Out of Bounds by Kris Pearson

marshal her thoughts into coherent order.
    “Gran was not just my Gran,” she stammered.
“So today was a doubly awful day for me. She was my Mom as well
since I was fifteen.” She glanced over at him, wondering if that
made sense. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth and then
continued. “My parents were killed in a road smash. They collided
with a fully loaded cattle truck and trailer, and you don’t walk
away from something that big.”
    Her voice sounded far from steady, so she
stopped again, hoping for more composure.
    Anton reached across the table and covered
her hand with his. There was comfort there much more than threat.
She managed to keep her hand still, and he sat for at least thirty
seconds before asking, “Were you with them?”
    She shook her head. “They were coming to
collect me from a friend’s birthday party. A sleepover. It was
broad daylight—middle of the morning. I felt so guilty. They were
in the car because of me, and I was the one who didn’t die.” She
closed her eyes as the old desolation swamped her yet again.
    She heard him mutter a soft curse. “You can’t
think that way. I hope you don’t still feel like that?”
    She shrugged, looked up at him, then away
again. “Sometimes.”
    He surprised her then by saying “I drive
myself hard because I’m the only child my mother has. I want
success for her more than for me. Equally stupid, isn’t it.”
    Jetta looked up and found his blue eyes very
watchful. “Paul and Ben aren’t your brothers then?
    He shook his head. “Business partners. We’re
Barker Haviland Mosely.” His beautiful mouth twisted into a
lopsided grin. “The other way of looking at it,” he said, “is that
I want to thumb my nose at my absent father, who wasn’t man enough
to stick around. There’s a definite element of ‘stuff you Dad, I
don’t need you’ in everything I’ve ever tried to do.”
    His hand still sat warmly over hers, and to
her surprise, Jetta turned her own over and gave his a squeeze.
    “I can understand that,” she said, releasing
it again.
    Hoping she’d offered him enough by way of
apology she sprang to her feet. “Hey—I did you some mood boards. I
left them in the hall when I came home and heard voices.”
    She trotted down the hallway to retrieve the
big flat package.
    “Barker Haviland Mosely,” she murmured as she
padded back. “I should have twigged. You won a ‘House of the Year’
design this time around.”
    “Best under $750,000. Not the Supreme Award,
though.” Anton started to shuffle his paperwork into a pile.
    “Next time.” She ripped at the paper she’d
taped around the boards and set the pile down. Anton had cleared
away the plates and bottles from the dining table. It now sat in
its rightful place. Gran’s sideboard had been relocated to the end
wall, under a vivid orange and red abstract she’d never seen
before.
    She swung around to inspect the sitting room.
No more fusty velvet or tizzy lamps! Anton’s long grey suede sofa
ranged along one pristine white wall. The giant-pile rug softened
the centre of the room. His TV still appeared huge, but he’d
arranged several of the old, randomly spaced hall watercolors into
tight groups either side of it. The two spiky yuccas stood guard by
the glass doors.
    “Amazing,” she said. “Where did you get the
extra chairs?”
    “From your junk room. I had a scavenge under
some old loose covers and that’s what was hidden.”
    Jetta shook her head in admiration. Plain
beige linen. Gran had covered it up with Sanderson roses many years
ago.
    “Pretty slick. You could have done your own
boards.”
    “No—these are great,” he said, spreading hers
out. “Although I didn’t picture the apartments ever looking like
this.” He indicated the option with French blue walls, navy carpet,
and floral tapestry brocade with a mix-and-match stripe and
check.
    “And some nice, wealthy, nearly retired lady
probably wouldn’t consider this,” Jetta