The Lover's Children

Chapter 123 – Autumn’s Fury – Part 15

JAMES

Half an hour later, working with my back to the corner walls my front to the barbeque and fenced off

from straying toddlers, I toss sprigs of rosemary and bay-tree trimmings over glowing charcoal. Michael

lifts his nose to the breeze. “Nothing like the scent of woodsmoke and food outdoors in the sunshine.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Klempner appears almost sunny. “Eating outside is always one of the great

pleasures in life.”

“Drinking too. What does everyone want? Wine? Beer? Cava?”

Richard scans the array of drinks. “How about that red-wine spritzer thing you do, James.”

“Tinto de verano? In the jug on the table. Marty?”

“Just half a glass. I want an early night. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

She holds out her glass as Michael offers her the jug, swishing with floating fruit, clinking with ice.

“What time’s your train?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“I’ll drive you to the station,” says Richard. “And if there’s anything else we can do…”

“You’ve done plenty. I’ve felt so safe here, after, well after everything. Thank you. I won’t forget it.”

Michael sets down the jug, offering his hand. “It’s been a pleasure. We’ve all enjoyed having you here.

You’ll be welcome back anytime. I know Charlotte’s going to miss you and your lessons.”

“I’m going to miss her lessons too.”

I cast across to my wife, radiating fake emerald-eyed innocence. “Her lessons?”

Charlotte dimples in the way that sharks and tigresses do. “Marty’s been teaching me the pole. I’ve

been teaching her the mat.”

?

“Ah. Charlotte’s been giving you self-defence lessons?”

“That’s right. It seemed…” She looks away… Looks back… “It seemed kind of a good idea.”

“Absolutely.” Klempner speaks up from his lounger. “But when you’re faced with a threat, take the

running-away option first if you can. Or if that’s not an option, do him some damage if you can then get

the hell out at the first opportunity.” His neck cranes. “What’s in that jug?”

The nurse whisks past. “No alcohol for you, Mr Waterman.”

He eyes the battalion of small brown bottles on his side table then, in a tone to blister paint, “Am I

permitted orange juice?”

“That could interfere with your antibiotics. I suggest sparkling water.”

Thunderclouds roll across his brow, interrupted by the arrival of Beth with some brightly coloured plastic

object flopping from under one arm. Mitch beams. “Great idea.”

Beth sits, unfolding the whatever-it-is. “I thought so. Keeps them happy in the sunshine. They’ll even be

clean at the end of it.”

Setting a nozzle to her lips, she blows, the whatever-it-is unravelling as it inflates. Five minutes later, a

small rainbow-striped paddling pool takes up part of the terrace.

Another five minutes and it’s gradually filling from a hose. Michael dabbles fingers in the water. “That

should keep them happy. It’s lukewarm, so they should be comfortable.”

Adam hovers at the edge, dabbling his fingers in the water. Cara screeches, clambering in fully clothed

then jumping up and down, splashing. Bear pads across, watching, head cocked and ears pricked,

before getting in and lying down beside her.

Mitch raises a finger. “One more thing. Back in a mo.” She darts off inside the house, returning a couple

of minutes later with a large empty cardboard box. “The other perfect toy,” she grins.

Michael grins back, flashing brows. “At the age where the box is more interesting than the contents

ever were?”

Cara spots the contents of the buffet. Standing on tiptoe, clinging to the edge of the table, she Oohhhs.

Beaming, she toddles up to Richard, arrowing an arm up to the tiramisu. “Choccy, Unky Rickie.

Choccy!” Adam follows up behind, Scruffy trotting behind and Bear with his nose lifting to table level.

Richard smiles down at the pair. “Not now. Proper food first. Sweeties later, when we all have some.”

Cara’s face reddens and the bottom lip thrusts out. Charlotte marches up. “Later. You can have cake

after you’ve had your proper meal.”

The mouth opens in an ear-piercing shriek.

Klempner grimaces, but humour tugs at his mouth and his words are mild. “That child has an overdose

of attitude.”

Michael huffs, rolling eyes my way. “Well, she is the child of Charlotte and James Alexanders. And the

grandchild of Mitch Kimberley and Larry Klempner. What kind of personality would you expect her to

have?”

Klempner sniffs. “You may have a point. But I wonder what that says about how yours will be when it

arrives?”

Michael scratches at his scalp. “I'm hoping for a little sugar with the spice.”

I flip the chops to hide my expression, but Klempner’s still musing. “Charlotte Alexanders? I thought it

was Summerford?

Michael shrugs. “I'm just the one with the marriage certificate. She's as much Charlotte Alexanders as

she is Charlotte Summerford. She could just as easily have been Jenny Kimberley or Jenny Waterman.

In fact, the only one she isn't, and never was, is the name she actually carried. She was never really

Jenny Conners.”

Klempner winces then, brow creasing, looks out and down the mountain. Michael turns, following his

gaze. “Something wrong?”

“I thought I saw something. It was…” He lifts a hand, shading his eyes…

“Oh, my God!” Charlotte launches from her seat like an ICBM, darting to where Cara sits perched up on

the buffet table by the dessert. Pearly teeth beam out from a face plastered brown with a veneer of

chocolate. Her hair stands in rigid punk-rocker spikes, stiff with cocoa and whipped cream.

One hand clutches brown and cream mush, handing it down to where, balanced by her, standing on a

chair, Adam props himself with one hand on the table.

Wearing a kind of bandolero’s mask of brown cream and crumbs, Adam chomps a mouthful of the

mush, then slops the remainder down the Chain of Conspiracy to the waiting Bear.

Jaws chop! mid-air. Bear licks cake and slobber from his muzzle while, at ground level, Scruffy

vacuums up everything the larger dog missed.

Hands in pockets, Michael strolls to the table. Cara raises wide, white eyeballs…

Caught in the act…

… then proffers a brown-goo fist. “Choccy, Daddy. Choccy!”

Michael sighs. “You shouldn’t give dogs chocolate. It’s very bad for them.”

*****

HARKNESS

I’ve read it so many times, I know the address, but just to be sure, I double-check the card…

Michael Summerford… NôvelDrama.Org © content.

Life and Beauty.

… before I tap in on the mapping app. It takes seconds to find the place.

Well off the main highways, up the mountain…

Some house or other to the back of the place…

Woodland behind that…

Open fields to the front, reaching down the mountain.

I zoom in on satellite view…

Where to go?

Can't be too hard to find somewhere to hide while I get a look at the place.

*****

A sheep-shelter. Unoccupied right now, it probably only sees visitors, human or otherwise, in the winter.

But it’s surprisingly comfortable. The straw’s a bit stale, but it’s not foul. If anything, it smells better than

most of the places I’ve been sleeping. It gives me a good view of the front of the house and a side-view

of the hotel.

I zoom into my satellite view again…

And there’s a walker’s shelter in the woods at the back. If push came to shove, I could sleep there. Not

that I need to, with the car…

*****

And there he is… Big Blond Bastard… aka Michael Summerford… fetching drinks bottles to a table on

a terrace.

You stole my Lily…

But she’s there too…

Lily…

My Lily…

… talking to some other woman…

Long, beautiful hair. Red in the sunshine. She’s tall and graceful and she moves beautifully.

If I'd not found you first, Lily…

Redhead smiles and simpers, reaching up to kiss Blond Bastard on the mouth.

Husband? Boyfriend?

There’s others too. Shifting the focus on my binoculars, I zoom in for a better look…

A couple of kids run around on the grass, a dog yapping with them

Two more men, both tall and dark-haired, taking drinks from the tray.

Redhead stands, walks to the taller of the pair, face upward to kiss…

It’s open-mouthed, a full kiss, he with his hand around her hand, holding her in…

wtf?

Then she pulls away, seeming to react to something. She calls out some reply, then goes through

French doors, vanishing inside.

A moment later, she comes out again, this time joining the other dark-haired man…

… and she kisses him too…

Three of them?

Some kind of… what?

An orgy?

Or she’s a paid call girl?

Why’s Lily there?

Which one’s she fucking?

I can’t figure it out…

Who else?

A figure lies stretched out on a sun lounger, blankets pulled over to the waist. A side table next to him

has a jug of some drink and a heap of papers.

Something seems familiar…

I nudge the focus…

Fuck!

I almost drop the binoculars. My heart hammers. My stomach roils.

It's him.

He should be dead…

You should be dead…

I saw you.

The car hit you…

Why aren't you dead?

You chased me…

Hurt me…

You deserve to be dead.

What are you doing there? With my Lily?

My mouth is dry and sour. A part of me wants to make my way there quietly, find Lily and bring her

away with me.

That knife…

Those eyes…

Something inside me shrinks and clenches. I can't do it while he's there.

Or blond bastard…

I just can't.

I’ll just have to wait…

… and watch.

How long will it take?

*****

MICHAEL

Breakfast over, the ‘family’ prepare to go their various ways.

Out on the terrace, James and Richard, suited, booted and briefcased, sit together over a final coffee,

heads together as they discuss their day’s itinerary before they head out to the City.

Klempner lounges off to one side, stretched out from a chair, ankles crossed, apparently asleep, a hat

tilted over his eyes against the thin November sunshine. The sky is still blue, but a bite in the breeze

says it’s only a matter of time before lying out in the sun will have to wait until Spring.

Just inside, by the French doors, getting the benefit of the sunshine but without the breeze to disturb

her, Mitch sets herself up to work. Numbered drawings in various stages of completion lie scattered

over a trestle table; outline sketches of a large room; a great window at one end; murals painted on the

surrounding walls reflect the window with tall arches, plaited with vining leaves, framing views of

willows overhanging water, rushing streams and distant hills.

Boxes of coloured pencils, charcoal and pastels sit to one side; a pot of her favourite mint tea to the

other, clinking ice. Hands in pockets, I amble over. “What are you working on, Mitch?”

Lines, very faintly pencilled in from a complex geometrical figure, set a vanishing point, drawing

perspective to the centre of a tall window. A soft pencil in hand, Mitch sweeps a tall arc through the

guidelines, then mirrors it with another, forming an arch which matches the window.

She speaks distractedly. “Kirstie and Ryan asked me if I'd do some work for that great hall of theirs. I

thought I’d base it around that arched window that looks over the river. Theme it all together.”