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

by Brooke Harris

  ‘That’s so sad,’ I whisper.

  Sketch scrunches his nose. ‘Yeah, I guess it was. But it made me feel closer to her. But in all the time I spent up there, rummaging through boxes, I never once came across that old painting.’

  ‘Oh.’ I raise my eyebrows, intrigued.

  ‘Pa kept it somewhere else ...’

  ‘Somewhere he could look at it anytime he wanted to see her,’ I add.

  ‘Yeah. I think so,’ Sketch admits. ‘It spent a decade next to his bed. I used to think Pa hated my art. But now I think the only thing he hated was how much he missed her. It wasn’t disapproval I saw in his eyes all these years. It was heartbreak.’

  ‘Why do you think he hung it up now?’ I ask. ‘After all this time?’

  ‘You.’ Sketch nods confidently.

  ‘Me?’ I squeak, my eyes widen and round.

  ‘He likes you,’ Sketch says. ‘I suspect he thinks you’re good for me.’

  I blush.

  ‘And he’s right, Annie. You are. And you’re good for Pa too.’

  The sting in my cheeks intensifies from a gentle tingle to a full-on burn.

  ‘I think you remind him of her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s a good thing, Annie. Trust me. She was fantastic.’

  Sketch tilts his head to one side to peer around me, and his eyes settle on the painting behind me. They glisten and sparkle, and I wonder what happy thoughts are dancing in his mind.

  ‘Pa overheard you telling me about the painting your father destroyed,’ Sketch explains.

  My mouth gapes, and my hand slaps across it, creating a popping sound.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Sketch takes a step forward to press his chest against mine. ‘Pa’s not a fool. He won’t say anything. He understands your father can be, eh, difficult. Pa’s certainly not going to cause trouble for you. Or your ma.’

  I force my hand back down by my side and realise I’ve been holding my breath. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Well, when he finished calling your pa all sorts of names I can’t repeat in front of a lady, he asked me if I had more paintings of Ma that I liked.’

  ‘And you said ...?’

  ‘I showed him my folder.’

  ‘You did? Wow. That’s huge. What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Sketch smiles. ‘He just looked.’

  ‘Oh, Sketch,’ I gleam, ‘that’s great news. I’m so glad you finally got to show him some of your work.’

  ‘He flicked through all the paintings,’ Sketch says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘He didn’t say they were good or anything like that, but he didn’t say they weren’t.’

  ‘He thought they were good.’ I smile knowingly.

  ‘So did he choose this one?’ I let go of Sketch’s hand so I can turn around to look at the painting hanging on the wall again.

  ‘No. I did.’

  ‘But I thought you said this one isn’t very good?’ I breathe out, confused.

  ‘It’s not.’ Sketch leans back and folds his arms across his chest. ‘But this one means a lot to my pa. And besides, it’s not about the painting. It’s about how I felt when I painted it. And how he feels when he looks at it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I nod. ‘I understand. I feel that way about books. They’re my escape from real life. Sometimes when I was younger and lonely and scared, I’d hide under my bed and read for hours. I’d get so lost in the story I could almost forget Pa was drinking the afternoon away in The Black Well Tower.’

  ‘I’m glad you had books,’ Sketch says.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Maybe you should write your own someday.’

  I laugh, and my throaty gargle echoes around the huge hall and attempts to creep its way up the sweeping staircase.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he continues. ‘I’m glad you could lose yourself in books, especially after I left your life so suddenly. Maybe someday, someone will need to lose themselves in something you wrote. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to do that for someone who needs it? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to help someone with your words?’

  My feet shuffle, and I fidget. I can understand some of Sketch’s pain from when his mother died. When Sketch left school, my heart broke, and I grieved for our friendship. I know it’s not the same, but I do understand what it’s like to miss someone so much you think you might die. You almost wish you could because you so desperately seek relief. Sketch loses himself in painting; for me, it’s reading. And for my pa, it’s the devil’s curse of fiery whiskey.

  ‘Annie,’ Sketch calls softly, noting my mind has drifted away. ‘You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m here. I will always be here, and I’ll never leave you again,’ Sketch finishes, sliding his fingers under my chin to tilt my head back.

  ‘Promise?’ I whisper.

  Sketch presses his warm, firm lips against mine. ‘I promise,’ he whispers, kissing me softly.

  Twenty – Four

  Winter and spring rushed by, and summer arrived suddenly. One day, the wind just up and left, and it hasn’t rained in almost a week. The warm days bring with them long evenings full of sunshine and fireflies. It’s a busy time on the farm. The first of the hay was cut last week, and the new-born lambs and calves are growing fast; they’re almost eight weeks old. Which makes it eight weeks of avoiding Sketch’s pleas to go to the summer dances with him. The rejection in his eyes every time I turn him down hurts my heart, but we both know why I refuse.

  I’m going to make it up to Sketch today. I’m going to bake the most delicious cake for his birthday and surprise him. I can’t quite believe he’s twenty-one years old today. Ma says twenty-one is a milestone. She says a boy becomes a man on his twenty-first birthday.

  ‘There’s only one thing a man wants from a woman, Annie,’ Ma warns as we complete our usual morning chores together. ‘You be careful now. That Sketch Talbot was a nice boy, but he’s all grown up today, and he’ll have notions.’

  I blush. I’m so flabbergasted I almost dropped the teapot on the kitchen tiles. ‘Sketch may be a man today, Ma, but he’s a gentleman. A true gentleman.’

  Ma smiles, but I can still spot worry in the tired lines around her eyes. I don’t think she’s concerned Sketch might try to take advantage of me. I think she realises Sketch is only four months older than I am. If Sketch becomes a man today, that means I am less than half a year away from becoming a woman. Women get married and have families of their own. They don’t live with their mothers. Ma is worried she will lose me. I want to reassure her. I want to tell her I will always be here, but I’m worried too. I’m worried I will lose myself in the man I’ve fallen head over heels in love with. I’ve tried so hard not to allow how much I love him to consume me, but I’ve failed. Ma doesn’t need to worry about Sketch taking advantage of me. But she should be afraid that I want to give myself to him. Because I do. I want it so badly I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself.

  When Sketch picks me up this morning, he certainly doesn’t seem older. His dark, almost black hair is slicked back off his face. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and his cherry lips are curled into a delicious smile. His leather jacket is too warm for this unusually balmy weather, but it stretches out across the back seat of his car nonetheless, as if he’s incapable of leaving the house without it. Sketch Talbot is twenty-one years old today. A man. And so gorgeous that sometimes when I look at him, his beauty physically takes my breath away.

  I wave goodbye to my mother and skip down the steps outside my house and slide into Sketch’s car with a smile so huge I must look as excited as I feel. I know that as soon as we drive out the gate and out of view, Sketch will stop the car, put out his cigarette, and kiss me, just like always, but today when I kiss him back, I won’t be thinking about a busy day on the farm. I’ll be thinking about the gift I want to give him later.

  I told Pa I had to work late on the farm tonight. I chose my time carefully. I filled his belly with a particularly wholesome breakfast this mornin
g, and I waited until he was comfortable in the armchair with his feet raised before I opened my mouth. I made up a story about the sheep escaping their pens, and we had to search the fields for them. I was worried he’d catch on to my lies, but I don’t think he really cared. He asked me if the Talbots would pay overtime, and when I shook my head, he flew into a rage and stormed out the back door. But the summer air had a positive effect on this mood as it always does, and he came back inside after a few minutes and warned me to get my hands on some extra potatoes and carrots for my unpaid labour. I assured him I would bring some home along with bread and butter pudding. He raised his arm, and for a second, I closed my eyes and waited to feel the back of his hand across my face, but all I heard was a satisfied clap as he rubbed his hands together as he thought of the pudding. I knew he wouldn’t give me a second thought today. My only concern was leaving Ma home alone for so long. But she promised that if Pa’s mood changes later when I’m not there to protect her, she will distract him with a bottle of gin and the homemade apple tart I brought home earlier this week.

  Birthday or not, life on the farm continues as usual. Sketch is busy out in the fields, and I have the house to myself for a couple of hours. I’m as excited as a toddler on Christmas Eve as I wrap Mrs Talbot’s old apron around my waist and stoke the stove. The pantry is stocked with fresh ingredients straight from the land. Eggs, flour, bright-coloured vegetables, and meat so tender it slides off the bone. The selection in the summer is so much greater than in winter, and the bright orange carrots beside leafy green cabbage is as vivid and exciting as one of Sketch’s paintings. It’s a chef’s paradise, and I’ve eaten like royalty these past few months. And today we’re going to have the best meal of all.

  Sketch, Mr Talbot, and I sit down together every afternoon at one o’clock without fail and tuck into whatever meal I’ve chosen to cook that day. It was a little awkward at first, eating with the head of the household—the man paying my wages—but Mr Talbot assured me it’s a pleasure to have a woman’s company in the house again. It took a little getting used to, but I believe him. Sketch and Mr Talbot treat me like a member of the family, and if it wasn’t for my pay packet at the end of the week, I could easily believe I was.

  The afternoons are by far the best part of my day. Sketch’s farm work is mostly done. The cattle are milked, the pigs fed, and the chickens are back in their coops. Mr Talbot spends between two thirty and four o’clock every day napping by the fire. Sketch and I spend the same hour and a half in the orchard.

  Today is no exception. I wash up after our meal and hang the pots back on the pot rack in order of size. I pack up the leftover soda bread and thick cut bacon to take home to my mother this evening. I’ve hidden it, as usual, in the sleeve of my coat, so my father won’t notice it when I get home and snatch it for himself before she has time to eat it. And I’ve laid Sketch’s birthday cake on a wire tray next to the sink to cool. I’ve thrown a tea towel over it, so he doesn’t spy it and spoil the surprise.

  Sketch knocks on the door of the pantry from the outside, which always makes me blush. It’s odd that he knocks on the door of his own house. But I turned around to find him unexpectedly behind me one day, and I got such a huge fright that I dropped a pot of boiling potatoes. Neither of us were burnt, thankfully, but Sketch felt so horrendous for scaring me that he’s knocked on the door ever since.

  ‘Come in.’ I smile, wrapping some of the fresh out of the stove bread and butter pudding in brown paper to take to the orchard with us.

  ‘That smells delicious,’ Sketch says, kicking off his mucky Wellington boots by the door.

  He uses his back to close the door behind him. He leans his shoulders against it and props himself up as he watches me fold the brown paper and unravel some cream twine to secure the paper. ‘It’s your pa’s favourite,’ I say as if Sketch didn’t know.

  ‘It’s mine too.’ He sulks like a naughty schoolboy, noticing the huge slice I’ve left by stove for Mr Talbot to enjoy when he wakes up.

  ‘Annie, you’re really spoiling us,’ Sketch says, dragging a spoon around the inside of the tray that I’ve left on the countertop to scrape off the caramelised sugar that’s stuck to the edges.

  ‘Careful, that’s still hot,’ I warn as he shoves the spoon in his mouth.

  ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’ He laughs, waving his hand up and down in front of his open mouth.

  ‘I told you it was hot.’ I giggle.

  ‘So worth it,’ he says, raising a single eyebrow.

  Sketch drops the spoon into the sink, and it hits the bottom of the steel basin with a gentle clink.

  ‘Shh,’ I warn. ‘You’ll wake your pa.’

  Sketch smiles gently, knowing my worry is misguided. If we did accidentally wake Mr Talbot, it would ruin our afternoon alone. But only because Mr Talbot would insist we sit and enjoy bread and butter pudding together and not because he’d fly into a vicious rage. But I’m desperate to soak up a couple of hours alone with Sketch. I turn around and press my back into the edge of the countertop as I place a single finger over my puckered lips and pleaded with him to be quiet.

  Sketch tilts his head to one side and tosses me a cocky, confident look that forces my breath to jam somewhere deep in my chest. He makes his way over to me and stops when he’s close enough for the heat of his body to reach out and caress me but not close enough to feel his t-shirt brush up against my apron. His warm, sugary lips dust my neck with gentle kisses, and a tingle runs the length of my spine.

  I tilt my head to one side. ‘You’ll make me drop this,’ I protest, my fingers unable to concentrate on untangling the ball of twine I clutch.

  Sketch takes the twine and sets it down on the countertop. ‘Let’s leave this, eh?’

  My eyes narrow, unimpressed.

  ‘Besides, we need to save room for the birthday cake you’re hiding under that tea towel over there.’

  ‘Sketch,’ I scold, slapping his shoulder playfully.

  Sketch reaches up and catches my wrist and forces my hand back down by my side. His large hand could almost wrap around my wrist twice, but while his grip is firm, he’s careful to make sure he doesn’t hurt me. Still holding my wrist, he jerks his arm back, and I stumble slightly as I fall forward into him. My breasts crash against his chest, and his satisfied smile causes bubbles of excitement to pop in my belly.

  Sketch’s lips press into the top of my head, and he kisses me firmly and quickly. ‘Come on,’ he says; he lets go of my wrist and reaches for my hand. Our fingers find their way between each other comfortably. ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘You have something for me?’ I echo, slightly high pitched; my feet sticking to the spot. ‘But it’s your birthday.’

  ‘I know what day it is, Annie.’ Sketch laughs.

  I pout and look into Sketch’s eyes. Ma is wrong. He’s still just a boy. A giddy boy full of enthusiasm.

  ‘Are you coming?’ he says, tugging on my hand.

  ‘Sure.’ I nod, letting go of Sketch’s hand for a moment to reach behind my back and untie my apron.

  I set it down on the counter next to the cake I’d spent all morning working on with trembling fingers, and I nervously wonder if Sketch wants to give me the same birthday surprise I planned to give him.

  Twenty – Five

  The knock on the door of Nana’s hospital bedroom wakes my mother. She sits up and rubs her eyes, and I can tell it takes her a second or two to remember where she is. When her location registers, I can see the sadness sweep across her face like a gentle wave. She’d fallen asleep in the bedside chair shortly after I started reading. I thought about stopping to wait for her, but Nana opened her eyes and squeezed my hand, and I knew I had to carry on.

  I’m glad to see a nurse in uniform peek her head through the gap as the door slowly creaks open. My throat is dry from reading out loud in the humid hospital room, and I need to excuse myself and get some water.

  ‘Ms Talbot,’ the nurse says.

  ‘Yes.�
� My mother stands up and runs her hands over her thighs, straightening out the creases in her trousers. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m Deirdre,’ the nurse says, opening the door wider to step inside.

  Bright light from the corridor shines in, and I squint instinctively. I hadn’t realised how dim the room was until now. It’s really rather depressing with only one small window up high.

  ‘Hello, Deirdre,’ my mother says, her voice still laced with sleep.

  ‘I’ll be travelling in the ambulance with you to the hospice,’ Deirdre explains.

  ‘Oh. Oh, of course,’ my mother says, clearly caught off guard. ‘Are we going now?’

  ‘This afternoon.’ Deirdre smiles. ‘But I wanted to come and introduce myself and make sure you didn’t have any questions.’

  My mother smiles and shakes her head at the same time. ‘I ... I ... I don’t think I have.’

  I can think of a million questions. Primarily, where’s Marcy? We don’t need a new nurse. We need Nana’s friend. But I don’t say a word. I understand Marcy works as home help, and we’ve passed that point, but I worry Nana will miss her. I know I will.

  ‘I think we’ve been over everything with the doctor,’ I say, my voice husky and sounding like it belongs to someone else.

  ‘Okay.’ Deirdre smiles. ‘Well, if you think of anything, I’ll be at the nurse’s station.’

  ‘Thank you.’ My mother nods, her teary eyes glistening like crystals in the sunshine.

  Deirdre backs out and closes the door behind her, plunging us into depressing dullness again.

  ‘You should have asked her if they make decent tea in the hospice,’ Nana croaks. ‘The stuff here is horrendous.’

  ‘You haven’t had any tea, Mom,’ my mother says, taking Nana’s hand in hers and stroking it gently as if my grandmother’s hand were a baby kitten.