When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss

by Brooke Harris

  ‘We’d best get going,’ Sketch says, smiling at me warmly. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  My cheeks flush, and I look at my mother. Did Sketch intend for me to bring a mop or some wash clothes?

  ‘A coat perhaps?’ Sketch says, throwing his chin over his shoulder and directing me to follow his gaze to outside where some dark rain clouds are sprinkled across the sky like scattered coals.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I dismiss, not wanting to admit I don’t own a coat.

  I do have a black sack that I throw over my head sometimes when the rain is unforgiving and I need to bring in logs, but I won’t fetch that and embarrasses myself or Sketch.

  ‘Shall we get going?’ I say, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘Yes. Absolutely,’ Sketch says, stepping aside to allow me to pass by and make my way down the porch steps.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr. Fagan,’ Sketch says, extending his hand and shaking with my father whose eyes are stuck on me like angry insects. ‘Mrs Fagan.’ Sketch acknowledges my mother with a gentle nod. ‘I’ll have Annie back here at five this evening, don’t you worry.’

  Sketch races down the steps and around to the passenger side of the car to open the door for me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I beam, sitting in and adjusting to the shock of the cold cream leather under my bum.

  Sketch hurries back around his side of the car and starts the engine while I’m distracted waving goodbye to my mother. She’s doing a terrible job of hiding her teary eyes, and I pray my father doesn’t pick up on her emotion.

  ‘What job would you like me to do first?’ I ask, breaking the silence in the car.

  Sketch is concentrating on reversing up the long, narrow pathway back onto the main road. He doesn’t answer me or turn his head my way until we’ve turned around, out of my father’s view, and the nose of the car is pointing the right way towards town.

  ‘Annie, why didn’t you bring a coat?’ Sketch says finally.

  I shift uncomfortably, and the leather squeaks and moans beneath me. ‘I told you. I don’t think it’s going to rain.’

  Sketch taps his finger gently against the window. ‘Really?’

  I know Sketch is pointing at the rain clouds overhead. I have eyes. I can see they’re grey and dull and heaving with rain that will most likely spit down on us at any moment.

  ‘Annie, do you own a coat?’ Sketch whispers so gently his words seem to wrap around me like a soft hug.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, truthfully.

  He takes one hand off the steering wheel and drags the back of his palm across his forehead as if he’s thinking so hard it’s hurting his brain. I wonder if he believes me.

  I’m not cold. It’s surprisingly mild for late autumn. Despite outbursts of torrential rain, it’s at least a couple of degrees warmer than this time last year, and I didn’t have a coat then either.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not cold?’

  ‘I’m not cold,’ I snap, and quickly hold my breath realising my tone is sharp.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Sketch says, acknowledging my frustration. ‘It’s just … I want to take you somewhere, you see, and I don’t want you to be chilly.’

  ‘Take me somewhere?’ I fidget nervously.

  ‘Yes, but it’s a surprise. Is that okay?’

  My bottom lip drops and shakes a little. ‘I thought we were going to your father’s farmhouse. Don’t you need me to get started on dinner? A roast chicken will take a couple of hours to cook at least. And that’s without stuffing. You do want stuffing, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Annie. I know you need to be home at five o’clock. I won’t have you late; I gave my word.’

  ‘So you don’t need me in the kitchen?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Then what, Sketch? I … I … don’t understand.’

  ‘You will soon. I promise.’

  Sketch turns off the main road down a bumpy side road littered with potholes. The car bangs and clatters, and we shake about inside like bacon crackling on a greasy pan.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I quip as silence falls over us.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ Sketch says, his eyes focused on the road ahead. ‘Do you trust me?’

  I look out the window at the trees and hedging passing by. There’s no houses down this way; there’s not even cattle in the huge fields that line both sides of the country road. The lush green countryside is uninterrupted, and I imagine this would be a lovely road for an afternoon stroll. But it’s a temperamental autumn day, and Sketch is driving faster than he should on such a chewed up road.

  ‘Annie,’ he says, ‘you’re very quiet today. You do trust me, don’t you?’

  I sniffle and swallow a nervous bubble. Sketch is paying good money for my service today. And if he doesn’t want me to cook or clean, there’s only one other chore I can think of. How dare he? I shake my head and sniffle back my heartache. I thought Sketch was a gentleman. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe my mother was right about men. Maybe all men really are monsters. I should have listened.

  ‘Annie, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ I say, sounding calmer than I feel.

  ‘Expecting what? We haven’t arrived yet.’

  ‘I’m not that kind of girl, Sketch,’ I add, with a firm nod of my head.

  The car comes to a sudden, rough stop in the centre of the road, and I jerk forward in the seat, almost sliding clear off.

  ‘What kind of girl, Annie?’ Sketch keeps his grip of the wheel, but he turns his head to face me.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I say, impressively managing to keep the tremble out of my voice. ‘I’m not that desperate for money, Sketch.’

  Sketch drags his bottom lip between his teeth and nods his head slowly. His eyes narrow, dragging his brows close to his nose.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, starting the engine again. ‘Okay.’

  I sit still and silent unsure what he’s going to do. I wonder if he’ll lose his temper and hit me. My mother said this was how it started for her. Just a gentle slap every so often when she made a mistake or disappointed my father. It didn’t grow into something more sinister until after my father’s accident.

  Sketch turns away from me and gives his attention back to his car. The rear wheels spin and spit mud in all directions.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask, beginning to lose my composure.

  ‘I’m turning around,’ Sketch says firmly. ‘I’m taking you home.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. Right now.’ Sketch jerks the steering wheel, and the engine roars as the back wheels spin some more, struggling to get a grip on the mucky road beneath us.

  ‘But I thought …’ I mumble, ‘I thought …’

  ‘This damn mud,’ Sketch grunts, twisting the steering wheel from side to side.

  ‘ Sketch.’ I whisper his name gently as if the syllables flow through my lungs like oxygen.

  ‘I know exactly what you thought, Annie,’ Sketch huffs. ‘You’re not that kind of girl. I understand that. But I’m not that kind of guy.’ Sketch curls his top lip in disgust. ‘How can you not understand that?’

  The nervous racing of my heart slows, and it’s replaced with a dull ache and regret. I’m looking at him, and I know he must catch me out of the corner of his eye, but he refuses to turn his head and make eye contact. The corners of his lips are twisted into a subtle frown, and his shoulders are round and slouched forward. I think I’ve really hurt him. I’ve hurt him much more than a slap or kick could ever hurt someone.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just thought …’ I look around at the vast green fields that seem to stretch on for miles. ‘It just so isolated out here. And you said you’d pay me to work for you, but then you didn’t want me to clean or cook … and I didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘Not all men are monsters, Annie.’

  ‘But some are.’ I wilt, instantly re
gretting my slip.

  ‘Yes. Some are. But not all of us are like your father, Annie.’

  I feel Sketch’s hand on my shoulder. That warmth of his palm finds its way through my cardigan, and I sigh softly.

  ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of what you’ve been through.’ Sketch softens and a subtle croak breaks in the back of his throat. ‘I’m not sure I could handle knowing the details. But you have me now. You have me.’

  I turn around and slowly allow my teary eyes to find his. His rosy cheeks are a little paler than usual, and his warm ruby smile has flattened. His turquoise eyes sparkle beautifully, but there’s no missing the sadness etched into the faint, weathered lines of his young face.

  ‘I would never, ever expect a woman to sell her body for a man’s pleasure. Never, Annie.’ Sketch shakes his lowered head.

  ‘Sketch, I’m sorry. I misjudged the situation. Please don’t be angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry.’ He looks up at me.

  ‘But you are sad,’ I say. ‘I’ve hurt you.’

  ‘No. You haven’t hurt me.’ Sketch shakes his head. ‘But, yes, I am sad, Annie. I’m sad for you. I’m sad you won’t allow yourself to believe there are good men in this world. And that maybe one of those good men is sitting beside you right now.’

  ‘Sketch, I …’

  ‘I shouldn’t have offered your father money,’ Sketch interrupts. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to buy you as if you were a bag of spuds from my father’s farm. I just wanted to spend time with you.’ Sketch runs a hand through his hair and ruffles it on top. ‘I guess I just wanted to buy you some freedom, you know.’

  I nod. I do know.

  ‘But I went about it all wrong.’ Sketch sighs. ‘I should have stood up to your father. I shouldn’t have made up some stupid excuse about you coming to work for me. I should have just told him how incredible I think you are, and how it would be my pleasure to spend a day with you, if you’d have me.’

  ‘No. God no.’ My eyes widen until they burn. ‘That would have made everything worse. My father would go berserk. He’s not someone you can reason with.’

  ‘I understand that. But I should have tried. I shouldn’t have thrown money about as if you were buyable. I didn’t mean to scare you, Annie.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I smile. ‘Actually, it was pretty clever. Money is about the only thing my father understands. Well, money and alcohol.’

  Sketch shakes his head and disgust sits in his eyes. ‘Well, he’s a damn fool, Annie. Any man would be lucky to have you as a daughter. He should appreciate you more. It makes me so mad that he doesn’t.’

  The passion and truth in Sketch’s tone reaches out to me and wraps around me like warm arms hugging me tightly. No one ever says nice things to me. No one ever says much at all. It’s so lovely to hear someone care. I don’t think Sketch can do much to help me. I don’t think anyone can, but just knowing he wants to fills me with a fuzzy emotion I’ve never experienced before.

  ‘I will give you money later today, Annie. I gave your father my word, and I intend to keep it. Besides, I don’t want to get you in any sort of trouble. I’ll pay the agreed amount.’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ I swallow. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But I need you to know that I don’t want to buy your love,’ Sketch says, his eyes seeking out mine. ‘I don’t want to pay you to give yourself to me.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ I twitch. ‘I got it wrong.’

  ‘Shh. Listen,’ Sketch says, placing a single finger over my lips. ‘But I do want your love, Annie. I want to earn it. I want to sweep you off your feet, and I want to be the man who helps you forget the past.’

  My body suddenly weighs more than I’m used to, and I melt into the seat until I’m little more than a human marshmallow. I believe him.

  ‘I’m not sure I could ever forget the past,’ I admit. ‘It’s been so hard. You don’t understand.’

  ‘I do.’ Sketch nods. ‘I see all the bad things that have happened to you. You wear the pain on your soul like a drawing you can’t erase. Bridget, the other kids, the farmers in town, they all think you’re shy and guarded. But I see the real you. I see why you walk so quickly past people. I see why your heart hurts every time you walk past The Blackwell Tavern. I see why you think you can’t have friends. I. See. You.’

  I drop my head and stare at my knees until my vision blurs and the colour of my flesh and the colour of my dress muddle together. Sketch slips his finger under my chin and tilts my head gently back. Before I have time to look at him, I feel his hand sweeping over my face; his fingers trickle down from the tip of my head like gentle rain and past my eyes, shutting them gently. He traces my nose, my lips, and my chin.

  I open my eyes and find him so close to me I can feel the heat of his body reach out to me, begging me to come closer.

  ‘I could see you, the real you, when we were just eleven years old, Annie. You were my best friend. And I’ve missed you every day since.’

  ‘I missed you too,’ I admit, realising for the first time in years how true those words are. ‘But it’s complicated now, Sketch. We’re not kids anymore.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Sketch grins, and I remember that cheeky smirk from when we were kids. ‘At least now if I want to kiss you, the school principal isn’t lurking around the corner with a cane ready to whip me if I dare to get too close to you.’

  ‘I don’t think you wanted to kiss me when we were only eleven, Sketch.’ I giggle.

  ‘Does that mean you think I want to kiss you now?’ Sketch raises a cheeky eyebrow.

  I pull myself up a little straighter. The car suddenly becomes stifling hot, and I glance around to notice the windows are beginning to fog up.

  ‘What about Bridget?’ I ask, coyly.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Oh, come on. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.’

  Sketch smacks his lips together and pulls them apart again quickly with a popping sound. ‘And have you seen the way I look back at her?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod confidently.

  ‘And is it the same way I look at you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know … I mean …’

  ‘Look, Annie.’ Sketch pulls back a fraction to stare at me with stern, serious eyes. ‘Bridget is a friend. A good friend. And I like her a lot. But she’s not you. No one else is you. I gave my heart to you when we were eleven. You’ve had it since; you just didn’t know it.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say …’

  ‘Say you’ll keep it. Say you’ll keep my heart and maybe someday you’ll give me yours too.’

  ‘Okay.’ I swallow.

  Sketch runs his long, slender fingers through his hair and ruffles the spiky, dark strands on top. And the guy with the cool black leather jacket and fancy car suddenly looks like the nervous kid I remember from school.

  ‘I’m going to kiss you now, Annie,’ he says.

  ‘Well, I do already have your heart.’ I smirk. ‘It seems only right that I should have your lips too.’

  Sketch’s large hands cup my cheeks, and I close my eyes. My heart beats furiously as I wait and wait. I can hear him shift in his seat. The leather squeaks gently beneath him as he draws closer to me. I gasp when his chest finds mine. His jacket is parted, and my breasts press against the thin cotton of his white vest. Our chests rise and fall in unison as we breathe together in anticipation. And then I taste him. His lips are on mine like warm, delicious silk. Soft and firm. Strong and gentle. His mouth opens a fraction more, guiding me and taking control. His breath rushes from his body into mine like a summer breeze. A shiver charges up my spine, settling in the nape of my neck. Telling me to savour every second of this perfection.

  Sketch’s hand drifts around the back of my head, his fingers getting lost in my hair. When he guides me closer to him, our lips lock tighter, and I breathe him in as if he’s the air that keeps me alive. I think, at this moment, maybe he is. Our chests press together determinedly, banishing the air betw
een us, and I lose myself completely. And that’s when I realise; Sketch Talbot isn’t just some boy I grew up with. He’s not just a long-lost friend. He’s not even some man I think I’m falling for. He’s my saviour. Sketch Talbot is my light in a world of darkness.

  Fourteen

  ‘Holy crap, Nana,’ I say, lowering the manuscript and dropping it carefully onto the ground beside me. And as if it’s an old habit, I secure the pages together with a quick twist of my scarf.

  ‘Well, Annie. That kiss was just a smoking hot kiss,’ Marcy says, running her fingers under her eyes to catch a single tear. ‘I think I need a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke.’

  A faint giggle dances in the back of my grandmother’s throat. ‘Sketch was very special,’ she manages.

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ Marcy says as she adjusts the IV line in Nana’s left hand. ‘Is that all right, Annie? It’s not hurting you, is it?’

  ‘It’s fine, Marcy. Thank you,’ Nana crackles. ‘But I don’t need all this fuss.’

  ‘It’s just some fluids, Nana,’ I explain. ‘To stop you from becoming dehydrated.’

  ‘Fluids?’ Nana echoes, dragging a single eyebrow up to exaggerate her surprise.

  ‘Saline, Annie,’ Marcy adds. ‘Like water, only better.’

  ‘The only thing better than water … is gin,’ Nana gargles with a determined nod that seems to zap her energy.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Marcy says, fluffing the pillows behind Nana’s head.

  I watch as Marcy punches the pillows into a rigid mound. Nana doesn’t look comfortable at all, but her breathing sounds better when she’s propped almost upright, and her half smile and semi-open eyes tell me she’s not in any pain.

  ‘Is that better, Annie?’ Marcy asks, her back bent as she hovers over Nana. ‘Are you comfortable?’

  My grandmother moves her head slowly up and down; it’s such a subtle motion that if I blink I’ll miss it. But Marcy seems to understand, and I watch her take Nana’s hand in hers and give it a gentle squeeze.