But I ignored the whispers, the questions, the confused glances and shocked stares. My eyes were fixed on Beth, laying quietly in Sarah’s arms, her small hands pulling at the fabric of a delicately embroidered Christening robe.
And then I saw the one person I didn’t want to see, my eyes unconsciously seeking him out.
Seth was standing next to Sarah, his face schooled into blankness. But I recognized the myriad of emotions in his beautiful eyes. The eyes that I saw when I looked at his sister, and in my daughter’s face.
My heart lurched and I had to look away.
Six weeks wasn’t long enough to forgive or forget. Maybe in time.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
I walked up to the front of the church, ignoring the increasing volume of murmured questions. I stood in front of Sarah, staring down at my daughter, need and want and fear swirling inside me.
Then Sarah simply placed Beth into my open arms, and for a second, her eyes met mine.
I was mesmerized, bewitched by my beautiful child. She was heavier, and her blonde hair had turned from wispy baby hair to a fine clutch of tiny golden ringlets.
“You’ve grown so big, princesa,” I whispered, gently kissing her head.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Sarah said quietly.
“You hoped I wouldn’t?” I asked sharply, glancing up.
“No, I just thought you wouldn’t be able to get away. I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”
“You know nothing about me,” I said, my voice low and hard.
She blinked and looked away nervously, relaxing slightly when Seth put his arm around her.
I took a deep breath to calm my sudden anger. I didn’t want to fight with her, not today. I had to remind myself that she wasn’t the enemy.
Beth blinked up at me, her face creasing with confusion, and then I swear my heart stopped: she smiled at me.
My throat closed, and the well of emotion that I’d tried to ignore flooded through me.
“I’ve missed you so much.”
The vicar seemed nonplussed by our arrival, but was gamely trying to go with the flow.
“Welcome, all of you!” he said, smiling widely. “I take it you’re part of the Christening party?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Beth’s father and they’re all godparents.”
He blinked several times.
“All of them?”
“Yes. And my grandmother.”
The priest cleared his throat, looking doubtfully at the suddenly long line of godfathers and godmothers.
“Perhaps we should just have a quick chat. Would you all follow me to the vestry?”
We trooped after him while the congregation pointed and muttered.
The vestry turned out to be a small room at the side of the church where the priest kept his ceremonial robes.
There were only two chairs, which were offered to babica and Mrs. Lintort.
“Well, this is a nice surprise, I must say. I’m Reverend Peter. Welcome to St. Ambrose. There are just a couple of formalities before we continue. Are you all in good faith? Are you all baptized?”
“Yes,” I lied, wondering if God would strike me down for lying to a priest.
“Lovely,” he said with a booming laugh. “The more the merrier.”
I glanced at Sarah, but she didn’t say anything.
“Well, I just need a moment to take everyone’s names,” and he moved down the line, struggling with some of the spellings.
Sarah and Laney were talking together quietly. Sarah seemed a little strained, her smile not quite real, but Laney had a way of making everyone feel comfortable.
Except for Yveta. She stood at the back of the group, her arms crossed as she stared at Sarah coldly. I knew that she respected her as a dancer, but they’d never been close. Yveta had always found Sarah’s goofiness annoying and a little trivial.
Things were different now. I knew I shouldn’t want my friends to take sides, but I did. They’d all proved that they had my back, but they’d been Sarah’s friends, too.
I think she was as happy as I was to see everyone at our daughter’s Christening.
I let them catch up without intruding.
With Beth in my arms, nothing else mattered.
She yawned, her toothless mouth pink and perfect, her eyes sleepy.
“Never forget that Daddy loves you, princesa. Always and forever.”
I glanced up to see Sarah watching us. She was so much calmer than when we’d been together, if that’s what you could call it. I’d fight her if I had to, but I’d rather we could sort things out between us when it came to our daughter.
And I was fairly sure that if I searched through the unfamiliar faces when I went back into the main part of the church, that James would be in the congregation. But it was probably a good thing if she had someone.
Then Mrs. Lintort touched my elbow, and fondly ran her hand over Beth’s curls.
“Hello, Luka. How are you?”
“Better now,” I said honestly.
She smiled and patted my arm, then moved away to talk to Sarah’s other godparents, a couple of women I vaguely remembered meeting at Sarah’s baby shower.
The priest handed out a service sheet to each of us, with the words we needed to say printed in bold. Yveta stuffed mine into my jacket pocket as I was still holding Beth. Sarah’s eyes narrowed with interest and suspicion, but I didn’t care.
It was Seth’s gaze that I couldn’t take. I felt the weight of his presence and kept my back to him. But my skin prickled and heated. I hated that.
He came closer, and I turned around abruptly, startling him as he froze mid-step.
My voice was low and vicious.
“No.”
“Luka?”
“No,” I said again, my voice softer, more deadly as my eyes shrank to angry pinpoints. “Don’t you dare tell me that you’re sorry! You made your choice.”
He blinked several times, his face tightening as his lips pressed together. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his gaze fell to the stone floor.
“I am,” he said, the words almost soundless. “I’ll always regret . . .”
“Fuck you!” I sneered, walking away.
Those were the last words I spoke to him.
My heart thundered, and the only thing that could calm me was the smile on my daughter’s face as she blinked up at me.
Finally, we shuffled back inside, standing in that draughty old church in southwest London, at a Christening where there were three godfathers and three godmothers on my side of the font, and one godfather and two godmothers on the other side.
Sarah and I promised to love, protect and teach Beth, and all the godparents swore the same.
I wondered if Beth would be the bridge between our worlds, between her mother and her father. We had to find a way, I knew that, but it’s hard when someone has hurt you so much—and I knew that was a two-way street for me and Sarah.
Beth was so good, only squeaking once when the warm water was drizzled over her head.
“Elizabeth Patricia, I baptize you in the name of the F—”
“It’s Elizabeta,” Sarah said quietly. “Not Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry?” the vicar said, checking his notes.
“Her name is Elizabeta—written the Slovenian way . . . for her father.”
I looked across at Sarah, mute with gratitude. She gave me a small smile and nodded.
“Oh, I see!” said the vicar, frowning over the top of his glasses. “My mistake, I’m sure.”
“Elizabeta Patricia, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
I gazed up at the soaring ceiling, my heart filling with peace. Somehow, somehow we’d find a way. For her. For our daughter.
I looked at my friends, at my family, who’d flown thousands of miles to be with me at this moment . . . and for the first time in a long while, I felt blessed.
I looked at eac
h of them, flawed and imperfect, but beautiful to me.
Yveta’s hard face softened imperceptibly as she stared down at Beth, and then she looked away, because my Snow Queen didn’t like to show weakness. But I’d seen it, and she couldn’t fool me.
And if my eyes sought Seth’s, it was only for a second before I looked away.
Not everything can be mended. Not every mistake can be put right.
I’m not a good man.
I’m not a bad man.
I’ve made some bad mistakes, made the wrong choices. Who hasn’t?
But I’ll do my best, because I have a reason to do it.
PERHAPS YOU’RE WONDERING how the story ended with me and Yveta.
Yvie.
I don’t know. Maybe it didn’t end. Maybe it’s beginning.
Let’s just say things with us are . . . simple. We’re friends, yes. We’re . . . I don’t know what we are. More? Maybe.
We sleep together most nights, just sleeping, holding each other through the darkness. And maybe if we explore each other’s bodies in the slow half-light of dawn, that’s okay, too.
THE END
To Kirsten Olsen, editor, friend, guide, confidant, sharer of dreams.
To Trina Miciotta for her editing, friendship and support.
To Hang Le for her beautiful cover, her art.
To Neda Amini for those clever fingers on the pulse.
To Sheena Lumsden for her friendship, humour and support.
To Alana Albertson, friend and author, who shares my love of dancing, although can actually do it well, as well.
To BC who was a great source of backstage gossip, culled from years of touring in musicals and working in London’s West End shows. He remains unnamed to protect the guilty.
To Lea Jerancic who checked all things Slovenian for Luka.
To Dina Farndon Eidinger and Audrey Thunder—my wonderful, trusted and much-loved gals.
To Sarah Lintott for letting me shamelessly exploit her name yet again . . .
To Selma Ibrahimpasic, MJ Fryer, Lea Jerancic and Wendy Lika for similar transgressions.
To Lisa, wielder of the sword of truth who fights the pirates whenever she can.
To all the bloggers who give up their time for their passion of reading and reviewing books—thank you for your support.
Thank you Stalking Angels. You know how much you mean to me and you never let me down. All the support, all the messages, being my eyes and ears out in the growing book world while I hide in my writer’s cave.
Tonya Bass Allen, Neda Amini, Jenny Angell, Lisa Clements Baker, Nicola Barton, Jen Berg, Mary Rose Bermundo, Reyna Borderbook, Sarah Bookhooked, Megan Burgad, Kelsey Burns, Gabri Canova, L.E. Chamberlain, Tera Chastain, Elle Christopher, Beverley Cindy, Paola Cortes, Nikki Costello, Emma Darch-Harris, Megan Davis, Bea Dimacali, Jade Donaldson, Mary Dunne, Dina Farndon Eidinger, Betul Er, Jennifer Escobar, Fátima Figueira, Kelly Findlay, Andrea Flaks, Andrea Florkowski, MJ Fryer, Raquel Gamez, Evelyn Garcia, Carly Grey, Helen Remy Grey, Nycole Griffin, Sheila Hall, Dri Harada, Rose Hogg, Kim Howlett, Ciara Hunter, Sejla Ibrahimpasic Selma Ibrahimpasic, Carolin Jache, Andrea Jackson, Jayne John, Ashley Jones, Heidi Keil, Rhonda Koppenhaver, Hang Le, Wendy Lika, Sarah Lintott, Sheena Lumsden, Kathrin Magyar, Jodie Marie Maliszewski, Trina Marie, Susan Marshall, Sharon Kallenberger Marzola, Marie Mason, Bruninha Mazzali, Aime Metzner, Nancy Saunders Meyhoefer, Sharon Mills, Kandace Milostan, Ana Moraes, Shannon V Mummey, Barbara Murray, Bethany Neeper, Clare Norton, Luiza Oioli, Crystal Ordex-Hernandez, Celia Ottway, Kirsten Papi, Melissa Parnell, Ana Carina Pereira, Savanna Phillips, Cori Pitts, Vrsha Prose, Ana Kristina Rabacca, Rosarita Reader, Heather Sulzer Regina, Lisa Smith Reid, Lisa Roberts, Carol Sales, Gina Sanders, Rosa Sharon, Jacqueline Showdog, Johanna Nelson Seibert, Sofia Silva, Sarah Simone, Adele Sloan, Fuñny Souisa, Nuno Gabriel Sousa, Erin Spencer, Dana Fiore Stusse, Donna Sweeney, Lisa Sylva, Lelyana Taufik, Candy Rhyme Threatt, Audrey Thunder, Ellen Totten, Natalie Townson, Amélie White Vahlé, Tami Walker, Lily Maverick Wallis, Jo Webb, Krista Webber, Shirley Wilkinson, Emma Wynne Williams, Caroline Yamashita, Lisa G. Murray Ziegler.
And the Fanfic readers who were there from the start.
If you enjoyed LUKA, why not try more books about hot and sexy dancers . . .
In SLAVE TO THE RHYTHM, read about Ash and Laney’s story.
DANCE. Guns.
MUSIC. Bullets.
RHYTHM. Pain.
Music in my head, dance in my body, the rhythm of my heart.
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Or SHOWMANCE by LH Cosway
Damon Atwood was Hollywood’s golden boy. Having won an Oscar at the tender age of thirteen, he had the life many could only dream about. But his success came at a price, and after a short but fruitful film career, he chose to live a life of obscurity on a remote Scottish island. Almost a decade later he’s finally ready to make his return, starting with a lead role in a musical on London’s West End.
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Five minutes until curtain-up!
“LOVE ALL, TRUST a few, do wrong to none”—this is one of my favourite sayings.
I get asked where ideas come from—they come from everywhere. From walks with my dog on the beach, from listening to conversations in pubs and shops, where I lurk unnoticed with my notebook.
And of course, I love watching ballroom dancing on TV. I tried to learn Salsa once. My partner, Edwin who is mentioned in the dedication, said to me, “Stop marching and stop leading! You’re supposed to look sexy.” So I shall stick to writing about dance instead and imagine that I can do the box splits and then leap to my feet with the grace of a young gazelle. Yes, in my imagination.
Don’t forget to look for bonus chapters for some books on my website and you can sign up for my news bulletin here.
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Jane Harvey-Berrick, LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2)
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