by Devney Perry
It broke my heart that she’d felt unwanted. That she’d been at the mercy of the adults in her life. I could relate. It had been crushing to feel like a pawn and a burden rather than a child.
“I will never go back to California.” Her voice turned cold like the air drifting in from the open patio doors. “Clara wants to go back. She’ll take the Cadillac and return because she needs that closure.”
“And what do you need?” I’d give it to her. Without question.
“I need that son of a bitch to rot in hell for the rest of eternity.”
I twisted, forcing her to sit straight, because I had to see her face. “Did he . . .” I gulped, not even able to choke out the words.
“There was a reason he and my mother were estranged. I’ll never know if he did something to her. But . . . it isn’t hard to guess. Not after what he did to me.”
“Tell me,” I gritted out.
She stared at the floor, unblinking. “He took everything. Our house. Our things. Anything of value he sold and kept every dime for himself, pissing it away. And we moved into this shitty trailer where Clara and I shared a bedroom and a bathroom, both with doors that didn’t lock.”
My spine went rigid and my heart pounded. “Aria, I won’t make you go through this. If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No. You were right. And you should know.”
“Are you sure?”
She gave me a sad smile. “I haven’t told this to anyone. Ever. Only Clara knows.”
They’d survived it together.
“It was fairly miserable for five years. That’s about how long it took Craig to run out of money. He literally just . . . spent it. He gambled. He quit his job. He threw parties while Clara and I hid in our room and prayed no one came in. He was such a loser, but there was always food and he normally left us alone.”
“You were ten.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Old enough to care for ourselves and get to school.”
Meanwhile at ten I’d had a full staff of private teachers at my disposal. And parents and grandparents. Yes, they’d been on the opposite side of the country, but had I called, they would have sent a plane.
“By the time we turned fourteen, things started to get strange. Craig would look at us. He’d lick his lips and there’d be this gleam in his eyes as we started to develop breasts. Girls know when a man is staring. One night, Clara woke up to see him standing over her bed. After that, we hung a can on the door so we’d hear if he came in. After about a year, it became so bad—the looks and long touches—that we started packing.”
“To run away.”
She nodded. “There was this girl who lived in the trailer park, two trailers down. Londyn.”
“Cadillac Londyn?”
“The same. Her parents had been junkies, so she was on her own too. One day she was just gone. We started asking around at school and the pizza parlor where she worked. No one knew she was living in the junkyard, just that she was hanging out there. But we figured that was where she was staying too. And if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for us.”
A junkyard wasn’t good enough for her, but it was better than the alternative.
“We didn’t leave right away,” she said. “We stole some money from Craig and bought the biggest backpacks we could find. Then we filled them to the brim with clothes and food and cash and Tylenol. We’d planned to take twice as much as we actually did but things . . . well, things got out of hand.”
My pulse pounded at my temples, fury coming on before she could explain.
I knew what was next. The question was, just how out of hand had it gotten?
“We waited one night too many,” she whispered. “I was in the kitchen, making dinner. Macaroni and cheese. I didn’t even know he was home, but then I felt him. He came up behind me and . . .”
I took her hand.
She laced her fingers through mine and held tight. “He touched me.”
With her free hand, Aria touched her breast. Then lower.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch the wall and kill a man in Temecula, California. But I sat still and let her squeeze my hand so hard that my fingertips turned white. Tomorrow, I’d take it out on my heavy bag, but tonight I was here for Aria.
“He kept touching me. He ripped my shirt. He got my pants open. I fought, hard, and stomped on his foot. It was enough to squirm away and run to our room. It happened so fast, Clara barely registered what was happening when I came racing down the hall. After that, we barricaded ourselves in the bedroom. We sat against the door, wedging ourselves between it and one of the beds. He beat on that door for hours, until our legs were so weak they shook and the tears had dried on our cheeks.”
At fifteen. Fuck. They had to have been terrified.
“We waited for hours after his footsteps retreated from the door, just in case. Then when we were sure he was gone, we pushed every piece of furniture against the door. By morning, we’d shoved the backpacks and supplies out of the tiny bedroom window, then squeezed out ourselves.”
All these years I’d known Aria. All these years I’d worked with Clara. And I hadn’t really known them at all.
Aria’s strength was humbling.
“Clara and I walked hand in hand to the junkyard, and that was it,” she said. “We found the delivery truck and made it our home. We did what we could for money until we were old enough to get jobs. We stayed far away from the school and the trailer park. If we saw someone we knew, we didn’t tell them where we were living because we were all scared the cops might stumble upon our makeshift home and take us away. By some miracle, it worked. We survived. Together. The six of us leaned on each other. And we survived.”
Aria. Clara. I’d underestimated them both.
Later, when my temper had cooled, I’d find out about the uncle. I’d find out if he was still alive. I wasn’t going to ask if she’d kept tabs on the motherfucker.
“I’m sorry.” I kissed her knuckles. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what else to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. It’s in the past. I want it to stay in the past.”
“Then we won’t talk about it again.”
“Brody . . . the cradle. The nanny. You do it because you want to help. But I need to earn things. I need to know they are mine.”
“They are yours.”
“No, they’re not. They’re gifts.”
“What’s wrong with gifts?”
She stared at me, searching for the right words. When she found them, her gaze softened. “I went for so long wondering what was going to happen. I have spent so long relying only on myself.”
“And now you have me.”
“Brody, I know this seems strange. I know Clara can take a gift and say thank you. I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow it might be gone. If I earn it myself, then maybe it won’t disappear.”
In that single sentence, it all made sense. She was protecting herself. She was insulating herself from heartbreak. If she counted on me and I left her . . . “I won’t leave you, Aria.”
“You might.”
“Never.”
Not when I was falling for her.
She closed her eyes and collapsed into my chest.
I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her hair. “I’ll always take care of you. Let me. Please.”
“Make me a part of it. Share it. Please?”
“Okay.” I kissed her hair again, holding her for a few precious minutes. Then I stood from the bed, her dainty hand tucked firmly in my grasp. “Come on.”
Aria stood too. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner. Bed.”
“Not yet.” She dropped my hand to snake her arms around my waist. Her fingers dove into the back pockets of my jeans and she squeezed my ass. Hard. “Did you wear these jeans because you thought it would make me less angry at you?”
“Maybe. Did it work?”
She stood o
n her toes and her lips whispered across mine. “I guess you’ll find out when you take them off.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aria
“Courtland.”
“I will never, ever name my child Courtland.”
Brody frowned. “That was my great-uncle’s name.”
“Did you love and admire this uncle?”
“I didn’t really know him.”
“Then it’s a no.” I took a bite of my cheeseburger and scrolled down the list of names I’d been collecting on my phone. “Parry. Spelled with an a.”
“Meh.”
That made five in a row he’d nixed with a meh. Ben. David. Steven. Jacob. They’d been too plain. And now Parry. “Fine. Your turn.”
Brody and I had been making lists of baby names. We’d collect favorites throughout the week, then have lunch at the flower shop on Fridays to pitch them to each other. Today he’d come bearing cheeseburgers from the diner because it was the one craving I’d had consistently during the transition from the second trimester to the third.
In the past month, ever since I’d confided in Brody about my past, the two of us had settled into little routines, like this one. Dinner every evening. Breakfast after he’d worked out in the morning. Texts throughout the day to check in. Saturday night dates in the theater room. Anything to spend time together.
Today we were debating boy names. Next week, we’d start tackling the girl list.
“Adler,” he said.
I scrunched up my nose. “Adler?”
“It was my grandfather’s name.”
“It’s not awful. But it’s . . .”
“Pretentious?” Brody finished.
I pointed a finger at him. “Now you’re learning.”
He chuckled and wadded up the paper wrapper from his meal. “What if we can’t agree?”
“We have three months. I’m sure we’ll find one boy name and one girl name that we both like.”
“I think you underestimate our natural tendency to disagree.”
I giggled and tossed my napkin at his face.
The smile on his made my heart flip.
I’d seen that smile more in the past month than in all the years I’d known Brody. Even Clara had commented on how happy he was.
How happy we both were.
We bickered endlessly about stupid topics like nursery purchases and the BMW I wouldn’t drive. Every time I lifted an object weighing more than two pounds, Brody would scold me for five solid minutes.
The arguments, I was learning, were foreplay. Because by the time each day closed, we would be together, either in his bed or mine, and there was never any argument about ending the night naked and wrapped in each other’s arms.
“I brought cookies too.” Brody pulled another to-go container from the white paper sack on the table.
Before he’d arrived at noon, I’d cleared away the floral petals, leaves and discarded stems from the bouquet Marty had made for one of five deliveries we had today.
“Can I run an idea by you?”
“Of course,” he said.
“You have to promise not to run out and spend a bunch of money.”
He frowned. “Have I bought you anything extravagant lately?”
I tore off a chunk of cookie and popped it into my mouth. “This cookie is fairly extraordinary.”
He grinned. “Your idea.”
“Someday, in the distant future when I’m ready, I want to build a greenhouse. I love working with the flowers and making bouquets. It’s been an exciting change from what I did in Oregon, but I miss playing in the dirt. I can grow houseplants for the shop and maybe even expand to have annuals and perennials available to customers.”
“I like it. Whatever you set your mind to, I have complete faith you’ll make it a success.”
“Thank you.” I blushed and tore into the chocolate chip cookie, moaning as the sugary, buttery confection melted on my tongue. The greenhouse idea wouldn’t be anytime soon. I needed to save some money and get the shop turning a bigger profit, but someday, I wanted both.
“Marty’s going to have to run the shop this afternoon,” I said, devouring my cookie. “I’m going to be in a food coma.”
“I heard that.” Marty walked into the room with a grin on his face. “And I’ll allow an afternoon nap if you agree to call the Friday promotion Fresh Flower Friday.”
“Done.” I clapped. “Easy.”
That was my favorite name out of the options anyway. But if I could get a nap in on the gold velvet couch in the office, I was taking it.
“See how easily some people can agree on names?” I shot Brody a smirk.
He simply shook his head. “Eat your cookie.”
“Yes, sir.” I winked and took a huge bite to polish it off.
Fresh Flower Friday was going to be a new addition to Welcome Floral. We were going to rearrange a wall just inside the door. We’d add shelves to hold tin buckets. Then each Friday, we’d fill them with bundles of fresh flowers and offer them at cost.
The goal was to get people into the shop. For too long, Welcome Floral had survived on deliveries to area residents. That would always be our core business, but to expand, we needed foot traffic.
When John Doe drove home from work, we wanted him to stop here and grab a bundle for his wife, Jane, who’d had a long week. We wanted Jane to then come in and shop for a birthday gift for her mother.
Over the past month, we’d rearranged the shop. The tables had a better configuration to showcase not only the floral arrangements, but also the houseplants and knickknacks and gifts. The shabby-chic style had been toned down, the clutter cleared and the lights brightened to give the shop a clean and open look.
It still had charm and character. But individual pieces were given space so they could breathe. The layout didn’t overwhelm the eye, but showcased items so customers could appreciate the beauty of a clay planter or a lawn ornament or a succulent terrarium.
The door dinged, and when I made a move to stand, Marty held up a hand. “Sit. I’ve got the shop.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at his back as he disappeared from the workroom. Then I rubbed my belly. I might have gone too far with lunch. I was stretched tight. “Ready?”
Brody inched closer, putting both hands on my rounded stomach. After every meal, the baby would kick for a few minutes, sometimes longer. Brody was on a mission to feel as many as he could.
The black-and-white-striped tank top I’d worn this morning stretched tight across my abdomen. I’d finally had to give in and buy maternity jeans. Today I’d rolled up a dove-gray sweater and knotted it at my ribs, over the bump.
Brody and I were color coordinated today, him in a light-gray suit. He’d even traded his normal dress shoes for sneakers. They were new and perfectly white, but they were casual. And he’d left his normal tie at home.
“Come on, little one,” I whispered. “Kick Daddy for wanting to name you Adler and Courtland.”
Brody laughed and leaned in to kiss my forehead. “You’re such a smart-ass.”
“You like it.”
“You’re right.” He put his forehead to mine and we both waited, our breaths held, until one tiny baby foot slammed into Brody’s palm. “That never gets old.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“I’ve got to get back to work.”
I’d see him in hours, but I always hated to watch him walk away. “I know.”
I was so in love with him.
The realization had snuck up on me this morning when he’d curled his strong, tall body around mine. He’d held me and I’d realized that the soul-deep loneliness I’d felt for years had truly vanished. Not even Clara’s hugs or August’s cheek smooches had chased it completely away.
Only Brody.
And our baby.
I loved him, more than I’d ever known it was possible to love another person.
Soon, I’d find a way to say the words. But in this moment, as the three of us huddled togeth
er in a bubble away from the real world, I closed my eyes and savored the moment. The peace.
The bubble popped before I was ready.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Marty poked his head into the room. He was grinning from ear to ear. “We’ve got some guests. Friends. I’d like you to meet them.”
“I better get back to work anyway.” Brody lifted his hands and framed my face. Then he dropped a soft kiss to my lips. “Don’t work too hard.”
“I won’t.” I slid off my stool and took his hand. “Will you take a plant with you? We got the coolest snake plant in this morning and I decided to steal it for the entryway.”
“There are already seven pots in the entryway.”
“Your point?”
He fought a smile, then looked to Marty. “Don’t let her lift anything heavy. Yesterday, I caught her trying to move a—what kind of plant was that?”
“A fiddle-leaf fig tree.”
“A tree. She was trying to move a tree.”
“It wasn’t heavy.”
Brody’s expression flattened. “Ask Marty for help.”
“She won’t have to,” Marty declared. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”
“Good.” Brody took my hand and together we followed Marty into the shop. The easy grin on his face faltered and his feet skidded to a halt when he spotted the older couple inspecting the shop.
“Ned. Stephanie. I’d like you to meet Aria Saint-James.” Marty introduced me to the couple. “Aria, Ned and Stephanie Backer. Former owners of Welcome Floral.”
“Oh.” I stood a little taller and extended a hand. “Hello. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Because Brody had bought the shop from them, I’d never known their first names. Marty didn’t talk about them much, but when he had, he’d referred to them as the Backers. Never Ned and Stephanie.
“You too.” Ned took my hand, shaking it with gusto. “It’s just a pleasure.”