The Works of Charles Ayling: Intriguing Love Stories, Vol. 4

By Charles Ayling

Wendy is torn between the two men in her life; one paraniod and jealous, the other indifferent. She, on the other hand wants only to continue running her successful career without their interference, even though it is provocative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483561417

Charles Ayling

British born Charles Ayling has a TV, movie and theatre background. He had now written fifteen novels to date, ranging from 30,000 to 200,000 words. Even though they all have strong love themes, they have varied genres; Biblical Times, Nineteenth Century America, World War 2 London, Nineteen Sixties England, and various modern day American dramas. Intriguing subjects dealt with are: the stress of war, law enforcement, father and son relationships, coming of age, the world of entertainment(theatre), family sagas, business rivalry, and murder. Each story is unique, original, and compelling. Charles now resides with his wife Wendy in California.

Book preview

HELPWANTED.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any Resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHARLES AYLING. Copyright 2016.

ISBN: 978-1-4835614-1-7

HELP WANTED

Wendy has been a successful designer of woman’s lingerie for the last twelve years. Some would say her products were too provocative and sensuous, but they have always sold in record numbers.

Gerard, her reasonable boss for seven, then a possessive and controlling business partner for the last five years, has always gone along with her new designs, recognizing her talents.

Now wanting to work on another updated catalogue, Wendy tells him this time she needs the peace and quiet of her old run down homestead in order to concentrate on these newest designs.

Gerard, now becoming paranoid and suspicious that Wendy may branch out on her own, and choosing to be away from the company to create her new designs, has inflamed his suspicions even more.

Contents

HELP WANTED

Chapter One Help Needed

Chapter Two A Stranger Calls

Chapter Three A Surprise Awaits

Chapter Four Involvement

Chapter Five Hell In One Afternoon

Chapter Six Challenges Ahead

Chapter Seven Getting To The Point

Chapter Eight A Decisive Night

Chapter Nine Final Redemption

RESTORING REGRETS

Chapter One Help Needed

Chapter Two Strange Introduction

Chapter Three The Cat Jumps Out Of The Bag

Chapter Four Buying The Mustang

Chapter Five Not Only Furniture Restored

Chapter Six A Question Of Time

Chapter Seven Rose’s Wish

Chapter Eight Rose’s Epitaph

Chapter One

Help Needed

The clock on the office wall reads three thirty pm. Wendy, feeling tired and exasperated, tosses aside the latest batch of ten by eight photos. She sighs heavily.

Gerard?

Irritated at the sound of her voice, he looks away from his computer mumbling to himself.

Now, what’s the matter? She’s never satisfied.

She becomes frustrated when there is no response from the shared office door.

GERARD!

The door between the two offices finally opens. A heavily built man dressed in an expensive well tailored black suit, white shirt and silver tie, blocks the open doorway. In his early forties and of average height, with dark gray, slightly oriental looking eyes, his heavy mouth gives her a forced tolerant smile.

Still not happy? That’s the third agency I’ve tried.

Dressed in a white silk blouse and a straight purple skirt cut just above the knee, Wendy, leaning on both arms over a full desk, turns her head to look at him. Her tiffany style glasses have slid down her fine chiseled nose accompanied by a wisp of wavy chestnut hair falling over her forehead.

"These models you’ve sent me are all anorexic. How can we replace our past and current highly successful catalogues with bodies like these? No one will have any incentive to buy our garments."

Taking his time, and keeping cool, he steps further into her office and approaches her desk. He looks into her bright, but sad hazel eyes.

"What can we do? They’re all like that now. Have you thought…?"

Her face tightens as she pushes her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose.

No Gerard, I’m not modeling any more, I’m almost forty years old. Young women and men want to see young bodies showing our wares. I’m going to put an ad in the LA Times asking for young women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five who weigh at least a hundred and twenty pounds. Pay them five hundred a day and I’ll do the shoot myself.

He stares at her thoughtfully.

If you do that, you’ll do it here, where I can see you.

"Still don’t trust me? What are you worried about?"

"You know what I’m worried about; we’ve talked about it often enough?"

Her irritation mounting, she turns and reaches up to a nearby coat hook and retrieves the purple jacket that matches her skirt. He hides his exasperation by acting calmly, and leaning casually against the nearby wall.

You going to that shack of yours for the weekend?

She slips the jacket on.

Yes, it’s the only place I can get any peace to concentrate on my latest collection.

She doesn’t tell him about the incident last weekend at the ‘shack’. He comes away from the wall and takes one step nearer to her; his exotic aftershave reaches her first.

I could come with you and maybe spend the…

"NO, Gerard, that’s all over…a long time ago. For christ sake stop still trying; don’t spoil what little we still have."

"What have we got..a so called working relationship? What I really want is to…I still love you, you know."

She lowers her head, sighs for a moment and lifts it up to glare at him.

"I know what you want. I keep telling you your kind of love is not for me, so let it go!"

He wants to get nearer to her, but resists.

I’ve waited patiently all these years, seeing you at work while some other lucky bastard is probably…

"There is no other man in my life and thanks to my experience with you, I don’t ever want one in my life again."

He pleads.

"I admit it could have been better, it was never all bad; we had some good times…didn’t we?"

She picks up her well used black shoulder bag.

"Gerard, let me refresh that convenient memory of yours; twelve years ago you were a tin pot rag-trade sweat shop. I came straight out of art college with an original range of revolutionary delicate clothing and lingerie that I knew would sell."

He attempts a conciliatory smile.

"Exactly. So, when we met I saw something in you that might work for both of us. At the time, I was already thinking of hiring some sort of designer; my unreliable subcontract work was going nowhere…then you came into my life."

How many times has she heard his rosy version. She doesn’t return the smile.

"Being the mug I was and still am, I let you hire me for a pittance. Don’t forget, I shot, modeled, and put together that first catalogue, which in itself made you a fortune selling at five dollars a copy…"

He takes half a step towards her, hoping not to antagonizer her.

"Which I appreciated. Then, when the products of your design started selling world wide, you made me even more money. As a reward I offered you a partnership."

She grips hard onto her bag in rage.

"Not so fast; your memory is conveniently hazy; with my success growing, you declared in your way, that you loved me, and wanted me to be your bedmate. When I appeared reluctant, then the business partnership was offered…"

With her control cracking, he takes advantage and leans nearer to her with one hand now on her desk.

"I didn’t have to coax you that hard; in fact you were quite willing."

Her control is returning.

"At first I was flattered, because I didn’t know any different. Because I was limited in the ways of sex and love, I thought I would give it a try as you did have some redeeming qualities, of which now seemed to have completely slipped my memory. I don’t have to remind you what happened; to you, sex, or love as you put it, is a contest; I know what going through a meat grinder must feel like…

Both his hands are leaning on her desk.

I always apologized and said I would be a lot gentler next time.

She glances up at the ceiling to channel her anger, then glares back at him.

"When I told you I wouldn’t put up with the physical pain anymore, and decided there would’t be a next time…not then, not ever, I meant it. So, don’t spoil what we have now…a very successful business partnership."

He leans even nearer; a few more inches he could take her and give her what he feels she deserves. His smile does not reach his granite eyes.

"I agree with what you say. So, I’ve been gradually thinking it over this last few months of how great we are doing now and how well our business partnership has become. I’m sure, with your guidance we could make a success in a more personnel level if only we…"

No, Gerard, NO!.

He ignores her and continues. His voice becoming more impassioned.

In all these twelve years I have worked with and known you, I have never looked at another woman the way I look at you. I pray for the day you will finally see sense and…marry me.

She glares at him in astonishment, and takes back a step.

"Marry, are you crazy? Tell that to the whores you pay for, because no normal women would put up being almost raped and ravaged continually and told it was love."

His tanned face turns darker.

"I keep admitting I made a grave mistake with you. It’s because of your looks and sex appeal, I mistakenly thought you would want it that way. That’s the impression you give and gave in the catalogue."

She bangs her shoulder bag on the desk.

"You idiot, the catalogue is to sell our garments; I modeled them like that to attract customers, not as an invitation for you to…look, just stick to your fancy women…"

His mounting frustration causes him to butt in.

Those women I go with now are just a stop gap so I don’t go crazy waiting for you to finally decide to come to me.

She rests her shoulder bag on her desk and does up a couple of buttons on her purple jacket; the less he can see of her the better. Her mind is racing.

How many times must this conversation keep cropping up? I’ve had enough. One more week of this hell and I’m out of here. I’ll shoot my latest designs at home. When I get my old house livable, I’ll go into business for myself; I have more than enough money.

Not wanting to discuss further and eager to leave, she picks up her shoulder bag, switches off her desk lamp, and starts to exit into the main hallway.

"Goodnight Gerard, this conversation is finished. I might see you on Monday… perhaps. Take this as my final word…no men in my life; only my work. So, be thankful for what you have got."

Seething with emotional anger and unbearable frustration, he listens to her elegant footsteps disappearing down the main hallway and out the front door. With his agitation out of control, he kicks her empty waste paper basket across the room. He sits in her desk chair; his insides tighten at her remaining body warmth, and her lingering, intoxicating smell filling his nostrils. He looks down with contempt at the anorexic models staring vacantly up at him; yes, Wendy has to model the new collection…she is the collection. Even at approaching forty, her body is even more sexy than when he first knew her twelve years ago. The new catalogue will become a world wide collector’s piece; he can feel it…if she cooperates.

Pushing the photos aside, a dog-eared copy of the existing catalogue stares up at him. Wendy is on the front cover stylishly posing a slinky, black satin dress. Above her head the words; WendyWear…Always the Exotic. He runs his fingers lightly over her picture, trying to rationalize why the hell does he still torture himself over her? All these recent years he has done as she wished and kept his hands off her. He ‘talks’ to the face in the picture.

Taking ‘no’ for an answer is about to end young lady.

He jabs his podgy finger at the face.

"And if I ever find out that another man is touching that beautiful body of yours, I will kill you both."

He compulsively flicks through some of the pages, stopping at a particular picture and stares at the beautiful face and lips that would overshadow any of the top female stars of today. His eyes focus on her tantalizing legs, the sort that can raise a man’s blood pressure in an instant. His eyes travel slowly up her body to die for, to her magnificent breasts that any women would envy and a man would kill just to touch. He begrudgingly admits to himself that sex appeal was raised to a new level when she appeared that first day in his office.

He slams the catalogue shut, and stares forlornly at the cover. He clenches both fists into hard balls, exasperation and anger fill his eyes. His tortuous imagination painfully wonders how many men are putting her pictures under their pillows tonight? How dare she continue to hold him at arms length and refuse his advances.

He reflects how in the beginning, he gambled all his money on her and her ambitions. Colleagues kept telling him that erotic garments and lingerie were out of style…too sexist they would say; it lowers the modern woman to an object and not a person. She showed them differently by bringing a woman to a higher definition, that of a goddess. Women now want to emulate her and men just worship. She made it work and her new designs will go even further…perhaps even into the history books.

With his emotions boiling over into hate, he glares down at the cover photo.

"It was me that took the original gamble, you ungrateful bitch, and I vow I’ll kill you if you decide to hide your new designs from me and go out on your own."

He abruptly stands; the anger inside him is slow to dissipate as he walks towards and enters his own neat, tidy office. He seats himself down in his expensive leather desk chair and stares at his computer screen. A page from the company’s web site is showing; Wendy is wearing a range of scanty support bras designed to enhance and complement the perfect cleavage.

He pauses for a second, places the tip of his index finger longingly on the imaginary warm valley, lets out a heavy sigh, then shuts down the computer.

Chapter Two

A Stranger Calls

The two hour journey north from Los Angeles through heavy Friday traffic is nearing its end as Wendy steers her red Ford Mustang convertible up her steep curving driveway towards the small, single story, stone built house. Once parked on the rough gravel, she turns off the engine and stares thoughtfully out of the windshield at the dwindling October sunset.

She climbs out of her car with her shoulder bag into the still evening air. Relishing the peace and quiet, she surveys her twelve and a half acre lot. A long held loneliness envelopes her like a dark cloud.

Once I get it all restored, this would make the perfect place to share with someone, but that’s not going to happen; Gerard, you bastard, you just don’t realize how much you affected me that time we were together. Now I’m so scared to even talk at any length to a man for fear that it will end up painful.

With a tinge of melancholy, she makes her way to the front door. Reaching up above the small window next to the front door, she takes hold of a hidden heavy iron key. She looks up above the once green, now peeling, paneled door at the numbers 1909 coarsely etched into the heavy stone lintel. Looking back down at the old mortise lock, the splintered door jam turns her stomach and brings back the memory of the incident she chose not to share with Gerard; last weekend’s attempted break in. Despite frightening them away by shouting from her bedroom at the noise outside, and reporting the incident to the local police, she still feels vulnerable.

The door, needing a heavy push, leads into one, large open plan room. Having owned the homestead for only three months, and only occupied the house for four weekends, she is still having to find her way around and look for light switches. The switch by the front door, she remembers. The antique copper lamp hanging on it’s chain from the center of the arched wooden ceiling lights up. Only one of the two imitation candle light bulbs are working, but there is enough light to illuminate the room sufficiently.

To her right, a row of dilapidated kitchen cabinets are fixed precariously against a crumbling and stained sheetrock wall. It’s obvious by the cheap way it was installed that they are not original to the house, but added many years later when indoor plumbing became available. Next to the cabinets in the far corner, is an ancient gas stove, which looks as if it hasn’t been used in years. On the far adjacent wall, a modern family sized fridge is busily purring away. This is the only modern convenience that she has bought for the house so far. As far as furniture; there is an aging brown leather sofa and one armchair to match, which came with the property. These are situated on the bare oak wooden floor facing a grand, stone built fireplace which is set in the wall to the left of the front door. She was told by the agent when first looking around, that the fireplace was original to the building. The surrounding sheetrock walls were installed very much later; probably in the nineteen fifties. Now showing signs of severe deterioration.

She wearily walks over to the armchair and gratefully lowers herself down into the inviting soft upholstery, putting her bag onto the floor.

The silence of the room is overpowering as tentacles of comfort wrap around her from the aging leather of the chair. She sits back and studies the ancient unlit fireplace.

I wonder how many people have sat here and gazed into the flames, welcoming the warmth on a cold snowy night. How many couples have made love to the hypnotic glow of the flames…

Her throat suddenly grips tight and tears of loneliness burn her hazel eyes, as a cold blanket of foreboding covers her like a shroud. She leans forward and hugs herself in a vain attempt at comfort.

Her blurred eyes focus on a rough piece of wood leaning against the hearth. It is painted with white letters; HELP WANTED and her phone number.

Man, how ironic, I need help in more ways than one; my personal life is non existent right now.

She looks around the room and up at the ceiling.

I guess I’ll put the sign up first thing in the morning and give it till this time next week. If I don’t hear anything, I’ll have to call contractors and start getting estimates.

She reluctantly eases herself out of the soothing closeness of the armchair, wipes her eyes, picks up her bag and heads to one of the other two doors leading off the living room.

Even though the walls are showing signs of deterioration, this room is her favorite; her bedroom. On her right is a single pine bed. Next to it, is a high ladder back pine chair. An aging pine wardrobe that is barely managing to stand, is on the opposite wall in the corner. The only thing in the room that didn’t come with the house is her own bedding, a full-size industrial drawing board and metal high stool sitting in the corner, under the window, the other side of the bed. The stained sheetrock walls are covered by her large artist’s impressions of faceless female forms exhibiting futuristic style garments and lingerie. She puts her bag in the wardrobe and wearily climbs up onto the high stool, switches on a swiveling desk lamp clipped on the top of the drawing board, and then leans on the board with her elbows.

In the center of the board is her latest design. Around the edges are various sketches, photos and her most recent catalogue. She moves some sketches around and glances lethargically at the black and white photos of past fashions. Unusually, her heart is not in it. She looks down at the bed, then at her watch.

Leaving the board lamp on, she slides off the stool and heads into the living room towards the fridge.

On opening the fridge door she surveys the left over contents from her previous stays; a small opened bottle of Olive Oil, six one liter bottles of water, some over-ripe bananas and a dozen egg container with three eggs missing. On opening the freezer compartment, there is half a bag of ice cubes and several assorted ‘boil in the bag’ ready meals.

Hmm not too good; I’d better do some shopping in the morning when I put up the sign. Guess I’ll just salvage what I can from the bananas, drink some water for now and go to bed.

The faded adobe roof tiles are sliding under Richard’s feet.

Why am I even up here, when I know heights are not exactly my forte?

Several loose ridge tiles are just out of reach.

One more spurt and I’ll be there.

The ‘spurt’ doesn’t materialize; feet lose their grip on the loose roof tiles.

Damn, I’m starting to slip…

With nothing to grip on to, the roof’s edge appears too quickly.

Hell, I’m going to fall…

While hanging desperately onto the sagging roof guttering, it starts to give way under the body weight. There is a sickening snap; the ground below becomes closer…

Richard wakes up silently screaming. His heart is pounding and sweat is running into his eyes. He sits up, shivers with the cold and takes deep breaths to calm himself. He grabs an old faded towel hanging over the front passenger seat and wipes his face. After replacing the towel, he takes his work jacket hung over the drivers seat and wraps it around his cold, damp shoulders.

A banging sound outside his van attracts his attention; he peers curiously out of the windshield.

In the early morning light, he sees a figure about twenty yards away. Wearing a gray hooded coat, the figure is fixing a sign on an ancient gnarled oak tree, just inside some dilapidated fencing.

Satisfied the ‘Help Wanted’ sign is reasonably secure, Wendy glances nervously at the dark blue, fifteen year old Chevy van parked just off the main road.

‘BURROW’S SERVICES’ is painted in neat, but faded script lettering on the side panels.

What are they doing here, I hope it’s not the same people who tried breaking into my house last week?

She quickly turns away and hurries up her steep driveway towards the house.

Still curious, Richard watches the figure until the person disappears from view.

Someone’s in a hurry to get back to where ever.

He crawls on his hands and knees to the back door of the van, and gives the doors a light kick. A blast of cold air fills his lungs as he scrambles out of the rear of the van, encouraging him to put on his work jacket properly.

There’s nothing worse than being frozen on an empty stomach.

The few passing motorists ignore him as he shuts the van doors. Pushing his hands deep inside the coat’s pockets, he stares hard at the newly hung sign.

Even at this distance that doesn’t look like any sort of anti-trespass.

With hands pathetically staying cold, he makes his way over to the sign.

‘Help Wanted’ . Am I dreaming or is this a chance I might eat today?

He removes his hands from the tepid pockets and easily removes the sign. He places the piece of wood under his arm, reintroduces his hands back into the now cold pockets and hurries back to his van. Reluctantly removing his lukewarm hands from his pockets, he opens the driver’s door and climbs into the driver’s seat placing the sign on the front passenger seat. Looking anxiously at the gas gauge nearing empty, he turns the ignition. The engine labors, but doesn’t fire.

Not now old girl, just get me up this driveway and I’ll promise you a few gallons at the end of the day…if not…I’m not sure, I’ve never been this low on anything before.

He turns the key again; the cold engine labors a couple of turns, then fires. Sighing with relief, he puts on the heater and puts the van into gear.

Here we go; steak and french fries coming up.

Wendy is trying to light a fire with a small gas lighter in the stone fireplace, when she hears a vehicle drive up outside. She turns off the lighter, leaves it on the hearth and heads towards the small window next to the front door.

She looks out to find the same depressing looking van that was parked down by the roadside. A tall, lean, dark haired man climbs out. She takes a deep breath of apprehension. Bearing in mind the attempted break in, Wendy opens the window just wide enough to challenge.

Can I help you?

Richard is about a yard away from the front door, stops, looks at the window and gives her a wry grin, producing her sign from behind his back.

"I thought it was you who needs some help? Here I am!"

She pushes her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose.

A bum and a smart ass…that’s all I want.

I’m afraid you must have misinterpreted the sign; I need a craftsman…

She counts slowly and deliberately.

One, I need a skilled builder. Two, I need an electrician. Three, a plumber, four, a skilled carpenter…and…

He butts in.

A landscaper with market gardening experience.

She glares at his audacity.

"How would you know that?"

He takes one step towards the window.

Let me guess; you’re a city girl, on your own, who’s bought this run down homestead in the hope of making it into a dream home with a well cultivated back yard; hence all the different skills needed. Now, you wouldn’t buy this much land…say ten acres…

Twelve and a half actually…

If you weren’t going to work it…either market gardening, livestock or both. Am I correct?

She can’t help liking him, either for his cheek or his self assurance.

"Could be. So, where do you fit into this equation."

Even though he is feeling faint with hunger and cold, he keeps trying.

"If you let me in so we can sit down and discuss, you will find I am one of those rare creatures on this planet that has all the skills you require."

Wendy tries to suppress a smirk.

Bullshit more like it.

She opens the window a little wider and fixes it using the old casement stay.

Let’s say I believe you; first, where are your tools and equipment to carry out this kind of work? All I see is an aging beat-up van and man who could easily be mistaken for a street bum.

Pulling a face and not showing his pride has been dented, he takes a step back and points to his van.

If you allow me…ma’am, I will show you the tools of my…various trades.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, she unlocks and pulls open the stiff front door.

Now without the outer clothing, Richard sees an attractive woman dressed in a dark red sweatshirt over snug fitting denims and white tennis shoes.

He starts to make his way to the back doors of the van while she keeps a safe distance following him. She can just make out the lettering on the side panels. He waits a moment until he thinks she