Flowers on the Water Read online

  Flowers on the Water

  A short love story

  By

  Helen Scott Taylor

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  Copyright © 2012 by Helen Taylor

  Cover design © Helen Taylor

  *

  The right of Helen Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.

  Lucy's small florist's van bumped along the rutted lane to Beach View Cottage. It had taken five years before she could visit here without crying. Now another five years had passed, and she sometimes went whole weeks without thinking of her little boy, George, or her ex-husband, Dominic.

  This last week of August, the anniversary of George's death, was the only time she allowed herself to remember.

  A sad smile pulled at her lips as poignant memories of her dear little two-year-old son flooded her mind. The awful tragedy of losing him no longer obliterated the good times that had gone before. But even after all this time, she found it difficult to think of Dominic without anger and resentment.

  She reached the end of the lane where a large gate opened onto a slipway so tourists could launch boats into the ocean. The small parking space for vacationers staying at Beach View Cottage was occupied by an expensive sports car.

  Lucy's lips pinched with disapproval. Some people were just selfish, parking in other people's spaces. Her only option was to park in the turning area by the slipway gate and hope nobody needed access.

  Climbing out, Lucy inhaled a lungful of salty sea air. Mixed emotions swirled through her. She loved the ocean…and hated it. It was beautiful but also powerful and dangerous. That heaving body of water had carelessly snuffed out her innocent little boy's life. She couldn't help attributing it with ill intent, even though she knew that was ridiculous.

  With a catch in her breath, she walked to the back of her van to collect the wrapped bunch of ten lilies from the specially designed rack that held a water reservoir to keep cut flowers fresh.

  Bag strap over her shoulder and lilies cradled in the crook of her arm, she headed through the small gate to the slate-paved path. Beach View Cottage lay at the bottom of some steps, nestled among a riot of shrubs and flowers in a tiny garden above the beach.

  Once upon a time, the old stone building housed a lifeboat that served the local community. When she and Dominic rented the place for a vacation ten years ago, it had been recently converted to a dwelling. Now it was comfortable in its new role. The only hint that it had ever been anything else was the cement ramp, running from the picture window at the front, down to the water's edge.

  Lucy stooped and felt under the blue pot full of geraniums that hid the key. She whipped her hand back when woodlice scuttled out like tiny armadillos. She laid aside her lilies and crouched for a better look. There was definitely no key.

  She rose and glanced around, a hint of unease whispering across her thoughts. In all the years she'd visited, the key had always been under the blue pot. Mrs. Willis never put it anywhere else.

  Recovering her lilies, she continued around the cottage to the back door. A pair of wet, sandy men's shoes rested on the doormat outside. Was it possible the last vacationer hadn't left on time and was still here?

  Soft music filtered out through the open window. Had Mrs. Willis double booked? Lucy knocked on the door, already framing the words she would use to explain her claim to the place.

  Footsteps sounded inside. The door handle turned and the door opened. The air whooshed out of Lucy's lungs. She stumbled back at the sight of the man filling the doorway. "Dominic?" The word whispered over her lips, barely more than a breath. Had she stepped through a time warp and gone back ten years?

  Tall and lean, he towered over her, his hair still thick and unruly, confusion in his hazel eyes. Then she noticed a few gray hairs threaded among the dark brown, and the tiny lines fanning out beside his eyes.

  "Lucy! What're you doing here?"

  Lucy struggled to grab a breath to reply. "I booked the cottage for the week."

  "So did I."

  His hand rose to the back of his head. The familiarity of the gesture snapped her back ten years. She'd purposely wiped everything about Dominic from her mind. Yet his show of confusion was so achingly familiar.

  "I guess the Willises must have double booked," he said.

  "Not possible." Lucy gathered her composure and shook her head. "I have a standing booking with Mrs. Willis for this week every year. Each time I come, I visit her and pay for the following year."

  "Oh." Dominic stared at her, his brows gathered in thought. "I booked with Terry Willis, her son."

  "When?"

  "After Christmas."

  "I booked in August last year, so I have priority."

  Dominic's lips firmed. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

  "Don't be childish, Dom." Her impulsive retort surprised her. By the look on Dominic's face, it surprised him as well. For long moments, they stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.

  "It's ten years tomorrow, Luce," Dominic said softly. "I want to be here."

  "You haven't bothered to come for the last nine years. Now you think you can breeze in and push me out?" Lucy wedged a hand on her hip. Once she would have given in to him, but not now. "I've come every year. I think that gives me more right to the place than you."

  Dominic braced his hands on either side of the door frame, his jaw muscles bunched. He obviously wasn't about to back down. No surprise there. She'd forgotten how stubborn he could be.

  "I'm going to call Mrs. Willis and sort this out." Lucy headed to the bench beside the path, sat, and pulled her mobile phone from her bag. She found the cottage owner's number in her contacts list and dialed. She got a recorded message saying the number didn't exist. "That's crazy."

  "A problem?" Dominic leaned a shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching her.

  Lucy tamped down her simmering annoyance and tried to be civil. "Do you have a phone number for the Willis's son?"

  Dominic cast a suspicious glance her way, as though he half expected her to dash inside and claim squatter's rights as soon as his back was turned.

  She raised her eyebrows. "Well?"

  With an irritated grunt, he went back inside.

  Seagulls cried overhead and the rushing sound of the ocean hissed in the background. Lucy closed her eyes and sucked in a steadying breath. Even back when she'd loved Dominic more than anything else in the world, he'd still known how to push her buttons. She would not let him get to her.

  He sauntered out and handed her a sheet of paper, a printed e-mail, confirming his booking. He'd been charged twice the price she'd paid for the week. Something strange was going on here.

  She dialed the phone number for Terry Willis and waited. When he answered, she explained the problem.

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Carter. Mum died last autumn. She didn't keep proper records of the cottage bookings. I had a hell of a problem sorting them out. This isn't the first week I've double booked. I'll refund your money, of course."

  "That's not the point, Mr. Willis. I booked first. I want to stay here."

  "Look, I'm sorry. I can't ask Mr
. Sinclair to leave. You probably don't remember, but a boy drowned in the bay a few years ago. It was his son."

  "I remember perfectly," she said, fighting to keep her voice level. "He was my son as well."

  Silence.

  Lucy bit her lip and waited for the man's reply.

  "Ah." He cleared his throat. "Why don't the two of you stay there together, then?"

  "We're divorced!" Lucy's voice rose as the tension inside her threatened to snap. She needed to be here. She was not about to change her plans, but she did not want to stay with her ex.

  Dominic remained in the doorway, listening in. Why couldn't he just disappear? He'd managed it ten years ago. Why did he have to turn up now? Lucy rose and paced to the farthest corner of the tiny garden. Not that it gave her much privacy.

  "Well, it's up to you if you stay," Terry Willis continued, "but I can't ask Mr. Sinclair to leave. He booked the property from me in good faith. Come by the farm if you decide you want a refund." Then the line went dead.

  The blasted man had hung up on her! Lucy huffed out a tense breath. What the hell was she to do? This was her week in Beach View. It had been for the last ten years. Dominic had no right to walk back into her life and steal her week.

  She pivoted around, taut and ready to argue her case. He beat her to it.

  "Stay, Lucy. The place is big enough for both of us." He smiled, his reasonable smile, a smile that belied the hell he'd put her through.

  She had long ago forgiven him for George's death. That had been an accident, and she should never have blamed him. But he had no excuse for writing about it, for making her relive the nightmare a second time. As long as she lived, she would never forgive Dominic for his damned book.

  "I don't want to stay here with you."

  He shrugged. "It's that or find somewhere else. I'm not leaving."

  Lucy gritted her teeth.

  "I'll keep out of your way, Luce. We don't even have to talk much if you don't want to."

  "I don't."

  "Okay, then." He stepped aside and waved a hand, ushering her into the cottage.

  "Okay." Lucy pressed her lips into a tight line, scooped up her lilies, and strode in. She could do this. She would simply ignore him.

  Sun shone through the large picture window at the front of the living room, casting a warm glow over the exposed stone walls and beamed ceiling. A new modern kitchenette filled one end of the open downstairs area.

  Lucy placed the lilies on the kitchen counter and searched the cupboards for a vase. Without a word, Dominic emptied some silk flowers out of a tall glass vase on the windowsill and presented it to her.

  She met his gaze, held it, a wary moment of accord passing between them. "Thanks." She filled the vase and placed the lilies in the water, still wrapped in their cellophane.

  "I'm in the large bedroom at the front," he said.

  The double bedroom, the one they had shared all those years ago. Unwanted memories washed through her mind, lying tangled with Dominic in that bed, warm and safe in his arms. She pushed the thoughts away.

  "I'm fine in the single." She didn't tell him she always slept in the single bed in the back bedroom. She could not bring herself to even glance in the double bedroom, let alone sleep in the bed.

  "Do you have a suitcase?"

  "I'll get it." Lucy left her handbag on the kitchen counter and headed out to her van. Dominic followed. "You don't need to come," she said over her shoulder.

  He mounted the steps behind her and halted at the gate, leaving her to go to her van alone. She eyed the expensive car in her parking space with a cynical twist of her lips. He'd obviously moved on from the frugal lifestyle the two of them had shared—probably with the profits from his wretched book.

  She pulled her bag from the rear of her vehicle, slammed the door, and paused with her palm splayed on the colorful logo, "Lucy's Flower Hut—Wedding and Celebration flowers a specialty." She had forged a new life for herself, come a long way since she enrolled in a floristry course at her local college. It was strange to think that had George lived, she would not have started her business. She would probably still be living in Dominic's shadow, the pretty little airhead who got pregnant and ruined the prospects of a bright boy.

  "Do you enjoy what you do?" Dominic asked, nodding at the sign on her van. "I don't remember you being especially interested in flowers."

  "People change." She didn't want to discuss her business with him. Floristry was her post-Dominic life, her refuge from the memories. She didn't want him connected with it in any way.

  As she went through the gate, he took her suitcase. It was second nature to let him. He was halfway down the steps before she remembered that she'd intended to carry the bag herself.

  With a sigh, she followed him back inside the cottage and up the stairs. He placed her case on the foot of the single bed in the back bedroom. Lucy glanced around at the small framed watercolor prints and the pine furniture. This bedroom had become familiar over the years. It almost felt like a home away from home. She should hate this place after what happened here, but she had a strange affection for it.

  Dominic turned to leave, then hesitated, a whimsical smile on his face. "You haven't changed, Luce."

  "I assure you I have," she said defensively. She was not the naive eighteen-year-old who married him, the girl who lived only for him, the girl who thought that love was all she needed. What a stupid, cruel joke that turned out to be.

  "I mean your appearance," he added. "You hardly look a day older than the last time I saw you."

  "Thanks. I think." He probably meant it as a compliment, although she wasn't sure she wanted to look twenty-one forever. She was comfortable in her skin now and quite happy to look her age. Nobody had taken her seriously when she was young. Even the teachers at school had treated her as a stupid airhead blonde and not been surprised when she got pregnant and had to leave school. She was a businesswoman now. She enjoyed the respect people gave her.

  "Well, I'll leave you to it," he said.

  Lucy closed the door behind Dominic, welcoming the solitude. For the first time since she'd arrived, she relaxed. She unpacked and stowed the clothes in the drawers, then she opened the bedroom door and listened. Jazz played softly downstairs. She didn't want to spend time with Dominic. Being with him brought back too many memories. But why should she confine herself to the bedroom when the cottage was supposed to be hers for the week?

  Lucy descended the stairs quietly and paused in the living room doorway. Dominic was slouched on the sofa with a laptop on his knees, reading glasses balanced on top of his head. His dark hair flopped over his forehead as he stared out the window.

  He looked older, but his gestures, the way he angled his body, the way he gnawed his lip in thought, they all resonated back through the years and called up memories long forgotten. She'd worked hard to erase him from her mind, but the past came back to her with alarming clarity.

  An unwanted shiver of awareness ran through her. There was still something about him that made her hot and tingly. But she really did not want to be attracted to him.

  He put on his glasses, consulted a notebook at his side, and started typing, oblivious to her. Writing another book, no doubt.

  When he'd published Flowers on the Water five years ago, she'd been furious with him for trying to make money from their personal tragedy, and for stirring up the past.

  She refused to speak to the reporters who wanted to interview her about the book, and she refused to read the signed copy Dominic sent her. Her mum read it and went all soppy over it, but Lucy would not be bullied into reading the damned thing.

  The dormant anger roused now, burning along her nerves. Losing George had been an accident and not really Dominic's fault, but the book was a cynical attempt to capitalize on their tragedy. Dominic had hurt her again just to line his own pockets. She would never have believed him capable of that if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes.

  "Another book?" The words came out sharp
er and louder than she intended.

  Dominic's head snapped up, and his fingers stilled. "Sorry, what was that?"

  "You're writing another book."

  Looking thoughtful, he closed down the lid of his laptop and set it aside. "Did you read Flowers on the Water, Luce?"

  "No!" Angry words filled her mouth. "How could you write about what happened? How could you?"

  He rubbed his temples. "If you'd read the book, you'd understand."

  "No. I wouldn't. Trying to make money out of George's death was…" Lucy shook her head, tears filling her eyes. She had never cried over the book, never shed a tear over Dominic's crass behavior. She would not let herself do so now. She blinked frantically and fought the urge to cry.

  "You think that's what I was doing?"

  "Don't deny it. That bloody book was on the bestseller lists for months. It was a nightmare for me. Reporters wanted to dredge everything up again. People I worked with read it and wanted to talk about what happened.

  "I'd moved on with my life. My work colleagues didn't know about my past until your book came out. I had to leave my job and start again. You must have made a bundle out of our heartbreak." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the lane outside. "No doubt that fancy car of yours came out of the profits."

  "Lucy, I never meant to hurt you again." Dominic was on his feet and coming towards her.

  She backed into the hallway until her elbow hit the wall, then raised a palm to warn him off. "Don't you dare touch me."

  He halted, frustration etched on his face. "I wanted you to read it. I wanted you to understand how I felt. But you didn't even bother to read the foreword, did you?"

  Lucy shook her head, her lips pinched tightly.

  Dominic scooped the hair off his forehead, looking suddenly lost. "I didn't write it to be published, Luce. After George died, getting my thoughts and feelings down on paper was my way of coping."

  She remembered now, he was always journaling, pouring out his thoughts in a leather-bound book he kept beside the bed.

  "I submitted it as my thesis for my doctorate."

  "Your what?"

  "After the divorce, Mum suggested I reapply to Oxford. I stayed on there to do a PhD. Most dissertations end up gathering dust on an obscure shelf in the library, but my professor showed mine to an editor friend of hers. Apparently, narrative non-fiction is all the rage. The publisher snapped it up."