By Virtue Fall (The Shakespeare Sisters Book 4) Page 4

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Juliet said, giving her daughter a big squeeze. She hated this bit, the saying goodbye for two days. Hated knowing she wouldn’t be tucking her daughter up in bed that night.

  ‘Yes you do. That dress is perfect. Now go get in the car, sweetheart,’ Thomas said, clicking the back door open with his keys. Juliet watched as her daughter skipped down the front path, then handed Thomas her small suitcase.

  ‘While you’re here, there was something I wanted to ask you,’ she said, as Thomas turned to leave. ‘Cesca’s getting married next year, and she wants Poppy to be her flower girl. Would that be okay with you?’

  ‘Where’s she getting married?’

  ‘In Scotland.’

  Thomas tipped his head to the side, scrutinising her with unkind eyes. ‘We’re not allowed to take her out of the country until we agree the separatation terms, remember? And even after that we both have to consent to it.’

  ‘But it’s my sister’s wedding,’ Juliet said, trying not to sound panicked. ‘We’d only go for a few days. I promise I’ll bring her back.’

  ‘It’s what we agreed,’ Thomas said again, his tone measured. ‘Unless you want to start breaking your promises.’ He raised his eyebrows, as though he’d had a great idea. ‘If you’re that desperate, you could always go alone. Poppy can stay with us.’

  The thought of leaving her daughter here while she travelled thousands of miles felt like an ice-cold spear poking at her spine. ‘I can’t do that.’

  Thomas shrugged, the way he always did when it wasn’t his problem. ‘I have to go now. I’ll see you on Sunday. Try to be ready for us.’ With that, he walked down the pathway towards his car, tugging the driver’s door open and climbing in. Juliet watched them pull away, her whole body tense.

  She wasn’t sure what made her look to her left, but when she did, her eyes met with his. Bright blue, piercing, half-obscured by sandy hair. Ryan Sutherland was staring at her, the strangest expression on his face.

  How long had he been there? Probably enough to see her exchange with Thomas. The thought made her skin flush up.

  Ryan smiled at her, his eyes crinkling, and her cheeks got even warmer. There was something about him that made her feel more nervous than she’d ever felt.

  More alive, too.

  It was uncomfortable, it was invigorating, but more than anything it was dangerous. She’d followed that feeling before, and look where it had landed her.

  In a tangled web with no possible way of escape.

  There weren’t many things in life that ruffled Ryan’s calm exterior, but seeing a man treating a woman badly was one of them. Growing up, it had been his maternal grandfather who’d taught him what a man should be; loyal, protective, and always a gentleman. Such a stark difference to Ryan’s father, who regularly criticised his mom when he was a kid. Seeing Thomas Marshall stirred up all those memories.

  Ryan had been on the deck when Thomas arrived, replacing a plank that had split in the sun. Looking up, he’d seen that familiar strut, the one he’d seen when they were both in high school. It reminded Ryan of a stalking animal, one that pushed everything out of its way to get to its prey. Ryan had stilled his movements, balancing his hammer in his hand, as he strained to hear the conversation between Thomas and his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  But it wasn’t Thomas’s words that had reminded Ryan of his father, it was the way he’d stood in front of her, his shoulders back, his chest puffed out. As though he was trying to show his dominance through body language alone.

  Juliet had turned around from where she was talking to her husband, catching Ryan’s eye. He’d smiled at her, trying to show her some support if nothing else. Her eyes widened, but the next moment she’d looked away.

  Ryan had looked down to see his own knuckles bleached white, where he was still holding tightly to the hammer. He really didn’t want to watch them over there on the porch any more.

  ‘Charlie,’ he called out.

  His son looked up from the swing chair where he’d been sitting and watching Ryan. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get your shoes on. We’re going down to the wharf.’ The need to get away from this place nagged at him.

  ‘Where?’ Charlie hopped off the bench, leaving it swinging behind him. ‘What’s a wharf?’

  ‘It’s like a boatyard. On the riverbank.’ Ryan ruffled his son’s hair as he ran past him and into the house, heading for the closet to grab his sneakers.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ryan parked his black truck in the gravelled lot next to the wharf. As soon as he stepped out onto the worn wooden boardwalk, it felt as though he was finally home. The autumn sun was beating down, its rays reflected in the water lapping against the wooden poles. The familiar aroma of freshly caught flounder and crabs wafted up from the boats moored up on the edge. In the middle of the boardwalk – as weathered as the wooden deck that surrounded it – was an old hut. Stan’s Shed was painted in thick brushstrokes across the front, the white letters peeling away from the wood.

  ‘What do you think of this place?’ Ryan asked Charlie. His son was looking around, his brows pulled down low as he took everything in. He’d visited fishing villages all over the world, but this was Charlie’s first view of the one Ryan had grown up in. For some reason, he found himself hoping his son would love it as much as he had.

  ‘Can we go out on a boat?’ Charlie asked, his face bright with hope.

  Ryan was about to answer him when a familiar figure shuffled out of the shed.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Stan was frowning. ‘Do ya know this is private property?’

  Ryan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Stan was as brash as ever, and for some reason he found that reassuring. ‘I heard there was some good fishing in these parts,’ he replied, smiling.

  ‘Yeah, well, that may be true, but these are private boats. We don’t hire none of them out.’ Stan shuffled a little closer. ‘You’ll need to drive over to Hyattsville if you want a tourist ride.’

  ‘What about that boat?’ Ryan asked, inclining his head toward a forty-footer in the corner. It was an old one, but beautifully maintained. The exterior was painted white, with Miss Maisie printed across it in blue script. At the front of the boat was a small covered cabin, with windows looking out from three sides.

  ‘No, sir, that one’s definitely not for rent. The owner wouldn’t like that, not at all.’

  Beside him, Charlie started to shuffle, as if he was getting nervous. Ryan reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder. Charlie immediately relaxed. ‘Who’s the owner, maybe I know him?’

  ‘He doesn’t live around these parts.’

  ‘What kind of guy owns a boat like that and doesn’t live near it?’ Ryan asked. ‘Sounds like an asshole if you ask me.’

  Stan started to frown. ‘I don’t like the way you—’ He stopped suddenly, finally looking Ryan dead in the eye. ‘Ryan Sutherland? Is that you, boy?’

  ‘Last time I looked.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I should have known it was you, the moment I walked out of the hut I thought you looked just like your grandfather.’

  A rush of warmth suffused Ryan’s skin. Being compared to Cutler Shaw was the biggest compliment he could think of. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘Ah, shaddup. I can’t hardly walk without a stick any more. Plus I can’t see much without my glasses. That’s why I didn’t believe my eyes.’

  ‘You never could see much,’ Ryan teased. ‘We used to get away with hell whenever you forgot to wear them.’

  ‘Oh, I knew what you boys were up to, I just chose to ignore it. Now come over here, and introduce me to this little fella.’ Stan pointed at Charlie.

  Ryan walked forward, grabbing Stan’s hand in his own. Charlie shuffled shyly next to him. ‘This is my son, Charlie.’

  ‘Well it’s mighty good to meet you, Charlie. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a good kid. Not like your wayward dad, here.’ Stan’s voice was teasing, enough t
hat even Charlie got the joke. The small smile that curled at the corner of his lips made Ryan want to grin.

  ‘Hey, less of the wayward. And it’s good to see you, too.’

  ‘How long’re you back for?’

  A ray of sun bounced off the windows of one of the yachts, causing Ryan to blink. ‘We’re here for Kindergarten year, aren’t we, Charlie?’ Ryan said. ‘Thought we’d settle down enough for the boy to see how he likes school.’

  ‘He won’t like it that much if he’s anything like his pa.’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Luckily he takes after his mother, too.’

  ‘She’s a singer,’ Charlie added, still so close to Ryan he could feel his warmth. ‘She’s on a tour.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Stan asked, shooting a quizzical look at Ryan. ‘So it’s just you and your dad?’

  Charlie nodded, becoming braver by the minute. ‘I want to sail a boat like he used to.’

  ‘You know that little beauty is his, right?’ Stan asked, inclining his head at Miss Maisie. ‘Used to belong to his grandpa, your great-grandpa, and he left her to your pa after he died. I’ve been looking after it while he’s been away.’ Stan glanced at Ryan. ‘If you want to take her out, I just need a couple of days to get her ready.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that a lot,’ Ryan agreed. ‘You think she could be ready by next weekend?’ He could feel Charlie’s body stiffen with excitement next to him.

  ‘Yup, no problem at all. Just need to give her another wax and fix the sails. Things are quiet around here now the summer’s over, I’ve not got a whole lot of work on.’

  Though the wharf was still a working one – the fishing boats leaving first thing in the morning, coming back later in the day with decks full of catches – it was the rich yacht owners that kept it going financially. Being within driving distance of both New York and DC, Shaw Haven had its fair share of second-homers, who increased the wealth of the already well-to-do town.

  ‘In that case, we’ll be back next Saturday,’ Ryan said, grasping the old man’s hand again. ‘It’s good to see you again, Stan.’

  ‘Yes it is, boy, yes it is.’

  4

  It is the east, and Juliet is the sun

  – Romeo and Juliet

  One of the reasons Ryan had chosen this house was the fact it already had a dark room in the basement. A legacy from the previous tenant, who’d dabbled in photography for a while.

  Not that Ryan dabbled. For him it was more of a compulsion. He’d grown up seeing life through a 24mm lens. Now that he earned a wage from it – and a damn good wage at that – it didn’t lessen his excitement every time he captured the perfect scene.

  Nowadays most of his photographs were digital, developed on the shiny screen of his laptop rather than in a dank, dark basement. But like a man who preferred to chop his own wood, just to feel the heaviness of the axe in his hand, there was something reassuring at being able to develop the photographs he took with his grandfather’s 1950s Kodak. He worked under the red glow of the safelight as he moved the print from the developing bath to the stop bath, then through the fixer until he could hang it up to dry. It felt good to be doing things this way – using the same processes he had as a kid. Using the same camera he had, too – the one his grandfather had gifted him for his fourteenth birthday.

  Back then he’d lost more than a few prints due to overexposure, or not getting the paper into the stop bath fast enough. It took years of practice to develop the perfect print, and yet still there was always the possibility that something could go wrong. For some reason he enjoyed it so much more than messing around on his MacBook.

  Ryan finished the final print – of Charlie, clambering over Miss Maisie – then left the room, careful not to expose it to light. Climbing up the stairs to the ground floor, he checked on Charlie, smiling as he saw his sleeping son curled up on top of his covers, his fist jammed against his mouth as he sucked at his thumb. Charlie was used to sleeping anywhere he could – a by-product of his upbringing – but he’d still found it hard to settle down during his first week here in Shaw Haven.

  Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, Ryan ignored the lure of his laptop, instead heading for the deck. He grabbed his camera, intending to unscrew and clean up the lens as he watched the sun go down. But as he stepped outside he realised he wasn’t the only one planning to spend some time out in the evening sun.

  Juliet was kneeling on the grass in front of her bungalow, a small spade in one hand as she dug earth from the flowerbeds surrounding the house. He watched as she carefully planted the red and pink flowers, refilling the soil before sprinkling them with water from her blue-painted metal can.

  Her hair was pulled back into a French braid that hung down her back, the colour still as striking as ever. He sat there, his camera on his lap, his fingers softly touching the black plastic lens, and watched as she tended the small garden. She was oblivious to the world, her neck long and slender as she leaned over the soil, her hips swaying as she moved from side to side picking up plants and moving them to the right spot. She was a portrait waiting to be taken, a study in perfect beauty.

  Pulling his gaze away, Ryan picked up the soft cloth he used for his camera, and gently cleaned the lens. When he glanced up a few minutes later, Juliet had finished her planting. She was standing, her arms crossed as she surveyed her handiwork. She brushed a stray lock of red hair from her face – the strands dancing in the soft evening breeze.

  She was completely oblivious to his presence, so wrapped up in the exact placement of the plants that nothing else existed around her. She was classically beautiful – like those seventeenth-century women you saw on the walls at art galleries.

  His thoughts turned to Sheridan, Charlie’s mother. They’d never really been an item. More friends than anything, with a few benefits thrown in for good measure. When she’d discovered she was pregnant, they’d both taken it in their stride, and when Charlie was born in Namibia Ryan had fallen in love with his tiny scrap of a son right away. It had made sense that Ryan be the primary carer – taking a baby with you on a photographic shoot was a lot easier than taking him on tour with a band. They met up with Sheridan as often as they could – in places as exotic as Tijuana and Beijing – but for the most part it was just the two of them, and they were as close as a father and son could be.

  Witnessing Poppy’s handover this morning first hand made him thankful for everything he had. The disdain for his ex that seemed to seep from every inch of Thomas Marshall’s body, had felt alien to him. Thomas Marshall had been a bully at school. It looked like he still was.

  From across the yard, Juliet glanced over her shoulder, her brow dipping as she realised she wasn’t alone. Ryan lifted a hand to wave at her.

  ‘Hey, London, how you doing?’ he called out.

  Her brows rose up as she shouted back. ‘My name’s Juliet.’ The smallest smile flittered across her face before she added, ‘Mr Sutherland.’

  He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not. The not knowing made him want to stare closely at her, try to work out what was going on in her head.

  ‘If you call me Mr Sutherland, I’ll think you’re talking to my dad.’

  ‘I think I’ve met your dad,’ she told him.

  More and more intriguing. ‘You’ve met him? When?’

  She moved a little closer. Still on her side of the yard, but close enough that he could see the hazel of her eyes without having to look through a lens. ‘At dinner with Thomas’s parents. One of those interminable ones where the women get sent off after dessert so the men can talk business.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t miss those at all.’

  Interesting. ‘You don’t?’ he asked her, putting his camera down and standing up. ‘Why not?’

  He walked across the deck and leaned on the rail, smiling at her. She looked up at him, running the tip of her tongue across her lips. ‘They bored me to death. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk business.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘An
d I definitely didn’t enjoy talking about Mary Stanford’s latest grandbaby.’

  His stomach contracted. He remembered those kinds of dinners too. He didn’t miss them either. He pushed himself up off the handrail and walked down the steps towards her.

  She looked up at him, and he could see a smudge of earth on the tip of her nose. He wanted to reach out to rub it away. ‘You want a beer?’ he asked her, tipping his head at his deck. ‘Come and watch the sun go down with me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t, I’ve got some … some things to do inside. Poppy will be back tomorrow, I want to get all my work done before then.’

  He ignored the pulse of disappointment shooting through him. ‘Maybe another time then?’

  Her nod was slight. He took that as a good sign. ‘I don’t drink beer. But maybe a lemonade … or something.’

  For now, he’d take it.

  ‘Or perhaps a shandy,’ he said, grinning. ‘We will get you over to the dark side, whatever it takes.’

  From the way her mouth fell open, he suspected it would take quite a lot.

  Juliet’s hands were shaking as she pulled the gardening gloves from them, laying them down on the counter before washing her hands beneath the running faucet. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of him catching her looking at him. It wasn’t the first time she’d been looking, either. When she’d been kneeling at the flowerbed she’d snuck more than a few glances over her shoulder, intrigued by how carefully he’d been cleaning his camera. The concentration on his face had called to her like a siren. She knew how easy it was to get caught up in something that you loved doing. It happened to her every day in the shop.

  And of course she hadn’t noticed just how handsome he looked in the orange light of the setting sun. She was way too busy for that.

  Looking up from the sink, she caught sight of herself in the window, the darkening skies outside turning the glass into a mirror. It was impossible not to wince at the way she looked. Her hair was a mess, her face – unadorned by any make-up – was smudged with earth, and beneath her eyes were those ever-present shadows.