Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday. Cathy Kelly
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tattoos, including a snake writhing up one arm and around his carotid artery, Jethro had more in common with Suki’s former father-in-law, Kyle Richardson Senior, than he did with his fellow rock gods. Like Kyle Senior, he knew precisely what he wanted and was hell-bent on getting it, no matter who got hurt along the way.
Surrounded by bodyguards in suits – otherwise Jethro said, nobody would be able to tell the bull-necked roadies from security – they were escorted to a black limo. Through the smoky glass, Suki saw the screaming fans held back by the barrier, and as the car pulled into traffic she leaned back, feeling safe, cocooned, special.
Jethro sprawled across the back seat and Suki, unsure now and wondering whether she had made a hideous mistake, sat nervously near the window. She could smell her own sweat through the Shalimar she’d drenched herself in that morning. Studio lights made everyone sweat and she pressed her arms firmly to her sides lest the inevitable wet patches on her amber silk shirt were visible.
‘Do fans turn up like this every time you’re on television?’ she asked, trying to ground herself in normality. She could still get out of this, this madness that had possessed her during that frantic kiss in his dressing room. Television made people crazy, it was well known. The studio lights, the notion that you were smiling into millions of peoples’ homes; it was all pure madness.
And then, to have someone like Jethro growl that you were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen …
She stole a glance at him, his roman profile staring straight ahead, jet black (dyed?) hair raked back from his high forehead. He must wear contact lenses, she decided, peering a bit closer because he wasn’t paying her the slightest bit of attention. Nobody’s eyes were that green; a lucent green like crystal from the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
‘You still thinking of backing out?’ he murmured without looking at her. He reached into a compartment beside him, took out a bottle of champagne and glasses, then deftly popped the cork with all the skill of a sommelier.
When he passed Suki her glass, the look of pure lust in his eyes made her feel all the heat and excitement come rushing back.
‘Just one,’ she mumbled. ‘I have a thing on tomorrow …’ She was babbling now, particularly as he slid across the leather seat to get closer to her.
‘Cancel it,’ he said flatly. ‘You’ll be in Pittsburgh tomorrow. With me.’
‘I can’t cancel it,’ she said, suddenly irked, despite the inky liquid pooling inside her groin. How dare he tell her to cancel something!
Jethro drank some of his champagne and then he was right beside her. His face with its hard lines was close to hers, and then his mouth was opening hers, and she could feel the coolness of his champagne coursing into her mouth. She’d heard of liquid kisses but nobody had ever done it to her before, and suddenly she pulled herself away, drained her own glass, then dropped it and pulled his face close to hers with both hands, and spilled a sliver of cold bubbles into his mouth. She could feel his throaty growl rather than hear it because they were so close, chest to chest, and it didn’t matter that she smelled of fresh hot sweat and Shalimar: he was the same, a raw animal smell and something musky and expensive.
He drained the last of his drink, then held the bottle to her lips.
‘Who needs glasses?’ he said, mouth closing on the soft curve of her neck.
At the airport in Martha’s Vineyard, she had to wait in line for fifteen minutes to pick up a cab.
‘You wanna share one?’ said a guy in a business suit in front of her. Suki sized him up; business man out of town for work, expense account dinner in front of him and a bottle of whatever he liked. Probably fancied a little fun on the way.
‘No, thank you,’ she said in her steeliest voice.
When the cab pulled up in front of her house, Suki got out slowly. The street was quiet, the way suburban streets were in winter, with most of the kids inside, no teams of laughing teens playing softball in someone’s front yard, no drone of a lawnmower or the bark of a small dog being walked by a gaggle of little girls who’d squeal with delight when the dog peed.
Suki shivered at the November cold and let herself into the house. She was cold a lot of the time now, apart from when she had the hot flushes and her core body temperature seemed to reach meltdown levels. She was fed up with this damn hormonal thing but she wouldn’t give in to it. No way, sister. She was going to beat it at its own game with agnus castus and the dong quai she got from the Chinese medical centre in town. Taking replacement hormones was like admitting it was all over: welcome to Cronesville. She would not do it. She was still young, still fertile, still beautiful.
The house had the appearance it always had when Mick was home all day. The sports pages of the newspaper had been dumped on the floor beside Mick’s recliner, which in turn, was facing the flat-screen plasma, an item she hadn’t wanted and which Mick couldn’t afford, but he’d got a loan from the bank for it. She could smell takeout from the kitchen and knew, without looking, that he’d have left the boxes on the table.
She resisted the impulse to tidy up. First, she needed to get out of her dressy clothes. Lord knew, she didn’t have many elegant clothes left. The designer outfits she’d once worn were all out of date and too small. This messiness with her hormones had thickened her waist, and she hated that.
Upstairs in their bedroom, she stripped off and pulled on her sloppy velour sweatpants and a GAP sweatshirt she’d once bought for Mick, not realizing that denim was his preferred choice in all clothing.
There was a note on the bed: Baby, gone for beers with Renaud. Might be late. Xx Mick.
She smiled at the kisses and the term of endearment. Baby. No woman who got called ‘baby’ could be turning perimenopausal. He loved her, and she loved him, even if he was the worst housekeeper she’d ever met.
Still smiling, she went downstairs, ignored the cartons on the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of chilled white wine from the fridge. On a hook by the back porch door were a few heavy rugs Suki used when she wanted to sit on the porch swing seat on winter nights. Snagging one, she went outside, wrapping herself up in the rug. It was nicer on the porch when she lit the candles in all the tiny storm lanterns, but it took ages and she was too tired. When Mick sat out with her, he made sure he had music playing, sometimes bluegrass, more often rock. For Suki, music just reminded her of the hurt she felt, so when she was alone, she sat in silence.
Closing her eyes, she let wine and nicotine sink into her. When she was a teenager, she’d sit out in the orchard in the evenings, sneaking a cigarette after dinner. Sometimes their cat, a small black creature called Raven, would join her, weaving around for attention.
Tess had rescued the cat from the woods one day, a tiny scrap of a thing thrown into a sack with the top tied.
Of course, they’d kept her. Nothing in pain was ever sent away from Avalon House.
Tess had saved the cat and named her, yet Raven had chosen Suki to be her beloved mistress. Suki was careless of the cat’s affection and that appeared to suit the cat just fine.
Raven was long gone now, buried with all the Avalon House animals in the tiny pet graveyard outside the orchard wall.
Suki’s eyes filled with tears. This was ridiculous, she thought, stabbing out her cigarette and then wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
She kept thinking about home, about Tess, about Avalon, and it was stupid. Smart women didn’t look back, they looked forward. Right?
Mara had thought going to Jack’s wedding was painful: but going into work and seeing him with Tawhnee every day after the wedding was far worse.
‘I feel as if I’ve disappeared into a black hole,’ she told Cici miserably.