This was actually a story intended for the nautical theme invitational, a few months/years back. I never got it done in time, but hey, thought I'd finish it up and throw it out there, see if anyone enjoys it.
It was edited by 29Wordsfornow, who did a stellar job on it.
This was an interesting problem, switching between time periods and perspective, hopefully we caught all the mistakes I made.
I should have stuck some '80's music in there too, since most of it is set then.
Brett Bell was finishing up making a tuna salad sandwich using his wife's recipe and wishing for the tenth time that day that she was still around, when the doorbell rang. Pausing only to cut the sandwich in half -- ready for some 'good eatin' later' as she would have put it, with exaggerated accent - and wipe his hands on a kitchen towel, he walked to the door, wondering who was there, at midday on a Wednesday. He wasn't aware of any Amazon deliveries, and it was a little early in the day for the Mormon Missionaries who were currently targeting his neighborhood.
Given it was Sunday, he doubted he'd see any other human at all, unless he chose to go out, so a ring on the door was unusual.
When he opened the door, he saw two youngsters, as his father would have put it -- god rest his soul -- standing looking expectantly. One male, one female. Both had light blond hair, and they were obviously brother and sister, the family similarities were obvious. Both wore hesitant smiles -- the hopeful kind, where a good first impression is desired. But what caused him to start in shock was when he looked in their eyes. One brown eye and one blue each. Just like his.
And when the lady said, with a distinct British accent, "Hello Dad. It's nice to meet you," it was the moment he collapsed.
"Are you sure you are okay?" said Amelia, looking very concerned. Brett was on the couch in his living room head in his hands, trying to comprehend what was happening. Amelia was hovering over him, the same kitchen towel he'd wiped his hands on now wet and pressed into service dabbing his forehead.
"I told you I'm fine," Brett replied, some steel in his voice. "You just took me by surprise, that's all."
"Told you we should have rung him up first," said the man. Bradly, as he had introduced himself, right after they'd helped him up off the doorstep and into the house.
Both were decidedly British. That same clipped and clear accent that Brett associated with Downton Abbey and, of course, Fiona. Or using her full title, the Lady Fiona Birmingham Hart. Daughter of the Duke of Ipswich.
But here they were. He'd had some suspicions of course. The timing had seemed right. But, he'd never reached out and ask. That had been the agreement, and he wasn't going to break it. He knew, like she did, there was no future. No chance. She was trapped where she was, and he was powerless to get her out. She had commitments. Responsibilities. Duty. He knew that, and he loved her enough to leave her alone when she asked. No contact. As he'd agreed, no matter how unwillingly.
He knew that his heart would unlikely survive another encounter anyway; best to live and let live. Or in his case, Live and let Love.
He'd nursed his broken heart for years. New places. New occupations. New relationships, if only temporary, until he'd met Caroline. She, as it turned out, was as damaged emotionally as he was. They'd clung together, two pieces of flotsam in a tsunami of life, holding on to each other for dear life, and making a life together. It was never a relationship dominated by passion, more a comfort. He'd loved her -- and he was sure she loved him -- but it was a relationship of convenience and attraction, not a white-hot passion like he'd had with...her. If only for ten days.
And now here they were. The children he would never have.
He moved his hands and looked up. He had to cope. Deal with this. However unexpected.
He smiled at them ruefully, and they looked down at him, concern on their faces. The crease in Bradly's face was one he'd seen in the mirror more than once. He glanced at Amelia and was struck again by how much she resembled her mother.
"I'm really sorry. I'm not normally that much of a wuss. You just...well, you really caught me by surprise. I'm okay now. Just getting on a bit."
Amelia snorted, and then sat down, saying, "You are fifty-one, Dad. You are barely begun yet. Strong as an Ox, so mother says."
"I think he needs a drink," said Bradly, looking around the great room to locate interesting bottles. His eyes lit up when he saw the small collection on the side table. It was an eclectic grouping -- a bottle from every country he'd visited while he'd been in the merchant marine, plus some top end blended Irish and Scottish whiskeys. He'd never worked out if it was Whisky without an 'e', or Whiskey with an 'e'. It seemed to change depending on the nationality of whomever he was talking to at the time. "I know I do," he added, walking to the table to examine the different bottles.
"You think everyone needs a drink!" exclaimed Amelia, and then glancing at Brett, her expression softened. "Mind you, in this situation, we could all probably use some mother's ruin. Even if the sun isn't over the yardarm yet."
"You look so like your mother," said Brett, wistfully. He suddenly gathered his wits and stood.
"But my manners. You show up, and I've offered you nothing. It's lunch time, I was about to have a sandwich. Can I offer you something?"
Bradly looked over from the drinks table, looking pensive. "What are you having?"
"Bradly!" said Amelia, sharply.
"What? If it's something good, I'm definitely in. I'm all still messed up from all that jetlag. What you got, Dad?"
'Dad? Who the hell was that? Oh yeah. Me,' Brett thought.
"Tuna sandwich. It's the... it's Caroline's recipe. Tuna, mixed with mayo, sprinkled with Sweetcorn and green onion. Tastes great."
"Oh yes, that sounds marvelous," said Bradly, smiling widely at Brett. "Definitely up for some of that."
"Amelia?" inquired Brett, looking down at his...daughter. "I'm sorry, should I call you Amelia? Do you prefer anything else?"
