by Cara Colter
“Tim, apologise to Jennifer,” Noah was saying, his voice both gentle and inflexible.
“No! I don’t want her stupid spaghetti anyway. This place sucks!” Shoving his chair back with ferocious force, Tim bolted from the house.
The chair tottered and fell to the floor with a crash that almost seemed an anti-climax.
Cilla sucked on her thumb as if her life depended on it. Rowdy just stared at his father with a sympathy more deep and heartfelt than any three-year-old should know. “We get Timmy, Daddy?” he asked quietly, as if it was something they’d done many times before.
Not knowing what else to do, Jennifer picked up a pot from the floor and crossed to the sink to fill it with water for the pasta.
“Jennifer—ah, Ms March—”
Hearing the anguished awkwardness of an apology unspoken—of the distance he was forced to put between them—she turned to smile at him. “I have spaghetti sauce all ready, Mr. Brannigan. I just need to heat it. Why don’t you leave Cilla and Rowdy here with me, and spend some time with Tim?”
Noah’s face darkened. He said nothing, but she could feel the indecision, fear and hope.
“I’m a qualified child-carer, Mr. Brannigan, as well as your neighbour. As you might have noticed, I run a day-care centre from home. I’m licensed to have up to six children here at a time,” she said, in her most professional tone. “Feel free to call Fred Sherbrooke, the local police sergeant, to verify my capability. The number’s on the wall beside the phone.”
His jaw hardened. “I can’t afford to pay you.”
So that was the reason for his hesitation. How hard it must have been for him to say that. She clenched her fists against the useless wish to cover his hand with hers. Cilla or Rowdy could tell Tim of it later, and it was obvious the boy was threatened—or scared—enough. “We’re neighbours, Mr. Brannigan, and I invited you all for lunch. I’m not going anywhere else today. I’ve been to my Sunday service.” Please go. Your son needs you! Can’t you see he needs you to run after him?
She’d said all she could without crossing the line. The rest was up to him.
With a short nod, he got to his feet. “Thank you.”
“Spaghetti will be waiting for you both, if Tim wants to come back,” she called after him as he ran down the back stairs.
The screen door swung shut: the only answer she received.
After a short silence where Jennifer scrambled to say something, the only noise was of Cilla sucking her thumb with greater force.
“Are we ready for spaghetti?” she finally asked with a brightness they all knew was overdone. Cilla wrapped her thumb-sucking hand around her nose, covering half her face—and little Rowdy looked up at Jennifer with big, candid eyes.
“Timmy gets mad a lot,” he said quietly.
Two hours later, having called Tim’s phone every ten minutes—it was switched off again—having been to every place Tim had run to since they’d moved here, combing every tree, every inch of the beach, even driving a few miles in each direction of the Pacific Highway, Noah called Sergeant Sherbrooke to tell him Tim had disappeared again.
Fred didn’t make the joke about needing a leash for his kids this time, or ask which trees he’d checked out so far. The jokes had stopped when Fred had checked the COPS database, and found out about Belinda—and Noah didn’t know which he hated more, the jokes or the awkward silences filled with pity.
He’d given the details to Fred and Mandy, the uniformed woman with him. She’d said in a town the size of Hinchliff it would only take an hour or two. Since it was Sunday, more recruits were available to make the calls, and to get out and search in all the likely kid places.
Noah trudged toward the house next door to get Cilla and Rowdy before heading back out to look everywhere a second time, and try again.
From experience, he knew Tim would only return in his own time and way—Noah hoped to God he would, anyway. He couldn’t fool himself he was overreacting, when he wasn’t. This constant fear was so much harder to take for its not being groundless. Every time Tim ran away or Cilla vanished, another chunk of him seemed to crumble into dust. His life revolved around keeping his family together, but it just kept disintegrating before his eyes.
As he drew nearer to the March house, a squeal of laughter lifted his soul for a moment—just a moment. Why the hell had he shown up here earlier today? Jennifer had proven herself capable of dealing with his kids—far more than he was—and Tim would still be here, safe and happy, if he hadn’t stuck his nose in.
If he could, he’d turn and leave at this moment, leave Cilla and Rowdy here, laughing and joyous, and help the townfolk to find Tim; but it wasn’t up to him. Jennifer—Ms March—had a life of her own to live, and it didn’t include unlimited, unpaid babysitting.
No matter how happy she made his kids.
A shriek filled the air, followed by the slamming of the screen door. Jennifer came flying out, her long plait streaked with garish rainbow shades of paint, screaming with laughter. Cilla and Rowdy followed within moments, brandishing paintbrushes aloft in teasing threat.
Jennifer—he couldn’t think of her as Ms March, looking like that—caught sight of him. She grinned and waved as she bolted past him and into the ring of trees halfway to the boundary fence, squealing like the proverbial stuck pig, arms waving madly. “You can’t get me again!” she cried, dodging between trees at little-kid pace.
Cilla and Rowdy bolted straight past him, yelling, “We’re gonna get you!”
After playing dodge-paintbrush for a few minutes she allowed them to “get” her, falling to the ground and allowing them to daub her with yet more riotous colours. Cilla and Rowdy were yelling like victorious warriors as they dug the paintbrushes into her hair and face.
“Wait, wait!” she cried after a minute or two, with a massive grin. “You win!”
The kids gave blood-curdling bellows, sitting on her belly, holding their paintbrushes aloft as if they were Excalibur. “We’re the champions!” they chortled while she mock-bucked, trying to get up.
When it came to children, Jennifer March obviously gave no thought to her dignity—and his kids responded to her brand of fun like winter buds finding sunlight and rain.
Earlier, when assuring Noah he could trust Jennifer with his kids, Fred had told him she lived alone. Why wasn’t she a mother? So what if she was divorced? She was pretty and gentle and fun-loving, so why hadn’t some other man snapped her up long before now?
Then, remembering the flashes of sadness in her eyes, he knew there must be a compelling reason why she was spending her life minding other people’s kids instead of having her own.
He shook himself. It wasn’t his place to find out Jennifer March’s past. He had enough trouble trying to work out how to make his kids happy; and from bitter experience he knew he was no good at working out what a woman was thinking, let alone how to make her life work.
He’d get past this brief fascination with Jennifer March, become friends with her, and the man in him would go back to sleep. He had no choice but to believe that.
Sudden tugging at his jeans made him look down. “Daddy, did you see? Daddy, we won!”
Seeing his little son’s eager excitement, Noah grinned and swung Rowdy up on his hip. “I saw, matey. You and Cilla are the paint warriors! Yah!” He gave his best attempt at a blood-curdling scream of victory.
“Aaah, Daddy, ouch!” Rowdy covered his ears, grinning.
But Cilla’s thumb shoved back in her mouth as she looked at her father; her eyes were big with a fear he couldn’t have inspired in her. He’d never even been able to bring himself to tap her hand, his fragile little girl. Why was she frightened of him? What was it that made him such a damn failure with his kids?
The feminine voice called out cheerfully, “Right, who wants to turn my boring pink Play-Doh into a rainbow?”
“Me! Me! C’mon, Cilla, let’s go!” Rowdy wriggled until Noah let him down—and Cilla was smiling again, her eyes fi
lled with an excitement he couldn’t manage to rouse in her with all his play ideas.
“Sit at the table. I’ll come in a minute and get it down for you. Just grab more paper and keep painting until I get there,” Jennifer called after them as both ran for the house.
When they’d gone, she came to him—too close—and laid a hand on his arm, her multihued face filled with concern. “You couldn’t find Tim?”
Something flashed through him at the touch, just as it had earlier when he’d lifted her to her feet. He didn’t know what it was, besides the obvious male reaction to a pretty woman in his vicinity—and he didn’t want to know. It was useless anyway. He’d met the woman for the first time three hours ago and she was already babysitting for him and—
Feeling sorry for him.
Yeah, let’s help the emotional basket case before he screws his kids up any worse than he already has.
He pulled his arm out from under her hand, hoping the move was subtle, so she wouldn’t think he was running scared. “He’ll come home when he’s ready. He always does.” His mouth tightened. That’s it, tell the woman your son disappears all the time, why don’t you?
“If he does this—” she hesitated “—does he have a phone?”
“Yes,” he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s off.”
“I see,” she said quietly, and he had the feeling she really did see—too much. “Did you call Fred Sherbrooke?”
“Of course I did. Tim’s only eight,” he snapped.
“Of course you did. Stupid question,” she murmured; but something in her voice made him look closer at her. Well, he’d wanted the concern and pity gone from her face, hadn’t he? Mission accomplished. Beneath the mess of paint streaks, the pretty, gentle face was emotionless, but the lack of expression was a touch overdone. “I’d better take the plastic off the Play-Doh for the kids, and put it on the Formica table. I’ll be right back.”
The distance lay between them like the universe, or a time paradox. She was here, yet she wasn’t. He got the point; he even appreciated it. She could keep as much distance from him as she liked, so long as she was good to his kids.
“No need. I’ll take the kids off your hands.” He almost winced at the flat hardness of his tone. “You’ve done more than enough already.”
“And I’m a stranger,” she said, still neutral. “But I promised them. You’re welcome to take some of the Play-Doh and paint home for the kids, if you prefer. I have plenty here.” She turned and strode for the house, not a single feminine sway about it.
That much he understood. He’d made her angry, but she wasn’t going to talk about it, because despite all she’d done for him, they were strangers.
She was a stranger who’d been nothing but kind to him, and he’d not only rebuffed her kindness, he’d thrown it back in her face. He’d doused her in cold water: a punishment that belonged to other times and other people. She hadn’t interfered.
He watched her go, conscious of a wish to call her back and apologise.
You owe her that much, at the very least. And you’re good at apologies—remember? You had good experience every time you got it wrong with Belinda.
Wishing he had a clue what made women tick, he sighed and walked in after her.
Inside the kitchen, the withdrawn woman she’d been with him moments before had vanished. She was warm and laughing again as she packed a lump of Play-Doh and a small package of paints for the kids.
Was she in such total control of her emotions as this? Could she be? Heaven knew if she was he’d bottle whatever it was she had, and drink it every day. If he could show his kids nothing but warmth and laughter, Tim and Cilla might actually want to hang around with him.
“Here you are, Play-Doh and paint and brushes. If you lay it on a sheet of plastic, and watch them—”
“I have a play mat,” he said, breaking into her words with a curtness she didn’t deserve, and again, her face closed off. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, turning away. “I’m worried.”
“You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t.” Her voice was strange as she added, too soft for the kids to hear, “I know you don’t think so at the moment, but you are a good father. It’s obvious how much you love your kids. Tim will come home.”
“You don’t know anything about what I’m thinking or feeling,” he snapped, wanting to hit himself within moments. “Look—”
“It’s okay, Mr. Brannigan,” she said quietly. “I don’t appreciate others prying into my personal business, either. I obviously crossed the line. I’m sorry, too.”
He nodded, relief filling him at the understanding that didn’t descend to pity; but then, looking into her eyes—soft and pretty and glimmering with a world of pain unspoken—he said gruffly, “Too many people knew my business back home.”
After a long silence, she said in almost a whisper, “You’re not the only one.”
She’d turned away before he could ask and on second thought, he didn’t want to know. It wasn’t as if he could help; he couldn’t even keep his kids at home. “We’d better go.”
She nodded, her head drooping a little. “I’ll keep an eye out here. I’ll call Fred if Tim comes home, okay?”
He wanted to thank her for the help, but all he could see was Jennifer standing alone, watching through windows for his son because she had nothing else to fill her Sunday nights … or any nights.
For the first time in a long time, he wondered if the peace of being alone could replace the feeling of little arms around his neck; if the quiet of no kid fights was worth rising and eating, cooking and cleaning for one only. She seemed so alone … yet she hadn’t said a word.
“Goodbye,” she said softly.
On impulse, he took her hand in his. “Thank you for everything, Jennifer.”
She didn’t answer, but the stiffness of her back at his touch spoke a thousand words—and this time, he wished he couldn’t read a woman.
She wanted him to take his kids and leave.
Leave her alone in this empty house: a home made for fun and family and laughter and love, holding one solitary woman with sadness in soft blue eyes and no one to give all that joy and laughter to …
Suddenly, for no reason he could fathom, he said, “I like a quiet glass of wine in the back paddock at night when the kids are asleep. If you’d like to join me tonight, I’d—”
She whirled back around to face him, eyes burning with fury that didn’t even seem funny with the paint still daubing her face and hair. She snapped before he could finish the sentence, “You’re right, Mr. Brannigan, I don’t know much about you—but I do know you have a wife, wherever she is.”
The fury swamping him, the overwhelming anger at the judgment when he was scared out of his mind for Tim, was too white-hot to think about how he’d put the invitation. “I might not win the world’s greatest father award, or the world’s strongest moralist, but you can at least acquit me of adultery. I chose not to bring up my private business in casual conversation with a stranger while my kids were listening—” he quickly turned his head to check where Cilla and Rowdy were completely absorbed in painting, before he went on in a low voice “—especially with Tim still needing to believe his mum will come home. But in three years, Belinda hasn’t used a credit card, hasn’t touched her bank accounts, hasn’t been seen anywhere. Even if she’d left me, she was a devoted mother and daughter, and she hasn’t contacted her kids or her parents. The police marked her file ‘presumed dead’ over a year ago.”
She caught her breath—a little, strangled gasp. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her soft-tanned face pale with shock.
He barely heard the apology; his chest heaving as if he’d run a race, he said, low, “Just so you know, the offer was my way of thanking you for minding the kids and for your hospitality. There’s nothing I can do to repay you for today, but I wanted to give back—maybe friendship. I have nothing else to give a woman. Whatever you might think of me, I wouldn’t sink so low as to hit on
a neighbour I’ve just met, especially when you’ve been kind to me and my kids.”
No longer pale, a deep, burning blush filled her face. Her eyes glimmered with tears. “I don’t want repayment … Noah,” she whispered. With an averted face, she held out her hand. “Can we go back a few minutes? I’d love a glass of wine …”
Just like that, his fury evaporated. Remembering everything she’d done for him today, all the kindness he’d just thrown in her face as a punishment for a misunderstanding not of her making. With a rueful smile, he took her hand. “Friends?”
“Yes, please.” She still couldn’t look at him—and her hand was shaking.
What to say? He didn’t know her well enough to know in what way he’d upset her most—he only knew he felt like a first-class loser right now. “Jennifer …”
“What time will I come over?” she said softly. “I wouldn’t want to come too early, and upset Tim.”
Tim. He’d wasted fifteen minutes here that he could have spent searching for his son …
“Try about nine. I have to go now. Kids, we have to find Timmy, and get some dinner.” He snapped his fingers, and Cilla and Rowdy got to their feet. They never argued or disobeyed his orders when Tim disappeared again; they knew he must be found.
At that moment, the phone rang. As Jennifer moved to answer it, he packed up the presents she’d given him for the kids, and tilted his head toward the door.
“Noah, wait!”
He turned back, seeing a radiant smile covering her face. “Tim’s been found.”
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS almost half-past nine when he finally walked out his back door.
Watching from where she sat on a rocking swing on her side verandah, Jennifer waited another minute before rising to her feet. She didn’t want to seem anxious—as if she saw him and ran for him. As if she saw him as something more than just a new neighbour.
As if he were a man she felt compelled to reach out to, to be with, even when the reminders of his runaway wife cast a shadow so dark she could barely see the man he’d been.
