Don't Look Back (4 page)

“I love you too,” Diana replies, sniffing as we continue to embrace in the middle of the dance floor.

“I love you both, but you’re squashing me,” a
squeaky voice buried somewhere between us whines as Annie wriggles her way out, her sweaty, red face matching the color of her party dress.

“Let's dance!” Annie declares, grabbing our hands in her damp palms. She starts to swing her arms out of rhythm to the music, kicking her feet, showing off her red glittery shoes in the disco lights. We saunter from side to side as best as we can, trying to balance out Annie’s unique style while keeping her happy and entertained. Diana and I both laugh at the ridiculous scene we are making, but it doesn’t take long for others to start finding their way to the dance floor, and so the party starts to come alive.

When I have been dragged around the entire room being introduced to every relative, neighbor, coworker, and friend in the building, I manage to persuade Diana to let me go off alone so I can grab a bite to eat at the buffet, giving her the chance to spend time with her other guests. It was never my intention to keep her to myself, and I most certainly do not want my transatlantic appearance to trump someone who has come from here in town. Every guest is as important as I am, because ultimately, they care about Diana. I am here to enjoy the evening and be a part of it; for once, I don’t have to hear about it two days later in an email with an occasional photo to capture the ambiance. I am here, living this moment with her, and for that I am thrilled and pleased that I have made the journey. It brings me joy to see Diana interact with her other friends and her family, and to be reminded of all the quirky things about her that sometimes are lost in correspondence.

CHAPTER 4

Band Of Gold

I'm too old for this, I think later, convinced my feet are going to fall off. Bopping up and down to the beat of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” in the middle of the dance floor with about twenty enthusiastic guests, I frantically search my mind for excuses to sit down.

“I'm going to go grab another drink,” I yell into Jenny's ear as we bounce in unison to the music.

She nods in reply, granting permission, and I smile, dancing my way off the crowded floor to the safety of the bar on the other side of the room. Most of the guests are either on the dance floor or at the food buffet. I plunk myself down as gracefully as possible on a barstool midway along the empty bar, sinking onto the cool leather. The bar counter is
made of beautiful solid wood, as if they took a giant, thousand-year-old tree, sliced a section from the center, and mounted it atop the bar. It's hand carved and full of charm and character, absolutely beautiful. I run my fingers over the grain and feel the notches and grooves of the thick bark that remains along the outer edge. For a moment, its beauty is a distraction from my painful toes, crammed into these very uncomfortable shoes.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The petite blonde in tight jeans and a pink T-shirt behind the bar is looking at me over her shoulder while she pours a couple of beers for the two young lads at the far end.

“A glass of house white, please, whenever you get a chance,” I reply, trying hard to pronounce the words with my English accent and not my American accent. The downside to living stateside for so long is that my accent has faded. At first, I deliberately adopted an American accent and tried and disguise my English one; I would have done anything to detract attention from myself in those early years. Now I hate it when my words get mixed up and my tongue goes the wrong way, labeling my nationality with a simple pronunciation. I think I sound very English when I am home, but Diana informs me that I still sound slightly American. I can tell this girl behind the bar is thinking the same thing ... that quizzical look.
Here we go
.

“Are you from America?” she asks. Her high-pitched voice squeaks as she speaks, a hint of excitement in her eyes.

“Well, no, actually I'm from here. I grew up in Harptree,” I respond, but I see the confusion on her
face, so I clarify. “But I live in California, outside of Los Angeles.”

Her face lights up again. “Really? You mean you actually grew up here and now you live in Los Angeles? Wow! That’s amazing. I want to go there so bad. I love everything American. I'm saving up to go, you know? Escape this place and meet someone famous. Do you know anyone famous?” She is staring at me, caught up in her own excitement, chomping on her gum, her eyes wide, like a deer in headlights. She is so young and innocent, with such big dreams; she has no idea what it is like to leave the place that is home. Her dreams are only that, dreams. She has no concept that the fairy tale’s happy ending doesn’t exist.
Ah, to be young again, to have that kind of faith
.

“No, sorry, I don't know anyone famous at all.” I laugh a little as she hands me my wine, her eyes still glossy, still miles away in her California fantasy.

“I bet it's always sunny there, right? That's why you're so tanned, isn’t it?” she dreamily continues while drying some beer glasses from the sink.

I sip my wine, nod, and smile. “Yes, it is sunny, but it gets hot—too hot—and I miss the rain and how green England is.” I long to point out all of England’s fine qualities, but she cuts in, interrupting my ode to Britain’s glory.

“Well, I wouldn't miss this miserable place for a minute, not a chance! Maybe I'll see you there one day in Los Angeles.” She winks at me, and chewing her gum even louder and with a bounce in her step, she heads off to the next guest, who is standing a couple stools down to my right. Returning my attention to my wine, I smile, recalling the girl’s
gusto, admiring her for wanting to chase her dreams. I hope that nothing will stand in her way.

“What can I get you, love?” I hear her ask the next patron as I take another sip of my wine, my thoughts returning to the party and the birthday girl.

“A pint of Guinness, please,” replies a deep male voice with a hint of an Australian twang. My head is magnetically pulled toward the voice, but with all my strength I stop myself, only daring to allow my eyes a glimpse of his arm, which is casually resting on the bar about four feet from where I sit.
No way!
Diana introduced me to every person here tonight, and no one had an Australian accent. My heart skips, pounds, races, and flutters all at once. Blistering heat blankets my skin as I start to panic, my hands shaking as adrenaline rushes through me.

From the corner of my eye, I see that the gentleman to my right has on a black jacket, a white, long-sleeved shirt, and beautiful gold cuff links. His hand is large and tanned, his fingers long and slender; he wears a simple gold wedding band, and his pinky finger is slightly crooked. The latter detail confirms the stranger’s identity—he broke that finger in senior school. I inhale deeply, catching the scent of his cologne, a rich, woodsy aroma with traces of citrus. The intense masculine smell engages my senses, filling my head with his scent. I can’t believe it’s him.

Closing my eyes, I swear I can feel the vibration of his energy. It’s as if he has the power to melt the coldness around my heart. All those years of locking his memory away, burying the hurt, are forgotten with him here beside me. The hardness within me softens as I savor the feel of his spirit, the memory
of what it was like to be close to him, to touch him, and to be touched by him. I remember our last time together, the memory so bittersweet that for a second tears sting my eyes and I quickly close them, sealing in the moisture, hoping the tears will dissipate behind my lashes. Butterflies race through me. Bravely, I turn my head to gaze upon the face of the man I loved so many years before. To my surprise, his dark brown eyes are already waiting for me.

“Hello, Kate.”

CHAPTER 5

Matt

Pulling into a parking space on the far side of the parking lot, Matt cuts the engine of his rental car and turns the headlights off. Music drifts out of The Swan. The lights inside are flashing to the beat, getting brighter and brighter, while outside the sky is slowly darkening. He hesitates about getting out of the car, struggling with going in. It’s been one hell of a day, and he is exhausted from this entire week. On the other hand, he could use a beer, and he hasn’t seen Terry or Joe for years. It would be rude not to pop in to say a quick happy birthday to Di and see a few friendly faces, since he’s already here.

During their brief telephone call the other morning, Terry had said it would only be a few old mates from school, some coworkers, and mostly
family at the party, so what harm could it do? This is the first time he’s been back to England since moving to Australia in 1988. Once he left, he never looked back, never had regrets, and certainly never planned on returning here. He moved his mum to Australia years ago when his first daughter was born, and that removed all ties to England as far as he was concerned.

That was until last week, when out of the blue he received a call from a solicitor stating that his biological father, Shiva Sullivan, had passed away, and Matt was the only living relative. He was stunned by the news, as he never knew his father growing up, not once having contact with him. His parents divorced when he was an infant, and he was raised by his mother, knowing only that Shiva Sullivan had run off with another woman and abandoned them. Matt had learned at a young age not to question his sweet mum about it, as any mention of his dad caused her great pain and shame. The only thing he knew about his father was that Matt resembled him; he was cursed with his father’s Middle Eastern genetic traits.

Throughout his childhood he had been teased about his darker skin; he was an outcast at school, with the other children calling him derogatory names. He learned to shove the unhappy memories down along with the unpleasant feeling of never quite being good enough. When he left England, he left behind painful memories to start anew in Australia. He didn’t keep in touch with anybody at first, and he completely shied away from social media, only using email for work purposes.

Matt has no one from his past that he has
bothered to keep in touch with. It was his mother who had reunited him with the Hearst brothers. Somehow, a friend of a friend knows Mrs. Hearst on some website, and they connected his mum with her. Matt doesn’t understand how it all works, nor does he care to, but occasional messages are now passed back and forth between the two mothers. Matt’s mum was the one to tell Mrs. Hearst that he was back in England, and she passed along his mobile number. Matt was surprised when his mobile rang the other morning and his old friend Terry was on the line.

Matt had flatly refused to come back to England at first, and he’d had a few choice words for the solicitor. Eventually it was Julia, his wife of twelve years and partner of more than sixteen, who persuaded him that it was the right thing to do. Her gentle negotiations won, and here he is. She is good at that; her soft nature always manages to win over his hard exterior. She is a native Aussie, two years older than him, with soft blue eyes and short blond hair.

He spent his first few years in Sydney whoring around and being self-destructive. After he’d finally cleaned himself up, they met, and things had progressed comfortably over the years between them. Julia is a good woman. She is loyal and supportive, and she has stuck out some tough times with Matt. They’ve built a good life together, a successful life, and he is aware he didn’t do it alone. During one of those tough times, after about four years together, she gave him an ultimatum, and Matt had to think long and hard about whether he was willing to lose another person he loved.

After losing all faith in marriage and never planning to have kids, here he is a husband and the father of two gorgeous girls who are the center of his world. They are the real reason he didn’t want to come; the thought of leaving them for a week is physically painful. He knows the girls will be fine; his mum will be there to help Julia out. But not hearing their giggles every day, not being able to gaze at their beautiful faces makes his heart hurt. Emma is eleven now, and she is dark like him, brown eyes, long curly brown hair, tall, athletic, artistic, and smart as can be. Rosalind is seven and every bit of her mother. Rosie, as he calls her, is petite and fair, and her eyes are blue with tiny gold speckles scattered in them. She is quiet and reserved, so gentle and loving. He sighs, deeply missing them both. He cannot wait to wrap up this business and get home to his girls. Tuesday can’t come fast enough.

Earlier this afternoon, Matt sat in a small chapel two hours north of Harptree in a place called Towbridge Green, greeting a few strangers who came to pay their respects to the wooden box of cremated remains that sat on the altar. Mr. Jones, the solicitor, gave him some background information about his father, a quiet man who had owned a small shop in the town. He never remarried, never had any other children, and left everything to Matt. Deep down, Matt hoped that maybe there was a letter somewhere from his father, something to explain why he had abandoned him, but there is nothing. He is leaving with the same questions he came with, possibly more. It reinforces to Matt how important his daughters are, and how
nothing will tear him away from his commitment to them.

The funeral was pre-arranged by his father, and Mr. Jones is handling any outstanding legal arrangements necessary for the estate. After the service today, Mr. Jones will be privately tending to the interment of the remains, and on Monday, Matt has an appointment with him to finalize some paperwork in London. After that, he is free to return home.

Finally removing the key from the ignition, he opens the car door and steps onto the gravel. The pebbles grind against the soles of his shoes, making a crunching sound. It feels good to stretch his long legs; he’s been cooped up in the stuffy car for the past couple of hours. He attempts to shake out the creases in his black dress pants while removing his tie and tossing it into the back seat. Releasing the top two buttons of his shirt in an effort to look more casual, he pulls his fingers through his thick curly hair, trying to tame the wild locks without much success. Closing the car door, he presses the remote, making it beep as he strides toward The Swan’s entrance, pulling on his suit jacket as he walks.