Winter Storms (19 page)

“Carly,” he said.

“No, let me speak. I love you Daniel, I really do and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realise that. It’s not an impulsive thing because of losing Mick.” Her voice shook. “You’re my best friend, you always were and I can’t be without you. I understand if you don’t want me, but I needed you to know how I felt, so I don’t spend the rest of my life regretting that I never spoke out. I was wrong to hold the accident against you for so long, I should have accepted it better. I felt like such a failure though, a burden. But you do love me, or at least, you did, I know you risked your life to save Liam because you knew how devastated I would have been if he’d died.”

He closed his eyes, it was impossible to stand in front of her and not touch her. Stepping forward, he put his arms around her, holding her close against him. Then he kissed her cold mouth, her cheeks and neck — she belonged to him, as he did to her, and it was a shame they had wasted two years in finding that out.

Drawing back from her, he smiled down. “You don’t seriously want to leave the Bay and live here?”

“I would, if you wanted me to, so you could get to training.” Her voice was steady and her eyes never flinched.

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her lips again. “I think I could manage to drive in everyday, if I get back on the team, that is.”

“I’ve rung Shane, told him that I’ve been sailing again and that I’ll try out in a few months’ time for the Paralympics.”

He drew back. “You shouldn’t do that for me, Shane only said we had to get you sailing again, not competing.”

“I’m not doing it for you, it’s for me. I want to feel the wind in my hair and hear water bubbling under the stern. I want to handle a boat again, to be free like I was, I can’t walk on land very well, but in a boat, I can race.”

Clutching her tight again, he pressed his lips against hers and slid his hand underneath her coat, unbuttoning it and dropping it to the floor. She wouldn’t be needing it for a while, because she wouldn’t be returning home tonight, for now he needed her close against him, to kiss her and taste her, to reassure himself that she had finally returned to him, and that this time, she was staying.

Carly leant against the warm rail, hot sun burning down on her arms. Glancing at the long, bare legs of the girl next to her, she looked away and smiled. You couldn’t have everything. A klaxon sounded on the jetty beneath and she craned her head to watch the ten white sails shooting off across the bay, water rippling. The tourists standing beside her cheered and raising her hands, she clapped, making her palms sting. The Summer Gala was always popular, but people still talked about planning another winter one.

The smooth, green-blue waves lapped up the yellow beach, which lay dotted with bright red umbrellas and stripy beach towels. The summer visitors loved the sailing gala, wading out into the water to wave at the dinghies speeding past. On the beach, a lifeguard watched them from her chair, whistle around her neck.

After Mick’s death, the harbour had emptied of boats, whether out of respect or fear, Carly didn’t know, but the first time she saw a sail in the bay, she smiled in relief and joy. The waters were dangerous, but they were also part of Haven Bay and the townsfolk here had fished, sailed and paddled in them since they first settled in the small flat plain above the beach. She didn’t want people to be scared, just to be aware of the power of the ocean.

Shielding her eyes, she peered toward the black cliffs, in front of them bobbed a bright orange lifeboat, the crew standing on the deck, watching the boats. She promised Mick a new craft and with his help, she’d got one. After his death, donations had poured into the fund, far more than they had needed. Now Padstow too had a modern lifeboat and Duncan had been driven away: she’d watched him pack his suitcases into his car with a smile. Later it came out that he wanted the land the lifeboat station stood on, had planned to turn it into a beach café — for the chance to sell tea and coffees to tourists, he’d been willing to let people drown. There was no place for someone like him in Haven Bay.

Staring at the tiny figures on the lifeboat, she waved; it was unlikely Liam would see her, but she wanted to acknowledge him. It was funny how in places like this, the loss of a lifeboat man didn’t put others off, in fact they’d had dozens of new volunteers to replace Mick. Her brother had joined after his last fishing trip, admitting it to her with a fearful expression, but she’d hugged him and said how delighted she was. It was almost true.

Of course, she was afraid when the waves rose high in the air and trees bent double in a gale, but she never showed it. Liam loved the sea and there was no reason to stay away from it; accidents happened and when they did, you could only learn to live with the consequences, or destroy yourself.

“Carly!”

She smiled and turned away from the rail, looking at the crowds of people in the harbour. Waving, Daniel stood beside Ali who pushed a pram, her skin glowing under the sun. She’d asked Carly to be godmother to her daughter, which she tactfully turned down — she wasn’t godmother material — but she often looked after baby Shelly during quiet times in the shop to give Ali a break.

Soon, she might have a child of her own, she and Daniel had discussed it. After their wedding, she was going to try for the Paralympics, and after that, they would try for a baby. In the meantime, they shared her flat and he got up early to drive in for training.

Taking her cane, she strode across the grass toward them.

“Hello,” Daniel said, wrapping his arms around her. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

“Watching the sailing, I see you did decide to leave off entering this time?”

“I thought I’d give someone else a chance.” He laughed when she playfully slapped him and leaned down to kiss her. Reaching up, she slid her arms around him, drawing him close, breathing in his scent. How could she have ever imagined she could be happy without him? He’d been so much support as she mourned Mick. Ali had been right, if Carly wanted a man who never made a mistake, then she’d better carry on looking, but if she wanted one who would hold her tight and never let her go, then she could only have Daniel Edwards.

Lucy Oliver lives in England with her family and writes both historical and contemporary fiction. Originally a short story writer,
Winter Storms
is her first published full-length novel.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Internet Jokes

I loved your viola joke. Here’s one about computers.

What’s the difference between a computer and a trampoline?

You take off your steel-toes before jumping on the trampoline :)

— ED

Smack in the middle of the workday, because her brain was fried, Edith Ellen Rowan made her computer chirp
Old MacDonald
. Naturally that got her into trouble with The Bitch.

At first, Edie didn’t even register the problem. Four sunny bars bee-booped before it hit her — her computer was playing a children’s nursery song in an office full of conservative, nitpicky ears. Houghton Howell Enterprises was staid like an insurance company’s gray suit (fun was something you had on the golf course, or once a year at the Christmas party, but never
ever
on the job).

“Suck it to shell.” Edie hit the escape key. As
ee-eye-ohhh
died, she braced against the proverbial fan scattering the proverbial manure in the form of Bethany Blondelle, known to most of the company as The “B” if they were feeling kindly, adding the “itch” if they were not.

Shoulders hunched and breath held, Edie waited. She’d only been trying to motivate her people. Managing a team of programmers at HHE, a firm that sold innovative (read: expensive) solutions in accounting for large companies (read: deep pockets) wasn’t easy. Her team members were getting as fried as she, and so she’d proposed the music-writing contest.

Nothing happened. Edie gradually relaxed.

The Star Spangled Banner
burst lustily from Jack’s cubicle next door. Edie groaned.

“What the HELL is that NOISE?” Bethany had her vocal caps lock on again. This would be bad. “Who’s making all that racket? Edie? Edie!”

Edie face-palmed. The contest was supposed to be a bit of fun, not cause for Armageddon. She’d have preferred to ignore The B, but “Bethany” and “proactive” were so synonymous they were hyperlinked on Wikipedia.

Sure enough, a long leg popped through the opening of Edie’s cubicle, followed by the lady herself in eye-bleeding red.

Bethany’s fashion sense was from the DoMeHard channel. Her snappy skirts were hemmed just below her panty line. Today’s suit also featured a plunging sweetheart neckline, a chunky citrine necklace getting suffocated in her Wonder-enhanced cleavage. Her long, sleek hair was dyed crayon yellow #6.

Edie looked down at her own lacy teal tee, navy pants and wool blazer and wondered if she was underdressed.

Nah.

“What is the meaning of this racket?” Bethany leaned on Edie’s desk, looming over her. Invading personal space — “A” in the ABCs of corporate dominance.

“Project Pleiades. We had a month to deadline — until your good buddy Junior chopped that to a week.”

“Respect, Edie.
Mr
. Howell, not ‘Junior.’”

“I’ll respect
Mr.
Pharaoh Howell when he respects the workers. That deadline is a nightmare. My team has been working twelve-hour days and more. I’ve tried to push back, but you know Junior. Only the Evil Overlord can buck him.”

“Stop it.” Bethany tossed her head, a fleeting remnant of the girl Edie once knew. “The issue is not our executives. The issue is that … racket.” She waved her hand toward Jack’s cubicle, where the anthem was on its final verse.

“Handling Stress 101, Bethany. Work on something else.”

“Playing music on company time?” Bethany glared down her high-bridged nose. “Stupidity 101. You should listen to me if you want to go anywhere in this company.” She pointed to her cleavage, fingertip disappearing to the first knuckle. “After all, my team’s twice the size of yours.”

“Bigger isn’t better. It’s all about how you use it.” Edie grinned. “How about you run your team and I’ll run mine?”

“You don’t run your team.” Bethany sneered. “They run you.”

“It’s called empowerment.” Edie took pride in her outspoken team. She wanted her grandparents, hard-core sixties protesters, to be proud of her. They’d raised her from a little girl when her parents had died, and she loved them to pieces. “It’s a proven management style.”

Jack’s computer shifted to
A Hundred Bottles of Beer
.

“Management?” One corner of Bethany’s perfect lips curled. “The only management I see is
mis
-management.”

“Ba-dum-bum.” Edie was suddenly tired of the whole conversation.

And, as Jack’s computer continued to tweet bottles down, doubt gnawed at her. It
was
quite a racket.

“Other people are trying to work.” Bethany went for the kill. “Keep your hooligans under control or I’m going to have to tell Mr. Kirk.”

Edie suppressed a moan. Of all the straight-laced overbearing big shots at HHE, Edward Everett Kirk, president and CEO, was the biggest, straight-laciest. Like laced corsets … naughty corsets in Kirk’s competent hands —

“The way you two fight, it’s only a matter of time before he gets fed up and fires you.” Mme La B’itch drew a red-enameled nail across her slim throat.

Edie winced. “It’s called ‘corporate unfriending’ now. And I couldn’t help the janitor incident. Or the thing with the Super Soaker. Look, I’ll talk to my people. Just cut us some slack, okay? We’ve been working ridiculous hours.”

“Edie, you idiot. Has it ever occurred to you that your ridiculous hours are because of
you
?”

Them’s fightin’ words
. Edie raised narrowed eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

Bethany leaned knuckles on the desk. “Only one kind of project manager confuses effort with efficiency: a bad one.”

“Enough.” Edie jumped to her feet, nearly head-butting Bethany. “Outside. Now.”

“And freeze my butt off? Hardly.” Bethany’s nose was inches from Edie’s. “You have absolutely no decorum, do you? That shouldn’t surprise me, considering the hippies who raised you.”

Edie lost it. “My grandparents were heroes! They fought for what they believed in, rallied at protest marches — ”

“Pretty stories. Your grandpa was a long-haired unwashed bum. Your grandma wasn’t much better than a free love hooker.”

Edie snarled. “Now you listen here, you b — ”

“If Mr. Kirk were here — ”

“Mr. Kirk,” a deep voice rang with power, “
is
here. And I want to know what, precisely, is going on.”

• • •

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Internet Jokes

Dear ED,

Well, you’ve done it again. Just when another date fizzles and I’m laid low, when the fifth power play of the week pummels me black and blue, when and I’m at my wits’ end and think I’ll never smile again, your email pops into my inbox and I’m laughing. How did I ever get along without you?

I know we agreed at the start of our relationship that we’d stay anonymous-cyber-friends-with-benefits. But it’s been a year since we met on that Colorado social site. I’d like to know you better. You shouldn’t give out personal information over the Internet, so if I send you my phone number, will you call?

No, on second thought, never mind. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.

I bought a DVD the other day. “3.14159 out of 5 stars!” was written on the box. I think it was pirated! (Pi - rated :D )

— Prez

Filling the opening of Edie’s cubicle was a blood-red silk tie, snow-white shirt, and perfectly cut pinstriped suit — elegant packaging for the raw breadth of an exceedingly masculine chest.

Edward Everett Kirk.

Charleton Heston would have been jealous of Kirk’s high forehead, straight nose, strong mouth and square jaw. The gleaming wingtips and foil-thin gold watch were just added insult. Mr. Ultra-Executive.