Storm Shells (The Wishes Series #3)

by Walker-Smith, G. J.

  I opened one last cupboard and groaned at the sight of three perfect rows of matching drinking glasses sitting upside down on the shelves. I counted eighteen. Alex barely knew eighteen people, let alone eighteen people who’d all be in our house wanting a drink at the same time. I took my time righting every single glass. “There,” I muttered, standing back to admire my handiwork. “Much better.”

  Being unpleasant is tiring. After my mini crime spree, I lay down on the too-white couch and crashed. The day slipped away until the sound of Gabrielle walking in roused me. I sat bolt upright, giving her a fright.

  She squealed, somehow managing to sound demure. “I didn’t realise you were here, Charli. I thought you left with your father this morning.”

  “I did but he brought me home,” I replied sleepily.

  “Is the jetlag getting the better of you?”

  I nodded. “I was going to make a start on dinner but –”

  “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it,” she replied cutting me short.

  At that moment I realised I hadn’t come home. I was a visitor in her home.

  “Gabi, where’s my stuff?” She looked at me, forcing me to elaborate. “You said my stuff arrived from New York.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Her porcelain cheeks flushed a pretty shade. “I asked Alex to take them to the cottage. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just that there isn’t much room here.”

  I shrugged. “Would it be okay if I go and sort some of it out?”

  “Of course.” Gabrielle opened the drawer of the hallstand, picked up a bunch of keys and held them out to me. I thanked her, made a vague promise not to be too late back and slipped out the door.

  If the desire not to be in the house persisted, there was a fair chance I was never going to return the little rental car. I wondered how Adam would feel about the continual charge on his credit card.

  I pulled onto the driveway of the white brick cottage. It looked remarkably cheerful and bright, considering it had been vacant for a year and a half. The red tin roof had been recently repainted and the fussy gardens were well maintained. I wandered along the cobbled path, admiring the gorgeous hedge of lavender leading up to the house. I loved the cottage. No wonder Gabrielle couldn’t bear to part with it. What I couldn’t understand is why she’d moved in with Alex. The Parisienne had Décarie powers. Why hadn’t she convinced him to move in there?

  The inside looked exactly as it had when I’d last been there – except homier, thanks to Alex’s ugly brown lounge suite that now took pride of place in the centre of the lounge room. I found my stack of FedEx boxes in the bedroom that Adam had once stayed in. Each box was addressed to Charlotte Décarie. I sat on the floor, reached for the closest box and tore the strip of tape off the top.

  I instantly knew that none of it had been packed by Colin the delivery guy. Between each item of meticulously folded clothing was a layer of pink tissue paper. It wasn’t Adam’s style either. For a split second I considered calling him to ask who’d boxed up my life, but I thought better of it. I probably didn’t want to know.

  I couldn’t deny it. I owned some gorgeous clothes. I held up one of my favourites, a white shift dress. As much as I adored it, I knew it wasn’t worth taking out of the box. I was hardly going to get much wear out of it here. I managed to find a handful of casual dresses that were much more Pipers Cove and far less awesome. Perhaps I was a little more Charlotte Décarie than I cared to admit. I bundled up the clothes and shoes I wanted to take and headed home.

  Thankfully, Alex was there when I arrived. Spending time alone with Gabrielle was borderline awkward.

  “Hey,” he beamed. “Did you unpack your boxes?”

  I looked at the bundle in my arms. “Some. I’ll get to the rest of them another time.”

  “How did the garden look?” he asked, sitting on the couch next to Gabrielle. “I should really go and mow the lawn on the weekend.”

  I dumped my clothes down on the other couch and sat down.

  “Why didn’t you move into the cottage?” I asked, perplexed. “It’s such a pretty house.”

  The Parisienne’s eyes lit up. “My sentiments exactly.”

  Alex groaned and sunk into the cushion, taking her with him. “Let’s not go there again.”

  “It came down to the shed, Charli,” purred Gabrielle, wriggling free of his hold on her. “He has a grander shed to play in here.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the shed at the cottage,” I muttered, a little too defensively. “A run-down old boat was brought back to life in that shed.”

  “Très vrai,” she agreed, smugly.

  “English,” Alex prompted.

  “Very true. She said very true.” I didn’t doubt my translation for a second because I knew I was right. What I didn’t know was what part of my brain it had come from.

  “Impressive, Charli.” Alex raised an eyebrow.

  Gabrielle followed up with a huge burst of French. I shook my head at her, befuddled. “I have no idea what you just said.” My bilingual moment was well and truly over. Both of them dissolved into laughter. I disappeared into the kitchen to escape.

  One change in the house that I did welcome was the well-stocked fridge. I stood staring into it for a long time, marvelling at the fact that there were three different juices to choose from. Settling for run-of-the-mill orange, I grabbed the carton and opened the cupboard to get a glass.

  Each of the eighteen perfectly matching glasses was upside down again.

  “Let the games begin,” I whispered, stretching up to right them.

  * * *

  I managed to lie low for two whole days. Going to the café held no interest for me. Nicole was a full time employee. Alex’s pleas to make nice were starting to annoy me so much that I’d come close to telling him the whole truth about her more than once. Staying away was beneficial for all of us.

  With limited options, I had only one outing planned for the day. Valerie Daintree, the postmistress from hell, had left a message on the house phone letting me know that she was holding some mail at the post office for me. No amount of begging and pleading could convince my father to collect it on my behalf. “Charli, I wouldn’t face Val if the mail was addressed to me,” he mocked. I considered leaving it there but curiosity eventually won out.

  I stopped along the way to fill up the rental car with petrol. I was mindlessly watching the numbers tick over as I pumped fuel when the once gorgeous black Audi A6 pulled up at the bowser next to mine. It wasn’t gorgeous any more. It was hardly even an Audi any more. Judging by the multiple scratches and dented bumper, the poor car had had a hard life in the two years since Adam had sold it.

  “Charli? Is that you?” asked Lily Tate, stumbling as she got out of the car. In fairness, high-heeled espadrilles would make walking a difficult task for anyone.

  “It’s me, Lily,” I listlessly confirmed.

  She squealed, rushing at me. “Oh my God!” She drew me into a tight hug, squeezing me half to death. “Are you home for Christmas?”

  Home for Christmas, I repeated in my head. Why didn’t I think of that? I’d picked the perfect time to leave my husband and skulk home to my father. I didn’t even need to come up with an elaborate lie. I was home for the holidays.

  I grinned at her. “Yes. Yes I am.”

  “Cool. Where’s Adam?”

  “In New York.”

  “When’s he getting here?”

  “Lily, did you do something different with your hair?” Sometimes it was a blessing that Lily Tate had the concentration span of a gnat. It made changing the subject a breeze.

  “I did,” she crooned, fluffing her fingers through her mid length shag. “Is it that obvious?”

  I narrowed my eyes, pretending to ponder her question. Lily Tate’s once brassy blonde hair was now dark chocolate brown. A blind man would have considered the change obvious. “It’s pretty, Lil.”

  The pump clicked in my hand. The car was good to go. I began walking into
the shop to pay. Even without turning around, I knew she was tottering along behind me.

  “Charli,” Lily called, just as I got to the door.

  I drew in a long breath and turned to face her. “Yeah?”

  “Did you know Nicole is back too?” A scandalous grin crossed her almost-pretty, overly made-up face. I frowned, but it had nothing to do with her question. It occurred to me that I had an opportunity to milk Lily for information.

  I’d assured Nicole that I wasn’t interested in hearing anything to do with her life on the run. That was a lie. I was desperate to know one thing. “Lily, what happened to Ethan? Did he come home too?”

  I wanted to hear that he’d left Nicole high, dry and penniless in some dodgy foreign country. Hearing that he was holed up in prison somewhere would also have appeased me.

  Lily’s grin morphed into an unattractive duck-face pout. “Nicole came home alone. All we know is that the day after she got here, she went to the police station and took out a restraining order on him. Even if he does come back, he can’t go anywhere near her.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoffed, dismissing her claim as shameless gossip. Even if it was true, there’s no way Nicole would have told the Beautifuls.

  “It’s the truth!” she shrieked. “Jasmine’s fiancée told us and –”

  “Wait,” I stuttered, putting my hand up. “Jasmine’s engaged?”

  Forget Ethan Williams. I wanted to know which poor sucker had agreed to take on Jasmine Tate for a lifetime.

  Lily nodded so ardently that her huge silver hoop earrings got caught in her hair. “Yes, she is. Remember Norm and Floss’s grandson?”

  I cast my mind back to the meek constable who’d busted me for speeding a few days earlier. “Flynn Davis?”

  She burst into a fit of hysterical giggles. I had no choice but to wait for her to compose herself to hear the answer. “Not Flynn, silly. The older one, Wade.”

  I couldn’t recall ever meeting Wade. I barely remembered Flynn. I was curious to know more, but grilling the junior Beautiful for more information would have been an ordeal. I offered my congratulations and made a quick excuse to leave.

  “I’ll tell Jasmine you’re back,” called Lily as I walked away. “We can all catch up. It’ll be just like old times.”

  I cringed. I hadn’t missed the old times one little bit.

  * * *

  Postmistress Val was remarkably pleasant to me. She welcomed me home, told me how grown up I looked, and chastised me for wearing too many layers of clothing on such a lovely day.

  “I’m acclimatising,” I told her, forcing a smile in case she thought I was giving her attitude. Thankfully she smiled back. In fact, her expression didn’t sour once until she asked me to pass on her regards to my father.

  I waited until I was back in the car before opening my mail. The first parcel, a big manila envelope, was full of paperwork pertaining to Billet-doux. Little yellow ‘sign here’ stickers dotted every page. A handwritten note in Ryan’s angry scrawl was pinned to the front page.

  Tinker Bell,

  For the most part, your defection has improved our business relationship considerably. Unfortunately, as co-owner, I still require your signature on certain documentation. Sign these papers and return them to me at your earliest convenience. That means today. Pretty please.

  Ryan

  I hadn’t put any thought into how leaving New York would leave Ryan in the lurch. I suddenly felt bad, grabbed a pen from my bag and spent the next ten minutes signing paperwork in the name of Charlotte Décarie. Ryan had covered all bases by including a self-addressed envelope. I repackaged the papers, ventured back into the post office and returned them to the arrogant control-freak sender.

  I didn’t open the second parcel until that night when I was alone in my room. I tore the strip off the top and out tumbled my curly fry rings. I searched the empty package for a note but there was nothing – and it unfairly chipped at my heart. The finality of the gesture was heartbreaking.

  Ignoring the hurt, I slipped the rings onto my finger and held my hand up to the dull light from my bedside lamp. They were far more ostentatious than I remembered, but still incredibly beautiful. And for some weird reason, they no longer slipped off my fingers when I wore them.

  I fell asleep still wearing the rings that I’d only managed to grow into once I abandoned the union they represented.

  December 21

  Adam

  My plan of avoiding Trieste until classes resumed in the New Year fell apart quickly. She’d been given my phone number.

  “I thought we could meet today,” she suggested, during an obscenely early morning call that woke me up.

  “Trieste, do you have any idea what the time is?” I asked, making a mental note to block her number.

  “Ah, twenty-two minutes past seven.”

  “On a Saturday,” I added, as if it made a difference.

  “I didn’t think you’d have plans, considering you’re recently separated and all. There’s no point moping around by yourself.” The nerve of the girl was astonishing. “I have an essay due that I could do with a bit of help with. I have to submit it tomorrow.”

  I let out a long disgruntled groan. It should’ve been enough to make her to hang up and forget ever calling me again. But she didn’t. I found myself agreeing to meet her that afternoon.

  * * *

  Trieste had the gall to keep me waiting. I was just about to give up on her when she came running down the sidewalk with an armload of books.

  “You’re late.” I tapped my watch. “I can’t wait around for you all day.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I had a job interview that ran over time.”

  I took the stack of books from her and stood nodding as she rattled off the reasons why she didn’t get the job at the café she’d applied at, followed by the reasons why she didn’t want it in the first place. “Coffee makes me sneeze anyway.”

  “Right. Well, can we go now?”

  “Yes, but I have to warn you, lunch is on you. I’m broke.”

  I’d agreed to an hour of study, not lunch. The girl was impossible. “Fine,” I surrendered. “I know a place close by.”

  * * *

  Billet-doux wasn’t really Trieste’s scene. “I thought you said this place was great,” she whispered, leaning across the table.

  I continued reading through her essay, paying her next to no attention. “It is great.”

  “It’s empty, Adam. Perhaps they have issues with the health department.”

  I looked up. Trieste was glancing at the floor, perhaps looking for signs of vermin.

  “It’s closed, Trieste. I thought it would be a quiet place to study.”

  She looked embarrassed. “Oh. I just thought the service was terrible.”

  I laughed blackly. “Don’t let my brother hear you say that.”

  “Does he work here?”

  “Sometimes.” I turned my attention back to the papers in my hand.

  Trieste managed to keep quiet until I’d finished reading. Once I was done, I straightened them and handed them back.

  “Well?” she asked, pushing her glasses up her nose.

  “It’s fantastic,” I said truthfully. “I would be proud to submit that kind of work.”

  She grinned and leaned back. “I know.”

  “Trieste, if you knew it was good, why did you drag me out to read it?”

  “I just wanted you to see how good it was.”

  “Humble, aren’t you?”

  “No,” she replied. “Not really. Can we eat now?”

  Trieste Kincaid grows on you – like a flesh-eating virus. As much as she annoyed me, I was warming to her. I was feeling no urge to ditch her and make a run for it so I headed to the empty kitchen to see what I could rustle up for lunch. Left-over pasta was the best I could do. I microwaved it half to death, piled it onto a couple of plates and made my way back to front of house.

  Trieste was standing near the far wall, study
ing Charli’s canvas prints.

  “These are very good,” she said, glancing back at me.

  I set the plates down on the table. “They are.”

  “I like this one the best.” The canvas she was pointing at was very familiar. It was a picture of the cliffs at Pipers Cove – the very same picture that had led me to Charli in the first place.

  I stood beside her, studying it as intently as she did. “It’s my favourite too.”

  * * *

  We’d almost finished lunch when Ryan strutted through the front door. The smart comments started immediately. “Cute place for a first date, Adam,” he taunted, walking toward our table. “Your wife’s restaurant.”

  I took the high road, because I almost always do where he’s concerned. “Ryan, this is Trieste Kincaid.”

  She held out her hand. “Hi.”

  Ryan grinned as he met her handshake. “Hello, Trieste. Nice ears.”

  She took no offense at all. “Thanks,” she replied, running her hands over the top of her beanie.

  “Trieste is in her first year of law at Columbia. She’s also looking for a job,” I explained.

  “Great,” replied Ryan, walking toward the kitchen. “Good luck with your search.”

  I called out to him. “I think you should hire her.”

  He didn’t even slow his walk. “No.”

  I turned my attention back to Trieste. “You can start Monday.”

  Ryan spun around and stalked back to the table, looking seriously pissed. “We’re not hiring.”

  I ignored him and winked at her. “Monday.”

  She smiled.

  My brother looked like he was in danger of exploding right out of his pretentious suit. “No. Trieste, I’m sorry. My brother is a little out of line. We’re not hiring.”