When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss Page 13

  ‘Your father sounds like a romantic.’ I giggle, trying desperately to cover my nervous habits with forced laughter.

  ‘I guess.’ Sketch shrugs; he answers my question, but I get the impression he’d rather be the one asking questions. He must want to ask me why I’ve grown up so guarded. So strange.

  ‘You miss her,’ I deflect.

  Sketch’s shoulders round and seem to drag him closer to the ground. The collar of his sleek leather jacket softens as if to offer its respects. Heartbreak is scribbled into the folds that suddenly appear on his forehead. But his eyes sweep over me like gentle rain, and I realise he’s not sad for himself. He’s sad for me.

  ‘When she died, it broke him,’ Sketch whispers.

  I finally manage to swallow that lump of air caught in the back of my throat. I want to thank him for sharing. I want to thank him for not asking me questions that I can’t bring myself to answer, and I want to thank him for knowing the answers without either of us having to say a word. All I can manage is a smile, but he smiles right back.

  ‘I miss my mother. Of course, I do,’ he continues. ‘But I miss my father too. When she left, she took a part of him with her. I don’t think he’s ever been whole since.’

  ‘Isn’t it better to have someone complete you for a little while than never be complete at all?’ I say instinctively.

  Sketch drops his head to stare at the ground as he draws a circle in the grass with his foot. He tries to hide it, but I notice the subtle smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

  ‘Are you incomplete, Annie?’ Sketch asks, lifting his head, and his eyes burn into mine with an intensity that seems to heat me up from the inside out.

  ‘I don’t think any of us can be truly complete on our own.’

  ‘Really?’ He raises a curious eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, really,’ I twitch. ‘You know, like kindred spirits.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’ I blush. ‘But I also believe some people never find theirs, and that makes me sad.’

  ‘Do you think you will find yours someday, Annie?’ he asks, and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes makes bubbles pop in my tummy.

  Not if my father has anything to do with it. ‘I hope so,’ I whisper. ‘I think we all need someone to love us. It must be nice.’

  ‘What about your father?’ Sketch straightens, and his expression takes on a sudden seriousness that seems to age him way past his twenty years.

  ‘What about him?’ I wobble.

  ‘He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who believes in true love,’ Sketch says with bold confidence.

  Any girl with a shred of dignity would slap a man clean across the face for a statement so bold about her father. But I stuff my hands into the pockets of my warm coat and smile at Sketch with curious eyes.

  ‘He doesn’t believe in love at all.’ I swallow nervously.

  Saying such disrespectful words shakes me. It’s both liberating and terrifying. I feel lighter for just saying the thoughts I’ve had bottled up for years out loud, but the relief is brief. The familiar fear that resides deep inside me clutches at my gut like bear claws with a furious grip. I crane my neck to look behind the giant apple tree next to us. My glance scrambles from tree to tree. I know Sketch and I are alone. I know it. But I can’t shake a growing knot of worry; as if my words will carry in the wind and somehow make it back to my father’s angry ears. I’ve never told anyone how my father treats my mother and me. And although I’ve been vague, I know Sketch understands better than I could have ever hoped for. But that comes with its own concerns. I see how Sketch looks at me with sympathy and worry. I know he wants to save me. Be a hero even. But that would only make everything worse.

  Sketch cups my cheeks in his hands and slowly turns my head back to face him. There’s a rugged harshness to his skin, but I guess years of working the land does that to you. A warmth is there too, and his simple touch soothes me. I wish I could bottle up this moment and keep it under my bed, so every now and then I could open the lid and take a sip of the memory.

  ‘What has he done to you, Annie?’ Sketch whispers.

  I shake my head and gaze up at the clouds, trying desperately to roll back the tears determined to fall.

  Sketch places a soft kiss on my forehead and breaks away from me suddenly. My teary eyes follow him as he bends down to unbuckle his backpack. The vicious wind smacks against my cheeks, wiping away any trace of Arthur’s warm hands. I sigh and pull the sleeve of my coat over my hands. I dab the scratchy wool under my eyes and catch the hints of tears.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Sketch asks as he stands. He doesn’t make eye contact, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want to embarrass me, not because he doesn’t care.

  My tummy rumbles just hearing the question, and I nod. I glance at one of the low branches and stare at a bright red apple that’s bigger than my fist.

  Sketch follows my gaze. ‘You can’t survive on just fruit, Annie.’

  I smile sheepishly, heeding the concerned sincerity in his words.

  ‘Wait here,’ he instructs confidently as he disappears behind some tightly knit trees.

  He returns seconds later, rolling a boulder along the grass and working up a sweat. I can tell the huge rock is heavy from his scrunched forehead and tight jaw. The physical exertion suits him, and if possible, he looks more attractive than ever. And I smirk as I remember the time I accidentally hit him in the knee with a pebble when we played stone skipping in some giant puddles on the schoolyard. He cried solidly for an hour. He was eight years old, and I was seven. I teased him about it for the rest of the afternoon. I only apologised when he refused to give me a bite of his apple the next day.

  ‘Do you need some help with that, Mr Softie?’ I joke, remembering the nickname I used that day.

  ‘No thank you, Miss Meany Boots,’ he throws back quickly, and I realise the memory is as solid for him as it is for me.

  ‘I hated when you called me that,’ I confess seriously but still smiling.

  ‘I know.’ He shrugs, almost letting the boulder roll back on top of him, squashing his toes. ‘That’s why I did it.’

  I frown, dragging my eyebrows to meet the bridge of my nose.

  ‘If the wind changes, your face will stay like that,’ Sketch teases, mimicking the voice of a child.

  ‘Now who’s being a Meany Boots?’ I laugh.

  My tummy groans loudly suddenly and reminds us both that it takes more than one of Farmer Talbot’s delicious apples to keep me going all day now that I’m all grown up.

  Sketch guides the boulder to stop under the branches of the large old apple tree and stands up. He places his hands on the small of his back and exhales with satisfaction when it cracks. He pulls a blanket out of his backpack and drapes it over the large rock.

  ‘Perfect.’ He grins, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. ‘The grass is too wet to sit on, but this should be okay?’ he says.

  I assume it’s a question, so I nod and agree although I’m not sure what it’s perfect for.

  ‘For a picnic, Annie.’ Sketch smiles as if he’s read my mind. When I was a kid, I used to think he could. Maybe nothing has changed.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not as cosy as I’d like, but picnics in October can be a bit chilly, you know. At least we’ll be dry here.’ Sketch tosses his eyes to the branches overhead, heaving with bright green leaves and juicy read apples. ‘The rain won’t get in here.’

  ‘A picnic?’ I repeat. ‘Is that what’s in your bag?’

  He nods. ‘Packed it myself this morning. I’m not the best cook, but I can butter a slice or two of bread when I need to.’ Sketch’s eyes search mine for a reaction, but all I can offer him is surprise.

  ‘I’m starving. I skipped breakfast ...’ Sketch cuts himself off, most likely because he realises I skip breakfast most days.

  I don’t mind. I never get hungry before noon anyway. But all the walking has left me famished today.


  ‘You look disappointed,’ Sketch says, his face falling. ‘If you’re not hungry, it’s okay.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ I admit quickly, hoping to mask my dismay that Sketch’s bag is hiding food and not paper and paint.

  ‘Good. Let’s eat, then.’ Sketch tilts his head to one side and waits for me to sit on the blanket on the rock before he crosses his legs and sits on the grass that he said was too wet. I watch his hands as he unpacks the picnic. His slender fingers are long, and his palm is at least twice as big as mine is.

  ‘A man’s hand is his greatest weapon,’ my mother always says. ‘A man’s curled hand makes a fist.’

  Sketch is young and strong. I didn’t need to see him push a boulder across the orchard or gauge the size of his fist to know that. But I’m slowly starting to realise that it’s not strong men who hurt women. It’s weak men. My father may be tall and broad and use his fist often, but that doesn’t make him strong. He’s not strong like Sketch.

  ‘Tuck in,’ Sketch says, smiling brightly as he catches me watching him.

  I blush and hope this isn’t one of those times he can read my mind.

  There’s hot tea from a flask with matching cups and bread and strawberry jam sandwiches. It’s simple and perfect, and I eat until I think I might explode.

  ‘There’s more,’ Sketch says, when I polish off my fourth slice of bread and third cup of tea.

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t eat another bite. I’m so full.’

  ‘No room for cake?’ Sketch smirks.

  My eyes widen like two china saucers as if Sketch has just whispered the naughtiest words into my ear.

  ‘It’s not homemade or anything,’ Sketch confesses. ‘But it is fresh and damn good.’

  ‘Fruitcake?’ I stammer, wide eyes and hopeful.

  ‘The very one.’ His eyes sparkle, and his jaw twitches with attractive confidence. ‘You like fruitcake?’

  ‘I’ve never had it?’ I gasp. ‘But I’ve heard the women at the market discuss it, and I imagine it tastes like rainbows.’

  Sketch stands. He stretches his arm out to me and opens his hand. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. We stand inches apart. Sketch cocks his head to one side and strokes his chin between his finger and thumb.

  ‘Rainbows?’ he echoes. ‘That’s exactly it.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Oh, it is.’ Sketch smacks his lips together and scrunches his nose. ‘It’s just a pity that you’re full.’

  He bends forward and snatches his rucksack off the ground, turns his back, and runs. ‘I’ll just feed this to the pigs then,’ he shouts back.

  My jaw drops, and it takes my legs a second or two to realise that my head is screaming at them to chase after him.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ I shout out, struggling to pick up speed over my laughter.

  ‘Come on, Annie. You’ll have to be faster than that.’ Sketch spins around to face me and keeps running backwards.

  My Wellingtons drag through the long, mucky grass. The left one comes close to sliding clean off a couple of times, but I wiggle and shake it back on. Sketch laughs so hard I think he’ll get a stitch soon. He hops effortlessly over the ditch into the next field, and I call out for him to wait for me as he disappears from view. I approach the ditch quickly and push myself to pick up speed. I take a deep breath as the low hedge, like nature’s wall between this field and the next, comes unavoidable close. I bend my knees and jump high, hoping I can clear the ditch and keep my Wellington boots on all at the same time.

  I fly through the air, instinctively stretching my arms out like a bird, and I close my eyes and savour the brief freedom. My landing isn’t quite as graceful as I crash into a waiting Sketch on the other side and send us both tumbling to the ground. Sketch lands flat on his back with me dotted on top of him like cherry on an ice-cream sundae. Mortified, I try to scramble to my feet, but Sketch’s arms around my waist hold my body firmly in place, and his eyes are locked on mine, holding my gaze firmly in place too.

  ‘The only thing that tastes like rainbows, Annie, is you,’ Sketch says, his lips seeking out mine.

  I close my eyes and drift into euphoria as Sketch Talbot kisses blissful daydreams into my mind.

  Seventeen

  Nate rolls over and groans sleepily. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Late.’ I shiver as the cold of the wrought-iron headboard drives into my back as I sit up in bed.

  Nate and I are squashed into the single bed in the downstairs bedroom I always slept in as a kid. Nate said he was happy to sleep on the couch, but when I told him I wanted him beside me, he eagerly agreed to squeeze into the narrow bed with me. I quickly shot down his enthusiasm and left him under no illusions that just because I offered him an olive branch didn’t mean we’re back together.

  ‘I don’t want my mother to worry about me,’ I said, sternly. ‘If you sleep on the sitting room couch, she’ll suspect something’s not right. She can’t handle any more stress right now, okay?’

  Nate nodded like an obedient schoolboy and accepted my terms. I didn’t admit to Nate that I really wanted him to sleep beside me because being alone right now could completely shatter my already breaking heart.

  Nate and I haven’t slept beside each other in almost two weeks. It’s soothing to feel his warmth next to me even though two adults can’t fit comfortably in the cramped bed, especially as Nate’s broad shoulders take up the lion’s share.

  ‘You been asleep yet?’ he croaks, pulling himself up to sit beside me.

  I shake my head.

  A sliver of light from the hall creeps in under the bedroom door, and Nate twists his wrist, trying to catch the light against his watch.

  ‘It’s almost three in the morning,’ I say, tilting the screen of my phone towards him so he can see the digital clock in the left corner of the screen.

  ‘Candy Crush?’ He snorts, scrunching his whole face as his eyes protest the bright colours shining in his face.

  ‘Level one hundred and thirty-seven.’ I smirk.

  ‘Jesus. How long have you been playing?’

  ‘A while. I couldn’t sleep.’

  Nate sighs and slides his arm between my neck and the icy headboard. I stiffen and close my eyes. Two weeks of pent-up anger and hurt bubble close to the surface, and a part of me wants to slap his hand away. The other part, the more dominant part, wants to thank him for walking out of work and driving halfway across the country to be with me when I desperately need him. Nate’s hand strokes my shoulder, warming me, and I stop fighting it and drop my head onto his shoulder.

  ‘You okay?’ Nate whispers, his warm breath dancing across the top of my head.

  I sniffle and snuggle into him harder. ‘I wish we could find that painting for Nana,’ I say after a long, comfortable silence falls over us.

  ‘I know. I wish we could find it too. But Ben and I searched everywhere. We even checked that old chicken shed. I can’t think of anywhere else it could be.’

  ‘It would make her so happy to see it. I know it would.’ I sigh.

  ‘I know.’ Nate squeezes my shoulder gently. ‘It would make you happy to see it too, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. So happy. I bet it’s really beautiful.’

  ‘How’s the book going?’ Nate continues. ‘Is Annie enjoying the memories?’

  ‘She’s a great writer,’ I gush. ‘I mean, she’s really, really good. I can’t believe she never told anyone about her book.’

  ‘But she did tell someone. She told you.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess she did. But I wish she’d shared it sooner.’

  ‘Maybe she was waiting for the right time,’ Nate suggests.

  ‘She used to read bedtime stories to me all the time when I was a little girl,’ I explain. ‘It’s weird now to have the roles reversed.’

  ‘I think it’s supposed to go that way, you know. Circle of life and all that. Maybe someday our kids will be reading stories to your mom ...’ Nate cuts himself off, realising
he’s inadvertently brought up the baby. He drags his free hand across his forehead. ‘Ah shit, Hols, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...’

  ‘S’okay,’ I whisper genuinely.

  Nate swallows, and against the stillness of night, I can actually hear the bubble of air he gulps down.

  ‘Do you think she ever considered publishing it?’ Nate asks softly, changing the subject back to my grandmother’s book.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you think it’s good enough to publish? Maybe you could look into it? It would be a fantastic tribute to Annie. You know, to see her name in print. Bestselling novel by Annie Talbot. It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?’

  I scrunch my nose. ‘I dunno. I don’t think that’s why she wrote it. I think she just wanted to remember. Words paint a picture, don’t they? I think writing this book was her way of making sure the memories never faded. And it worked. She remembers. When I read it, she smiles. You should see her, Nate. She’s so happy when she’s listening to the words. I mean, she really, really smiles, and sometimes I get so caught up in the story that when I look over at her, I almost forget that she’s sick.’

  ‘That’s great, Holly. I’m glad you’re getting to spend this time together. It must be very special.’

  ‘Yeah. It is,’ I admit, choking back tears. ‘But then I remember, you see. I notice how pale she is. And how thin. And I remember she’s dying. It’s so hard to watch her slip away, Nate. It’s too hard.’

  Nate reaches across my chest with his free hand. He slides his fingers under my chin and tilts my head back so my eyes have no choice but to seek his out even in the near darkness.

  ‘I wish I could do something, Hols. I feel so damn helpless.’

  Moonlight shines through the worn-out patches of the heavy curtains and allows me to see the subtle tears that glisten like raindrops across Nate’s eyes. I wonder if he’s talking about not being able to save my grandmother or if he’s talking about our baby. I think he means both.