‘You say you love me?’ I begin.
‘I do,’ Sketch promises.
‘Then show me. Let me feel how much you love me.’
‘Annie,’ Sketch puffs out, his chest rising and falling quickly.
‘Show me, Sketch. Please. Let me be yours. You already have my heart. Let me give every piece of me to you.’
Sketch stands up unexpectedly. Fierce bubbles pop in my tummy as I look up at the man I adore, and he gazes back at me with smouldering intensity. His lips part, and his eyes narrow. He can see past my clothes. Past my skin. He can see right through to my soul. My soul that’s aching to become one with his. Sketch runs a shaking hand over his hair, ruffling his usually neat style. He instantly seems younger with his hair messy and flopping into his eyes, and I see past his cool, calm exterior. I see past his crisp, black leather jacket and the cigarettes tucked into his pocket. I see past the confident smile of an intelligent man. I see the scared boy so ready to grow up but nervous about that next step. I see the boy whose destiny has been linked with mine since we were both too young to understand it. Sketch’s heart is an open book right now, and I’m reading the first chapter, and I see my name all over it. I know he wants me. His shallow breaths and shaking hands tell me what he doesn’t say with words. Sketch Talbot wants me as much as I want him. Maybe even more. Gentleman or not, I don’t think he could stop himself now even if he tried.
Thirty – One
Sketch and I lie together on the grass. Satisfied perspiration dampens my hair, and beads of sweat trickle down my spine. The only sound is our deep, exhausted breaths and the subtle chirping of scattered birds perched in nearby trees. Sketch’s arms are wrapped around my naked body, cradling me close to him. My head rests on his chest, and I press my ear against his warm skin and listen to the even beating of his heart playing like a drum. His heart was racing moments ago, but it’s calmer now. I shiver as a gentle breeze whizzes by, ruffling the leaves on the branches over our heads. Sketch tightens his arms around me, dragging me closer. Keeping me warm and safe.
I pull the chequered picnic blanket Sketch used to cover us over my shoulder and tuck it under my neck.
‘Don’t worry, Annie.’ Sketch kisses the top of my head. ‘No one can see us out here.’
‘I know,’ I whisper, inhaling the serenity of the vast orchard.
I feel safer in this blissful open space than I do anywhere else in the world.
‘Did I hurt you?’ Sketch asks, his hand finding its way into my damp hair to massage the back of my head gently.
‘A little,’ I confess, still feeling the aftermath of the burn as he pushed inside.
Sketch’s hand stills. ‘I’m sorry.’
I shuffle and pull myself up, placing one elbow at each side of Sketch’s ribs so I can look him in the eyes. ‘Don’t be,’ I say. ‘The first time is supposed to hurt. I knew it would; I’ve read about it before.’
‘Annie, I’m shocked.’ Sketch tosses his eyebrows and feigns disapproval.
I struggle to keep a straight face as he pretends to be mature and condescending as I used to expect a man should be.
‘The sooner you teach me to read, the better,’ Sketch says. ‘I think I need to borrow some of your books.’
I laugh and relax my arms. My chin flops down onto his belly, and Sketch puffs out as if I’ve just squashed all the air out of his body.
‘Seriously, Annie,’ he whispers, suddenly sounding very grown-up. ‘I really am sorry that I hurt you.’
‘Don’t say that.’ I frown, saddened that he feels this way.
‘Let me get this out,’ Sketch commands.
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip and suck too much air in through my nose before holding my breath, thinking my lungs might burst.
‘I hate that I hurt you, Annie,’ Sketch repeats, and I feel him grow hard again as he presses against my thigh. ‘But all I can think about right now is doing it again.’
I exhale loudly and clamber up his chest quickly, barely able to contain my excitement at reaching his lips. I kiss him hard and firmly, letting him know without words that, despite the pain, all I want is to do it again too.
‘Me too.’ I blush.
‘Now?’ Sketch asks.
I clench my thighs and the bruising inside me twangs, warning me that it will need some time to heal. I shake my head. Disappointment falls over Sketch’s face, but he keeps smiling.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But just so you know, I’m probably going to be thinking about this every waking moment until we do it again.’
I pout. ‘Is there no room for me in your dreams?’
Sketch gathers me into his strong arms and squeezes until crushed air bursts out my open mouth.
‘I’ve been dreaming about you every night for the past eleven years,’ he whispers. ‘And now I know, sometimes dreams come true.’
I allow my full weight to fall onto Sketch as if I’m a human blanket, and I lie silent and still, waiting to see if I’m too heavy. Sketch lets out a satisfied groan and nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck. ‘I love you, Annie,’ he whispers sleepily. ‘I always have, and I always will.’
I kiss the top of his head and close my eyes as I replay our lovemaking over in my mind. I savour every wonderful detail the way I do when I finish reading a great book. I’ve read countless books, almost all of them romance. But right now, at this very moment, no book ever warned me about how lying on top of my hero with my naked breasts pressed against his firm chest would make me feel. Sure, the words on the page tried. But nothing prepared me for how incredible I would feel. Any of the books that came close to describing this sensation were dismissed as fiction anyway. Because I truly believed nothing could ever feel this good. This safe. But lying here, in Sketch’s firm grip as night pushes the day away and the stars come out to shine, I allow myself to believe that maybe Sketch is right. Maybe dreams really do come true.
Thirty – Two
Time is passing by quickly. Days rush into weeks, weeks blend into months, and I’m spending more and more time at the Talbot farm. The large farmhouse is slowly beginning to feel like home. I’ve established a routine, and without enforcing it, Sketch and his father have come to respect my timetable. They wash up for dinner without me calling them, and Sketch even helps me wrap up leftovers to take home to my mother. And of course, Sketch and I flitter away most afternoons in the orchard. The days we’re not making love, I’m reading and Sketch is painting. Some days, we even have time to do both.
But with spending more time on the farm comes the sacrifice of spending less time with my mother, and I worry about her endlessly. She’s a healthy weight for the first time in years, thanks to the leftovers, but I notice her limping occasionally, and last week, when she sneezed, she was yielding to pain in her chest when she tried to straighten back up. I’ve no doubt her ribs were as black and blue as the autumn sky in Sketch’s latest painting.
My father is crafty. I’ve always known it, so it came as no surprise when I discovered that he traded some of the home-baked goods I brought from the farm for repair work on his bicycle. It only took a couple of bread and butter puddings and a handful of apple tarts to have his bicycle on the road again. With his bicycle once again under his bottom, he is home from the pub not long after he downs his last drink. And sometimes, when I lose track of time, he’s home before I am.
Sketch senses my worries, and he’s tried to find a solution. He suggested creating a job for my mother on the farm, but I know the Talbot farm finances couldn’t stretch to pay another salary. And besides, my father would never agree to my mother working outside the home. Sketch offered to pick my father up from the pub at night and drive around until he sobers up enough to take home. But Sketch’s mornings can start as early as five a.m. so I couldn’t accept his offer; Sketch would be exhausted.
I’m staring out the kitchen window at the leaves on the trees as they turn from a summer green to the golds and browns of autumn when I feel Sketch’s
hands slip around my waist. I squeak and laugh as I squirm away from his messy fingers covered in paint.
‘Wash up, you filthy thing,’ I joke, pointing at the sink full of sudsy water.
Sketch steps around me and dunks his hands into the sink. ‘Open it,’ he says as the water splashes up to his elbows.
I hurry to help him and reach for the buttons on the sleeve of his shirt that he has rolled halfway up his bicep.
‘Not my button, Annie. The box.’ Sketch tilts his head towards the table behind us.
I turn around and find a rectangular shaped box waiting in the centre of the table. It’s multi-coloured like a rainbow, and I know straight away Sketch has hand painted one of the crates from the chicken coop. It’s beautiful. It smells of roses and fresh linen. I roll up onto my tiptoes and peer inside. Bright, sky blue cotton stares back at me.
‘Can I?’ I ask, looking back at Sketch before I dare to touch it.
‘Of course,’ he says, drying his hands off on a towel. ‘It’s for you.’
I reach in and scoop out the material as if I was picking up a newborn baby. A beautiful dress unfolds and the pleats of the skirt fall out and fan around like an open accordion.
‘For me?’ I manage. ‘Is it really for me?’
Sketch smiles so brightly his eyes twinkle. ‘Yes, Annie. Do you like it?’
‘Like it?’ I hold it up against me, as if I’m wearing it, and twirl. ‘I love it. Oh, I love it so much. Thank you, Sketch. Thank you.’
I spin on the spot and sway my hips from side to side. The beautiful, full skirt swings with me.
‘It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my whole life. How can I ever say thank you enough?’ I gush without taking my eyes off the soft fabric.
‘Say you’ll wear it to the next dance.’
My face falls.
‘Oh, Annie, please,’ Sketch pleads. ‘You’ve been working here six months now, and I love all the time we spend together, but a guy should bring his girl to a dance once in a while, you know.’
‘But, Sketch, you know I can’t.’
‘I know you won’t.’ Sketch rolls the sleeves of his shirt back down and stares at his fingers as he adjusts the buttons.
I know he’s avoiding eye contact.
‘That’s not fair,’ I say, carefully placing the dress back in the box. ‘My father would lose it if he found out. And you know that.’
‘The dance ends at ten thirty.’ Sketch reaches for my hand. ‘We can even leave early if you’re worried about being late home. We’ve shared later nights staring at the stars in the orchard.’
‘But the orchard is safe,’ I stutter. ‘No one can see us there. No one can tell my father.’
‘There will be nothing to tell your father. I won’t kiss you or even hold your hand. We’ll just be two friends dancing to some good music. What do you say, Annie?’
‘I say what about my mother? Pa’s drinking more than ever, and I don’t want to leave her home late alone with him.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Sketch smiles. ‘Your ma is one of the chaperones. You’ll be near her the whole night.’
‘Really?’ I squeak, suddenly becoming excited. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘Mrs Murphy, the cranky old bag who runs the whole thing, fell and broke her hip.’ Sketch nods. ‘Pa heard the women at the market talking about how they might have to cancel the dance if they can’t find someone to fill her shoes. Pa suggested your ma.’
I shake my head, my excitement short lived. ‘That was nice of him. But I still can’t see my pa agreeing to something like this.’
‘It’s already done,’ Sketch gloats. ‘My pa called round to your house yesterday, missing his afternoon snooze for his trouble. He explained about Mrs Murphy and asked nicely if your ma might be able to help. And, what with Pa being your employer and all, I think your pa felt he couldn’t refuse. Anyway, they shook on it, and your ma has got herself a new job. There’s no pay mind, but it’s a night out of the house, and your pa can’t cause her any trouble. Not with the whole town watching. So what do you say, Annie. Will you come?’
I almost dive head first into the box and pull out the dress again. ‘I can’t really dance,’ I confess, smiling so hard as I twirl I think my cheeks might burst.
‘That’s okay,’ Sketch says. ‘Bridget taught me. I could ask her to teach you too?’
I lower my arms and the hem of the dress sweeps the ground. ‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head. ‘It would be awkward. She doesn’t like me much.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Sketch says. ‘She’s the one who picked out the dress for you.’
‘Bridget chose this?’ I gather the dress into my arms and stroke the soft blue cotton.
Suddenly, I want to dislike the dress. I want to hate the colour or think the fabric is too rough. I want to think it will be too big or too uncomfortable. But unfortunately, the only thing I hate is that it’s perfect and I couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful dress myself if I tried.
‘Why Bridget? Why did she choose this for me?’ I ask, confused.
Sketch slaps his hands against his chest and shakes his head. ‘I don’t know much about women’s fashion, Annie,’ he says. ‘And I wanted this dress to be perfect. Bridget offered to help, and I accepted. That’s all. Are you upset?’
I swallow the lump of air in my throat, threating to choke me. I don’t want to be jealous, but I am. And after everything Sketch has done for me, it makes me feel ungrateful and sick, but I can’t bloody help it.
‘No,’ I lie. ‘I’ll wear the dress. I’ll learn to waltz, and I’ll come to the dance with you.’
I yelp as Sketch lifts me off the ground and spins me around. ‘You’re going to be the most beautiful girl there, Annie. Just you wait. All eyes will be on you.’
Sketch places me back down and kisses me on the lips. I kiss him back, shaking a little, and I don’t tell him that all eyes on me is exactly what I’m afraid off.
Thirty – Three
‘Who’s that Bridget one?’ Ben says, standing up with his hands on his hips. ‘She sounds like a right bitch. I don’t like the sound of her at all. I think she had a thing for Sketch, and she wanted Nana out of the picture. Crazy cow.’
I laugh at my brother’s anger as he paces Nana’s room. Bridget’s lust for Sketch was a long time ago, but Ben is as worked up as if it’s happening right now.
‘The only Bridget I know is Mrs Donnelly from Athenry Village,’ I say. ‘But Mrs Donnelly and Nana are good friends. So I don’t think it’s her.’
‘It’s weird Nana never mentioned this Bridget lady before,’ Ben says.
‘She never mentioned Sketch either,’ I remind Ben.
‘Oh yeah,’ he says, scrunching his face. ‘Nana, you dark horse, you.’ Ben chuckles.
‘We all have our secrets,’ Nana croaks, opening her eyes.
‘You’re awake.’ I smile, standing up from my chair at the end of the bed to hurry around to the side to hold her hand.
‘Would be hard to sleep through you and your mother shouting and arguing,’ Nana whispers.
My heart pinches, and I don’t know what to say. Mom and I had a blazing row less than an hour ago. I tried talking to her about taking Nana to the orchard one last time, but she shot down the idea straight away without hearing me out.
‘She’s not well enough,’ Mom barked.
I explained that Dr Matthews approved the idea, but that seemed to make her even more angry.
‘Holly, I said no.’ My mother made the same face she used to make when I was a teenager and she caught me up to no good. ‘She’s too sick. Stop it now. I don’t want to hear any more of this crazy talk.’
My mother walked away without another word, and I watched her as her head hung low and her shoulders shook. At first, I followed her, but I stopped myself halfway, suspecting she just wanted to be alone.
‘Nana, I’m sorry,’ I say, gently stroking the back of her fragile hand. ‘I hope we didn’t u
pset you.’
‘It would take more than raised voices to upset me, Holly.’ Nana pokes her tongue our between her dried lips.
‘Do you need a drink?’ I ask, feeling helpless and desperate for a way to make her more comfortable.
‘Water,’ Nana mumbles.
Nate is beside me quickly with a cup of lukewarm water. I don’t know where he got it from, or how long it’s been in his hand, but he’s seemed to have exactly what I need when I need it all day, and although I don’t tell him right now, I think if he wasn’t here, I’d have fallen to pieces long ago.
I slide one hand behind Nana’s head and raise her a little; just enough to lift the plastic cup to her lips without spilling any. She struggles to pucker enough to place her lips around the plastic, and despite our best efforts, water dribbles onto the crisp, white hospital bedsheet draped across her chest. Ben is over in an instant. He drags the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and dabs the sheets, drying up the excess water.
My ribs contract, and I feel as if my chest is crushing my heart. I wish I could retreat into the corner and curl up in a ball until this horrible fear of the inevitable passes. But I stay standing beside Nana’s bed, wide-eyed, and pretend to be strong. I pretend for Ben and for Nate. But most of all, I pretend for Nana even though I know out of everyone in the room, my grandmother is the one who can see through my veil of calmness the most. Even with her eyes closed again, I know she can read me like one of her old books.
I gently let Nana’s head rest back against the mound of pillows and slide my hand out. The usual rattle starts in her chest, and I know she’s struggling to catch her breath. Ben jerks upright at the terrifying sound of air and fluid battling for space in her lungs, and his eyebrows are raised and wrinkled.
‘Like this,’ I say, rubbing my hand in circular motions on Nana’s chest just as Marcy showed me. ‘Just like this.’
Ben watches intently. Taking it all in. Learning what to do too.
When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss Page 23