Not for Sale Read online

  Not for Sale

  Black Ladder

  Eden Rayna

  Published by Eden Rayna, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  NOT FOR SALE

  First edition. July 15, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 Eden Rayna.

  ISBN: 978-1999087371

  Written by Eden Rayna.

  Also by Eden Rayna

  Black Ladder

  Not for Sale (Coming Soon)

  Driven by Fire

  Just a Fling

  Driven by Fire

  Out of Bounds

  Focused on You

  Driven by Fire Box Set

  Watch for more at Eden Rayna’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Eden Rayna

  Chapter 1 Izzy

  Chapter 2 Owen

  Chapter 3 Izzy

  Chapter 4 Owen

  Chapter 5 Izzy

  Chapter 6 Owen

  Chapter 7 Izzy

  Chapter 8 Owen

  Chapter 9 Izzy

  Chapter 10 Owen

  Chapter 11 Izzy

  Chapter 12 Izzy

  Chapter 13 Owen

  Chapter 14 Izzy

  Chapter 15 Owen

  Chapter 16 Izzy

  Chapter 17 Owen

  Chapter 18 Owen

  Chapter 19 Izzy

  Chapter 20 Owen

  Chapter 21 Izzy

  Chapter 22 Owen

  Chapter 23 Izzy

  Chapter 24 Owen

  Chapter 25 Izzy

  Chapter 26 Owen

  Chapter 27 Izzy

  Chapter 28 Owen

  Chapter 29 Izzy

  Chapter 30 Izzy

  Chapter 31 Owen

  Chapter 32 Izzy

  Chapter 33 Owen

  Chapter 34 Izzy

  Chapter 35 Owen

  Chapter 36 Izzy

  Chapter 37 Owen

  Chapter 38 Izzy

  Epilogue Izzy

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  Further Reading: Driven by Fire Box Set

  Also By Eden Rayna

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Izzy

  Sympathetic hugs are followed by gentle pats on the back, soothing kisses on the cheek, and loving strokes through my hair.

  “She was such a delight,” Gran’s best friend, Glynnis, says.

  Her expression of compassion makes me laugh so hard I snort then choke, both on tears and humour.

  “You’re right, dear. She was a nasty bitch, but I’m still going to miss her.” Her voice wavers, betraying her true emotions. “I’ve known Iris for over sixty years. When your mom and my son were babies and the men were off sittin’ on wells, we’d have sleepovers as if we were little girls. We’d stay up all night gossiping and sipping sherry right here on this couch.” Glynnis pats the faded floral print arm of the once overstuffed piece of furniture and gets blurry-eyed.

  It’s a story I’ve heard a million times, and it saddens me how this might be the last occasion to hear tales of her life. At ninety-five, Gran had outlived most of her friends. Memories of her now rest in the hands of me and my cousin Kelsey. It’s on us to celebrate her legacy, as crazy as it was.

  “The neighbourhood will be quiet without her.” One of Gran’s neighbours steps into the conversation and drapes an arm around my shoulder, dropping a kiss on my cheek. I chuckle as my vision clouds with a fresh layer of tears. “Who’s going to yell at the construction workers to pick up their cigarette butts and ‘mind their manners for parking their asses on her fucking lawn’?”

  The three of us laugh and reach for our tissues at the same time to dab the tears away.

  Gran’s late life mission had been to make the construction workers on her street miserable.

  Living in an up-and-coming inner-city neighbourhood, there was no shortage of fights to pick. She talked about the developers—who she called house thieves—that would knock on her door, inquiring if she’d like to sell her home for full-market value although they planned on bulldozing it. Convinced they were in cahoots with the funeral homes who kept leaving flyers in her mailbox, Gran had refused time and again. She informed the developers they’d never get ahold of this house because she’d promised it to me. In return, she made me swear I wouldn’t sell out to the house thieves.

  My close friend Asher approaches and loops his arm through mine, letting me rest my cheek on his shoulder while I scan Gran’s house. Knickknacks litter the hutches and tables, picture frames documenting nearly a century of life cover almost every inch of wall space, and I know her drawers are full of oddities, collectibles, and junk. Like Gran willed, all of her belongs to me. I get to pass on her legacy. I get to establish my version of a perfect life on the exact spot where she did. I get to honour my promise to her and ensure this house stays in the family.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone who wishes to pay his respects,” Kelsey says, drawing my focus away from the memories in the house.

  I lift my head from Asher’s shoulder and see Kelsey’s arm looped through that of a man I don’t recognise. She presents him to me like a gift on a silver platter with wide eyes that roll up and to the right, as if I don’t know where to look. As if I could have missed the gargantuan man clad in black work pants and a black t-shirt. The behemoth who’s as broad as a door frame and wears two full-sleeve tattoos like they complete his outfit.

  I draw myself from Asher’s warmth. This guy wasn’t at the funeral, at least not dressed like that. I would have noticed, and Gran would have risen from the dead to smack him for dressing so casually for her occasion. I would have noted him for other reasons too. At well over six feet tall, he towers above the nonagenarian audience here, as well as those of us who still stand at full height.

  “And she blamed me for the syphilis outbreak,” Glynnis blurts out.

  A hand flutters to my face to mask the inappropriate smile I can’t contain.

  “Come, Glynnis. Let’s get you another glass of punch.” Gran’s neighbour spins Glynnis by the shoulders and leads her away, lips pinched between her teeth to block the laughter.

  Mr. Tall, Broad, and Imposing doesn’t crack a smile, apparently not one for joking at a funeral reception. That level of respect makes my insides tremble. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure it was my ovaries exploding.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, hoping the blush in my cheeks isn’t too fierce.

  “I’ve met Iris.” His eyebrows rise and fall, convincing me that nothing Gran’s friends say could be shocking. His voice is deep and smooth and so is his stride as he moves forward with his hand outstretched for mine. “I’m Owen MacLeod. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I lay my hand in his and he clasps it with his other one, enfolding my small hand in his considerable grip. He holds on while my eyes travel the length of his decorated arms to his face.

  “Thanks,” I say. I pull my hand free and cock my head to the side, curious how this massive and magnificent Owen knew my little old granny.

  “What’s your connection to Iris?” Asher asks from my side, reminding me he’s here.

  Owen begins crossing his arms over his chest like the question calls for a defensive response, then reverses course and shoves his hands into his pockets instead.

  “Community meetings. I kept my eye out for Iris.”

  Defensive, indeed. It’s good that Gran had a handler who looks like he runs an MC club because she was hell on wheels at those meetings. She’d take any side of an issue as long as an argument could be had, and there were lots of issues, according to her. With all
the new-home development proceeding in the neighbourhood, she was a stalwart for anyone who yearned to preserve their 1950s-era home from the wrecking ball. She would challenge every plan put forth for community approval, no matter how ridiculous her claim.

  Gran told me about the complaint she filed against a two-story house being built seven doors down from hers because it would block the sunlight from reaching her backyard. She argued that the new houses were too big for proper landscaping, and she didn’t care to live in a concrete jungle. She griped that if another home with a three-car garage was erected, it would be like living on a freeway.

  Judging a book by its cover, I assume Owen lives in a house that Gran had tried so hard to keep from being constructed. I have to hand it to him, it’s nice that he would still look out for her at the meetings and extend his respects to someone who didn’t want his kind driving the market on modern homes.

  I’m surprised Gran never mentioned Owen to me. Or better, set me up with him. She handed me phone numbers from her friends on a weekly basis—grandkids, great nephews, second cousins twice removed. If he was single and had a phone, Gran was on it. Why would she keep Owen from me when he looked out for her?

  “I won’t keep you. Again, sorry for your loss,” he says, ending the conversation.

  I’m not sure if he’s uncomfortable talking about Gran, speaking to strangers, or communicating in general. His sentences are short and consist of the fewest possible words to be understood. Minimalist or not, the deep bass of his voice vibrates every cell in my body as if he already knows my frequency.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Asher says.

  Owen throws Kelsey and me a nod, then turns to leave, confirming my appraisal of him as the strong, silent type. As quickly as he appeared, he disappears, leaving nothing behind but his taunting aura.

  “Holy shit,” Kelsey whisper shouts. “How far down the street does he live, and can I trade the house for the bank account?”

  I shake my head at her in slow-motion with my eyes on the back of the man who gave me the nicest housewarming gift ever—the sight of his ass in those Carhartts.

  “Uh-uh. Gran said no fighting over the will. I’m taking the house and the neighbour.”

  Chapter 2

  Owen

  I tap twice on the door announcing my arrival, although I’ll let myself in, anyway. The room greets me with the harsh smell of closed windows and disinfectant. I’d thought I’d grow used to it. The nurses told me I would. It’s been a year and the scent still follows me out of the building when I leave.

  “Livy, that you, lass?” He stares right at me, setting the tone for this visit.

  “Hey, Pops, it’s Owen.” I act as if I didn’t hear his question, forcing extra effort into sounding cheery.

  “Owen?”

  “Yeah, Pops.” I step around the foot of his bed and meet him where he rests in his recliner, book in hand. I sink into the matching chair beside him and tilt the book so I can see the title. “Harry Potter?”

  “Thought ye said yer name’s Owen.” His Scottish brogue hangs between us as the most startling difference between our two generations.

  Despite his declining condition, his hair is still a rich, blackish brown like mine, and we share the same bright hazel eyes. Although shrunken now, especially when he sits in his overstuffed recliner, he once stood as tall and broad as I do. I always wondered what part of my mum I got because, physically, I’m so much like my father.

  We rarely talked about her growing up, and now getting details is beyond my ability. It’s certainly not in his control. Nothing is in his control. Not when he eats, not when he bathes, and, unfortunately, not what he thinks.

  Lucid moments that coincide with my visits are rare and coveted with an awareness that I might be about to experience something for the last time. Last week when I was telling Pops about my new project, something triggered him, and he explained how I earned my love of symmetry from Mum. He struggled to give me more details about this trait of hers—like how she applied it to her work, how it shaped her personality—still, I cling to this shard of information, this fragmented memory that connects me to a woman I barely remember. It led to the latest design on my pec. A bright Frank Stella geometric recreation that stands out amidst the chaos of the other images.

  “Yeah, Pops. Your son, Owen.”

  “Aye.” He gesticulates like he knows who I am, but today he doesn’t.

  I hold on to the few days he remembers me because most days I’m some guy sitting in his room, taking a moment of his time that he doesn’t know he’s having.

  “I’m waiting for my wife, Olivia,” he says in his thick accent that never faded.

  “I’ll sit with you until she gets here.” There’s no point mentioning to him she died twenty-six years ago.

  Like every other visit when his Alzheimer’s rules the day, I fill the air. “The first half of the semi-detached duplex is coming along.”

  I tell him again about the latest building trends, as if he still understands where the market is heading.

  Pops was the one who started Black Ladder Developments, the company I now own. He was my mentor long before I gave Black Ladder my weekends and school breaks, and still is, even though he doesn’t know it. Pops never once told me to find another job, one with shorter hours and fewer scraped knuckles. One that was recession-proof or guaranteed to pay the bills.

  Ever since fixing the first house with Mum, he was hooked, and he was proud to pass on his self-taught craft. When he handed over the company reins as the memory slips became more apparent, he did it with a tear in his eye and a beaming smile on his face.

  He left me big shoes to fill. I’m trying to be the man he taught me to be. I’m moving the company forward based on the tenets he set out: honour, trust, hard work. I want him to be proud, to know that his legacy will live on in me and the houses I build. But I need his guidance to make that happen. I’m not ready to do this alone.

  “What am I going to do next?”

  He always told me that choosing the lots to build on was the most important part of the process. I had to see beyond the structure and the history that currently occupied the land. To ignore the real estate agent’s reason for pricing high based on the owner’s attachments. I had to appraise it from a bottom-line perspective.

  Pops has always been the one to walk me through the pros and cons of each possible site. Recently, he hasn’t been aware enough to do it. My buddies and colleagues, Scott, Brett, and Greg, are good, but they don’t have the experience Pops has. They don’t have the magic touch that he brought to each build.

  “Remember I told you about the old lady in the house next-door?” He nods at me, but his vacant look tells me he doesn’t have a clue. “Her granddaughter is going to be a pain in my arse.” My Scottish ancestry sneaks out when I spend time with Pops.

  “Word on the street is that she’s moving into the house. A dumpster was dropped off last week and she’s been steadily throwing things away. I can’t tell if it’s to put the house up for sale or to make room for her own belongings, so I’m keeping my options open. I have a plan for both scenarios.” Contingency plans are a must in our industry.

  “Ha, lassies. They’re trouble, they are. My Livy’s always getting in the way of me building houses.”

  What should be grief over the way he thinks my mother is still alive surfaces as hope that he’ll have a coherent moment and I’ll learn something new about their life together. About our lives together. I rely on him to remember because I was too young to do it myself, and we never took the time before his mind started to go. Now that I’m old enough to know her, I’m at the mercy of the disease robbing him of his life’s joy.

  “She’s definitely in my way,” I say.

  Pops gets a faraway look on his face, like he might be enjoying a memory of some kind. I stay quiet, not risking the interruption that would steal this occasion from him. They don’t come often anymore, and I imagine they bring great comfort in an
otherwise unfamiliar world.

  “Ye know the best way to get her out yer way?”

  Yeah, move her to a different neighbourhood.

  “Make her yer priority. Lassies get ornery when they’re being ignored. Tell her ye love her.” He pats my leg with his thick fingers, almost all of which he’s damaged over the years.

  “I don’t want the girl. I want the house.” I repress the frustration in my words. Frustration that his intentions are good even though he can’t follow a conversation anymore. Frustration that my mentor is slipping away and that my father is leaving me too soon, like my mother did.

  The worst part of all this is knowing that he’s been waiting for this. I heard him every night as a kid, sitting at the kitchen table sipping a Hot Toddy from one of Mum’s fancy teacups, telling her ghost about his day. Telling her how much he misses her and how he can’t wait to see her again. He lived my entire life with one foot in the grave.

  Work and I were Pops’ priorities, but we weren’t his dream like Mum was. When she died, the dreams stopped. He never spoke of the future, never made plans beyond the next job. I don’t remember him asking what I saw for myself in ten, twenty, thirty years. As a way of protecting me, he never showed curiosity about my hopes and expectations. It was best not to have dreams, because dreams become nightmares.

  “The lassie comes with the house, just like my Livy did. When we first moved to Calgary, she fell in love with a wee rundown farmhouse on the edge of the city. She told me if we didn’t buy the place, she was going to take herself right back to Scotland and I could find myself another wife to put up with my stinking arse.”

  This thirty-five-year-old story he remembers with perfect clarity, but what he had for breakfast this morning is as mysterious as the fact that I’m his son.

  “We saved every penny we earned for years till we could fix that old place. Livy insisted on doing the work ourselves although we didn’t have a clue what that meant.” He laughs at the memory. Although, I’m sure when he was living it for the first time, there was more than one fight on the topic.