by Kris Pearson
*
Their next few days slipped by in sunshine and passion, tilting crazily from the colorful innocence of story-books to the dark intensity of sensual love-making. Jan bound them together and held them apart. And Tuesday arrived far too fast, despite their private prayers that somehow a miracle was possible.
Christian grimaced as he lifted Fiona’s luggage into the car. They’d tried to ignore the fact of her imminent departure all morning—both deliberately not mentioning it in case it blighted the last of their time together.
Now it was past noon; time had run out.
He turned and fixed his most concentrated gaze on her. Begging wasn’t something which came easily to him. For her he found he was willing to beg.
“Change your mind, Blondie,” he urged. “Stay.”
All his considerable persuasion was packed into those five short words. And his hope died as Fiona blinked back tears and resolutely shook her head.
“I have to go back to the boat, Chris. For all sorts of reasons. The company has been really good to me, letting me take all this time off for Jan. My contract has another six months to run.”
“Stay,” he repeated. “Contracts can be broken. I could swing it somehow for you.” He hated the desperation in his voice. The ice-cold businessman would never show his feelings this way, but it seemed the passionate lover had no choice. “What we have... what we’ve finally found...”
Fiona shook her head again. “Chris, what we have is not acceptable to anyone but us. Think about it. How could we face your friends in Wellington? They’d treat us like lepers. They’d assume you’d just been waiting for Jan to die before you hooked up with me.”
Christian gave a short frustrated curse, knowing she was seeing the complications more clearly than he was. But how could he let her go without fighting for her?
“Or even worse,” she pressed. “That we’d been together while she was sick. I couldn’t stand that.”
“Six months,” he said bleakly. “You’ll be so busy with your job on the liner and all your shipboard friends that what you feel for me will fade away.”
“And you’ll be fair game for the women who hunt wealthy, good-looking men,” she countered.
“We’ll see about that,” he needled.
*
But Fiona couldn’t help wondering what chance she’d stand against the ambitious divorcees and well-off widows and single career-women who’d be right in his face. She held her ground, dying slowly as the seconds ticked by, knowing she’d never felt worse in her life.
Her attempt at an early lunch was a roiling ball in her stomach. Her head pounded with blinding pain; her eyes ached with the effort of not giving in to her desolate tears.
“Call me if you absolutely have to,” she quavered. “My mobile is set up for global roaming. I’d love to hear your voice now and again, even though it’ll kill me.”
“I won’t be able to smell you or taste you or feel the softness of your skin through the phone.” His voice was flat with resignation.
“You won’t be able to do that even if I stay,” she countered. “We can’t possibly be together so soon after Jan. Amy Houndsworth and the next nanny will know. My parents will twig what’s going on. And your friends... We’d offend them all.”
She wrenched the car door open and sagged into the passenger seat. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp on the seat-belt, and she sat with her head bowed, not daring to say any more in case she finally broke down.
“I could email,” he said, once they were on the road and he’d slowed at a suitable vantage point so she could take a last longing glance back to Pounamu Lodge and its matching cottage.
She shook her head. “No. Please Christian—I don’t want a day-by-day rundown of your life. The life I can’t share with you.”
He reached across and laid a warm hand on her thigh as he drove.
“Blondie it’s going to be hell without you.”
“Yes, but maybe the less contact we have, the better. Maybe it will fade away and get bearable. Maybe you’ll find someone else...”
“Do you really believe that?” he grated.
Fiona shrugged and avoided his eyes.
Even Nicky seemed to catch their somber mood and was quiet on the hour-long drive back to Wellington.
*
“We’ve time to check out the house,” Christian offered, glancing sideways at her as they neared the city. “Do you want to? If you’d rather not I’ll call in later.”
“Will it be finished?”
“The worst of it should be done. I’m expecting it’ll take another few days yet.”
“Anything’s better than hanging around at the airport.”
Minutes later, they swung in through the wide gateway and rolled to a halt amongst tradesmen’s vans and pick-up trucks. The front door had been chocked open and a badly tuned radio blared and buzzed somewhere inside. The occasional off-key wail of a cheerful painter made Fiona cringe.
“I couldn’t use him in the on-board concerts.”
“You’re back on your ship already?” Christian’s voice sounded accusing.
“No. Of course not. But I always listen...”
She watched as he released Nicky’s harness and lifted her from the child-seat, carrying her until they saw the state of the house’s interior.
“Still quite a way to go.”
They waded in over the paint-speckled drop-sheets protecting the marble-tiled floors, and on through the tangle of tools and electronics cartons. Despite the open doors and windows, paint-fumes filled the air.
At least the big casual living area had been completed and was empty of mess. Christian set Nicky down and she toddled out to the lawn and her beloved sand-pit.
He moved close behind Fiona and rested his hands either side of her waist. A wave of déjà vu hit so strongly she almost staggered.
“We were standing right here,” she whispered, “when you first tried to make me leave.”
He bent and rubbed the side of his face against hers and kissed her shoulder.
She thought of that day—five and a half weeks ago now—when she’d yearned for him to do exactly that. “Would have saved a lot of heartache if I’d gone.”
“I never wanted you to go.”
“I worked that out eventually, but it was too late by then.”
Christian smiled sadly and drew a deep bitter breath. “I’ll miss you, Blondie. It’s tearing me apart. I could arrange some business trips to Europe and come and see you.”
“Not easy when we’re cruising. We only stop one day at most of the ports, and I can’t exactly dash off as I’d like to.”
“You’re trying to get rid of me?”
“No, never. Never. It’s just not so easy...”
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to stop the tears that threatened to well up and spill down her face. They stood pressed together in tense silence, his arms wrapped around her now and holding her close.
“Keep watch on Nicky for a minute?” he finally asked. “I’ll have a quick look at the rest of the house.”
Fiona continued to stand by the window, lost in her thoughts. She wanted very much to stay right here. Right here—with this man, this child, this life. She and Christian had not discussed a future; they’d simply hoped for the present to continue uninterrupted. A futile hope indeed.
He returned a few minutes later and a waft of stronger paint-fumes followed him.
“Not too bad,” he said in a resigned voice. “They seem to be taking good-enough care of the place. There are covers over everything, but it’s going to take some re-arranging.” He grimaced. “And I suppose I’ll have to sort through all of Jan’s stuff one of these days.”
Fiona thought of the big wardrobes of designer clothes, the expensive cosmetics, the luxurious underwear and beautiful shoes—all the things that had been part of her sister’s life with Christian.
“I should have helped you with that while I was here.”
Trait
or. You just want to get rid of the memories she’s left behind for him.
He shook his head. “It was too soon, Blondie. And you were in no shape for it, either. You could hardly stand up.” He held out a hand. “Come on, I’d better get you checked in, damn it.”
He cupped her nape and drew her to him for a feather-light kiss that slowly grew in intensity until all her emotions flew loose from the tight restraints she’d bound them with. Soon she clung, sobbing, to his tall frame.
*
The flight to Rome seemed interminable. The shorter hop down to Naples took her even further away from him. She twisted the links of her gold chain necklace around and around her forefinger in impotent frustration as the vast distances crawled by.
Any other time, she’d be looking forward to meeting friends and workmates again, to interacting with passengers from all corners of the globe, to encouraging them to take part in the on-board concerts. Not this time. There were only two faces she wanted to see—Christian’s and Nicky’s.
The ship looked magnificent at her mooring, but where once the sight of the huge white liner would have filled her with anticipation, now it dragged her spirits down into a spiral of despair.
The taxi driver, with cheerful Italian insouciance, murmured, “Bella, bella!” eyeing both the ship and Fiona as he unloaded her bags. Normally she would have enjoyed the too-obvious flirting and dismissed him with a cheeky grin. This time she reacted with a prim nod, hefted her luggage and crept off to prison.
The weeks crawled by, endless and empty. Or empty of the only people she truly wished to see. No amount of shipboard bustle, no sunny exotic destinations, could fill the huge hole Christian had ripped in her life. She lived for his occasional phone-calls, and died a little more every time the connection between them was severed.
Chapter Eighteen—Reunion in Venice
“Monica, will you be all right if I’m away for a week or so?”
The plump new nanny beamed at him. “Of course we will, Mr Hartley. Won’t we, Nicola Jane? Is it Japan again?”
Christian shook his head. “Europe this time. Auckland en route. I’ll be leaving on Saturday afternoon.”
He saw Monica shoot him a besotted glance as he turned away. Eight weeks ago, when she’d first been appointed, he’d been deep in mourning—for Fiona as much as Jan. It had taken all of his patience and forbearance to be polite to the silly girl. She was wonderful with Nicky, no question about that, but it was disconcerting the way her eyes followed him across rooms like those of a devoted dog.
He presumed she and Amy Houndsworth discussed him sometimes. They were both enthusiastic if harmless gossips. Had they discerned the lightening in his manner over the last few days? Decided the weight of his grief had lifted a little?
He glanced at his watch. What time would it be in Italy? Had Fiona finished tonight’s concert? He picked up his phone and strolled out onto the big terrace to ensure privacy.
He heard her mobile making contact half a world away, and imagined her groping around to find it.
*
“Fiona Delaporte.”
“Christian Hartley.”
Every nerve in her body crackled.
“I was almost asleep,” she said, coming rapidly awake.
“Is it too late? Damn—I hoped I had it about right.”
“It’s always right when it’s you. Always wonderful to hear your voice.”
Always wonderful when my heart starts thumping and it feels like someone’s stolen all the air in the room.
“Always good to hear yours too, Blondie. So you’re in bed? Wish I was right there beside you.”
Fiona closed her eyes and pulled the sheet around her shoulders, imagining him there.
“There’s not much room for someone your size,” she murmured. “But I wish you were here too.”
“I’ll be there Tuesday. Will you have dinner in Venice with me on Tuesday evening?”
Regret washed over her, cold and killing.
“Not possible, Chris. We’ll be in Naples, but we’re not coming near Venice. Are you over on business?”
“Exciting business, Blondie.”
“Turin, I suppose. That’s the car city, isn’t it? God, you’ll be so close...”
“And I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“You truly can’t.”
“I truly can—I’ve cleared it with Captain Svenson.”
“What? You don’t just do that, Christian!”
“There’s an Air One return ticket, booked in your name, waiting for you at the airport in Naples,” he continued, unperturbed. “I’ll meet you at Marco Polo in Venice. Dinner, bed and breakfast in a private little hotel. Bring your high heels.”
Fiona couldn’t stop the shuddering sob that escaped. She stared wildly around in the half-light. Everything looked exactly the same as it had moments before. The same bedcover and curtains. The same family photos on the wall beside her. The same robe hanging behind the door.
And yet everything had changed. Suddenly her world had more color and vibrancy, more air and light and music.
“Venice,” she repeated in a far-from-steady voice.
“It’ll be our first proper date. I told you at the Lodge I’d come up with something better than a dining room full of people and separate beds afterwards.”
So he had. She remembered his teasing comments well.
“And it’s truly all arranged?”
“Set in concrete. Can you write this down? Your check-in time is one-forty-five to be safe. Captain Svenson confirmed you’re docking quite early that morning.” He stayed silent for a moment and then added, “We have to talk, Blondie.”
“It’ll be a wonderful treat. I didn’t expect anything like this.”
“Tuesday, then. Don’t worry—I’ll find you.”
*
But first there was Auckland, and her parents.
Christian responded to the cabin attendant’s courteous goodbye and strode across the air-bridge into the terminal building. There was no sign of Doctors Rebecca or Greg in the arrivals lounge so he headed down the escalators to the baggage-claim area and waited for his black case with its distinctive blue ribbon knotted around the handle. Jan had done that for easy identification among the sea of mostly black luggage. He’d blessed her practicality every time he traveled.
As he reached for it off the baggage carousel, his mother-in-law trotted up, a little out of breath.
“Christian, thank heavens. The parking’s terrible today. I was afraid I’d miss you.” She pecked at his cheek and looked around for a trolley.
Christian hefted the bag, carried it across to the nearest vacant one and added his briefcase.
“How’s my Nicky doing now?” Rebecca asked as they walked out into the humid autumn air. “Coming to terms with... the situation?”
It seemed his mother-in-law could barely bring herself to say her daughter’s name. Christian wondered if that would make his request easier or not.
“Nic’s doing okay. Asking for Jan less, now she’s settled with the new nanny.”
“Poor little pet. So the nanny’s working out well?”
“Better than Kathy. Monica’s a big placid girl who seems to have no travel ambitions. We’ve probably got her for as long as we need her.”
Rebecca sighed. “And you?” she asked.
“Getting by. Some days easier than others. I’ve some new photos of Nic in my phone for you,” he added by way of distraction. “What’s Greg up to today?”
“Golf at last. His first opportunity in weeks.”
“So I have you all to myself for a while?”
She shot him a shrewd sideways glance. “That sounds serious, Chris. Is everything...?”
“Everything’s fine,” he hastened to assure her. “But now Jan’s gone and a little time’s passed by, I’d like to talk to you. Without Greg would be good.”
“Now you have got me worried,” she said, indicating her car was to the left.
Christian swiveled the trolley and they set off over a pedestrian crossing in the huge parking area.
“No, just some medical information I need. I’ve been looking up breast cancer on the web and the statistics are pretty horrendous. If Jan had that BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene—”
“She didn’t,” Rebecca inserted swiftly.
“Didn’t?” The relief rushed through him so fast he almost lost his footing on the flat white painted lines. He could have danced and yelled with happiness if he hadn’t been so swamped with conflicting emotions.
“Of course she didn’t. If she had, I’d probably be dead too, the age I am.”
“Yes, it said half by 50 years.”
“There you go then,” Rebecca said with a wry grin.
“You know for sure she didn’t?” he persisted, the relief still threaded with a twisting hot wire of worry.
“I’m a doctor, Chris. Not an oncologist, maybe, but I have plenty of useful connections. Don’t you think I explored every possibility? That we explored every possibility? Greg and I went through everything.”
“It said one in six women at moderate risk was likely to get breast cancer sometime in her life?”
“And how did they define moderate risk?”
He shrugged.
“Exactly. Quite a number of women get it at the very end of their lives. By then their metabolism is very slow, the cells generally don’t mutate fast, and the disease is mostly controllable with medication. It’s something they live with, rather than die from.”
She indicated they should turn again, and he steered the trolley around.
“Anyway, Jan wasn’t even at moderate risk. She was young and healthy. She didn’t smoke. She breast-fed Nicky, which helps. She certainly didn’t have the BRCA1 or 2 gene, because of course we had the tests done. For her, for me, and for Greg.”
“For Greg? I thought it came through the women of the family?”
“Half your genetic makeup comes from each parent—think about it. Any breast cancer in your family?”
