Legacies

Authors Note,

I'd like to say a huge thanks to AwkwardMD for all of her support. Without her, none of this would have been possible. Also huge thanks to Skulltitti for helping to improve several sections and for advice on the character motives.

Also, please, creating in a vacuum is hard. If you like (Or hate :) ) anything in this story then please let me know. I would love to hear your thoughts and hear from you. Emails or comments are very welcome.

*

David looked around his father's office and let out a long sigh. The room was full of his father's things, his desk, his pictures, his files, and his drawer full of paperclips. Full of things that had mattered to him.

But now they were just things. Without their owner, they meant nothing. They were now just things to be kept or thrown away, and he was supposed to decide which.

David did his best to fight the sadness as he thought of the lost opportunities, unsaid conversations, and perhaps even worse, the memories that ought to have been written down. He felt as if a door was closing on his past and history.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He was supposed to sanitise his father's computer before taking it to the recycling centre.

David clicked through the folders. Deleting everything in one go would have been quicker, but a morbid fascination kept him exploring. It felt like he was learning about a whole other side of his father. Perhaps they'd been more similar than he'd realised.

One of the folders caught his eye: "Curvy Girls--by hair colour." He smiled and clicked it open. Inside were further folders: Blonde, Brunette, and Redhead. From the thumbnails, he could see there were further folders inside these folders. Once again, his father's fetish for cataloguing astounded him. That was definitely something they hadn't shared. He'd always been more of a dump-it-in-one-folder kind of guy.

He looked over his shoulder to double-check that his brother hadn't silently snuck up on him like his soon-to-be ex-wife once had. Then he slipped in his thumb drive and copied the entire folder.

As he waited for it to transfer, he looked at the root list of folders.

Just out of interest, he clicked 'sort into date order'. A small smile formed as he noticed the last download date was only two weeks ago. It was somehow reassuring to know that his father had been well enough until the last two weeks of his life to be able to download filth from the internet.

The computer notified him that the transfer was done.

"Sorry, Dad," he whispered.

He selected the folders. All of them. And hit delete. His father's porn files all vanished into the recycle bin. He followed them there and deleted them again, properly.

His Dad's secret life would remain hidden.

"How's it going in there?" his brother called from downstairs.

"Almost done, I think. How about you?"

"Yeah, I've loaded the car and am ready to go to the tip. I didn't bother waiting for you. I had a feeling you'd be up there all day. Just like he used to be."

He was about to reply when something caught his eye. A file on the desktop named 'Subscriptions'. He clicked it, Excel opened, and there was a neat filing system of all the sites his father had subscribed to. There were columns for the date, the price, the website URL, and then a column called cancelled.

He scrolled down to check that everything was cancelled. They were.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

With a wry smile, he closed the file and deleted it.

Then he switched off the computer and unplugged everything. With the flatscreen under one arm, the CPU under the other, and the keyboard and mouse balanced on top, he walked down to find his brother.

Xx

He felt sick when he saw what his brother had loaded into the car.

"You can't chuck out all of that; it's Dad's research," he said. The car was full of boxes of historical research notes. Some of those boxes contained original Victorian documents his father had collected.

"What do you suggest we do with it? I don't want it. Do you have room for it in your tiny flat? Or maybe you think Rachel will let you store it in the house you still pay for?" his brother said, already irritated.

They were two very different people, not just in temperament. His brother, Fred, was big, bearded, and had a shaved head, whereas he was slimmer, clean-shaven, and had a full head of curly brown hair that was a little grey at the temples. Very few people believed they were brothers.

"Well, no," he said, thinking of his small rented flat at the other end of the country. "But we can't just throw it out; maybe we should get it all scanned."

"Do you have time for that?" his brother said.

"Well, no."

"Then it's got to go. We've got to clear the house, and you can't afford to be sentimental."

"Fucking hell," he said in frustration. "Maybe someone will want it? One of his friends?"

"And they can come and collect it when?"

"Okay, well, maybe we can pay to get it scanned."

"And you are going to pay for that how? I thought you were broke. Didn't your wife fuck you for every penny?"

"I am. She did."

"We can't hang on to crap, he shouldn't have kept it, now it's left to us to get rid of it," Fred said.

David looked around helplessly.

"I'm going to take the books to a charity shop tomorrow, so I suggest you pull out the ones you can take back on the train with you," his brother added.

"Jesus Christ, Fred, you can't get rid of all of them. You know I haven't got space to take them."

"You live on the other side of the country, this house needs to be emptied so we can sell it. I'm not doing this all on my own. You are down this weekend, and as you said, maybe next weekend."

"I've got the kids next weekend," David said.

"Are you going to bring them down?"

"Rachel wouldn't like that," David replied.

His brother sighed. "Then, we have this weekend, and it all has to go. I'm not having this house hanging over us for months while I get stuck paying the bills."

"Doesn't Dad's money cover that?"

"There isn't much of it, I haven't had a chance to see where it's gone, but there isn't much left."

"What about that twenty thousand he was going to give us last Christmas."

"If it exists, I can't find it; you are welcome to take the bank statements home and go through them, provided you don't let your kids colour all over them. But that isn't going to help us now."

"Fine, fine," David said, giving up.

His brother took the monitor and the CPU off him and put them in the car.

"Sorry, dude," his brother said, giving him a thoughtful look. I know it's rough, but he's gone now. He doesn't need this stuff. You don't need to try and impress him anymore."

"I'm not," David said defensively.

"Sure you aren't." his brother said, then got into the car and drove off.

David was left with the feeling that his brother had won the conversation, which was very much part of their adult relationship.

It was so frustrating.

David watched the car disappear and then headed back inside. The house felt forlorn, as if its heart had been ripped out. It felt less and less like his father's house.

He found himself wondering about the missing money. The money had been there, and now it wasn't. That made no sense. He knew his brother wouldn't have taken it without telling him. So where was it? He didn't know and couldn't dwell on it, not when he had so little time.

He looked at the tall, over-engineered, custom-made glass-fronted bookcases that his Dad had built after he'd learned how to woodwork and felt overwhelmed.

He had no idea how he would pick which books to keep. He could probably take twenty, maybe twenty-five, from the hundreds of books on the shelves. There were rare and valuable books on the shelves, as well as books with sentimental value. The choice was impossible.

A scrap of paper tucked into the corner of the bookcase caught his eye. He picked it up, it was his father's writing, not the good writing that he used for others, but his fast scrawl.

"Fred, I'm so sorry for my unwarranted outburst. I understand if you don't want to meet face to face, but would you at least be willing to talk on the phone."

It wasn't dated but could only have been a few weeks old.

David thought of his father sitting alone in the house, writing the note, wanting to speak to his son to make amends before the end. He remembered his brother saying he'd had a letter but wouldn't open it. As far as he was concerned, their father was only reaching out to him because he was ill, not because he was actually sorry.

He felt tears coming and thrust the note into his pocket. At least his brother went to the hospital in the end. That was something.

His eyes scanned around the room, and his memory filled in the blanks of how the house had once been. He suddenly didn't want to be there anymore. He walked out the door and headed for the pub.

XX

"A pint of Amstel, please," David ordered from the bored-looking barmaid. She was pretty in a cute, young sort of way. She had a round face and thick red hair that was tied up. When she typed in her code on the till, he saw her name come up as Tori.

The pub was as empty as he'd expected for the time of afternoon. There were only three cars in the carpark: an old beaten-up Fiat that he assumed belonged to the barmaid, a fifteen-year-old Jaguar saloon, and a large, brand-new, enormous BMW electric car.

The pub was a typical albeit large country pub on the main road through the village. It had probably started life as a coaching inn, but the whole ground floor had been knocked into one large open-plan space at some point. It had a large garden surrounded by a white fence. Inside the garden was a neat array of picnic benches situated on a combination of gravel, patio, and grass. At one end of the garden was a large oak tree that was probably older than the pub.

He decided to sit outside, as, despite his gloomy mood, it was a warm late May day. The sun was shining, and high white clouds were slowly floating by.

Only two other tables were occupied. One, close to him, had an elderly couple at it. The other, down by the tree, had a large blonde woman sitting at it. Her back was to him, so all he could see was her bleached blonde hair and large-brimmed black hat.

As he sat down, the elderly couple noticed him. They nodded at each other in a silent code, drained the last of their drinks, and stood up to leave. He wondered if it was anything personal or if he needed a shower.

He smiled as they walked past; they returned the smile. He relaxed, then took a big gulp of his Amstel.

His attention moved to the blonde sitting alone. He tried not to stare; he hated being 'that guy'. But she was the only thing in the pub that he hadn't seen before. And besides, with her back turned, she wouldn't know.

Her attention was entirely on her phone. In front of her were two drinks, an untouched pint of Guinness and a bottle of beer also untouched.

She was wearing a black ribbed jumper, which was stretched tight enough around her body that she may as well have been in her underwear From the way her shoulders slopped, the way her bra cut into her back and the way her hips swelled out above her jeans he could see that she was carrying more than a little additional weight, She also looked tall, but he wasn't sure how tall, it was hard to get a sense of her proportions.

With her shape and bottle-blonde hair, he guessed she'd be in her early forties.

Next to her was a large pink pull-along case; its handle was still in the up position, making it look like she'd been happy to sit down. He thought that maybe the bench hadn't been so happy, then silently berated himself for the mean thought.

His observation was broken when the red-headed barmaid walked past carrying two huge sharing platters.

The barmaid put the food on the woman's table and walked away. After walking about ten feet, she stopped, turned, and returned to the table.

The next moment, the two were posing for a selfie on the barmaid's phone. The blonde woman held up a beer at the phone. Once the photo was taken, the barmaid turned her frown back in place and returned to the bar.

His eyes followed the barmaid's arse back inside, and then he returned his attention to the blonde; he watched as she pushed one plate and the bottle of beer towards the very edge of the table.

Then she held up her phone, a big pink thing, and she started taking selfies with the plate in front of her and holding the Guinness.

He continued staring, trying to work out what she was doing.

Suddenly, she turned, eyes scanning the garden and locked on his.

Busted.

It was too late to look away. All he could do was smile and raise his glass in greeting.

She was a lot younger than he'd thought she was. She could only have been an absolute maximum of thirty; the view from behind had aged her by about ten years. She was cute. She had a wide, friendly face with a nose that might have been slightly too broad if she had been slimmer, but that helped make her look perfect. She had heavy dark brown eyebrows and cute natural lips that formed one of the friendliest, dazzling smiles he'd ever seen.

Her face might have been breathtaking, but her figure was even better. If there were pictures in dictionaries, she would have been the one used next to the goddess Aphrodite. She was like one of Rubén's women he'd seen in his father's art books.

Some might have said she was a BBW, but he didn't think that applied to her. She might have been overweight, but she still looked good. Plus, his rule was that, provided the boobs came out further than the tummy, she wasn't a BBW. This girl easily passed that test. Her tits and cleavage were enormous, and the tight ribbed jumper had a low cut neck which showed them off.

She gestured for him to stay there, which confused him momentarily. Then she got up and walked over towards him. He did his absolute best to not look at her tits which had immediately started bouncing as she moved. He made sure that he looked into her brown eyes as soon as she got close.

"Say, could you watch my stuff while I go and change?" she said in an American accent.

"You're American," he said in surprise.

"What gave me away? The hat?" she said with a vast, playful smile, putting her hand on her hat. The movement causing her tits to bounce again.

"It was your accent," he said, still too flustered for his brain to work correctly.

She looked disappointed, and he felt like a dumbass for saying the wrong thing.

"Kind of a big giveaway, right? All over the world, my accent has been giving me away," she said. Then, as if she had decided that there was no more fun to be had, she added, "So you'll watch my stuff?"

"Of course," he said. "It'll be my pleasure."

She gave him a look that was somewhere between an eye roll and a smile, then left.

He watched her ass with a new appreciation as she walked away. Her jeans were as tight as the jumper, and he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be inside that big wide ass.

She was gone for ages. Ages and ages. He watched the two platters of food going cold and wondered if she was coming back; maybe her case had a bomb in it. But he had no idea why an American girl would plant a bomb in an empty British beer garden. He couldn't stop thinking about her ass, her tits and her smile. The latter had seemed so genuine, so lovely, and adorable. He was fascinated by her.

When she came out, she had a completely different outfit on. She was now wearing a very short, very tight white skirt that he doubted could have been long enough to cover her ass.

.

The top was camel coloured and one-shouldered. It was covered in ruffles, and the front was ruched around a centre seam, which made it mould around her breasts. It was absolutely packed with her tits, but it still couldn't hold all of her, as above it was an obscene amount of cleavage, and there were glimpses of a white bra at the sides.

He did his absolute best not to stare.

"No one has been near your things," he said, wishing he had something funnier or more interesting to say.

"Thank you," she said. She flashed him a smile that made his stomach twist, and he walked past.

He turned his head and watched her arse as she walked away. He didn't care if she caught him. It was worth the risk. He wanted to see how short that skirt was.

Unfortunately, her arse turned out to be covered. The skirt had the same ruched, scrunched effect as the top, but rather than being full of tits, it was full of her ass cheeks. The material meant the skirt could be short and still cling to her. It was pretty clever, apart from the effect of the white material clinging and pulling into the centre, which made her arse look maybe about twice as large as it had in the jeans.

She sat down, pulled the food on the edge to the centre, and pushed the food in the centre to the edge. Then, she started to take more selfies.

He shook his head and looked away. Feeling the doom sink around him once more.

Xx

"Hey, British guy, would you be good to take a couple of pics?"

He looked up from his thoughts and over at the blonde.

.

"I can't get the angle right, and I'm too lazy to unpack my phone stand from my case," she added.

He eagerly got to his feet whilst trying to make it look like this wasn't the most exciting thing to happen in months.

"What sort of thing are you looking for?" he asked, hoping to sound like he knew what he was doing.

"Some pictures for my Foodie Instagram, I'm trying to get it going again. The pictures need to show the food, the drink, and me. I need to make these look like they were taken on a different day than the ones I took earlier. That way, I don't have to go through all this tomorrow." As she said the word 'this', she waved her hand over her face and body.

She handed him her phone; it was still warm from her touch.

He took a couple of pictures, doing his best to frame the images tastefully. Which meant cutting out most of her cleavage.

She reached for the phone after he'd taken about six. She started flicking through them; she didn't look impressed.

"These aren't quite me," she said. "I need more.." Her voice trailed off, and she flicked this way and that on her screen.

"More like this," she said, turning her phone so he could see. He looked at her face instead of the phone; it was hard not to.

"I need it like this," she said, "So, like, food there at the bottom, drink there at the side, my eyes just above the top third, and my cleavage right there, between the bottom third and the middle."

Suddenly, something in his brain twigged a memory; this was all very familiar.

"You're on Instagram?" he asked.

"Sure, I mean, if I have a foodie Instagram channel, that sort of means I'm on Instagram," she said, looking at him, bemused by the question.

"What is your username?" he asked.

"WanderingHippy, why?" she said, "Are you going to follow me?"

"I already did. Or at least I used to," he said.

"What?" she said, her eyes darkening for a moment. "What do you mean used to? How long ago?"

"About three years ago," he said.

The darkening in her eyes vanished, and she seemed relieved.

He was confused by the reaction but carried on, feeling as though he ought to explain why he'd stopped following her. "My wife went through the people I followed and wasn't happy with a load of stuff; I had to unfollow a load of people. Including you."

"Wife, huh?" she said, looking at him strangely.

"Ex-wife now," he said. "Well, soon to be, anyway."

"Sounds like a wise choice," she added.

"On her part or mine?" he said, surprising himself with his spontaneity.

"I don't know you well enough to comment on that," she giggled.

"I can't believe you are here, in this small village, in the local pub; what are the chances? What brings you here?"