First, I should apologize for the errors in chapter one. I hope chapter two is much cleaner.
Now, to everyone who read and especially those of you who took the time to leave a review I really appreciate it. Those reviews help us writers so much. I really enjoyed the ones with questions. It's nice to know exactly what's going through your minds after you read the chapters.
On with it then...
For weeks all William talked about was Olivia's birthday.
And the more he went on about it, the more Arthur dreaded the day. Despite his anguish over feeling indebted to Guinevere again, he reminded himself that Will fixating on the alternative was far worse. So once more, his pride must suffer her indignation.
"Can we go now?" Will squirmed, threw his head back and clasped his hands together. "Pleeeeease."
"No," he said.
The antique grandfather clock struck at the same time. Dong!
Arthur crouched down. He tied the lace on William's right shoe, worked the left then stood and puffed out his chest. He stared down into his same eyes. William gawked back, his head tilted to one side; all the eagerness of blind optimism creasing his young features.
"I said no."
William's chin dropped and Arthur's shoulders hunched. His eyes trailed from his son to the hand cut coloured paper bent in half on the boy's bed. He snatched the card between his fingers and eased beside Will.
Pointing to the squiggly digit written in purple crayon he asked, "What number is this?"
"Three."
"Three," he repeated and flicked his wrist over. William's tiny body perked up. He brushed his fringe out of his eyes and grinned. He liked playing the countdown game. "Let's see here. What time is it now?"
Will clamped little hands round his wrist on either side of his watch, snickering.
"I don't know. I can't tell time yet."
Arthur suppressed his smile. For the game to have its fullest effect, he must remain stern-faced.
He placed a finger over the twelve and said, "When the big hand is on the twelve…"
"And the little hand is on the one," William chimed in.
"What time is it?"
"Half two," he said and cackled.
Arthur laughed.
"We still have a little while before Olivia's party starts."
"But I want to go now."
"Well, we can't," he said. "Not yet, but I promise we'll get in the car at 2:30 exactly. Real time. Not pretend time. All right?"
"All right," Will said.
In ten minutes Will will beg him again. And in ten minutes he'll think of a new way to distract him. In those minutes he'll distract himself from the somersaults in his belly.
He didn't fear seeing Guinevere. No. His disquiet stemmed from the energy it took to put up with her holier-than-thou attitude. And he could think of a hundred more desirable ways to spend a summer afternoon than to withstand her angry presence.
They never spoke after their row. Not immediately after and not in the months since. Thankfully they've only been in close proximity once in all that time.
At the children's Christmas recital, a week after the incident, she ventured near him long enough for Will and Olivia to hug. Guinevere managed a tight smile, though her eyes evaded his and her whole body stood rigid and unwelcoming. Their arms inches apart, his nostrils flare as he inhaled her perfume. Arthur readied his apology. But the second the children skipped off, she swept by him before he could utter a word. Heady notes of orchids melded with citrus and jasmine lingered in her wake.
Arthur decided to waited for her to find a seat.
He had a tendency to sit near the back of rooms and between William's performances used the vantage to study her. Guinevere sat close to the stage. More wallflower than social butterfly, she took pictures on her mobile and spoke sparingly.
Just before three o'clock, Arthur parked several houses away from the Vincent residence in the lone spot his silver Mercedes would fit along the narrow road. All different parts of him ached as he exited the car, anticipating the next few moments, the next few hours.
"Hurry up, Daddy"
"The party will still be there when we turn up, Will."
"But I want to see Olivia. She's waiting for me."
William jerked at his arm, tugging him with more strength than his body should possess. He turned his small face up and brandished two pleading eyes straight at him. That one look and Arthur gave in.
They hustled up the sleepy street to 1131 Sea Street, an ivy covered terrace house. Yellow and purple flowers in miniature terra cotta pots flanked one end of the walkway. At the foot of the ajar door a red and white polka dot toadstool ornament kept watch.
A cacophony of sounds defied the house's old charm, assaulting his ears before they reached the front step. Arthur craned his neck. No one was on the other side of the door, but he glimpsed shadows moving in the distance.
He smoothed his hair and led William over the threshold.
Decorated in a minimalist style, the bright and airy living room evoked a sense of peace, if not an irritating practicality. Its plainness surprised him (maybe bothered him). With all her heart and emotion, Arthur expected heirloom quilts, overstuffed pillows and knick-knacks pushing at the walls. And speaking of the walls. They were white and accented in muted blues that reminded him of the beach.
Not a surprise were the many clusters of family photographs, albeit arranged in an artistic design, on display around the house. In a manner befitting a proper mother wolf like Guinevere, Olivia's cherubic face claimed a majority of the frames.
In every other picture, Guinevere made an appearance. He spotted one of her stooped down in the shallow end of a pool, a petrified Olivia in her arms. Limbs encased in floating devices, Olivia might have been one, two if she were small. It was the only picture where she didn't smile.
Guinevere looked the same as the last time he saw her, with one distinction: she smiled. Arthur saw an openness in it and instinctively he knew who was behind the camera.
"Dad," William whispered.
He let go of Will's hand and held his shoulder instead. Arthur forced his eyes away from Guinevere, dragging them to a frame perched on the mantle. Taller than the others, this one boasted a tight black and white shot of mother and daughter and a third face — a man's face, smiling as wide as they did.
Arthur nudged Will towards the kitchen, his family and his failed married weighing heavy on him. He entered beneath an archway then froze the moment he came face to face with the man in the photograph.
Tall and bearded, his brown hair clipped the collar of his shirt. He leaned over the sink, a muscular arm elbow-deep in soapy water.
"Hello."
Arthur couldn't speak.
He grabbed a towel and dried his arm. "Here for the party?"
"Yes!" William said.
"Don't worry about that. Just a minor plumbing snag. I'll have it fixed in no time."
Will ran to the stranger. "I got Olivia the best present. I just know she's going to love it."
"I'm certain she will."
He shrugged as William dragged him out the door towards the noise. He didn't appear to mind the harassment, so Arthur let his son have his way.
Recovering, he started to reason he could sneak out now and come back at the end of the party. He spared a long moment to consider and missed his opportunity.
The man he wrongly assumed was the late Mr. Vincent poked his head back inside and said, "You coming, mate?"
Arthur stuffed his keys in his pocket and fell in line behind him.
The smell of roses filled the sun drenched garden. They bloomed from thick bushes that stretched along the perimeter of the grass. Deep and green, it begged him to take off his shoes and come walk barefoot from end to end.
Olivia stopped to wave. He shaded his eyes with one hand and waved back with the other. She had a climbing frame with a slide and swings, nothing elaborate like the unit Vivian insisted they had built during her second trimester back when they lived in Holland Park. Nesting birds got more use out of it by the time Will could walk.
More so than the interior of the house, this tranquil space, in a strange way, embodied the woman who brazenly called him a crap father in his own home.
Some of the guests noticed he joined them. Some nodded while a handful took lasting looks and the rests went on with their previous preoccupations.
"You want a beer?"
"Sure."
"Gwen just stepped out," he said with his back turned to him.
Arthur breathed easier.
He sucked down the beer and looked over the party attendees. Growing anxious with each passing second, he could almost hear the smooth swoosh of the second hand on his Patek Philippe.
This whole scene irked him.
Picturesque get-togethers with happy families in quaint neighborhoods where husbands and wives love each other unconditionally, never argued about money, politics, sex or the monotony eating away at their affections as they coddle their children with well-meaning phrases like 'Well, at least you did your best and that's all that matters', while expectation and responsibility stalk them patiently from the shadows, waiting their turn to pounce.
"So you're Arthur then?" The man paused. "Gwen's told me about you."
He tried not to imagine what colorful words she might've used. Tried and failed. And nothing complimentary came to mind.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Arthur said. "I don't know who you are."
"I'm Leon," he said and nothing further.
Arthur shook his hand, somewhat relieved, but even more curious.
He glanced over at William wondering what kind of widow wore her wedding ring for years, but kept no pictures of the man who gave it to her? Perhaps she stored those beside her bed so she woke up to his face every morning.
Arthur hoped not. That amount of grief would be unbearable.
"Will's a great boy," Leon said.
He probably noticed he'd drifted far away again.
"Thank you," he told him, despite the distinct impression that somewhere in the statement a slight had been directed at him.
Had he angered her so much that she'd disparage him to Leon? And what had Leon's response been?
Such a degree of pettiness didn't match her reserved grace. Whenever he thought he had her pegged, she zigged or she zagged, always escaping his perception to even now he couldn't get a clear fix.
"Leon!"
The call came from behind them and all his earlier trepidations reformed in knots in his stomach.
"Told you she wouldn't be long."
Guinevere appeared and saw him. Delight vanished from her eyes and she glared, a scowl twisting her lips.
"Did you get it?"
"It's on the table," she said to Leon, but she never unfixed him from that harsh glare.
She really didn't like him.
Leon zoomed across his vision temporarily blocking Guinevere as she came traipsing over in a stripy wide neck top that exposed her shoulders and collarbones. A gentle breeze caressed her hair, flouncing it about her face.
The knots twisted once more and a completely different sensation surged through him. Arthur gulped.
Guinevere folded her arms and said, "You're not expected to stay, you know."
He mimicked her quiet tone and asked, "Is that option exclusively for me?"
"Yes, but you wouldn't be the only one who'd relish in your going."
Arthur focused on an object just above her head which wasn't hard given her short stature. He breathed in deeply and leveled his eyes on her.
"Our children adore each other," he said.
"And that's the only reason you're even here today."
"Fair enough. Could we tolerate each other's company until this is over with?"
"Or you could go. Do us both a favor. I'd be happy to take William home and you wouldn't have to write me up a little program in advanced or pay me for spending time with your son."
She turned on her heels and went back the way she came.
Seven months.
Seven months and she still carried a grudge and sharpened it like a knife.
He could've stayed home. He could've sent William with Gunther. Gunther is one of the people he dispensed programs to and paid well for the trouble. But he came here himself to rob her of the satisfaction of believing she had him all sized up.
Arthur set the beer bottle next to the buns and followed her.
When he shouldered into the kitchen, Guinevere's brown eyes cut right through him and stabbed the wall at his back. She stuck out her chin and dared him to speak.
And he would've met her challenge had Leon not been holding a wrench between them.
"Old house, old plumbing," Leon said.
Arthur cleared his throat and looked back to Guinevere. "I suppose I'll see you later then."
"I'll be sure to bring William along as soon as we're done here."
He reached into his pocket for his mobile, glided through the screens to his number and handed it off to Leon.
"We should exchange numbers."
Gwen took his phone. She and Leon traded positions while she pulled out a black marker and scribbled his number on a piece of crumbled paper from the counter. No doubt, she'll crumble it up and toss it out with the rest of the rubbish later this evening.
She placed his mobile down and slid it across the counter back towards him. The instant their fingers touch, she yanked her hand away as if the contact could be fatal.
"It was nice meeting you, Leon."
"You too, Arthur. Sorry you can't stay."
"Next time," he told him with a sardonic smile while he glanced at Guinevere who returned an icy stare (and begged to differ).
Trapped in the middle of the tension like a fish in mud, Leon offered to walk him out. At the door, he slapped him on the back. Arthur stomped one foot on the step then whipped around and asked, "Is she always so stubborn?"
Leon grinned. "Gwen's not an easy one to charm, but don't worry. She'll come around eventually."
Charm her. He wanted to throttle her.
Wait.
Arthur looked up.
Was that why Leon came here? To charm her?
"You know." He chuckled. "When I saw that photograph of the three of you, I thought you were her late husband."
"Oh you saw that?"
"Just in passing," he said.
"Well, that would explain the look on your face from before." He shook his head and hid his eyes. "No. Gwen and Olivia moved in after Lance's accident. I wanted to do something to make them feel like this could be a good place to start over." Captivated with the sound of his own voice, Leon continued. "I'm an amateur photographer. I took that one, had it framed and gave it to Gwen last Christmas."
Arthur regarded him then said, "Well, that would explain the very large frame."
That time, Leon only almost smiled.
"I should go," Arthur said.
"Yeah, I think you should."
He walked pass the line of flowers and ambled up Sea Street.
Two years ago Vivian demanded a divorce and in return, he punished her for it. Their marriage didn't have to end so miserably, but they made choices.
Guinevere had no say in the way her marriage ended. One morning her husband — Lance — got out of bed and went to work. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except he just didn't come home. Of course days weren't a series of minutes or numbers to cross off on a calendar to her anymore.
I still wear the ring, she'd said.
His mother dying sent his father into a slow spiral he struggled for decades to free himself from. Yes, Guinevere infuriated him, but her resolve, however fragile right now, engendered him to hope.
If somehow Vivian could forgive him after all he'd done, he'd take a chance at reconciliation. He may not be in love with her, but Will meant more to him than his own happiness and Vivian will always be his mother.
Arthur drove to his office instead of returning home.
He worked. Soon though, he stared more out the window than his computer screen, daydreaming as the golden yellow flares of dusk splayed over top of West London and tourist-ladened clippers coasted up and down the Thames.
Around six o'clock, he called Vivian. The number was no longer in service.
At 6:30 his mobile rang.
"Guinevere," he said taking in a relaxed breath.
"Arthur." Her voice, soft and low, sent a shiver of terror up his spine. He shot out of his chair. She sniffled and said, "Arthur, I am so sorry."
Her voice quaked and his heart wrenched.
"What's happened? Where's Will?"
"We're on our way to hospital."
A part of the reason this took such a long time for me to publish was because I didn't want you to have to wait long for chapter three. It will be uploaded soon. Please, please, please review.