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Thank you so much for following my author journey! ‘Tis the season to share and celebrate, so please enjoy this free sample of my latest work of feel-good fiction – The Chase at Brighton Court.
Chapter 1
Lucy
To do:
Send flowers to Donna
Buy milk, bread etc
Find bedclothes/make bed
Find can opener
Moving is more than exhausting. Anyone who’s done it can tell you it’s about so much more than boxes. And leaving in a hurry makes it even harder.
It took me twenty years to create my “forever home” – and I have just two hours to leave it behind for good. More of that later.
Briefly back at my beloved old home, I am like a bird plucking bits of straw out of a hay bale – just enough to build my new life. It’s like dismantling my soul, but hey. Who actually needs a custom built symmetrical entry staircase with stone supports to match the chimney? I don’t even glance at my white rose gardens along the wide front fence and the perfectly curved pathway, my former pride and joy.
I’ve hired movers while Bart is in Barbados. I force the images of swaying palm trees and cocktails as far out of my mind as I can. He used to take me there; but now he’ll be with the Minx, the traitor.
They’re welcome to each other, I tell myself, as I load up the best of my remaining clothes, photos of Phoebe in silver frames, from bald baby dome to gap-toothed fairy, pink tween and rangy teen with attitude to beaming high school graduate, taken only a couple of years ago – plus kitchen necessities and a few items of furniture. There’s not much space in my new place, but I don’t need space. I need security. My own key. I can’t wait to leave this showhouse – this house of betrayal.
My whole shabby chic furniture business is now bound for the ReUse charity. There was no way I could take it all back with me to my little rented apartment at Brighton Court, and I certainly can’t afford to hire studio space.
The ReUse people are over the moon, and that’s great. I’ll do a media event to maximize their publicity, so when they auction my pieces they’ll get a great return. Celebrity humiliation plus beautifully restored furniture should create a blockbuster fundraiser. It’s great to think there’s some kind of silver lining for heartbreak and divorce in your late forties. It has to be good for me, too, right? Better than living a lie. Why stay with Bart when he’s in love with his Personal Assistant?
Besides, I’m done with suburbia, with its perfect lawns and tidy fences, the barking dogs and fresh air. That’s what I tell myself. Thank goodness it’s winter, and my beloved garden is hiding its treasures, the bare twigs blackened and bent against the bitter wind, roses all thorns against marauders – like my heart.
But this is no pity party. I’m determined to find the bright side. Life will be so much better without Bart. My future’s an open book. Well, there’s Phoebe, who doesn’t return my calls and messages, but I can’t solve everything at once. First, I’ll get myself sorted out.
Dear Donna has sheltered me for almost a year and given me work in her relocation and unpacking business – her whole family is into every aspect of real estate – but it’s time for my fresh start – at Brighton Court. I love my rental, so close to downtown. It’s a brick apartment building from the late 1940s, a real mix of architecture styles. Solid. Full of character. There are even some trees and a bit of garden. Well, you wouldn’t call that overgrown mess a garden, but wait till I get my hands on it.
Donna assures me it’s a great neighborhood, west side of the river, just east of downtown, and she’d know. With her relocation business, she moves people in and out all over town. She says my area is “up and coming – cusp of uptown” even if some of the apartments at Brighton Court have seen better days. The curtains in the garden apartment are drawn and shabby – a bit sinister – and my apartment badly needs new paint, but there’s a healthy mix of blinds and curtains in the windows of the other apartments, and I like that in a place – room for individuality.
I know for certain that the Brighton Court penthouse is sensational, because I recently took on the job of unpacking for the new owner of the penthouse. All those fixtures are brand spanking new. It even has one of those marble waterfall kitchen benches, recessed ceilings, lights under the bookshelves, a floating bathroom cabinet – the latest.
The purchaser’s things fit perfectly – classy, timeless pieces in polished wood and pale leather, and expensive clothes. Men’s clothes. Lots of books and original artworks. Must be someone professional, retired maybe. If someone with such good taste chose Brighton Court, surely it’ll be great for me too. When I saw the “for rent” sign for one of the apartments below the penthouse while I was there, I had to inspect it. I’d already decided it was time to give Donna back her own space. The apartment for rent was in almost original condition, so a bit beat up, like me – but it had so much character I signed the lease on the spot.
Back at my old dream house, I pack all the makings for my lamps into boxes – all the fabrics and shades and bases and pompons and trims, and of course my beloved glue gun that makes everything so easy. Who knows? Maybe I’ll offer to make lamps for all my new neighbors. That’s an idea. My heart quickens at the thought of meeting everyone. I’ve always liked people.
The wiry guy with neck tattoos loads the final few boxes into the little truck without a hitch. We’re almost done here. I force my eyes away from my show home, every last part of it decorated exactly as I’d wanted it – every picture hung in exactly the right place, each piece of furniture re-upholstered with love in the perfect fabric, every item selected and placed with so much care. For nothing. For a man who considered me dispensable, and a daughter who refuses to speak to me.
I can only focus on the future. One day soon, I’ll buy my own place, more modest by necessity, but just as nice. Somewhere cosy, somewhere like Brighton Court, a place where my friends and Phoebe will always be welcome.
I’ll patch things up with Phoebe – surely it’s possible. I won’t stop trying. Ever.
“Ready, Mrs Hardenburg?” says the stocky mover with the eyebrow ring.
“‘Ms Beston’ now, please,” I say. “I guess I’ll never be any more ready. Thank you so much. Couldn’t have done it without you. Can I buy you pizza at the other end?”
“Sure, lady, Mrs Beston.”
“Ms. Okay. Let’s go!”
Back at Brighton Court, as the professional unpacker I’ve become, I make short work of my own belongings. I stash kitchen and bathroom essentials, hang clothes and line up my shoes. The bed’s inviting, but the night is young.
I gaze with satisfaction out the old-fashioned bay window. The lavender velvet dusk lures me out into the cold. I grab my warm coat from my bentwood hatstand, and take a quick walk in my new neighborhood.
I love the run of boutiques just up the hill – a bakery and coffee shop, Jill’s Frocks and Fancies – a must for daytime when it will be open – a bookshop, the realty company where I signed my lease, and the handy pizzeria.
On the opposite side, just before a picturesque church, shop windows glow. Chatter and laughter spill onto the street – an art exhibition is opening!
I’m hardly dressed in my best given all the unpacking, but viewing art is always fun, and artists need all the support they can get.
I’m welcomed at the door by a young woman with a tray of drinks, so I gladly take a long cool stem of bubbly.
Paintings of birds of all kinds stare out at me. They’re striking; some, closeups of beaks and feathers, and others, huge – extraordinary clouds of birds above red barns, bright with movement. The detail’s exquisite, but I’m not sure I could live with all of them.
If I had to choose, I’d buy the lone seagull, pure white, poised between a dark timber dock and shining slice of silver sea, its beak and feet bright orange, and its beady eye, gleaming, staring directly into mine. It’s plucky. It’s defiant – a survivor, ready to swim, walk or fly. I want courage like that, poised at the edge of my new life at Brighton Court.
The chatter is deafening, but I can’t help but overhear an exchange behind me.
“So you’re Carla?” The tone is rich and resonant, the kind of voice that inspires confidence. “My daughter sends you her congratulations. Deirdre O’Connell? You knew each other at college.”
“Oh, Dee was so much fun! So you’re the Doc. Don’t you live somewhere out of town? In Franklin? How is Dee?”
“She’s fine. Big career in fitness and flat out with two kids or she’d be here. I’m new to town. Just moved in. Beautiful work, Carla.”
“Why thank you, Doc O’Connell.”
I glance behind to catch the owner of that delicious voice – the mystery “Doc” – I’m sure I know that name.
Just then a portly man in crimson trousers, a voluminous silk shirt and a flamboyant, multi-coloured vest rushes across and grabs Carla, pixie thin, with a nose ring, and leads her to a small podium in the corner.
I peer around. Do I know Doc O’Connell? I met hundreds of people in my old job at the tv network, and afterwards, Bart’s associates.
All I see is a quick impression of someone more formally dressed, tall and distinguished, if a little wooden – an older man with a striking presence; somehow out of place. Formal. Yummy aftershave. Mint. Spice. And he’s alone. A rush of excitement runs through me. Must be the champagne.
The speeches begin, first from the exuberant Patrick Lenihan, the gallery owner. He introduces Carla as “a bold and promising new artist” and gushes over her output. He advises us all to “buy up fast” before she becomes better known, and invites her to speak about her art.
“Birds are among the world’s greatest survivors,” Carla says. “They’re quick, and, best of all, most avoid chaos by flying. Some say their ancestors were the dinosaurs, now extinct, but birds stayed safe and adapted, high in the treetops and down burrows at the edge of the seas. Imagine making your home on top of a light pole, like a wily seahawk, or in the eaves of a shopping centre when your forest disappears.”
There’s a hush in the room, every face turned towards Carla. “I got to know each of the birds I painted,” she says. “That is, they tolerated me long enough to be photographed. As I committed them to canvas, I imagined their lives. ‘Free fall’ is my first exhibition.”
Applause breaks out as she lowers her head, humble, and I clap loudest of all. I’m a survivor and an artist, in a way. I’ll buy that seagull if I can afford it, to go beside my new front door. But Patrick, Carla and the waiter are rushed, and by the time I make it to them with my credit card out, Carla shakes her head. There’s a red dot beneath the seagull. I look in vain for the tall man, but he’s gone. I head home.
Chapter 2
Lucy
Next day, I drop into Jill’s Frocks and Fancies. A magnificent glossy green gown in her shop window beckons me inside. It gestures from the mannequin, whispers possibilities – perhaps even a promise, so I enter the frock shop with a spring in my step.
It’s cool and quiet in here, with a hint of fragrance – coconut and lime – probably from the gift candles for sale beside a tempting display of costume jewelry.
When I left Bart, my only emotions were anger and fear and exhaustion. I’ve survived, but now I’m ready to thrive, and one thing is for certain. I am tired of being the invisible support person. Maybe if I’d taken more care of my appearance over the years, Bart and I would still be together – not that I miss him.
So much in my life is wonderful – my friendship with Donna, my lovely apartment, the excitement of exploring my new neighborhood, good health, and … my beautiful diamond rings. I thought I’d have to sell them, but so far, so good. I flutter my fingers so they sparkle. I do love my diamonds. They’re my forcefield, my portable manufacturers of rainbows. Did I mention I love rainbows? Actually, I love everything about life. Never mind the divorce. The trick is to stay in the game, and now that I’m almost settled again, I’m ready to play – no apologies.
I always dressed well at the network, but with motherhood, gardening, and then using paints and glue all day for my shabby chic business, I was often in stained overalls. Glamor makes no sense when you’re busy unpacking for people, either, but these days, in my new life, when I’m not at work, I want to look good.
I don’t ever want to be the woman Bart discarded, to always look in the mirror and feel rejected. Somebody has to stand up for me. It’s time to honor myself. To make the most of myself.
I raise my head to catch the eye of the attendant. She’s a mature woman, not unlike myself, in glasses with heavy frames and with an instant smile. A potential accomplice, maybe even a friend. I could offer to do hair and make-up presentations for her customers. Why not? My life now is about the future, with all its possibilities. My past can only enrich it.
But first things first. I smile back at her in expectation, because dressing for success is an art and a joy. I should know – makeup artist to the stars. At least I was until the great Bart Hardenburg monopolized me for himself for a few decades, then ditched me for his assistant. But none of that now. I’ve moved on.
“Welcome,” she says, as she approaches. “I’m Jill. How may I help you today?”
“You’re Jill! I love your boutique.” I give her my warmest, most dazzling smile. Moving to Brighton Court is my fresh start and I’ve given myself permission to celebrate, to spend some of the money I’ve earned working with Donna. My attorney says my divorce settlement could take another few months, but she’s making progress. I’m going to be okay.
I sigh and smile again as I scan Jill’s racks of exclusive attire, so artfully combined with scarves, belts and bags. I can barely wait to try a few; to find a treasure or two to mix and match with the outfits I retrieved from the house, the best of my classics. The possibilities practically sing.
I pounce on a purple evening purse. It’s Donna’s favorite color. She’ll love it. I place it on the counter, buy it for her, then keep browsing.
“Such a gorgeous shop, Jill!” I say, then drop my pitch and volume, conspiratorially, and face the glossy green winner in the window. “I’m in love with this gown already.”
I reach out to caress its three-quarter sleeve, the sheen of it almost iridescent. The fabric is heavy with quality, the gown’s cut and color magnificent. I’m sure it will fit.
“It’s a one-off,” says Jill. “A Georg K.”
“Yes,” I say. Will Jill be a bore? To place a gown in a window and refuse to undress the mannequin for a potential customer amounts to false advertising.
Jill’s glance drops to my fingers and I wiggle them obligingly until the rainbows sparkle. The gown will be exorbitant, but diamonds speak. I suck in my waist and stand tall as Jill surveys me with a fixed smile.
“I’m sure it’s my size,” I say. “Georg’s gowns are a marvel.” I have actually seen some before, at the network, back before everything. I can be an aspiring Georg K owner. There’s no law against it.
But still Jill hesitates. I give her my extra bright smile.
“It may take me a few moments to arrange, Mrs …”
“Of course. Please just call me Lucy.” I step deeper into the shop, survey the skirts and trousers, run my hand along the rack of blouses, in various shades of color. I hesitate. Necklines are so challenging these days, but these cuts are clever.
I pull out a scarlet silk number, of the exact fabric of the dress in the window; another Georg K. I check the size and price – eye watering – before glancing back at Jill, who maneuvers the mannequin closer and starts to unscrew its arm. Good.
I pluck out another blouse, in a soft lilac, and another, in a sumptuous orangey red. I frown at the prices, then smile. The future is wide open.
A gleaming red convertible pulls up outside, an older man in the passenger seat. Fit. Broad shoulders. He’s definitely familiar. I stare. He smiles a little self-consciously. Intriguing. Very appealing.
Jill clears her throat, the gorgeous green gown over her arm.
“Shall I place this in the change room for you?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much, Jill. I thought for a moment I saw someone I knew.”
“Of course. And would you like to try these as well?”
“Yes. No. Actually, would you have this blouse in a paler pink, please? I love the little bow at the neck.”
“I may have one out the back. Shall I go check?”
“Please.”
I watch the man get out of the car. He’s tall, in long gray trousers, a tailored navy jacket with brass buttons, and a gray-blue tie. Better and better. My pulse jumps. A man who knows how to dress is rare in this world. Perhaps he has a club and visits frequently. Perhaps he owns a club. Or two.
Maybe uptown is full of tall, eligible men. Regrettably, he disappears into one of the coffee shops. Still, if I’m quick with the gown, I might catch him when he emerges. I zoom towards the changeroom and am out of my clothes and shoes in moments.
The emerald gown is a dream; the satin silk slides over my skin like a waterfall. And the color and fit are perfect. I whip back the curtain and stride towards the door, the fabric whispering around my ankles.
Jill runs after me.
“Oh there you are, Jill,” I say. “Would you help me with this zipper, please?”
Up goes the zipper, and the fabric snugs against my waist and settles in a heavy swish, as if it’s alive and begging me for the last, treasured dance with the king of the prom. Perfection. This dress belongs with glass slippers, at a ball.
“I love it! I love your boutique! Would you have some high heels I could try it with? I only ever shop in my flats.”
“Of course.”
Jill disappears again as I back up, twisting and peering at myself in the mirror between the racks. The back of the dress is divine, with a v-line so deep and wide it shows off my shoulder blades. There’s much to be said for our backs – covered and invisible for most of our lives. As long as we remain upright, the back divulges few clues to the actual state of our front.
I begin to laugh at my own joke when – smack! I’m staggering, tripping on the hem of the gown. I grasp at space to avoid falling, and find warmth, fine linen and, beneath it, a firm physique. Mint. Spice. Definitely not Jill.
Blue sports jacket, white shirt, gray tie. It’s him! An apologetic smile; a smile of concern, of interest. A strong, steadying hand on my upper arm, and then at my waist. Heaven. It’s been a while.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, regrettably removing his hand and stepping backwards. It’s him; the man with the red convertible, the appreciator of art. Be still, my heart! “The coffees. The dress. No. Have I burned you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Burned me with his hand, yes, but most of the coffee is on the long hem and Jill’s polished floor boards.
“Oh Dirk!”
“Jill,” he says. “Sorry. Slammed right into your customer here. And the dress. I’ll make it up to you. To both of you.” As his glance finds my face, I rearrange it. Joyous pleasure is probably inappropriate. I clap my fingers to my smile, then slowly let them drop.
I remember this silence. Dirk’s eyes linger, on the curve of my cheek, my neck and decolletage and up to my lips and briefly, not too briefly, on my eyes. His are gray with blue flecks – shocked. Interested. They duck away, down to the spreading darkness on the fabric, and back to my waist.
I turn to Jill, treating the stranger to a glimpse of the extravagant scoop of back, so perfectly framed in this gown. It’s my best side, at least in this exquisite dress.
“Magnificent,” he says. “Devastated.”
I study him. His comment is general, about the gown, not me, but the words are thrilling.
Jill, one high heel dangling from each hand, shakes her head slowly.
“I meant well, Jill,” he says. “I brought you coffee.”
“Thank you, Dirk.”
Oh. Perhaps they’re married. Maybe he owns the shop. I clear my throat.
“Would you undo the zip for me, please, ah … Dirk? I’m Lucy, by the way. Lucy Beston.”
“Of course, Lucy,” he said. “Anything.”
I pull my hair to the front to allow him full access. If his hand hesitates a little as the zip slides down, the warmth of his fingers is more than welcome. Perhaps it’s residual heat from the coffee, but everything about this morning is unfolding exactly as it should. Despite everything – don’t mention my Ex and the Minx, nor Phoebe – life is a dream. A good one.
Chapter 3
Dirk
APPOINTMENTS: Lunch with Jamison
Not my best day. With Millie gone two years, I’d finally agreed to retire early and relocate to the city, closer to my children. I’m still getting into the swing of my new life – and now I’ve spilled coffee on a stranger in Jill’s frock shop.
Won’t mention it to the kids. Jamison and Dee are so grown up they now boss me around. Jamison asked me to collect his car after its overnight service; insisted I take a spin in his shiny red convertible, so I visited my sister at her dress store.
The last payment from selling my family medical practice in Franklin came through yesterday, so I wanted to tell Jill in person I’m cancelling her debt to me.
Unfortunately, I had trouble starting Jamison’s fancy car. The kid at the service desk told me I didn’t actually need a key, and when he fiddled with my phone and the engine started up by itself, my old face was as red as the car.
I still had time to drive to Jill’s boutique, surprise her with the good news, and then meet Jamison at his business with the car. He’s promised me lunch in return.
My mistake was to overdo the whole Jill thing. I got take-out coffees for us before dropping in.
I drop in, alright – drop coffee on Jill’s classy customer.
I don’t generally notice women – Millie was my one and only – but I’d be lying if I pretended this one didn’t catch my eye, so … shapely. In one of Jill’s best gowns – emerald green, sleek as an otter – she reminds me of Elizabeth Taylor.
The coffee lands on the full skirt and I breathe a sigh of relief, glad I avoid giving her beautiful bare back third degree burns. Jill’s horrified. She loves her stock.
Flush with cash for the first time in my life, I take the easy way out – fish out some notes and hand them over to the customer – to let her buy the dress and get it dry-cleaned. She hands the cash to Jill. Win. Always feels good to do the right thing.
Okay. I see the price tag when I helped the lady with the zipper. Expensive, but all of Jill’s stock is expensive. Accidents like this must happen from time to time in retail. Jamison calls it risk management. They even happen in medicine, though I worked like a demon to keep my patients as healthy as possible and heal them fast. Sure kept me busy. Too busy. Whole decades went by while I wasn’t looking.
Jill frowns at me. She always was a terrible sulk.
Her customer flashes her extraordinary eyes all the way down me and up again, then gives me full beam. Are they violet, or deep green? When she flutters her eyelashes, she has me stuttering like a teenager.
Those eyes are quicksilver. She masks her shock; replaces it with something else – curiosity? A calculation? I’ve met thousands of people. As a family practice doctor, I never saw them at their best. For sure, no patient was ever dressed in a gown this alluring; more like farm overalls. And they were in pain, or sad. This woman’s in great health and raring to go … somewhere. With me?
I tear my eyes away from hers; stare down at the eye-catching waistline of the outfit. Frying pan to fire. The woman whips out her phone and asks for mine. Sends herself a message so she has my number; says she’ll pay me back if the stain comes out.
The customer – Lucy – rushes to the changeroom; dress swishing. Then she sticks her head out from behind the change room curtain and dazzles me with a smile.
“You’re far too generous, Dirk,” she says. How does she know my name? Oh yeah. Jill mentioned it. Should I worry?
“No need to dry clean it,” Lucy says, her voice musical as an actor’s. “Let me at least pay half. I was going to buy it anyway, and perhaps I can remove the stains myself.”
“No, please,” I say. I want to see her smile again. “Allow me. And coffee. Let me bring you a fresh coffee, too. Jill?”
“Thank you, Dirk,” says Jill, cleaning cloth in hand, down on her knees. “It’s the least you can do.”
“Oh, Dirk, thank you,” says the woman from behind the change room curtain. “Perfect! Skim latte. One sugar. My only vice.”
Vice. The word has connotations. This Lucy has a voice like artisanal honey – with a hint of double meaning. I smile. I need to get it out of there – fast – so I go to get fresh coffees, including the one for her.
Back at the coffee shop, there’s a queue. I survey the cakes, then change my mind. The last thing Jill needs is more sticky food on her merchandise.
Time is ticking. My parking spot is for fifteen minutes only and the parking enforcement officers are merciless here, so close to downtown, but I’ve given my word. Besides, what’s the price of a parking ticket compared to everything else?
But when I return, I can’t believe it. The woman, Lucy, is sitting in Jamison’s car – sure, she matches the thing; racy – but …
She looks great there – as if she belongs. Audacious. But as I open my mouth to protest – again, that utterly distracting smile.
She’s done something with her hair that shows off her neck; twisted it up and secured it with … a pencil?
“Dirk!” she says as she springs out and holds out her hand for her coffee. “Don’t be alarmed. I saved you a parking fine.”
She accompanies me back into Jill’s store, as if I’m on a tv show with her and she’s the elegant hostess, all glamor and ease, and I’m the witless interviewee, being wheeled in for a quick exchange. Is that it? Have I seen her on tv? Never watch it, though I was interviewed once, way, way back, before the illegal tackle that cracked my head against the goal post, that moment that changed everything.
Back inside the store, Jill takes her coffee. She’s unusually quiet while Lucy beckons me across to the shirts.
As we sip our drinks, Lucy asks my opinion. I know nothing about fashion, beyond what Jill’s told me over the years, about stock and the changing seasons. Long sleeves. Short sleeves. No sleeves.
“What colors match my eyes, please, Dirk?” Lucy says.
Seriously? Still, makes a nice change from staring at bruises and bandages and scars and everything else under the sun. And now that I’m retired, with too much time on my hands and not enough ways to spend it, why not stay a few minutes?
Chapter 4
Lucy
“Do you really like this pale pink?” I ask the delectable Dirk as I hold it up beneath my chin. He’s strikingly handsome in that older man way, a little silvery at the temples, a few lines on his face, still fit. I’m sure we’ve met before, long before last night at the gallery. I must remember to phone Donna and tell her she was right. They do exist – classic silver foxes, or at least one of them, this one – right here near Brighton Court.
I’m having such a good day, I give him a tiny wink from behind the curve of the hanger. “I thought maybe the red was a little more … exciting.”
“Whatever you think,” he says. What a keeper! He even knows what to say!
“No really,” I say. “I’m asking you. I value your opinion. You clearly have excellent taste in cars. Nobody would disagree.”
He blushes. He’s bashful. He checks to see if anyone heard my compliment. He’s adorable.
“Actually, the car is …”
“Or how about the blue?” I drop my voice. I’m having fun for the first time in months, maybe years. “It matches your eyes, Dirk. We could go somewhere, just you and me.” So maybe I’m a bit forceful; taking a risk, but life is for living.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I press my point. “You, me and that car. We can stop at a supermarket or a delicatessen. We could picnic. Do you like rosé? Or Chablis? Is there a fish shop nearby? We can buy oysters. I adore them with Sauvignon Blanc. How about you? I’m sure you have your own favorite combinations.”
He’s speechless. I’ve caught him off guard.
“Oh,” I say. “You don’t like picnics? Of course not; not with those fine clothes. Chairs and tables were invented for good reason. Tell you what; you help me decide on these blouses, and I’ll buy lunch for you at a restaurant – somewhere near the coast, somewhere with a view. Call it my way of thanking you for your generosity with the dress. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s a beautiful dress.”
I stop talking and just smile at him. I love his eyes, blue gray, similar to the tie, and they’re all over me, like a curious, soft, rare moth. It’s a great sign. What a day! I knew moving into this district was sensible. Day one and I am on my way.
“Well, now. Thank you but no. I have other plans, Lucy.”
“Oh, of course you do, a busy man like you. We’ll take a raincheck. You have my number. Any day you’re free for lunch, message me. Simple as that.”
I try to dazzle him with my smile again, then turn my attention back to the blouses. I’ll buy a couple and keep Jill happy. I sense some disapproval on her part. Shame. I’d prefer an ally.
Dirk and Jill can’t be a couple. They haven’t touched each other once.
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Say ‘hi’!
- I’d love to see you at The Concourse Artisan Christmas Markets, Lower Podium, 409 Victoria Ave, Chatswood NSW Australia on Sunday 21 December from 11am to 5pm. Come and say hi, whether or not you plan to buy!
- Or see you online at the Global Girls Online Book Club group where I’ll be “Author for the Day” on Facebook on Tuesday 10 February 2026 Australian Eastern Standard Time (AEST).
- You are warmly invited to the official Sydney launch of The Chase at Brighton Court and full Escape to the Coast series at Galaxy Bookshop, upstairs at Abbeys, opposite the Queen Victoria Building in York Street Sydney Australia at 2pm on Saturday 14 February 2026, Valentine’s Day! Bring your date, your friends and family and enjoy complementary pink bubbly and cupcakes! Free.
- See you at the Australian Romance Readers Association Romantic Rendezvous in Perth, Australia, on Sunday 29 March 2026. Book here.
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Happy reading!
Amber Jakeman
