The Lover's Children

Chapter 16 - Winter Wedding #15

JAMES

Under the shadow of the roofless wheelhouse that will one day be Ryan and Kirstie’s home, we

examine plans, my plans, rolled out atop a pallet, a brick pinning each corner.

I outline the area of interest with a forefinger. “Since you don’t have the time constraints now, Ryan. I

had a couple of ideas about that roof area. It wouldn’t take much to add flooring and windows up there.

There’s already the headroom.”

Despite the mud and the cold, there’s a smile back in Kirstie’s voice. “You mean, we could have a

bedroom right at the top? With the views right over the river and the woods?”

“That’s right. And given the state of the works right now, it would cost almost nothing on top of…”

From beyond the fence, something hoots. Then again: a car horn. Or something bigger.

Ryan frowns. “Wonder who that is? I don’t think we were expecting anyone, were we?”

Kirstie shrugs. “No idea. I’ll get the gate.”

Muffled in layers of sweaters, the mud sucking at her rubber boots, she tramps towards the entrance.

Ryan turns back to the plans. “So, James, this window…”

“Windows.”

“Okay, windows…”

Whatever he was going to say is cut short by a squeal. Then a Whoop! “Oh, my God!” And Kirstie,

dashing for the gate.

“What the hell?” Ryan mutters and scowls, then marches across.

Kirstie is scrabbling at the lock. The gates swing wide and in rattles Michael’s battered truck, Klempner

at the wheel, Michael himself in the passenger seat. As the truck pulls up, Michael leans out of the

window. “Got an early Christmas present for you.”

Klempner doesn’t say a word, simply jumping out, then picking his way through the mire to the back

and dropping the tailgate. Nonetheless, a smile twitches over his lips.

Ryan stares in, hands outheld, jaw slack. “How…? Where…?” He spins. “Oh, my God, Michael. Thank

you. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Father Christmas is over there...” He nods across to Klempner, trying to disentangle

himself from where Kirstie is hanging from his neck, smacking a kiss onto his cheek. “… I was just one

of Santa’s little helpers.”

I peer over the back of the truck. “I don’t think this lot came in from the North Pole.”

Michael lowers his voice. “Bet you didn't know Santa keeps a set of brass knuckles in his pocket

either?”

“Er, noooo. I can’t say that thought had crossed my mind. Neither did I know that Santa's elves came

six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse. Can we expect a visit from Will Stanton?”

Michael is all relaxed smiles. “I don’t think so. Santa simply took the toys away from the children on his

naughty list and brought them back to the nice ones.” He laughs and nods toward Klempner, who

returns a blank stare.

Doesn't get it.

Don’t suppose Santa ever came down his chimney when he was a kid….

Ryan, still looking utterly flabbergasted, heaves air, then clapping his hands together, breaks into a grin

that matches Michael’s. “I can see from here, if you didn’t get all of it, you got most of it.”

Silently, Klempner reaches into a pocket, producing a roll of notes. “Whatever’s missing, should be

covered by this, I think.”

“You got the money too? How…”

Klempner’s voice is dry. “It wasn’t open to discussion.”

Ryan spreads palms out wide. “What can I say? This calls for a celebration.”

*****

Mitch’s hand in decorating the room is obvious. Although the hall itself is still very basic, plain plastered

walls, painted white, everything is festooned with lights and swags and sparkling Christmas

paraphernalia.

The tree takes centre stage, set to one side of the great arched window, draped with tinsel and

streamers, glittering with the ornaments Mitch and Charlotte have been working at. It’s completely OTT,

but then, if there’s a time you’re allowed to go OTT, it’s on a Christmas tree.

And now that I stand back and take it all in, the tree is set at a very carefully chosen angle. To anyone

seated inside the hall, the window showcases the view over the river, but the tree conceals the

scaffolding by the old wheelhouse, the tarped-over pallets and the bricks stacked inside the wide

covered porch area. You can see the mess and muck of the building work if you look, but not with a

casual glance.

Michael stands, hand on hips, clicks his tongue. “A real home-made Christmas. I have to hand it to you,

Ryan. It looks amazing. I didn’t see how you were going to pull it off in time, but you have.”

Ryan grimaces. “With a few shortcuts. I really did want…”

Kirstie cuts in. “Ryan, it doesn’t matter. We’ve discussed this. We’re going to have a wonderful

Christmas, a wonderful wedding, and a wonderful New Year.”

He scuffs at the floor. “I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“It will be perfect. You and I are getting married.” She takes his hands in hers, looking up into his face.

“That’s the perfect part. Yes?”

He manages a smile, raises her hand and kisses the fingers. “Yes.”

She gives a decisive nod. “Glad that’s settled.” She shivers. “Sorry it’s so cold. In fact, you’ve arrived

just in time for me to light the fire for the first time.”

Michael steps inside the enormous hearth, looking up and in. It’s large enough to lose chimney boys.

“You know to keep it small the first few times, while you get the chimney brickwork warmed through?”

“Of course, yes.” Kirstie beams. “And while we’re getting it going, we’ll have that celebration. It’s too

cold for champagne. Who’s for mulled wine?”

*****

KLEMPNER

“May I join you?”

James sits in his favourite armchair, by the hearth, his bad leg propped up on a stool. A brandy glass

cupped in his palm, the stem slotted between two fingers, he gently swishes the contents around.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“Be my guest, Larry… Sorry, Lars.” He gestures to the opposite chair. “Help yourself to a drink.”

“Thank you.” I pour myself a malt, then take the chair.

James pulls a face. “My apologies. I keep trying to call you by your proper name and it’s giving me

trouble. I know you're Lars Waterman. But the fact is, I knew you for so long as Larry Klempner, that it’s

stuck. In my head, you're still Larry Klempner. I don't think I'll ever be able to think of you any other

way.”

I sip the malt. It’s very good, not that James keeps any other kind, be it whisky, brandy or wine. “Then

don't try. I left that identity behind when I was a boy. In my head too, I'm Larry Klempner. So, no

apology necessary.” I nod down to his leg. “That giving you trouble?”

He presses the heel of his hand onto the thigh, rubbing, then wincing. “Damn thing always aches in

cold weather. The damp makes it worse.” He shrugs and waves it away. In a lighter tone, “That was a

good thing you did there, helping out Ryan and Kirstie the way you did. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But I didn’t do it for you, James.”

He clicks his tongue. “I know. You did it for Kirstie. Ryan as well. But mainly, Kirstie.” He sips the

brandy. “I’m fond of her too.”

“She’s a likeable girl and she deserves better than to be robbed by some small-minded petty criminal.

And I owe her for helping Jenny the way she has. I’d like to think I’ve paid off some of that debt. But, if

I’m honest, I did it as much for myself as anyone else...”

His forehead wrinkles…

“… I enjoyed myself. I felt much more myself today.”

James shoots me a dark-eyed glance, then stares into the flames for a few moments. “How are you

doing, Larry? Is there something you want to talk about? At breakfast sometimes, it seems to me… I

don’t know… There’s something…”

Ah… Crap…

Do I really want to talk about this?

?

It’s James…

Another sip of the malt sets embers glowing in my throat. Yet another sip and the knot of tension in my

chest loosens. “I don’t always sleep well. Sometimes, in the night…. I’m back… there.”

He nods slowly, chewing at a lip. “The sewer tunnel? Where we found you?”

My words aren’t there. My mouth dries up. I give the smallest of nods, sip again, swilling the whiskey

around my mouth.

Why am I telling you this?

He breathes in deeply. Lets out air again, just as slowly. “We all get the night terrors sometimes, when

times are bad. Or after some truly devastating experience. It can take a while to get past it…”

Now James too looks pensive.

What’s that about?

“… I’ve been there too. Granted, on a much smaller scale than you. I had a near-death experience of

my own, when Corby shot me. Unlike you, I didn't have weeks and months to dwell on it. The bullet

went in and I dropped like a felled ox, or so they tell me. I woke up some days later in hospital.

Truthfully, at the time, I didn't understand myself how close I came to dying. But later, when it sank in…”

His expression turns bleak… “You don't get past something like that with the snap of the fingers. It

takes time.”

“What happened to you? Afterwards, I mean.”

“For some while, I had flashbacks, dreams. Well… nightmares. I'd wake in the dark in a sweat.”

“But you're over it now?”

“Now, yes, I just have this…” He slaps his thigh… “… as a reminder. But it took a while.” He stares into

the ashes for a few seconds. “All I can say is, you're going to have to give it a while. We're all here for

you, but if you wanted to see someone...”

“A shrink you mean? No.”

“I didn’t think so. That being that case, time and a sense of responsibility are probably the best healers.

Something productive to do with your time...” He smiles slightly… “Like today…”

“Just playing to my strengths.”

I want to keep talking, but that isn’t one of my strengths. My words evaporate again.

James waits, watching me. Then, “Larry, what’s wrong?”

“I wanted this. Mitch. Vicky. A normal life. I wanted it all. Wished for it so much.”

He Ahhhs, looks up at the ceiling. Then back again. “As they say, be careful what you wish for. So, you

have what you wanted. But what else? What’s missing?”

“The feeling of purpose perhaps. Today, I felt alive for the first time in weeks.”

“You want some kind of work? A job? You’re a father now, again. And with a very different agenda this

time. That doesn’t give you purpose?”

“Mitch looks after Vicky. A baby that small needs her mother and not much else. Besides, you’re a

father. Haswell too. Even Michael, in a sense. That doesn’t stop any of you working. And it’s clearly

work you all enjoy and find rewarding…”

“There’s work around the hotel. Or you could help with the renovations on the outbuildings. There’s still

plenty to do.”

“And I’m happy to help. Just yell when you need the hands. But that’s your work. Or Michael’s.”

“Okay. I get you. You need something that’s yours.”

“That’s right. I think so anyhow.”

“You’ve moved on. Changed your life. And I don’t think anyone’s going to argue it wasn’t worthwhile.

But you’ve not found your own new direction.”

“No.”