Chapter Five

 

One eye to his pillow, Ash cracked his other open to the soft light of—somewhere that was not his flat. This pillow was clean and it smelled of lavender and starch. Maybe even bleach. Aye, not his place at all. Flexing his elbows at his sides, he flattened both palms to the extra soft mattress, ready to get back on his feet.

Not happening. The room not only spun, it bucked, twisted, and rolled. He’d no more than lifted his head off the pillow when he let it drop again. Maybe Hammer had taken him home to his place? That’d be a first, and it made sense, but no. Ash was almost one hundred percent sure Hammer left the pub before he did last night. Something about…

Ah. He couldn’t think, so he closed both eyes, content to rest until he puzzled his predicament out. He recalled last call, and, for some ungodly reason he couldn’t fathom, a taxi ride. Maybe. For sure, he’d had a couple smokes by the harbor. Hadn’t he?

No matter. The pillow was soft and his head was hard and pounded like the devil. He stayed put. On his belly. Too knackered to care where he was or who’d brought him here.

For now…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How is she?” Colby asked her mother’s personal assistant, Tula White Feather, not her real name but some hippie moniker she’d assumed years earlier. They stood in the hall outside her mother’s room on the second level. The grand home on Beacon Hill was quiet. Colby had taken a quick shower and changed into a pair of faded denim jeans and a simple t-shirt, stalling the confrontation with her mum.

Tula hailed from the West Coast. She’d been part of the pot-smoking generation of the seventies and still wore the lifestyle. Dressed in a tie-dyed caftan, one she’d probably dyed herself with organic dyes of every color in the rainbow—you know the drill. Colby was fairly certain Tula had also smoked one too many bongs in her past life, or inhaled more tokes than she should have. For all her raging against the chemicals that Corporate America released into the environment on a daily basis, she had no trouble putting certain other chemicals, aka marijuana, in her system.

Tula tittered on a regular basis as if she thoroughly enjoyed her own company, answering her inquiries instead of letting Colby speak for herself. Ah, the seventies. Must’ve been a crazy, rockin’ good time.

“She’s sleeping, Miss Colby, but you already knew that, didn’t you?” Tula rolled her aquamarine eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you did. Have you traveled far to get here?”

Colby waited the space of a heartbeat for the answer that was sure to come.

“Of course, you did, child.” Tula breathed a sigh. “What am I thinking? I’d hate for you to wake her up, though. She’s restless these days and brooding. She needs the sleep. Can I make you a sandwich? Some tea?”

Again, Colby waited as Tula’s brightly colored zigs and zags swished around her broad hips when she turned down the hall. “Why, I’d be glad to fix breakfast, you know that. Do you take cream and sugar in your coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Colby got in a quick reply to what sounded like multiple-choice questions. “In my coffee. I don’t drink tea.” Never have, never will.

“Yes, you do, honey child. You certainly do.” Whatever that meant.

Tula strolled down the generous staircase, one hand on the elegantly carved handrail, the other on her ample cleavage as if she had to hold onto her breasts when she walked. She did tend to bounce a little. Make that a lot. Another legacy from the seventies—no bra.

Colby eyed the changes in the house she used to call home. A new Persian rug, this one of tan and cinnamon hues, covered the oak hardwood floor in the formal dining room at her left. A larger, more expansive chandelier hung over the solid oak dining table. It stretched from one end of the massive room to the other, elongated to accompany a massive dinner feast. There was a day that table would’ve been filled, each chair too, and a lavish meal laid for all to partake. This old house had rung with importance, with music and parties, soirées and dances galore, but no more.

Dust clung to the spaces between each baluster of the staircase now. A cobweb dared stretch from one end of the crown molding in the grand entrance to the tip of the solid wood doorframe below it. The magnificently carved eagle over the door looked dingy and gray from dust and lack of attention. It used to shine with lemon oil polish, but then, her mother used to employ a full staff of maids, butlers, and chauffeurs. How things had changed.

“The war over yet?” Tula tossed over her shoulder, her caftan spread at her sides like wings. Colorful, laid back butterfly wings.

“Most likely not,” Colby replied, following the woman into the kitchen.

“As I expected,” Tula breathed. “Peace, child. What the world needs now is love, sweet love. That’s the only thing that will fix it.”

Why did that sentiment sound like a television commercial?

Tula waved her hand to the breakfast nook in the north facing bay window, the only place Colby had ever felt comfortable. She belonged to the blue-collar world more than high society. Once upon a time the fishing boats in the harbor had pulled at her, the thrill of a close game of baseball, and ice skating races in winter. But soccer had won her heart. Always soccer.

Her world then had been filled with practice and bruises, but she’d proven herself, by hell. The day she’d startled her coach with an audacious keepie-uppie before she’d scored the winning goal and clenched state went down in history. Did she get a good tongue lashing for that cocky display? She would’ve been surprised if she hadn’t, but she’d ruled the day, hadn’t she? She’d won.

Was it worth it to know she was just that good, that she’d known instinctively where the mid-fielders were and how much time was left on the clock? That she trusted her battle-honed skill as the leagues best—in your face!—center striker? You bet your Irish ass the butt chewing was worth it. Her team and fans loved her spit-in-your-eye attitude. Her win-or-die-trying game ending plays.

But it came at a price. Her mother had fought her every step of the way. Why Bella ever got the notion in her head that Colby would change from a sports jock into the prissy daughter-of-her-dreams in frilly dresses, Colby never knew. Not for certain. She’d just suspected. The emotional distance between them had to do with Colby being an unexpected and unplanned bonus, a child born too late in life to parents who were too busy and too single-minded to change their lifestyle. Yes, there’d been birthday parties and celebrations, but there’d never been—what was the word?—inclusion?

Born into wealth when one’s parents were in their forties and already set in their ways did not a happy ending make. Not in the Quaid family. Which explained Colby’s need to leave Boston behind and set out on her own. She’d been born a tomboy with grit in her eye and a cuss word on her tongue, not a silver spoon. She’d like to keep it that way.

The Army gave her what she’d desired most—herself. She had no one to answer to once she’d enlisted, except drill sergeants at first, then a couple commanding officers later in her career, most she respected. She’d fought to be that army-of-one and ended up being one of the first women Rangers. Was it worth it? She thought so.

Tula laid a pressed napkin on Colby’s knee even as she set a saucer and cup—of tea, mind you—front and center on Colby’s placemat.

“I don’t drink tea,” Colby reminded her mother’s space-cadet caregiver.

Tula’s light-brown brows lifted in surprise over her faded aquamarine eyes. “Since when?”

Hell, this never gets old… Colby held her breath. Wait for it.

“Of course, you don’t, child. My mistake. Coffee. You’re a coffee drinker. I know that. I’ll be right back.” With a twitter and a swirl of neon rainbow, Tula lifted the saucer away.

Colby cocked her elbow to the table, her chin cupped in her palm as she stared out the window. It seemed the mighty Quaid Empire was in disrepair on the home front too. Like it or not, she might have to stay longer than she wanted.

The lovely aroma of coffee beans in the grinder wafted through the air, filling Colby’s nose with the hope of a better day. Followed by a thump from upstairs, and a hearty, “Where’s my feckin’ trousers?”

Great. Ash was awake.