The write way for love, p.23
The Write Way for Love, page 23
Sam’s hand darted out, gripping her wrist lightly. “Anita, you can’t.”
“You can’t stop me, Sam. You have your life and I have mine. Our paths crossed for a reason, and as much as I want to stay …” Her voice trailed off.
“But–”
“No, Sam.” Anita’s voice held a raw crispness he’d never heard before. It was the furthest thing from her chest-fluttering laughter, hitting his heart all the same. “I don’t think we should do whatever this is.” She motioned between them. “It was amazing. Truly. But it’s not what you need anymore.” She wrenched her wrist free; his hand felt ice cold without her heat. “Goodbye, Sam. I can’t wait to read your Heat sequel. You know the library is always … my first stop in … a new town.” Voice breaking, she turned away.
Bile rose in his throat as Anita walked off towards the circus. Sam watched her, utterly speechless, brain boiling over with millions of tiny bubbles of doubt, worry, longing, hurt.
“Anita!” he called. But the spell was broken. She didn’t linger. The charm had worn off. “Witch!”
She kept moving, disappearing beyond a cotton candy stand. Sam’s head hit the steering wheel, spectacles slipping to his lap.
“Shit.”
“So, how is the manuscript coming along?” Grandma Edith nudged her grandson as Eddie handed her three clean plates. Well accustomed to each other’s rhythms and movements, the elderly couple moved in complete sync, as though in a slow dance around the kitchen. It was a dance of familiarity and love, of tiny touches, small smiles and brushed elbows as they circled each other in their dinner preparations, with a surprising amount of grace for their age.
This is the relationship I want. Sam watched the aged lovers tenderly before the wayward thought sunk in to hit bone. Relationship he wanted? He’d never really thought about relationships and their longevity in a kitchen before. The weekend with Anita had muddled his head. Relationships were for stayers. No one wanted to stay with him. Everyone left, eventually. Even Grandma Edith would one day be gone. The realisation hung heavy in his chest as he looked at her. Maybe, he consented to the idea, maybe I do have abandonment issues.
“So?”
“Sorry, Gran, I wasn’t really listening. What did you say?”
“Listening and hearing are different, you know.” She flicked his earlobe lovingly. Sam wondered if the women in his life had always been so pedantic about semantics. Listening, hearing. Seeing, feeling. Writing, creating on-page sizzle, then real-life fizzle.
“How’s the new book coming, Sammie?” Gran repeated, raising an eyebrow and her voice. “Managed to write that erotic scene –”
“SSSHHH!” Sam blushed, his eyes swinging to Eddie.
“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Edith swatted a hand towards her partner. “He’s as deaf as a bat.”
“Ay?” Eddie turned to her voice. “What did you say?”
Raising her voice, she touched his arm gently. “Nothing, dear, just talking to Sam about his sex book!”
“Oh, righto!” Eddie turned back to washing potatoes in the sink, humming softly to himself.
Edith winked. “See?”
Sam – practically a puddle on the floor by this stage – didn’t want to mention that while Eddie did have large, pointed yet unhearing ears, bats had sensitive hearing that relied on ultrasonic echolocation, so that metaphor didn’t stick. He remembered this vividly. It had been his year three science project and the reason his father had forcefully, repeatedly, clapped his hands to Sam’s ears every time the word ‘bat’ had been spoken. Headaches for days and throbbing eardrums hadn’t stopped Sam from winning a first-place ribbon, which had been carefully smuggled into his pillowcase for several months.
“Tell me all about it, Sammie Hart. Is this new book as fantastic as the last one?” Gran’s hand rested gently on his arm.
Sammie Hart. Every time he heard that name a secretive swell of pride filled his chest. “Much better than it was a week ago,” he admitted, adjusting his spectacles. “I knew it wasn’t my best work, but I didn’t know how off it really was until Anita started ripping it to shreds.”
“Ah, she has a name!” Gran beamed at his blush. “This Anita, your muse … she’s been helpful, then?”
Sam didn’t appreciate the grin that teased the crinkles of his grandmother’s face.
“Actually, yes. Her opinions cut deeper than Japanese steel through a salmon steak, but she makes annoyingly valid criticisms.”
“She must be whipping you into shape.” His grandmother winked. “You’re back describing the world through a lens of food.”
“I am?”
She nodded, grinning. “Aside from in your writing, you haven’t been in that mindset for a while now, dear. Your MasterChef mind fell flatter than my flans.” Her dentures gleamed as she motioned to her sagging breasts.
Nothing is sacred to the elderly. The Knights assembled in his mind as Gran continued.
“You lost that spark, dear. But I’m glad you’re reigniting the furnace, so to speak.”
The blush consumed him quickly, his spectacles nearly fogging.
“You know, Sam, I support you in everything you do. But I worry.” Edith perched delicately beside him. “I worry about your heart, Sammie. You open up on paper but close yourself off in the real world.”
“Yeah, well, fiction is easy.” Sam shrugged. “In reality, it’s hard to find someone who wants to stick around like a romantic protagonist would.”
“I understand. A good character will live in your heart forever, like Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy for me. Tall, dark, handsome and in the social elite. He was every girl’s dream. But the reality of a warm bedfellow is so much more than that.”
Sam’s thoughts shifted again to Anita. A warm bedfellow indeed. So hot she was scorching, the witch was the most tantalising spice he could have added to his life.
“Time is all relative,” Edith continued, cloudy eyes flicking to Eddie, happily slicing vegetables at the bench. “There’s not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for giving me a second chance, and more time for love. I truly believed I was done, then I met Eddie …”
Tears clouded her eyes, and she cleared her throat harshly. Eddie looked to her, a small nod of acknowledgement directed her way. He might not be able to hear their conversation, but he seemed acutely aware of each emotion beneath her weathered skin. The way Gran lit up when she nodded back at Eddie clenched Sam’s heart.
Yes, this is what I want …
“Make the most of your time together,” Gran advised. “And if you want more time with the circus woman – make it happen! If you want a book, then only you can write it. You have to decide how to invest in the dream, dear.”
“It’s not that easy, Gran.” Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Since when had Monday night dinner become a lecture on love and literature?
“Bullshit.” Her sudden expletive shocked him. “It’s as easy or as difficult as you decide to make it, Samuel James Harthrup.”
Eddie interrupted her impending tirade with two ridiculously full glasses of shiraz.
“Oh, thank you dear.” Edith’s eyes brimmed once more as she sipped the red wine. Eddie collected his own extremely full glass before shuffling carefully to the sofa, just a few feet from the kitchen. Open plan living had its benefits, especially when those included a wrinkled, shiraz-providing interruption that was usually only a few feet away.
“So, Sam,” Eddie said, slumping into the couch with a sigh. “Managed to write that sex scene yet?” So much for being deaf!
Time dragged on uncomfortably as Sam outlined his novel to Edith and Eddie, garnering feedback from his grandmother and her long-time boyfriend. He let them read sections of the manuscript, nibbling his thumbnail.
“Son, this is wonderful,” Eddie encouraged, handwritten papers in one hand and the other gripping Sam’s shoulder, shaking it gently. “Really good.”
“You mean it?” It was a relief, really. People knowing about him – Sammie Hart – and his work.
Edith chuckled, another chunk of paperwork in her hands. “It’s funny! Poignant and deliciously described.” Her milky eyes met his. “You need to thank that fortune teller. She’s certainly worked some kind of spell over you.” She shook the paper. “This story is nothing like the, uh–”
“Kindling?” Sam suggested, borrowing Anita’s word.
“Well, I wouldn’t quite say that. But this is more sizzle, for sure!”
“Keep this muse around, son,” Eddie advised, his voice loud as he emptied a second bottle of wine between their three glasses. “To Miss Fortuna.” Eddie raised his glass.
“To the witch,” Sam begrudgingly agreed.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Reece: I’m here.
Sam rose, opening Gran’s door. The tall doctor beamed from the front step, a huge bunch of flowers before him.
“NANNA EDITH!” Reece Hargraves grinned, swooping in to scoop Sam’s grandma into his arms.
“Why, Doctor Reece Hargraves, I never! It’s nearly midnight! Way too late for house calls!”
“It is?” Eddie yawned, checking his absent watch, tapping his bare wrist lightly.
“It’s never too late to call on you,” Reece said flirtatiously.
Gran’s cheeks reddened and she swatted his arm lightly before accepting the bouquet. Heading into the kitchen, she replaced Reece’s flowers from a fortnight ago. The vase – a chunky, handmade clay monstrosity Sam’s seven-year-old self had lovingly crafted for Mother’s Day – almost brought a smile to Sam’s lips. Almost.
“I just got off work,” Reece apologised, checking the time on his phone. “Had to do a few hours at the hospital, covering another doctor. I knew Eddie was cooking tonight, so that meant wine.” He slung his arm around Sam’s neck, ruffling his hair and dislodging his glasses. “That usually means this dweeb is too sloshed to drive. So here I am, the sexiest taxi service in Moonshine.”
“Oh, you!” Gran tittered.
“You know, you ALL should be limiting your liquor …” A cool draught blew in through the open door as Reece assumed his stern doctor’s tone. Sam shot a pleading look at his friend. Please don’t ...
Edith hadn’t known the depth of Sam’s depression, and the extent of his drinking issues. Reece’s appraising gaze took Sam in, his strong jaw dipping in an almost imperceptible nod. Sam’s stiff body relaxed a little, knowing he wasn’t about to receive another lecture tonight. He began collecting his papers, preparing to leave. “And it’s bedtime for the old ducks.”
“Who fucks?” Eddie asked the room.
“Ducks, Mister Hogan,” Reece said, his voice loud and clear.
“Oh bother. Here I was thinking I’d get lucky tonight,” Eddie mumbled loudly into his wine glass, his eyelids drooping.
“Oh my God,” Sam grumbled, patting the old man on the shoulder, startling him from his shockingly quick slip into sleep. “Good night, Eddie. Thanks for the steak.”
Eddie raised his glass, eyes already drooping once more.
Sam brought an arm around his grandmother. “Night, Gran.”
“It was a good night.” She leant into Sam’s awkward hug. “See you next Monday. I look forward to the next instalment of your story.”
“Bye, Nanna! Pops!” Reece called from the doorway, blowing kisses that Edith readily caught. Eddie snored lightly, glass dipping in his slackened grip.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Reece turned on his heel to face Sam. “Drink?”
“Shit yeah, if the Doctor’s buying.”
Reece rolled his eyes. “As always. But only if we go out.” Clicking the button on his BMW, they watched the lights illuminate the retirement village. “I need to get out of my house and my head. And I’m only letting you drink in social situations.”
“No complaints here.” Sam slid onto the pristine leather seats, tucking his manuscript safely into the pouch behind the passenger’s seat.
“And I think we need to talk about your little impromptu beach getaway …” Reece waggled his eyebrows, and it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes, cheeks already burning.
“Pretty sure I’ve done enough talking tonight.” Sam poked a thumb over his shoulder, to Gran’s front door. “How about I listen to you rattle on about coronaries, infections, and snotty kids with hot mums instead?”
The car rumbled to life as Reece laughed. “To The Pope?”
“Let’s go to church, my friend!”
“You spiked my drink!” Sam slurred, sunlight streaming in the suddenly wide-flung curtain.
“No, I asked for your permission. Every time, in fact. And at each request you donned your horned helmet, raised the mighty Mjolnir and declared ‘indeed!’ to the whole bar. Ask anyone! They’ll vouch for me,” Reece countered, cracking an egg into the frying pan with a loud sizzle.
“Where’s the helmet?”
Reece shrugged. “I think Adam James stole it. Last I saw, he was chugging beer from it while a bunch of women chanted his name.”
Moaning, Sam attempted to sit up.
“I’m glad your breakups are so few and far between, or else I’d worry about your liver even more than usual.” Reece thrust a tall glass of water at Sam while the bacon and eggs sizzled merrily away, filling the flat with a stomach-flipping scent. “Scratch that; the doctor in me definitely does worry about your liver, but the BFF side totally loved seeing you let your hair down, bro. And in public! Will wonders never cease?”
“Where’s Mjolnir?” Sam’s eyes scanned the flat. His clean flat. Anita was everywhere. In his head and in his neatly stacked piles of laundry. “I really want to hit something.”
Reece squinted an eye as he, too, examined the flat. “You left Mjolnir at the pub, with your pride.”
Sam groaned, burying his face in the sofa seat. A terrible idea. The couch smelled like fart.
“My tummy hurts, doc.”
“Good. You ingested so much lactose last night.” Reece pointed tongs at him accusingly. A glob of fat dripped to the floor. “You deserve whatever you get after torturing yourself so creatively.”
“Does the doc have a sore head of his own today?” I’d wager, yes. Sam’s BFF gingerly joined him at the table, dark hair spiking between his fingers.
“I’m only sore from your singing at karaoke, man. Pitched like a cat in heat, you are.”
Vomit. He should go vomit. Or simply die. Can you die from pure mortification?
“I did not do karaoke.” Sam’s voice lacking the authority needed.
“Did too. Billy Carmichael did not appreciate your rendition of Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off.”
“I sang at The Pope?”
“On the bar.” Reece grinned as Sam’s mouth fell. “Pretty sure you’re banned for life now. Billy was not a happy man.” Shuffling towards the stove, Reece flipped bacon then pushed the pre-loaded toaster sleeves down. “You –” a spatula pointed towards Sam, “– shower. Breakfast in five.”
The thought of a cold shower, to temper the heat of his embarrassment, was enticing. But a small knock turned him from the idea, his heart leaping into his chest. Anita. He raced to the door, flinging it open.
“Ani–”
Sam had expected his constant daydream. His beautiful bohemian. The witch. For an instant, he imagined her five-foot-nothing curves, crazy curls and flowing skirts filling the doorframe.
A gruff voice lamented, “Not quite.”
Sam hadn’t expected this – a solid mass of cross-armed clown, make-up cracked and smeared, a serious expression on his face and something dark clutched in his hand.
“I’m Claus. We haven’t met, not official like. You the townie project?”
Sam gulped, nodding, despite the sloshing wave of pain it sent through his skull.
“But she’s not here,” Sam said, the words catching in his throat. “She … left.” Me. She left me.
The clown’s hard, air-chopping finger cut him off. “Mate, I ain’t here te bust yer balls about what yer been doin’ or not doin’ with Miss Anita. She needs yer.” The clown held out his hand. A soft wave of lavender scent rose up. “There ain’t no excuses for this sorta misbehavin’. There’s a line in the sand, townie, an’ he’s crossed it.”
Sam took the offering, drawing it closer, brows furrowed. What the …? He knew this softness, had curled his fingers through it before. This darkness, and its lavender-and-vanilla scent – Anita’s hair! Horror washed over him, cold as ice down his spine, and realisation struck. Revulsion sent bile soaring into his throat. Throwing the severed ponytail to the ground, Sam stared down, his hands shaking.
“He cut it,” Sam heard Claus say, fury riding high in his voice. “He cut it off, took ‘er dignity, like he did when they was just kids. Made ‘er sit there an’ got the scissors round ‘er pony-tail–”
“Shit! Shit, shit! That FUCKING BASTARD!”
White hot rage blinded Sam. Swaying on his feet, he lost all sense of self. Imagination running wild, he blinked back tears of pity, sorrow, and hatred. The diamond-painted eyes of the circus clown came closer, the man holding Sam steady.
“Who are you?” Reece appeared protectively beside Sam, eyes flashing between the men, cutting to the dark mass both men glared at, lying beside their feet. “And why is there a chunk of hair on the stoop?”
“We need to do something!” Sam spun to Reece. “Grab your keys. We’re going.” He moved to push past Claus.
“Hold up, townie.” Claus thrust a weathered hand to Sam’s chest, pushing him back. “We agree, completely. Somethin’ needs doin’. But we’ll need a plan fer Adrian, or there’ll be trouble fer sure.”
“Who is we? What the hell is going on?” Reece demanded.
Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Is she safe? Please tell me she’s safe, at least.”
“We got ‘er stashed ‘way.” Claus nodded briskly. “Keepin’ ‘er out of ‘is way as best we can do.” The clown’s painted face contorted. “Circus is a family.” He barked a laugh. “But sometimes blood’s too thick fer its own good.”
