“She did. We both did, in fact, when Isaiah came home.” He dumped the chicken skins in the rubbish and handed her the packet with the meat. “Seems I sat down and more or less passed out.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. So you decided to play rugby. Make a cup of tea, if you like.”
“It seemed like a good way to wake up. And I will, thanks. D’you want one?”
“Sure.” It was nice to work in a kitchen with somebody. She’d forgotten that, too, or maybe she’d never known it. Dylan hadn’t been much for cooking.
“Isaiah’s playing on the wing, he told me,” Rhys said. “He’s fast, but that’s no surprise. Got good hands, too.”
“You’d know, I guess. He enjoys it, but it’s not a passion. Which is maybe just as well.”
“Rugby can be a ticket out,” he said, “but Isaiah doesn’t need a ticket.”
“No. He doesn’t.” Not like Rhys had, or Dylan. Why was Dylan always “less so?” Because Rhys had been older, probably, and protective. Always.
They’d been with their mum, first, and then their grandmother, their dad’s mum. And finally, Rhys had gone with his dad across the ditch to Aussie, because Tana Fletcher had been doing construction on the Gold Coast, and had taken his near-teenage son to live with him. Abruptly, Dylan had said, and unexpectedly. Dylan had felt left out and left behind, but Zora suspected that Rhys had been the one who’d been alone.
He’d picked up Rugby League out there as easily as he’d played Union until then, and by the age of nineteen, he’d already begun to establish himself as a battering ram, impossible to put away. The newspapers, Dylan had told her, half-proud and half-resentful, had been full of him, and so had the nightclubs, because Rhys had worked hard and played harder, throwing himself into the higher-profile League scene the same way he threw himself into everything.
It wasn’t easy to see the partier in the solid man leaning against her kitchen cabinets, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, talking about his nephew and focusing on this moment, this issue, this responsibility. Casey was proof, though, that the partier was still there.
He was silent for a minute, and she finished putting away the groceries, lined up the ingredients for tonight’s dinner with more precision than required, and wondered what to say next.
“You’ve done a good job with him,” he said. “I’ve always thought so. You’re a great mum.”
“Thank you.” It was nice. It just wasn’t exactly sexy.
Fortunately, Isaiah and Casey chose that minute to burst through the door. “Mum!” Isaiah said, toeing off his trainers. “Casey moved here all the way from Chicago, and she’s my cousin, did you know? I didn’t know I had a cousin. Chicago is the biggest city in Illinois, but it’s not the capital. It’s far north, so it’s very cold, compared to here. Because of latitude, and also, it’s on one of the biggest lakes in the world. It’s called Lake Michigan, even though Chicago isn’t in Michigan, it’s in Illinois.”
“Geography is another fascination,” Zora told Rhys.
“You need to take your shoes off,” Isaiah told Casey.
“How come?” she asked.
“Because it’s in the house.”
“It’s a New Zealand thing,” Zora said. “A Maori thing. Besides, I have some surprises to show you, and you may need to have your shoes off to fully appreciate them. Let’s go into the lounge. Rhys, you could bring those shopping bags from Cotton On.”
She’d tried to restrain herself, thinking that Rhys could take Casey shopping later, but the clothes had been so cute. A pair of denim shorts with lace filling in the V-shaped cutouts on either side, a blue pair with flowers, and a red pair with different flowers, just because you could never have too many flowers. A pair of gray capri leggings with pink butterflies flying across the bottoms, and a pink pair with flowers, because . . . see the note on flowers. A red T-shirt with a glittery star on the front, a black-and-white-polka-dotted long-sleeve one with a message spelled out in pink, Girls Can, that would be perfect with the pink leggings, an adorable gray one with an enormous picture of Mickey Mouse printed across the front, and another one, that she hadn’t been able to resist and that she hoped wasn’t too girly for Casey, that was white with pink trim and featured a sparkling unicorn rearing up on its hind legs, its extravagant mane and tail curling like Casey’s own hair. And matching socks for all of it, of course. You needed matching socks, and Rhys would never know it.
The unicorn shirt was the one Casey grabbed. “I love it,” she said. “I want to wear it tomorrow, for when I go to school in Year Two, but I have to wear a uniform instead. There’s even a different uniform for P.E. So I have to wear two uniforms.”
“You change when you get home,” Isaiah said. “Like me. You can wear it then.”
“Except I’m supposed to come here after school,” Casey said. “It’s like day care. You don’t change in day care.”
“Of course you do,” Zora said. “It’s not day care. It’s your auntie’s house, which is me, just like Isaiah is your cousin. You’ll have to change, if you’re going to help me with my flowers and play outside.” However she felt about Rhys, how could she take it out on this little girl? “You leave a few things here for now. The unicorn shirt, and which shorts?”
“These ones,” Casey said, looking excited, pointing to the jean shorts with lace. Zora guessed the princess flowers hadn’t been a momentary fascination.
“Best for last,” she announced. “I saw that you had trainers for running, and I assumed your . . .” She had to stop for a second to say it. “Your dad bought your school shoes, but girls need fun shoes, too.” She pulled them out of a bag. A pair of sparkly silver trainers that made Casey’s eyes go wide, and a pair of pale-blue jellies. “Also,” she said, “togs, because you never know when you’ll need to take a swim.” She’d chosen a blue-and-white-striped top with sleeves, for sun protection, and boy-shorts bottoms. The top was adorned with a red anchor, so the whole thing looked like a sailor suit. Fun, but practical, too. And a pair of cute shortie PJ’s, with Mickey and Minnie on the top and yellow polka dots below.
“She’ll need more, obviously,” she told Rhys, who looked at her like a deer in the headlights at the thought, “but this will get her started. And—” One more bag. “Hair. I got clips, and elastics and scrunchies, and some pretty bows that will look gorgeous on a high pony, as well as a new brush and comb, just in case, and a spray bottle that you can fill with warm water, helpful for styling. And I thought, Casey, since we have time before dinner, we could give your dad a lesson in how to fix your hair.”
Twenty minutes later, Casey sighed and said, “You’re not very good at this.”
“Oi,” Rhys said. “I’m a beginner. You don’t coach a beginner like that. Give a fella a chance to practice. Nobody’s good first time out of the chute.”
“You’re still pulling,” Casey informed him. She made a face that was surely more dramatic than the occasion warranted. “Ow.”
She was standing on a kitchen chair, in front of the bathroom mirror. She was half his height and about a fifth of his weight, but there was no question which of them thought she was the Queen Bee here. He should work on that. He’d do better tomorrow, when they were rested.
Zora said, “You’ll want to grab her hair tighter up above so you can work the tangles out below without pulling.” She put her hand over his. “Up here. See?”
“You could sound less amused,” he told her.
“Oh,” she said, “I don’t think I could.” She was laughing at him, in fact, in the mirror, and she was much too close. She’d said he smelled good? So did she. It wasn’t anything strong, just faintly floral, which made sense. Roses, maybe. He wasn’t going to tell her so. Very bad idea.
Isaiah said, “You could get your hair cut very short, Casey, and then you wouldn’t have to do all that. Girls have short hair sometimes.”
Casey rolled her eyes. Zora rolled hers, too. They were a matched set. “No, she couldn’t
,” Zora explained, “because then she won’t be able to use all her hair clips and bows.” Which sounded like a wonderful idea to Rhys. Taming Casey’s hair was like pruning blackberries.
“Right,” he said, “that’s the tangles out, I think. It’s a bit . . . wild, though.” He looked at Casey’s hair dubiously. It was, in fact, standing out almost horizontally from her head.
“We’ll use this for now,” Zora said, slapping a bottle of something into his hand like a nurse in the operating theater, which summed up how this felt. Generally, though, you had some training before you tried surgery for the first time. “But you’ll want to pick up some shampoo and conditioner for her. Detangler, also, and a curl cream.”
“A what?”
“I’ll write it down. Brands, maybe, and where to buy the good stuff. I’ll text it to you, so when you’re panicking in the store, you can text me back.” She was laughing at him again.
“I’m going to be making a special shopping trip, aren’t I?” he asked.
“Oh, probably.” She didn’t have to sound so happy about it.
He spritzed Casey’s head with the stuff in the bottle, and Zora said, “Put your hand over her forehead so it doesn’t get in her eyes. That’s a detangler, and it adds shine. It’s what I use on my own hair. Don’t brush any more, either. That’s how you get frizz. Work it in gently with the comb instead. You’ll want to comb her hair after you wash it, using the detangler, and then use a bit of the conditioning cream as you work her style. You brush as little as possible, like making pancakes.”
He set the bottle down and met Isaiah’s gaze in the mirror. The boy gave an exaggerated shrug and made an “I don’t know” face, and Rhys said, “The pancake reference is lost on us.”
“Men think, when they cook anything, that they should stir it thoroughly,” Zora said. “Like they’re mixing paint. But if you’re making pancakes or muffins, you only stir it a bit, and leave some lumps. The texture’s better. Call it ‘a light hand.’ Otherwise, you may as well be cooking up wallpaper paste. That’s how you work with this kind of hair, too.”
“I like muffins,” Casey said, to his absolute non-surprise. “Do you know how to make muffins?” she asked Rhys. “I like chocolate chip ones the best.”
“No,” he said, combing the detangler into her overabundance of hair, which kept trying to fly away. It was soft, though, like holding a baby duck. “I don’t. I just found out that I need four products in order to comb your hair. I’m reeling here. How long is all of this going to take me? I’m going to have to set my alarm earlier.”
“Whingeing,” Zora said.
“Yeh. Tell me what to do next. I’m definitely going to need the text, too. And possibly a step-by-step guide.”
“Text how to make muffins, too,” Casey piped up.
“She can text it,” Rhys said, “but I’m not doing it. There’s a limit, and doing your hair is mine. This is madness. I comb my hair, rub some stuff into it if I’m feeling flash, and I’m done. Groomed.” He met Zora’s gaze again. “Don’t say it.”
“What?” She was trying not to smile, and it wasn’t working.
“Not well groomed. No worries, I’m getting my hair cut.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “The wild-man look’s working for you, I’d say. You present a complete picture.”
“Your hair’s kind of messy, though,” Casey said. “Maybe Zora can give you lessons, too.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Your feedback is noted. I’ll point out here that I used to have a bar of soap in the shower and call it good. I’m practically a metrosexual now. I’m aggrieved at your vote of no confidence.”
When Casey climbed down from her stool, her hair was in a plait, and it did have clips at the sides. Of course, Casey had poked at various non-smooth spots and said dubiously, “It has some lumps in it,” but he’d answered, “I’ll do better tomorrow.” He was going to have to set his alarm earlier.
Zora told him, “Take it out of that plait before bed and do a loose one, low down. It’ll be more comfortable for her to sleep with, and you won’t have to detangle so much in the morning.”
“I just put it in,” Rhys said. “Now I have to take it out?”
“But think how much more you’ll appreciate the effort women go to,” Zora said. “Just wait until it’s makeup time. Also, I didn’t buy any dresses. You have so many surprises in store.” Sounding saucy again, the way she’d used to be, and it made him smile.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “I’m a man with lessons to learn, it’s clear.”
“Come on, Casey,” Isaiah said. “Let’s do a puzzle. I’m glad I don’t have long hair. Girls are weird.”
Rhys blew his breath out, once they’d left the room, cleaned up the explosion of hair elastics, bows, and clips that had somehow happened on the counter, and asked Zora, “Here’s one that’s been bothering me. Do I need to help her do the hair-washing and so forth?”
“Yes,” Zora said, “you do. She won’t get all the shampoo and conditioner washed out by herself, or the other products worked in properly. You teach her as you go, though. Coach her, so she can do it herself later on. Could be a few years before she can do it all.”
A few years? What were they coaching here, Olympic gymnastics? “Right,” he said. “But . . .” He wasn’t sure how to say this. The bath was small, and Zora was right there, watching him in the mirror. She wasn’t wearing the apron anymore, or the jacket she’d thrown on before going out, either. Nothing but that white singlet, which wasn’t as high-cut or as opaque as it might have been, the flirty, floaty little shorts, and bare feet. Her bra straps were showing again, and so was her pale-blue bra. Faintly, but he could see it through her shirt. Her toenails, he’d happened to notice, were painted the delicate pink of the inside of a conch shell. Her fingernails weren’t, because she worked with her hands, he guessed, but her hands were pretty anyway, and her feet were prettier.
He had it bad. Also, he’d forgotten what he’d been talking about.
She wasn’t looking at him, or she was. They were both looking in the mirror. He never let himself stare at her like this, but right now, there was nowhere else to look.
It took her a minute to answer. Maybe she’d forgotten, too. He could see her breasts rising and falling with her breath. It wasn’t that he meant to look, but there she was. Rounded arms, dark waves of hair that looked so soft, that sexy fringe over her eyes, and, bloody hell, that sweet, kissable mouth. She had the best mouth he’d ever seen. How could he not stare at that?
Finally, she said, “Pardon?” Oh. She’d noticed him staring.
“Uh . . . right. Helping Casey with her hair.”
She turned away. He was sorry, and he was glad. Mostly, though, he was sorry. “Come on in and help me with dinner,” she said, “if you have any energy left. And, yeh, you can help her in the bath, or the shower. You’re her dad. It’s all right, and it’s your job. If you’d had her all along, it would be nothing but natural. Although I don’t think Dylan ever gave Isaiah his bath.”
Rhys didn’t want to hear about his brother. He didn’t want to think about his brother, or the chances Dylan had missed all down the road. He especially didn’t want to think about how he’d have done it differently, if all of them had been his. He followed Zora into the kitchen, washed his hands, accepted the plastic wrap and meat mallet from her, and took out his frustrations on three unfortunate chicken breasts. He pounded one all the way through, in fact, ripping it to shreds before he realized he was going too hard and eased off. Zora filled a huge soup kettle with water, but when she went to lift it out of the sink, he stepped over and said, “Let me.”
“I can do it,” she said.
“I know you can. But please let me.”
She did, and he felt obscurely better. She turned the fire on under the kettle, put the lid on, and said, “Pasta with pesto sauce, breaded chicken breasts sliced into strips on top, spinach salad with dried cherries and almonds. Twenty-five m
inutes. OK?”
“Brilliant,” he said.
“You can bread the chicken, then.”
He did it, following her instructions, while she made salad dressing, and tried not to feel too cozy. He said, though, while he was carefully pressing his extremely well-pounded chicken breasts into a Parmesan-cheese coating, “Thanks for the help with Casey. I want to do it right.”
She could’ve said, “Pity you didn’t think of that six years ago,” but she couldn’t bring herself to. He was thinking of it now, and what good would it do to bring up the past? She said, treading cautiously, “It’s hard to realize what parenting means, all the changes it brings, until you do it for yourself. And you didn’t have the best models.”
“You’re excusing me,” he said. “Don’t.”
His tone was harsh, and she flinched. He said, “Sorry. But she was in foster care for weeks. She’s braver than any kid ought to have to be.”
“I’ll bet she’s not braver than you were.” She was looking down, toasting almonds. That was the only reason she could say it. “Dylan told me how much of the time you took care of him. Here. Put those chicken breasts in the pans.” She waggled the frying pans to swirl the butter around a bit more evenly.
He did it, then took the spatula she handed him. “I was bloody impatient with Dylan, most of the time. Resentful as hell. I don’t want Casey to feel that. That edge, so a kid feels like a nuisance, and like she should tone herself down. She’s got a big personality, the kind that faces the world head-on. It’s a good personality. She should be able to keep it.”
“Confidence,” Zora said. “I think her mother did a good job.”
“So do I.” He sounded grim again. Why?
Just Come Over Page 12
