Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  “It was, well,” she frets her lip as she makes up her mind of whether she’ll give the whole truth, or the run-around recounting of events. I’ve seen it time and again in my profession. “It was a drug overdose. My daughter was always a little on the wild side, but she got her shit together when she found out she was pregnant. In her college years, I think she just did stuff when she partied. For the most part, she was a wonderful mother. But then… I found out I had cancer on the anniversary of my husband’s death. I think that’s what caused her to backslide and start using again—the fear of losing both parents while having a young child herself must’ve hit her hard. I was so wrapped up in everything happening with myself, I didn’t even notice the signs. Some days it’s hard not to blame myself.” She stares down at her hands, rolling them over anxiously before she begins again.

  “I don’t think it was even an everyday thing, or I’d have noticed it…I think it was just when she got overwhelmed, but whatever her reasons, she stuck herself with a needle one day, shot up the drugs she’d probably used many occasions before, only she didn’t wake up this time. I found her like that, with the needle still in her arm, sitting cross-legged in her bed. She’d asked me to keep Ari overnight and since I was having a better day than usual, I did.”

  At some point in her recounting of the tale, I’ve sat down and grasped her hand, squeezing reassuringly. I might not know this lady beside me, or why she’s here on my sofa telling me some of her darkest moments, but I’m a human, and she could use some compassion.

  “And now, I don’t have much longer myself…” her voice cracks, worrying filling her expression as she glances over at her grandson, who’s still perched in front of the TV, enjoying the show and completely oblivious to the goings on here on the other side of the room. My heart breaks for this lady, but it breaks even more for the little boy. I know a thing or two about what he’s going through having lost my own family.

  “Well, what about his father?” I demand, outraged that he’d want no part in his kid’s life when it’s currently going down the shitter.

  “That’s the thing,” Nancy sniffs, and I offer her a tissue from the designer, crystal-encrusted cover of Kleenex my fiancée always keeps close by. She dabs at the corner of her eye, then the end of her nose. “I never knew who Ari’s father was. Tonya would never tell me. But, when she died, I went through her things and I found her journal. Naturally, I read it. I was desperate to understand why she did the things she did, to discover when everything changed for her and what exactly she was thinking. Her words weren’t much help answering any of those questions, but I did find out who Ari’s dad was finally.” Her pale blue eyes turn to me, watery and sad.

  “Who is it? I’d love to help you find him.” And I mean that. I genuinely do.

  “You’re the Nash Hudson who attended UNC?” she verifies.

  “The one and only—well, as far as I know.” A little burst of pride beams through me as I think fondly back on my college days. Her daughter must have written something in her journal about how I made extra bucks on the side in college using my amateur sleuthing skills. I helped several girls, and even a few guys, find out their significant others were cheating. I was popular on campus. Everyone wanted to impress me, which made it all the more easy to get fellows to open up and “brag” about cheating on their girls. Fifty dollars a pop. I even helped this girl in my English Lit class be reunited with her birth mother. I charged triple for that one though since it was a lot more drawn out and complicated. Now I’m a PI by profession, but I’m willing to do this for this lady Pro Bono. She could use it.

  “Apparently, you…you’re…” she struggles again with finding the words.

  Ari appears in front of me amidst his grandmother’s stuttering fit, tugging on the sleeve of my shirt until I turn my attention to him. His green eyes bore into mine seriously, holding more understanding than a child his age should have.

  Then his little mouth opens, and the words that come out knocks my entire world off balance.

  “You’re my father.”

  Chapter Two

  Lyra

  “I want a carry-mel apple, Auntie,” my niece Willow suggests, her little hand pulling me down the street in the direction of the food-truck she saw selling them earlier. Lord knows how she, a four year old, can even remember the location of one truck amongst the possibly hundred tents and trucks set up for our town’s Fall Festival. Especially when I can’t even remember where I’ve placed my keys.

  “Okay, okay,” I laugh as she attempts to take off running, not even ashamed to push and shove at random bystanders who get in her way. She clearly gets her strong determination from both of her parents. It’s almost too much to handle some days.

  When we finally reach the vendor at the end of the street, I hoist her up on my hip so she can get a better view of the varieties.

  “Well, which one do you want, Lo? There’s plain ol’ carry-mel,” I mock the way she says it, “or peanut covered carry-mel.” She scrunches up her nose, so I know we can mark that one off the list. “Oh! Look at those…” I point to the caramel, milk chocolate and white chocolate drizzle apples that take it a step further by being encrusted with mini-chocolate chips as if the former attributes weren’t enough. If this were an adult confections truck, I’d label the regular plain apple “Strictly Vanilla,” and the peanut one, “A Little Kink” saving the best title for this particular variety… “The Clusterfuck.”

  “That one, that one,” she squeals, bouncing on my hip so that I have to tighten my grip.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” I groan, requesting the specific apple she just pointed at so that there’s no chance of a gripe-fest taking place. She pointed at it; it is the chosen one… Kids are weird.

  Willow immediately reaches for the apple as soon as hits my hand.

  “Not yet, Lo. We need to sit down first. I have this awful feeling things are about to get messy.” I take a hasty glance around us, thanking the good lord when my eyes land on a nice little area decorated with pumpkins and gourds sitting beside some square bales of hay—AKA the perfect resting place. Lo’s face is already morphing into one of impatience so I quickly interject.

  “Look, over there.” I point out our not-too-far-away destination before her mild irritation erupts into full-on tantrum mode. I’ve come to learn in the past few months, that children aged toddler to Pre-K, require their care-givers to break everything down for them. If they don’t understand just one tiny little piece of a puzzle, they’ll either A) Start pitching a fit, or B) Spontaneously morph into Alex Trebek’s much younger twin—asking fifty questions that will leave you scratching your head as to how they even came up with them.

  I’ve been trying to practice this with Willow lately, and for the most part, I’m claiming success. The days we spend together, I tell her our plans for the entire day right off the bat. For instance, this morning, she was promptly informed I was taking her to breakfast, then the fall festival, then we were going home to have dinner and watch a movie when we went to bed. Now she’s not whining when she requests something that isn’t a part of the schedule because she knows what to expect. Easy-Peasy.

  I slide her off my hip, taking her hand as we make our way to the hay bale with our—figurative—names on it. When we sit down, she reaches for her treat again. “One more thing, Missy. Let’s put this pretty hair up so it doesn’t get sticky.” I crinkle my nose and shake my head. She mimics me.

  “Yuck. I hate gucky hair.”

  “Me too,” I agree, making a make-shift ponytail by running my fingers through her dark hair, then doubling the hair-tie around it. “There we go.” I unfold one of the square napkins I grabbed from the food truck, and spread it over her lap in an attempt to save her cute little sunflower print dress from the sticky disaster that’s sure to come. Finally, and very reluctantly, I relinquish the carry-mel apple over to her.

  Right away she attempts to take a giant bite but doesn’t even break apple. Strange
ly, this seems to please her. She throws me a toothy, decadent-dessert grin. I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh since I’m kind of in hot water with her parents for being a “bad influence.” By that, I mean I let her do basically whatever she wants and hardly correct her unless she’s in danger of being hurt.

  “Please don’t play with your food,” I scold, but then add, “not because I don’t want you to have fun, but I forgot to bring you a spare change of clothes with us here. You don’t wanna have to cut our day short just because you turned into a sticky, grimy, grungy, caramel-apple monster do you?” I tickle her side and she squeals so loud several people walking past us turn to see what’s going on.

  I don’t miss the stern grimace of one particular old hag whom I happen to know hates my family. Yeah, don’t mind us. We’re just over here having fun like normal human-beings.

  Naturally, I handle the situation like any other adult would do…

  I stick out my tongue.

  She huffs and doubles up on her leisurely pace. Mission accomplished.

  “Auntie,” Lo pulls on my arm suddenly, so I turn my attention back to her instead of aiming my evil-laser-death-scowl at the back of Mrs. Stick-Up-The-Ass’s head. There are some moments when Willow will shock the hell out of me by doing something that seems to exceed her level of knowledge and understanding—like now, when her little face is serious and marked with concern. “He looks scared,” she insists.

  “Who looks scared baby? It’s almost Halloween, so, a lot of people look scared. Or scary, if that’s the word you’re looking for?” I arch a brow in question.

  She shakes her head rapidly. “No, scared. He. Is. Scared,” she sasses. “See.” Lo points over toward the line to the food vendor across from us, and I follow her little finger.

  Sure enough, she’s right. There’s a little boy about her age standing off to the side of the cart by himself. No one seems to notice him, walking right past him, and from the frantic expression on his face, Willow’s perception is spot-on.

  He’s frightened.

  My guess is his mom turned her back for one second, and he saw something he just had to take a closer look at, wondering over and getting lost in the crowd. It’s a pretty common occurrence with as busy as our town’s Fall Festival gets. There’s a couple of kids every year. That’s why I’m always touching Willow in some way or another when we go out in public. I’m terrified to even take my eyes off her.

  “Let’s help him,” she voices before I even have the chance to.

  “Let’s.” I nod my head and take her hand, weaving in and out of the crowd as we approach him.

  When we’re finally right up on him, he doesn’t even notice, still turning around in slow circles trying to look all around him.

  I squat down on his level and tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. He spins around, a look of relief momentarily crossing his face at the thought of being found, until his eyes meet mine.

  “Hi, I’m Lyra,” I introduce myself to him, my hand landing at my heart. “And this is Willow,” I hold up mine and Lo’s joined hands.

  He doesn’t say anything, but his little lip begins to tremble like he might cry. Apparently, I’m a dream crusher. Poor kid thought he’d been found. I have to give it to the kid though, if it was me at his age who was lost in a crowd, I’d be crying and screaming “momma, momma,” at the top of my freaking lungs already.

  “Have you lost your mommy?” I ask him, trying again to get a feel for the situation. He seems to think about the question for a minute, but just blinks at me, failing to give an answer. Apparently, he’s been the lucky recipient of the “don’t talk to strangers” talk. Normally, I’d be impressed a four-ish year old was adhering to those rules, but in this situation, it’s like some sort of language barrier getting in the way of meaningful communication.

  How do I get this kid to crack? I study him for a second, then quickly find my answer as his eyes land on Lo’s impressive dessert and remain glued there. The idea hits me immediately.

  “Willow, are you enjoying your caramel apple? It looks super yummy…”

  She gets another mouthful of caramel. “Mmmhmm.” Lo nods her little head with an air of enthusiasm, her ponytail swishing back and forth as she does.

  “I was thinking about getting one.” I turn to the kid in front of me, completely baiting him when I ask, “Would you like one too?”

  His eyes go wide with shock and he nods. He still hasn’t spoken yet, but a nod I can work with.

  “Well, let’s go buddy.” I stand up and I make my way back over to get in line for the wonderful attraction that is carry-mel apple land, all over again.

  “Would you like to stand by Willow?” I suggest, offering him a reassuring smile.

  “I’m four,” Lo pipes up, as if it will sway his decision. And maybe it does, because he dutifully steps in beside her.

  As we’re waiting it occurs to me that I don’t know if this kid has any allergies, so I don’t offer the peanut-covered apples as an option.

  “Okay, Buddy. Would you like a plain one, or one like Willow’s?” I point at the two options displayed in the window in front of us. “Or you could get a red candied one…”

  His bright green eyes drift back to Lo as she devours her treat like a carnivorous beast might enjoy its prey, and I finally get my first word. “Hers.” I expect his voice to come out small and insecure, but I’m surprised by his enthusiasm, causing me to chuckle.

  I pay for the treat, then point out our previous spot over on the decorative bale of hay—which luckily is still available. I treat this kid just like I do my own niece, insisting that he spread a napkin in his lap and urging him to keep the mess to a minimum. Which seems to go in one ear and out the other. Once he’s distracted with the apple, I ease back into the questions.

  “So, I’m thinking you might have gotten separated from your parents, huh?”

  He nods his head as he gnaws at his apple.

  “You can sit with us and enjoy your treat, and I’m betting by the time you get it finished, your Mom or Dad will walk by and find you.”

  He mumbles a garbled mmmkay, seeming to ease out of the fearful and worried state I found him in. While the two kids now in my care are otherwise preoccupied, I make a plan to head on over to the sheriff’s tent at the other end of the street if this little boy’s parents haven’t stumbled upon us by the time we’re finished eating.

  Then, all the worst-case scenarios start unfolding in my mind, just because that’s always the way my thoughts progress…like, what if they can’t find them either? What if his parents dropped him off somewhere busy the same way people do when they’re discarding their babies on the front of a church’s steps? Or, what if I was specifically meant to meet this little boy today because of fate? Or…

  “Oh my god! Ari! There you are,” I hear a sweet-lilted voice behind me. Then a little angrier, “What is wrong with you? I told you to stand there and not to move! That was just stupid.”

  I jerk my head to the right to find a busty blonde leaning over, hands on her knees, to scold the little fellow. I can’t help but notice they fact she’s wearing an ultra-sexy sweater dress paired with thigh-high boots, making her look like a small-town Fall-Festival is the last place she belongs. Seems to me, if it was my kid that was missing for this long, I’d probably be a squalling, hysterically happy mess, needless to say, something about her tone doesn’t sit well with me.

  I don’t know why I ask the next question, maybe it really isn’t any of my concern being so protective of a kid whose name I don’t even know—maybe it’s Ari, and maybe it’s not—but I open my mouth and do it anyway.

  “Hey buddy, is this your Mommy?”

  The sweet little guy openly scowls at the suggestion and instantly shakes his head furiously.

  The blonde scoffs, narrowing her eyes first at maybe-Ari, then at myself. I stare right back, unblinking. It’s obvious there’s tension between these two, and I’m not just going to openly hand this li
ttle guy over to someone who could potentially have stolen him or something. No one wants that shit on their conscience.

  “Ari let’s go,” she snaps, raising her voice and stomping her shoe at the same time. “And throw away that disgusting mess. You’re not ruining my clothes by getting sticky fingerprints all over me. You know you’re not allowed to eat junk food anyway.”

  The little boy threads his sticky fingers through mine and squeezes, and my conviction to keep him separated from her jumps from one-hundred percent decided up to two-hundred.

  “Sorry,” I interject, “but maybe I should escort him to the sheriff’s tent to let them sort it out.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” a rough-edged, baritone voice cuts in. From the corner of my eye, I see a man approaching me from my left.

  I’m immediately on my feet.

  These days, I’m a little paranoid after an incident a few years back where I was nearly abducted by the same people who kidnapped my sister-in-law and tried to kill her. I jerk my head to the side to get my sights locked onto him as soon as possible, pulling my hand up to my forehead like a makeshift visor. I have to blink a few times to allow my vision time to adapt to the bright sun blazing directly behind him, but I finally make out the man’s face.

  Oh. My. God. My heart drops down to my feet only to rise back up and initiate Operation 200 Beats Per Minute.

  Nash freaking Hudson, live and in the flesh.

  My body recognizes his presence immediately, inconveniently partaking in all the school-girl-crush reactions from my youth. Cue the stomach flips and sweaty palms. Insecurities suddenly surfacing? Check.

  What the Hell is happening here? I’ve not had this type of reaction to a man in forever. I frantically run my fingers through my purple-hued locks to ensure they’re not crazy-wild, or worse, covered in sticky-kid goop. Of course, they get caught up in a mess of tangles on the first swipe through.