JAMESCharlotte's enforced bed rest isn't well received. She doesn't cope well with inactivity. After another two days, I'm beginning to think I'll have to tie her to the bed. Not that I haven't done that often enough, but the circumstances were different.I aim a finger at her. "You chose to get pregnant. You have to live with the consequences. If the doctor's say you belong in bed, that's where you're staying. No argument."Head drooping, she submits, but then her eyes rise to mine. "Where's Michael?"And I don't know how to answer her.*****After a week, the doctor's pronounce Charlotte is well enough recovered to come home, albeit with much wagging of fingers and warnings to 'Don't overdo it'.As I drive up the mountain road, Charlotte sits beside me, very quiet. I lay a hand on her thigh. "You alright?"She silent for a moment. "Is Michael at home?""He is, yes."In a small voice, "Does he want to see me?""I'm sure he does. But I think he's worrying that yo
JAMESMichael...He's depressed...What can I do?Change of scene maybe?*****"Charlotte, I was thinking, we're about due for your road-trip."She pauses, half a sausage impaled on a fork midway to her mouth. "Road-trip, Master? What road-trip?""Have you forgotten that you were bequeathed a house? And everything in it. Perhaps it is time to make good your claim?"The half-a-sausage drops back to her plate. "Go back to the farm you mean? The last time I was there, they... they weren't very welcoming."Michael is listening, chewing on toast and marmalade, suddenly looking more animated than he has for days.Thank God..."Things have changed since then, haven't they," he says. "You've spoken with your friend Tom. He knows the truth of what happened. And of course, there's Chad."Still she stares at the sausage and the fried egg congealing by it. "I'm not sure..."I pour myself more coffee. "Even if all you decide to do is sell the house, you'll need to visit
MICHAELThe lawns might have been mown, but the shrubs and borders are heading for the sky. A quick exploration of a small back shed produces saw and secateurs, so I set to, getting the garden back under control."Hello."I turn to see a woman, standing by the garden gate. Wearing jeans and a shirt, her hair tied tightly back in a ponytail, she has a prim, pleasant face. "Hello, I'm Eleanor Collier. I've been keeping an eye on the house. I saw something was happening...?" I stand, wiping muck and sap off my hands and onto my pants, then stride forward to offer my hand. "Michael Summerford." My brain connects the dots. "Collier, was it? Charlo... Jennifer's foster mother?"Her face lights up. "That's right. You know Jenny? She's here?""I'm her husband. And yes, she's here." I yell towards the upstairs window. "Charlotte! Friend of yours here." I gesture to the gate. "You'd better come in."From above, a movement at the window, then a clatter down the stairs and Charlotte
MICHAELJames interrupts my gardening. "You seen Charlotte?""She said she was going for a walk." I nod along the road. "She went that-a-way." I straighten up, pressing hands into my lower spine. "Actually, now I think about it, her tone was a bit odd.""You look as if you've done enough for a while. Want to take a break and stretch your legs?""Good idea. I'll just tell Chad we're going out."I find him inside, paint bucket in hand, slapping emulsion on a bedroom wall. "James and I are just going for a walk. I don't think we'll be long."He cocks an eye at me, his expression assessing. "You might like to know that Mr Kalkowski is buried nearby, in the churchyard.""He is? I thought...""He had no traceable family, so he stayed here. Some of the holier-than-thou churchy types tried to kick up a fuss about it, but Mrs Collier kicked up a bigger fuss and they found a space for him.""Gotcha."He moves to the window and points a long finger along the road; the same dir
RICHARDJames steps out of the elevator looking...What?Harassed?Worried?"James?"He looks to me then jerks his head towards his office. I follow him in. Silently, he offers me a small, padded envelope, still sealed. "This was waiting for me down in the lobby. Special delivery.""A packet?""Look at the addressee."I look, extract spectacles from my top pocket and look again.And the hair rises on the back of my neck.Michelle Kimberley, c/o James Alexanders."Klempner?""Who else could it be? Conners wouldn't know where to find her. Michelle's brothers would probably send it to her direct. So, who else?""James, before anyone opens that envelope, could it be a letter-bomb?"He blows out air, rubs his forehead. "I wouldn't have thought that was Klempner's style... If he wanted her, he come after her himself..." He paces the room. "And why would he send it through me?""You parted... amicably... from Klempner? After the shooting?"He huffs. "I'm not
JAMESIt's a nice area. A pretty area. And it's a day for seeing it at its best.Yachts and pleasure boats float in bobbing ranks on sparkling water. Tourists walk by with ice creams, tossing coins to cross-legged artists sitting by pavement chalkings. Shops sell souvenirs, art and holiday wear.The apartment block is clean and well-maintained. The hallway as we approach the door smells of new carpet and fresh paint.Mitch stands outside the door, seeming to gather herself together, then taking a breath, she inserts the key, turns it, opens the door and we step inside.It's... lovely...Sunlight dances over walls painted in soft neutral colours. They complement the furnishings, made from some pale golden timber, perhaps beech."Can't fault his taste," comments Michael.Paintings dot the walls, abstract mainly, except for a single striking piece taking the centre of one wall; an image of ice and broken water in astonishing rainbow hues."Amazing painting," I say, looki
MICHAELI don't much feel like breakfast, but for the sake of form, I join Mitch, James and Charlotte in the kitchen, downing a coffee, then pouring another.James is on his usual 'toast and coffee only' breakfast. Mitch works her way through yoghurt and muesli, eating tidily and sipping at a cup of peppermint tea.Charlotte's standing on tiptoe, rummaging at the top shelf of the store cupboard. James stands, walks across. "What are you looking for?""Pickled onions.""You don't like pickled onions.""I felt like one sliced up on my sandwich."I've already seen the other items laid out on the worktop for Charlotte's 'sandwich', along with the expression flitting across James' face as he saw them too.Hmmm...But he snakes up a long arm to the top shelf and takes down a jar.In some fascination we sit, watching Charlotte assemble a peanut butter, avocado and pickled onion sandwich, on crusty bread cut thick enough to use as a draught excluder. In a final flourish, sh
MICHAELI sit, staring at nothing, thinking about...... Nothing...Maybe I should get something to eat?My gut's griping. I've not eaten all day. Sally brought me one of her usual offerings for lunch; a plate-sized bacon and egg sandwich and a can of beer, but the smell turned my stomach.Scruffy ate well though along with Kirstie's tribe, running wild around the gardens in hairy, waggy, excitable enthusiasm.The pint-sized rag-tag lies by my feet. Occasionally he looks up at me, whining. I scratch his ear and he settles again.There's no sign of James and Charlotte other than James' tablet on his armchair and a book, marker inserted, on Charlotte's favourite spot on the settee. With no real interest, I look at the cover. 'A Song of Ice and Fire - A Dance with Dragons.'The scent of something is drifting in, James' cooking I assume. A part of me says it smells rich and savoury, winey and herby, but my gut recoils.Just a coffee maybe...I head for the kitchen, but