A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  So she said shortly, “So I should spend all my money and rack up credit-card debt?”

  “No, no,” he soothed. “It was just an observation that we’re lucky your extreme saving habits are not typical. And bad debt is just as bad for the economy—hence the current world situation. But good debt—real estate, for instance, without the subprime debacle—is not something you should avoid when you can afford it. And you can.”

  The truth of that butted up hard against her fears.

  “What’s bothering you?” He slid a weighty arm around her shoulders, squeezing her in a gentle hug, his lips at her temple. “It’s your parents, isn’t it?” he identified quietly.

  She lifted a shoulder. That was true generally, though not the thing she was thinking about at the moment. “They’re young. Not even fifty yet. What if they live into their eighties or nineties? They have no savings, no retirement plan. Nothing. Someone’s going to have to provide for them.”

  “Does it have to be you?”

  “There isn’t anyone else,” she observed.

  “Leon? Someday,” he added dryly, “when he gets it right. But I gather he doesn’t stay in touch with them.”

  “He would never support them, even if he were up to his neck in cash. He hates them. He blames them for . . . everything. He’s smart, and if he only applied himself, he would do well. But he learned a flaky work ethic from them, and so, while he doesn’t want to live like they do, he doesn’t want to work for anything either. Always looking for the big score. And if he invested just the money he spends on lottery tickets, he’d be well set up by now.”

  “Leon’s smart, is he? Is he smart like you are?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Come on, doll. You’re brilliant.”

  Her pretty brain . . . She hid her face behind her hand, laughing in embarrassment. “Lucius! This coming from a certified financial genius.”

  He pulled her hand away from her face and twined their fingers together. “Seriously. I’ve never met someone with such a range of skill in so many disciplines. I may be a genius,” he grinned. “But you’re a polymath.”

  “Well, more like a jack-of-all-trades. I suppose things come easily to me, relatively.”

  A sidelong glance caught him rolling his eyes slightly, but he said, “Will you see your parents again before they leave?”

  “They’re gone already. Headed out west, they said. They’ll probably end up down east,” she snorted derisively. “They never follow a plan.”

  “They really are gypsies,” Lucius chuckled, and it was a comforting sound.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “It’s all for show. They deliberately make plans so they can break them, advertising just how unpredictable and unconventional they are. It’s bull.”

  His fingers played in her curls. “What about their parents? Your grandparents? Are they still alive? Still living next door to each other as your parents think?”

  “I—I think so.” This was a certainty; she knew they were still there, exactly as they had been thirty-odd years ago.

  “You’ve never looked them up? After all your years in Toronto, you never went to see them? They’d probably love to hear from you.”

  “Why?”

  Helplessly amused, he spread his hands. “Because you’re their long-lost granddaughter?”

  “Yeah . . . I don’t think so.” Glancing around, she sought another subject. “The deck is beautiful. Did you design it yourself?”

  “Mostly. Stole lots of ideas from other decks I’d seen. Merged them together with my own.”

  “I like the accent trim on the edge. And the dovetailing there—! It’s perfect.”

  “Thanks.” A mischievous grin appeared. “So, how does my polymath know about dovetailing?”

  “My dad was—is—a woodworker,” she said. “Very talented. Simple, elegant bits, like Arts and Crafts meets Shaker. But he can carve, too. I remember a woman who had a broken headboard on a massive, ornate bed, a whole hunk missing out of it, and Dad carved and stained and aged and fitted to it a piece that matched it so perfectly you couldn’t tell the difference.” She laughed, shaking her head. “He made enough money on that one job to upgrade us from a camper trailer to a rather nice RV. And then walked—rather drove—away from other offers he had for more work. He’s an artist, with a steady hand and an eye to fine work and the ability to design anything. Never was formally trained. Just picked it up somewhere along the line.”

  It was nice to talk about those memories, to remember brief moments of happier times with her parents, reminding herself that for all their faults, they had some extraordinary qualities.

  He didn’t respond for a moment, and then, gently, “And your mom? What does she do?”

  “A catch-all of talents. She sketches a bit; would do line drawings of Dad’s ideas. They are so empathic, she could see his words. Um, she sings, too. Like an angel. She’d get gigs in lounges and bars for a few nights, a few weeks, then get bored of it and quit. She’s good at math, chemistry, physics. Sometimes she’d tutor me and Leon when we were on the road. Not to help us keep up while we were out of school—which we were a lot—but just because it amused her in that moment. She’s a good writer. Got a job on a newspaper once. Bored again. Quit. Has an affinity for animals—even wild creatures trust her. Worked as a vet’s assistant once. Bored again. Quit.”

  “She’s an interesting woman.”

  Callie grunted, remembering how interesting had translated into contempt on his face over lunch at Rossetti’s. “She can’t cook. Doesn’t understand the meaning of a Best-Before date. I was astonished to learn in Grade One that cold cuts aren’t supposed to be blue.”

  “Oh, god!” He gave a horrified laugh.

  “She can’t keep house—or a trailer or an RV. And really, that’s perfectly fine if you’re on your own, giving yourself food poisoning and having your feet stick to the floor, or having bugs in the disintegrating patches of carpet. But put kids into that squalor?”

  The arm around her tightened.

  She sucked in a steadying breath. Normally, when she thought of those days, it was an academic pursuit, as if they had happened to someone else. Certainly, she had never allowed herself to feel that anger in full; never before had she expressed it aloud to anyone, not even to Leon. They shared a conspiracy of silence about those years, when maybe talking about them might have lightened the heavy toll.

  “Anyway,” she said more calmly, “they can’t stand still. One gets the itch to move on, and because they are so in sync and so in love, the other gets the itch, too. I imagine they’ll die together, just drive the RV off a cliff a la Thelma and Louise, because I just can’t imagine one without the other. A couple of times they made noises about settling into one place, and they’d park the trailer and rent a house or an apartment to test it out for a while. And then we’d be on the go again a few months, a few weeks later. Sometimes because they wanted to go. Sometimes because they had defaulted on the rent.”

  She blinked. Drew a breath. Almost stopped the story, and then decided she wanted to hear it out loud. So continued:

  “The first time I remember living in a house . . . I was five, I think. I was so excited. My own room. A yard. Pretty swing set. Cliché things you think will make everything better. Couldn’t figure out why Leon wasn’t excited by it all—but while it was the first time in my memory, it was not the first in his, and he learned his lessons faster in that regard.” More rapid blinks, and there was a frog in her throat. “I cried like a baby when we left there a few months later. It took a couple of more rentals and midnight runs like that before I learned not to get my hopes up.”

  He kissed her softly. “So, how did my doll escape that life?”

  “Hard work and prayer,” she quipped. “Actually, that scholarship. I had managed to stay in touch with one of my grade-school teachers, and she gave me rafts of advice over the years. Would write my current teachers to encourage them to give me extra w
ork so I could move ahead. I owe her for that. She got everyone on board in a conspiracy to help me,” she smiled reminiscently. “The scholarship was awarded and, being the first solid chance at escape, I ran.”

  “And applied for independence.”

  “It was readily given by the courts. I worried a bit that Mom and Dad would be offended, but they found it, as you must have gathered, all just too amusing.”

  “Brave girl.” His eyes glowed with quiet admiration.

  That was what separated them most—the sheer confidence to live life. He exuded it, commanded it. She went through the motions. He could lose everything and get up the next day fresh and ready to start again. She wouldn’t be able to do that.

  It was paramount to explain that to him.

  “I’m not brave, Lucius. I’m scared, all the time. Sometimes I forget that I’m free of it. And the anger comes and I start to panic . . .”

  Her throat closed and she couldn’t speak of it anymore.

  Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her so tenderly, so encouragingly, it squeezed her heart.

  “You’re okay, doll. Everything’s okay.” His thumbs caressed her cheeks, and his eyes were warm and gentle.

  Leaning into him, she kissed him as if he were hers, and she were his, and this moment of feeling safe wasn’t going to disappear in the blink of an eye.

  And because he was Lucius Ransome, he took command of the kiss and made her melt into a puddle of goo. She gasped as the clasp on her bikini top released, and she ineffectively clutched at the scrap of material.

  “Lucius!” She moaned as he dipped his head to nuzzle her puckering, hardening nipples. Forgetting that she had fantasised about lovemaking in the shade and scent of the roses, “We’re outside. N-neighbours.”

  He pressed her back into the deep cushions, sliding between her thighs. “Then you’d better keep your voice down.”

  ***

  “Any time after four . . . ’K.” Lucius trailed a hand over Callie’s naked body from throat to thigh, his gaze following the path. He tossed the phone aside.

  “What’s happening after four?” she asked, hips automatically arching in invitation.

  “A red-cup barbecue with my friends.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Summer, pool, deck, friends. An occasion in the making.”

  “I’d better go soon, then.”

  “Why?” he demanded, amused.

  “You’re having guests.”

  “You’re my guest, too.” He scattered light kisses over her face. “It’s the same crowd from the bar. Rachel and that lot.”

  “I should be working.”

  “You should be doing as I say.”

  A mischievous grin curled her lips. “Is that so, Mr. Ransome?”

  “It’s so, Miss Dahl.”

  The folly of becoming more immersed in him would be obvious even to a child, but from the moment he started paying attention to her, she had been on the slippery slope of Candy Mountain, tasting the addictive sweetness of a normal life with friends, a lover, and other illusions. The blinkers were off; distractions were high; and when winter came, it was likely to be extra chilly.

  ***

  Lucius’ friend Matt—from the teenage garage band days—was the first to arrive, with Rachel on his heels, unloading their burdens in the kitchen where Lucius was still prepping.

  “Where’s Cal?” Rachel demanded instantly.

  “Why did you think she’d be here?” he asked with a puzzled air, cracking beers for them.

  “What did you do now? What? Do I have to hold your hand—?”

  “Been redecorating, I see,” Matt commented from the doors to the deck. He took a swig of his beer. “I’ve gotta get me one of those.”

  As he followed Matt’s gaze to where Callie was stretched out on her stomach on a lounger in the shade of the overhanging balcony, the laptop in front of her; she chose that moment to move. Up on her knees, stretching arms high, sitting back on her heels, back arching over that delectably shaped bottom . . .

  Matt groaned audibly, and turned to pick up a cooler. “Rache, hand me a stack of red cups. I’ll see if Callie needs a beer.” He was outside before Lucius could threaten him with bodily harm.

  Cutting off Rachel as she started to speak, he turned on her. “Don’t interfere. Everything’s fine and it’s going to go the way it’s going to go. Stop forcing things.”

  “Okay,” she chirped with surprising agreeability. Then, slyly. “You really do like her, don’t you? I knew you would.”

  He wasn’t dignifying that. “Make yourself useful. Chop that veg, will you?”

  “Why isn’t Callie helping?”

  Because she was driving me bat-shit with OCD cleaning every time something dripped or dropped—or looked like it would.

  “She has work to do, so I cut her some slack. Besides, she’s a guest. She’s not supposed to help. Throw that in there, will you?” He threw a red pepper to her, which she deftly caught.

  “Special guest, apparently,” she grumbled with a wink, sliding a knife out of the block.

  “I ran into Anita last night,” he said after a moment.

  She met his glance, concern and sympathy in her sharp green eyes. “She make a scene?”

  “Didn’t have a chance.” Didn’t stand a chance, not against Callie.

  “You okay?”

  “It was like I saw her clearly for the first time. And felt . . . nothing. Except a bit of shock that I’d ever felt anything.”

  “Good. Good. ’Bout time. I hate that bitch.”

  That opinion had nothing to do with how the relationship had gone. She hadn’t liked Anita from the get-go. Which put her promotion of Callie in an interesting light.

  Another glance outside had him growling slightly.

  “What’s with the jealous posturing?” she chuckled.

  “I’m not jealous. I trust her. Well, and Matt for that matter. If it were Sam, though—” He grinned. “Kidding. But she makes me feel ridiculously protective and possessive.”

  “That’s new.” And looked damnably smug.

  ***

  The familiar-looking man closed the laptop lid with firm authority, shuffled it aside onto the deck, and straddled the end of her lounger, facing her.

  “Hi,” she greeted diffidently. “Matt, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Did you cut your hair, Cal?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, it just dried this way.”

  He plucked at a tight spiral, drawing it out to its full length, his beautiful grin brilliant against his dark-mocha skin. “That’s amazing.”

  She flushed.

  “Beer?” he asked as she smoothed the lock down and out of his fingertips. “Or would you prefer wine?”

  “Beer is fine, thanks.”

  He fished a bottle out of the cooler and twisted off the cap, deliberately and playfully flicking ice-cold condensation on her bare skin before drying the bottle on his camp shirt and pouring the frothy beverage into a red plastic cup. “No glass poolside,” Matt said with mock severity. “Lucius is very strict about that.”

  “Very wise.”

  A finger trailed over her nose. “You got a bit of sun today, huh?”

  The backdoor opened and a new voice complained: “. . . sticky, disgusting weather. I was due for a red-cup party. Hey, Cal. Don’t you look cute with your hair like that! Matt, stop touching unless you want Lucius to kill you. I’m going in for a swim. Pour me one of those.”

  “Hi, Sandi,” they greeted in unison as the redhead stripped off jean shorts and tank to reveal a skimpy black bikini. Matt whistled.

  Sandi grabbed Callie’s arm and dragged her from the lounger. “You’d better come with me. Lucius is having a stroke watching the two of you. He might chop off something important.”

  As the friends had arrived, everyone started the party with a dip in the pool. Callie clasped every moment to herself, a starving child fearful of having her candy taken, laughing at thei
r antics and good-natured squabbles, and absorbing the gossip that filled in the background of their long history as a tightly knit group.

  “Matt! Sam! You’re manning the Q.” Lucius entered the pool area, zeroing in on her. Crouching nearby on the apron, his broad shoulders blocked the lowering sun. “Having fun?” he inquired, slightly amused; slightly put out.

  “Uh huh.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You look hot and bothered.”

  “Do I?”

  Treading water, she reached out a hand, and when he grasped it, she caught him unaware by pulling back. Overbalanced, he half-fell, half-dove over her head into the water with a surprised yelp as the group whooped with laughter.

  He surfaced, slicking his hair back with both hands, pinning her with a glare.

  “Feel better? You look cooler now. Oh!” she cried as he lunged at her, his grin wolfish.

  He trapped her, arms bracketing her on either side against the pool apron, the tile cool on her back, the water rippling over her breasts. “Did you think that was a good idea?”

  “Mm hm.” Her tongue peeked out to lick at water droplets on his chin, and she gripped his shoulders. Her legs tangled with his. “Getting you back for yelling at me earlier.”

  “I didn’t yell at you.”

  “Well, you wanted to.” She pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Sorry I’m so messed up.”

  “Doll, everybody’s messed up over something. You actually have good cause.” Pushing away from the side of the pool, one arm banded her waist, the opposite hand held her head. His mouth captured hers in an intimate, seductive kiss. No longer treading water, they sank below the surface.

  Drowning in him.

  It was that rather than lack of air that caused a stab of panic, but before she could do more than give a slight push to his shoulders, he brought them back up, slackening his hold on her enough to let her drift a little but not letting her get away.

  She avoided his intense eyes as he grazed knuckles over her cheek.

  “Okay?”

  She nodded and, calmer, flashed him a slight smile.

  Water splashed as someone threw a volleyball that landed a few inches away. “Get a room!”

  “Later,” he murmured for her ears only, and then whipped the ball back at the attacker with force. Pulling her in again, he claimed her with a fast kiss. “You look hungry. Let’s get you fed.”