Fairytale Come Alive (18 page)

She turned to the hall.

“Fifteen months,” Prentice said.

She turned back to Prentice.

“Pardon?” she asked.

“Fifteen months we were together and you didn’t say a fucking word. We spent every minute we could together when you were here and when you weren’t we spent every minute we could talking and you didn’t say a fucking
word.
” Isabella felt her heart start beating faster but Prentice wasn’t finished. “Did you give a fuck about me at all?”

Bile started climbing up her throat, she ignored it, clenched her hands in fists and simply replied, “Prentice.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You didn’t. If you did, you would have fucking shared your life with me. At least part of it. You didn’t share fuck all. I was in love with you, I asked you to
marry
me, for fuck’s sake, and I didn’t even know you.”

Her heart stopped beating faster and started slamming against her chest, her nails tore fiercely into her palms and her eyes flew to the stairs.

“Prentice, the children,” she warned.

“Tell me now,” he demanded.

Her eyes jerked to him and her heart stopped.

“What?” she breathed.

“All of it, Isabella. Tell me now.”

“But… why?” she stammered.

He leaned forward at the waist and clipped, “God damn it, tell me
now
.”

Isabella could take no more.

“Why?” she snapped, throwing her unclenched hand through the air. “What does it matter now?”

But he wasn’t paying attention to her. His eyes had followed her hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered, anger out of his voice, gaze still on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”

She quickly looked at her palm, saw he was right and closed her hand into a fist. As she did this, he advanced so he was close.

Very close.

She tipped her head back to look at him and declared, “It’s nothing.”

His head was bent toward her hand, his fingers closed on her wrist and he said, “Elle, you’re bleeding. Let me look.”

Isabella blinked, feeling the name only he used wash over her like she hadn’t had a bath in decades and that name was warm, clean water.

“Open your hand,” he ordered, his thumb insistently pressing on her fingers, he looked distractedly over his shoulder to the kitchen and asked, “Did you break a glass washing up?”

“It’s nothing,” she repeated.

His head came back around and he lifted her hand between them, thumb unrelenting, trying to open her closed fist.

“Let me see,” he murmured coaxingly.

Panic stricken, she jerked her wrist and he lost hold. When he did, his eyes snapped to hers.

“I said, it’s nothing,” she whispered.

Prentice stared at her.

Isabella took a step back, holding her wrist where his hand was, feeling his warm strength still there. Memorizing it, she pressed her hand against her chest.

His eyes dropped to her hand. Then they went back to hers.

And they were cold. So cold, she shivered.

“Secrets,” he said softly, his voice awful. “Which is the same as lies. Secrets and fucking lies.”

She held his gaze, it cost her but she held it and didn’t breathe a word.

After long moments, Prentice looked to the floor and shook his head.

Then he turned away and asked, “Turn the lights out, will you?”

Then he walked up the stairs and disappeared from sight.

Elle

Prentice

Prentice stood on the terrace of the pub, whisky in hand, eyes on the sea.

Two days it had been since he’d discovered Isabella had
not
abandoned her best friend in her hour of need but, against the odds (and Annie could be stubborn so Prentice knew the odds were most assuredly against Isabella), she nursed Annie back to her old self.

Two days it had been since he discovered she’d endured only the beginning but most definitely not the end of a fairytale.

And two days since he’d discovered that, at eight years old, she’d found her dead mother in a pool of her own blood.

His hand tightened on the glass as his jaw tensed.

He hadn’t handled that
last
very well. In fact, he’d been a complete, selfish jackass.

It had been two days and those two days had not been uneventful.

To say the least.

The first morning after dinner with Mikey, Prentice had woken up to find his closet full of ironed shirts.

When he went downstairs, he found the coffeepot full.

Isabella was not there, however, and didn’t make an appearance until the children came downstairs.

Then she arrived wearing jeans and a thin, mostly see-through, skintight, scoop-necked, cream t-shirt with a camisole under it. Her feet were bare but her wild, tangle of hair had been sleeked and pulled into sophisticated ponytail at the back of her head and she’d made up her face.

She also had a band of white gauze wrapped around her hand.

She’d arrived to make breakfast, chat with the children and ignore Prentice.

Sally was unaware of the drama the night before though she was highly curious as to the white gauze which Isabella airily informed his daughter was “nothing”.

After what occurred the night before, Jason, it appeared, had formed some kind of motherless-child bond with Isabella and decided to cast himself as her protector. He was watching her carefully as if she was made of fragile crystal and he was going to be there to catch her before she fell and shattered on the floor.

Isabella quickly realized this and just as quickly (and skillfully) teamed up with Sally, using his daughter’s constant good cheer and Isabella’s own charm to tease and joke with Jason until he was smiling and even laughing.

It was quite a feat but she mastered it effortlessly.

When the children disappeared to get their books, without a word, Isabella headed to the hall.

“Isabella,” he called, she stopped and turned polite eyes to him in enquiry.

He looked at her and realized they were, indeed, playing a game.

It was the game of life. His life and his children’s life.

And also Isabella’s.

Too much had passed, he’d moved on and so had she, neither, it seemed, to things that ended well.

But this game didn’t have to end ugly and his children needed every friend in their life they could get.

And Prentice thought Isabella would make a good one.

With a new strategy in mind, Prentice walked directly to her and got close.

She stiffened but didn’t retreat, simply tipped her head back and looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“We need to talk,” he told her.

“There’s nothing to say,” she replied, her tone cultured, controlled, remote.

“You’re wrong,” he returned.

Her face remained polite but expressionless. “Well then, there’s no time. You have to take the kids to school and I’m going to Annie’s and I won’t be home tonight. It’s her hen night tonight, it’ll go late and I’ll probably crash on the couch at Fergus’s.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “Tomorrow is the day before the wedding. I’ll be tied up all day helping Annie and tomorrow night is Dougal’s stag night.”

He got closer and her body went solid as a rock.

This he took as a good sign.

He dipped his face close to hers, willing for some flash of
something
to light in her eyes but he got nothing.

“You don’t have to explain the schedule to me, Isabella, I know it,” he said quietly.

“Then you know there’s no time to talk.”

“We’ll make time.”

She remained silent and remote.

He decided to change subjects and asked, “How’s your hand?”

Then it came.

Her eyes flashed and her gaze moved over his shoulder.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s good,” he replied softly.

Her eyes shot back to his.

She opened her mouth to speak but he got there before her. “I have to admit, you look nice, Elle, but you look better when your hair’s a mess and you aren’t wearing that mask.”

And it came again.

Her eyes grew slightly wider and her lips parted softly.

He took in her open expression of astonishment and finished by muttering, “Beautiful.”

Then he walked away.

* * * * *

That day, on a visit to one of his building sites, Prentice approached Nigel Fennick who was a laborer on the site.

Nigel gave him a chin’s up and said on a grin, “Dougal’s stag night still on for Friday?”

“Aye,” Prentice replied. “Annie’s hen night is tonight.”

Nigel’s grin widened. “Annie can be a wild one.”

Prentice knew that, hell, everyone knew that. Even so, he didn’t return Nigel’s grin.

“I want to talk to you about Hattie,” Prentice said and Nigel’s grin faded.

“Had calls from Fergus. Dougal too,” Nigel surprised him by saying. “They gave me an earful, mate, but you know Hattie.”

Prentice did, he’d known her all his life and he never really liked her. He liked her less after her behavior at the picnic.

“She going on Annie’s hen night?” Prentice asked.

“Aye,” Nigel nodded.

“She’ll be nice to Isabella,” Prentice stated.

It wasn’t a request, it was a demand.

Nigel gave him a look. “Never was able to control Hattie.”

He was right. Nigel and Hattie had been married for nearly two decades and she wasn’t nice to her husband either.

“You’ll have a word.” Another demand.

“Already did, after Fergus and after Dougal. She’s got it in her head –”

Prentice cut him off by repeating, “You’ll have a word.”

“Prentice –”

“Nigel, have a word with her.”

Nigel’s look turned probing. “Mate,” he said softly, “things have got to be rough with Fiona gone but you’re not… not again.”

Prentice got closer. “This isn’t about me and Isabella. This is just about Isabella. She’s here for her friend and she’s been good to the children. If you won’t have a word, I’ll have a word.” Prentice pulled his mobile from his back pocket. “Give me her number.”

Nigel’s look turned incredulous and, Prentice noted with surprise, slightly fearful. “Now?”

Prentice’s look was already hard. “Aye. Now.”

Nigel hesitated then he sighed, “I’ll have a word.”

Prentice nodded. “It doesn’t work, Nigel, and I hear Elle didn’t have a good night then
I’ll
have a word with Hattie.”

The threat hung in the air for a moment before Nigel dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

Prentice was a man known not to make idle threats.

“See you Friday,” Prentice said by way of farewell.

“Aye, Friday.”

Prentice turned and walked away.

* * * * *

The children had not had to endure takeaway that night.

This was because, when Prentice and the kids came home, Jason found a note on the counter from Isabella informing them there was a shepherd’s pie in the fridge, explaining how to heat it up and telling them that the vegetables were already cut up and ready for boiling.

Jason may have found the note but Sally honed right in on the homemade chocolate cake that was sitting on the counter.

“PS,” Jason read as Sally was screeching about the cake, “tell Sally I’ve made cake for pudding but she has to eat all her broccoli. There’s ice cream in the freezer.”

When he was finished reading, Jason’s eyes moved to Prentice.

Sally danced around the kitchen chanting how much she
loved
chocolate cake.

Prentice smiled at his son.

His son smiled back.

* * * * *

Mikey was right.

Isabella could cook comfort food.

The shepherd’s pie was delicious.

And the cake was fucking exquisite.

But Prentice overcooked the vegetables.

* * * * *

It was pitch dark when Prentice jerked from a deep sleep, body alert after hearing the crash.

Tense, he listened to the sounds of his house for a moment and he could have sworn he heard a loud, drunken giggle.

He threw back the covers, knifed out of bed, exited his room and flipped the light switch on at the top of the stairs.

The lamp by the couch was on the floor, its ceramic base in pieces.

He was walking down the stairs when he saw movement in the hall. It was Isabella walking into the room wielding a broom.