Her Name Is Trouble: A small-town contemporary romance (The Daimsbury Chronicles Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter Nine

The pain hadn’t dulled the next morning. They’d all fallen asleep in some form or the other around Megha’s room. Missy had a crick in her neck and a mouth that felt like cotton wool. None of them had drunk, but guess too much ice cream brought on a sugar hangover anyhow.

The Trammell sisters still slept, Agneta sprawled on a beanbag, Tindra half-falling from the sofa, while Elin slumped on the rug with her head at Tindra’s feet. They seemed totally oblivious to the world. Missy had woken up with her head against the headboard of Megha’s bed and had landed in an undignified heap on the floor when she’d tried to move.

The thump must’ve alerted Megha who peeked at her with one eye open and yawned.

“I...I need to head home,” Missy told her.

“Sweetie, you sure this is the best thing? You’re going to be alone.”

I need to be alone.

She had to think about what a mess she’d made of her life so far. Luke would forever remain lost to her; what did she have to look forward to? Maybe going back to Texas and take over the outreach campaign? But then, who said her father wouldn’t try to fob her off to Blake again? Over her dead body. She also didn’t believe his words from that clip all that much—too like a sudden volte face, especially for him. No, she better stick to wariness.

And truth be told, she’d come to love her easy, unpretentious life in this little village. Its inhabitants had made her one of their own, and she belonged here, unlike back in the US.

“I better go,” she said.

Megha reached out and squeezed her hand. “Call me if you need anything, okay? I don’t care what time or for how stupid a matter; you call.”

Missy nodded, then she climbed onto the bed and hugged Megha. The closest thing she’d ever had to a friend. To a sister, even.

She let herself out of the building through the back alley, setting the alarm back on as she exited.

Early morning smothered the quiet village green in bright light, the chirp of birds adding to the idyllic atmosphere. Spring being on them, flowers burst into bloom everywhere, and the bare cottage gardens she’d glimpsed during the long winter months now ran rife with colours and textures. Postcard perfect—Daimsbury looked like those dream visions of English countryside.

How could anyone not feel at home in such a place? The climbing roses on the arch at the back of her cottage’s garden appeared to have bloomed over the past night. Deep pink blossoms dappled the white trellis; how nice would it be to take a cuppa out there and drink it in the sunshine in the coming weeks?

She could drown her sorrow this way, surely. She’d read somewhere that the Vitamin D that got produced under the skin during exposure to the sun helped with alleviating symptoms of depression.

The gloomy cast of her heart wrapped itself around her, and in the distance, the roses lost their radiance. The brightness and contrast around her seemed to dim, then everything began to swim like one looking through a blurry sea. Tears, of course.

Missy let herself into the cottage and headed straight for the shower, where she let the water wash away the hot liquid pouring from her eyes.

How could she have fucked up her existence so well at just twenty-three? The first mistake had been to bottle it all in, then she’d run, and it had all culminated into her getting this close to Heaven with Luke Morelli.

The man she had always loved...

The water grew cold and she shivered, a prompt for her to get out from under the glacial spray. She pulled on her best, and only, jeans now and the khaki sweater—Megha, or Agneta, had thrown away her trusty other pair along with the black fleece the previous day.

On the verge of applying her eye makeup, she paused. She’d worn this to conceal her identity, the dark colours leeching out the green tinge of her jade-grey eyes and making them look more like silver. But she no longer needed it, right? She’d revealed her true name...the mass of puffy, frizzy red curls drying into a pompadour the proof in the pudding.

Still, Missy had always worn the war paint, and she hadn’t given a damn about how her hair looked. No thousand-dollar
Crème de la Mer
for her to prep her skin every morning and night, and the Angry Birds’ nest of locks always did fine with just a few twists of an elastic band and not the armada of straightening irons and smoothing serums that covered a whole shelf of her bathroom back in Texas or the Hamptons.

As she stared at her reflection in the tiny mirror over the washbasin, she bit her lip. The one her mother had pushed her to have fillers injected in because having a fuller upper lip was “just not done.”

She was
Missy
. Not Iris Ann. The woman she had forged herself into while in Europe and then Daimsbury had become
her
; not the paragon of social graces her mother had wished for her to be.

Armed with that certitude, she did her eye makeup then made her way out of the bathroom, heading to the kitchen to grab a bite. Her head still throbbed from the sugar rush and she needed something with salt and lots of fat to counter that.

The doorbell rang before she could sink her teeth into a slice of toast slathered with cream cheese.

Her heart galloped. Could it be Luke...?

Not likely. He’d want to have nothing to do with a liar.

With resolute steps, she trudged to the door and threw it open. Surprise cut her vocal chords and she remained rooted to her spot at the sight there.

“Daddy?” she managed to croak out.

Of course it had to be him—no one else except Tom Selleck had such a Tom Selleck-like moustache.

“Iris—”

“Missy.” Was that steel in her voice?

His face grew dark and he gave a soft nod. “Missy.”

Feelings rushed through her. Love. Affection. Relief...followed by resentment and desperation, because he’d never cared beyond what had mattered to him alone.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

She grimaced as she caught sight of Mrs. Murphy and Sadie Frost gawping at them from across the village. They’d be the talk of the town before long. A glimpse at the side of the cottage made her stifle a groan. Of course, her father had chosen the most inconspicuous Rolls Royce limo to come here.

Missy moved away from the doorway and closed the door behind him. He turned a full circle, probably taking in the space in which she lived. The sitting room of her boudoir had been bigger than these whole premises.

“How...how are you?” he asked.

“Fine,” she bit out.
Doing just peachy without your money or anything from you.

I don’t need you, Daddy.

He nodded. “Cade called me.”

Of course. Cade might’ve been fantabulous but he remained Jacob Taylor’s minion. She glanced at the screen on the old clamshell Nokia phone Ben had given her. Exactly fourteen hours since she’d revealed her identity back at the Whelan manor; her father must’ve jumped on his private jet right after to have reached here so quickly. At this time of the year, he would’ve been in Savannah. Eleven and a half hours’ flight to London.

She steeled her spine and threw her shoulders back. “What do you want, Daddy?”

“I...You need to come home, honey.”

“No, I don’t. This is home for me now.”

“But there’s the campaign and—”

“Good for you, but it doesn’t concern me.”

“Iris—”

“Missy.”

“Fine.
Missy
. What is wrong with you?”

She sputtered. Of course, something must be awry with her. It could never be his fault.

“If you came all the way here to take me back, you made the trip for nothing. I’m not leaving here.”

He came closer and put his hands gently on her shoulders. “You never were like this. What happened to you?”

Seriously? He’d play this card with her?

She threw his touch off and pulled her sleeves up. Time for nothing but the God-awful truth. Thrusting her scarred wrists in his face, she started talking.

“This is what happened, but you were never aware. The engagement you tried to force me into with Blake is what happened, but you didn’t care. I was screaming at you to notice me, to pay just a little heed, but you never bothered to stop and see me. I was just Iris Ann Taylor, your daughter and the pawn to do with as you pleased.”

He stumbled back a few steps and fell in a heap on the sofa. In the space of a few seconds, he seemed to age before her. His wide, line-backer shoulders drooped and suddenly, he looked like an old man even though he hadn’t gone over fifty yet.

Stunned silence thrummed between them. Her pulse beat hard after having thrown out everything she’d yearned to say to him all these years. She should feel free, empty of the reproach she’d built towards him, but the liberation never came.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he finally asked.

“Were you listening?” Her tone came out spent more than vitriolic.

He looked down, away from her.

Just what she thought. The guilt would never be his.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said and lifted his head to face her.

The words hit her like a blow to the stomach. She wrapped her arms around her middle to keep herself upright.

“I thought...” He sighed. “I thought I was doing the right thing for you, all this time. I didn’t want any burden on your shoulders.”

Tears stung her eyes at his revelation. “That’s not how life works, Daddy. Hardship is what shapes us. Not coddling.”

“I can see that now,” he said. “Missy...won’t you come back? Please?”

The uncertain twinge in his usually confident voice tugged at heartstrings inside her.

“No,” she replied after a moment.

He closed his eyes at her answer, and right that moment, she wanted nothing more than to rush to him and pounce onto his lap to hug his neck, like she had done so many times as a little girl.

But he’d never let her grow up, and look where they all stood today.

Somehow, because of all this, she’d lost her one chance at love, too.

“You don’t know me, Daddy. You never did.”

Pain graced his features when he opened his eyes to stare at her again.

“Are you telling me...there is no hope?” he asked.

She thought long and hard before she answered him.

“Someday, maybe... We have bridges to build, you and I. With Mama, as well. This, what you see here, is who I am. I am not reneging on that, even if my appearance alone will give Mama a heart attack.”

He chuckled sadly at that last statement. “I messed up bad, didn’t I?”

She bit her lip to not reply. His Southern accent had come across even thicker in that question, telling her he really was contrived.

He stood. “Can you ever forgive me?”

A lump clogged her throat.

“Already did,” she mumbled.

And she had. Finally getting to tell him everything she felt had loosened the knot that had twisted her heart all this time. When that loop unravelled, it left the space wide open for a second chance.

He came up to her and seemed to hesitate. She read into his gesture and breached the distance to hug him. Peace, and a sensation like lightness, flooded her when he closed his arms around her. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had given her a genuine hug that didn’t happen at some party or gala where he had a pristine family image to present.

“You’re not coming back?” he asked as he let her go.

“Not right now.”

Maybe never...

He must’ve heard the unspoken words, but he didn’t call her out on it. Strange—her formidable father always needed to get the last word and the last order. He could even start an argument in an empty room, for God’s sake.

She remained where she stood when he started for the door. On the threshold, he paused.

“Please call from time to time. Your mama would be happy to hear from you.”

Now that she thought of it, how come he was alone?

“She doesn’t know you found out where I am, innit?”

“No. I thought it more prudent to face you alone. She wouldn’t have...”

Been able to withstand an accusation like the one you just slung at me.
That’s what he would’ve said.

“You should give her a bit more credit.”

“Iri—Missy... Please. Don’t cut us out of your life again. It’s...” He took a deep breath. “It’s been hell not knowing where you could be, if you were even alive.”

She gulped back and blinked away the tears. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

On that, he opened the door and stepped out. All the heat in the room rushed out in his wake, only to return a second later to slam her in the face.

Missy landed in a heap on the rug in front of the fireplace. Spent—that’s how she felt now that her father and she had cleared the air between them. It had done her good to get it all out, but what was she left with now?