Saving Sara (Redemption #1)

by Nicola Marsh

  “That’s because he was a nasty bastard, but you’re nothing like him,” Jake spat out, his fingers curling into fists as he wished for the umpteenth time that he’d retaliated earlier when his father came at him rather than waiting until his teens to stand up to him physically.

  “I’d never hurt Olly physically, but what do you think seeing me like this all the time is doing to him?” Rose’s eyes teared up again and she blinked rapidly. “I’m telling him the truth.”

  Jake knew nothing about raising kids so he had to give his sister the benefit of the doubt. Because despite her drinking, she had done a good job raising Olly.

  “Okay.” Jake stood and stretched out the kinks in his back. “I’ll go get him.”

  “Jake, wait.” Rose snagged his hand. “Do me a favor?”

  “Bigger than the one I already am?” He’d aimed for levity but it fell flat when the corners of Rose’s mouth turned downward.

  “Don’t let the guilt eat away at you.” She released his hand to pat her chest. “All I’ve done for the last few months is feel guilty. Over doing a lousy job as a mother, over not providing enough for Olly, over not being here for him every night because I have to work.” She shook her head. “That guilt has got me to this point and I don’t want you to suffer the same fate.”

  “But I don’t drink,” he said, almost defiantly, wearing his teetotaler status like a badge of honor.

  He’d never touched the stuff after he’d seen what it did to their father. Mainly out of fear he might not be able to control himself and stop at one, like dear old Dad.

  “I’ve hit rock-bottom, Jakey, and it’s not just because of the alcohol.” She struggled into a standing position, her legs wobbly, and he helped her. “You’re a good guy. You don’t deserve to feel like this.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, for the second time in as many minutes. It was the same trite response he’d trotted out to concerned colleagues for a month after the accident until he couldn’t take it anymore and had finally quit. “Now let’s go tell that son of yours he’s in for a world of fun with Uncle Jake.”

  Rose’s lips compressed into a thin line, as if biting back whatever she wanted to say.

  Good. Because Jake didn’t want to rehash what he’d gone through the last six months. The vivid nightmares. The avoidance of friends. The struggle to get out of bed most mornings.

  As Olly strolled into the room, chocolate stains around his mouth, Jake knew he’d have to get his act together now.

  He had a kid to care for and he was determined to do a damn sight better job than his father ever had.

  4.

  Sara spent the day wandering through the house, exploring every nook and cranny. She’d need to eventually clean out some of Gran’s junk but not today. Today was for remembering.

  She found a box filled with dog-eared Mills and Boon books in a closet and remembered Gran scolding her for reading them when Sara had been thirteen.

  She found a stack of old CDs and remembered dancing around the living room to Hootie and the Blowfish and The Smashing Pumpkins, Gran breathless from laughter as she tried to keep up.

  She found a garbage bag filled with old toys: puzzles and skipping ropes and balls, stuff she’d played with as a kid but Gran had never thrown away. Surprising, as the house was reasonably tidy and Gran hadn’t been a hoarder.

  But she’d kept the things that had meant the most to Sara and that made her want to hug Gran all the more.

  Blinking back tears, Sara searched the final cupboard for her greatest treasure, knowing if Gran had kept all that other stuff she wouldn’t have got rid of her pyrography tools. But there was nothing but a pile of old photo albums in the cupboard.

  Damn.

  If the tools weren’t in the house, Sara knew where they would be. In the shed down by the dam.

  She’d had no intention of heading down there. She couldn’t. Not when the shed bordered the back of the property . . . and a camp. For kids.

  She couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face seeing the excitement on their faces or hearing the children’s chatter and laughter. It would be a stark reminder of all she’d lost and she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t strong enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Rubbing her chest where the residual pain flared whenever she thought of Lucy, she flipped open her laptop. If she couldn’t face the work shed to get her tools, she’d have to order a new set.

  Throughout the day, the urge to resume pyrography had grown until it was all consuming. She had to try again, had to see if she could still create.

  New life. New beginning. New creations.

  It was somehow all tied together in her mind and she wanted to make a start ASAP.

  It didn’t take long to buy what she needed. She even threw in a few sample pieces of leather, to get her hand back in the game. Alongside new tools, she’d ordered her favored woods but would source more later with a stroll past her favorite trees, where she’d touch the bark and feel something for a piece she wanted to create.

  Gran had never laughed at her when Sara had talked about knowing what to draw on which piece of wood simply by touch. Gran had always supported and praised her, and while Sara didn’t believe in ghosts—she couldn’t, because if she started talking to Lucy’s spirit she’d never stop—coming back to this house, being surrounded by her grandmother’s things, she could almost imagine Gran still being here for her.

  Intolerant of the nebulous direction her thoughts had taken, Sara dusted herself off and closed the cupboard door. She’d ordered the tools to be delivered express and they should arrive in the morning.

  In the meantime, she’d finish her walk down memory lane for the day with her favorite meal that Gran used to make: grilled cheese on toast, potato salad and apple crumble for dessert.

  It would be fitting and as she bustled about the kitchen, trying not to think of how she’d rarely made dessert for Lucy, she knew she’d done the right thing coming back here.

  When she sat down to eat her comfort food, she idly flicked through an old photo album she’d found tucked away behind the box of novels earlier.

  It made her smile to think of Gran painstakingly arranging the photos in an album when these days most people swiped their phone or tapped at their keyboard to bring up photos.

  Sara preferred the old-fashioned way, liked the feel of flipping cardboard pages to see the past come alive. The first few pages held pictures of Sara’s youth, captured during each visit to the cottage. Making mud-pies in the back garden. Picking bunches of flowers. Riding a tricycle.

  One photo stood out and made her peer closer. Sara running around the garden wearing a pale pink tutu and fairy wings, glancing over her shoulder with a cheeky grin for the camera.

  She looked so much like Lucy it made her chest ache.

  Most people had said Lucy looked like Greg but this photo proved them wrong. It somehow made Sara feel closer to Lucy and she reached out a finger to trace the photo, wishing Lucy could’ve been here to see it.

  With her appetite gone, she pushed away the food and continued flicking through the album. Gran had documented every stage of Sara’s life, eight pictures per double page for each age, culminating in her wedding photos.

  Sara remembered sending these to Gran, a few professional shots as a keepsake of her love for the man of her dreams.

  What a crock.

  Had she ever been that naïve? A resounding yes if the pictures were anything to go by. Photos of her hand in hand with Greg. Gazing up at Greg. Kissing Greg. Waltzing with Greg. She looked carefree and ecstatic in them all, the epitome of a blushing bride.

  Too bad the blush had worn off in the first six months of marriage when Greg’s hours at the firm meant he missed more dinners than she could count, stood her up for her work functions, and consistently crept into the apartment around midnight, too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

  Not that she’d been a sex maniac, but Sara had expectations of her husband that had petered out pretty damn
fast in the first few months of marriage because of his precious job.

  Conceiving Lucy had been a miracle of good timing and luck, on one of the rare times Greg had been home early, on Christmas Eve.

  She’d roasted a chicken, steamed vegetables and made a pineapple upside-down cake from scratch. They’d eaten, exchanged gifts and made love on the sofa. A perfect evening. With a perfect result nine months later.

  They hadn’t been trying to have a child. Sara had already been too disillusioned in her marriage. But she’d had a bout of food poisoning a few days earlier, so her contraceptive pill hadn’t worked.

  Later, she’d thought it was a godsend, having a gorgeous daughter like Lucy to bestow all her love on. Love Greg didn’t seem interested in anymore.

  Losing Lucy had gutted her and while she didn’t love Greg any longer, staring at their wedding photos, tangible proof that they had once loved each other, made her wonder how he was doing.

  He’d tried to stay in touch after she moved out but she’d wanted a clean break. In some warped way, Greg reminded her of Lucy and all that she’d lost. She blamed him, just as much as she blamed herself for Lucy’s death.

  Tears burned her eyes and she snapped the album shut.

  No point lamenting all that she’d lost in the past.

  Time to focus on the future.

  She owed her daughter that much.

  5.

  Hey Olly, time to brush your teeth,” Jake called out, running a hand across the back of his neck to ease a kink. It didn’t help. The tension still knotted his muscles, giving him a headache.

  Or maybe the most stubborn, recalcitrant six-year-old he’d ever met had caused that. Not that he’d had much to do with kids, but Rose coped admirably with her son despite her shortcomings so how hard could it be?

  After a day and night caring for Olly, he had a newfound respect for Rose. All parents, for that matter. Kids were tough. Damn tough. Or was it because he was lousy at it? He refused to consider it, as that meant he was as useless as his father in the parenting stakes and no way would he accept that.

  He had to try harder. Read some books. Brush up online. And breathe.

  “Don’t wanna.” Olly leaned against the bathroom doorway and scowled. “You get up too early. And you don’t have Pop-Tarts. And you’re grumpy.”

  Couldn’t fault the kid there. But not wanting another battle like the one they’d had over dinner last night—who knew kids didn’t like store-bought sushi?—Jake forced a smile. “If you brush your teeth real fast, we’ll have extra time at the park.”

  A spark lit Olly’s steady gaze. “That’s bribery.”

  How old was this kid—six going on sixty?

  “Is it working?”

  Olly tilted his head to one side, studying him, before nodding. “Sure. I like the park. Better than here.”

  Jake’s heart dropped. He was doing the best he could but if Olly hated it here after only a day, how the hell would they cope for the next few months? The entire summer vacation stretched before him, a minefield filled with dinners Olly wouldn’t eat, toys he wouldn’t like and activities he’d despise.

  Jake was in way over his head.

  As Olly pushed past him to get to the sink, a vivid memory flashed across Jake’s mind of him doing the same thing to his Aunt Cilla. She’d been filling the tub with water and adding bubble bath when he’d barreled into the bathroom and accidentally bumped her elbow, resulting in her tipping way too much liquid into the bath. The resultant bubbles had ensured he and Rose had the best fun ever.

  His aunt had laughed at their antics. His uncle, not so much. Vernon had been the spitting image of his brother, Jake’s dad. Like two mean, nasty peas in a pod. The only reason their father had ever taken them out to Connecticut to visit his brother was because he knew Cilla would care for the kids while he sat around on his ass drinking beer.

  Jake had enjoyed those rare visits because Cilla would act as a buffer, so no matter how much his dad drank or how mean he got, he couldn’t lay a finger on Jake. Cilla wouldn’t stand for that.

  Not that she’d ever said anything, of course, but Jake knew his aunt understood. It was like an untold secret, something they both knew but never spoke of. Besides, Jake often wondered if his Uncle Vernon took his frustrations out on Cilla, or even Tamsin, their daughter. He’d rarely seen his cousin; she’d been a decade older than him and never home once she’d left for college. Considering how grouchy Uncle Vernon was all the time, he didn’t blame her. He empathized. Boy, did he empathize.

  As Jake gazed at Olly, who was concentrating fiercely on squeezing the right amount of toothpaste onto his toothbrush, he had an idea.

  Olly was used to having only Rose around. He related better to a female. And while Jake believed Olly needed a male role model in his life, he wasn’t delusional enough to think that he could be a good parent for Olly over the next few months when he had no clue how.

  Cilla would know, though. Cilla had been excellent with him and Rose. She’d been funny and thoughtful and caring, yet strong on discipline too. She’d be perfect to help out with Olly.

  Only one problem. Jake hadn’t been in touch in years. In fact, since his uncle Vernon had committed suicide by driving into a tree, he’d seen her a grand total of three times.

  He’d been twelve at the funeral. Thirteen when she’d dropped in on an impromptu visit but been driven away by his dad. She’d tried again a year later, bringing a basket of lavender cookies and banana muffins. His father had thrown the lot in the trash and told her to go to hell, that they didn’t want her guilt gifts, seeing as she had driven Vernon to his death.

  That was the last Jake had seen of his aunt and it irked him that he hadn’t contacted her in eighteen years. He’d always viewed family as meaning him and Rose against the world.

  Maybe it was time to change all that.

  “You finish up here, get your shoes on and I’ll meet you out front,” Jake said, placing a hand on Olly’s shoulder. Considering the awkward, tension-filled evening they’d had yesterday, he wasn’t surprised when Olly shrugged it off. Disappointed, but not surprised.

  The faster he engaged his aunt’s help, the better.

  Leaving Olly to finish up, he strode to the front door and grabbed his cell out of his pocket. Once the door was closed and Olly safely out of earshot, Jake scrolled through the contacts he’d transferred from cell to cell ever since he’d had his first at the age of twelve.

  Hoping Cilla hadn’t moved—and that she wouldn’t verbally flay him for ignoring her all these years—he found her name, hit the call button and waited.

  The phone rang once, twice. A total of eight times. About to give up, Jake glanced over his shoulder to see Olly through the front window, trying to tie his shoelaces, his tongue poking out in concentration.

  Jake didn’t have long. On the ninth ring, someone picked up.

  “Hello, Priscilla Prescott speaking.”

  So she’d ditched the Mathieson name and taken back her maiden name. Good for her.

  “Hi Aunt Cilla, it’s Jake.”

  Silence. A long, taut silence filled with awkwardness and sadness and regret. On his part, anyway.

  “I know this is crazy, me ringing you out of the blue like this, but I was hoping I could come visit today.”

  Damn, did he sound as desperate as he felt?

  After what seemed like an eternity, she finally spoke. “It’s been a long time, Jake. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Just thought it would be good to catch up.”

  “After eighteen years, that’s a lot to catch up on.” Typical Cilla, a gentle rebuke without much rancor.

  “I know, and I feel terrible for losing contact with you, but after Dad died I had my hands full with work and looking after Rose . . .” Could he sound any weaker?

  He should ’fess up and say he was a selfish prick who’d become used to looking out for himself and Rose only, and there wasn’t much room in his life for anything el
se.

  “I guess your father got his wish, keeping me away from you kids after Vernon died.”

  He found himself nodding. “I’d like to change that, starting today.”

  Cilla’s pause lasted several seconds and he’d almost given up hope when she said, “Sure, come by today. I’ll make some of those oatmeal cookies you used to love.”

  Relief made him sag against the wall. “That’d be great. See you in a few hours.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Cilla hung up quickly, but not before Jake heard a quiver in her voice.

  He should’ve told her about Olly. If his phone call had surprised her, he had a feeling she’d be shell-shocked when she discovered that Jake planned on staying awhile in Redemption so Olly could get the attention and care he needed from his great-aunt.

  6.

  Cilla had hung up the phone and was trying to absorb the shock of Jake calling after all these years when she heard a knock at the front door.

  No one used her front door. Townsfolk knew she stored and dispensed her remedies from a small room branching off her sunroom at the back, so that’s where they came.

  Heck. Was it Bryce again?

  She didn’t want to think about his dinner invitation. Didn’t want to dwell on how put out she felt after he’d left yesterday because she hadn’t accepted. Didn’t want to rehash all the names she’d called herself, ranging from cougar to stupid old biddy.

  If this was Bryce she’d send him away again, with a sterner warning this time to leave her alone. Yes, she’d definitely do it. But she opened the door to a tall, thin blonde woman dressed in city clothes. A leisure suit, but citified nonetheless. She was beautiful in that elegant, timeless way that only some women could pull off. With her big blue eyes and elfin features, she had the kind of face that turned men’s heads.

  There was something familiar about her. Something about her tentative smile . . .

  “Can I help you?”