Page 3 of Innocent Revenge

“Well, I for one am looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow, Caitlin,” I say, praying that her designs are better than the pathetic attempts her older brother produces.

2

Caitlin

“Da-ad! You have to do something!” My brother’s voice carries through the door of Dad’s office. “I could have done an excellent job of that photo shoot. Do you remember the pictures I took on holiday? You said they were really good.”

“Sure they were…”

“They were excellent, sweetheart.”

I pinch my brows at the sound of Mum’s voice. What is she doing here? She told me this morning when I mentioned that I was heading into town to see Dad – again – that she had plans today. I would have expected her plans to be playing golf or a meeting at the church to discuss the upcoming charity event.

I step into the doorway without them noticing. Mum is sitting in the twin seat under the Georgian window, posture perfect, hands in her lap and feet crossed at the ankles like a debutante. The old glass panes distort the light in a pattern that I’ve tried to recreate a hundred times in my sketchbooks. My brother is standing in front of her, his palms pressed to his chest.

“Aw, thanks, Mum.” Fin’s sugary tone changes back to whiny as he turns to Dad. “Aidan never allows me to doanything, tells me to stick to design and says I have no say in the matter because I’m not an owner of the company.”

Aidan.

Tiny sparks go off in my tummy. I’ve known him all my life – well, since I was six anyway – but yesterday was the first time he ever looked at me as something other than a little girl. His striking blue eyes darkened and a lock of his brown hair fell over his forehead as his gaze travelled down my body. He’s so tall. And handsome. And gosh, much too old for someone like me to fantasise about. I mean, our birthdays are one month apart, and this year, he’s exactly twice my age. Thirty-six to my eighteen.

I shouldn’t fantasise aboutanyman, young or old, I chastise myself. Good Catholic girls don’t have such sinful thoughts.

“Well, I did spend a lot of money to have you apprentice with Tom Stirling in London.”

My attention snaps back at the mention of the apprenticeship. My brother didn’t complete it, he was thrown off the programme, but that’s never been spoken about. I only learned this from overhearing Mum and Dad talking. Lying is a sin, but they’d breach any commandment to protect Fin’s reputation.

Truth be told, Fin has never had a passion for design – he just wanted to do what he thought there was more prestige in. I, on the other hand, have the passion. It burns through my veins, sprouting from my fingertips. There’s not a schoolbook without doodles on every single page – patterns and shapes, abstract and true to form, animals, humans, trees and buildings. I would have given my left arm – not my right as I need it for holding the pencil – to apprentice with Tom Stirling, one of the most prominent contemporary jewellery designers in Europe. Maybe one day…

Who am I kidding.

Dad will never allow me. I’m just a girl. I’m not street smart, he’s told me, more than once. I’ll never succeed at anything because I’m a dreamer. I don’t have a killer instinct. My best option in life is to marry well, so he says.

“Yes, but design can be so-oo boring. Photography is so much more fun andtrendy. I could get thousands of views and followers on social media. You want me to excel, don’t you Dad? You’d like me to be as successful asyou? But how can I when I’m not inspired?”

I want to roll my eyes. Fin knows exactly how to play him. Dad is a sucker for sucking up.

“Well, yes… I’ll think of something, son. Come on, let’s get moving. I’m starving.” With a grunt, Dad gets up from behind his mahogany desk. His pale brows furrow when he spots me in the doorway. “Caitlin?”

“Hi, Dad. Are… are you heading out?”

“Yes, we’re going for lunch,” Mum replies and rises from the love seat. She smooths her dress down her slim frame. “I’ve booked a table at Shelbourne.”

“Shelbourne? Are you celebrating something?”

“Oh, no. But Martha Wallace, Judge Wallace’s wife, told me they have a new lunch menu. I can’t very well see her at church on Sunday without having tried it.”

She gently pats her dark mane, making sure not a strand is out of place. Self-consciously, I run my fingers through my hair. Mum’s greatest disappointment is that I inherited Dad’s red curls – wild and unruly curls, no matter how hard she’s tried to tame them.

“Can I come too?”

“I’ve only booked a table for three, love. If I’d known youwere in town, I would have booked for four people.”

“Y-you knew I was going into town… And Dad did too.”

“Did I?” The genuinely confused expression on his face has my stomach dropping. I swallow the anger that threatens to rear its head. Feelings a young girl shouldn’t have. Mum and Dad – and Father Murray – have all instilled in me to be a good girl. And good girls don’t express anger or jealousy.

I’m a good girl.

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