All I Need: Ian & Annie Read online

  “Hardly,” he scoffed. He knew I’d never be the man he was. He looked around at the dirty dishes in the sink, the empty alcohol bottles on the counters, and he shook his head. He and I both knew I was in a deep hole.

  But his mind had been made up. He’d issued me the terms of the agreement, non-negotiable. “The ball’s in your court,” he told me as he left the room, then the house.

  I didn’t typically start drinking straight away. I usually waited until the late afternoon to start, letting the pain build, even adding to it with a punishing workout in my home gym. Pain was my closest companion. And I always knew I had a glass of scotch waiting for me at the end of it all to take the sweet edge off.

  But after my father left, I wasted no time before drinking straight out of the bottle. Goddamn it. Clean up my act? What the hell did that mean?

  He wanted Annie to move in with me? That was a disaster waiting to happen. She had no place in the life I led. She’d be chirpy and annoyingly loud during hangovers. Disapproving and shocked about the company I kept. Vic alone would tear Annie up, rip her to shreds.

  Only Annie did seem to have some pluck. She’d told me I wasn’t exactly the Phantom of the Opera. That was kind of a good one, actually.

  That kind of teasing banter reminded me of Sophie, my baby sister. She’d moved back to Naugatuck Island where we’d spent our summers as kids, where I’d gotten into the accident. She’d like that line about the Phantom. She’d like Annie, too.

  But that didn’t matter. Annie couldn’t move in with me.

  If she did, the only way it would work is if we both kept our distance. The estate was big. She could stay in the wing on the second floor. My bedroom, bathroom and home gym were in the wing on the first. I could avoid her and if she knew what was best for her, she’d do the same. Distance would be the key to keeping the beast at bay. I’d just need an outlet for all the pent-up sexual frustration.

  Right on cue, a knock sounded at the door. It was dark outside. I checked my phone.

  * * *

  Vic: You around?

  * * *

  She’d sent it an hour ago. After I didn’t respond, apparently she’d decided to take matters into her own hands. Another knock. Vic had arrived. Let the games begin. Too bad I felt so damned bored, not at all how I’d feel if it were Annie at the door. I’d welcome her straight into the heart of darkness. Right where she belonged, with me.

  3

  Annie

  The lamplight shone across my brother Brian’s sleeping face, yet he remained unaware, adrift in dreamland, a hint of a smile on his lips. I sketched quickly, charcoal to paper, moving in broad strokes. Any second, my sisters or he might awaken, ruining the moment I wanted to capture: innocence, pure, simple and sweet on his sleeping 13-year-old face.

  I worried about Brian now that he was entering his teen years. It was one thing to have Down syndrome as a child, developmentally and mentally delayed but still able to interact with peers on many levels. As a teenager, the world around him was changing fast. He, however, was the same honest, kind boy, open-hearted and friendly to everyone.

  If only he were at a better school. I knew our mother worried about that all the time. He got picked on where he was, bullied and isolated. They didn’t have the resources for a proper special education program. On days I wasn’t working, sometimes I just kept him home with me. But the school didn’t like that much, and I knew he did need to socialize and learn to the best of his abilities.

  “That’s good, around the mouth,” my sister, Liv, whispered by my side.

  “You think?” I hadn’t heard her come in the room. At 15, she still looked like a tiny pixie and moved like one, too.

  “The eyes, too.” She nudged me. “So talented. Shame you’re stuck here with us, eh?”

  I shook my head, focusing on the sketch. I hadn’t captured his nose yet. I’d start over, but I didn’t have time. Our mum had left for work an hour ago. Liv and Jess were old enough to fend for themselves, but they always appreciated it when I made something hot for breakfast. Especially on a cold February morning like this one, some bangers and eggs would do the trick.

  Brian opened his eyes. First thing, he smiled. Show me another 13-year-old boy who did that. We had a winner with our Brian.

  “Morning, Bri.” I gave him a hug before heading into the kitchen.

  Frying up meat, cracking eggs, my mind wandered as it had many times over the past few days back to that castle on the cliffs. What would working there have been like? Living with that man, so surly and growling. And gorgeous.

  “Thanks, Annie.” My sister Jess, 18 and on the go at all times, grabbed a sausage and ducked out of the house.

  “Wait, I’ve got eggs, too.”

  “Got to go!” The door closed behind her. Sometimes I felt like a mother to my own siblings, wondering how they’d grown up so fast. I’d been the accident, the love child my parents had had before they’d even married, arriving when they were just 19. They’d waited seven years to have another, and then they’d kept going, and going again.

  But the fact was, Liv and Jess didn’t need me that much anymore. It was Brian who needed care, but we could have worked something out had I taken that job. Or had I been properly offered that job, I reminded myself. Ian had made it quite clear that the offer was no longer on the table.

  “You angel.” Liv grabbed a plate, forked a banger and spooned herself some eggs. I had no idea how she tucked away such truckloads of food and still stayed so tiny. Me? That wasn’t exactly how it worked.

  “Oh, I heard a good one yesterday.” Liv laughed at the memory with her mouth full. I resisted the urge to remind her about table manners. It was more fun to see her laugh. “Are you ready?” Liv loved dumb jokes.

  “Shoot.”

  “What do you call a fish with no eyes?”

  “What?”

  “Fff-ssshhhh.” She burst out laughing. After a second or two, I started as well, tickled by how funny she found it as much as I was by the joke. “Isn’t that funny? You say it without an ‘I’?” Liv practically had to wipe a tear from her cheek.

  “You’re funny.” I pointed a fork at her, then served myself some breakfast.

  “You working today?” she asked, already rising to put her plate in the sink. Nothing got between Liv and her food.

  “Later I’m stopping by Mrs. Simpson’s.”

  “Doing her shopping for her?”

  I nodded. Odd jobs, that was what filled my time when I wasn’t working at the grocer’s. I needed to find something else, and fast. I wanted work that paid even half as much as that caretaker position, but our little town was so sleepy.

  “You’re such a talented artist. You should do something with it.” Liv gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then went to finish getting ready for school.

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t want anything I said to come out bitter. I’d love to do something creative, maybe working in the field of design. But how exactly was I going to get a job in some firm working with posh clients? I didn’t have the right connections, or any credentials for that matter. Even if I had a resume, I wouldn’t know where to send it.

  I helped Brian up and out, sending him and Liv off to walk to the bus for school. With dishes, laundry and cleaning the bathrooms, the morning passed in as glamorous a fashion as usual. Then I helped our neighbor, Mrs. Simpson, with a few things around the house, did her shopping, and popped into a local bakery to say hello to a friend and grab a fresh loaf of bread for dinner.

  My phone rang around two o’clock. I didn’t recognize the incoming number, but I picked up.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” a deep male voice informed me.

  “Excuse me?” The voice sounded familiar, but I didn’t imagine it could actually be who I thought it was.

  “This is Ian Douglas. I’ve changed my mind.”

  It was him. A small shiver of anticipation travelled down my spine. “About what, exactly?”

  “About the job.”
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  “You have?” Was the man trying to be cryptic? Was he offering the job to me or not?

  “I’d like you to come work here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, on the terms my father specified. You’ll live here Monday through Saturday.” He paused, then added, “I require round-the-clock care.”

  What did that mean, exactly? “Are you sure? You seemed to have your mind made up that you didn’t want me around. You told me to ‘Get out.’”

  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat, perhaps searching for words. A simple, “I’m sorry,” would have done nicely. But he didn’t say it. “Do you want the job or not? I’m sure my father has paid you handsomely to deal with me, seeing as how I’m a surly invalid.”

  I exhaled, shaking my head. This guy was too much. But he was right, the money was great. With mixed emotions, I gave him my answer. “All right.”

  “Pack your bags and be here tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” I gave a mock salute on my side of the phone.

  “I like it when you call me sir.” His voice sounded low and dirty, taking the conversation in an entirely unintended direction.

  “Won’t happen again,” I assured him, my breath coming a bit too quick.

  “We’ll see about that,” he warned. “Until tomorrow, Annie.”

  His voice resonated, dark and deep, long after we’d finished the conversation. Call him sir? What kind of naughty fantasies was he stirring up?

  I’d take this job, but I’d need to watch myself closely. I needed to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground, my head on my shoulders, no getting caught up in romantic notions and possibilities. Because it looked like I was going to work for Ian Douglas, living with him, just the two of us, in a remote castle on the coast. Lord help me.

  * * *

  §

  * * *

  The next day, I reported for duty.

  “That’s all you have?” Ian met me at the door in his wheelchair, dressed all in black yet again, his unruly black hair adding to the untamed effect. He looked angry to see me, as if my arrival was not at all what he wanted.

  “I’ll go home every Sunday.” I defended my two bags. “And it’s not like I needed to bring pots and pans.” I hesitated, realizing perhaps I shouldn’t have made assumptions. “You do have pots and pans in the kitchen, don’t you?”

  “No, I eat out of a bottle of scotch every day.” He wheeled himself around, turning his back as he led me into the kitchen. “Come and see for yourself.” The doors closed automatically as I followed. I set my bags down by the kitchen table.

  He stood and opened some of the higher cabinets, showing me where dishes and glasses were kept, even some cooking supplies. Gruff, yanking the doors open and banging them shut, he was clearly in a foul mood. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and I couldn’t help but notice how it clung to his powerful shoulders, he was so broad. I couldn’t see any scars. What I could see were muscles bulging under the thin cotton, defined and hard. He took a step closer and I caught his scent, clean and male like he just took a shower. The tips of his hair were still damp.

  He looked down at me with dark and stormy eyes, his gaze lingering a moment on my lips. I brought my hand up and brushed them quickly, feeling them tingle under his attention. He swore under his breath and looked away. “I’m still not sure what it is that my father hired you to do.”

  “He wasn’t that specific,” I admitted. “General housekeeping, cooking, helping you out as needed.”

  “I’ve hired some cleaners. They’ll come every Wednesday.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure there’s still a lot to be done.” As I looked around, everything was surprisingly neat, not a speck on the counters, sink, or floor.

  “We’ll see how you can be of service.” He crossed his arms over his chest. A shiver went up my spine as he gazed at me with those steely eyes. Then, abruptly, he sat back down in his chair and left the room, calling behind him, “Your room’s up the stairs.”

  “So friendly,” I muttered. I thought I’d spoken quietly, but he heard. He turned around. “I’m not interested in being friends with you, Annie.” Somehow the way he said it implied that he might want more, not less.

  I flushed, ducking down to pick up my bags. “Guess I’ll go get settled in my room. Then maybe I’ll take a look around.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “I’ll be in my room down the hall and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  I watched him leave, wondering if he’d be that rude the whole time I was working there. Maybe it would be easier that way. I just had to last six months. Then I’d have enough money to launch.

  Upstairs, I found an open door leading to a tidy bedroom all made up with fresh sheets. Paint was cracking and peeling off the walls, but the window shined clear and no dust balled up in the corners. The cleaners must have taken care of it when they’d come yesterday. I hoped they’d had a full team to tackle the job. The estate was enormous and to say it had fallen into a state of disrepair seemed generous.

  Chilly in the drafty old building, I pulled on a sweater and headed down the hallway. Most of the rooms were locked. I couldn’t help but think of Jane Eyre exploring her new employer’s estate. The same sense of mystery, decay and gloom pervaded the air. I hoped Ian didn’t have a mentally ill wife locked in the attic ready to set fire to my bed at night. Naughty Rochester.

  Ah hah, I discovered a functioning bathroom! Large and once grand, all the gold paint had chipped, the tile cracked. But the giant clawfoot tub looked good as new. I rapped on it. Solid iron covered with porcelain, the way they used to be made. That tub would make a nice end to a hard day.

  I unpacked my small amount of toiletries, hung my week’s worth of clothes, then ventured downstairs for a look-see. A full seventy percent of the place was boarded up, locked and off limits. Downstairs, there were really only five unlocked rooms: the living room with the mouse family in the couch, the kitchen, a giant formal dining room that could easily seat 20, a smaller more cozy library with a fireplace, and a bathroom. Then there was Ian’s wing. I steered clear of that.

  It was outside that I felt my first thrill of excitement. Wellies firmly wedged on, hat, scarf, gloves and warm winter jacket wrapped around me to fight the icy, blasting February chill, I explored the grounds. Amidst the fantastic tumble of overgrowth, I discovered that someone, at some time long ago, had laid things out quite well. The landscape had good bones.

  Along the edge ran a hedge of wind-resistant hearty stock of blackthorn, hawthorn and brambles. Lichen-covered rocks punctuated the growth, all of it set against a backdrop of the tumbling, churning gray and white of the winter ocean. I breathed it in, the coast of Scotland, so wild, rugged and rough and yet also so gorgeous in the sunshine and soon-to-come spring bloom.

  A good chunk of land was nicely protected behind a stout, tall stone wall. Like everything else, it was crumbling, but it still offered a buffer from the constant ocean wind. I picked my way along overgrown paths, stopping to inspect what I could identify among the weeds. In a few months, with attention, this land could offer the lilacs and purple of heather, thistle and bluebell, the deep crimson of lupins, and all varieties of roses rising up along with pink and orange primroses.

  I even found what looked to be a small, abandoned vegetable patch. With some love, maybe I could grow some hearty veg, with turnips and leeks poking their way through the soil in several months’ time. That might help me stay motivated at the job, wanting to reap my harvest in late summer, early fall before I left.

  I had a bit of a garden back home. I wouldn’t say I had a green thumb. My roses weren’t exactly winning prizes, but I took a certain pleasure in mucking around in the dirt. Making things grow, springing forth from the hard, frozen earth, pruning, shaping, and taking off the dead to make room for the new. There was something about that cycle of life I found immensely appealing.

  Back inside with a new bounce in my step, I discovered some long-frozen meat, then some
potatoes, carrots and onions in the pantry. Enough for a stew, before I went grocery shopping tomorrow. Humming, I set to work, wondering if there might be a way to turn this job into a six-month coastal getaway, affording myself plenty of opportunities for sketching in the garden. Maybe I’d even find time to learn some of the latest graphic design programs.

  “Cooking away, I see.” Ian’s dry observation stopped my happy train of thought.

  “I’m not sure how tasty it’ll be, but it’s something for dinner. Then tomorrow I can go grocery shopping. Your father told me I’ll have a car I can use?”

  “In the garage,” Ian confirmed.

  “You have a lovely garden outside!” A bit nervous, I chattered away, telling him about my discoveries.

  “Not my thing.” He made his way over to the cupboard and poured himself a glass of scotch.

  “You don’t get outside much?” If ever anyone needed to get outside, it was Ian Douglas. I wondered when was the last time he’d gotten some fresh air. Our mum worked loads, but every Sunday, rain or shine, she tromped us about the Scottish hillsides for at least a couple hours. Fresh air and exercise, she always told us that was the key to health.

  “Narrow, winding, overgrown garden paths aren’t exactly wheelchair accessible.”

  Did he ever get sick of using that bored tone? He sounded tired with just about everything. “Well, you can walk a bit, can’t you? Shouldn’t you do some walking every day, to keep your muscles from atrophying? And how about physical therapy? Are you doing daily exercises?”

  “And I’m out.” Ian wheeled out of the kitchen. All right then. He’d told me he didn’t want to be disturbed. The man was as good as his word.

  * * *

  §

  * * *

  “Please tell me you’re not ripping down my curtains.” Ian’s wry, surly voice filtered through the heavy, velvet blanket draped over my body. Up on a ladder, coughing, I peered up at the curtain rod and struggled to work off the dusty fabric.