The Lover's Children

Chapter 13 - Winter Wedding #12

JAMES

Laughter and chatter spills through the door. I give a brief tap and walk straight in…

“Charlotte, I…”

… then realise my mistake, halt in mid-step, spinning to leave. “Sorry, bad timing.”

Kirstie is, not exactly undressed, but not exactly dressed either. The layers of corsetry and petticoats

she’s wearing definitely qualify as undergarments. On the other hand, she’s showing less skin than the

Regency heroine of some Austen Romance. I’ve certainly walked in on a woman in her underwear. But

I can’t claim to have seen anything that wouldn’t be perfectly proper were she seated at her desk in the

main foyer of the Haswell offices.

“Not at all, James,” purrs Mitch. “It’s very good timing. Take a seat. This is Kirstie’s final dress fitting.

You can tell us what you think. We could use a male opinion.”

“Um…” I hover. “That alright by you, Kirstie? You’re er…” I wave a hand in the general direction of layer

upon layer of… Of what? Skirts, petticoats, corsetry… Something to the rear, padding her backside…

The tall, elegant girl gives me a nervous smile. “That’s fine, James. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so

overdressed.”

Beth Tuts. “It looks beautiful on you, Kirstie. It suits you very well, and the outfit will be a lot warmer

than the usual meringue outfit. Let’s just get it on you, then we can all see the full effect.”

The dress is a poem in cream lace and satin. Kirstie is tall and statuesque, not particularly full-figured,

but Mitch has… constructed… the dress to make the most of all its wearer’s best features: Kirstie’s

height, her long legs, her elegant stance.

The bodice, corsetted and beautifully fitted, emphasises her waist and makes more of her modest

bosom. But her slender arms and the curve of her lovely swan neck are emphasised. The dress

gathers in tiers over the layers underneath and Kirstie’s long, dark hair falls in soft waves under a veil

which sweeps over the whole as far as her waist.

And as I look more closely, here and there, in the subtlest of effects, butterflies flit through lace and

satin, the palest of pale greens against the cream background. I shift left, then right, seeing one, then

another as the light catches them. The wings seem to flutter and move. I know it’s optical trickery. I’ve

seen Mitch do this before with paint and plaster, but I didn’t think it could be done with…

With…?

How the hell does she do that?

Embroidery?

Hand-worked?

It must have taken her days… NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.

Weeks?

All that time, while she was waiting for Klempner to be found…

“Did you make all this, Mitch?”

“Ah-ha.” She stands back, a finger pressed to her lips as she considers the product of her labours. “It’s

the first time I’ve tackled anything so complex as this. It took forever to make the corset with the

boning.”

Charlotte says, “Well it’s having the intended effect. I should think boning will be right at the front of

Ryan’s mind when he sees Kirstie in it.”

I throw her a look and Charlotte drops her head and subsides. But there’s no missing the grin plastered

over her supposedly submissive expression.

Kirstie flushes.

Mitch straightens up, folds arms. “So, what do you think, James?”

Kirstie winds her fingers together in that way she has. “You think Ryan will like it? It’s so…. elaborate.

I’ve never worn anything like this before.”

Ye gods…

“Kirstie, that’s the point. It’s your wedding day. And I wouldn’t worry about Ryan. You look…

astonishing… He won’t know what’s hit him.” I wind a finger in the air. “Turn around. Let me see you.”

Her lips twitch, but obligingly, she turns.

“No train?”

“No,” says Mitch. “It didn’t seem sensible, given the time of the year. A second’s inattention and it would

be plastered in mud.”

Charlotte mutters to Kirstie. “Y’know, most wedding dresses only get worn once, but it wouldn’t take

much to turn yours into great Fet Wear for the clubs afterwards.”

I quell her with another look, but she has a point. The corset would give any man itchy fingers. The

laces are long and silky and...

I rub at an ear. “I have to agree. That is one helluva dress. Kirstie, you look devastating.

Congratulations, Mitch. You’ve created a masterpiece.”

*****

Once we’re on our own, Charlotte is rolling eyes…

Wondering if I’m going to blister her ass?

“I've not seen you in a corset recently,” I say. “How about it?”

Her face falls. “The last one was a bit of a disaster, Juliana reeling me in like that with the corset as

bait. I… I couldn’t stand having it around. I threw it away.”

I feel a complete heel. And my own performance in that shambles was hardly star-quality. “Um, yes. I

understand…” I brush lips over her forehead… “… But that was my fault, not yours. And your father is

safe now.”

“Hmmm, yes.” All the wind has gone from her sails.

“Charlotte, it wasn’t your fault. And…” I pat her ass… “You suit a corset just as well as Kirstie.”

Her face pops up, mischief dancing the tango over her lips. “I never realised. You fancy Kirstie, don't

you?”

My face heats. “Charlotte, you know how Michael and I first met Kirstie. Long before I knew you.”

“Yes, I do know. But I'd not realised you still fancy her.”

Trying to rescue the tatters of my Stern Dom image, “It's not appropriate. I'm married. I'm her boss. And

she belongs to another man.”

Charlotte dimples. “You can look at any menu you want so long as you eat at home.”

“I'm pleased you see it that way. Now, about that corset...”

*****

KLEMPNER

The barkeep looks up from where he’s wiping down the bar. “Yes, sir. What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a beer…”

“Coming right up.”

“… and another for the little one over by the TV.”

His eyes slide sidelong, then he smiles. “I’m sure Mickey won’t say no to a free beer.”

“I’m sure he won’t…?” I insert the question mark at the end of my sentence.

“Caleb, sir.”

“Thank you, Caleb. Have one for yourself too.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

The smiling Caleb serves my drink, takes my money, depositing some of the change in a jar, then

moves to the end of the bar where Mickey Miller stands, bottle in hand, expounding some piece of

wisdom to a group of three others.

Tipping his head back, he sucks from the neck, then carries on talking, punctuating his speech with

flourishes of the bottle. One of his companions disagrees, making some point himself with a similar

bottle. Judging by the game on the TV above them, I’d say the four experts are jointly condemning the

referee, rewriting footballing history with the correct strategy for play.

Caleb taps him on the shoulder, saying something quiet as he pushes a bottle across the bar. Mickey

spins, following the pointing finger. As he sees me, he gawps.

For a moment, his jaw hangs, then he breaks into a beaming smile. Snatching up the beer, he barges

toward me. “Hey, great to see you… er…” He pulls up short… “… er… Mr…?”

“Waterman,” I say quietly. “Lars Waterman.”

His eyes widen, and he nods with a touch of Well, how about that…

“Would your friends like another beer too?”

The smile returns. “Sure they would.”

I nod to Caleb who is standing by in time-honoured barman style, polishing glasses and pretending not

to hear what’s being said around him.

Mickey’s three goons grin and wave as they get their beer.

“No girlfriend this time, Mickey?”

He grimaces. “No. I'm kinda off women after the last one.”

“I can understand that. Have you fully recovered?”

“Yeah, they fixed me up in the hospital. I’m fine now.” He blinks hard a couple of times. “I heard… They

said… Juliana had got you. That you wuz dead, Mr Waterman. They told me after I got out of the

hospital.”

“Is this the same They as in They say ‘That horse can’t lose’. Or They say ‘My dog never bites’?”

He grins. “It could have been them, but no. It was the police commissioner. He came to see me again,

to ask me some questions while you wuzn’t around.”

“Is that right? What did he want to know?”

“Mainly he wanted to be sure that I wuzn’t lying. That well… that you’d not put the scarers on me not to

say anything. And how did I know you?”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you’d always been fair with me and I just do gofer jobs for you sometimes. Then he said that

Juliana had gone to Brazil and you’d followed her.” His eyes drop. “Some people said she’d snuffed

you. I said I didn’t believe that. Juliana was a nutter, but it’d take more than a nutcase to bring you

down.”

“The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated, Mickey.”

“Yeah… I can see that.” He nods slowly, sucks at his bottle again, then his head jerks up. He spins on

the spot, looking wild. “Juliana…”

“Will trouble you no more.”

“That so?” He calms, then grimacing, presses a hand to his side. “Still aches where she stuck me.”

“It happens that way sometimes.”

He looks me up and down. “You okay, Mr… Waterman? You’ve lost some weight.”

“I’ve been dieting. Healthier that way, isn’t it. And call me Larry. That’s easier, I think.”

“Mmmm… I suppose… S’there something I can do for you… Larry?” Speculation glitters in his eye as

he finishes his beer.

“There is. Mickey, where would you go to buy cheap builder’s equipment? Secondhand.”

His mouth opens and shuts a couple of times.

Different from what I normally ask him…

He scratches at his scalp. “Um, I dunno, Mr Kle... Larry. Not my thing, building work. What sort of

equipment?”

“A friend of mine has had a large amount of equipment and tools stolen. Kangos, air compressor,

generator. That kind of thing. And a lot of smaller equipment too. I'd like to retrieve it for him. Think you

could ask around? Garage sales. Secondhand markets. A man in a bar offering to sell stuff cheap.

There's something in it for you if you come up with anything.”

He brightens. “Yes, sure I can. Where can I get hold of you if I find something?”

I jot onto a beermat. “Here’s a number where you can reach me. If I don’t answer, leave a message.”

He grins again. “You’ve never given me a phone number before.”

“No, but I think you earned it earlier this year.”

His grin grows wider.

*****

My phone tings…

James looks briefly up from his laptop, brows raised, but makes no comment as I check the message.

It’s Mickey.

*****