intended to hold for the rest of my life, and I spent the rest of the night convincing her of it.

  * * *

  I spent the next morning working on the boat, trying to pull the perished rubber moulding off the gunwales. It was a task that required plenty of curse words and more patience than I had.

  “Filthy mouth you have there, sailor,” teased Charli, appearing in the doorway.

  I smiled down at her. “Have you come here to taunt me, Charlotte?”

  “No. I came to pacify you with café coffee.” She waved the cup at me. “Permission to come aboard?”