by Aria Ford
I put the kettle on, put the granules of coffee in my mug and waited for it to boil. My mind strayed to Cheri as I stood there. It wasn’t her fault things didn’t work out. It was mine. My heart has never been mine to give.
That was because someone had taken it and I’d never quite succeeded in getting it back.
Macy Trent.
I closed my eyes as the kettle boiled, the water bubbling and chortling in the background, and let myself recall her.
Macy. That soft chocolate-brown hair and those big gray eyes. Her skin, like satin, scented with roses. Her beautiful face. Her body, like all my crazy teenage fantasies were made of sweet flesh. I had never fallen for anyone the way I’d fallen for her. But she was so far above me it wasn’t worth thinking about.
The kettle boiled, and I took the coffee through to the sitting room, mind lost in memories.
We met at a christening. Of all the crazy things. I was friends with her cousin, Grady. Given that I was the kid who grew up playing football in the seamy backstreets of the Vermont Hills district, that seems weird. It was.
I met Grady Mansfield at Lakewood College, the prestigious school where I had a football scholarship. Grady—lively and as close to ADHD as anyone I’ve ever met—hadn’t wanted to attend the christening of his cousin’s baby alone. He’d said it would be too boring. So I went along with him.
“Hi,” a friendly voice had said as I stood in the marquee, trying to keep away from the rest of the guests. A shy, friendly voice. I turned around. I stared.
She was at my shoulder, a shy, smooth-faced young girl with soft brown hair and the biggest, most striking gray eyes I’d ever seen. Long-lashed and wide, they’d drawn me in and drowned my soul in their misty gray depths. I hadn’t been able to think, much less look anywhere else. The scent of her perfume had wafted across to me and I’d lost my wits.
“Uh,” I’d stammered. Come on, Maddox. Get a grip. “Hi,” I’d said. My voice sounded like it had melted, along with most of my brain. I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Hi. I’m Maddox.”
She’d smiled at me. “I haven’t seen you before,” she said. “Are you here with my cousin?”
Her soft lips, were painted a pale rose color with some lipstick. When she smiled it lit those amazing eyes. Her lips were plump and moist and I felt my groin ache. She was smiling at me? I tried to focus, hoping I wasn’t embarrassing myself overmuch.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling my face stretch with a big stupid grin. “I’m a friend of Grady.”
“Oh.” She’d raised a brow. “Auntie Cheryl mentioned he’d brought someone with him. You must be him. The friend.”
“Yeah,” I’d laughed. “That’s me. The friend.”
She giggled. “That’s nice. Pleased to meet you. Maddox is a nice name. Like the painter. Maddox Brown.”
I drew in a deep breath, feeling like I was trying to breathe through Elmer’s glue. “How did you know that?” I asked.
She giggled. “I studied art history, Maddox. It was just a guess,” she’d added modestly, looking down. I sighed in wonder.
Maddox was the name my mom had picked for me. She was a pianist, actually, not an artist. She came from a different background than my dad: her dad was a college lecturer and her mom a painter. She’d named me for the artist Grandma most admired. It had been a stupid name to have at a Vermont Hills junior high and when I’d got the scholarship I’d hoped the teasing would go away. It had, but simply because no one really bothered with me either way.
Macy was the first person who’d guessed the origin of the name.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Ford Maddox Brown.”
“Wow,” she’d said. “That’s right.”
I was eighteen years old, and this was the first time I’d actually had to introduce myself to a girl. Crazy, that. I was hardly innocent of guy-girl stuff, but I’d never formally met someone before. All my other encounters had happened at friends’ parties. My ignorance partly accounted for the fact that I took a full five minutes to realize I hadn’t asked her name. I cleared my throat.
“Who…”
“Hi,” she said, taking the words out of my lips. “I’m Macy.”
We looked at each other and our eyes locked. I swallowed hard. She was so beautiful. She was wearing a soft blue dress with a little matching jacket and high heels. She smelled like heaven, some mix of roses and other flowers that set my senses racing, and her skin shone in the sunlight. I felt as if my whole body was catching fire.
I had dried up, totally unsure of what to say next. I shrugged, my face red. “It’s a nice day,” I said lamely.
We were in a marquee tent, tables and chairs stretching out under the dense plastic. Everything was decorated to perfection. The sun shone in through the entrance, making dark shadows on the floor. I rolled my shoulders in my suit, feeling like I was suffocating.
She giggled. “I guess we should find a place to sit, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
To my utter amazement, she led me to sit beside her. When I noticed that another name was on the placemarker, she’d rolled her eyes mischievously.
“What do you say we do some swapping?”
I’d stared at her, aghast. “No way! We can’t do that!”
“Who said we couldn’t?” she’d asked.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Well…”
Even as I spoke, she was swapping the elegant calligraphic place names, moving them a few seats down the table and replacing mine and Grady’s with the ones she’d moved. I winced.
“We’ll get in trouble,” I whispered urgently.
She winked. “Leave it to me.”
That was the start of our association.
I think that I fell in love with her at that moment. After the luncheon, we’d walked in the garden together. I’d followed her as if I was attached to her, every nerve screaming that if I let her out of my sight I might die.
“Macy,” I said softly as we stood in the sunlight, overlooking fragrant flowerbeds.
“Yes?” she’d asked.
“Would you, um, come to the football match Tuesday?” I asked. I felt like I might faint—asking her out was scarier than anything I’d ever done.
“Yeah,” she said softly.
We’d gone to the football. Then to dinner. Then came that night, a month after we’d met, when I’d taken her to a fancy restaurant and we’d walked in the park after, kissing under the stars. That was the night I would never forget. The night I was her lover.
After that, things had got confusing. Pressure from my friends wasn’t helping any: They kept on pointing out that I wasn’t good enough for her. And her family too. They actually hated me. I could feel it. On the odd occasion I saw them, they were rigidly polite. I felt as if I might be able to crack the air around them like glass or ice. The Boy from Vermont Hills was not for their little girl.
It was after a family dinner that I’d walked away. It was at The Walton, an unimaginably fancy restaurant. And I’d embarrassed myself profoundly in front of her family. I thought Macy would never forgive me. So I’d hid. Not returned her messages. Blotted the whole experience out of my life. It was the last in a series of promptings that had made me decide she’d be better off without me.
Now, I wished I hadn’t.
The sound of a motorbike blasting down the street brought me back to the present moment. I sighed, rolling stiff shoulders, and went through to the kitchen. Made myself another cup of coffee.
Somehow, no matter how many years passed, I still found a small corner of my heart belonged to Macy. Now that I was single and feeling sorry for myself, more than ever I found myself talking to her.
“Macy,” I sighed. “If I hadn’t walked away, would you have pushed me out?”
I was in some ways glad that I would never know—but in other ways, deep down in my heart, I wished I had stuck around to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
Macy
I sat on the leather couch in m
y top-story apartment and checked my phone. I drew in deep breaths of the lightly floral air freshener and tried to relax. I felt jittery. Dad is coming back from overseas on Friday. That thought had occupied me for the last three days. I always felt like that when he left me in charge: I suppose it was my own sense of inadequacy to the task, and I kind of dreaded his assessment of my management.
He trusts me way more than I do.
I drew my focus to my phone, breathing deeply. My messages weren’t all that exciting—something from a local charity, inviting me to an event. Something from dad, just photos of the company launch at his new branch in Singapore. I scrolled through them idly. Then my eye fell on a new message.
I grinned to myself, noting it was from Harper. I wondered what that was about. It was characteristically short.
Want to chat?
I sighed. Why not? It was six o’clock in the evening, and I was feeling a bit lonely after all.
“Okay.” I sent back a message. Yes. A second later, the phone vibrated insistently.
“Hi!” Harper’s voice bubbled on the other side of the phone.
“Harper! Hi. What’s up?” I asked. She sounded wired. That in itself wasn’t a cause for concern—I knew her well enough to know she always sounded wired. I wondered what it was this time.
“Just running into some last-minute challenges with that party…you know where I can get paper streamers from? Not the nasty ones…those nice ones like you had at the do last month?”
I blinked. The party! It was insane, but I’d completely forgotten about it. “Uh…” I frowned, trying to think. “You should probably ask whoever’s doing the catering,” I said. “But the place we usually source them is at Tesor…they have a section for that kind of thing.”
“Oh. Heck. Thanks, Em. You always know this kinda thing. So organized…” she sighed.
I smiled fondly. “Thanks.” Harper was anything but organized. We’d met at college: she was studying design and I was studying management. I’d been pretty amazed by her scattered manner then, but it seemed to work. we’d both graduated in the same year and she’d gone on to work in her father’s company too—Hampton Architectural Ltd.
“So,” she said. “Just to check. I’ve got the catering from that place you recommended before. I’ve got balloons coming in round midday tomorrow and the space is booked. What have I forgotten?”
“If you’ve got something to wear, no sweat,” I commented. “All done.”
“Something to wear!” she sounded like she was smiling. “Sure. Did that bit before I got the rest done. I went to this stunning new shop…oh, what was the name? LeBlanc.”
“Sounds good,” I commented.
“Oh, it is,” she said. “I’ll send you the homepage…it’s worth checking out.”
“Thanks,” I said. My mind was working furiously. I had completely forgotten about Harper’s plan. I had literally nothing to wear. Well, nothing new that she hadn’t seen before. I wanted to do something special—it was her plan for me to meet someone at this party. She hadn’t said so, but I knew that was why she’d invited me.
Maybe I should go and check it out.
I looked at my watch. It was quarter past six. I scrolled to the link Harper had shared.
“Mm. Not bad.”
“What’s not bad?” Harper asked.
“This place. The website you sent? Looks nice.” It did look nice. They had really simple, pretty dresses. Just what I wanted.
I looked at the opening times. It closed at eight pm. It was about half an hour’s drive away. Feeling spontaneous, I decided to go and check it out.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said smugly. “Anyhow. I should go. Got to head to a dinner. Tootles.”
I grinned at her typical ending statement. “Bye,” I said. I hung up. Thinking about my plan.
“It isn’t like I have anything better to do. And I do need something pretty.”
I went to the bathroom, restyled my hair—the chignon I always wore it in had kind of fallen flat during the day—changed my white jacket for a softer blue one and headed downstairs.
As I drove through the darkening streets, I found myself feeling strangely excited about the prospect of the party. It wasn’t like I tended to socialize all that much. Besides company events, I hadn’t actually headed out for a while now. This was going to be fun.
“Typical Harper to decide to matchmake,” I thought aloud. She was always trying to introduce me to people—wealthy clients of her father’s company, mostly, or people she met at parties. None of them were my style: smooth, suave and sexy, they all lacked an essential something.
Something Maddox had.
I rolled my eyes at myself in the reflection in the window and put my foot on the gas, heading into town. I was twenty-six. What was I doing hanging on to someone from my childhood?
Yes, I thought stiffly as I glanced at my face in my makeup mirror before getting out of the car. I was grown up now. I needed to grow up inside. My oval face, wide-lipped and big-eyed, had the slightest trace of smile lines at the corners of the eyes. It was time I forgot about teenage dreams.
I swiveled my legs to the side and swung them out of my BMW, hoping that my GPS brought me to the right place.
The place in question was a new mall—severe, minimalistic and stylish. It looked like the sort of place I would like. I drew a breath and put my best—high-heeled—foot forward, heading inside.
“LeBlanc,” I read the name above a beautiful shop window. In the window was a stunning dress—a sort of oyster-cream color with breezy layers of chiffon-light fabric, a slight fringe on the sleeves. It was really current. I decided I had to try it on.
The place was brand new—I was surprised it had even been open when Harper had visited. There was a technician working at the door, making some adjustments to the alarm, I guessed. I walked past him and he stared after me.
“Hi,” I said to the salesgirl, ignoring the hovering mechanic. “I’m looking for something for a party. And I really like the cream dress in the window. Can you make some recommendations, apart from that?”
She nodded. She showed me several really pretty dresses, but I had my hopes pinned on the cream one.
“Can I try them on?”
“Sure,” she beamed. She showed me the changing room.
I headed that way, stopping to pick up some accessories on the way in. A floaty scarf. A pair of high-heeled sandals with discreet sparkles on the buckle They might all match quite well.
In the changing room, I stepped back from the mirror, frowning at my reflection. The cream dress was slightly above knee-length, the neck low but with a chiffon layer making a pretty, demure collar. The sleeves were wide bell sleeves ending in soft fringes. The bust clung a little to my own full bust, the short skirt making my legs look really long. I frowned at my pale oval face above the neck, surprised by how innocent I looked in this dress. It was probably the little buttoned collar that did it, I decided. Even so, it was lovely.
“I’ll take it.”
I changed back into my slacks and blouse, noting with some surprise that the label was still in the slacks. I must have forgotten to cut it out. I shrugged. No reason not to do it later. I headed to the counter, card in hand, to make the purchase.
“Thanks. Have a nice evening!” the red-lipped salesgirl called out from behind me. I smiled at her over my shoulder and walked out.
Alarms, blaring and insistent. It sounded like the entire police force had just descended, sirens blaring. Except they hadn’t, of course. It was just the newly mended alarm on the shop door. Going off.
I closed my eyes, cheeks flushing bright with shame.
There I was, standing just outside of the stylish boutique, my purchases in hand, and I had set off the door alarm. Not good.
I groaned. I knew my rights. If I’d been still within the precincts of the store, there’d be no harm done. As it was, I was just outside. If I’d accidentally put something in my bag while I was in ther
e—a scarf, say, or some earrings—it would be embarrassing.
It might also get legal.
I sighed, imagining what my dad would say. Imagine the scandal if I was arrested for shoplifting! To my dismay, I could just see a security official, heading my way. This really was all I needed.
I stood there, fishing through my handbag, trying to figure out what had happened, trying desperately to compose myself. Then it hit me. The slacks, I realized, relief washing through me like a tidal wave. The label was still in them! It must have activated the door alarm somehow.
I looked up, ready with an explanation. Then I stared.
It couldn’t be. Ten years would change a person more—wouldn’t they? I thought they would.
But the guy standing opposite me, a pistol at his side, hair cropped ruthlessly short, wearing a dark-brown uniform with some insignia on the front, looked almost exactly like Maddox.
He was staring at me too.
“Macy?” he breathed.
I stared back. “Maddox?”
It was him. It really was. After all this time. Almost ten years.
Then, to my amazement, he laughed. “It is you! Macy! It’s not possible…” He shook his head, laughing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I managed shyly. I put my purchases down, mainly to give me something else to think about while I tried to collect myself. “I…this is a bit awkward. Isn’t it?”
He chuckled. Those caramel-dark eyes—I’d said they were the color of caramel one night when I lay in his arms and he’d kissed me, saying I was as sweet as syrup, so we matched well—danced.
“I guess so. I know you haven’t stolen anything.”
I giggled, feeling weak with all the emotions that surged through me. Relief, at the fact that my problem with the door was going to be so speedily resolved. Shock, at seeing him again. Amazement and a strange, growing warmth that was suffusing my chest and threatening to stop me breathing.
“I haven’t, no,” I added. We were on our own now—the interested parties who’d stared at us when the door had been making its racket had since dispersed—and I could explain myself.