“Don’t worry about it.”
I wasn’t mad. I was kind of impressed, but it didn’t seem appropriate to admit it. Bridget Décarie was a perfect mix of brilliance, wickedness and charm. It was a combination that made me want to kiss her and whack her in equal measure.
61. OLD TIMES
Ryan
Finalising our partnership with Tiger Malone was a welcome distraction from the wedding planning from hell. Adam and I weren’t keen on taking Tiger up on his offer of celebrating. He had money in his pocket now, which meant his whiskey would be cleaner and his stories would be dirtier.
We kept it professional and arranged to meet at the club to discuss the upcoming renovations with him. Adam bounded up the steps. “I can’t stay long,” he said, handing me the latest round of blueprints he’d had drawn up.
“It’s after five.” I double-checked the time. “You’re not seriously going back to the office?”
“No,” he replied. “Bridget starts a new dance class tonight. I promised I’d be there.”
The mention of dance classes reminded me of an earlier conversation with the squealers. “Ivy said she’d quit.”
“Yeah, that class didn’t work out.” Adam grimaced. “Charlotte enrolled her in a different one.”
I didn’t ask why because I didn’t care. Bridget had Animal issues. Attending the same dance class as Malibu was begging for trouble.
“We’ll give Tiger ten more minutes,” I said, checking my watch again. “He was supposed to be here.”
The club took on a new feel when the crusty old owner was absent. I’d never admit it, but it was almost as if something was missing. Adam took an opposite view. It was hard to get anything done while Tiger was around. He appreciated being able to walk around and explore without the distraction of cigar smoke and dirty stories.
Exploring didn’t last long. Tiger shuffled through the front doors a few minutes later with Earl in tow. “Am I late?” he asked, looking surprised.
“No, you’re fine, Tiger.” Adam made his way to the door. “But I’ve got to go. Ryan can bring you up to speed. The builders start next week.”
“Stay a while.” The old man held up a bottle of whiskey in a bid to tempt him. “We’ll celebrate.”
Adam shook his head. “I can’t, Tiger. I’ve got a date with my little girl.”
“I respect that,” he replied, throwing a wily grin my way. “I’d leave too if I had somewhere better to be.”
***
It didn’t take long to work out that Tiger Malone wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing details of the renovations. Earl was even less interested. He sat on the dusty old chair near the stairs and promptly fell asleep. The lack of enthusiasm annoyed me but I forged ahead, explaining how the tin ceiling in the main room needed to be sandblasted. “It’ll be messy, so you’ll have to stay out of there until it’s done,” I instructed.
I wasn’t sure that he heard me. He was too busy prodding Earl with his walking stick. “Wake up,” he ordered. “We’ve got whiskey to drink.”
Staying here when I could’ve been at home with Bente was nonsensical. I was done. “Well, gentlemen,” I announced, “I’m out of here.” I gathered the plans and headed for the door. Tiger called out to me, just as I knew he would.
“See that hole in the wall?” He pointed to the left of the door. “Do you think that’ll get fixed?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Everything will be fixed.”
“It was a poker game gone bad.” He pointed at the wall again. “Harry Taylor was a dirty cheat.” I looked at the damaged wall, now realising it was a head-sized hole. “He was caught marking the cards,” explained Tiger. “We asked him to leave.”
“Head first,” added Earl, suddenly wide awake.
Both men dissolved into rumbly chuckles. “What year was that, Earl?” Tiger asked, barely composing himself enough to speak.
Earl didn’t even need to think. “’73.”
Tiger turned to me. “We haven’t seen him since.”
I refused to put too much thought into it. If I allowed my mind to wander too far, I would start wondering if anyone had seen Harry Taylor since 1973.
“We’ll fix it up,” I muttered.
“All the stories will disappear, kid,” called Tiger.
I dropped my grip on the door handle and turned back. “Are you worried about that?”
The old man’s posture crumpled. “My mind isn’t so good any more,” he replied. “If I didn’t have the hole in the wall to remind me, I might forget the story.”
It wasn’t just Harry Taylor’s head hole that reminded Tiger of old times. Every dirty glass, poker chip and feather boa was a visual reminder for him. Perhaps that’s why he’d fought for so long to hang on to them.
“Leave it with me, okay?” I asked.
He nodded stiffly. “You got it, kid.”
62. BUCKET FULL OF HOPE
Bente
It had been a good few weeks since Ryan had been an inconsiderate jerk, but I was still shocked when he called to tell me he’d be late home after his meeting at the club. “Something’s come up,” he said vaguely. “I shouldn’t be late.” He could’ve arrived at dawn and I wouldn’t have minded. For the first time ever, he’d thought to call me. I didn’t have to wait until dawn. Ryan arrived home just before eight.
Walking into the apartment after a long day didn’t bring either of us much joy these days. The place looked like a bomb had hit. Ivy’s dressmaking clutter had multiplied over the past week. She’d temporarily abandoned my dress and moved onto creating the bridesmaid’s dresses. There were now three little dummies keeping Dora company in the living room.
Ryan had been a trooper, never once complaining, but it wasn’t hard to tell it grated on him. He never usually paid the dummies any attention, but tonight they caught his eye. He walked over to get a better look.
My only input had been choosing the colour. The idea in my head was much simpler than the actual works in progress. Pretty, simple, age-appropriate burgundy dresses were what I wanted. Ivy stuck to my vision for as long as it took her to sew them. Then the glue gun came out.
“Do you like them?” asked Ryan. I chewed my lip while I deliberated. “You don’t,” he concluded. “I can tell.”
“I’m trying to pick my battles, Ry.” I tweaked one of the dresses. “They’re just dresses.”
It wasn’t just Ivy I had to contend with. After seeing Ivy’s pageant room, Fiona had developed a penchant for glitter. She thought the creations were beautiful, and they were. They just weren’t what I wanted for my wedding.
Ryan picked up the hem of Fabergé’s dress, feeling the weight of it. “The dresses are heavier than the girls.”
I pulled him away. “Forget the dresses,” I ordered. “Tell me where you’ve been.”
I forced him onto the couch and flopped down beside him. He looked worried. “I called you, Bente. Are you still mad at me?”
“No,” I assured, amused by the terror I’d incited. “I’m just trying to shift the topic away from the wedding.”
Ryan relaxed and loosened his tie. I went a step further and dragged it off his neck. “I caught up with an old friend of mine,” he explained. “I wanted to run an idea past him.”
“Anything you’d like to share?” I twisted the top button of his shirt undone.
“I saw Tiger today,” he began. “The man has fifty years of memories invested in a place that we’re preparing to tear up.”
His tone led me to think he was having second thoughts. I tried to reassure him that the renovations would only improve the place. “He’ll love seeing it look so amazing again.”
“He’s worried that he’ll forget how it used to be,” he said pensively. “But I might have solved that problem. I thought maybe you could spend a bit of time with him. Just listen to him and write his story. One of these days, Tiger will be gone and the history of the place will go with him.”
I felt the sudden ur
ge to kiss him to within an inch of his life, but I needed him alive so I kept it short and sweet with a quick peck on the lips. Ryan had other ideas. He pushed me back into the cushion, covering my body with his. “Don’t start what you’re not prepared to finish, Miss Denison,” he murmured.
It was a blissful position I could’ve held all night, with a few minor adjustments, but I wasn’t quite done with the conversation. I held his face in my hands, keeping him at bay while I questioned him. “Do you want me to write a book for him?”
“Not exactly.” The corner of his mouth lifted forming a handsome crooked smile. “I contacted a guy I know. He’s an editor at The Manhattan Tribune.”
I wasn’t feeling amorous any more. He’d just doused me with a bucket full of hope. I was back to being ambitious and desperate for employment. I wriggled beneath him, trying to force him to sitting position. Thankfully, he helped me out and moved. “You know someone at The Tribune?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed.
“How?”
“We went to school together,” he replied casually. “We were ballroom dancing partners.” He winked at me, making me smile. “I asked him if he’d consider pulling a few strings and running a story on the club as the renovations progress – sort of a riches-to-rags-to-riches story. Tiger would get a kick out of it, and the publicity would be good for us.”
“It would be huge,” I agreed.
“I also asked him if he’d be interested in letting a gorgeous up-and-coming young journalist write the article.”
“Me?” I asked with wide eyes and a tiny voice.
“No sweetheart, some other gorgeous journalist I know.”
“And he said yes?”
Ryan nodded. “If it’s good, he’ll run it. That’s the best he could promise.”
Unable to contain my excitement, I threw my arms around him and forced him back into the cushions “All I want is a chance,” I choked. “I won’t let you down.”
“You’ve never let me down.”
“I wished for this, Ry.”
“No, you worked for this,” he corrected. “Don’t downplay it.”
“No, you don’t understand. I actually did wish for it. I spent the afternoon with Bridget.”
Ryan wasn’t interested in hearing how his niece had caught an autumn wish for me until I got to the part about wearing a mud mask and leafy ears. He laughed so hard his body trembled. I had to grip a handful of shirt to steady myself. “She’s so crooked,” he told me. “She got you good.”
“I don’t even care,” I replied. “It worked. My wish came true.”
He put his hand behind my head, pulling my face to his. “A good day all round then.”
“Exceptional,” I agreed, kissing him. “Oh – and I quit Billet-doux.”
If Ryan was curious as to why, it didn’t show. He’d lost interest in chatting. We hardly said another word for the rest of the night.
63. HARSH REALITY
Ryan
The next few days were extremely busy, which suited me fine. Anything that kept me out of the wedding loop was welcome. It wasn’t as if I was being excluded – my mother tried hard to keep me up to date on the decisions via daily phone calls. The subject today was wedding cakes.
“You must have an opinion, Ryan,” she complained, annoyed by my indifference. “Traditional fruit cake or a more modern sponge?”
I chose fruitcake, possibly because I knew a few.
“Wonderful, darling! That was Bente’s choice too.”
I doubt she got there on her own, but questioning Mom would’ve taken time, and I was done discussing cake. I had a mountain of work and an antsy four-year-old to occupy.
I knew we weren’t going to make it to the park before I’d even picked Bridget up, but held off telling her until we got to my apartment.
“Why do we have to stay in today?” she asked, trudging through the front door. “It’s not too cold.”
“I’m busy, Bridge. I’ve got heaps of work to do.” I pointed to the mass of club-related documents on the kitchen counter.
“What am I going to do?”
“Well,” I picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV, “you can watch your movie, or play with your girls.”
“I don’t want to, Ry.”
I didn’t often take a hard line where Bridget was concerned, but it probably wasn’t going to kill her if I did.
“I don’t really care, Bridget,” I replied indifferently. “I’m busy today so you’re just going to have to make do.”
“But I don’t want to.” Her sad little voice was one of her most dangerous weapons. I instantly felt like a jerk.
Bridget didn’t look at me when I scooped her up. Her focus was on twisting the top button of my shirt. “Please can we go to the park?”
I lowered her onto the couch. “Watch a movie or play quietly for a while,” I instructed. “When I’m done, we’ll go to the park.”
Bridget wasn’t pleased, but agreed. I switched on the redheaded mermaid and left her to it.
My niece’s idea of playing quietly differed from mine. For once the movie wasn’t holding her interest. I sat at the counter trying to ignore the squeals that accompanied her bouncing until I could take it no more. I looked up, preparing to growl. The instant I saw her, I realised she didn’t need reprimanding. She needed an intervention. The four-year-old daredevil was standing on the back of the couch, gearing up to launch herself onto a pile of cushions she’d set up on the floor.
“Stop!” I yelled, leaping off the stool to grab her.
I caught her mid-flight. I couldn’t be sure if I’d spoken too late or if she’d defied me. Either way I was livid.
Bridget Décarie was fearless, and it was dangerous. And on days like today, I couldn’t handle it. I lowered her to the floor. “You’re going to really hurt yourself. Stop this stupid jumping.”
Her bottom lip quivered. I was so angry that I managed to ignore it.
“I was just flying,” she whimpered.
I cleared a space and sat her on the kitchen counter. “Listen to me, Bridget,” I began. “Birds fly. Aeroplanes fly. You don’t fly.”
“Butterflies fly.”
“They do, but you’re not a butterfly.”
“Some fairy girls fly, Ry.”
I couldn’t stop the low groan that escaped me, nor did I try. “You need to stop this nonsense,” I ordered. “Your mama is filling your head with silly stories that endanger your well-being.”
She shook her head. She had no clue what I’d said. In a moment of pure frustration, I brutally broke it down for her. “None of it is real, Bridget. You’re a flesh and blood girl – totally breakable.”
“I might do it right one day.”
“No little girl on earth can fly, no matter how many times she practises. If your mother was more honest with you, she’d tell you the same thing. Flying girls don’t exist. Fairies are not real and magic doesn’t happen.”
I watched as my words speared through her. It started with a confused look and ended in a flood of tears.
I couldn’t apologise for anything I’d said. The way I saw it, telling her the truth was the only hope I had of keeping her safe.
“No magic?” she whimpered.
“None.” I imagine my expression of pity still had a tinge of anger to it. “There’s no such thing.”
Bridget threw out her little hands. “What do we have then, Ryan?”
She’d stumped me. I had no idea how to answer, and judging by the way she’d used my full name her question was deadly serious. “We have reality, Bridget.” It was a miserable explanation to give a four-year-old, but it was truly the best I could come up with. “Try living in the real world.”
***
I had a guilty heart, and the only way I could think to ease the wretchedness was to give in and take the kid to the park. Thankfully Bridget was a forgiving soul. She headed to the playground, squealing just as gleefully as she usually did at the sight of swings and sl
ides. I hung back on the edge of the play area, keeping half an eye on her while I caught up on the emails that I should’ve been dealing with from home. “Watch me, Ry!” Bridget ordered.
I alternated glances between her and the screen on my phone. “I’m watching, sweetheart,” I assured. “Don’t climb any higher.”
She was hanging off a climbing frame, upside down because that was Bridget’s thing. Assuming she’d do as she was told was a mistake. The next time I looked across she’d climbed higher.
I trudged through the sand to rescue the kid who didn’t need rescuing.
“How about you climb something a little less impressive,” I suggested, peeling her off the frame. Bridget didn’t argue. I lowered her to her feet and she took off to find her next conquest. I walked back to the edge of the sand and went back to checking my emails.
“Watch me, Ry!” ordered the very familiar little voice.
“I’m watching,” I told her, barely casting a glance her way. The same conversation happened a few more times. I was too engrossed to notice that she’d hightailed it back to the climbing frame.
It wasn’t her demanding little voice that alerted me. It was the horrible thud of something hitting the sand. My head whipped up, quickly realising the thud was Bridget.
Everything moved in slow motion after that. I barely touched the ground as I ran, but it seemed to take forever to reach her. I wasn’t even first on the scene. By the time I came to a halt and dropped to my knees, a woman was already tending to her.
My tiny niece was out cold. I’d never seen anything more horrifying in all my life. “Oh Jesus!” I dug my hand between her and the sand, trying to lift her.
“You mustn’t move her,” ordered the woman, holding me back with a hand to my chest. “What’s her name?”
“Bridget,” I choked. “Please, please, please…”
The woman stroked her hair, calling her name as if she was trying to coax her out of an afternoon nap. It wasn’t working. Nothing was happening and I was close to losing my mind.