A Very Happy Easter

Who needs a man when chocolate exists?

Edie Renner doesn’t date. As well as her own teenage trauma, she carries the weight of stories from a thousand other survivors, tales of wolves in sheep’s clothing and battles fought behind closed doors. Staying single is the safest option. Better to be lonely than be trapped.

Parties are a prime hunting ground for the wrong kind of man, and as a face of the wealthy Renner family, Edie is expected to pull her weight when it comes to social engagements. Weddings, fundraisers, the annual Easter egg hunt—her schedule is groaning, and so is she.

When a lifeline unexpectedly presents itself in the form of handsome private investigator Heath Carlisle, her sister-in-law’s brother-in-law, Edie breathes a sigh of relief. Heath will fix her problems, and she’ll solve his. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Just business, nothing more. 

Too bad nobody told her heart about the plan…

A Very Happy Easter is a standalone romcom novel with a protective hero, a damaged heroine, and a few visitors from the Blackwood Security series.

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Chapter 1

I hate weddings.

“Poor Edith,” my great-aunt Ruth said every time. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

Today, she was sitting at the next table with Grandpa Kennedy, who didn’t seem to know where he was. A matronly nurse buttered his bread roll as two of our former nannies chatted about life in general and how lovely—and surprising—it was to finally see Eisen get married. My brother hadn’t shown any signs of settling down until Janie came along.

Great Aunt Ruth was right in one respect. I was always the bridesmaid. I figured that honour came thanks to my ability to organise awesome hen dos, and I always volunteered for the job because if I arranged the event somewhere quiet and classy, we avoided the inevitable bar crawl, the loss of shoes, and puking into a bush at the end of the night. We also avoided men. Ruth was wrong in one respect too—I had no regrets about avoiding bridehood. I fully intended to remain a spinster for the rest of my life.

I surreptitiously checked my phone again. Nothing from Jazzi. At least, that was the name she’d given me—I didn’t know whether it was her real one or not.

“She still hasn’t called?” Salma whispered. 

“Nope.”

Salma was my assistant, and she’d brought her girlfriend to the wedding. She and Robyn had been dating for almost six months now, and I was keeping everything crossed that this relationship wouldn’t end in disaster the way the last two did. Eisen’s assistant, Bex, was sitting with us too, along with her husband and little boy—slightly awkward because the little boy was also my nephew, and his father, aka my cousin Robert, was glowering at us from a table in the back corner. Eis hadn’t wanted to invite Robert at all. In fact, he’d wanted to elope, but Mama said that if he tried to elope, she’d never forgive him, so they compromised on a small wedding in late August.

Small. Ha. Janie had gone quite pale when she saw the guest list, but with a little diplomacy-slash-pressure from Eis, Mama had whittled it down to only three hundred and twenty guests, along with half an orchestra, a six-tier cake that was a work of art in its own right, a carriage pulled by actual horses, a jungle of florals, and thousands of fairy lights twinkling from the ceiling of the marquee in Eisen’s backyard like an overachieving waterfall. 

My brother kept glancing at his watch, checking whether it was time to leave for the honeymoon yet. His two stepsons would stay with Janie’s parents for two weeks while she and Eis went to the Maldives, and then the four of them would be heading to Wonder World Italy for a family holiday.

They needed the break, but I couldn’t deny I was unsettled by the thought of my brother being away for nearly a month. He was my rock, the person I called whenever I felt an anxiety attack coming on.

I could do this. I could.

Salma had promised to stay with me whenever I needed her, even overnight. Maybe Robyn would come too? My townhouse had eight bedrooms, so there was plenty of space. Eis and I used to share the place, but a series of disastrous events had led to him turning our country house into his home. Now his and Janie’s home. I still had a room here, as he had a room in the London house, but our lives were no longer intertwined the way they used to be.

He had his family.

I had my work.

Vocare. 

In Latin, it meant “to call,” vo-car-ay, and I wished I’d had someone to talk with when I was raped thirteen years ago. But when I’d tried calling the crisis line, a man had answered, and I freaked out. That had been my first anxiety attack. There had been many more since. 

At first, I’d run Vocare using family money—just me, two employees, and a handful of volunteers sitting in a converted reception room at my townhouse, waiting for the phone to ring. Now we had a separate base, seventeen employees, and over three hundred volunteers. Software let most of our team work from home, and funding from corporate partners and other family trusts allowed us to rent a small office in a nearby building, so my house was empty once again. Recently, we’d branched out with an online store selling safety products—personal attack alarms, scrunchies that expanded to cover a glass, straws that changed colour if a drink contained drugs, that kind of thing. Where possible, we tried to source items from small, woman-owned businesses because they deserved our support.

All of which was to say that, other than Eisen and my papa, men didn’t play a big part in my life. 

So why did I catch myself glancing across at Heath Carlisle?

I’d only met him once before, last year at Eisen and Janie’s Halloween party, and he’d stood out because in our brief conversation, he’d treated me as though I was an actual human being, not a potential bed buddy, an ATM, or a silly little girl who didn’t know her own mind.

Tonight, he was with a perky brunette. I thought that she laughed too much, but perhaps that was because I judged her against myself and I barely laughed at all. Men were always telling me to smile more.

And Uncle Dennis was no exception. He wasn’t really my uncle. He was a friend of my father’s who’d manifested himself into the role when I was about two years old.

Now he leaned across from Grandpa Robinson’s table. “Cheer up, love, and just ignore Ruthie—it’ll be your turn soon enough.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it will.”

“A pretty blonde like you? I bet the men are lining up outside your door.”

I forced a smile. “That’s why I have security cameras.”

“Are you coming to Angus’s art thing next week?”

Not if I could help it. By “art thing,” Dennis meant my third-cousin Angus’s first solo exhibition at the Luddington Gallery, which was quite an achievement, but unfortunately, a certain subset of men seemed to use those shows as speed-dating events. I didn’t need to spend an hour making small talk with a bunch of disingenuous douchebags who’d googled my net worth and marital status before they came to speak with me.

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“Your scheduling queen is sitting right beside you. Ah, the lovely Salma—surely, a smart girl like you can manage to shuffle things about a bit?”

Salma was strong. She didn’t bend under pressure. “I’m just not sure that’ll be possible, Dennis.”

“Come on, we need to support the family.”

How much had Dennis drunk this evening? The waitstaff kept on topping up the glasses, so it was difficult to judge. He sometimes got pushy when he was intoxicated. Eis and Janie had done their best with the table plan and made sure I wasn’t seated near any sleazes, or worse, the delightful Robert, but I still couldn’t wait for the night to be over.

And I couldn’t stop worrying about Jazzi.

I’d stepped in to cover a shift after Alice had to go home sick—something that sent Mama into a tailspin because hair! Make-up!—and Jazzi’s was the last call I’d taken. I’d probably have been late for the ceremony if she hadn’t ended our conversation in a hurry. Just squeaked, “I gotta go,” and went, but before she hung up, I swore I’d heard her cry out.

Calling her back wasn’t an option. We had a rule about that. Service users were firmly in control, and if we made contact with an abuser present, our “help” could have dire consequences. And I didn’t know where she was, so a welfare check was out of the question.

The staff would message me if she called in again. Usually, I compartmentalised pretty well, but Jazzi’s case had really gotten to me. No, no, no, it had got to me. One of our nannies used to be an English teacher, and if she knew I’d taken to Americanising… Anyhow, Jazzi had sounded so young, and so scared. This was her third call to Vocare, and contact notes from the previous two instances mentioned bruises. The worst part? She’d confessed that she thought she might be pregnant.

“I’ll certainly buy one of Angus’s paintings,” I told Uncle Dennis.

They weren’t to my taste—dark and macabre, while I preferred bright and abstract—but I could donate it to an auction or hang it in a closet somewhere.

“You should get out more, love. Nobody likes to see you rattling around in that big old house of yours.”

His wife leaned forward. “I heard that extroverts live longer than introverts. One of those scientific studies.”

Give me strength. Introverts probably crawled into a hole to die because extroverts wouldn’t stop talking to them. I’d once thrown a glass of wine over myself just to have an excuse to hide in the bathroom.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have a social life. My work with Vocare was satisfying, and I loved my team. Plus I hosted a book club on the second Thursday of every month, and whenever I could manage it, I attended Robyn’s weekly crafting group on Tuesdays. Sometimes, crocheting scarves stopped me from tearing out my hair. Then there was the community centre the Renner Foundation funded—I often helped out with events there.

I just didn’t have the social life other people thought I should have.

And, as a consequence, I had no peace.

But maybe…maybe today I’d have a brief moment of respite.

Because Heath Carlisle entered the conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I hear you’re the man to talk to about horses.”

In the blink of an eye, my social life—or rather, the lack of it—was forgotten. 

“Racehorses?” Dennis beamed at him. “Yes. Yes, I am. Got half a dozen of the blighters. Lady Jade won at Kempton last week, but for the most part, they’re busy draining my bank account.”

“Not a great investment, then?”

“Well, son, that depends on what you’re investing for.”

“Some of the folks at work are planning to buy shares in a racehorse, and they asked if I’d be interested.”

“I don’t suppose you’d see much of a financial return, but if you enjoy the social side, it could be worthwhile. Racecourse hospitality, behind-the-scenes yard visits, camaraderie with your fellow owners…”

“I’ve been to the races a few times.”

“Well, in terms of shared ownership, you’ve got racing clubs and you’ve got syndicates. Pull up a chair, and we can run through the pros and cons of each.”

Did Heath realise what he’d done? Once Uncle Dennis started talking about his racehorses, you had more chance of holding back the tide than you did of getting him to stop. Heath hadn’t even struck me as a “corporate hospitality” type of guy. Granted, we’d only had one brief conversation, but—

Wait, why did he just wink at me?

As he turned to fetch his chair like an obedient little disciple, he’d flashed me a smile and then he’d winked.

Did he know what he’d done? He’d stepped into the conversation when I was struggling, and he’d taken the crushing weight away. Just as he had at Eisen’s Halloween party last year. Then, I’d been talking to Marc di Gregorio, a Hollywood star and notorious womaniser who’d inexplicably decided to make an appearance, and his flirting was making me uncomfortable. I’d already escaped him once, but he’d come back for more. Heath had handed me a glass and said, “Here’s the orange juice you wanted,” and with another man around, di Gregorio had quickly lost interest. Like magic. Heath had been polite, simply introducing himself as a not-quite member of my extended family because even though Eisen hadn’t proposed and Janie was still married to a slug at that point, it was obvious from the way they looked at each other where they’d end up. In front of a registrar, pledging their undying love to each other.

And I truly was happy for them. 

I just couldn’t see that kind of fairy-tale ending for myself.

I snuck another glance at Heath. No, I really couldn’t.

CONTENT WARNINGS

           

If you have concerns about any specific triggers, please contact me via the contact form.

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