Guy Bailey & Simone Beaudelaire

Wallflower Girl

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real life persons or situations is coincidental and unintended by the author. The places described in this book are either products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

PublicBookshelf Edition

Wallflower Girl

Prologue

Nick Harper wiped his brow on his arm as he looked at the trail of straw bales in front of him. They were the small, rectangular type, each weighing around sixty-five pounds. The trailer he was stacking them on held twenty-five lying flat on the base, and could take them eight high. He stacked them using a step method; building one layer, then stepping up to a second and third level so he could shoulder each bale up to the required height. He had swing-down steps to stack the last few bales at the back of the trailer.

Nick worked alone. He was newly married and new to farming. He couldn’t afford help, and the bales were too heavy for his pretty young wife Patricia to lift. She sometimes drove the old Massey Ferguson tractor that pulled the trailer along. The previous night she had done the late shift at the local truck-stop diner, so she was sleeping.

It was six months since their wedding day. Nick looked up at the summer afternoon sun, figuring he had another couple of hours before he could go home, wash up and ravish his wife. He ravished her a lot. They had waited three years for a white wedding and it was the time to make up for all of that.

How endlessly those years had stretched out, and he’d been thankful for the time consuming project of building a home for his bride and equipping it with her selections, which were at the very height of fashion. She’d impressed him with how savvy she was, choosing closeouts and remnants, sewing and matching colours. The extra physical labour had helped distract him from his mounting frustration and longing, until at last the day had come. He smiled at the memory.

Nick lifted another bale and stepped up onto the trailer, leaping to the next and then the next level, heaving with the power of his back and shoulder to set the prickly block into place. He would soon be done there in the lower paddock, and he would be on his way back to the house for some more of the fruits that were no longer forbidden.

***Chapter 1***

Anne grabbed hold and lifted her right leg to the square cushion she always kept to the side of her easy-chair. She needed to lift the leg. As a child she had been in a car accident, and after countless operations, she had been left with a leg that just didn’t work the way her other one did. She was fine with all of that; had been for years. It had been something to manage through school, with limitations on what activities she could get involved in. There had been the sideways glances and grimaces of horror to come to terms with. The operations had included skin grafts and scarring that were quite shocking for the other kids to look at. She still got the looks sometimes, but the worst of it now was that her stupid leg dragged a bit in a limp and needed to be lifted up onto its cushion.

Anne expelled a breath of exhaustion. It was so hot out that day, and she had just finished cleaning her car and lugging all the junk she had accumulated up the four flights of concrete stairs to her apartment. That last trip had been torture and now her leg was telling her about it more than usual. And she’d done it all on her own. She shook her head, looking at her brother sitting there watching television.

This was why Anne was pleased she didn’t have a man in her life. No, not just pleased; it was a relief that she lived alone.

“Graham!” she scolded, rolling her eyes at him and glaring at his foot with the dirty sock sitting in the middle of her coffee table. He had pushed the brass candle holder aside so that it was about to fall on the floor, and scrunched up the hand crocheted lace doily. The set was antique and very delicate. His sock was un-fresh from football training or something, and smelled. He looked back to the television and picked his nose.

Anne’s apartment was immaculate. Everything was spotlessly clean and precisely where she wanted it. The thought of driving to her old girlfriend’s wedding and leaving Graham there for the weekend was frightening. I could just call Kelly and tell her sorry—can’t make it, she thought for the hundredth time. The irksome picture in her mind of Graham sleeping in her bed with his football socks on was compelling. Up until then she had been coming up with lots of whiny little excuses: The car might break down. What if mum has another blood pressure scare and I’m out of town? What if Kelser frets?

Kelser was Anne’s fat tabby cat. He had just hopped on her lap for some petting. “You’re my man aren’t you, Kelser, good boy,” she said, holding his black and tan striped ebony-eared face and soaking up the love and loyalty in his hazel eyes. She glanced as her brother tossed a chuckle and shook his head.

“You need to get laid, sis.”

“You need a bath,” she shot back dismissively. She had been laid a few times. It was no big deal. The only men who ever seemed to look at her without sympathy in their eyes needed more sympathy than she did. Dismissing the thought of men, she picked up her set of three short double sided knitting needles and began shaping the leg of a turquoise teddy bear she was making for her co-worker’s baby shower. The cat turned on her lap three times and settled down. The heat of his furry body was better than a hot water bottle on the aching muscles of her damaged leg. He purred, kneading her with soft soot-coloured paws.

Graham was not ready to let the conversation die. “What about your new neighbour? He was asking all about you earlier.”

“What about you mind your own business?” Anne shot back, though that comment was not so easy to dismiss. She felt the colour heat her neck and cheeks at the thought of a man asking about her. He had moved in across the hall that week. She’d passed him on the stairs a few times but had been too shy to meet his eyes or anything. She’d felt him looking at her. “Asking who about me? Not you?” she enquired of her little brother.

“Nope. He was chatting with that old dude downstairs. Asking what your deal was—married or single or whatever. They didn’t know I was right there in your garage.”

“Well, what did he say, exactly?” Anne strived for nonchalance. Apparently she’d succeeded.

Graham searched his nose for another booger. “Don’t know—exactly! The guy said, ‘who’s that mousy chick?’ or something. ‘She married or what?’ Then old big ears said you were single, and told him your name.”

“What, so the new guy asked for my name?”

“Yeah—something like that. Did you buy pizzas?”

“Yes, I bought pizzas, and there’s some decent food you can heat up too. There are two dinner plates all set in the fridge. You’ll only have to microwave them a few minutes.” She wondered if he would bother with the meatballs in gravy, baked chicken, or vegetable soup. She was sure he would eat the steaks and mashed potatoes.

Her mind drifted. That handsome fellow had asked about her. Anne looked up from her knitting. She felt strangely warm inside, but there was one thing. “He called me mousy?”

“Everyone calls you mousy, sis.”

The fact that it was true did not make the comment sit any better with Anne. She counted the stitches on the little turquoise leg and muttered an impolite word under her breath. Distracted by her brother’s blathering, she’d failed to complete the complicated circular pattern, and the little cylinder was now three stitches too large. Cursing again, she delicately unstitched the row and started over, carefully making each knit and purl exactly where she wanted them. When she had finished that row, she marked her stitches in her little notebook. This teddy bear pattern would have some stretch to it, which should make it better for children, not like the rigid seed stitched one she’d gotten from a magazine the month before.

Thinking back on that bear, she sighed. It was sitting on her dresser now, the one she’d bought at a garage sale, painstakingly stripped, painted white, and embellished with little flowers and bows. She grimaced. Her leg had ached for a solid week after that venture. The fact that she refused to let her disability ruin her life didn’t mean living was always comfortable.

The first teddy had come out rather well, of course. Its eyes, little asterisks of navy yarn, looked at her a little sadly, she thought. She had deliberately understuffed him, trying to make him squishy, but it hadn’t worked. That’s when she’d hit on the idea of rib stitch, which automatically created flexibility. It would be a much cuddlier toy when she was done.As would the baby yarn she was using. Yes, it was acrylic, and not a natural fibre, but the fuzzy texture and whimsical colour should appeal to the little girl and her mother.

It suddenly occurred to Anne that if she never had a man in her life, she might not have to tolerate so many messes, but she would also never have a baby of her own. Never knit a blanket or bear or little yellow hat for her own child. That thought caused a pang. Children are messy, she reminded herself. But that didn’t stop her from wanting a couple.

***Chapter 2***

Anne showered and checked her suitcase once more before closing it. She straightened her violet blouse, tugging at it and peering at herself in her mirrored wardrobe. A pair of khaki shorts and some brown leather sandals completed the casual summer look. She pulled the shorts low, thankful she was blessed with a slender waist. No love handles, and the fabric covered her scars if she remembered to give that extra little yank. She looked… decent. I’m not mousy!

It was true. She had been called that before by several different people, and who knew how many referred to her that way behind her back? Her hair was kind of thin, plain brown and a bit scraggly no matter how she fluffed it. She kept it above her shoulders and often wore a hat or scarf. Today she settled on a pony tail. Her face was narrow and her cheeks freckled. Her eyes were the same colour as Kelser’s; hazel, and if she used enough makeup she could make them look sparkly and interesting, but she rarely used any eye makeup at all. She would dab on a bit of foundation to cover the freckles and some lipstick and eye shadow on a special occasion, but she had gift-kits from years back with the eyeliner and mascara untouched. Wait, didn’t mascara expire after a certain number of months? She looked at one tube and chucked it into the trash. It was not worth risking an eye infection. The one she’d received for her last birthday was still fresh, and she tossed it into the suitcase.

Maybe mousy is more of an attitude than a look, she pondered. She had a decorative flower and lace barrette to wear to the wedding. There was a makeup kit an aunt had given her the previous Christmas that she found in the drawer of her dresser. She looked at it. Everyone said purple was a good colour for her, and this set had three shades of violet shadow. She packed that in her suitcase before lugging it into the front room. Her brother was sprawled on the couch again.

There was no protecting her pretty apartment from him, and most likely some of his mates. “You won’t have anyone over will you, Graham?” she asked pleadingly. “Please?”

“Probably just Arko and Chad for the game on your big-screen tomorrow night. But we’ll clean up, sis. Don’t worry.”

Yeah right—don’t worry! Anne told herself hopelessly as she wheeled her bag down the stairs. It was too heavy for her to carry. There were voices of men coming up the stairs, and she encountered them edging a huge bureau around the narrow landing of the third floor. She flattened against the eighties style rose-printed wallpaper so they could get past. It was a big hairy guy on the front of the monstrosity and her new neighbour on the back. He had his head turned and pressed against the side of the bureau, unable to see Anne as he moved past. He had on a singlet. His visible back and shoulder muscles bulged from the exertion, shiny with sweat and rippling taut. His manly scent made Anne stupidly giddy; that and the thought of him asking about her.

He had passed where she was backed against the wall without even seeing her there. She watched him lift the big cabinet up the flight of stairs, his back straining and his thighs and bottom looking powerful and firm in a pair of knee-length linen shorts. He had worked his way around the fourth floor landing before glancing back. For a moment their eyes met. A sizzle of excitement shot through Anne’s whole body, making her blush and just about trip over her bag in her haste to get it rolling again.

Outside, she packed it in the trunk of her little old faded blue Honda and was on her way. Worse than the thought of her brother trashing her apartment was the real reason she didn’t want to go to this wedding. She didn’t want to be the only one not yet married or living with a man. Her three best girlfriends from school would be the women of their respective houses and she would be left as the wallflower. Which is completely ridiculous, she reminded herself. There is nothing wrong with being an independent woman. There’s no shame in that.

Anne knew plenty of independent women. She would often wake up alone on a Sunday morning and lie staring at the ceiling, thinking of how great Ruth Parnell had it; how tremendous a woman she was, and how she was always tipping off around the office that single is best. Ruth Parnell was the head partner of the law firm Anne worked for as a filing clerk. She would sniffle back the tears of emptiness as she neatly sorted pleadings and depositions alphabetically by case, automatically separating originals from copies, and remind herself that the Prime Minister of Australia was a woman who never married or had children. And those were only the big-time independent women. There were the several single mothers in her building, including Gina, whose upcoming delivery would be celebrated by an office shower to which Anne would be contributing the little bear and a tray of cookies. Other girls in her office and everywhere around were single, many of them older than Anne, who was only twenty-five.

Anne had never even had an offer though. There had never been a man intent on looking into her eyes; looking into them with desire. She hated the pity. It was like a cloak she had to wear. She limped and had messed up skin on her leg. So what? Just look at me!At me! The person!

A tear dripped from her cheek as she waited at a red light. She wished she at least had a date for the wedding. It felt totally pathetic going alone, but she could not imagine the man she could have realistically asked to accompany her. Even a male friend would have done, but she had no male friends who were not the man of their house; family men. Well, except for Graham, but arriving with her spoiled and ill-mannered brother would have been worse.