by Cara Colter
A runaway wife, a runaway son … but she refused to judge him as the cause of both. After all, Mark had run from her, too; and the gentleness with which Noah treated his kids—the hurt in his eyes, the shadows of the past—showed the man he was.
A man who wanted to be her friend. A man who needed a friend right now—and oh, she’d been there. Holding it all in, aching sometimes for just one person to understand …
I can understand. I’ve been there—well, almost.
So, they’d be friends. Right. She could do that.
She jumped the low fence and came to where he stood waiting for her, halfway up a grassy hill overlooking the sea. A deeper shade of darkness in the summer night; a man lost in the past.
The kicking of her pulse as she drew closer made a mockery of her thoughts on friendship.
It was obvious she’d have to be very careful. Noah Brannigan was more than a harassed single dad struggling to make things right in an impossible situation; he was far from the average man. He’d already shown he could see through the shutters covering her eyes to the pain she kept hidden beneath. If he saw the unwilling pull he held over her already … if he realised she’d spent an hour working out which of her shabby old sundresses to wear tonight—whether to replait her hair after she’d washed the paint out of it, or if it would look too obvious to wear it out.
So many years since she’d been through this kind of anticipatory torture; a lifetime since she’d wanted to think about it. Her life had been safe—then a man tapped on her back door, wanting his adorable, hurting kids back, and changed her world with a single smile.
“Hi.”
Even his voice held power over her, as warm as the night, as dark as the gravel road leading to their houses. She was glad night concealed her blush. “Hi.”
The darkness of his hand swept sideways. “There’s a blanket there, if you can see it. I brought crackers and cheese, too. I hope you like white wine?”
“I do,” she agreed cautiously, hoping it wasn’t very dry. “I don’t like reds.”
“Lucky pick, then.” A soft chuckle filled the air. “Hold on.” With a click, the soft light of a double-halogen camping lantern blurred the darkness, and she could see his face. “I was saving the batteries until you came. I have mosquito repellent as well.”
She watched him light the coil, wondering how she could be absorbed by so simple a thing. How could he make her tremble without touching her, or even looking at her? “Please, get comfortable,” was all he said.
She sank down onto the rug, and opened the small basket. “A night-time picnic. I’ve never had this experience,” she said, knowing she was babbling but unable to stop it.
“It’s not much.”
Sensing his embarrassment beneath the neutral tone, she relaxed and smiled up at him. “It’s the experience that counts, not what you eat.” She waved a hand heavenward. “Look at it, Noah.” Wanting to say his name for no reason she could discern; just wanting to. “The clear, clean sky, the stars. The sound of the ocean, the smell of the grass. Wine and cheese.”
“And thee. It’s almost poetic.” With a grin, he sat down facing her. “Are you always so positive?”
She chuckled. “I know, it’s annoying. My—” she hesitated before she said it “—my ex-husband used to call me Pollyanna.” And not in an admiring way, either.
Noah relaxed with the reference to Mark, and she guessed he’d already known about the divorce. Henry the mechanic or June, the postmistress had passed on the gossip when they found out where he lived, no doubt. “Cynicism is everywhere these days. It gets old quickly. Don’t underestimate simple happiness.”
Touched, she smiled at him. “Thanks for inviting me tonight.”
“Thanks for coming.” He smiled back, turning her insides to warm jelly. “I love it out here at night, but it’s good to have adult company. Don’t get me wrong—I love my kids—but this hour of peace before bed …”
“You don’t need to explain, I work with kids all day,” she said, trying to laugh. “I usually sit on my back verandah for an hour about this time.”
Shut up, Jennifer. You’re sounding breathless again. It’s enough to send the man running.
An awkward silence fell between them: two people trying to not try too hard. People who didn’t know each other, yet had so much unspoken already. Strangers with far too many things to not say.
“You couldn’t have had a worse introduction to my family,” he said abruptly, when the silence became unbearable. “You and your uncle Joe both.”
He was crumbling a cracker in his hand, it was so tense.
“Please.” Acting on impulse, she laid a hand over his, stilling the movement. “You must have seen how much I enjoyed playing with the kids today, and as for Uncle Joe—” she grinned then “—Tim’s turning up there was almost inspired. He adores having anyone visit his junkyard, let alone a boy totally fascinated by all the rusty rubbish he’s got there. Tim made his day by asking all those questions. Uncle Joe said he was welcome back any time—and he meant every word.”
Instead of relaxing with the reassurance, Noah shrugged. “I guess I’ll know where to find him from now on, at least.”
“Is that so bad?” she asked gently, hearing the underlying grimness in the words.
He poured wine into two glasses. “So long as he doesn’t bother your uncle, I suppose it’s all right.”
She sensed that wasn’t what Noah wanted to say, but after her gaffe this afternoon, she knew better than to push the issue. “Uncle Joe’s been pretty lonely since Aunty Jean died two years ago, and my cousins all moved to Sydney or Brisbane for work. He doesn’t see his own grandchildren more than twice a year—and though I visit him every week, I’m not a junkyard kind of girl,” she laughed. “I suspect Tim’s about to be adopted.”
“I suspect he’ll love it. A million places to hide.”
“But always safe,” she said softly, trying to soften whatever hardness lay beneath the light words. Wanting to heal the festering hurt so deep inside him, even though she knew she couldn’t. “Uncle Joe will make sure he won’t hurt himself.”
As if he sensed her anxiety, Noah smiled at her. “True.” He handed her a glass of wine. “Have you always run day-care centres?”
Willing to follow his lead—and wanting to talk of things other than the kids he loved dearly yet worried him so much—she nodded. “I did my diploma straight out of high school, then went for the full degree by correspondence while doing a nursing degree. I also keep up my Advanced First Aid. I always planned to open my own place—but with rental and insurance, let alone hiring staff, it was more than I could afford in the Newcastle area.”
Ah, so that was where she was from? Noah had wondered—she seemed to be so much a part of this place. “Is that where you grew up?”
“Yes. A born and bred Novocastrian—my parents still live in Swansea, by the ocean.”
“My parents still live out west of Dural in Sydney,” he said abruptly, almost adding, so did Belinda’s parents. He and Belinda had started school together, grown up on the same street and had been together from the age of fifteen.
He didn’t want to think about Belinda—it was like running on a treadmill, exhausting him and ultimately, going nowhere. “They’re travelling around the country now, though. How many kids do you have every day?”
And why don’t you have any kids of your own?
“I have three to four children each day, usually. I have a licence for up to six kids, but since I work alone, I won’t overburden myself. Not that there’s many kids in Hinchliff who have working mothers who need me to give full-time care.” She laughed again, the sound sweet and clear in the late summer night.
The aura of summer shimmered in the air around her. She was like the tiny purple star-flowers blossoming amid the warm grass waving in the wind: unexpected and lovely. A piece of old-fashioned prettiness dotting the uniformity of unending blades of grass that was his life.
Wa
tching her walking to him in the thin white dress, her plait falling over one shoulder, she’d seemed the embodiment of a country night. She’d seemed to float toward him rather than walk in the soft moonglow, glimmering like a gentle beacon.
And he still wanted her. He wanted to hover around her aura like a lost moth, to slip inside it and feel her contentment and quiet joy in life. He wanted to sit here and drink in her face, to keep feeling her hand on his and this time, not let go …
Pulling away was too damn hard at this moment. It had been too long since he’d felt the night-heat of a woman’s touch—a woman who wanted him, too.
And she did. It was in those soft blue eyes of hers, in the curve of her mouth … in the way she leaned into his lightest touch. In the breathlessness of her words when he was close to her, and the slight tremble when they touched. It was in the dress she wore, and the soft vanilla scent on her skin, a perfume she hadn’t been wearing when they’d met. In the tendrils of loose hair escaped from her plait, half-curling around her face. In the gloss on her lips—lips she kept wetting with her tongue when she looked at him.
Jennifer wanted him, too—so much she didn’t even seem to know how to hide it.
It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it. The last thing he needed was the demands of a relationship, and the last thing his kids could cope with was a new mother-figure in their lives—especially Tim.
But even though flirting with danger was wrong, stupid, still he did it. Turning his hand beneath hers, not lifting or threading his fingers through hers, but feeling the soft warmth of palm to palm. “So you came here to start your business?”
Her gaze dropped to where their hands weren’t quite linked—and slowly, her fingers moved; just a fraction, the tiniest, most tentative caress he’d ever known. Terrified and sweet, it acted on him like he’d downed the whole bottle of wine at a gulp.
As did her soft, breathless voice, saying all her words didn’t. “I needed a fresh start after Mark and I divorced. Uncle Joe needed family close by—he’s well physically and fine mentally, but he’s getting older, you know? I came to visit, saw an opportunity since there was no other day-care providers here and ended up staying.”
It took him almost a minute to work out what he’d asked, what she’d said in reply. He was too lost in the newfound wonder. His mind was caught up in the beating of his pounding pulse, in the sudden rush of hot wanting. She’d moistened her lips again. Her gaze fluttered down to his mouth, then back to his eyes, with a fugitive feminine shyness that left him drunk on need.
He had no experience in coping with this sudden rush of hot wanting; he’d never been with any woman but Belinda. Though he’d had the years of flirting and parties, it’d all revolved around Belinda; he didn’t know how to play the game with a new woman.
He didn’t think Jennifer knew how, either.
Both of them sat there, two feet apart, hands barely touching. Bowled over by this slamming of want and neither one knowing what to do with it—
Who was he fooling? They both knew what they wanted to do … it was the consequences of giving in to the desire they didn’t know how to handle.
“What do you do with your life? Besides bringing up your kids?” Her voice held the aching femininity of a woman’s desire.
He forced words from a closed-up throat. “I’m an architect and builder. I had a business in Sydney—the whole home-building package from start to finish.” He didn’t add that he’d had to sell off the Sydney business to pay off debts. It wasn’t Belinda’s fault—he ought to have seen her suffering. But lost in building up the business, then maintaining its prestige and success, he’d relied on Belinda’s strength to keep the homefront going smoothly. He’d noticed she was buying a lot more things, sure, but they were doing well—why shouldn’t she enjoy it? And if their married life had lost its intimacy since a few months before Rowdy’s birth, he’d thought time and patience would fix it.
The full extent of her problems had only burst on him after she’d disappeared … and when the demands for payment had come, one after the other, from dresses and shoes to Internet gaming sites.
Jennifer’s laugh burst in on his thoughts, feminine, unsteady, wanting. “And you moved to Hinchliff? What will you do in a town with two thousand residents?”
Glad to be diverted, he grinned. “Yeah, not that many opportunities for that kind of work here—so I thought I’d start up a renovation business. I’ll be offering designs to suit any type of extension, for any era of house. And I could still offer new building services as well. There are a few new estates going up on the highway north and south of Ballina. That’s not too far from here.” He hesitated, knowing what he needed to say, to ask, but hating to put it on her. Still feeling the warmth of their semi-linked hands bringing him to life, touching a part of him he’d thought dead until a week ago. Until he’d seen Jennifer. “Of course, with Cilla and Rowdy too young yet for school, I’ll only work part-time during the day. I can design at night.”
Her eyes thoughtful, she nodded. “I—” Her hesitation was as obvious, as strong as his. “I have places for them both in day-care on Monday, Wednesday and Fridays if you need that? I run the centre until six at night, so if you need to work back, Tim’s more than welcome to come over those days after school, as well.”
Contact established; danger signs put on the tracks and they were running on a line heading for a broken track over a cliff. He knew it; she knew it; and still they plunged ahead.
After a short silence, she rushed on, her voice uneven. She pulled her hand from his, showing her nervousness—and no wonder, with the amount of times he’d shut her out today. “It’d be a business arrangement of course. I—I only have three kids on those days … and I don’t charge that much …”
“Jennifer.” To his surprise, he’d already laid his hand back over hers. “Thank you. I was hoping you’d have space. It’s hard dragging the kids everywhere, as I had to in Sydney—and as for Tim—” He sighed. “I think he’d like it—especially if I’m not there to complicate things.”
“I think it was me who complicated things,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap, but she didn’t move her hand from beneath his.
“We both complicated it,” he admitted, just as quiet.
The wanting, the desire all but shimmered between them, and they were barely touching.
She looked up. “I think it’s best for Tim if I go back home. I think we both have enough ghosts to deal with.”
Aching to touch his lips to the curve of her neck, or to the exposed shoulder just beneath him …. to lift her face to his—all he could do was nod. He knew she was right, but hearing the words filled him with resentment. He wanted Jennifer, damn it—just as she wanted him; but he was barred from the normal male-female attraction games, because of this damned limbo. Would he never stop paying the price for a few months of emotional blindness?
Am I giving Tim security and stability by being alone, or bowing to an insecure child’s demands, and making things worse for the whole family? Cilla and Rowdy need a mother figure in their lives … and Tim needs it more than both of them together.
Why had he never thought of that before?
“I’d better go,” she whispered, but she still didn’t move her hand.
“Daddy!”
Noah scrambled to his feet. “It’s Tim,” he said tersely.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
He bolted to the house, through the kitchen and down the hall in to the big, blue room Tim shared with Rowdy. Even though it was a four-bedroom house, Tim didn’t like sleeping alone. Though he’d never admit it, his baby brother’s presence, his tiny snores and the comfort of Rowdy’s Sesame Street posters and baby mobiles and teddy bears gave him a sense of continuity and safety. “It’s okay, matey, I’m here.”
He lifted his sobbing son into his arms, holding him close: the only time Tim would allow Noah into his space. He whispered inane words of comfort, caressing Tim’s spiky shock of streaky hair
, his palm wet with the sweat drenching his child. Tim was shivering, wracked with the terror again. Noah held him and rocked him, realising anew why he lived alone. Aching for the pain that never went away, locked inside a father’s anguish that made him want to promise anything to make his little boy better, if only for a few hours.
“Daddy,” he mumbled, lost in a world between sleeping, waking and the fear that walked with him night and day. The fear that separated him from all the other kids at school, made him different, because nobody else’s mummy had disappeared. If Belinda had died, Tim would have accepted it by now, moved on and begun to heal; but there was nowhere to go when your mother was a missing person. There was no end, no closure or healing, just unending pain and the terror that it was your fault she didn’t want to come home.
It was a burden too heavy for any little boy to carry around and still be normal.
“I’m here, matey. I’ll always be here,” he swore now to his son, wishing it didn’t feel like a damned lie—that Tim could believe it. But he didn’t and Noah didn’t: the fragility of life and belonging was a lesson burned onto their skins with a branding iron.
Promises were something too easily broken. Belinda had proven that.
“Make her go away, Daddy …” Tim buried his face in Noah’s shoulder, heaving with sobs too hacking to be an act to get his way.
Noah sighed, knowing this time, it was a promise he couldn’t make. “I can’t, matey,” he whispered back, throat thick with pain as he kissed Tim’s forehead. “She’s our neighbour—and she’ll be minding Cilla and Rowdy while I work.”
The hiccups came thick and fast. “No, Daddy,” Tim sobbed. “Mummy will never come home if—if …”
Tim couldn’t even say it, couldn’t finish the words.
Noah ached and burned with guilt piling on guilt, because this time he couldn’t say he didn’t want or like the woman who was threatening Tim’s peace of mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t lie to his son about this—because he did want Jennifer, and it would show every time he saw her. He wanted her even now, when he should be resenting her intrusion into his mind and body at the worst possible time.
