“I know, I know,” she replied, stepping into the room. “I’ve been so busy lately.”
“Come,” he ordered, steering her forward with a hand on her back. “I want you to meet someone.”
I stared the girl down as if she was my worst enemy. There were a few noticeable differences between her and every other woman in his not-so little black book. She was tall with mousy brown hair and thick black-framed glasses. She was pretty, but not the usual type to catch his eye. She was also very forward. She thrust her hand at me before Ryan had a chance to introduce us. “I’m Trieste Kincaid,” she announced. “Very pleased to meet you.”
I nodded, caught slightly off guard by her friendliness and lack of whore factor. “Bente Denison.”
“Bente’s my girlfriend,” said Ryan, in the same juvenile way he usually announced it.
Trieste’s eyes widened. “You have a girlfriend?” she asked. “That’s awesome.” She turned back and play punched his upper arm. “Good job.”
I suddenly felt like a zoo exhibit, or some weird social experiment. “Hello.” I waved at both of them. “I’m still in the room.”
Trieste snorted as she laughed. It was the strangest sound I’d ever heard. “I’m so happy for both of you,” she said, dumping her huge bag on the counter. “You must come to the wedding, Bente.”
“She’ll be there,” replied Ryan, heading for the fridge.
Trieste sat beside me, pushing Ryan’s half eaten meal aside, clearly oblivious to the fact that she’d interrupted dinner.
“You’re getting married?” I asked.
“Yes, I am.” She waggled her left hand at me, showcasing a modest but pretty diamond ring. “William Best is my fiancée,” she announced. “I love him to death.”
I couldn’t help smiling, but kept the reason to myself. Her married name would be Trieste Best.
Trieste struck me as a fairly simple creature, but the girl could talk. In the time it took Ryan to pour her a glass of wine she gave me the rundown on her entire relationship. William was a clerk at a convenience store that Trieste frequented. They’d found love somewhere between the cleaning aisle and fresh produce. “He’s the sweetest man I’ve ever met,” she declared, gazing at her engagement ring. “I can’t wait to marry him.”
It was a cute story, but did nothing to explain her connection to Ryan. “And what do you do, Trieste?”
Ryan jumped in, perhaps saving me from another explanation. “Trieste is an attorney,” he explained. “A very clever one.”
She rolled her eyes at him, seemingly uncomfortable with the praise. “I’m coming to the end of my clerkship,” she said, glancing at me. “I’m hoping they’ll keep me on.”
“Of course they will,” asserted Ryan. “They’d be crazy not to.”
It took a long moment to wrap my head around the fact that the scatty girl was an attorney. Once I came to grips with that, I began to wonder what sort of match she’d make for a convenience store clerk.
“For now, I’m just focusing on the wedding,” she said, bringing her glass of wine to her nose and sniffing it. “It’s taking up every spare minute.” She pulled a face and handed the glass back to Ryan. “I really don’t like wine. Thanks anyway.”
Chuckling blackly, he reached across and poured it down the sink. “Would you like something else? You can have one of Bridget’s juice boxes if you want,” he offered.
“Yeah, okay. Maybe I’ll take one with me too.”
Ryan didn’t bat an eyelid. Still smiling, he set two juice boxes in front of her. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’d like some money, please.” I watched in stunned silence as Ryan fetched his chequebook. Curiosity was killing me, but I waited to see what happened next. “It’s a lot of money, Ryan,” Trieste said gravely. “Are you sure?”
He dropped the chequebook on the counter. “Do you love it?”
Trieste straightened up and squared her shoulders. “It’s exquisite,” she gushed. “It’s white and glamorous. It’s fitted at the waist,” she ran her hands down her sides as she explained, “and it’s got little –”
“Spare me,” he pleaded. “Just tell me how much.”
“Five thousand, two hundred and twelve.” She cringed as she said it but Ryan began writing the cheque before she’d finished telling him. He tore it off the stub and handed it to her.
“You’re sure?” Her voice was barely there. Even in the short time I’d known her, I could tell it wasn’t a tone she used often.
“I want you to have the perfect day,” Ryan insisted. “Now you’ll have the perfect dress too.”
If ever there was a moment that I wanted to drop him to the floor and have my way with him, that was it. The hard-shelled, fickle jerk had just made a giddy bride’s dream come true by paying for her wedding dress.
She waved the cheque at him. “I won’t ever forget this, Ryan,” promised Trieste. “You’ve been so good to me.”
His skin flushed pink, all the way down to his neck. The coy smile he flashed me paled in comparison to the one I gave him.
Another layer of his tough exterior had been scraped away, exposing something that reminded me why I’d so eagerly given the wasp’s nest another boot.
***
As soon as Trieste left, I pounced, forcing him onto the couch. “I’m so glad you’re mine, Ryan,” I murmured against his mouth.
“So you’ll keep me?”
My hands moved to his shirt, twisting the buttons undone as I spoke. “For a while.”
“At least until Friday,” he said, dipping his head to kiss me again. “I promised my mom we’d go for dinner. It might be awkward if I show up without you.”
I straightened up on his lap. “Dinner with the parents already?”
“Yeah.” He reached and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Another first.”
I tried to play down the nervousness, silently promising myself that there was nothing to worry about. I pushed his shirt off his shoulders and planted a kiss at the base of his throat. “I look forward to it,” I mumbled against his skin. “I’ve always liked your parents.”
“They like you too.” He leaned forward, allowing me to slip the sleeves off his arms. “That’s half the battle, right?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure what the other half was, but there was no point asking. It was a situation where being forewarned probably wouldn’t mean being forearmed.
I tossed his shirt on the floor and fell back against him, and all thoughts of dinner with his parents disappeared.
27. SECRET NORTH
Ryan
If I live a thousand years, it wouldn’t be enough time to figure Charli Décarie out. But I’d worked out a few things. I knew how to flip her switch in two seconds flat, taking her from pleasant to homicidal. Calling her into Billet-doux to sign paperwork first thing in the morning was the ultimate switch flipper.
Paperwork was not Charli’s forte. Being a grown up was not Charli’s forte either, although today she looked like one. She appeared at the doorway rocking a sleek navy skirt suit and heels high enough to make her adult size.
“You look like you mean business, Charlotte,” I greeted.
“Can we do this quickly?” She marched to my desk.
I leaned back in my chair. “Do come in, please.”
“You called me, Ryan,” she sourly reminded. “I have a meeting with a buyer in half an hour and then I have to rush home so Adam can go to work. Mrs Brown bailed on us again.”
Bronson Merriman was a family-friendly employer, so Charli worked pretty cushy hours. My father was not, which explained Adam’s horrendous schedule. Every time Mrs Brown bailed they were left in the lurch, and it had been happening frequently. Mrs Brown wasn’t a young woman any more; clearly she was struggling.
“She’s past it, Charli,” I told her. “Mrs Brown can’t keep up with Bridget.” A Formula One driver couldn’t keep up with Bridget.
She nodded dejectedly. “I know. She fell asl
eep on the couch the other day and Bridget tattooed her with a Sharpie pen.”
I laughed, earning myself Tinker Bell’s nastiest glare. “Was it in a good place?”
She dropped her head, unsuccessfully trying to hide her smile. “Her arm. She’s now sporting Bridget’s version of a Celtic band, just like Alex’s.”
“You can’t have your child tattooing the help, Charlotte.” I spoke in my primmest English accent. “What will the queen think?”
“The queen was not amused.”
It wasn’t really funny. If the kid was unsupervised long enough to tattoo someone, she could just as easily have been using the time to jemmy open the window in her bedroom. And she lived on the eighth floor.
“You need to find someone else.”
“I know that, Ryan.”
“How many days a week do you need a sitter?”
“Monday to Thursday,” she replied. “Two to five-thirty.”
“What about mornings?”
“I don’t start until ten. Mrs Brown can manage for a few hours.”
I didn’t put a whole lot of thought into the offer that tumbled out of my mouth. “I’ll help you out.”
Charli staggered backwards. “Seriously?”
“My hours are pretty flexible,” I replied. “If I get busy, Bridge can hang out here with me.”
“Just until I find someone else, okay?”
“No problem.”
She beamed. “You’re such a good uncle, Ryan.”
“Of course I am.” I pushed a stack of papers across the desk. “I’ve been telling you that for years. Now sign these and get out of my office.”
***
My babysitting duties began the next day.
I relieved Mrs Brown at two o’clock as promised, and she’d never looked more pleased to see me. “Good boy,” she praised, hugging me at the door.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, looking past her. Bridget was bouncing on the couch, half watching the TV.
Mrs Brown glanced back at her before replying. “It is now.” She pinched my cheeks. “Enjoy your afternoon.” With that, she was gone. Mrs Brown could move when she wanted to.
I closed the door loudly, hoping to catch the attention of the little girl who’d so far ignored me. When that didn’t work, I cleared my throat.
Bridget finally spoke, but didn’t slow her bounce or look at me. “Hi, Ry.”
“Hi. What are you doing?”
“Jumping.”
“Well, can we find something more constructive to do, please?”
She stopped. “I am reductive.”
I shook my head. “How about we get out of here? We could go to the park.”
She didn’t need asking twice. Like Mrs Brown, Bridget could also move quickly when she wanted to.
***
Central Park in summer is glorious – a big flash of green in a city of grey. It slows you down and brightens your mood. It was almost shameful that I only took advantage of it when I was with Bridget.
We wandered in off 59th. I thought Bridget would want to head to the playground but she had other ideas.
“We have to go over there,” she said pointing down the tree-lined Mall.
“We’re going to the fountain?” I guessed.
She shook her head. “We have to go hunting.”
It was a statement that worried me. Her hunting plans could’ve involved anything from butterflies to other small children. I asked for clarification.
Bridget reached into the pocket of her shorts. “See what I have.” I shifted her a few steps to the side so we weren’t blocking the path, and waited. Finally, she held out her hand. “Look.”
At first glance, I thought the round brass piece in her hand was an old fashioned fob watch that maybe she’d swiped from Mrs Brown. Then Bridget flipped open the lid.
“A compass?” I asked incredulously. “Where did you get that from?”
“My daddy. We went to the army shop.”
No matter how many questions I asked, I couldn’t get a straight answer from her. Fearing she’d gotten hold of something she shouldn’t have, I texted Adam.
-Did you give your daughter a compass?
-Yes.
-Why?
-Because the night vision goggles didn’t fit her properly.
I wasn’t going to get a straight answer from him either, so I replied with a quick insult and gave up.
-I have no words. You’re an idiot
I put my phone away. “Right,” I announced, clapping my hands together. “What happens now?”
“We have to go looking,” she replied.
I put my hand on her shoulder, steering her forward. “For what, Bridge?”
The explanation wasn’t one I was expecting. Her little fingers pointed to the dial. “The numbers tell you where to go.”
“The letters.” I soon realised there was no point correcting her. Bridget had no idea when it came to orienteering, but in her mind she was an expert. From what I could pull from her rambling, her dad had done his best to explain it to her.
She reminded me of him when she was talking. Like Adam, one word answers were never enough. Even though she had trouble understanding a lot of it, Bridget soaked up information. Then a switch would go off and she’d become a mini Charli, making up details to fit the story in her head.
Bridget’s compass had four cardinal directions: east, south, west and a La La suburb called Secret North. Funnily enough, that’s where we were headed.
“That way,” she instructed, pointing west.
We wandered at Bridget’s pace for a long time, but didn’t get far. We never ventured off the path either, so I could only assume that Secret North was a fairly broad coordinate.
“How will we know when we get there?”
“Because it will be special.”
“Well, what’s there?”
“It’s lovely.” She threw out her arms, almost losing her grip on the compass. “There are flowers on the roof.”
“Okay.”
“It’s your place, Ry,” she declared. “I’ll find it for you.”
I’m not a sappy man but the determination in her little voice hit me hard. I wanted to know more.
“Why is it my place?”
She threw her arms out again. This time, I took the compass from her, fearful she’d drop it. “Because you can see everything from there,” she announced.
She’d managed to tell me everything and nothing.
I shook my head, trying to clear my brain of the nonsense.
“Sounds like a nice place, Bridge,” I replied, humouring her. “Just let me know when we find it.”
“We can hunt all day and all night,” she declared.
I glanced at my watch. “I’m just not that diligent, sweetheart. I’ve got plans.”
28. KEYS TO THE CASTLE
Bente
Despite the fact that Ryan assured me it was nothing more than a casual get-together, I spent two days thinking about the upcoming dinner at his parents’ house. As a result, I was off my game and earned the wrath of my manager.
“I’m super disappointed in your performance today, Ben-ta,” Noelle scolded. “Ryan would be too.”
Totally fed up, I took the low road. “Ryan is never disappointed with my performance, Noelle.” Her whole body tensed and her mouth fell open. I didn’t hang around to hear if she was capable of a witty comeback. I walked out the door without looking back.
I didn’t feel up to going home. Ryan was watching Bridget for the afternoon and I wasn’t up to fending off any more of the miniature blows she liked to dish out. I decided to make an impromptu visit to her mother instead. If anyone knew the dread I was feeling, it was Charli. I’d spent days consoling her after her first few run-ins with the queen so it made total sense to go to her for moral support.
I’d never been to the Merriman gallery before, but the minute I stepped through the door I understood why she loved her job so much. It was calm and quiet and ther
e wasn’t a soul around. I would’ve turned up on a daily basis just for that.
“Wow, Charli,” I mused, looking around the vast space. “Can I come back here with my laptop? I could sit here and write all day.”
Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she came toward me. “It’s great, huh?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Come with me,” she ordered, hooking her arm through mine. “I want to show you something.”
She led me to the rear of the gallery. The back wall showcased some of the biggest canvas prints I’d ever seen.
“These are huge,” I gasped. “Why do they need to be that big?” They seemed awfully ostentatious to me, but in fairness I knew nothing about art.
“They don’t need to be, but I’m glad they are,” she replied, gazing ahead as if she was caught in a trance. “Tell me what you see.”
I felt nervous, probably because I knew I was stuck in some sort of pop quiz. “Is this one of your pictures?”
“I wish,” she said wistfully. “Tell me what you see.”
I stared at the picture, having no clue what I was supposed to tell her. It was a photo of a coastline. The waves were rough and the beach was deserted. If anything, it looked like a miserable place to be.
“The ocean,” I said finally.
“Look at it, Bente,” she urged. “Really look at it.”
I squinted, wondering if that might make a difference. “It’s still the ocean. What do you see?”
She stared ahead, smiling in wonderment. “The ninth wave,” she replied. “It’s the first time I’ve seen the ninth wave of a set captured on film.”
I wasn’t about to ask the significance of the ninth wave. I found her stories confusing at the best of times and I already had enough confusion bouncing around in my head to contend with.
I looked back at the picture, studying it more closely. “There are only four waves, Charli.”
She shook her head, pointing at one particular wave. “Yes, but that’s the ninth one in the set. I can tell.”
“How?”
Her eyes didn’t leave the oceanic scene in front of her. “I can see it. And this picture is so beautifully detailed that I can feel it.”