Save The Date!. Kate Hardy
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mansion. He wondered why it meant so much to her.
‘I should’ve dug my heels in harder about the rest of it too, Rick. I’m sorry I didn’t.’
He handed her back the plane. ‘Forget about it. We were just kids.’ And what chance did a timid ten-year-old have against bullying parents and glaring policemen?
‘Hey, I remember those—’ he laughed when she pulled out a host of cheap wire bangles in an assortment of garish colours ‘—the girls at school went mad for them for a while.’
‘I know and I coveted them. I managed to sneak into a Two Dollar Shop and buy these when my mother wasn’t looking, but she forbade me from wearing them. Apparently they made me look cheap and she threatened to throw them away.’
So instead Nell had buried them in this tin where no one could take them away from her...but where she’d never be able to wear them either. Not even in secret.
She dispensed quickly with a few other knick-knacks—some hair baubles and a Rubik’s Cube—along with some assorted postcards. At the very bottom of the tin were two stark white envelopes. The writing on them was black-inked capitals.
One for Nell.
One for him.
With a, ‘Tsk,’ that robbed the moment of its ominousness, she handed them both to him and then proceeded to pile her ‘treasures’ back into the tin and eased the lid back on. ‘Do we want to rip them open here or does it call for coffee?’
‘Coffee?’ His lip curled, although he tried to stop it.
‘You’re right. It’s not too early for a drink, is it?’
‘Hell, no. It has to be getting onto three o’clock.’
‘I don’t have any beer, but I do have half a bottle of cheap Chardonnay in the fridge.’
‘Count me in.’
He carried the spade, the secateurs and the letters. She carried the trowels and the tin. It touched him that she trusted him with her letter. He could simply make off with both letters and try to figure out what game John Cox was playing at. But the gold locket burned a hole in his pocket and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
Besides, Nell had been the one to decipher the clue and dig up the tin. So he helped her stow the garden tools and followed her across the weed-infested lawn, along the terrace and back into the kitchen. He set both letters onto the table. Nell washed her hands, collected two wine glasses and the bottle of wine.
He took the bottle, glanced at the label and grinned. ‘You weren’t joking when you said cheap, were you?’
‘Shut up and pour,’ she said cheerfully. ‘When it’s a choice between cheap wine and no wine...’
‘Good choice,’ he agreed, but a burn started up in his chest at all this evidence of the Princess fallen on hard times.
He handed her a glass, she clinked it with his and sat. He handed her the letter. She didn’t bother with preliminaries. She set her glass down, tore open the envelope, and scanned the enclosed sheet of paper.
Rick remained standing, his heart thudding.
With a sound of disgust she thrust it at him. ‘I don’t like these games.’
Rick read it.
Dear Miss Nell,
If you think he’s worth the effort, would you please pass these details on to him?
Yours sincerely,
John Cox.
She leapt up and snatched the letter back. ‘He calls you “him” and “he’s”.’ She slapped the sheet of paper with the back of her hand. ‘He doesn’t even have the courtesy to name you. It’s...it’s...’
‘It’s okay.’
She stared at him. She gave him back the letter. ‘No, it’s not.’ She took her seat again and sipped her wine. She didn’t grimace at its taste as he thought she would. In fact, she looked quite at home with her cheap wine. He’d have smiled except his letter burned a hole in his palm.
‘And just so you know,’ she added, ‘the details there are for his solicitor.’
Rick didn’t think for a moment that John had left him any money. It’d just be another hoop to jump through. Gritting his teeth, he slid a finger beneath the flap of the envelope addressed to him and pulled the letter free.
At least it was addressed to him.
Rick
If you’ve got this far then you have the approval of the only woman I’ve ever trusted and the only woman I have any time for. If you haven’t blown it, she’ll provide you with the information you’ll need for the next step of the journey.
It was simply signed John Cox.
He handed the letter to Nell so she could read it too. It seemed mean-spirited not to. She read it and handed it back. ‘Loquacious, isn’t he?’
Rick sank down into his chair.
‘The solicitor, Clinton Garside, is wily and unpleasant.’
‘Just like John Cox.’
She shook her head and then seemed to realise she was contradicting him. Based on all the evidence Rick had so far, ‘wily and unpleasant’ described John to a T. ‘I never knew this side of him. He was quiet, didn’t talk much and certainly wasn’t affectionate, but he was kind to me.’
Maybe so, but he still hadn’t let her plant marigolds.
* * *
Nell glanced at Rick and it suddenly hit her that he was only a step or two away from abandoning this entire endeavour.
She didn’t know why, but instinct warned her that would be a bad thing—not bad evil, but bad detrimental. That it would hurt him in some fundamental way. As the messenger of the tidings she couldn’t help feeling partly responsible.
You have enough troubles of your own.
Be that as it may. She owed Rick. She owed him for what had happened fifteen years ago. She owed him for letting herself be browbeaten, for not being strong enough to have defended him when that had been the right thing to do. She might only have been ten years old, but she’d known right from wrong. She had no intention of making the same mistake now.
She straightened. ‘Clint will give you the runaround. He’ll tell you he won’t be able to see you for weeks, and that’s not acceptable.’
‘Nell, I—’
‘If you have a sibling out there who needs you—’ she fixed him with a glare ‘—then it’s unacceptable.’
His lips pressed together in a tight line. He slumped back in his seat without another word.
Nell pulled her cellphone from her handbag and punched in Clint Garside’s number. ‘Hello, it’s Nell Smythe-Whittaker. I’d like to make an appointment to see Mr Garside, please. I know he’s very busy, but it’s rather important and I was hoping to meet with him as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll just check his appointment book,’ the receptionist said.
‘Thank you, I appreciate that.’ She searched her mind and came back with a name. ‘Is that you, Lynne?’
‘It is, Ms Smythe-Whittaker.’
‘Please, call me Nell. How’s your husband coming along after his football injury? Will he be right to play the first game of the season? All the fans are hoping so.’
‘We think so, fingers crossed. It’s nice of you to ask.’
Exactly. And in return...
‘There’s