A Father At Last (11 page)

Somehow, they’d ended up at his little studio apartment in a new block not far from the waterfront.

Julie Mac

When he asked if she’d like to stay, she answered by unbuttoning his shirt and plying little kisses from his neck to the waistband of his trousers, and when he could stand it no longer he took her hand and led her to his bed.

Nothing could mar the beauty of the night.

In the morning, she’d woken, happier than she’d been for years. She heard the shower going, and planned to surprise him by joining him in there. But first, she gathered up their discarded clothes from the floor.

That’s when reality crashed home. She picked up his jeans, and a small plastic snap-lock bag holding about half a teaspoon of sugar‐like white crystals fell from the pocket.

She stared at the bag, sickened to the core. Quickly, she stuffed it back into the pocket, dressed and left his apartment.

Now, as she stood encircled by his arms in the quiet stillness at the edge of the bush, the memory of that evil little plastic bag of crystals was a timely reminder. Ben was a law-breaker. She could never inhabit his world, just as much as he could never inhabit hers and Dylan’s.

She eased back from his embrace—although to do so felt a bit like ripping out a piece of her heart.

She raised her eyes to his. “We need to move on, Ben.”

“We do,” he agreed, dropping his arms from around her. “But first…” He was studying her eyes and frowning a little. “That…stuff you’ve got round your eyes is smudged.”

She couldn’t help smiling; men never seemed to get to grips with the intricacies of eyeliner and mascara. She fished around in her shoulder bag for a little mirror, licked a finger to remove the worst of the smudges, completed the tidy up with a tissue and added a fresh coat of mascara.

“Better?” she asked, looking up at him and sending her eyelids into a deliberate flutter.

“Much.” He grinned and took her hand.

Her tension had eased. They made small talk as they followed the path through the bush along the creek, until they came to a natural rocky waterfall where the creek dropped in level by about a metre. They stood on the viewing platform and admired a lazy eel swimming just under the surface of the water in the pool below the waterfall.

Then they headed back up towards the homestead, through a small grove of olives and past stands of big old trees in the park‐like grounds.

The path skirted the side of the house on the way to the café, far enough away to ensure the occupants’ privacy, but close enough for Kelly to see the place had a relaxed, homely look to it. She especially loved the all‐around verandas, draped in purple wisteria.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she commented. “You could imagine a family with lots of kids in a A Father at Last

house like this.”

“I read somewhere that the same family have owned it for thirty years or so,” said Ben. “They brought up their children here, but now the kids have grown and left, the owners have converted it to a bed and breakfast.”

“Makes sense.” She thought again of her parents and their dream, back in the good days.

“If things had been different, if Mum was still alive, if Dad hadn’t got himself into trouble, they could have had a place like this, with lawns and space and an income when they got a bit older.”

She turned to face him. “Even after he’d been in prison, if Mum had still been alive…or even after she died, he could have…” She stopped, and wondered where on earth that thought had come from. After that last time she’d seen him, at her mother’s funeral, she hadn’t cared or even thought about what her father might do next.

Ben said nothing, but the gentle squeeze of his hand around hers told her he understood.

They walked on, past a big vegetable garden and implement sheds and back to the car park and café, which was like a much smaller mirror image of the house, with verandas on the front and back.

On the phone this morning, Ben had suggested a walk in the gardens, followed by a meal in the café. She’d agreed then; half an hour or so ago, down there on the bush track, she’d decided there was no way she was going to sit at a table with him and share a meal.

Now, in the cool of the evening, with the fragrance of flowers heavy in the air and his calm presence by her side, dinner with him seemed infinitely preferable to going home to an empty house so early in the evening.

“Have you got a table out on the veranda for me and my lady?” he asked the waitress, who smiled and led them to a secluded table for two outside, overlooking the gardens.

She handed them menus listing meal choices that were fairly basic but appetising.

Kelly chose tempura battered scallops and chips with salad, while Ben opted for beer battered fish and chips. And because she was driving, she turned down his suggestion of a bottle of wine to share, and instead asked for a glass of red.

It arrived quickly, along with a beer for him, and a delicious looking platter of breads, cheese and dips.

She smiled across the table, watching his eyes, intrigued at the way they seemed more gold than green in the soft light of dusk, while he told her about a new recipe he’d tried for fish curry.

“This is lovely,” she thought, and for a moment, let herself dream. If things were different, if he’d chosen a different lifestyle, this could be the first of many shared dinners Julie Mac

out—or at home.

Tonight, he looked like a smart young executive taking time out. He wore a fitted black shirt over dress jeans, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

She sipped at her glass of pinot noir, savouring its rich mellowness, and wondered: what would it be like to have Ben—handsome, funny, sexy Ben—chopping vegetables at her kitchen bench and swapping recipes with her. She repressed the urge to smile wider as she thought of the incongruity of this big, strong, decidedly masculine man wearing an apron in her kitchen.

What would it be like to have him sitting across the dinner table from her, sharing a meal, often? Once a week? Three times a week? Every night?

He’d referred to her as ‘my lady,’ and her body glowed at the thought. Ben’s lady.

Ben and Kelly. Ben, Kelly and Dylan. She sipped at her wine and let the names run around in her head, forming little groups, separating, regrouping.

And then Ben’s phone vibrated on the table top.

“Excuse me, sweetheart.” He picked up the phone and pushed back his chair. “I’ve just got to take this call.”

He rose from the table and walked down the veranda steps into the garden, several metres away, out of earshot, before he answered.

Like a bucket of icy water thrown over her, that phone call dumped Kelly back in the real world. Okay, she could have a one‐off meal with him, but dreaming crazy dreams about anything more? Just plain stupid. They could never be an item. Full stop.

She was tempted to ask him the nature of the call—confront him now, when he got back to the table. How could it be an innocent call? An innocent call could be answered in company.

But she remembered his reaction when she’d broached the subject of his lifestyle, down there by the bush. Best leave it till after they’d eaten. Perhaps she could bring the subject up over coffee.

“Do you like cooking?” Her question sounded banal, even to her own ears, but it fitted her criteria for safe conversation—nothing too personal, nothing too deep.

He’d come back to the table frowning a little and looking preoccupied, but now his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

“Cooking’s good if you have someone to share the food with, otherwise it’s a bit of a chore.”

“My sentiments entirely,” she agreed, selecting a piece of bread and dipping it in the little pannikin of olive oil on the platter.

“Where’s the fun in trying out a new recipe when you’re on your own,” she continued, “and you know that if you cook the amount they specify in the recipe it’s going A Father at Last

to be far too much, and you’ll just end up putting most of it in the freezer.”

“No fun at all.” He said it in a silly voice, and she couldn’t help laughing.

She sliced a thin sliver of brie and placed it on the bread. “Not that Dylan’s not a good eater, but he’s only six for heaven’s sake, and his tastes don’t exactly run to the exotic.

He wouldn’t be interested in bread and olive oil, and brie, I can tell you that. But another adult to share with—someone who enjoys good food—now that’s something special.”

She stopped, realising what she’d said, the bread and cheese midway to her mouth.

He was watching her, his smile gone. In the silence that hung between them, she registered background noises: laughter from a big table inside, where a family group was obviously celebrating someone’s birthday, birds singing in the gardens and the tick‐tick of the sprinklers watering part of the lawn.

“Is there someone you cook for sometimes, Kelly?” he asked softly. He picked up his glass, but didn’t drink from it. “A man? You said you didn’t have a husband or partner, but do you have a boyfriend? Someone who comes round for a meal and…company?”

She wanted to laugh. Ben was jealous. Especially about the ‘company’ bit. She watched him take a big swig from his glass and realised it felt good to know he was jealous.

With an effort, she stopped herself from smiling. “Nope, I haven’t got a boyfriend, although I do have a male friend—” she paused and saw his eyes narrow “—Leighton. Do you remember Leighton from school? He’s gay.”

“Of course I remember Leighton. Nice guy.” He smiled.

“He and I go to the movies sometimes, usually if Dylan’s having a sleepover at a friend’s. And I’ll cook for him or vice versa, before the movie.”

“Sounds good—for both of you.” He looked smug, and she let herself smile. Her friend Marnie often said all men were cavemen at heart, and right now, she was inclined to agree.

She took a bite of her bread and cheese and felt decidedly Neanderthal‐ific herself.

Ben had said he enjoyed cooking when there was someone to share with. Women?

Although the evening was still warm, Kelly shivered as an involuntary, unpleasantly cold sensation snaked up her spine. She was being hypocritical, she knew. It had been her decision to cut Ben from her life when they were twenty‐one.

Whatever he got up to now with women was nothing to do with her.

Still it hurt.

“Are you seeing someone?” She didn’t really want to know, and she
did
want to know, all at the same time.

Ben could see war being waged in her eyes. Of course she wanted to know if he had a woman. And if he did, the knowledge would hurt her. She wanted him, of that he had no Julie Mac

doubt, he’d seen it in her eyes, felt it in her touch.

But she was a mother—a mother resisting him to protect her child.
Their
child.

Anyway, he could answer honestly, and not hurt her feelings.

“I’m not seeing anyone. Haven’t for a while.”
And would have been nuts to do so
with this current gig in progress.

“But you must have had girlfriends over the years? Was there anyone special?” Kelly made the question sound casual, but he could see she was gripping the stem of her wine glass far more tightly than she needed to.

“Girlfriends, yes. But no‐one I could say I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

After you, none of them quite made the grade.

“Oh. I see.”

Her grip had eased on the glass, and some of the tension had gone from her eyes.

“And you, has there been anyone special for you since…since that night we had together?”

Zap!
The tension was back—in her eyes, in her face, in her whole body. And he knew darn well why. She’d told him her son—
his
son—had been fathered by some other man—

some bloke from the other side of the world who was here in New Zealand studying.

Now she’d be debating whether to tell him the guy was special, which would be a big, fat lie on top of an even bigger lie, or that he wasn’t special at all, which would make her feel cheap.

He wished he’d never asked because she looked so embarrassed.

She shook her head slowly and reached up to fiddle with her hair.

“No‐one, Ben, although I really tried hard at one stage.” She sat up straighter, and he was pleased to see the fight returning to her eyes.

“When Dylan turned four, I went to speed dating—don’t laugh—and joined one of those dinner club thingies. I even tried dating on the net. I met men all right—” she rolled her eyes theatrically “—in droves!”

She stopped talking while the waitress cleared away the bread and dips platter.

“And none of these…droves of men wanted to whisk you away to a happy‐ever‐after ending?” Ben prompted when the waitress had gone. He tried to keep his tone light, but it was hard work.

“Oh, yeah, they sure did. The problem was me.” She fiddled with her hair again, and looked straight at him, her blue eyes wide and trusting.

It made him feel almost physically ill to think of other men gazing at those beautiful eyes with interest—or worse.

A Father at Last

“How do you figure that? That the problem was you?”

“Oh, you know, I tried hard to be open‐minded and outward looking and positive, and all those things, but there wasn’t a single man among all those men that I had any real connection with.”

She paused for a big swallow of wine.

“I met guys who texted me love poems fifteen times a day and sent me roses, and guys who thought no‐strings‐attached casual sex was a perfectly reasonable request—”

“Cretins!” He breathed deeply and slowly to quell the black surge of anger that welled in his gut.

She must have noticed because she laughed softly, and said, “Don’t worry Ben. I wasn’t interested in any of them. Settling for second best isn’t in my nature.”

She smiled and suddenly the atmosphere around the table felt lighter.

“That’s my girl,” he said, trying to keep the tone airy, but the words came out in a growl.

Their main courses arrived, and as they ate and chatted easily, Ben thought about what he had to tell her tonight. It would be easier to say nothing—far easier. But he’d made a promise—and time was running out.