Chapter 15
Harley
Volunteer for a Good Cause
Descending the stepladder after changing another library lightbulb, Harley catches sight of Kirsten standing outside.
Checking her phone, she looks despairingly at the boxes piled at her feet.
Folding the ladder away, he grabs his tool bag and exits through the double doors.
Jogging down the stairs leading from the stone terrace to the car park, he heads over, trying not to notice how great she looks, or the butterflies flapping in his stomach.
Red hair spilling loose, the indecently tight blue jeans and white blouse showcase her figure, and he clears his throat before speaking. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Oh, Hi. Not really. My van’s in the garage and I totally forgot I have cakes to drop off at the Happy Café.’ She frowned. ‘My taxi’s not coming. The app says it’s cancelled because they can’t find me.’
‘That’s odd. And sorry, the what café?’
‘Albie mentioned an organisation called Action for Happiness recently, so I looked online. One of their activities is local groups holding Happy Cafés to talk about positive things, and spend time with like-minded people. It’s good for mental health and well-being.
I reached out to see if I could provide some free cakes they can sell to raise money to fund research into happiness. ’
‘A worthy cause.’
She huffs. ‘If you’re just going to make sarcastic remarks—’
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic.’
‘Oh.’ Kirsten looks nonplussed.
He shifts, uncomfortable at the assessing light in her eyes. ‘Where’s Rosie?’ She can be clingy, wanting to constantly hold his hand, but seeing Kirsten alone is like seeing a bookend without its matching partner. Wait. Is he missing her? Surely not.
Yep, she says, sounding amused.
Shut up, he tuts inside his head.
‘It’s Wednesday, so she’s at school,’ Kirsten explains. ‘Dropped her in earlier, dropped the van off then got a taxi home. Which is why I don’t understand why they can’t pick me up now.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Harley, you okay? You’re pulling a weird expression.’
‘Uh, it’s nothing.’ He straightens his face, trying to quieten the internal debate.
The voice is currently pointing out that scrubbing the stripped walls of Albie’s cottage with sugar-soap alongside Kirsten yesterday afternoon while Rosie lay on the floor colouring-in, is the closest he’s ever been to happy.
Being with them is easy, apart from when he lets slip a swear word and Kirsten scolds him.
Even that isn’t so bad because he gets a weird kick out of watching her lose her cool.
He wonders when else it happens, and an image of her rumpled and naked in bed, face hot with passion, floats into his mind.
Which is exactly why he shouldn’t be spending time with her.
But what emerges from his mouth is a croaky, ‘Do you need a lift?’
‘Really?’ When he nods, she gives a little hop. ‘Yes, amazing! Thank you.’ She stops. ‘Wait, am I dreaming? Harley, cynic of the century, volunteering for a good cause?’
He shrugs. ‘If you want to look at it that way. Or maybe I prefer spending time annoying you?’
Her dimple flashes. ‘That, I can believe.’
As they carry the boxes over to the Transit van, past the circular fountain burbling with twinkling water in the morning light, he asks, ‘How did you forget about the cakes? You’re so organised, with all your lists.’
She stiffens. ‘I have loads going on at the moment.’
He throws open the van doors. ‘Don’t get defensive.
I know you spin a lot of plates and I admire that.
’ He’s surprised by his admission, wondering if it came from him, or the little voice which…
belongs to his extra heart? Is there evidence of the phenomenon?
Maybe he needs to research it. Or consider talking to a professional, because it’s unnerving how regularly he has conversations with her, whatever the explanation.
‘You admire me?’ Kirsten squeaks.
‘Yeah. Your work ethic running a successful business is impressive,’ he responds, secretly wondering if she’s been distracted by Theo.
She kept smiling at him the other day when he was singing.
Although, he’s probably a bit young. Surely, she needs someone older who can share her responsibilities, and support her and Rosie?
‘Um, thank you,’ she whispers, wide-eyed and blushing.
He doesn’t know how to reply, concentrating on arranging the cake boxes to stop them sliding around. From the corner of his eye, there’s a glimmer of movement and he jerks his gaze to the fountain. Nothing, except the carved lion heads and roses look particularly pronounced today.
He could’ve sworn—
‘What’s wrong?’ Kirsten leans into his side, her warmth distracting him.
‘N-nothing. Come on, let’s go.’
As they join the M27, he mentions something that wouldn’t have bothered him a few months ago. ‘I, um, overheard Vanessa shouting at Laurie the other day.’ Flicking a look in his wing mirror, he indicates and changes lanes. ‘It was pretty bad.’
‘How so?’ Kirsten tucks her hair behind her ear, the scent of her perfume drifting toward him.
He inhales. Sweet. Melted sugar. Candy floss? ‘It made me uncomfortable. She sounded so frustrated. Guess that’s normal when you’re a single parent, but…’
‘All parents get cross with their kids, but if it’s enough for you to mention, perhaps we should be worried. You’re hardly the sentimental type.’
‘Agreed.’ He flicks a quick glance at her. The spring sunshine highlights her smooth neck and sets her red hair on fire. Jesus, he sounds like a bad poet. Hmm, not sentimental? ‘You talked to Vanessa much?’
‘Only a little on moving-in day, but I’ll drop by with cake and see if I can help. She probably just needs friends, and a break.’
‘Thanks.’ He’s relieved to get rid of the problem, not good at this sort of stuff. What did his ex-wife call him? Emotionally stunted. Following the satnav and indicating to take the next junction. ‘You know, you’re a good person.’
Kirsten falls against the seat, clutching her chest. ‘Oh my god, I’m having a heart attack.
Two compliments in one morning. Are you feeling feverish?
’ Reaching over, she places a cool hand on his forehead.
He flinches, the van swerving. ‘Oops, sorry.’ She laughs, sitting back. ‘Shouldn’t have distracted you.’
He says nothing, jaw clenching, both at her unexpected touch – firing up every nerve-ending in his body – and the subject matter. The silence draws out as he takes the slip road off the motorway, hands clenched on the steering wheel.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’ Braking as they drive up the hill to the roundabout, they roll to a stop at the traffic lights.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Maybe pretending to have a heart attack’s in poor taste.’ He stares at the red light, voice bitter. ‘They write songs about it and it’s a common term, but when it happens to you? Not funny. Though, technically mine was heart failure not a heart attack. Caused by genetic cardiomyopathy.’
‘I’m sorry, I totally forgot. You’re just so fit—’ Her face flushes bright pink. ‘I mean, you look so healthy it’s hard to believe you were ill. The press said you had piggyback heart surgery, but we were saying the other day that—’
‘What?’ he grits out. ‘Who’s we?’
‘Argh, I’m making this worse.’ She winces as the light turns green, and he stomps on the accelerator. ‘I’m not trying to upset you.’
‘The others know who I am?’
‘I didn’t tell them! You’re just recognisable, even with a beard and longer hair, and you are using your actual name…’
The anger leeches away as they come off the roundabout.
‘You’re right. Sorry. Shit.’ Does he need to leave the manor?
Regret swirls in his stomach. He’s settled in and feels more at peace than he ever did in London.
Plus, he can’t afford to move so soon, both for financial and health reasons.
There are also people he’s… starting to care for?
He’s lost all the pieces of his previous existence, but maybe he’s found something far more precious.
‘Don’t worry, no one will say anything, your secret’s safe,’ Kirsten murmurs. ‘It’s interesting though. You have an extra heart.’ She peers over at him, expression curious.
He nods, shifting gears as the satnav announces they’re nearly at their destination. ‘Yep.’
‘Do you know who it belonged to?’
‘No,’ he admits, as they trundle along a narrowing road, ‘ashamed to say I never used to care.’
‘But now?’
He mulls it over. ‘Since moving here, I’ve started to wonder. Also, this is going to sound… Never mind.’
‘No, what?’
He rubs his chest, on the precipice of taking a leap and telling her his crazy suspicions.
But he’s not ready yet, and is saved by the sign for Upston House.
‘We’re here.’ Turning left, they follow the lane to an imposing white stately home.
Stopping outside the main doors, he jumps from the van and unloads the boxes, avoiding Kirsten’s eye.
He’s shared more of himself than he planned to.
You can trust her, the voice whispers, as one of his hearts skip a beat.
I know, he replies grimly, but maybe she shouldn’t trust me. All I do is hurt people.
She doesn’t seem to have a response to that.
Handing over the cakes, they’re thanked profusely by a glamorous silver-haired OAP with Clover on a badge pinned to her purple silk dress.
The woman has keen eyes and catches him staring at Kirsten as she’s fussing over the boxes.
Feeling seen, and leaving them talking, a gossip magazine on a side table grabs his attention.
Little wonder, since it’s his face plastered across the front cover.
Snatching it up, he bolts from the building and clambers into the van.
‘Phew, you ran out of there like there was a fire,’ Kirsten exclaims as she joins him and slams the door, sealing them in together. ‘What happened?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ he grates, flicking through the pages for the article.
Scooting along the bench seat, she leans against him to see. ‘Ah.’
Skipping through the main points, sweat breaks out on his forehead.
He’s been worrying about that day in the coffee shop, but convinced himself everything happened too quickly for photos to be taken.
Yet there’s a blurry shot of him shoving his baseball cap on leaving the café, and the narrative mentions he’s been spotted in a Southampton suburb, before rehashing his fall from grace and speculating on what he’s doing now.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he mutters, slapping the magazine closed. It’s embarrassing, and he prefers to believe she doesn’t know the full awful story.
Turning, he realises how close she is, breath warm on his collarbone. ‘It’s not so bad,’ she sympathises, ‘all they know is you visited the outskirts. Doesn’t mean they know where you live or work. If they did, they’d print it. Right?’
Relief floods through him, as he gazes at her. ‘You’re probably right.’
A spark seems to crackle in the air, and before he can think of all the reasons not to, they’re kissing. Losing himself in heat and softness, he groans into her mouth. Wrapping both arms around his neck, she crowds closer, letting out a low moan. Their bodies meld, and the windows steam up.
Reality intervenes when a vehicle pulls up beside them.
He sits back, breathing hard. ‘This is a bad idea.’ Someone might see, and he can’t be gossip-fodder again. Nor can he disappoint someone so lovely, and she would be disappointed in him, sooner or later.
Kirsten blinks, unwinding her arms and hugging herself. ‘It is?’
There’s a world of hurt in her beautiful blue eyes. Better to put a stop to this now, even if it physically hurts. ‘Yes.’ Shifting in his seat, he says briskly. ‘Buckle up. Don’t you have orders to bake?’
‘Orders. Yeah.’ Sliding to her side of the cab, she turns to stare out the window, cheeks burning.
He grimaces, the silence so tense and awkward he turns the radio on, filling the van with eighties pop hits. He wants to apologise, and explain himself, but maybe it’s better this way.
They don’t exchange a word on the drive home, and it’s a relief when they finally drive through the main street of Little Beaubrook, where a group of workmen are erecting scaffolding on two of the grey cottages.
They crunch up the gravel driveway and he parks the van, opening his mouth and closing it again. Shit.
Kirsten obviously feels the same, because she flings the door open and jumps out, racing toward the porticoed entrance like rabid wolves are in pursuit.
Dropping his forehead onto the steering wheel, Harley mutters, ‘Fuck!’
Yeah, she agrees solemnly. You messed that up.
‘Thanks, helpful.’
A moment later there’s a knock on the window, and he looks down to find Albie peering up at him.
‘What are you doing?’ the old man asks, curiosity plastered across his face.
He shakes his head. ‘Wish I bloody knew.’