A Father At Last

by Julie Mac

  “Goodbye, Dad,” she said softly, then turned towards the grave and whispered her goodbyes to her mother. As she walked across the cemetery towards her car, she heard him singing.

  Julie Mac

  Chapter 9

  “Meet me at five fifteen.” Ben got straight to the point when he phoned her at work on Wednesday morning.

  He sounded tense. Briefly, she debated telling him about the encounter at the cemetery on Monday. If she told him, he might decide there was no need to accompany her this afternoon.

  But she wanted him to be there. She wanted to see him, talk to him, touch him. In two days, Dylan would be home, and there would be no more stolen nights with Ben.

  “I’ll be there.” She listened while he gave instructions for their rendezvous, then he was gone.

  Kelly parked her car in the side street, a couple of doors from the nondescript building that housed the prisoner rehab society. She sat for a minute, scanning the footpath.

  ‘Be sensible, be vigilant. Be suspicious of anything or anyone who doesn’t look as if they fit into the scene,’ the senior partner had said at the staff briefing on Monday morning.

  One of the firm’s clients, a high profile drug dealer accused of murder, and now in protective custody, was particularly jumpy. Something big was about to go down in Auckland’s drug world, the senior partner believed. As the stakes ramped up, so did the danger for their client and anyone dealing with him—including his defence lawyers.

  Now, sitting in the car, her hand on the door handle, she allowed herself a moment to smile. Her boss had taken her aside and given her another little ‘be careful out there’ pep talk just as she was leaving work this afternoon. An older man, kind, and aware of Kelly’s situation as a single mum with no close family, he was inclined to be a little more protective of her than the other staff. And in a moment of weakness, she’d told him about Ben—just the simple version: she’d met up with an old school friend recently, he’d been in trouble with the law when he was young, and now it was obvious he was dabbling on the fringes of Auckland’s organised crime scene. She wanted to help him. Her boss had looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing, but thinking, she knew, digesting her news, turning it over in his head. Then he said: ‘Call me at any time if you need help for your old friend.’ And he’d meant it.

  Her smile widened. Here she was in this unfamiliar part of the city, in a decidedly past‐its‐use‐by‐date street with more than its fair share of dodgy‐looking characters hanging around, but she wasn’t afraid. Any niggles of worry were kicked into touch by the knowledge that her father was close. So was Ben. Both would lay down their lives to protect her, she knew that now.

  A Father at Last

  She looked at the building that housed the prisoner rehab society. Dad was in there, expecting her in fifteen minutes.

  She turned her head towards the plain suburban café just across the footpath. Ben had asked her to meet him there, to talk a bit, he said, before they went across to see her father. But not together, he’d added. Him first, her a couple of minutes later.

  It was surprisingly bright and cheerful inside the café, but there was no sign of Ben. It was almost empty, apart from a couple of young mums, babies in strollers beside them, at one table, and a group of senior citizens at another, obviously enjoying a good joke.

  She’d order a coffee, then if Ben didn’t show in the time it took to drink it, she’d simply walk over to see her father alone. Aware of scrutiny from the big man with the shaven head behind the counter, she was surprised by his quiet question when she reached the counter. “Kelly?” At her nod, he gestured for her to follow, and pointed towards a door at the back of the café.

  He came out from behind the counter to lead the way; at the door, he pushed it open and stood aside for her.

  Ben was standing in the little walled outdoor courtyard beyond. She stepped through and heard the door close behind her—followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Ben moved forward, took her in his arms and held her close. She felt the coiled tension in his body. Then he stepped back a fraction and smiled.

  “Sorry about the—” he gestured towards the door “—the, ah, cloak and dagger stuff.”

  His smile was strained and he looked tired—deathly tired. His eyes were bloodshot and he had several days’ dark growth on his face. “We—I—need to be careful.”

  She felt an awful jolt inside. Her boss and Ben, both were urging caution. But from the opposite sides of the law.

  “Ben. Please listen to me.” She had to say it now. “This lifestyle is not good for you.

  You have to change. I can help you. Before it’s too late. My father can help you. He helps people turn their lives around.”

  He said nothing, just looked at her with those unearthly eyes. She tried again. “He’ll help you. Please talk to him.”

  His tired smile became wider for a brief moment, then it was gone. He took her hand and led her to one of the tables in the courtyard. On it sat a jug of iced water and two glasses.

  “Do you want something? Coffee? Juice? A glass of wine?”

  She shook her head. “Just a glass of water, thanks. Did you hear what I said? About letting someone help.”

  Julie Mac

  “I heard, and I’m giving your suggestion due consideration, my sweet.”

  He had no intention of changing his ways. She knew that. Something inside her died.

  She’d tried, she could do no more—but God, it hurt.

  This would be the last time.

  The last time she would ever sit at a table with Ben Carter, father of her son, and so recently her lover.

  While he poured two glasses of water, she studied him. He was wearing dark jeans, a black T‐shirt, running shoes and a baseball cap pulled low on his head. She saw the enticing undulation of muscle in his arms as he performed his task. Never again would she feel those arms around her, never again would she experience the dextrous magic of his hands or, for that matter, his wickedly delicious mouth.

  “Kiss me, Ben.”

  As if in slow motion, he placed the water jug carefully back on the table, walked around to where she stood and placed his hands on either side of her face. For a long moment, he gazed into her eyes, unsmiling. Eyes were the windows to the soul, and what she saw now was the raw honesty of a good man who would love and protect a woman—

  and her child—with his life.

  But the eyes are lying, she told herself. He was most likely dealing in drugs and wrecking lives in the process. Goodness and honesty were fundamentally at odds with such a lifestyle. And even if he was reformed, he didn’t want a child.

  And then all such thoughts were wiped from her mind as he dipped his head and placed his mouth on hers. It was a sweet kiss, not hungry and passionate, but gentle and devastatingly sad. Like a final goodbye.

  She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in closer, so they touched, body to body, mouth to mouth. Like a final goodbye. He understood— he sensed she would have to say goodbye this time. She let her mouth answer his in the only way she knew how. Then he gently but firmly broke the kiss and stepped back from her.

  She heard a motorbike revving in the street behind the café. Ben had cocked his head, listening; she saw the alertness in his body.

  He turned his head and she followed his gaze. For the first time, she realised there was a heavy wooden door, locked with two big steel bolts, on the street side of the courtyard.

  The door from the café was locked; so was the door from the street. Ben was taking extreme precautions. For her safety? For his?

  Her boss’s words resounded in her head with awful clarity: ‘ Something big’s about to go down in the drug world.’

  The motorbike took off down the street, and she saw a minuscule easing of the tension in his body.

  A Father at Last

  “Kelly, sweetheart, we need to talk.” He pulled out one of the chairs and gestured f
or her to sit, then he sat himself.

  “Talk, Ben.” She’d picked up his stress.

  “I might have to go away—disappear for a while. Maybe a long while. Like a few years.”

  “No.” She whispered the word. Oh, God. Why did it feel so bad to hear him say that?

  He put a finger up against her mouth. “Don’t say that. It might not happen. But when—if—I have to go, I want to know that you’ll be okay.”

  She nodded, and he took her hand in his across the table.

  “I want to know that if you need help with anything—any little thing—you’ll call on your dad, or your boss, or someone else you trust.”

  “Of course I will.” How strange, she thought. A week ago, I wouldn’t have contemplated calling on Dad for help, not in a million years. But now that I’ve found him, the prospect seems entirely possible.

  “And Dylan…” His eyes, those beautiful green‐gold eyes she’d fallen in love with all those years ago, were so arctic‐bleak she thought her heart would break.

  “Dylan, your little boy—if he needs help or guidance as he grows, promise me you won’t try to shoulder all the burden on your own. Promise me you’ll involve your father, or maybe a teacher, or one of those uncles of yours from the South Island.”

  “I will.” She nodded infinitesimally.

  He said nothing for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

  “Does he like soccer, that little fella of yours? He seemed to be enjoying himself that day I saw him at the beach with his friends.”

  “Loves it.” She was glad he’d lightened the conversation—not that it made the cold, hard weight in her heart any easier to bear. “He’s in a team at the local soccer club. They play on Saturday mornings; he’s right into it.”

  “Great. And what about schoolwork? Is he good at his lessons?”

  “Mostly. Hates spelling, but loves anything to do with numbers or science, and I guess that’s pretty normal for lots of boys. His teachers always give him good reports.”

  Ben was smiling, and his eyes suddenly looked a little less tired.

  For a crazy moment, she contemplated telling him the truth. Four simple words would do it: Dylan is your son. She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut again. God help her, what was she thinking? Why increase the agony of the man in front of her?

  “He’s good at art, too, but hopeless at music, a bit like me. And even though he doesn’t like spelling, he’s always loved books—”

  Julie Mac

  A car backfired loudly somewhere outside and Ben jumped. He quickly realised what it was, but she could feel the tension in the hand that held hers across the table.

  “You need more sleep, Ben. A good rest and—”

  “Shush, darlin’, and listen to me.” She felt his thumb brushing gently against her hand. He said nothing for a long moment, then, “I want you to know I’ll carry forever the memories of these last couple of weeks—of these times we’ve had together.”

  His eyes, till now intent on hers, moved slightly downward. “I’ll think about the way your hair curls around your face and brushes your neck. The way those pretty blue earrings you’re wearing catch the sun and sparkle against your skin.” He paused for a long moment.

  “And the softness of your body under mine.”

  His eyes were back on hers and he continued talking, quietly, urgently. “Seeing you at the court that day was the best thing that’s happened to me for a long time. If things were different—”

  His mobile phone, lying on the table in front of him, vibrated. He snatched it up, pushed a button, listened for a few seconds, swore softly and cut the connection. The strain on his face had ratcheted up several notches.

  Swiftly, he was on his feet, and she rose too, knowing this was goodbye.

  “The door—” he pointed to the exit leading to the street outside “—bolt it again when I’m gone. Then knock on the door to the café. Jake will open it for you.”

  He swore again. “I can’t be with you when you meet your father. I’m sorry, Kelly, sweetheart. But he’s expecting you. You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

  She could only nod.

  He bent his head, kissed her swiftly on the mouth, then headed to the door. He slid the bolts across and turned, his hand on the door handle.

  “I love you,” he said.

  For the split second before he slipped through the door, she saw in his tormented eyes the naked truth of his words.

  She crossed to the door and leaned her head against it, emotion threatening to sweep her away in a bittersweet tide.

  “Bolts. Hurry up.” His instruction, low and urgent through the door, was a reality check. Immediately after she slid the bolts across, she heard him running down the street, fast.

  She stood staring at the door for a full two minutes, frozen in time. I love you. His words reverberated in her head. Somewhere close, she heard a couple of sirens. Police?

  The day was still warm, but a shiver raised the hairs on her arms. She listened, relieved, as the sirens faded a long way into the distance.

  Then there were only the sounds of normalcy: the quiet thrum of car motors, A Father at Last

  laughter from the oldies inside the café, a radio playing somewhere, twittering from a flock of tiny wax eyes that had descended on the bougainvillea covering the walls of the courtyard.

  She turned back to their table to pick up her handbag. That’s when she saw the envelope with her name scrawled across the front; he must have put it there when they stood up. She opened the envelope slowly, and what she saw brought tears to her eyes. It contained a bank statement for a savings account in the name of Master Dylan Atkinson.

  The account had been opened on Monday, and the balance showed ten thousand dollars.

  It was a full five minutes before she was composed enough to step across to the inner door and knock quietly. The big man opened it. He looked past her, obviously noting Ben had gone, but made no comment.

  “Can I get you a coffee? A cup of tea?”

  Kelly shook her head, tilting her wrist to look at her watch. “Thanks, but I’m due to meet someone right now—down the road.”

  The man smiled. “Give my regards to Gerry.”

  Gerry Atkinson, her father, director of the New Start Society, was standing at the front door of his building. When he saw her, his face split into a huge smile and her heart lightened.

  He showed her around the centre: his office, the kitchen where he taught basic cooking skills to those who needed them, the book and video library, and the common room where the centre’s clients could come for time out, company—whatever.

  There were half a dozen people there, some reading newspapers, others quietly talking. They represented a cross section of society, much like the people she saw during her stints as duty solicitor at the District Court. But while defiance, fear or humbling remorse prevailed among her clientele at court, here she sensed confidence and hope.

  “You must find your work very satisfying,” she said when her father had made cups of tea for them both, and they’d returned to his office.

  “Very,” he agreed. “It’s good to see people turn their lives around, or at least trying to make changes to their lifestyle when they come out of prison.”

  She heard another siren, speeding down the nearby motorway, she guessed.

  Instantly, Ben’s face filled her mind—strained, haunted, sad.

  ‘ I love you.’ He’d said the words as if he’d meant them. She was aware of an ache centred deep in her chest. Is this what a broken heart feels like? She made a conscious effort to wipe the picture of Ben from her mind and concentrate on her father’s words. Ben was in the past now; her father—and Dylan—were her future.

  “Sometimes I help them look for work, and get them prepared for the interview,” he Julie Mac

  said. “Sometimes I have to arrange accommodation for them—even when they’ve got a home to go to. If dad’s been away for a few years, it’s a big adjustm
ent for the kids when he’s part of the family again. Sometimes, he needs to move back home by degrees.”

  “I can understand that.”

  He flashed her a quick glance. “Of course you would. You’d also understand, Kelly, love, how hard some of the kids find it to visit their dad—or their mum—in prison. I work with the parent who’s still at home, and the kids, to prepare them for prison visits.”

  “I could help you…if you wanted me to.” She’d thought about it over the last few days. She could talk to the kids from the heart, even go with them to the prison if need be.

  She knew his answer, even before he smiled and said quietly, “I thought—I hoped—

  you might say that.”

  It was her turn to smile. “And I’ve got another idea, Dad.” She reached into her handbag for the notes she’d printed out before she left the office this afternoon, and put them on the table in front of them. “My friend Tamara’s a corporate lawyer, working for a big company with thousands of employees. Her mother was addicted to alcohol. You were addicted to drugs. Her mother killed herself. You got yourself off the drugs—”

  “Only by getting myself chucked in prison.”

  “However it happened, Dad, you got off the drugs and turned your life around.

  Tam’s mother didn’t get that chance.”

  She stopped, took a deep breath and continued, “Tam and I thought we could set up a programme for employees of her company, and maybe other companies too, where we bring in people—or someone—to speak about the destruction of addiction. And they could talk from experience about the struggle to get off the booze or the drugs and the benefits of coming clean.”

  “And that someone might be me?”

  “Got it in one, Dad.” Kelly laughed. She’d known her father would understand immediately what she was talking about.

  “And we thought if someone—you—were to speak to groups of employees, over a lunch or morning tea or something, and bring addiction right out into the open, it might just prod people with a problem—drugs, alcohol, gambling, whatever—to get past their shame and secrecy and seek the help they need. We’d supply contact details for clinics they could approach privately afterwards for a confidential, no‐charge initial chat.”