Short and Sweet Read online

  He gave a wheezy laugh. “Then I succeeded. I succeeded with my lovely girl.” He released my hand at last and leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes bright and enquiring as he turned to look at me. “A stroppy old biddy? Is that how you see her?”

  “Sometimes. When she’s in one of her organising moods.”

  “When she’s trying to organise my boat out of her garden!”

  “Well, you must confess it’s a bit of a mess... stuck here in town, so far from the sea. Why not get rid of it, for Nan?”

  The town clock chimed in the distance, and we listened together as it rang the half-hour into the golden air.

  “Dinner’s ready,” came my grandmother’s high quavering voice, followed by the slap of the fly-screen door.

  Grand-dad pushed himself to his feet, and I took his arm again to steady him.

  “Because,” he said with deliberation, “that’s mine. It’s the only thing that’s truly mine. I gave Em her way with everything else, all through her life with me. The boat was my little dream. Just seeing my boat there; knowing her engine was still up to scratch... the trailer tyres pumped up... that was my part of the bargain. And your Nan’s not having that as well.”

  He took a step forward.

  “It was a fair trade,” he added. “I got Emily, and I gave her anything she wanted, but she had to put up with me and my boat.”

  “She’ll have it out of the garden the moment you’re gone,” I said sadly.

  “Or I’ll have it out of the garden the moment she’s gone. If I don’t have her to rile with it, I won’t need it any longer.”

  “So it’s a game?” I asked, astounded there was still a bit of one-upmanship after more than sixty years of marriage.

  “It’s a little love affair. The only other one I’ve ever had.”

  I nodded slowly. “Your dreamboat?” I suggested.

  “Seaspray and Emily—dreamboats both of them,” Grand-dad agreed. He pulled the screen door open for me, gallant as ever, and held it so I could precede him into the warm fragrant kitchen.

  ***

  RESCUED AND ROMANCED

  The year after she and Richard divorced, Caitlin sold the brick house in Chesterfield and flew back home to New Zealand to try and rebuild her shattered life. She hadn’t planned on buying the down-at-heel timber cottage in Wellington and rebuilding that too.

  But somehow…

  *

  She swiped a gloved hand across her soot-streaked cheek. The old chimney was giving way without much fight, but after two hours of piling up filthy bricks her fingers were aching and the sunlit room swirled with smoky-smelling dust.

  “That’s the high piece done,” her brother said, descending the ladder and stripping off his leather gauntlets. “You’ll be okay now, Sis?”

  Plainly she had to be if Jim was leaving. “Yes, fine. It was great of you to help.”

  He grinned—no doubt at her hilarious appearance; baggy old blue track pants and filthy yellow T-shirt. Even worse, she’d piled up her long hair, pulled a plastic supermarket bag over it, and taped it tightly around her head in an effort to keep it clean.

  “I’ll break that window before I go,” he said. “You throw these bricks out while I take the kids for their promised BMX fun. I’ll nail some temporary plywood on this arvo.”

  “Tea or coffee?” Caitlin asked, very conscious she owed him. It was wonderful to be home amongst family who pitched in when needed but left her alone when she wanted to lick her wounds in private.

  Jim glanced at his watch. “Better not, or I’ll be in the dog-box. Stand clear.” He hefted one of the bricks and threw it hard. The glass exploded out into the back courtyard, and she screamed with surprise.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “Always wanted to do that!” He picked up another brick and tapped at the remaining jagged edges. “Sweep it up before you chuck the bricks through.” He pulled off his blackened gauntlets and left, crunching through the broken glass as he departed.

  Caitlin stared at the wrecked window, heart still pounding. Well, nothing for it now but to get rid of the huge pile they’d dislodged. As she stepped toward it, an unknown man leapt up onto the fence. She lurched back, tripped, and landed on the floor.

  “Are you okay?” the man yelled, vaulting the rest of the way over.

  She got a quick glimpse of dark hair, bare chest and blue jeans before the clematis armandii snagged his foot and he overbalanced and slithered, face first, to the ground. Swearing followed.

  Caitlin levered herself up and approached the window. The shock of his sudden appearance had been softened by his comical landing. “Are you okay?” she countered, peering out. “Who are you anyway?”

  The man kicked himself free of the clinging creeper. Shards of glass tinkled down from his chest, and small trails of blood followed.

  “Oh God!” Caitlin exclaimed. “Stay there.” She dashed through the back doorway and crouched beside him.

  Brown eyes inspected her. One corner of his mouth curled up. “I thought it must have been someone breaking in,” he said, waving a hand at the window and then picking a sliver of glass from his forearm. That started bleeding, too. “Why the hell did you smash it?”

  Caitlin narrowed her gaze, unsure whether to be pleased he’d sprung to her rescue or annoyed because he apparently considered her an incompetent DIYer. “I’m demolishing the chimney. The old glass was cracked and that window was nailed shut anyway.”

  “But why did you break it?”

  “To throw the bricks out. Easier than carrying them all through the doorway.”

  He gave a brief nod. “No burglars then, despite your scream?”

  “No burglars,” she confirmed. “But you’re hurt. Come inside.”

  His dark eyebrows lifted.

  “I’m a staff nurse at Edendale,” she explained, extending a grimy gloved hand to help him. “I’m glad you missed the worst of it.”

  He pressed his lips together and glanced across to where the shining shards lay thicker. “Me too. Could have put me out of work.”

  Caitlin hauled on the hand she’d grasped—quite unnecessarily she found—because he rose lithely until he towered over her, low-slung jeans encasing long legs, tanned skin covering a torso quilted with undulating muscles, and shoulders any boxer would be proud of.

  She swallowed. This certainly made a change on a Saturday morning. “I’m Caitlin,” she said, trying to estimate his age. Thirty-five to forty? Now he was standing, the sun was lighting up a few strands of silver at his temples. “Hold still a minute,” she added, inspecting his very nice chest and shoulders.

  She removed her gardening gloves and picked a few more pieces of glass off him. Only one had embedded itself any distance, and he sucked in a breath as she twitched it out. They both watched as another little runnel of blood oozed down. “Anyway, what are you doing at Anne and Lance’s with only half your clothes on?”

  He laughed at that. “Jordan Waterson, landscaper. Building a retaining wall. Didn’t you hear the thumping and sawing?”

  “I only heard Jim bashing away at my chimney. He made enough noise to drown anything else. Come in and I’ll clean you up.”

  He let out a long, low whistle when he saw the pile of bricks on the old carpet. “Hell of a mess! Have you done all this today?”

  Caitlin nodded. “My brother did the highest piece, and now it’s my turn to get this lot outside, stack it up for garden edgings, and keep going on the lower stuff.”

  Jordan swung a booted foot at the nearest brick. “Big job.”

  “It’s coming apart a bit too easily,” she admitted. “I’ll feel safer with it gone.”

  He shoved his thumbs into his pockets, seemingly in no hurry for her ministrations. “Old lime mortar breaks down and loses its strength.”

  “Yes, Jim said that too.” She indicated the adjoining bathroom. “Go through. I’ll scrub up here.”

  “Boots off?”

  “Not in all this…�
�

  He sauntered away, and Caitlin leaned on the kitchen counter for a moment, still somewhat affected by the unexpected appearance of a semi-clad man leaping the fence and crashing to the ground. After a few seconds she gave her hands a thorough soapy wash.

  “So how bad is the damage?” she asked, bustling in to join him and snapping on the light. Gosh, he took up a lot of space. He already had the water running hot, so she bobbed down beside him and reached into the cupboard for antiseptic. “Add a bit of that,” she said, rummaging further for cotton balls and dressings.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Jordan drawled, sounding amused by her fussing.

  She rose and surveyed his chest and upper arms. Tiny pieces of glass glinted in the bright light. So did his gold wedding ring, which made her sigh inwardly.

  “You were lucky,” she said, trying not to sound disappointed, and brushing the glass flakes off with delicate touches before dropping them into the toilet. His skin burned hot against her fingers. “I think that’s all. Can you see any more?”

  She flicked a glance up to his face, not meaning to flirt, but he had that cheeky half grin twitching at his gorgeous lips again, and she couldn’t help smiling back. “Are you hurt? Apart from all this? Bruised from falling?”

  “Your clematis broke my fall.”

  “And you probably broke my clematis.”

  “Yeah. At least they grow like rockets. You’d be better off with something less rampant there.”

  “I quite like rampant,” Caitlin said, cursing her suggestive words the moment they’d passed her lips. “Do you do plants as well as walls?”

  “I do everything,” he said, his grin growing ever broader.

  “Hmmm.” Caitlin forced herself to look away, and turned to the antiseptic-scented water. She dropped a cotton ball into it, squeezed the excess out, and kept her attention firmly on his chest. “Not too bad?”

  He barely flinched as she touched the puncture wounds. “Nothing I can’t stand.”

  She heard the humour in his voice, and dabbed at him some more, stroking down over the runs of congealing blood. In truth he wasn’t really injured, but her nurse’s instincts insisted she cleaned him up, and her womanly instincts kept suggesting she made the pleasant closeness last a little longer.

  She tossed the cotton ball down the toilet and dipped another into the water, wiping it over his firm golden skin until he was returned to his former perfection. Finally, she drew back to survey her handiwork. “You’ll do,” she said. “There’s only one that’s the least bit deep—that last one. She reached for the tube of antiseptic cream and smoothed some onto the tiny puncture marks, knowing her fingers were lingering too long. Knowing she should be applying it with a cotton ball, too, but he was so damn gorgeous to touch. “Only one dressing needed,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  His beautiful chest inflated with a big breath. “Look… um… do you want a hand with the rest of the chimney? A little thing like you shouldn’t be attempting that.”

  Caitlin considered his offer. It would be lovely to have help—his help. “Anyone would be ‘little’ compared to you,” she pointed out. “But you’re working on your wall.”

  “Nah,” he murmured. “They’re away for a few days. They’ll never know when I started or finished.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, but I can’t afford you as well as the builder who’s patching up this mess once I’ve finished.”

  An annoyed expression dimmed his smile for a second or two. “I’m not after your money. I’ll work for coffee and lunch, and the pleasure of your company.”

  “You’re wearing a wedding ring,” she said. “You already have company.”

  He surprised her with another smile. “You’re interested then? You checked?”

  “Of course not.” It was very hard to keep a straight face with that cheeky grin aimed straight at her.

  He looked down at his big hand. “I should get it cut off. The wife’s long gone but the ring’s too tight to remove.”

  Caitlin’s left eyebrow rose. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “You can ask my daughter. She’ll be next door soon after her netball game. Anyway, the chimney’s far too big a job for you. And unsafe.” His gaze held hers. “What if those bricks collapse? A plastic bag on your head is no protection.”

  “Shi….vers!” she exclaimed, pushing at him and inspecting herself in the mirror. The evidence was all too clear. Grungy old track pants, soot-streaked fraying T-shirt, and the stupid supermarket bag taped over her hair. How had she forgotten?

  “To keep it clean,” she muttered, blushing furiously and trying to tear the bag off.

  His hands covered hers, so much larger, warm and gentle. “Leave it,” he said. “I’m a practical man and it’s quite an ingenious solution.”

  “No…” she groaned. “I look ridiculous.”

  He cupped her face up and inspected her thoroughly. “Ridiculously cute, maybe. I’m picking your hair’s blonde to go with those amazing blue eyes. Am I close?”

  “Far too close,” she murmured, inhaling warm man and lemony cologne as she gazed into his lively brown ones.

  He smoothed his thumbs down the side of her face. “My turn,” he said when she tried to pull away. “You touched me plenty so I’m just getting even.”

  Caitlin rolled her eyes—and couldn’t stop her smile. “I had a genuine excuse. You were hurt.” She relaxed a little, loving his unexpected attention. “How do you like your coffee? I’m betting strong and sweet?”

  Just like you?

  Jordan nodded. “You’re a mind-reader. So we’re doing this? I’ll tidy up next door, and be right back as soon as Suzie arrives.”

  She gasped as he pressed a quick kiss on her forehead and released her.

  The moment he left, she ripped the plastic bag off and dived for her hair brush and a clean T-shirt. No way would gorgeous Jordan Waterson find her looking like that again.

  ***

  THE BOY ON THE TRAIN

  Anna thought the boy on the train was a honey. He had shiny dark hair and a gorgeous sulky mouth, well-worn black jeans and scuffed trainers. His eyes flashed vivid blue when he raised them from the paperback he was reading. He glanced up every few minutes in the slowly-rocking carriage to see which of the suburban stations they were nearing, and then returned his attention to the book.

  She thought it unusual for someone his age to be so engrossed in a story.

  The train braked a little too hard, and he made a grab for his guitar case as it started to tip sideways. The book’s cover became briefly visible. She was astounded to see it was a romance. It seemed a strange choice for a good-looking kid of perhaps sixteen. A very brave choice in public, too.

  They were more or less alone at the end of the carriage, so she wondered if the relative privacy had given him the confidence to read something with such a clichéd ‘couple-in-a-clinch’ cover.

  The boy saw that she’d seen, and a hot blush raced up his neck and over his face. “For school!” he insisted. His blue eyes implored her to believe him.

  “It’s okay—I write them,” she said, with a hint of the same embarrassed expression.

  “Yeah? This one?” He briefly flashed the cover up so she could see the famous author’s name.

  “I wish I had. She’s very good.”

  “It is schoolwork,” he insisted. “My teacher got one of the bookshops to donate a dozen copies of a murder, a dozen westerns, a dozen sci-fis and a dozen,” he gave a definite shudder, “romances.”

  “And you have to compare the way they’re written?” she hazarded.

  “Uh-huh.” He relaxed a little once he knew she wasn’t going to tease him. “So who are you?” he asked, raising the book slightly to indicate what he meant.

  “Anna Bassingthwaite. It’s too much of a mouthful, isn’t it! Awful for a pen-name, so I thought I might be Anna Bassing if they ever publish my books. I haven’t sold one yet.”

  He raised a dar
k eyebrow. “How many have you written?”

  Anna bit her lip. His brilliant blue eyes really were gorgeous, and that mouth was a temptation all on its own. Yes, she knew a thirty-five-year-old widow shouldn’t be spinning fantasies about such a very young man, but hey, she was a writer, and her brain just worked like that. Anyway, she could pretend it was research.

  “Three,” she said.

  “Geez! And they haven’t bought any of them?”

  “Well, they haven’t even read the second and third yet. You have to email the manuscript, then you wait for months, and if you’re lucky they ask you to send it back again with their suggested revisions.” She sighed. “And then you wait some more months. They like to deal with them one at a time, so you can’t send three together.”

  He looked a little stunned, and then nodded. His hair flopped into his eyes and he pushed it back absent-mindedly.

  “How are you enjoying the book?” she asked.

  He managed a rather endearing nose-wrinkle and a wry grin before conceding, “It’s better than I expected. Not exactly exciting, but the people are interesting and the situation’s going to take some sorting out.”

  “Conflict,” she said. “Quote that word in your school assignment. With no conflict there’s no story, whether it’s an intergalactic battle in a science-fiction novel or a big personal problem in a romance.”

  “Conflict,” he repeated. “Yeah, she has this baby that he doesn’t know about, and she doesn’t dare tell him. The cowboy book had good conflict. Cattle-rustling and boundary disputes. I haven’t had my turn with the murder or the sci-fi yet.”

  He steadied the guitar case as it started to tip with the train’s motion.

  “Are you in a band?” she asked.

  “Not with this. It’s acoustic. I need an electric guitar for a band.”

  “So this is a real one?”

  Again he gave her that gorgeous grin. “Yeah - Dad insisted. The deal is he’ll help me buy the electric for Christmas if I get good on this.”