Second Chance Hero

by Rebecca Sherwin

  “Are you sure?” She asks, and I realise we’re nearly there already.

  “Yes. I need to talk to him.” I swallow, with more difficulty than usual, “I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but I didn't want to go on my own.”

  “I’m here for you.” Is all she says, but it means so much. She reaches out to my hand resting on my lap, and squeezes. My heart constricts and I can’t bear to look at her. I’ll break.

  We pull up at the iron gates of the cemetery and they swing open slowly, leading onto a gravel driveway, surrounded by rose bushes and benches bought in dedication to loved ones. We park near where my dad is and climb out of the car.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, expecting to offend her because I didn’t think she’d actually be at the headstone with me.

  “I’d like to talk to him.” She takes my hand in hers and we walk in silence along the pathway until we find the perfectly decorated grave, and I know my mum comes here a lot more than she talks about. Jenna squeezes my hand again, a reassurance I wasn’t aware I needed, and then she sits cross legged besides the patch of grass full of flowers, and a heart shaped balloon Mum must have brought here recently.

  I stand and watch Jenna, with my trembling hands in my pockets.

  “Hi, Mr. R.” She says, looking at the headstone like she’s looking into his eyes, “I moved back to Folquay, I know the last time I spoke to you I was in London, but I’ve opened up Mrs. Hale’s shop. I miss her rainbow cookies.”

  She smiles up at me. She stole a cookie once, a rainbow one from Mrs. Hale’s bakery. I made her take it back, but when Mrs. Hale let her keep it she gave it to me.

  “I’m doing the fete this year too. Deacon is here, he’s doing an amazing job with the company, but I know you know that. You’d be proud of him, but I know you already are. I hope it’s comfortable up there and that Bob Marley is singing the tunes you always wanted to hear live. And I hope you’ve memorised the recipe for my fudge cake, I’ve made it enough times for you, so you can do it up there. I hope you’re having fun, but watch Deac like a hawk, he’s a shifty one. It feels good to be back here. I see you eating ice cream when I walk along the harbour wall. And I remember you and dad used to sit in the garden with your cigars. I sit there and remember sometimes, and it feels like I’m close to you again. Love you.”

  She winks at me as she stands up and presses a kiss to her finger tips and places her hand on the headstone.

  “You’ve done that before.” I say as she joins me where I’m frozen to the spot. All my anger evaporated while I watched her talking to my dad.

  “Dom and I have incredible one way conversations. I’ll bet he can hear you.” She says and places the hand that carried the kiss to my dad on my cheek, “I’ll wait by the car. Take all the time you need.”

  She leaves me to the silence with nothing but the trees blowing in the wind, and birds chirping their hellos. I watch her white summer dress sway in the breeze as she walks back to the truck and stands against the bonnet.

  I look back to the headstone, but I can't think of anything to say. Eventually I settle for the topic of Jenna and sit on floor where she did moments ago.

  “Hi, Dad.” I start, feeling stupid, “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you but it doesn’t feel the same. Jen said she talks to you a lot, I wish she’d talk to me. I wish you could tell me what she says, I think you’re the only one who knows what she’s thinking.”

  I look back at the truck, but Jenna is facing the other way, giving me privacy.

  “I think she’s pregnant, Dad. And it might be mine. It was stupid, an ignorant mistake on my part, but I want it. The thought of Jenna carrying my child drives me crazy. Is that what it was like for you when Mum got pregnant?”

  I sigh, thinking about my parents and the love they had. They argued, everyone does, but I don’t have one memory of them unhappy together. We all used to dance in the kitchen to Frank Sinatra, my dad twirling my mum and holding her close. They would always hold hands, Mum would curl up on Dad’s lap at night and watch TV and they would never go to bed without each other. My eyes sting as I think about my mother sitting alone the night he died, watching the front door and waiting for him to walk through it.

  “She misses you. She’s lonely and I haven’t been around much. I’m trying to live up to the man you were; I’d be happy with a fraction of your character. But how do you know when it’s enough? How do I know if I’m good enough? I wish you could give me the answers, because I pushed everyone away when I lost you and Jen. I’m struggling and I need you.”

  I stand up, unable to do it anymore, and take a deep breath. Jenna is still waiting for me, sitting on the bonnet, and I walk straight up to her, sliding my waist between her swinging legs.

  “Thank you.” I say and I can feel the emotion in my voice. That was harder than I thought it would be.

  “You’re welcome.” She strokes her thumb under my eye, wiping a tear away that I didn’t know had escaped.

  And then she pulls me into her, wrapping her arms around my neck and holding me close to her chest. I squeeze my arms around her waist and hold her to me. I don't want to let her go. She could have told me to do this by myself, spouted the shit that I needed to do it. She could have shied away from talking to Dad, but she spoke first to give me the confidence to do it. And she gave me space; not the kind where she looked without me catching her, but the kind that respected someone’s privacy, and the difficulty of what I’ve just done. And now I’m crying into her summer dress, finally letting the grief of losing my father take over.

  “It’ll be okay.” She says resting her head on top of mine, “Your dad would be proud of you, of everything you’ve done. I’ll bet he’s even scoring you for all the hot women you’ve pulled.”

  I look up at her and she’s smiling down at me. For once she’s not mocking my method of coping, but using it as something else my dad would have patted my back for. I don't know if that’s true, or if he would have lectured me for taking advantage of women, but I like to think he’s got his score cards out up there.

  “They didn’t mean anything.”

  “I know.” She nods and smiles. She believes me.

  And in that moment as empathy and kindness pours from her in an aura of summery colours, I fall in love with her all over again. I know we’re not at the point where I can tell her it’s only ever been her, explain everything about my ‘trait girls’ as she likes to call them, but I will tell her when she’s ready to accept it and believe it. And I will spend the rest of my life with this incredible, selfless woman.

  “What do you want to do now?” I ask her, stepping back and holding her hand to help her down.

  She takes off across the courtyard and I chase her to the toilets. She fails to shut the door before I reach it and I hear her throwing up. Oh, yeah. I had almost forgotten about that.

  “Jen?” I push the door open as she sits back and wipes her mouth with a tissue.

  “I attempted to make cola cakes today. Apparently, they don't work.”

  “Why would you make cola cakes?”

  “I thought it would be fun for the kids at the fete.” She stands up and washes her hands before splashing water on her face and rinsing her mouth out.

  I want to believe she made horrible cakes, but I’ve never known any of Jenna’s recipes to fail. Her spewing and the fact I saw her at the hospital hits the nail in the coffin about my suspicions on Jenna’s pregnancy. She’s pregnant. It might be mine, it might be Kip’s, but that arse isn’t here. I’ll look after Jenna. I made it my life mission when I was five.

  Chapter 16

  Jenna

  God, I was so ill yesterday. I read online that cola cakes are a huge hit with children at parties; I planned to put some vanilla butter cream on them and decorate them with cola bottles. But no, cola cakes are not successful and my night spent in the bathroom throwing up everything I ate for two days proved that.

  So I’m back in the bakery today, trying ou
t some other fun recipes. I’ve made small batches of popcorn cakes, choc chip cookie cakes and chocolate cakes decorated to look like monkey faces. I’ve also made some vanilla cupcakes and arranged them on a tray to look like a robot. I decorated them with vanilla icing coloured orange and I’ve made some model nuts and bolts and buttons to decorate each one with to create the picture. I’m excited when I see the robot come to life and I stand back to look at my work when it’s done. Perfect.

  “Those ones won't make you throw up will they?”

  I jump in the air, tipping the tray. Luckily they stay in one piece and I turn around to see Deacon standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “What the hell?” I laugh, “You frightened the life out of me.”

  “I thought you heard me come in.”

  “Clearly I was lost in my work. How long have you been standing there?”

  I can't ignore his appearance as my eyes rake in his cut off jean shorts, and dust covered grey t-shirt.

  “Long enough to watch you wiggle your hips to the music.” He smirks and I reach over and turn the music off.

  “What do you want?” I try to ignore the heat coursing through me at the thought of Deacon watching me. I should be embarrassed, I was probably dancing like an idiot.

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” He cocks one eyebrow and I know what’s going through his head. I’m thinking the exact same thing.

  But I smile and shake my head, “No. Why are you here?”

  “Well if I’d have known how much you like Bruno Mars I would have been here ages ago. But actually, I brought you something. Put the kettle on.”

  He smiles and saunters back to the front of the shop and I do as I’m told, making us both a cup of tea. I hand it to him as I join him in the shop front and notice a box shaped gift on one of the tables, wrapped up in paper with little cupcakes on it. He’s actually brought me a present.

  “What’s that?” I ask, sitting opposite him, the box in the way of looking at him.

  Deacon slides the box against the wall and I can see his beautiful face again. I don't know why God would make a man that looks that good. It makes everyone else in the world look like mere mortals, while Deacon’s chiselled jaw, piercing blue eyes and kissable lips make him look like a god himself.

  “Well, it was to thank you for yesterday.”

  “Was?”

  “And then I realised it was just because I wanted to get you something.”

  A schoolboy grin spreads across his face and he’s excited to see me open his present.

  “Can I open it?”

  He nods quickly and I’m not one for saying men look cute, but he does. I can see he’s nervous, wondering if I’ll like whatever is in the box. I don't care what’s in there, I’ll like it because he’s giving it to me, and thinking about me as much as I think about him.

  “Go on.” He urges, as I run my fingers along the fold of the wrapping paper.

  I smile and rip it open. I expected the box to be a ruse for a small present inside, but the pictures on the box tell me Deacon has more money than sense.

  “Why would you buy me this?”

  “Have a look inside.”

  So I do. The mixer inside the box is top of the range, but the incredible man sitting opposite me has had it personalised. It's pink with black polka dots, like the theme of my shops, and has ‘Jenna’ in cursives along the top in silver.

  “This is incredible.” I whisper, pulling out the Styrofoam and tugging the mixer out. Deacon holds the box, and puts it on the floor so I can inspect the appliance, “You stupid man.”

  “I thought you’d like it.” He looks offended but I laugh.

  “I love it, I just don't understand why you would spend so much money on me.”

  “You’re worth it. Plus you can have two recipes on the go.”

  “Thank you.” I fight back the emotion.

  “Wanna try it out?” He asks, looking nervous again.

  “With you?” Deacon nods, “Yes.”

  He picks the mixer up and the box with all the attachments in the bottom, and I follow him to the back with the cups of tea.

  “So what are we gonna bake, chef?”

  I laugh, “What do you want to bake?”

  “I can't bake for shit Jenna and I have no creativity when it comes to food. I cooked beef stew for Christ sake. And that’s as far as my culinary skills go.”

  I giggle, pulling on my apron and grabbing my recipe book.

  “Wash your hands. And clean your shirt. You don't want to eat cakes with dust in.”

  My breath catches as he makes his way to the sink and takes his shirt off, throwing it on the floor. Does he realise what he does to me? Of course he does, he does it to every girl. The thought unsettles me and I turn back to the recipe book, unclipping a recipe for vanilla cupcakes.

  “Vanilla?” He makes me jump, inches from my ear and I know he’s half naked behind me. I swallow hard, as I feel his heat radiate into my pores.

  “Sometimes the simplest ones taste the best.”

  “Mmm.”

  “It’s what you do with them afterwards that makes them magic, or ruins them.”

  Suddenly I’m not talking about cakes, and I think the thought hits him as hard as it does me. I instantly regret it, remembering how sweet he’s been recently. But remembering beach night has us both feeling uneasy; I can sense it pouring off him.

  “Just divide the ingredients in half. We don't want to waste a load of cakes.”

  I turn around, leaving the sheet on the counter and plug my new mixer in.

  “How will you make a shop full of cupcakes every day?” Deacon asks, spooning butter in the weighing scales.

  “Most cakes are made from a basic sponge mix. I’ll make a big batch of that and then make the changes for each cake in portions. I can start off in the morning with a few batches of cakes and make new cakes throughout the day. In London we have people baking while people serve and we take it in turns to bake late. But I won't need to do that here.”

  “Will you cope running this place by yourself?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I ran the Covent Garden shop before I found Carl. Jade said she’ll come help while Pip’s at school if I need a hand.”

  He nods, satisfied, and turns the mixer on.

  “Do you wanna go for dinner?” Deacon asks after a long silence, whilst shaking a sieve over his mixing bowl. The flour is flying everywhere.

  “Here.” I step behind him, and slink my arms under his. Partly because I want to help him get the mix right, missing flour doesn’t make for a light fluffy sponge, but mostly because I’m desperate for some intimacy with him. I hold the handle of the sieve on top of his hand and hold his other hand in mine. I shake the sieve, tapping it against the heel of his hand.

  “That’s clever.” He rasps.

  “Stops the flour going everywhere.” I step back to my Eton mess mix, cutting up the strawberries, “So, dinner. When?”

  “This weekend?”

  “I can't.” He deflates and I haven’t noticed before now, how he does that when he thinks I’m going to reject him, “I have to go to London at the weekend. But I can do dinner tonight?”

  “Really?” He looks surprised, but I didn’t miss him tense when I mentioned London.

  “Yeah... if you get those cakes right.” I wink and get back to my cakes, folding the chopped strawberries into the mix.

  The way Deacon looks at me doesn’t go unnoticed, as if he’s dying to touch me but something is holding him back. I’m both relieved and disappointed that he doesn’t make a move, but I think I need to keep my head clear, which is impossible when his hands are on me. But I won't ignore, or deny the way I feel every time his hand touches mine, when his arm brushes my shoulder, sending luscious little flicks of desire through me with every piece of covert yet intentional touch.

  “How are you going to decorate them?” I ask, shutting the door of the oven.

  When I turn around Deacon
is leaning against the counter with his hands fisted at his sides, his eyes burning into me. It’s clear he saw the tattoo again, when I stretched up to the top shelf of the oven. I don't why my tattoo does things to him, but I know it does.

  I got it on a night out with Abbie; she has a thing for ink, and a spur of the moment decision in my depression over not being able to get over Deacon had me lying on a black leather tattoo chair, having a complicated rose design with a hidden ‘D’ in the middle inked into the bottom of my back.

  It’s the way he looks when he’s seen it that has me feeling caught, called out again like he did when I drunk dialled him. I feel like he knows that tattoo ensures I carry him around with me where ever I go. I was already with Kip when I got it too, which makes it even worse that I had a man’s initial tattooed into my skin.

  “What?” I ask, thinking he’s finally going to ask me for the story behind the only tattoo I’ve got; the only one I’ll ever get.

  But his fists fly forward and he opens his hands and flour flies into me in a cloud of powder and I look like I’ve jumped into a tub of talc.

  “Hey!” I laugh, shaking like a dog, and reach for the flour.

  He shields his face but I get enough of him to ensure he looks as messy as me, flour gathered in his hair and on that naked chest. Oh god. I want to touch it, to brush the powder off and then run my tongue along every line of muscle visible; but I take off as he grabs another handful and throws it in my direction. I grab the bag and chase him around the counter in the middle of the kitchen, laughing as I throw cloud after cloud at him. But I realise this was his plan, when he stops and turns in one swift movement and grabs my waist as I run straight into him.