Read Online HardWind by Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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to come into his home.
“Yes,” she replied.
Some strange thing wriggled down his spine as he moved toward his door. Star’s
face was drawn and she looked as though she’d been crying. She was nervously
twisting her fingers together as she waited for him to unlock his door, and before she
entered the foyer, took a deep breath—as though about to go to her execution.
“I don’t bite,” he said, following her inside.
“Not too viciously anyway,” she responded. She looked back at him with a ghost of
a smile on her pretty mouth. “Have you had this year’s rabies vax?”
“Distemper too,” he assured her.
Instead of going into the great room, she turned right then left and went into his
kitchen. It was there they’d always held any solemn conversations, sitting at the glass
octagonal dinette table in front of a sweeping view of his lap pool. Frivolous
conversation had always been reserved for curling up on his sectional sofa in the great
room.
“Is it that serious?” he inquired as she pulled out a chair and sat down.
She didn’t answer for a moment. She was staring at the sparkling blue waters of the
lap pool, the ten-feet-high fieldstone wall that ran beside, bisecting their two properties.
“Want something to drink?” he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of
orange juice.
“No, thank you,” she answered, and turned to face him.
He perched on a barstool at the peninsula, tipping back on the two rear legs, his
right instep on the bar rail, took a sip of the beverage then rested the container on his
thigh. “What’s up, Starlight?” he asked.
She took another deep breath as though fortifying herself then looked him in the
eye. “I need your help.”
He nodded. “Okay. Who do you want me to kill?” It was asked in a solemn voice.
That ghost of a smile hovered on her lips for a moment then slipped away as she
broke eye contact and looked down at her hands. She was back to twisting her fingers
together, this time on the thick glass top of the dinette table.
“First,” she said, not looking at him, “I need to explain something to you.”
“All right. ’S’plain away, Lucy,” he said in his best imitation of the actor Desi
Arnez.
37
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
She looked up. “This is serious, Dáire,” she said. His name on her lips never failed
to touch him. She pronounced it the Celtic way—deh ruh—and it always made his
heart ache.
He took another sip of the juice then set it on the bar. “Just tell me,” he said, lacing
his fingers together in his lap.
Once more she looked out at the pool—seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When
she spoke, her voice was pitched lower, softer than usual, and he had to strain to hear
her.
“Before you left that night, I had something important to tell you, but you didn’t
have time to listen,” she said.
He made no comment, knowing that to dredge up their last conversation would be
to start the fight all over again.
She closed her eyes, lowered her head, as a single tear slid slowly down her cheek.
As she looked up—opening those striking green eyes—it was as though she were
staring into his soul.
“I was pregnant when you left, Dáire.”
Nothing she could have said would have stunned him more. His lips parted.
“What?”
“That was what I wanted to tell you that night.”
“Pregnant,” he repeated.
“She’s ten months old,” Star told him. “Her name is Jillian.”
He raised his left hand and plowed it through his hair, cupped his neck as he stared
at her. “Whose child is she?”
Green eyes flared and Star shot up from the table. “Go to hell, you bastard!” she
snarled, and ran past him, shrugging off the staying hand he put out to stop her.
“Star, wait!” he yelled. He had overextended his reach and lost his balance, both he
and the barstool crashing to the floor. Scrambling up as quickly as he could, he raced
after her but she was already out his door and at
“Yes,” she replied.
Some strange thing wriggled down his spine as he moved toward his door. Star’s
face was drawn and she looked as though she’d been crying. She was nervously
twisting her fingers together as she waited for him to unlock his door, and before she
entered the foyer, took a deep breath—as though about to go to her execution.
“I don’t bite,” he said, following her inside.
“Not too viciously anyway,” she responded. She looked back at him with a ghost of
a smile on her pretty mouth. “Have you had this year’s rabies vax?”
“Distemper too,” he assured her.
Instead of going into the great room, she turned right then left and went into his
kitchen. It was there they’d always held any solemn conversations, sitting at the glass
octagonal dinette table in front of a sweeping view of his lap pool. Frivolous
conversation had always been reserved for curling up on his sectional sofa in the great
room.
“Is it that serious?” he inquired as she pulled out a chair and sat down.
She didn’t answer for a moment. She was staring at the sparkling blue waters of the
lap pool, the ten-feet-high fieldstone wall that ran beside, bisecting their two properties.
“Want something to drink?” he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of
orange juice.
“No, thank you,” she answered, and turned to face him.
He perched on a barstool at the peninsula, tipping back on the two rear legs, his
right instep on the bar rail, took a sip of the beverage then rested the container on his
thigh. “What’s up, Starlight?” he asked.
She took another deep breath as though fortifying herself then looked him in the
eye. “I need your help.”
He nodded. “Okay. Who do you want me to kill?” It was asked in a solemn voice.
That ghost of a smile hovered on her lips for a moment then slipped away as she
broke eye contact and looked down at her hands. She was back to twisting her fingers
together, this time on the thick glass top of the dinette table.
“First,” she said, not looking at him, “I need to explain something to you.”
“All right. ’S’plain away, Lucy,” he said in his best imitation of the actor Desi
Arnez.
37
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
She looked up. “This is serious, Dáire,” she said. His name on her lips never failed
to touch him. She pronounced it the Celtic way—deh ruh—and it always made his
heart ache.
He took another sip of the juice then set it on the bar. “Just tell me,” he said, lacing
his fingers together in his lap.
Once more she looked out at the pool—seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When
she spoke, her voice was pitched lower, softer than usual, and he had to strain to hear
her.
“Before you left that night, I had something important to tell you, but you didn’t
have time to listen,” she said.
He made no comment, knowing that to dredge up their last conversation would be
to start the fight all over again.
She closed her eyes, lowered her head, as a single tear slid slowly down her cheek.
As she looked up—opening those striking green eyes—it was as though she were
staring into his soul.
“I was pregnant when you left, Dáire.”
Nothing she could have said would have stunned him more. His lips parted.
“What?”
“That was what I wanted to tell you that night.”
“Pregnant,” he repeated.
“She’s ten months old,” Star told him. “Her name is Jillian.”
He raised his left hand and plowed it through his hair, cupped his neck as he stared
at her. “Whose child is she?”
Green eyes flared and Star shot up from the table. “Go to hell, you bastard!” she
snarled, and ran past him, shrugging off the staying hand he put out to stop her.
“Star, wait!” he yelled. He had overextended his reach and lost his balance, both he
and the barstool crashing to the floor. Scrambling up as quickly as he could, he raced
after her but she was already out his door and at
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