Secret North: Book 4 of The Wishes Series

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  She made it sound terrible. Now I was wounded. “I’m not completely clueless,” I asserted. “I kind of had a girlfriend once.”

  She looked at me. “And what happened?”

  I tried to keep a straight face. “Her husband found out.”

  Bente moaned again. “It goes from bad to worse, doesn’t it?”

  I pulled her to her feet. “I’m kidding, Bente.”

  “Really?” Her voice was tiny but hopeful.

  “Yeah,” I assured her. “Her husband never found out.”

  ***

  Dinner wasn’t exactly a romantic event. It was more like a session in contingency planning. We sat side by side at the kitchen counter, discussing worst-case scenarios.

  “If you’re not happy, dump me before you find someone else,” she demanded.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” I assured her. “Should I email or will a text suffice?”

  She glanced at me, and perhaps realised I was a little hurt. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I just want you to be sure.”

  I reached for her hand. “I’m as sure as I can be,” I promised. “I just have one question.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “Are we going to go all-in and live together or do I have to knock on your crazy sister’s door every time I want to see you?”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied seriously. “Has Ivy got a gun?”

  “No, but I think Malibu might.”

  I couldn’t be sure she was joking so I tried harder to talk her round. “Just move in here,” I urged. “Take the spare room if you want. I’ll visit you there.”

  Bente took a long sip of wine before replying. “I can’t pay rent. I’m unemployed.”

  I rolled my eyes at her ridiculous excuse. “I’ll try my best to cope with the financial burden of having you here.”

  Her garnet lips didn’t smile, but her brown eyes did. “Smartass.”

  “Just do it, Bente. Don’t make me beg.”

  She looked down at her plate. “Will you cook for me?”

  “Every night if you want me to,” I pledged. “Will you walk around the house naked?”

  Her laugh filtered through my whole body. “Sure. I see no problem with that.”

  I leaned across and kissed her. “A woman after my own heart.”

  She bumped me with her shoulder. “I’m going to get your heart, Ryan,” she whispered.

  “Bring it on, sweetheart. I’m ready for you.”

  16. SMALL TALK

  Bente

  It took me two days to come up with a game plan for breaking the news to Ivy. It took me another two to convince Ryan that he should be with me when I did it.

  “Can’t I tell your parents instead?” he asked. “Surely that would be less traumatic.”

  “They’re on vacation.”

  My parents had been on permanent vacation for years. Ed and Evie Denison were the king and queen of the cheesy cruise ship scene. My mom spent her days singing karaoke and sunning herself poolside. My dad enjoyed shooting the breeze at all-you-can-eat buffets with other bald old men who shared his fascination for Hawaiian print shirts. They usually make it home for Christmas, spend a few weeks whining about the terrible weather, and then take off again.

  Chances are they wouldn’t give a damn about my new living arrangements; but Ivy more than made up for their lack of concern. Her heart was in the right place, and I spent most of the drive to Astoria trying to convince Ryan of that.

  The second we got out of the cab, every promise I’d made him that things would go smoothly went out the window. I could hear the girls going at it hammer and tongs in the house. Ryan obviously heard it too. “Getting you out of here is practically my civic duty, Bente,” he grumbled.

  I hooked my arm through his to keep him moving up to the house. “Just play nice.” As opposed to my nieces. Through the screen door I could see them strangling each other in the hall.

  They separated the second we walked in. Fabergé didn’t react to Ryan – unless a blank stare can be considered a reaction – but Malibu unravelled quickly. The colour drained from her already pale little cheeks and she took off up the stairs. “Mama!” she screamed. “She got married with the bad man! Don’t let him live here!”

  Ryan looked smug, but it didn’t last long. Ivy came bounding down the stairs and stopped half-way, giving her the advantage of height and distance. “I told you not to bring him here,” she said sourly. “He’s already upset Malibu.”

  Ryan tilted his head to the side and whispered. “Marry me, Bente. I dare you.” He must’ve expected my elbow to his side because he didn’t flinch.

  “We came to talk to you,” I said strongly, “but you’re going to have to calm down first.”

  Ivy clung to the timber balustrade as if she was holding herself back. Her eyes darted between the two of us a hundred times before she finally spoke. “You have two minutes.”

  “That’s generous,” mumbled Ryan. Ivy confounded him. He saw her as nothing more than a maniac who hated him for no good reason. I knew differently. My sister had fiercely protected me for as long as I could remember. And if he’d seen the emotional wreck of a woman that she’d had to scrape off the floor after he was done with me the last time, he would’ve understood.

  Despite softening enough to hear me out, Ivy dragged out the drama as long as she could. Ryan and I sat in the small, over-furnished living room while Ivy disappeared to make coffee. Fabergé stood in the doorway, staring Ryan down. Malibu was nowhere to be seen.

  “How are you Fabergé?” asked Ryan, making the smallest of small talk. “Long time no see. Do you remember me?”

  “No.”

  “Pity,” he replied. “I guess there’s no point asking for my phone back then, huh?”

  I had no clue what he was talking about, and was fairly sure I didn’t want to. I changed the subject. “Ryan is my boyfriend,” I explained, sounding incredibly juvenile.

  Ryan leaned across and patted my knee. “And Bente is my girlfriend,” he added, sounding worse.

  Fabergé wasn’t impressed. “You guys are lame,” she muttered, disappearing from sight.

  17. DEATH METAL GIRL

  Ryan

  We weren’t lame. The candy pink velvet wing chairs we were sitting on were lame.

  Ivy’s living room was a horrendously girly display of pageant trophies, diamante crowns and ribbon sashes. The house looked like a unicorn had thrown up in it.

  “Nice chairs, sweetheart.” I ran my hands along the velvet arms.

  “They’re great, aren’t they?” My comment backfired the instant I realised she was serious. “They were the only things I shipped back from Boston, besides my dresser.”

  “These are yours?”

  “Yeah,” drawled Bente, sounding far too proud.

  She wriggled back as if settling in for a nap. The hideous chair swamped her. There was no doubt about it. My very first girlfriend had appalling taste.

  “Bente, what kind of music do you listen to?” I asked nervously.

  She turned her head. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  She hit me with a smile so gorgeous it almost made up for her lack of taste in home furnishing – until she ruined it by poking her tongue out and following up with the devil horns salute. “Heavy metal mostly…. or really loud death metal when the mood hits.” I imagined my downstairs neighbours bashing on my door when her mood hit. “What’s the matter?” she asked leaning closer to me.

  “Are you lying to me? I’d feel so much better if you were.”

  Her smile returned in an instant. “If I was lying about one thing, would you rather it be the chairs or the music?”

  It was a tough choice. Both were hideous but at least the chairs were quiet. “The music.”

  “Good news then.” She settled back in the chair. “The chairs are mine and I hate death metal.”

  ***

  Ivy finally returned
, looking no less pissed off than when she’d left. She handed me a mug off coffee, which I would’ve thanked her for if she’d given me chance. “What’s this all about?” she barked.

  I nominated myself spokesman and cut to the chase, mainly because Bente was too far away to elbow me. “Your sister is moving in with me.”

  Ivy cut me her nastiest glare but it had little effect. I took a sip of coffee as if I was leisurely passing time until she spoke. She turned to her sister. “After all he put you through, you’re going back for more?”

  Her disgusted tone was more painful than any elbow to the ribs. I wanted to defend myself, then realised I couldn’t. Her incredulity was warranted. I wasn’t owed a second glance, let alone a second chance at a relationship with Bente.

  “I know what I’m doing,” insisted Bente, sounding completely dishonest. “I want you to be happy for me, Ivy.”

  “And what about him?” she asked, pointing at me. “What does he want?”

  Bente shrugged. “Ask him.”

  “Well?” she snapped, whipping her head in my direction. “What’s in it for you?”

  Even my father would’ve been impressed by her skilful cross-examination. Anything I said was going to come out wrong, so I tried my hand at being honest. “I don’t know what I’m going to get out of this. I’ve never done it before.”

  “Exactly,” scoffed Ivy. “You’ve no clue what you’re doing. You barely know each other.”

  I set my mug down on the coffee table. “I know a lot about your sister.”

  “I just heard you ask her about her favourite music,” she snapped back. “You know nothing.”

  I should’ve known she’d been hanging on every word from the kitchen. Thank God I hadn’t used the time to tell Bente what I really thought of her overbearing maniacal sister.

  “I know that she got wildly drunk on her twenty-first birthday,” I revealed. “That was the night she got the little heart tattooed on her wrist.” Ivy straightened up but didn’t pass comment. “I know she’s allergic to red wine: she comes out in hives. White is okay, though.” I glanced at Bente, who acknowledged my wink with a tiny smile. “Shall I continue?”

  “No,” muttered Ivy.

  “Yes,” overruled Bente. “Tell me what else you know.”

  “You’re left-handed.”

  “I am,” she confirmed with a chuckle.

  It occurred to me that I knew a lot of things about Bente Denison, and they weren’t details she’d shared recently. I wish I’d thought to tell her days ago. It might’ve helped convince her that moving in with me wasn’t such a blind leap.

  “You like to sing,” I added, smiling, “but only when you think no one’s listening.”

  Bente flushed. I reached over and took her hand. “You’re not a death metal girl. You’re an Etta James girl, right? You used to sing at Nellie’s while you set the tables. I used to hear you from Paolo’s office.”

  “I’ll bet I know the song,” interjected Ivy. “‘Anything to say you’re mine’.”

  I smiled at Ivy for the first time ever. “That’s the one.”

  I hadn’t known the name at the time, so I Googled the lyrics to find out. I then downloaded it to my phone – but I kept that gem to myself in case it was weird.

  “That was her pageant song when she was younger,” she revealed. Surprisingly, Ivy’s face didn’t crack when she smiled. Perhaps she’d done it before.

  I turned to Bente. “Pageants? You never told me about the pageants.”

  Ivy jumped up and moved to the bookshelf. There wasn’t a book on it, just a cluttered row of trophies. “These are all Bente’s,” she said proudly, waving her hand along the shelf. “She dances too.”

  “Yes she does,” I beamed. “Beautifully.”

  However embarrassing the revelations might’ve been for Bente, I found it endearing. I’d dated a million women who claimed to be beauty queens, but none of them had ever waltzed like Ginger Rogers or crooned Etta James songs in empty restaurants. Bente was old school charming and classically beautiful – far different from the high-maintenance blondes of my past. No wonder none of them had ever appealed long-term; I’d spent years playing on the wrong field. Brassy, shallow divas weren’t my type. Sultry, siren journalists were.

  “Can you cook, Ryan?” asked Ivy, snapping me back to the moment.

  Bente answered for me. “Yes, he’s practically a chef,” she shamelessly declared.

  “Good.” Ivy headed toward the kitchen. “We’re barbecuing tonight. You can cook.” Coming from Ivy, it was an incredible invitation, even if it was disguised as an obnoxious demand.

  As soon as she was gone, Bente piled onto my lap and smothered my face with a barrage of kisses. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “For what?” I asked, trying to escape the onslaught.

  “For winning her over. I knew you would.”

  I wasn’t sure what I’d won where Ivy was concerned. I was just grateful I’d lived through it.

  “Bente, I don’t know the first thing about barbecuing,” I whispered.

  “I don’t care.” She kissed me again. “You know plenty about me.”

  ***

  The prospect of barbecuing became a lot more terrifying when I saw what I had to work with. Bente led me outside to a small backyard littered with toys and a broken swing set. Among the junk was a small gas grill propped up on bricks, and it was so raging hot that it glowed.

  “When did she light this?” I choked. “Last week?”

  “At least you know it works.”

  The back door swung open and Ivy appeared at the top of the steps. “Don’t mix Fabergé’s veggie hotdogs up with the rest,” she ordered, waving a plate of meat at us. “She’ll know if you do.”

  Bente took the plate. I stayed put until she returned, trying my best not to combust in the meantime. As soon as the door slammed closed, I felt free to speak. “What would an eight-year-old know about vegetarianism?” I asked. “It’s stupid.”

  Bente set the plate on the edge of the grill. The thing was so hot, I swear the cooking process began there and then.

  “It’s just a fad,” she replied, handing me tongs. “All kids go through phases.”

  “It’s weird,” I insisted. “Your niece is weird.”

  “Bridget wears boots every single day,” pointed out Bente. “Do you think your niece is weird?”

  I snapped the tongs at her. “Absolutely out of her little freaking mind.”

  Paying no special attention to Faberge’s veggie hotdogs, Bente dumped the plate of meat onto the grill in a heap.

  I knew the thing was unsteady. What I didn’t know is that it wasn’t level. Before I had a chance to act, a handful of hotdogs rolled onto the ground like they were trying to escape the searing heat. I held the rest in place by pinning them with the tongs. “Now what do we do?”

  “Just leave them,” she replied, unperturbed. “She won’t notice a few missing.”

  I looked down at the casualties on the ground. “Fabergé might,” I said, gravely. “The veggie hotdogs are now really veggie.”

  Bente plucked as much grass off them as she could and threw them back on the grill. “The extra nutrition will do her good.”

  18. FAIRY CONNECTIONS

  Bente

  Despite the pandemonium, dinner in Ivy’s house is actually pretty structured. We ate at the table every single night. I’m not sure what Ryan was expecting, but a neatly set dining table probably wasn’t it.

  Although she’d never admit it, my sister was out to impress. The first thing I noticed was that she was using the cutlery usually reserved for special occasions. She’d also laid a tablecloth. Until then I wasn’t aware that she had a tablecloth.

  Ryan had no way of knowing that she’d gone the extra mile, but he did know when to lay on the charm. “This looks great, Ivy,” he praised.

  Ignoring the compliment, she pointed to an empty chair. Ryan politely pulled my chair out for me before sitting d
own. I wasn’t sure if she’d positioned him well or not. He was opposite Malibu, who was trying to kill him with a nasty glare. Fabergé was a little more receptive to our dinner guest, but I suspected that would change once she tasted her veggie hotdogs.

  Ivy loaded the girl’s plates, then took the odd step of doing the same for Ryan. She sat at the head of the table and the weirdest dinner party of my life got under way.

  “Do you live in a mansion?” asked Fabergé, out of the blue.

  Ryan glanced at me before replying. “No. Why?”

  “You have a nice watch,” she replied, waving her fork at him. “Did it cost a lot of money?”

  Instead of reprimanding her for being rude, Ivy turned to Ryan, seemingly hanging for the answer. I sank down in my seat, mortified.

  “It might have,” he casually replied. “It was a gift from my parents.”

  Fabergé shrugged. “I like it.”

  “I like it first!” growled Malibu, determined to put her two cents in.

  Ryan kept his focus on Fabergé. “Well, I like your bracelet. I’ll bet that was expensive too. I can tell by the craftsmanship that it’s a quality piece.”

  Fabergé was befuddled. “What’s craftsmanship?”

  “The way it was made,” he explained. “Someone worked very hard to make it so pretty.”

  Fabergé set her fork down to free up her hand. She twisted the string of plastic beads, proudly showcasing her work. “I made this.”

  Ryan widened his eyes in mock surprise. “No kidding?”

  The little girl’s face was laced with pride. “It’s true. I put all the beads on the string and this one is a flower button.”

  Ryan craned across the table to study it. “Oh, so it is. The flower is a nice touch.”

  “It’s a fairy bracelet,” explained Fabergé.

  “Yes, I know,” fibbed Ryan. “I actually know a few fairies. Flowers are important to them. Each flower has its own special meaning.”

  Fabergé’s hazel eyes brightened, probably at the prospect of having Ryan hook her up with a fairy or two.