“Billie-Mae Northlane, look at you!” He grins, stealing her from me and twirling her in the air, and her giggles echo through the silence.
He lowers her until her gumboots thud heavily onto the dusty driveway. As he slides a hand into the front pocket of his Levi’s, Billie’s toothy grin spreads across her entire face. My brother slips the packet of lollies from his jeans and jiggles it in front of her nose. She’s beaming at this point, completely ecstatic that Uncle Colt did, in fact, bring her lollies again.
“For you, Bumble,” he says with a dramatic bow, handing thepacket to her and tousling her curls.
“Thank you, Uncle Colt!” she squeals, ripping the bag open and stuffing an entire handful into her mouth.Typical toddler.
I nod at my brother and take a seat in the passenger side of his ute, allowing him to have a moment with his niece before he straps her into her car seat. My ass hits the leather and I hear the crinkle of paper. Reaching into my back pocket, my fingers find the pamphlet that I had haphazardly stuffed into it this morning. Lifting the scrunched-up brochure into my line of view, my eyes trailover the words printed on the paper before me.
‘In loving memory of Samantha B. Northlane. Wife, mother, friend.’
The large, portrait-style image of a beautiful, blonde woman with vivid, blue eyes stares back at me. Every letter on the page hits me like a tonne of bricks, and I remember exactly where we are going today.
We’re going to bury my wife.
Two
Dallas
Five Years Later – Present Day
Istand outside the school with the other parents as I wait for Billie to come bounding over and recount her entire day with more detail than is required. She definitely didn’t lose her passion. Every day is the same routine: she bolts out to greet me and doesn’t take a breath ’til we’re well and truly through the front door. Then, she rinses and repeats the same cycle the second her Uncle gets home.
The school bell rings, doors flying open as dozens of kids rush out to greet their parents. I scuff my boots in the dirt beneath me, my eyes scanning for Billie through the crowd. Several minutes pass and the initial chaos dies down until only the stragglers remain, dragging their backpacks along the ground, much to the disapproval of their parents.
Still no sign of her.Where is she?My pulse races as I head into the school, trying to conceal the panic rising in my blood. Boot-heavy footfalls echo through the empty halls with every step as I make my way towards Billie’s classroom. As if my question was answered by a higher power, I hear a familiar, singsongy voice ring out of the room across the hall. A door flings open with a loud thud asBillie emerges, backpack in tow, her guitar strapped to her shoulder.
“Thank you, Ms Harrington! See you tomorrow.” Her smile lights up when she sees me, and she bolts into my arms.
“Sorry I’m late, Daddy. Ms Harrington wanted to teach me how to use my capo,” she proudly announces, handing her guitar to me. Her school bag slides off her shoulder as she gestures towards the classroom.
“Who’s Ms Harrington? And what the heck is a capo?’” I ask, my brow creasing.
A soft, feminine voice follows my question as a tiny, pixie-looking woman waltzes into the hall holding a bizarre little clamp-type thing.
“That would be me, Sir, andthisis a capo. It’s a little clip that sits on the neck of your guitar. It shortens the strings, and is traditionally used to alter pitch,” she explains, toying with the weird looking device in her hands. “And you… must be Mr. Northlane.”
She’s quite tall, probably around 5’7”, but she’d fit perfectly under my chin if I wanted her to. Her mid-length, pastel pink hair falls in soft waves against her flushed, plump cheeks before resting against her collarbones. She’s tucked a few strands of her bubblegum-coloured hair behind her ear, showcasing an elaborate array of golden studs in various places.
Her skin is the colour of a perfectly brewed latte, and I can’t help but wonder if she tasted just as good.Stop it, Dallas.She has big, round eyes that flicker in the light. A soft array of smoky makeup accentuates the bright emerald shade of green that sprinkles her irises.
A tiny, gold ring sits nestled in her left nostril and a matching necklace rests against her collarbones. She looks like a sparkly pixie or some kind of nymph. Is that the right word? Nymph?
A form-fitting, navy blazer caresses her curves before falling against her hips. It hugs every inch of her so perfectly, like it’s been sculpted to her body. I continue to run my eyes down her frame, soaking in the tailored dress-pants that could have been painted on her. This woman is a walking work of art.
Her voice chimes in again, interrupting my thoughts. “Mr. Northlane, are you alright?”
“Shit. Umm, I mean yeah, sorry. Hi, I’m Dallas, Billie’s Dad,” I stammer, my voice catching in my throat.
She extends a perfectly manicured hand towards me, more delicate jewellery adorns her fingers. “Annabeth Harrington. I’m Billie’s music teacher,” she offers.
Oh, I am absolutelyfucked.
I kiss Billie’s forehead, closing the door behind her as she piles into my ute. Her golden curls wildly flow in the afternoon breeze.
“Ms Harrington is so cool, Daddy. Today, she told us how she played the violin with the Sydney Orchestra. She said her old school was a big fancy school in the city. She even has a ringinher nose, Daddy,” Billie explains, without taking a breath.
Her legs swing happily as she sticks her arm out the window, making it dance in a wave-like motion in the wind as we pull out of the car park. Billie starts humming along to the radio and I can’t help but smile. She’s always writing songs, telling stories, and living in her owndaydreams. My girl has an imagination worth its weight in gold. I hope to god she never loses that spark.
