A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) (14 page)

It takes a couple of days for me to muster up
the courage to call Brody. I have a ton of work to get done for Val and I need
the freelance money. I’ve been in London three weeks now and only have a week
of paid vacation time left, so I’m taking all the work I can get to bank a
little safety net for when the paychecks stop. I hesitate to look for another
job because I haven’t even begun to apply for an official work visa. Val has a
ton of work for me though, and the freelance money is actually better than what
I made as a salary worker under her.

I tell myself I’ll deal with Brody when I
finish my list of projects. Liam continues to text me several times a day.
Nothing too serious, mostly it’s just funny stuff he sees around town. He likes
to insert his face into random things he comes across. Like today, he sent me a
picture of himself looking confused; behind him was a man with an incredibly
long mullet. It makes me smile and I appreciate his friendship. He keeps
hinting at seeing me again but I tell him I’m busy with work, which is mostly
true.

As I close my laptop, I decide to stop putting
it off and call Brody already. I need to get this off my chest. I’ll feel
better afterward. I hope. I look out my rounded windows and see a slew of
skateboarders all over the skate ramps. There must be some kind of event there
today because this is a way bigger crowd than normal.

My fingers are trembling as I press Send on
Brody’s contact number. It rings five times and I begin to feel depressed that
he’s not going to pick up.

“Hello?” his deep voice answers.

“Hey, um, hi, uh, Brody,” I bite my lip to stop
myself from continuing on the same inane path. I take a deep breath and say,
“How are you?” Real smooth, Finley.

“Um, I’m fine. How are you?” he asks, with an
edge of caution in his voice.

“I’m doing well, I was just calling to see how
things were going and everything.”

“Are we doing that now?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I thought we could but I guess
that’s up to you,” I reply.

“So what, you think you can just call now and
we’ll chat like old friends?”

I sigh into the phone, “Alright, fine Brody.
Don’t let me beat around the bush or anything.”

“Well what do you expect, Finley?”

Oh! Just the way he says my name brings back
hundreds of wonderful memories. Happy memories, intimate memories, carefree
memories, emotional memories. How can I ask him to just say my name again over
and over and over so I can bathe in the beauty of his voice and memories of
simpler times?

I clear my throat, “I didn’t like where we
ended things last time we spoke. I feel…remorseful. I regret how I handled
things.”

“You think?” he barks, slightly.

“I feel like I need to be more honest with you
and then maybe we can both get a bit more closure after we air everything out.”

“Closure? That doesn’t sound like the Finley I
was in love with for over five years. The Finley I knew would have never used
the word closure.”

I roll my eyes even though I know he can’t see
me.

“I know its cliché, Brody. I’m just trying to
be honest here,” I say.

“Okay, then. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m in London,” I say, quickly, before I lose
my nerve.

“Like, England?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“For what?” he questions.

That’s a fair question.

“I’m living with Leslie. She lives in a house
out here in South London. I’m doing freelance for Val while I’m here.”

“How long are you staying there?” he asks.

“Indefinitely,” I reply.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means I have no plans to go back to Kansas
or Missouri or anywhere near the Midwest again.”

Silence falls between us.

“Brody?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replies.

“I just felt like it was time I tell you where
I was because I know that was a big reason why you were so angry with me when
we broke up…all the secrecy about where I was going. I know that’s why you went
to see Cadence and George that night. You were angry; you had a right to be. At
the time, I thought it was for the best, it would give us a cleaner break, but
now I feel like I at least owe it to you to tell you where I’m at.”

“A cleaner break,” he repeats my words back to
me. “And why are you telling me now, exactly?”

“I…” I stumble on what I want to say next, “I
guess I just thought you’d want to know.”

“I think you thought wrong, Finley,” he says,
with a definitive huff in his tone.

“I just thought…” I start, but he interrupts.

“You just thought you would call me and tell me
you’re living in London, another freaking country, thousands of miles away from
me, and I would feel, what? Relief?” he asks.

“I guess I…” I don’t get to finish.

“You thought I would feel relieved to hear you
had to move to another continent to get away from me? You think that makes me
feel like anything more than the piranha scum you can’t get off the bottom of
your shoe?”

“Brody! No.”

“Do you think I’ll feel closure knowing I am
the reason you no longer live driving distance away from your family? Your
nieces? Your friends?”

“It’s not your fault, Brody. You’re not the
cause,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish.

“How is it possible you think you can call me
and tell me you’re in London, England and I’m just going to say thank you and
end this phone call on a happy note?” he seethes.

I’m tired of him acting all wounded like he
cares.

“I thought perhaps you were ready for some
closure since it appears you’ve already moved on!” I snap at him.

“What do you mean, Finley?” he says his words
slowly, with emphasis.

“Olivia, Brody!” I bark at him, “I saw the
pictures of you and Olivia all over
Facebook
.
You guys look great, playing happy family together.”

“I thought you canceled your
Facebook
account, Finley,” he replies,
adding a long F at the beginning of my name.

“Screw you, Brody. Don’t sit there acting all
angry and wounded that I’m in London when you’re with the one girl I hate from
college. Olivia, Brody? Really? You couldn’t find anyone else to climb on top
of?” I ask, knowing I sound nasty right now but unable to help it.

“At least she’s in my continent!” he booms,
into the phone.

“Glad to see you’ve set your standards nice and
high!” I reply, my voice getting louder at the end.

I look down and watch the skate ramps. A group
is standing off to the side, laughing, appearing to be having a great time
while I’m up here in my circular prison cell.

“My standards couldn’t be any higher, Finley.
You sort of ruined that for me,” he says, sounding quieter and more reserved
now.

I shake my head not knowing how to interpret
that comment. Does he mean Olivia is better than me? So much for closure.

“Well, I wanted to tell you where I’m living
and how I’m doing. Now I’ve told you, I would like to hear how you’re doing,
but I pretty much already know. Take care, Brody. Have a nice life with Olivia.
I’m glad I met you.” I hang up, squeezing my phone tightly in my hand in
frustration.

I don’t know why I added that last bit. Laying
on the guilt, I suppose. It’s hard to stay disconnected from him and not be
jealous and possessive when I know I need to be. I’m the one who ended things.
I remind myself of everything I can’t give him but I’m seething at the idea
that Olivia could be the one who does. Picturing her with a round, pregnant
belly, and his hands on her—breaks me.

I collapse onto my bed and cry hard. Seriously,
God! Why? Why can’t I give Brody a baby? Why can’t I be a woman like all other
women and do this for him? I want to give him this! But I can’t and it’s
killing me inside. Even the idea of Liam doesn’t cheer me up because he’s just
another guy I’ll have to reveal my barren secret to down the road. It’s
terrible, and it’s heart-wrenching, and I can’t fix it. This is my lot in life;
I need to get the hell over it.

*** 

Val assigns me a new client who’s actually from
the UK, so she’s really quite happy about my current location and the fact she
can send me over to the client without sloughing it off to the sister company.
She must be taking advantage of my current location because she’s never had an
international client before. I’m just happy she’s still okay with me not coming
back to the States and hasn’t pressured me about returning. Not to mention, I’m
extremely grateful for the distraction.

I dress sharply in the one formal business suit
I packed and hop on the tube, London’s version of a subway, for my meeting. Val
wants me to meet them personally and get a feel for how their business operates
and a hands-on feel of their product. The client is a family-run business that
specializes in Christian inspired jewelry.
Faith’s
Miracle Jewelry
is the name of their jewelry line. They want Val’s company
to take over their marketing in the U.S. I’m to meet with the family and report
back.

Frank and Leslie help me figure out what train
I need to take because the business is located on the outskirts of London. I
enjoy the beautiful country scenery on the thirty-minute train ride while
adding more to the list of questions Val prepared for me.

When I get off the train in
Esher
,
and make my way out toward the parking lot, I see a white-haired elderly man
with a big thick gray mustache holding up a sign with my name on it. I smile
brightly at him and offer my hand.

“Ah, Finley! Lovely to meet you lass, I’m Mr.
Adamson. Right this way to the car,” he greets, with a kind smile.

Adamson is the name of the family that runs the
business. I’m surprised to see he didn’t just send a driver rather than pick me
up himself, but he doesn’t seem the least bit put out. He directs me over to
his vehicle and opens the passenger side door for me to get in.

“Mr. Adamson, thank you for picking me up,
really,” I say, trying to start conversation.

“Of course, dear. Of course! We’re excited to
have some American blood in our house,” he replies, while navigating us out of
the parking lot. “My wife has been polishing the jewelry-line all morning. It’s
been her dream to have the jewelry go international.”

I’m surprised to hear she’s polishing it
herself and they don’t have staff for that. Val indicated to me that this
company started off small but are huge in England now. They are able to
outsource all the manufacturing so they can focus solely on the sales side of
the business.

“I’m really excited to see it, Sir,” I say,
smiling at him again. He seems so jolly with his big mustache and crinkly eyes.
I hope Mrs. Adamson is this approachable.

We drive in comfortable silence through the
hilly countryside of England and I make a note to ask Leslie and Frank if we
can take a vacation to the country sometime because it’s like a whole other
world out here. Huge rolling hills of sheep and pastures, and little old
cottages dropped sporadically throughout. It’s simply beautiful.

“How long have you been in London, love?” Mr.
Adamson asks while reaching into his suit-coat pocket, silently offering me a
butterscotch candy.

“Almost a month,” I reply, taking the candy,
unwrapping it, and popping it into my mouth.

He nods his head appreciatively while popping
one in his mouth, too.

“Do you miss home a lot?” he asks, tucking the
treat into his cheek to make it easier to talk.

“Yes, parts,” I answer. “But it’s incredibly
beautiful out here, I’m happy to be experiencing some new areas.”

We pull up to a beautiful little brick house
with several peaks. An older woman with long white hair is standing in front of
the house waiting to greet us.

“Mrs. Adamson, I presume?” I ask as the woman
rushes up to shake my hand and pulls me in and kisses me on both cheeks.

“Is it Finley, love?” she asks.

“Yes, that’s me!” I reply.

Mr. Adamson comes around the car and they usher
me up the sidewalk, pointing out the yard and all the landscaping they work on
every year. Mrs. Adamson is most definitely just as friendly as Mr. Adamson. I
sort of love that they don’t ask me to call them by their first names. It might
seem more formal this way, but it suits them. Watching them both talk
animatedly about their yard is endearing, and I find myself smiling fondly at
them.

When we walk into their house, they offer me
some tea. I haven’t quite jumped on the British tea craze yet, but I accept to
be polite. Mr. Adamson heads to the kitchen to pour the tea and Mrs. Adamson leads
me into the dining room. A short, round African woman is adjusting the jewelry
splayed all over the table.

She looks up when we come in and walks over to
introduce herself.

“Hi there, I’m Sheila Adamson. So nice to meet
you,”
 
she shakes my hand and gives
me two quick kisses just like Mrs. Adamson. “We’re really excited to have you
here.”

I smile back at her and can’t help but wonder
how she’s related because of the obvious difference in skin tones. She looks
like the right age to be their daughter, so she could be adopted. Or maybe the
Adamsons
have a son, and this is his wife?

She gestures for me to sit down and I pull my
binder out of my satchel and ready all my meeting points and supplies. I eye
the jewelry thoughtfully.
 

Mr. Adamson comes in with four teas and we
settle ourselves around the table. We make small talk for a while. They ask
about my journey out to the country, how I like London, and where I’m from in
the States. I can tell I’m going to get along really well with these clients.
They all seem like very kind people; I’m so pleased to have something to take
my mind off all my personal issues.

“I’d like to start,” Mrs. Adamson says, pushing
her white hair off of her shoulders and leaning her arms on the table. She’s
seated directly across from me and squints her large grey eyes at me.

“May I ask if you have any children, Finley? I
know it’s a personal question, but it would help me to know if you had any
children before I tell you about our jewelry line we are very passionate about.”

I’m taken aback by this question, but I remain
composed and respect her no-nonsense approach.

“No, no children,” I smile back at her.

“Okay then, that’s okay. Here’s the deal. This
jewelry line was something I started forty years ago because I was hurting and
needed an outlet for my pain. I’m going to get very deep with you for a moment,
Finley. I hope that’s okay.”

“Please do,” I offer.

“I had a miscarriage when I was thirty years
old. I wasn’t very far along in my pregnancy and miscarriages back then didn’t
appear to be that big of a deal. Everybody just swept them under the rug and
didn’t talk about them. But, as you may be able to tell by first impression,
I’m a bit of a talker. I wanted to talk about the baby I lost. I wanted to
memorialize the baby I lost. Grieve the baby I lost. Because that’s what it
was, Finley, a baby.”

My face turns serious and I nod, listening to
everything she’s saying. I’m fighting an internal battle with myself not to
tear up because it would be completely unprofessional, but I can feel my
emotions bubbling inside of me.

“Nobody wanted to talk to me about it or even
acknowledge that this little babe, who had changed my life so dramatically,
even existed! But I wanted to remember, Finley. I wanted to remember my baby
like he or she was alive. So I made myself a necklace.”

She fumbles under her shirt and pulls out a
very primitive looking piece of jewelry. It isn’t anything special but it has
an interesting quality to it. The chain is silver and looks newer than the
piece hanging from it, which is a tarnished cross with thinly looped wires
shaped into angel wings fastened behind it. It is beautiful and the way she
rubs it shows me that she does that a lot. I look a little closer and engraved
on the cross is the word
Faith
.

“Are you a Christian, Finley?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good. This piece of jewelry around my neck
says the word Faith. That was the name of our little babe and that’s what
brought us this beautiful little girl sitting next to you,” she says, gesturing
to Sheila.

I nod with a small smile over to Sheila and she
smiles back, appearing to be very used to hearing this story. The adoration and
love I see in Mr. and Mrs. Adamson’s eyes makes my eyes well and I can’t make
them stop.

“Losing that wee babe broke me, Finley. I
didn’t think I would ever recover. Mr. Adamson here was the one who told me
that if we couldn’t make a baby ourselves, we’d adopt. Simple as that,” she
laughed and looked over to him.

“Sheila is our miracle, Finley. She was the
driving force behind the start of
Faith’s
Miracle Jewelry
. We adopted her in Liberia at a time of deep despair. She
was only five years old when she came to us. All I wanted to do was cuddle her
and all she wanted to do was make jewelry!” She laughs heartily and reaches
over to pat Sheila’s hand.

I smile at the exchange and two small tears
slip down my cheeks. I avoid wiping them for fear of calling attention to
myself. Thankfully, Sheila lightens the mood with a loud sigh.

“Now that my mother has told you my life
story,” she laughs, “We’d love to show you all of our pieces, Finley,” Sheila
says, standing up and grabbing a piece that was on a necklace stand in the
middle of the table.

I clear my throat at the sudden change in
conversation but am thankful that Sheila must have picked up on my emotions and
is trying to help me out a bit.

Sheila hands me a gorgeous, shiny, brand new,
high-end version of what Mrs. Adamson has around her neck. It is stunning; a
definite showstopper. All three of them interject while they explain all the
detailing in the piece to me, where the products came from, how it was
developed, and who designed it. I rapidly take notes. I can feel excitement
bubbling for how beautiful the rest must be. They then take turns showing me
all the other pieces, explaining the inspiration behind each one. The first
piece is the only one related to angels. They call it their memorial piece. The
rest are a bit more generic, something-for-every-type-of-Christian jewelry, but
equally beautiful. They also have many pieces that aren’t Christian inspired at
all, just beautiful. I’m excited to see there is something for everyone on the
table because it’s essential for marketing successfully.

I feverishly finish my notes then begin
snapping photos on my phone trying to capture the true essence of this line to
report back to Val. Sheila knows the product backward and forward. I can tell
she is just as passionate about the jewelry, if not more, than her parents. I
am certain this will take off in America, and I am thrilled to be a part of a
new and exciting international client for Val.

When we finish going through all the products
and selling points for their jewelry, Mr. Adamson tells me that Sheila will be
taking me back to the rail station. Mrs. Adamson hugs me goodbye and gives me a
kiss on each cheek.

“I like you, Finley. There’s something about
you that really works here. You tell Val we want you to be our contact at the
company. I love Val and I’ll talk to her anytime, but I’d like you to be the
one handling everything else,” she says, looking straight into my eyes while
holding onto my arms.

I beam back at her, “Well that’s very sweet of
you to say. I’ll relay the message to Val but I’m not sure how everything will
be handled. It’s not really up to me.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.” She hugs
me one more time and lets the embrace linger. It feels like she can tell I need
it and I don’t pull back. I take it and I love it. It feels motherly. It also
just feels good to have someone who’s so happy and content in their life hold
me for a moment, almost like it will seep into me and ease away all my aches
and pains.
 

After our final goodbyes, Sheila and I jump
into the car and are back on the winding country roads. I’m smiling broadly out
the window, unable to contain the inner light I feel after such a great
meeting. The
Adamsons
made me feel lighter somehow.

“My parents are pretty amazing, aren’t they?”
Sheila asks, pulling my gaze from the scenery to her beautiful dark-skinned
face.

“They are. And so are you. You guys are a
remarkable family,” I reply.

 
“I
can’t even imagine having a better life than I do now. It’s where I belong,”
she says, looking at me with a small smile on her face.

I nod back at her; it seems like a rhetorical
statement but I can’t help my curiosity.

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” I ask.

She laughs softly, “I’ve heard that story about
how
Faith’s Miracle Jewelry
got
started loads of times, my mum loves to tell it. But it always takes me back to
my childhood before them. Since I was five years old when I was adopted, I do
have a few memories of my life before them. They are fuzzy now that I’m nearly
forty, but they’re there.”