Storm Shells (The Wishes Series #3) (23 page)

“Wow,” muttered Nicole. “And she turned you down? That’s too bad.”

“Too bad for her,” snapped Jasmine, pointing the file like a knife. “I’ll find someone else.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” consoled Nicole. “You know everyone in town.”

Jasmine’s problem was, everyone in town knew
her
. I couldn’t think of a single person who hadn’t been tormented by the Beautifuls in one way or another.

She sighed. “It’s a shame you’re such a bitch, Nic, I would’ve asked you otherwise. You’re cute as a blonde.” She bored into me with a look of sheer pity. “And you’re just so out of shape. It’s a shame. I thought living in the fashion hub of the world would’ve inspired you to grow some style.”

Nicole brought her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle.

“Yeah,” I said wistfully. “Shame.”

My thoughts turned to the cache of designer clothing that I had boxed up in the cottage – and the girl who used to wear them. Charlotte Décarie had had impeccable style, but she’d almost sold her soul to get it. Charli Blake had no intention of growing some style. She was too busy growing a baby.

The conversation was absurd but relatively harmless and moderately entertaining. And as much as I hated to admit it, Jasmine’s manicuring skills were as good as I’d ever seen. We slipped out of the salon two hours later as stealthily as we’d arrived, leaving Carol Lawson none the wiser that we’d ever crossed enemy lines.

* * *

For a few short hours I’d managed to forget my worries. Nicole drove me back to the cottage and we made a loose arrangement to meet the next day. I felt happy and relaxed until I walked into the house. The flowers were still sitting on the table where we’d left them. I felt tension flooding my bones.

I read the card one more time before tearing it in two. I didn’t want Flynn waking up thinking of me. I didn’t want Flynn Davis thinking about me at all. The gesture of giving me flowers was inappropriate.

Calling to thank him anyway would’ve been good manners, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I pulled out every bloom that symbolised anything grander than friendship and threw them in the bin.

I must’ve felt some guilt in doing it, because the sound of my phone ringing startled me half to death. I grabbed it from the front pocket of my jacket, vowing never to carry it in there again. If I had jumped, the baby had probably somersaulted. I didn’t recognise the international number that lit the screen.

I made a deal with myself. If it was Adam, I’d tell him everything and let the cards fall where they may.

It was impossible to dwell on the past when I had something amazing just on the horizon. Thoughts of Adam fell under the category of dwelling. He wasn’t there on the night I first felt her flutter inside me because he chose not to be. The loss was his, not mine – and that’s what I kept telling myself.

I answered the phone as casually as my thumping heart would allow and headed outside, desperate for sunshine. “Hello?”

“Mrs Décarie, my name is Michael Fontaine. I work for Décarie, Fontaine and Associates.” He spoke painfully slowly as if reading from an unrehearsed script. I managed to walk all the way across the yard to the picnic table before he finished his introduction. “I have been retained by your husband, Adam Décarie. I am representing him during your divorce proceedings.”

“What can I do for you, Mr Fontaine?” The superior tone came remarkably easy because I felt no pressure whatsoever. I wasn’t speaking to the Mr Fontaine who partnered a law firm with Jean-Luc. I was speaking to his son. I had never met Michael, but knew a little about him thanks to Fiona Décarie’s wretched fondness for gossip. I recalled a conversation where she’d described him as a mousy, inept, daddy’s boy. At the time, she’d been furious with Adam’s decision not to join his father’s firm after graduation. “Imagine Jean-Luc’s displeasure,” she’d said sourly. “Both of his sons refuse the position, paving the way for an imbecile like Michael Fontaine. According to Ryan, he barely passed the bar. He’s only there because of his father.”

I’d ignored the hypocrisy. I was just thrilled that Adam had turned it down in favour of travelling the world with me. In actuality, his plans were much more conservative. He’d already accepted a clerkship with another firm.

Just thinking about it infuriated me, which was mighty unfortunate for mousy Michael Fontaine.

“The reason for my call is to ascertain the contact details of your legal council. He or she is yet to make contact with us.”

It was one of the most convoluted sentences I’d heard in a long time.

I sat down at the picnic table. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said vaguely, admiring how perfect and smooth my manicure looked against the weathered wooden table. “What is it that you want, Mr Fontaine? I signed the papers.”

A long pause followed and I could hear the rustling of paper.

“You signed the papers incorrectly. Ah, if you’re having a problem understanding them I could explain them to you,” he offered, sounding too flustered to explain anything. “Better still, your attorney could do it. Have you retained an attorney, Mrs Décarie?”

He was making it too easy for me. “I managed to retain one for almost a year, but I had to let him go,” I said wistfully. “Things didn’t work out.”

“Err, Charlotte,” he stammered, obviously reading my name off a page. “May I call you Charlotte?”

“Sure,” I quipped. “Can I call you Mick?”

“Michael, yes.”

“Mike?”

“It’s Michael. I sent you another copy. Have you received it yet?” He lowered his tone and slowed his speech, perhaps to compensate for my apparent lack of brain cells but making himself sound damaged instead.

“Nope.”

“Do you check your mail regularly?”

I sighed for effect. “I try to, Mick, but we have a real problem with the kangaroos.”

“Kangaroos?”

“Yeah, most days those big suckers just snatch the mail right out of the box.”

For some reason, the paper rustling ceased immediately.

“I can send you another copy, perhaps via courier this time,” he offered, sounding a little frightened.

“I’ll tell you what, Michael,” I began, preparing to put an end to the nonsense. “How about you just save yourself the trouble? I did get the paperwork and you can tell my husband that I have no intention of signing it correctly any time soon.”

The petition had included a standard clause stating that Adam and I had no children together. I couldn’t sign it. It was a big fat lie, and I didn’t know what the legal ramifications of telling big fat lies would be.

“Mrs Décarie, Charlotte, I implore you to reconsider,” he begged. “The terms of the settlement are very reasonable.”

Adam clearly wanted this wrapped up. And for some stupid reason he’d hired mousy Mick to do it. I almost felt sorry for him.

“I’m sure it’s very reasonable, but I’m not signing off on it,” I repeated.

“If that’s the case, I shall have no choice but to advise my client to file for divorce in absentia,” he said, finally sounding like a lawyer. “It will proceed with or without your signature.”

I didn’t really mean it when I told Michael to have a nice day as I ended the call. I did, however, mean to hurt my phone when I threw it on the ground. And I definitely meant for it to get wet when I marched to the edge of the yard and tossed it to the rocks below. I wasn’t just throwing my phone away; I was letting go of all hope.

I marched back into the house. The damn flowers were still on the table. Continuing with my psychotic tantrum, I tossed them in the bin. Obviously my new-found even temperament had been fleeting.

Charli Blake was clearing house.

* * *

I knew I’d come to regret destroying my phone. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon. When my power went out later that night, calling Alex to come and fix it wasn’t an option. I grabbed a torch and headed to the fuse box.

“Need a hand?” asked a voice from behind.

I squinted through the low light to see Flynn strolling across the dark yard.

The lid of the fuse box clapped loudly as I dropped it shut, making it sound like I’d slammed it on purpose. If he thought I was being bad tempered, he overlooked it.

“I looked over and saw the house in darkness,” he explained, stepping onto the veranda. “It’s probably just a fuse.”

Looked over from where?
I wondered. I studied the house next door, concentrating on the positioning of the windows. It was the first time I’d noticed the break in the trees along the fence line. It gave him an uninterrupted view of the cottage from his kitchen window.

I suddenly felt a little unnerved. Exactly how much time did Flynn spend looking at my house from his? I pushed the ugly thought aside. “I was going to call Alex but I lost my phone today.”

Flynn smiled like he knew differently. “There’s no point calling your dad when I’m just next door. I’ll have it sorted in a minute.”

True to his word, he fixed the problem, pushed the ancient ceramic fuse back into place, and brought the house back to light.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“You’re welcome.” He switched off the torch and handed it to me. “So, did you get my flowers?”

His smile made me feel guilty. I prayed he wouldn’t ask to see them. If he did, I’d have to point him in the direction of the wheelie bin on the verge.

“Flynn, about the flowers – ”

He cut me off. “I enjoyed our dinner, Charli. Perhaps we could do it again.”

I was shaking my head before he’d even finished speaking. “I don’t think so. I have a lot going on.” I began edging toward the front door. As I made a grab for the handle he spoke again. “By a lot, you mean the baby?” he asked.

I was horror-struck. He’d cottoned on that I was pregnant and he was still interested in dating me.

“Yes.” I choked out the word.

“He’s not here for you, Charli, but I could be. There’s nothing wrong with moving on – before you forget what it’s like to be happy.”

His comment was rude and out of order. Things were becoming borderline creepy. “I think you should go.”

Flynn stepped off the porch. “Good night, Charli,” he said simply. I said nothing. He disappeared into the dark garden that separated our houses. I headed inside and locked the door.

February 25

Adam

Michael Fontaine is a dick. His father is one of the partners at Dad’s law firm, which is the sole reason he managed to land a job. He passed the bar the same year as Ryan – after failing twice. Last I heard he was sharpening pencils and making coffee from an office in the basement, so when he called to let me know he was handling my divorce, I was a little shocked.

“Perhaps we could meet and discuss the fine details?” he suggested.

There were no fine details, let alone ones that needed discussing. “I’m pretty busy, Michael,” I replied, gearing up to end the call.

“Your wife signed the papers but there’s an issue with her signature.”

He suddenly had my full attention. “What issue?”

“If you have the time, I’d rather discuss it in person.”

This was going to be good. I glanced at my watch, calculated how long it would take me to get there and arranged to meet him within the hour.

Michael Fontaine must’ve done some serious ass kissing of late. When I got there, Tennille showed me through to the swank office next door to my father’s. Michael sat at the huge mahogany desk looking like a preschooler on a take-your-son-to-work day.

As soon as I walked in, he started shuffling paper around. I couldn’t work out if he was looking for something or trying to look important. If importance was the look he was shooting for, he should’ve reconsidered wearing a polyester suit.

I leaned across the desk and shook his hand, trying not to appear grossed out by his sweaty palms. “How are you Michael?”

“A little under the pump, actually,” he stammered.

I sat opposite him and settled back. “Busy, huh? How many cases are you handling these days?” I was curious to know what sort of caseload warranted a prime office with views.

“Ah, just yours. It’s proving to be quite complex.” I must’ve stared at him for too long. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Can I be frank with you, Adam?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Your wife is a nightmare to deal with.” He sounded relieved to get the words out. Charlotte must have done a real number on him.

“What did she do?”

I tried to keep my expression straight as he described the phone conference, but cracked when he got to the part about the mail-stealing kangaroos.

“This is her signed documentation.” He pushed it across the desk at me. “As you can see, it’s worthless.”

I thumbed through the documents to get to the last page. “Ah, that’s not her signature.”

It wasn’t even her name.

“No, I checked,” he replied solemnly. “Charlotte Elisabeth Décarie has never gone by the alias Adele E. Penguin.”

Inappropriately, I laughed.

“I’m not sure how to proceed from here,” he told me.