“It’s called a ratchet, smartarse. You can get to work on undoing those bolts over there.” Pointing to the corner of the wrongly placed walls, he stands and heads out the way we came, leaving me staring in confusion at the alien creature in my hand.
What on earth does a ratchet do?
Within the hour we finally have the Ginger Bread House standing tall in all its artificial, sugary perfection. Brendan’s on the inside fixing the last of the cupboards into place to the wooden flooring, while I admire our lean free creation. I must admit, I’m excited about waking up in a few hours to hear the girls screaming in delight when they notice it outside their bedroom windows. God I love Christmas.
“Hey Mags, can you come here a minute please?” Brendan calls in a hushed voice.
Opening the smoothly swinging door, I find him sitting on the small expanse of floor, legs out stretched and crossed at the ankles. I raise my eyebrows in question, taking in the room. Cupcake curtains on the windows, candy canes for legs on the table, coloured liquorice and lollies frame the doorway. Artificial icing sugar piping as far as the eye can see. It’s sweet and girly and perfect.
“Come sit with me a minute, Love.”
Ooh, Brendan’s using his sexy time voice. Of course I sit. Hell I’d engage bionic speed if I could to get to him faster. Trust me, you’d sit too. Hell, Carly from next door would be lying spread eagle already.
I lean back against the wall and sit close our sides brushing every time one of us moves. When I’m settled, he smiles at me, threads our fingers and kisses my palm before resting our hands in his lap.
“What time is it?” He sounds content; the satisfied hunter admiring his prey, as he draws over the back of my hand with the pad of his thumb.
“Oh, I guess around twoish. Why, tired?” I’m trying to be cute, but when I’m up against one of the three experts of cute in my family, I tend to fall short.
Brendan cups my face in his large hands and presses a soft full mouth kiss on my lips. No invading tongues, no attacking lustful moves, just pure unadulterated, honest to goodness, love. And it’s absolutely beautiful. “Merry Christmas, my beautiful wife.”
“Merry Christmas, husband,” I murmur, not ready to lose the feel of him.
“I have something for you.” Pressing one last kiss, he straightens out one of his legs and awkwardly slides his hand into a front pocket of his shorts. “I wanted…” he pauses to gather his thoughts. “…We’ve been married, what, eight years?” He’s pretending to not remember, when we know full well that I’m the one who usually forgets our wedding anniversary.
“Yes smarty, I am aware of the number of years,” I say, turning my head to mumble, “it’s the actual date I have a problem remembering.”
“Finally, she admits it.” Chuckling, he presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist.
“No, I don’t,” I lie, laughing with him.
Sobering, Brendan continues almost shyly, “I love you more than life Maggie, you know that right?”
“Not nearly as much as I love you.”
“I know Love, you show me every day.”
He presses his lips to mine softly. “We were so young when we got together, and didn’t have much money when I asked you to marry me, so your ring ended up being -”
“Perfect.” I cut him off before he can offend my favourite piece of jewellery. I don’t care about the size of the diamond. He chose it and gave it to me when he proposed. That’s all that matters.
“Small,” he finishes, cocking a brow with a lopsided smirk, daring me to argue the obvious.
I open my mouth to protest, to tell him that I don’t care what it looks like, that it’s perfect for me, when he places a finger over my mouth to silence me.
“I love you Maggie, that’s never going to change, but we’re a little better off now and I wanted to finally give you the ring that you deserve.” He shifts onto a bent knee. “I’d ask you to marry me every day of my life if it meant keeping you forever,” he says, opening the small blue box in his hand and holds it out for me, “So marry me every day for the rest of my life if you need to, because I’m keeping you forever, Maggie. You make me the happiest, luckiest man on the planet, my wife, and I love you so fucking much it hurts.”
It’s not often that I’m left speechless, and that’s probably the sole reason Brendan’s dropped this bombshell on me, just to shut me up; but when I’m finally able to tear my watery eyes from his, I see the biggest diamond I have ever seen outside of a magazine. It’s huge and beautiful. And way too much.
“Brendan,” I gasp, but he cuts my protest off with a searing passionate kiss.
“I love you Mags, please don’t spoil this for me,” he begs, kissing me deeper and as desperately as I kiss him.
“I would marry you every day of every year of my life to show you how much I love you Brendan.” I lower myself over him so I can feel as much as of his muscular body as possible.
“Oh, shit. Mags, I just dropped the bloody ring.” Brendan yells, pushing me off and frantically patting the ground. I instantly pull out my mobile phone, turn the small torch on and swing about wildly.
“How could you drop it?” I shriek, like he did it on purpose,
“Will you stop swinging that - just… give it here,” he growls, snatching the phone in frustration, “Search Mags, don’t just sit there.”
“No need to yell,” I mumble under my breath, not quietly enough according to the glare I receive. It’s not like it could have gone that far. “Okay, okay. I’m looking,” I say, rolling my eyes I press my palms to the ground. “Huh, this it?” I ask, surprised and a whole lot smug.
“Thank God, please… just put it on and promise to never take it off.”
Slipping my new diamond onto the ring finger of my right hand, I ask, but it’s not a question, “That much, huh?”
No matter how spectacular my new ring is, it’s not going to take the place of the engagement ring Brendan proposed to me with.
“That much.” Sagging with relief, he rests his hands onto his thighs, taking a deep calming breath. Looking a little sheepish, he then asks, “So, how’s it look?” - knowing full well that it’s beyond imagination.
“Meh, not bad.”
“I’ll give you not bad,” he growls, diving at me… showing me exactly what his not bad is like.
Chapter 2
IF IT’S AT all possible to cleave claw marks in the ceiling, I just did.
The girls are awake and squealing their hearts out, running down the hallway on their way to wake us. Their excitement is infectious, but boy it’s early.
I feel hung over only without the alcohol after having a couple of hours sleep. Our Play House… um… construction went on a little longer than planned.
I haven’t really drunk since being pregnant over six years ago. It was one of my morning sickness triggers. I used to start reaching whenever I got a sniff of beer. Wine wasn’t so bad, Scotch - no way, and even now some alcohol sets me off.
The bedroom door flies open and two very happy and very loud little girls race in and start jumping all over us, singing at full volume, “Wake up, wake up, Santa’s been.”
Ella grabs hold of the top sheet and tugs with all her might in sheer desperation to get us to hurry up and move. Brendan’s hand snaps at the covers laughing but, embarrassed because he’s in all his naked glory and has always been a little modest in front of the girls.
“Hold up there Ellie baby, let Daddy put some pants on first,” he chuckles, blushing.
“No Daddy, there’s no time. You have to, have to hurry. Santa’s here.”
“Come on you Monkeys,” I interject, buying my prudish husband time. “Someone hand me my robe,” I command in a regal tone, “I must be dressed to meet Santa.” I pinch the singlet top I’m wearing for emphasis. “This will never do.” I smile broadly as both girls climb off the bed and sprint to the walk to search for the right robe. “I must have the lavender gown I received for Mother’s Day,” I co
nclude pompously and dramatically throw the covers aside, accidently on purposely fling it partially off Brendan. But he’s faster and clamps it down with a quick hand and narrows his eyes before flashing the goods.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish, Love.”
“Oh I can finish it -” I start before being cut off mid-sentence.
“This one Mummy?” Mattie asks in her little bird voice, dragging the dressing gown behind her as Ella climbs back onto the bed, looking annoyed.
“Yes baby, that’s the one,” I coo, taking it from her and sliding my arms into the sleeves.
Bobbing up and down on the bed, Brendan bounces his butt on the mattress, attempting to keep his privates under wraps while trying to shimmy into the pair of boxer shorts he leaves close by in case he has to get up during the night.
“Right.” I’m using my commanding tone again while I tie my robe loosely so the fabric drapes and conceals the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. The boobs just aren’t what they used to be after breast feeding two babies. “Are we ready to see what Santa brought me for Christmas?”
“I’m more interested in seeing what the Old Man got me,” Brendan yells, picking Ella up and flinging her over a shoulder, then squatting down to take Mattie into his free arm, spinning them around before heading down the stairs singing Jingle Bells at the top of his voice while the girls scream with joy. I dart into the wardrobe, snatch the camera off the shelf and chase after my family.
They’re already huddled around the Christmas tree when I reach the living room. “Wow, did you guys fly here or something?”
“Daddy did, Mummy,” Mattie cries wide-eyed.
“Don’t be silly, Dads don’t fly, Mattie,” Ella says, rolling hers.
“Did too,” Mattie protests, crossing her arms, then looking to Brendan for confirmation. “Didn’t you Daddy.”
“Who wants to open their presents?” Brendan calls out, defusing the developing argument. He reaches under the heavily decorated tree to retrieve a box wrapped with a large gold bow and reads the name tag. “What do ya know? This one’s for Mummy.”
Smiling big, he rises up on his knees to pass me the package as I fake glare but secretly love that he got me another present. Taking the sides of his face, I press soft kiss to his lips, murmuring love and thanks.
“What are you waiting for, girls?” Brendan cheers. “Go look in your stockings.”
I lift the camera and take a few shots, shaking my head at my husband as he dives under the tree looking for his own gifts, smiling to the point of pain and loving every minute of this moment.
Christmas day, my favourite – okay.
One of my top ten favourite days of the year.
I’M FRANTICALLY WASHING the last of the dishes that are too big to fit in the already full and running dishwasher. I nudge an open cupboard door closed with my foot, then shake off the excess water and soap from my hands, splashing it all over the floor as I reach for a clean tea towel to dry up.
“How’s the turkey looking?” I call to Brendan through the open kitchen window. I see his mouth open and close but miss what he’s saying. I nod and smile anyway. I don’t have time for bad news.
The table’s all set with a red table cloth, white plates and crystal champagne glasses. The girls scattered some tiny glittery gold reindeer to finish the effect. The cold food is on the breakfast bench ready for serving. Vegies are keeping warm on the hot plates; potatoes are in the oven crisping nicely. I haven’t put the bread rolls in yet because they only take a few minutes and I don’t want them to burn, and then go cold. The Christmas pudding is boiling steadily in the huge pot that gets pulled out once a year – to cook the pudding. Trifle’s in the fridge, creamed and decorated by the girls and my famous, although not very traditional, chocolate mousse is resting next to the trifle.
Slamming the last cupboard door, I screw up the now damp towel and throw it into the dirty clothes basket on my way past the laundry, racing upstairs to change before everyone arrives.
We’ve had a fantastic morning opening our gifts and ended up having a huge paper fight that was probably more fun than opening the presents. Santa got the girls far too much as usual, the standouts being the Ginger Bread House. Ellie loves her new pink and purple roller blades and Mattie thinks her new orange and black scooter is, and I quote: “Aawesooommmmeeee.”
I’m struggling with the hook sewn to the top of the zip on the dress Brendan gave me. It’s soft summer cotton, fresh and light and feels luxurious as the fabric gently flows over my rounding curves. I’m watching my feet while I walk into the bathroom to apply my make up with a slight frown. I wish I had enough time to paint my toenails now that I want to wear open toe heels to match my new outfit instead of the regulation Mummy flats I normally don, when I hear a piercing high pitch scream coming from the front yard. Reflexively my entire body freezes and goes into parent mode.
I’m positive that was - oh hell no, that’s Mattie screaming.
Then I hear Brendan’s much deeper voice explode with a guttural noise that sounds like it is being retched from the pits of hell itself. More high pitched shrieks quickly follow with Ellie’s cries mixing into the macabre ensemble.
Then the absolute worst possible noise anyone could conceivably imagine hearing in their entire life.
The sound of screeching tires.
A painfully deafening pregnant pause.
The slam of solid impact, crumpling metal.
Then nothing.
The nothing’s the worst sound of all.
I’m bunching fabric around my hips, running down the stairs two at a time. My heart’s pounding blood through my ears as I blindly grab for the front door handle. In my confusion I lay one hand flat on the stained wood, pressing against the stupid door whilst trying to open the thing at the same time. Rattling the lock until my mind and hands are able to coordinate and finally get it open.
I sprint bare-footed down the front step, over the coarse, decorated concrete drive, tripping over strategically placed volcanic garden rocks. The skirt of my new dress keeps tangling with my legs and eventually causes me to stumble onto the street, ripping at the skin on the tips of my toes and the tender soles of my feet while I desperately take in the scene before me with jerky erratic movements. The overwhelming sight causes my breath to snag and my brain to deny.
My blurry vision is so tainted with distress everything appears awash in a filmy red hue. I’m overwhelmed by someone’s screaming in a piercing tone fit to burst. It’s a hysterical, manic sound that carries through the entire neighbourhood. It’s the sound of harrowing pain, of sheer desperation.
Strong hands take hold of me from the side, pulling me and encasing me under their arm while they attempt to turn me away from the carnage, trying to get me to stop screaming, repeatedly assuring me that an ambulance is on its way. Help is coming.
My face is now buried into the front of a button down shirt. The small plastic buttons press into my damp cheek and a protective arm is covering my eyes. I can hear words spilling out around me, recognising the familiar voices of our neighbours as they call out my name, my family’s names. My mind is in a vortex of confusion, not allowing me to process anything in a coherent order. I can’t understand why I need an ambulance, why my family are laid awkwardly across the bitumen.
As I push away from my protector, the dull haze slowly clears and my eyes begin to focus on a frenzy of people spilling out of emergency vehicles with flashing lights and blaring sirens being shut off. Police dart from car to ambulance, from person to person, abruptly conversing and repeating statements into static walkie talkies, their messages carrying into the unknown.
A tall figure moves into my line of vision and shakes me hard. He’s speaking - no he’s yelling words I can’t hear. For some unknown reason I become fixated on the fact that he’s wearing a wet shirt. I run the back of finger over the dampness and look up in question.
“Jon?”
When did he get here?
There’s so much sadness and pain in his eyes, I step closer and cup his face to comfort him. I’m about to tell him that it’s going to be okay, everything’s going to be fine, when my brain finally begins to catch up. With reality unfolding around me, I realise with shocking clarity that Jon’s expressing these feelings to me. For me.
It all comes to me in a rush, slamming into me. Like a speeding four wheel drive.
I frantically jerk and pull and kick and scream and scream and scream. “No, no, nononononononono.”
I stumble off the curb and move one surreal leg at a time, attempting to process the sight of my girls’ limp bodies, lying bloody on the asphalt in spasmodically bended forms while grown men and women lean over them.
Jon grabs hold of me and tries to lead me in a different direction. I slap him away with numb, hands only to find myself tangling with him. He’s not the right Cartwright brother. I want my husband. I need to find him. Brendan will know what’s happening - he’ll know what to do.
“Brendan!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but my voice comes out sounding like it’s underwater. I twist and turn but Jon tightens his grip, so I start yanking my arms, only to feel the grip squeeze into my muscles. I stop still and robotically look up.
“Let. Me. Go.” My voice sounds feral. I hardly recognise it as mine.
“Maggie Mae, I need you to calm down.”
“Let Me Go. I need to find Brendan.” I need to find him now.
I uselessly twist my arms, begging him to let me go. Jon shakes me gently to capture my attention and closes the space between us, demanding me to focus on him and nothing else. He holds my rabid expression for long beat, before subtly shaking his head from side to side, telling me no. I feel my head mirror his movements, a mechanical action that’s confusing. I still don’t remember Jon getting here.
I fake calmness and the very second Jon relaxes his iron grip, I make a break for it and launch my body sideways, heading to the first form I see. It’s my Ella lying on her back, surrounded by people in uniform. Her left leg is at an odd angle, her rollerblade clad foot caught awkwardly on the road. Blood is pooling beneath her caramel brown hair and a large man is repeatedly pressing down hard onto her chest.
Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story Page 2