All They Need (3 page)

“I was checking my email. I needed to go, but I wanted to check on something first. Then I just…lost track of things.”

Flynn could hear the shame in his father's voice, but he didn't know what to say. He knew how unmanly this must be, how terrified his father must feel to have lost control of his own body. He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around his father.

“It doesn't matter, Dad.”

His father hugged him so fiercely his body trembled with the effort. It was a moment before he spoke. “I don't want your mother to see me like this. Not yet.” His voice was low and determined.

“She won't care.”

“
I
care.”

After a long beat, Flynn released his father, stepping away to give him breathing room.

“I'll get you a fresh pair of pants. Okay?”

His father nodded, dashing his knuckles across his eyes. Flynn exited the study. His mother rose to her feet.

“He's okay,” he reassured her.

Her eyes were full of questions.

“He needs a clean pair of pants,” Flynn explained quietly.

Comprehension dawned. For a moment her face seemed to sag. Then her chin came up and she nodded. “I'll take care of it.”

She strode down the hallway, head high. Flynn rubbed the back of his neck and stared blankly at the framed Picasso sketch on the wall.

There were going to be many, many moments like
this in the future. Too many to count. Bit by bit his father's dignity would be chipped away. It was as inevitable as the sun rising every morning, and as unstoppable.

Flynn returned to the study. He found his father slumped in his office chair, his eyes closed.

“Won't be a minute,” Flynn said.

His father nodded. Flynn's chest hurt, watching him. Seeing how hard this was for him. There was a knock on the door. He opened it to find his mother armed with a towel, a fresh pair of boxer shorts and a pair of trousers.

“Thanks.” He shut the door again and handed the towel and clothes over to his father.

“I'll be outside,” Flynn said.

His father nodded, his gaze fixed on the pile of clothes in his lap as Flynn left the room.

Five minutes later, his father emerged. His mother stood and the two of them simply stared at each other for a long moment. Flynn could see how much effort it took for his father to hold her gaze, but he didn't look away. Not for a second. His mother closed the distance between them and took her husband's face in both her hands.

“I love you, Adam Randall,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “No matter what. Okay?”

His father blinked rapidly. “I'm sorry.”

His mother shook her head. “You don't need to apologize. Not to me.”

She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. His father's arms closed around her. Flynn turned away, using the excuse of checking his phone for messages to give them privacy.

“Come on, let's have a cup of tea,” his mother said.

Flynn glanced surreptitiously as his watch. He and Hayley had been on the verge of leaving for their weekend away on the Mornington Peninsula when he'd received the panicked phone call from his mother. They had planned a leisurely drive along the bay before their appointment at midday to view the old Summerlea estate in Mount Eliza, but at this stage he was going to be lucky to make it at all.

He shrugged off the concern. His parents were more important than the opportunity to tour a piece of real estate, even if that piece of real estate was one of a kind. It was just a house and a garden at the end of the day.

He followed his parents into the conservatory and sank into one of the wicker chairs around the rustic table. Rosina appeared almost immediately, a tray of tea and banana bread in hand.

“I swear, you're psychic, Rosie,” his mother said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Flynn watched his father fiddling with the newspapers, aligning the stack of supplements into a neat pile. Flynn guessed that he was feeling self-conscious now that the crisis had passed, and very aware that Rosina must be privy to at least some of what had occurred.

“How is the Aurora development coming along?” his mother asked as she slid a brimming cup of tea toward Flynn.

It has been a little over a year now since Flynn had stepped in as CEO of the family business. He was still feeling his way, learning the ropes, but somehow he was managing to keep his head above water.

“It's getting there. We've had to renegotiate a few contracts with suppliers thanks to the high Australian dollar, but we should be starting the groundwork on schedule.”

His father's gaze was sharp as he eyed Flynn from across the table. “How has it affected the margins?”

They launched into a business discussion as his mother handed around slices of banana bread. His father was asking after the latest news from the sales department when his mother straightened in her chair.

“I just remembered—weren't you and Hayley going away for the weekend?”

Flynn shrugged easily. “There's no rush.”

“But you're looking through Summerlea, aren't you? I'm sure you told me you had an appointment with the real estate agent,” she said.

“It's fine. I'll reschedule.”

“What time is the appointment?” his father asked, looking at his watch.

“Don't worry about it.”

“I don't want you missing out because of my stupidity,” his father said.

Flynn frowned. “I'm not missing out, and you're not stupid, Dad.”

“What time is your appointment?” his mother asked.

Flynn sighed. “Midday. But it's really not a big deal. I was only taking a look at the old place out of curiosity.”

“Rubbish. You wouldn't be going down there if you weren't serious,” she said.

Flynn opened his mouth to protest but his mother fixed him with a knowing look. He lifted a shoulder.

“I'll admit I was excited when I first heard the estate was on the market. But the agent said the house needs a ton of work, which probably means it's a money pit.”

“If there is one thing we have plenty of, it's money,” his father said dryly. He pointed toward the door. “Go.”

Flynn gave him an amused look. “I take it that's an order?”

“It is. Don't make me give it twice.”

Flynn pushed his chair back. “A guy could get a complex over this sort of rejection.”

“Call me and let me know if the garden is as magnificent as always,” his mother said. “And before you ask, that's an order, too.”

“A joint dictatorship. Lovely.”

He kissed them both goodbye and ducked his head into the kitchen to say goodbye to Rosina before heading for the door. He phoned Hayley the moment he was in the car, aware she'd be wanting an update.

“Flynn. Is everything okay?” she asked immediately.

“All good. Dad was upset about something.”

“Thank God we hadn't left already.”

“Yeah.”

“Speaking of which, I called the real estate agent and pushed our viewing back an hour.”

Flynn smiled as he negotiated a left-hand turn. “Have I told you lately that I don't know what I'd do with out you?”

“Hold that thought.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Can't tell. It's a secret.”

“Oh, well, in that case…”

“When do you think you'll be home?”

“Five minutes.”

“Then I'll see you soon.”

She was waiting on the doorstep for him, her long auburn hair pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, which she'd paired with a snowy white turtleneck and the tailored brown leather jacket he'd bought for her birthday, and she looked effortlessly
elegant, as always. His overnight bag rested on the step beside her, as well as her own Louis Vuitton duffel.

“You packed for me,” he said as he got out of his car.

“Didn't want to waste time,” she said with a smile and a shrug.

He ducked his head to kiss her. “Thanks.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled into his face, her brown eyes steady. He kissed her again, comforted as always by her no-nonsense calm. They'd known each other since they were children and had always been friends. Only in the past year had their relationship become something more, much to their respective parents' delight.

“So. Are we going to go buy a house or not?” Hayley asked.

“Why does everyone keep talking as though it's a done deal?”

“If you could see your face when you talk about Summerlea, you'd understand.”

Flynn gave her a skeptical look.

“I know you hate the idea of having a bad poker face, Flynn, but it's true.”

“I haven't seen Summerlea for at least ten years. The house is probably falling down. I'm going with no expectations at all.”

“Please. As if you care about the house. It's all about the garden, admit it.”

He shrugged a little sheepishly. Summerlea
was
all about the garden for him, but that didn't change the facts of the situation.

“It's not practical. It's too far out of town, too far from Mom and Dad,” he said, voicing the objection he hadn't been able to raise with his parents earlier.

“You have been in love with this place since you
were a kid. I've listened to you rave about how it's Edna Walling's last great garden design so many times I've lost count. Getting your hands on that garden would be a dream come true for you. If you want it, we'll work it out. It's that simple.”

He bent and grabbed both the bags. “We'll see.”

Like his father, he had learned not to plan too far ahead these days.

As for dreams… Flynn had traded them in for responsibility a long time ago.

 

M
EL WAS WEEDING
the border of the rose garden in the backyard when she heard the sound of a car engine. She glanced over her shoulder, trowel in hand.

A vintage sports car cruised slowly up her driveway, its glossy black paint and chrome highlights glinting in the afternoon sun. The car disappeared around the bend in the drive and she stood, tugging off her gardening gloves.

She walked over to greet her guests, arriving at the parking bay as the driver's door opened. Flynn Randall stepped out, his back to her. He seemed taller and his shoulders broader than she remembered—or maybe it was simply that he was wearing faded jeans and a sweater instead of a tuxedo or a suit. Men always seemed sleeker and neater in suits.

“Mr. Randall. Welcome,” she said in her cheeriest tone.

He turned to face her and she blinked in surprise as she gazed into his bright blue eyes. Again, she hadn't remembered them being quite so…
startling
was the only word she could come up with. Although maybe
piercing
was more appropriate. Especially in contrast to his almost-black hair. She'd always been aware that
he was attractive but now that she was standing only a few feet away from him for the first time in over a year, she was hit with the realization that he was a very, very handsome man. He was studying her as intently and it occurred to her that he probably didn't remember her—they'd met only a handful of times and their exchanges had mostly consisted of polite small talk about nothing special. Hardly memorable stuff. She offered him her hand.

“Sorry. I'm Mel Porter. You probably don't remember me, but I used to be married to Owen Hunter. We met a few times…?.”

His hand, warm and large, slid into hers. “I remember you. How are things?” he asked, a smile curving his mouth.

She was a little thrown by how sincere his greeting was, as though he was genuinely glad to see her.

“I'm well, thanks. How about you?”

“Good, thanks. And it's Flynn, by the way.”

He was still smiling and suddenly it hit her that he'd been at the Hollands' midsummer party the night she'd fallen into the fountain. She glanced away, unable to maintain eye contact.

Owen had pointed out to her in no uncertain terms exactly how see-through her dress had become after her dunking. Flynn was probably remembering her hot pink panties and whatever else she'd had on display, as well as the raft of jokes that had circulated in the weeks after the party.

The passenger-side door opened and a slim, auburn-haired woman exited the car. Mel recognized her immediately. It was hard not to, since Hayley Stanhope had been one of the women her ex-husband had constantly encouraged Mel to befriend in the hope that it
would further his political ambitions. The Stanhopes had been in banking for generations and no one had more pull in the upper crust of Melbourne society—except, perhaps, the Randalls.

“Sorry. My mother called as we turned into the driveway,” the other woman said apologetically. She smiled at Mel, her brown eyes warm as she offered her hand. “I'm Hayley Stanhope.”

“Mel Porter. Pleased to meet you.”

The other woman's gaze flicked up and down Mel's body in a lightning-quick assessment. Mel knew what the other woman was seeing—no labels, no jewelry worth mentioning, uncontrollable hair, faded cargos, a raggedy long-sleeved T-shirt. The old self-consciousness stole over her.

“I hope you'll enjoy your stay here,” she said, tugging on the hem of her T-shirt.

“I'm sure we will,” Hayley replied.

“I've put you in Red Coat Cottage,” Mel said, gesturing toward the cottage peeking through the screening shrubs she'd planted. “I'll give you a quick tour then leave you to settle in. I live in the main house, so if you need anything, knock on the back door or give me a buzz on the phone.”

She was talking too fast and her palms were damp with sweat. She took a deep, calming breath as Flynn opened the trunk and pulled out two overnight bags, one an exclusive Louis Vuitton duffel, the other a well-worn leather number that looked as though it had seen an adventure or two.