The jinxed journalist, p.9
The Jinxed Journalist, page 9
part #3 of The Borderline Chronicles Series
She watched him quietly for a moment, still not looking convinced, then sighed with resignation. “I guess it might be a good idea to get it checked.”
He nodded. “It is a good idea. And I know it was, because it was my idea.”
“Don’t be a donkey.”
Saint chuckled. “Your idea of profanity is hilarious.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He met her gaze, then realized his hand was still on her arm. No loitering, Captain. He cleared his throat. “This is going to seem like a strange request, but would you like to go to a party tonight?”
Brooke blanched. “What?”
“It’s my birthday, and my mum’s throwing me a small get-together. Mostly my family, really. I just don’t feel comfortable leaving you two here alone.”
“Oh, gosh, Captain, I don’t know . . .”
“Just think about it. Not a big deal. I can cancel it,” he said, forcing himself to keep his hands in his pockets lest he ruin his hair or try to cover his embarrassment.
“Oh, no, don’t cancel. No reason why we should ruin your weekend, too, right?” Her throat moved as she swallowed hard. “Your mum really won’t mind?”
“Shall I call her and check?”
“Yes. Please do. If she approves, we’ll go.”
He dialed as Brooke took off her outer layers. “Hi, Mum,” he said in Imaharan. It was rude to do so in front of Everleigh, but his mum really did prefer it. “Can I bring two more tonight?”
“Of course,” she said. “Did Edward’s plans change?”
“No, he’s still out of town. This is Brooke and her son, Olly, the boy I’ve been mentoring. I told you about them, remember?” Their names stuck out comically in the stream of Imaharan, like a soprano hitting a high note.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Their apartment was vandalized, so they’re staying with me until she can have it checked for curses and get her locks fixed.”
“Of course they are welcome to join us. There will be lots of food. They must come. You didn’t need to ask.”
“You know how Orangiersians are. She doesn’t want to come without an invitation.”
“Aren’t you Orangiersian?” she teased, and he laughed.
“Only part of me is. I don’t know what I am now. Imaharsian, maybe. Orangieharan?”
She laughed. “Let me speak to her, please.”
“Okay, hang on.” He switched it to speakerphone as they both switched languages to Common Tongue. “Go ahead.”
“Brooke?”
“Saint’s mum?”
Saint could hear his mum’s smile in her voice. “Yes, I am his mum. We would like for you to come tonight, you and your son. We would be honored to have you.”
“Thank you so much; we’ll be there. I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”
“Not at all. We’ll see you tonight. Don’t be too early.”
“That won’t be a problem with these two in tow, I assure you . . . ,” Saint replied.
“Love you, son.”
“Love you, too, Mum.” He hung up.
Brooke crossed her arms. “Did you coerce her? You did a lot of talking before she spoke to me.”
“Yes, I did. I told her you were very high maintenance and demanded to be involved in our celebration.”
“Donkey,” Brooke said, whacking him in the chest, and he laughed.
“She wants you to come, Brooke. It’s fine, really.”
“And they all speak Common Tongue?”
He nodded. The comment irked him a little, but he reminded himself that not everyone interacted with minorities as much as he did. “Does that surprise you? They live here, don’t they?”
Brooke blushed. “I don’t know, I just thought . . .”
“Mum is the least proficient, since she mostly hangs out with Imaharans, but you’ll have no trouble conversing with anyone.”
She nodded, but he thought she still didn’t seem at all sure this was a good idea. “I’m sorry if I’m asking a lot of questions . . .”
He waved her off. “It’s fine.”
“Can I ask one more?” He loved this side of her. The side that wanted to dig into a story, find a connection.
He grinned. “Can I stop you?”
Brooke rolled her eyes, then sobered. “What was it like growing up in an Imaharan family?”
Saint crossed his arms. “It was good. I can’t speak for all Imaharan families, obviously, but the Makis have a strong sense of cooperation, a healthy dependence and ‘family first’ kind of feeling to their life. They’re part of this amazing, supportive expatriate community, but they never made me feel like an outsider. My siblings don’t bring up too often that my first name doesn’t start with H like all of theirs,” he said with a wink.
She smiled. “I’m glad you had them in your life.”
“So am I. In a very real sense, they saved me.” Feeling the emotion clogging his throat, Saint coughed. “We’ll go after you get back from doing the police report. Okay?”
“Okay.”
TO A WOMAN WITH NO siblings, it seemed like there were a lot of names to know in Saint’s family.
“This is my dad, Atsuki. He goes by Art.”
“Great to meet you, Art. Olly loves to draw, he’ll probably be fascinated with your name.” Everyone laughed, but Brooke cringed. That was a dumb joke, and probably offensive.
“And my mum, Fuyumi. She goes by Juniper.”
“It is easier,” she explained. “Many people here, they cannot say ‘Fuyumi,’ so I chose another name.” She shrugged. “Easier.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Brooke, thinking that she wouldn’t want her name butchered all the time, either, but also thinking how ridiculous it was that people couldn’t learn to pronounce it correctly. “It is so sweet of you to include us in the celebration, thank you so much for having us.”
“Oh, we are honored to have you,” she said, smiling. “So many people already, two more is nothing.”
“And you already know Hanae.”
“Mrs. Foster.” She hadn’t realized that Saint and the principal were related until now, but it did make a few things start to fall into place.
“Lovely to have you with us, Ms. Everleigh.” Now she remembers the miss . . .
“Oh, please, call me Brooke.”
“And this is her husband, Will.”
“Nice to meet you, Brooke.”
Olly had run off somewhere with Saint’s nieces and nephews, but she couldn’t chase him because there were still more adults for her to meet. Hurry up, people. Broken glass does not make for a happy birthday. She needed eyes on Olly again ASAP.
“And this is Hideo, Hitoshi, and my little brother, Hinata, the restauranteur,” Saint said, the pride in his voice unmistakable.
Brooke nodded to each in turn. “Great to meet you all.”
“Likewise,” said Hinata, stepping forward to shake her hand. “Come by the restaurant sometime. You can write an article about it and get a free dinner at the same time.” He winked at her.
“Perhaps I will.” She smiled.
“We have some time before dinner,” Art said. “Shall we play a game?”
“You know,” Saint said, “it is my birthday . . .” The younger adults began to banter with him, Imaharan and Common Tongue overlapping, and Brooke found herself grinning at the obvious affection in the group. Art held up his hands for silence.
“Francis? What were you saying?”
“Did I say we had to play basketball? Did I say that?” Saint asked, and the others just shook their heads, muttering. “I was just trying to point out that since we’ve got Olly, we’ve got even teams for adults vs. kids . . .”
“I like the idea,” said Art, and the others nodded begrudgingly. “Fuyumi, how long until pizza?”
“Half an hour, the man said.”
“And the oven is on for the veggie pizza we brought, right?” Saint asked.
“Right.”
He clapped a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. “That’s for you. And Everleigh, I know you’re not sporty, so you get to keep score for us.” He handed her a small whiteboard and a marker.
She took it and saluted, making him grin at her crookedly. Golly, that’s a nice look on him. They stood staring at each other for a long moment, and Brooke felt the same irresistible attraction to him that she’d felt earlier in the day. Like two poles of a darn magnet.
“Okay,” Art said, “let’s go outside and play.”
She followed the group to the front door, where she’d left her shoes, and started to carry them to the back door, where she could see the basketball hoop out on the patio. A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to see Hanae shaking her head. She tipped her head toward the front door, and Brooke realized everyone else had gone out the front to avoid having shoes in the house at all. She grinned at Hanae, a silent thank you for not revealing her faux pas, and she grinned back. Olly had already followed suit, and she was relieved that he was better than she was at taking his cues from the others.
“First team to twenty wins.” Saint assumed a little more of his usual bossiness when they got to the basketball court, which was clearly his domain. “Mum, Brooke, you might want to stay up there where it’s safe. It’s gonna get wild down here.”
She hopped up and sat on the edge of the deck, whiteboard still in hand, enjoying the feel of the cold as it nipped at her nose and fingers.
“You act as if we might break,” Fuyumi said, leaning against the railing next to her. “I raised you to know better.” Her face transformed as a quiet joy overtook her, watching her children and grandchildren organizing themselves.
“Oh”—Saint came running up to Brooke—“and hold my phone.” Then he took off back toward the hoop mounted on the shed.
“Why do you say such things?” his mum asked. “Is it her job to serve you?”
“She doesn’t mind, do you?” he called back, grinning.
“Such confidence,” Fuyumi said, shaking her head.
“He hasn’t always been like this?” Brooke asked.
“Oh, no,” Fuyumi laughed. “No, no. The military gave him that.”
“What was he like as a child?”
She was quiet for so long, Brooke wasn’t sure she’d heard her question. “He was angry. Very angry. When he came to us, we thought, ‘All he needs is some love, and he will settle down.’” She shook her head. “It was not so.” Brooke felt bad that she’d made her so sad.
“What happened?”
“Some people did not support our decision to adopt a child who was so different from us. Friends distanced themselves, though they would not say why. We tried many things to make him happy. We read books, tried different ways to help him learn to control himself. None of it worked. Finally, we found an adoption support group. They told us about reactive attachment disorder.”
Brooke cocked her head. “What is that? I’ve never heard of it.”
Fuyumi shook her head. “It is common, but we did not know about it, either. The group, they said that because his mother neglected him, he will be angry a long time, maybe forever.” She took a sip of her water. “It was very difficult. Perhaps more difficult for us, because where we come from, being so disrespectful, shouting, is dishonorable. But it was his way.”
“I’m so sorry, Fuyumi,” Brooke said, stumbling over the name a tiny bit, but laying a hand on her arm. “How did you get through it?”
“I quit my accounting work to spend more time with him. Every day, I would hold him while he watched TV. At first, he does not like it, but he got used to it. He began to accept it. He began to want it. He was still very skeptical about us. His father had to work even harder than I did. Francis liked basketball, so they played every day. Hours, they played. Step by step, he learned to trust us. We had to be so patient, we had to love him so unconditionally, far beyond what we thought we could do. School was still hard for him, for many years. But the military was good. It gave him the structure he wanted, the discipline. Seeing him now? It was worth it.” Fuyumi covered Brooke’s hand with her own on the edge of the deck and gave it a light squeeze. “I tell you this story because I believe you will understand, because I believe you want to understand. I know that you too know what it feels like to struggle, to fight. Francis has told us that you fight for what is good.”
Brooke opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He said that about me?
“Trust is still difficult for him, Brooke. He knows many people, many women, but they do not know him. He mentors many children, but once the program is finished, he does not see them again. For many years, he allows no new attachments, no real bond.” She turned her gaze back to the yard, where Saint obviously muffed a pass so the kids could steal the ball. “I like to see him with your son. I think he would be a good father.”
“So do I,” Brooke said. Is she giving me her blessing? She wanted to squirm; his mum was getting the wrong idea about them entirely. This was a tentative friendship at best—there was no sense in getting her hopes up.
“Of course, I am sure most mothers would think so. We are biased, aren’t we, when it comes to our boys?”
“Very.” She grinned. “And it doesn’t help when good men like your son come along and confirm my opinion that my son is a sweet kid who’s full of potential, even if no one else can see it.”
“Oh, I also can see it. He is just finding his way. He will find it. We will help.”
“I would love that,” Brooke whispered.
“My son is very happy, being with you. He may not show it, but I know.”
She reddened. “Oh, Fuyumi, I hope we haven’t given you the wrong impression, Francis and I aren’t . . . I mean, we’re helping Olly together, but we’re not . . .”
“Mothers know things, Brooke. You are helping him. He will get there.”
Brooke hopped down. “I think I’ll just go pop my pizza in the oven . . .”
Something in her pocket started ringing, and she pulled it out. Orangiers Correctional Facility 006, Women’s Division.
“Um, Saint? I think you’re going to want to take this . . .”
He trotted over to her and answered. He put one finger in his other ear, moving away from the game still happening as the big kids took turns lifting Olly up to help him make a basket.
“Uh-huh. Yes, okay. Thank you. I will.” He hung up, weaving his fingers together behind his head, walking around the side of the house.
As if drawn by a string, Brooke trailed after him. “Everything okay?” she asked softly.
“Calynda’s been arrested again.” He kicked an empty bucket, then braced his hands against the side of the house, breathing heavily. “Whatever. Let’s play.” He started past her.
“Saint.” She stopped him with a light hand on his arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“If I don’t do feelings talk on a normal day, I definitely don’t do it on my birthday,” he reprimanded gently, edging by her and returning to the game.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A WEEK LATER, BROOKE was going over her to do list on Saturday morning.
- Have apartment checked for curses.
- Call Tezza Simonson about protective warding referral
- Replace doorknob
- Catalogue what was taken for police report
- Knit for Christmas
- Pay bills
- Regular cleaning
- Post-break-in cleaning
She’d saved the worst for last, unfortunately; the rest had been taken care of relatively quickly, thanks to Captain Saint’s help. She wasn’t sad when a knock at her door interrupted her procrastination.
“Morning, Everleigh.” Saint, James and Simonson stood at her door with a bucket, empty water balloons, and a baseball bat.
“Hi,” she said, holding back the giant grin that wanted to break through. She’d met the other two men at the birthday party last weekend, so she felt no hesitance in teasing them. “You realize this is doing nothing for my opinion that you’re all just little boys in men’s bodies?”
Saint grinned . . . Is he blushing?
“Sadly for you, love,” said James, “all my affections are poured out upon my princess or I’d take it upon myself to change your mind.”
“I’ll try not to consider it a personal tragedy,” Brooke replied.
Saint lowered the volume of his voice. “Any update on the break-in?”
She shook her head. “Based on the symbols and the slurs, they’re Lincoln’s supporters, but beyond that? My building doesn’t have any cameras, and the police said no one saw anything. I’m sure someone did see, but I understand why they don’t want to get involved . . . I don’t blame them. I might have done the same.”
“You? Ms. Do-Right? I don’t think so,” Saint said, a crooked smile on his face.
Brooke blushed. “Why are you here?”
“We’re headed to Bluffton to play water balloon baseball on the big field. We’ve made a few improvements to the game, and we wanted to show Olly.”
At the sound of his name, Olly came running to the front door, his eyes wide.
“Captain!” Upon noticing the bats and the buckets, his voice went up an octave. “Mum, can I go with him? Please? Please please please please . . .”
James and Saint joined in his cajoling.
“Please, Mum? Oh, please? Come on, Mum . . .”
Grinning, she waved her hands for silence from the barrage of whining. Brooke turned to her son. “You were supposed to fold those towels and pick up your room today.”
His face fell, thinking. “Can you wait? I’ll be lightning quick.”
Sam’s voice came through from the back. “At a minimum, you’d have to travel 136,000 miles per hour to manage that. I doubt you’re that fast.”
“I am!” he insisted. “I’m super fast!” He looked up at Saint, his eyes pleading. “Will you wait?”
Saint gave a dramatic sigh that made Brooke smirk. “Military man without his chores done by 10 a.m.? We’ve got some work to do on you, mate. But yes, we’ll wait. Be quick about it.” His eyes came to hers. “May we come in?”
