by Julie Mac
You’re mine. My son.
A wild surge of joy and sorrow threatened to engulf him, and he had to fight the compulsion to rush over and scoop up the boy in a big bear hug.
A Father at Last
Oblivious, Dylan was laughing, carefree and happy, his feet toying with the ball.
Then he looked up, and kicked, but his aim was way off, and instead of heading straight for the other boy, the ball was coming to Ben.
Like an arrow to my heart.
Ben stopped the ball with his foot, but didn’t kick it back because at that moment, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, pushed a button and put it up to his ear.
“I’m listening,” he said, then, “yeah, yeah, will do. Hang on a minute, will you?”
Dylan had run after the ball, and now he was standing in front of Ben, looking up at him.
Trusting, innocent, his faith in human beings well and truly intact. Ben took off his sunnies and for a long moment, he and the boy made eye contact. The colour of the little boy’s eyes, the shape—the fall of the lashes—told Ben the truth.
He thought his heart might break. And then it filled with the brightest light when Dylan smiled.
“Hey, mister,” he said. “Do ya wanna play too?”
Too trusting maybe.
“No, you’re okay, buddy. But your mate over there’s waiting for the ball.” Ben inclined his head towards the boy standing on the seaward side of the grass strip, watching and waiting, and Dylan’s eyes followed.
“That’s my friend Lachlan. He’s real good at soccer ‘cause his dad’s our coach and he knows all the good moves. I’ve only got a mum, and she’s a real nice mum, but she doesn’t know anything about soccer.”
Ben felt a surge of emotion—hot and searing and so totally painful it threatened to take his breath away. Walk away, he told himself. Walk away now, before you do something really stupid.
But first… “If you want to improve your aim when you kick, you need to have a good look at where you’re kicking, fix that spot in your mind, then stroke the ball with the side of your foot—don’t just boot it.” He pushed the ball to Dylan with his foot. “Here, matey, you try it.”
“Thanks, mister.” Dylan flashed a grin at Ben, then his face was a picture of concentration as he lined up the ball and kicked, straight and true. An instant later he was gone, sprinting after the ball, laughing in delight as it shot directly to Lachlan, and calling back over his shoulder, “Hey, it worked. Thanks, man.”
Ben put the phone back to his ear.
“Sorry about that,” he said to the caller, “you were saying?” For the space of thirty seconds, while he listened to a fresh set of instructions, he allowed himself the luxury of standing and watching the boys play—Dylan, Lachlan and two others, kicking, tackling, Julie Mac
running, laughing.
Doing what boys should be doing. One of them booted the ball too hard and it shot off the grass and down the bank onto the sand. The other boys shouted good‐natured abuse at the kicker, then they all swarmed down the sandy bank and onto the beach.
Ben made himself a vow. One day he’d play soccer at the beach with Dylan and his friends. One day, when Dylan could call him Dad; when he could be Dylan’s dad. But not today. Not now. Not till all this was over, because right now, being Dylan’s dad could put the boy at risk, and he’d rather die than do that.
And then reality kicked in, hard and excruciatingly painful. He, Ben Carter, was never going to be a dad. Not now. Not when this gig was over. Never. He’d made a promise to himself a long, long time ago. He squared his shoulders, mentally getting a grip on his emotions.
It had seemed so easy then, so black and white.
But seeing Dylan—seeing this lively, living legacy of his own flesh and blood…
He had a sudden urge to suck in air, deep and fast, and realised he’d been holding his breath. “Say again,” he said to the caller at the other end of his phone, and this time he concentrated on the instructions.
Presently he said, “Don’t worry, the shipment’s on time and the stuff’ll be there. Just like we planned.” He finished the conversation and put his phone away.
“Are you stalking me?”
He hadn’t seen her approaching. Slack, he told himself. He’d allowed himself to be distracted.
He turned as Kelly stopped beside him. She looked younger and less tense than she had the other day; her cheeks were pink from the sun, and she’d swapped the severe black suit she’d worn in court for cream shorts and a cute little turquoise top that did amazing things for her figure.
Ben focussed on her blue eyes. Safer that way.
“Maybe.” He’d call it educated guesswork, mixed with instinct; Long Bay was a kid-friendly beach not far from the address he’d discovered for her three years ago. It was also just down the road from the high school they’d both attended, and had been a favourite teenage haunt of theirs.
He smiled and was rewarded with the slightest upturn of her lips. She’d stuck her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. He remembered enough about her to know she was trying not to laugh. Even though she was annoyed—no, more than annoyed—
angry. It was the same look she’d used at school. He and the rest of her circle of friends used to call it her head‐prefect look. Back then, he’d admired her dedication to her responsibilities at school. Right now, though, he didn’t need her censure. In fact, if anyone was going to be angry, it should be him. But that could wait.
A Father at Last
“Or maybe not.” He kept the tone light‐hearted. “Can’t a man enjoy a nice stroll along a beach on a Saturday afternoon?”
He saw her watching his eyes, speculating, trying to work out if he was lying.
“Bit coincidental, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you for the best part of seven years, and suddenly I see you three times in a week. Twice on Monday, and now today.”
Her eyes flicked from him to Dylan and back again, angry, but also anxious, and he knew with clear certainty why she’d kept Dylan’s existence from him. Her dad had been in trouble with the law, wrecking not only his own life but Kelly’s young life as well. She didn’t want Dylan to suffer the same fate.
Sensible was Kelly Atkinson’s second name.
Fair enough. He could understand her motives. But then anger welled inside him. If Kelly didn’t acknowledge him as Dylan’s father, who did she claim as his father? He breathed deep again, once, twice, his mind rejecting the idea of some other man kicking a ball with Dylan, going to the school sports day with him, helping him choose his first car. But for now, maybe forever, it’s better this way.
“You complaining?” He thought of her response to his kiss in the lift the other day and then fervently wished he hadn’t, because the memory of her sweet mouth under his was, right now, pushing all the wrong buttons in his body—or the right ones, he thought wryly.
Her kiss in the lift had been real. She’d wanted him—needed him—like a flower needs water. He knew she hadn’t been sorry then to see him.
But she was scared for her son, and protective, as a mother should be. If he claimed paternity for Dylan, here and now, she’d disappear with the boy, quick as could be, and probably make herself unfindable again.
On the other hand, if he played it cool, didn’t let on that he knew Dylan was his, waited for her to volunteer the information in her own time, he stood a better chance of seeing her again—maybe he could even convince her they could be friends. Or pretend to be friends, because a man sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking about his women friends in the way he was thinking about Kelly right now.
She hadn’t answered his question; instead, she pursed her lips in that old familiar way that Ben knew meant she was stuck for the right response. She watched Dylan and his friends, her arms folded across her chest.
Ben smiled briefly. Reading Kelly’s face had always been a piece of cake for him—
maybe because she was so special to him. He shi
fted his weight from one foot to the other.
Let’s see how she answered his next question. In the lift the other day, she’d blustered.
Now, she’d had time to prepare herself.
“Dylan’s a great little kid. Who’s his father?”
She swung round to face Ben square on, and he could see challenge—no, denial—
Julie Mac
written all over her face.
“Ben…you…I…” She reached up and pulled off her sunhat, pushed unnecessarily at her hair. She fiddled with the brim of the hat, then he saw her hands still as she began speaking again. “You and I knew each other at school, and then...then there was that…you know, that little bit of time we had together.”
Ben lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head on one side. So that’s how she remembered that night; a little bit of time together. Funny, he thought they’d shared something stunningly passionate and beautiful.
Kelly cleared her throat and continued, “A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.” She lifted her chin higher but he saw that it trembled slightly.
“Was he anyone I know?”
“What?”
“His father. Your boy’s dad. Would I know this guy if he happened to be standing here, right now, beside you, watching Dylan play?”
Her eyes became bright with unshed tears. She shifted slightly so she was looking out to sea, and for a long time, she was silent.
“I’m sorry, Ben.” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it. I think it’s better to let sleeping dogs stay sleeping.”
She glanced briefly towards him, then let her eyes veer out of contact, focussing on something in the distance.
Deep down, he felt the toxic simmer of anger, but the last few years had taught him plenty about controlling emotions, and living with lies when necessary. And right now, it was better for everyone, Dylan included—especially Dylan—to let the lie live.
Still, it hurt to his deepest core. He was shocked at how much it hurt to have been denied the most fundamental human truth for damn‐near seven years. He was a father; he had a beautiful little son whose existence he’d had no inkling of until five days ago.
‘ I’m sorry, Ben.’
What for? Having the baby and not telling him? Having the baby, at all? Abortion was a legal option.
She lifted a hand and pulled some strands of hair across her face in a nervous, defensive gesture he remembered from their schooldays, and suddenly, he felt sorry for her.
It hadn’t been easy for her either.
“Was Dylan an unwanted baby for you?” He asked the question quietly.
“No! Never!”
She moved again to face him. The flash of anger in her eyes was followed quickly by gut‐wrenching sorrow, and he knew he was pushing her too far. He swiped both his hands A Father at Last
through his hair to stop himself from reaching out, holding her and kissing her until the sadness disappeared. He should change the subject, now.
But there was something he needed to know… “What do you tell him when he asks where his daddy is? When he asks why his friends have got dads and he hasn’t?”
He saw the pain in her eyes, sharp and hot. Then she looked towards the beach where the happy sounds of boys playing football drifted up to them.
“I tell him—” still she didn’t look at him, “—I tell him that…his father…his daddy…was an old friend of mine. An overseas law student.”
He allowed himself no reaction to the knife stab of her words. He saw her chest heave and he knew she was struggling for composure.
“I tell him the romance didn’t work out, that we didn’t love each other enough, and that mummies and daddies have to love each other to be married and live happily ever after.”
“And he bought that?” Ben hated the way he sounded so cynical.
“He’s a little boy,” she said simply. “It’s enough for now. And I told him his father had gone away, a long way away, to the other side of the world, and that’s why we don’t see him.”
Ben felt a tightness in his throat, solid, unrelenting, choking, as if a big hand was squeezing, squeezing. When he opened his mouth to speak, he was surprised at how normal his voice sounded—conversational almost.
“And if you could choose the perfect father for your son, what would you be looking for?”
She faced him once more. “Do you really need to ask that question?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you want the list—here it is. I’d look for stability, reliability, goodness, honesty. I’d look for a law‐abiding man who was home when we needed him.” Her voice, though still low and quiet, was stronger now.
“I’d look for someone steadfast and loving, someone who would be there for us.
Always.” Her eyes, intense as the deep blue ocean beyond, held his in unmistakable challenge. “I’d look for a man who wasn’t going to be dragged away from us by the cops one day…I’d—”
He stepped forward then, and cupped her face with both his hands, resisting the impulse to kiss away the impending tears.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, really sorry,” he murmured. “I was way out of order. Let’s rewind a bit.”
“Where to?” She looked forlorn. “To the start of the seventh form when we were Julie Mac
top of the perch and innocently thought the world was our oyster? To the time before my father went to prison and we were two happy little kids without a care in the world?” She shifted her gaze towards Dylan and his friends, and Ben dropped his hands to his sides.
He studied her profile, noting the tightly‐coiled tension in the muscles around her mouth, her too‐fast breathing, and felt an utter heel.
“Let’s go back to where I say, ‘Dylan’s a great little kid.’ Full stop. And you say…”
He held out his hands, palms up, inviting her to speak, and Kelly, relief plain on her face, faced him again with a hint of a smile and said, “Thanks, you’re right, he is.” Pride lit her eyes as she added, “And I’ve never regretted having him.”
“Okay, good. I’m glad.” He meant it. He let his eyes follow the boys on the beach, running, kicking the ball, shoving each other, all accompanied by happy shouts and laughter, and he felt sick to the stomach when he thought of Kelly—alone and pregnant, her father in prison, her mother dead—and the choices she faced.
Ending the pregnancy was an option. Adoption too. But she’d kept their little boy and God knows, it must have been a struggle for her, juggling her law degree with child care, but there he was, healthy, robust and to all appearances, perfectly happy and well-adjusted.
Against the odds, she’d brought him into the world safe and sound and given him a good life.
He heard Dylan yell at one of the other boys, his voice loud and strong, his head up—
a confident kid.
A memory surfaced from far away, sharp, painful as a fresh wound and totally unexpected.
A little kid of five, curled in a corner of the living room, arms wrapped around his head, silent as a stone, the taste of blood like iron in his mouth. A man towering huge above the boy, dark hair black with sweat, face red with fury, features contorted, screaming and hitting, hitting, hitting. A woman, crying, begging the man to stop. A little girl, younger than the boy, sobbing and screaming, ‘Stop, Daddy, stop.’
Now, with willpower born of practice, he forced himself to discard the memory, concentrating on the sounds around him—the gentle shush of the waves on the beach, the happy sounds of beach‐goers enjoying a summer’s afternoon, Kelly’s steady breathing beside him.
He wasn’t a child anymore. He was a grown man, but he hated the way the memory, the hurt, churned his guts, even now. He stood beside Kelly in silence, watching the boys play, then he said, “It must have been hard for you, still must be hard for you, bringing up a child on your own.”
After a moment, Kelly glanced behind her, and he followed her gaze to the picnic table where her two friend
s were still sitting, chatting and laughing. As if on cue, they both looked up and stared in his and Kelly’s direction. Soon, he knew, curiosity would get the A Father at Last
better of them and they’d be coming over for an introduction. He needed to be gone by then.
Kelly was smiling now. “My friends are the best, especially Jen and Marnie over there. We all live in the same street, not far from here. We all work, and their partners are both in pretty full‐on jobs, so we help each other out where possible. I’m very lucky really.”
Ben nodded. “Good to hear.” Then the two women stood up from the table. Here they come, he thought, and glanced at his watch.
“I’ve got to go, Kel. Got to meet someone in the city.” He bent and dropped a swift kiss on her cheek. He felt her sway towards him, wanting more, then she straightened up.
“Goodbye, Ben. And good luck.” She sent him a lopsided grin. “Have a good life.”
He knew it was meant to be a flip remark, an easy brush off, but it was like a slap in the face. A good life. It was so tantalisingly close it was painful.
He had a sudden clear vision of that good life—there was Kelly, smart, pretty, strong, though maybe a little vulnerable; himself, taller, bigger, protective, and between them a little boy with strong, wiry limbs and bright, happy eyes. The sun was shining and they were all laughing.
And then another picture flashed across his mind—badly lit streets, shady characters and even darker dealings.
He looked back at Kelly’s two friends. They were closer now. He made a decision, drew in a sharp breath and said, low and urgently: “Meet me at Little Long Bay tomorrow night at nine. Under the big pohutukawa. Just you—leave Dylan with one of your friends for the evening. We need to talk.”
She looked up at him and he saw the want and the denial warring in her blue eyes.
“Just do it, Kelly,” he said.
Then he walked away, without waiting for an answer.
Kelly dressed carefully: skinny‐leg jeans, dressy sandals with a high wedge heel, and a sapphire silk strappy top that she’d bought on impulse a month ago while shopping with a couple of the girls from work, but had never yet worn. ‘Eek. Shows far too much skin,’ she’d protested when her friends had persuaded her to try it on in the shop. They’d both rolled their eyes and assured her showing skin was good, as was the silver belt that went with it, accentuating her waist. ‘Mums can be sexy, too,’ one of them chanted. And she’d bought it, because even to her own critical eyes, it looked pretty damn good on her.
