‘Am I glad he isn’t!’ Morgan laughed.
‘Well, he is a little too old, too experienced for you—’
‘Oh, no!’ Morgan broke in, her good humour fading. ‘Not another lecture! Save it, Georgia.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You had your chance with him and you blew it, so if I want a turn you’re not going to stop me.’
Georgia bit her lip in the horror she could barely hide. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘All’s fair, Georgia, so lay off.’
Georgia flushed and Morgan threw her hands in the air.
‘Who says I’m interested in him anyway? I’m only having a bit of fun. And I’m all grown up so you don’t have to warn me about the big bad wolf.’
‘I didn’t intend…I mean…’
‘Oh, good grief!’ Morgan raised her hands and let them fall. ‘Don’t put yourself through this, Georgia. Look,’ she enunciated deliberately, ‘Jarrod’s no more interested in me than I am in him. He’s all yours, big sister, but take a tip from me. Don’t leave him hanging too long. There are plenty of females out there who won’t stand in line.’
‘Morgan, I have no intention of vying for any man’s attention.’
Morgan rolled her eyes exasperatedly. ‘We shouldn’t let you out alone, Georgie. And having you on is beginning to be no fun at all. You’re far too gullible.’
‘I’m not—’ Georgia stopped and sighed. Why did Morgan have this knack of putting her on the wrong foot all the time? ‘Let’s just change the subject. Did he…did Jarrod mention the job that may be available at the Ipswich office?’
‘Yes.’
Georgia’s heart sank at the monosyllabic reply. ‘Do you think you might be interested?’
‘I guess.’ Morgan shrugged. ‘Jarrod said I’d have to do a basic word-processing course and maybe one on office skills.’
‘It sounds ideal,’ Georgia began gently, not wanting to put her sister off the idea.
‘I’m going to think about it,’ was all Morgan would say.
‘Oh-h-h!’ A deep groan interrupted them, heralding Lockie’s groggy entry into the kitchen. ‘Who set the time bombs going off in my head?’
Morgan turned to face her brother. ‘Don’t complain to us, Lockie. Nobody forced you to have that champagne when we got home last night. You know what it does to you so you won’t get any sympathy here.’
Georgia pulled herself together as Lockie groped his way to the table. When they’d finally arrived home in the early hours of the morning Lockie had insisted on opening the bottle of champagne one of the patrons had left for them, but he had been the only one to take more than an obligatory sip.
‘I have to have coffee. Lots of it.’ He gingerly lowered his lanky frame into a chair. ‘At least you’ll have mercy, won’t you, Georgia?’
Silently Georgia set a cup of strong black coffee in front of him, the pottery mug clunking on the bare wooden table-top.
Lockie flinched. ‘Ouch! What was that explosion? Has my head fallen off?’
‘It would have to have something in it to fall off,’ Morgan remarked. ‘More likely to blow away in the breeze.’
Georgia laughed softly and patted his shoulder. ‘Be sure your sins have caught up with you, Lockie Grayson.’
He grimaced and took a gulp of coffee. ‘Ah.’ He sighed. ‘Lovely. I may be saved.’
‘You’d better save yourself pretty quickly. The tyre centre will be closing in a couple of hours,’ Georgia reminded him.
‘Yes, and Jarrod will be wondering where you are,’ Morgan added. ‘You said you were going to borrow his car early this morning.’
Lockie glanced bleary-eyed at the kitchen clock. ‘Is it that late? Ugh! I need a shower before I can drive anywhere. How about popping over and picking up Jarrod’s car for me, Morgan?’
‘No way, brother dear. I’ve made other plans and I’m just about to leave.’ She picked up her bag. ‘You’ll have to collect it yourself or coerce Georgia into doing it for you.’
Lockie shot a look at his other sister. ‘How about it, Georgia?’
‘Really, Lockie! It’s about time you learned some sense of responsibility.’ Georgia frowned in irritation.
‘Amen,’ agreed Morgan.
‘Are you two ganging up on a sick man?’
‘All your own fault,’ was Morgan’s parting remark.
Turning to Georgia, Lockie put on his most beguiling expression. ‘Could you pick up Jarrod’s car while I shower and change?’
‘Oh, Lockie,’ she began. She had no desire to cross Jarrod’s path again so soon. As it was, his face as he’d gazed up at her on the stage had kept her sleepless for some time when she’d finally got to bed after the show.
‘He probably won’t be there, Georgia,’ Lockie said quietly, and her eyes flew to meet her brother’s before sliding away. ‘I think he said he was going into the office this morning.’
Georgia moved restlessly over to the sink and made a big job of rinsing her cup. And which was worse? she upbraided herself. Seeing him or not seeing him?
She heard Lockie sigh.
‘It’s OK, Georgia. I’ll collect the car myself.’ He stood up.
‘No. Have your shower, Lockie.’ Georgia walked over to the door. ‘I’ll go. I could do with the walk over there. I won’t be long.’
‘You’re a pal, Georgia.’ Lockie grinned and she pulled a face at him.
Georgia headed out through the front gate. She could have taken the path through the gate in the back fence-it was the shortest route to the Macleans’-but she hadn’t been that way in years.
For months after that dreadful time of Jarrod’s betrayal she had haunted the much trodden track through the scrubby bushland and long, dry grass, up the low, knobby hill, by the usually waterless creek bed. Up the bank and under the trees.
But then she’d come to her senses, realised the folly of her youthful, trusting love. What would she achieve by putting herself through the pain, by reliving the agony? It was selfdestructive and she’d decided she wasn’t going to allow Jarrod Maclean to destroy her. Not then. And not now.
She strode purposefully along the side of the gravel road, narrowing her eyes as the wind tossed up puffs of gritty dust. She hadn’t even changed out of her faded jeans, well-worn cotton shirt and comfortable trainers. She could at least have tied back her hair, she reflected, knowing how windswept she was going to look when she arrived.
Aunt Isabel, who was always immaculately dressed, would frown her disapproval. Morgan was right-it was almost impossible to imagine that their mother and Aunt Isabel were sisters. Their home seemed to have always been filled with the sunny sound of their mother’s laughter, while Isabel Maclean rarely so much as smiled.
And was Morgan right about Georgia? Had she become as withdrawn, as austere as their aunt? Surely not. Yet what had happened to her had to have left some mark on her. Anyone would have lost that certain joie de vivre.
Georgia’s footsteps slowed. Perhaps it had really started with their mother’s death seven years ago. It had been a terrible blow, for their father especially. He had taken her death badly, and for ages afterwards he had resorted to drink to carry him away from the grim reality of his loneliness. Georgia had truly feared his becoming an alcoholic. Maybe the worry of that had sent her more intensely into Jarrod’s safe, strong arms.
For three years Georgia had watched her father drink his life away. Geoff Grayson had been drunk on that fateful night four years ago, but Georgia’s plight had suddenly sobered him and he hadn’t, to her knowledge, touched a drop since.
The huge old Maclean house came into view and Georgia’s footsteps faltered again. It was a genuine colonial, the biggest of its type she had seen, extra rooms having been added twice since it was built in the late 1800s. But the additions had been expertly done and not a cent had been spared by Peter Maclean in keeping the house in good repair. It was quite a showpiece, for all that it was out in what was referred to as ‘the sticks’.
Se
tting a firm resolve to be cool and composed, like Aunt Isabel, Georgia moved forward. And, anyway, as Lockie said, Jarrod would most probably be at his father’s office in Ipswich. He was nothing if not conscientious, she mused bitterly. At least, he had been in the past.
‘And what if Lockie should damage the car?’ Isabel Maclean asked haughtily.
‘Then we’ll have it repaired.’ Jarrod’s expression was bland.
Georgia had explained Lockie’s arrangement about the car to Aunt Isabel and she had insisted on fetching Jarrod, who had not been at the office but sitting with his father.
‘Georgia—’ he turned now from his stepmother ‘are you in a hurry?’
‘Well, Lockie will be wanting to go up to see about his tyre,’ she said, her heart thumping with exasperating exhilaration at his nearness, his familiarity, the way he said her name.
‘The sooner they get the tyre repaired, the sooner they’ll bring the car back,’ Isabel put in. ‘Don’t hold Georgia up, Jarrod.’
‘Ten minutes,’ he asked, barely acknowledging his stepmother’s abrupt remonstrance.
Georgia hesitated, caught by the momentarily unguarded expression on her aunt’s face. There was the usual irritated dissatisfaction and disapproval, and yet there was something else-something Georgia couldn’t quite identify.
‘Peter…’ Jarrod paused. ‘My father seems a little more comfortable this morning. Would you like to come in for a few minutes? He’d be pleased to see you.’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Jarrod.’ Isabel stepped forward. ‘Too much talking only tires your father.’
‘I know that, Isabel.’ Jarrod frowned. ‘But we’ll do the talking.’
‘It’s still tiring for him,’ Isabel persisted.
‘He enjoys seeing people and we won’t stay with him long.’ He looked at Georgia. ‘Coming?’
‘Just remember how ill your father is.’ Isabel’s stance was all tension. ‘And, Jarrod-’ her eyes met his coldly ‘-don’t upset him in any way.’
Some silent message passed between the two of them and Jarrod’s mouth tightened. He took Georgia’s elbow, unaware of the pressure of his fingers as they bit into her skin. But once they were out of the room his hand fell away immediately, and they moved down the hall to his father’s suite without a word.
Georgia resisted the urge to rub her bruised arm, the place where his fingers had touched her burning as her nerve-endings exploded into life. Her senses reeled traitorously, uncontrollably, clamouring to make contact again, to have those sensitive hands take hold of her, pull her to him, mould her to his strong length, flesh to flesh.
No! Never again. You fool, Georgia Grayson, she angrily berated herself. He doesn’t want you. He told you so four years ago. Can’t you get that message through to your silly romantic heart?
Peter Maclean’s rooms were at the back of the house. Isabel had had the section fitted up when her husband had suffered his first major attack. He had a full-time nurse who had her own quarters and no expense had been spared to make the old man comfortable. His bed was surrounded by complicated equipment on which his life depended.
He was lying in the pristine white bed in the centre of the room and even in the short time since Georgia had visited him she could see that he had failed. He’d lost even more weight and his veins stood out through paper-thin skin on his wasted hands. His eyes fluttered heavily open as they quietly entered the room and his hand moved in greeting, only to drop back on the sheet.
‘Georgia,’ the old man whispered with a faint smile shadowing his blue lips.
‘Hello, Uncle Peter.’ Georgia came forward and took the frail hand in hers. ‘Jarrod says you’re feeling a little better today.’
‘Be up tomorrow, I reckon,’ he joked breathlessly. ‘Have a mind to chase Nurse Neal around the bed.’
Georgia laughed softly. ‘You’ve been promising her that for weeks.’
‘Keeps her on her toes.’ His fingers tightened slightly on hers. ‘I’m not seeing…as much of you, though.’
‘No. I’m sorry about that, but I thought…’ Georgia paused contritely. ‘I mean, now that Jarrod’s home…’
‘You decided to desert me?’
‘Oh, no. I just…’
Peter smiled again. ‘Jarrod’s all right but you’re prettier than he is.’ His eyes went past Georgia to his son. ‘Get Georgia a drink, Jarrod.’
‘No, thanks, Uncle Peter,’ Georgia refused quickly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long.’
Peter’s fingers tightened convulsively. ‘I’d like to talk-’ he drew a quivering, painful breath ‘-to talk to you.’
Jarrod stepped forward and Georgia shot a swift glance at him, wondering if perhaps his father should be allowed to rest alone. But the look of raw pain she saw in Jarrod’s eyes took her aback. And on the heels of that pain she watched him hesitate in uncharacteristic indecision.
‘Maybe you should rest now, Peter,’ he suggested softly.
‘Rest later.’ Peter moved his head irritably. ‘Get Georgia…drink,’ he finished on a rasp.
Jarrod paused again before he nodded and turned to Georgia. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She tried to marshal her jumbled thoughts.
What was going on here? She had a strongly intuitive feeling there was something more lurking beneath the even surface that Jarrod was trying to maintain. Suddenly it was almost as though he was loath to leave her alone with his father.
After Jarrod left the room it was a few minutes before Peter Maclean spoke.
‘I want to talk…about Jarrod. I feel…’ He sighed breathily. ‘Once thought you and my son would…Never asked you before…What really happened, Georgia?’
Peter’s chest rose and fell rapidly after the exertion of speaking and Georgia’s first flash of the so-familiar pain that his question had brought was quickly overshadowed by her alarm.
‘Don’t talk, Uncle Peter,’ she began, but his grip on her hand increased with surprising strength.
‘Not dying yet, Georgia. But you…should humour me…in case I do.’ He drew gasping breaths and then half smiled crookedly.
‘Oh, Uncle Peter.’ Georgia patted the hand that held hers. ‘You mustn’t overdo it.’
‘Don’t sidetrack. What happened…with my son?’ he repeated.
Georgia shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could muster, fighting the rise of hurt that the mere thought of that time still caused her. Could she ever forget?
But what to tell his father? The truth? That his beloved son had been happy to take the childlike devotion she had so innocently given him, that he’d accepted that adoration but hadn’t wanted to be tied down to marriage? Why marry a gauche teenager when other, more experienced women were available to warm his bed?
Like his own stepmother.
At the time Jarrod had denied the evidence which Georgia had considered to be overwhelming, but Aunt Isabel hadn’t. She’d merely smiled at Georgia’s stricken query, and now the remembered pain rose again to taunt her. All the while she’d loved him, worshipped him, and he’d used her, body and soul.
Your precious son broke my heart, Peter Maclean! she wanted to scream at him. And if you knew the truth it would break yours too.
But he was a frail, very sick old man.
‘I guess it just didn’t work out,’ she said flatly, each word dragging painfully over her constricted throat muscles.
Peter’s eyes seemed all of a sudden to pierce into her reserve, to cut down into the very essence of her being.
‘That’s what Jarrod said. Why?’
‘We-well, we decided we didn’t feel…didn’t love each other enough to make a commitment,’ Georgia mumbled lamely, not looking at Jarrod’s father.
‘A mutual decision?’
‘Of course.’ Georgia swallowed on the lie.
The old man was silent for some time, his breathing laboured. ‘Don’t suppose…you’ve changed your mind?’
Georgia shook her hea
d, her heart aching painfully.
‘Jarrod has.’
Her head shot up at his softly strained words.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WHAT do you mean?’ Georgia had almost as much trouble finding her voice as Peter had.
‘I think my son…still loves you.’
‘You’re mistaken, Uncle Peter. I’m sorry, but-’ She stopped as her mouth dried in agitation.
‘And you? Do you…still love…him?’
‘No!’ she replied clearly, and the old man watched her with tired eyes.
‘I don’t…believe you,’ he whispered.
Georgia could only stare back at him, no words coming.
‘Someone has to…make…the first move. Forget silly pride. Pride’s a…lonely…bedfellow. I can testify…to that.’
He closed his eyes and his grip on her hand slackened. Georgia stiffened in fright, but he exhaled a faint breath and she realised with relief that he was sleeping.
There was a sound behind her as Jarrod opened the door. He handed her a cup of tea as his eyes roved quickly, uneasily over her face.
‘He’s asleep,’ she said softly, and Peter stirred, opening his eyes-eyes that were all at once clear and sharp. Gazing straight at Georgia.
‘Jennifer? Darling Jenny.’ A smile faintly lifted the comers of his mouth. ‘Always were the prettiest girl I ever saw.’
He slipped into sleep again, more relaxed this time, and Georgia turned, perplexed, to Jarrod.
Jenny? That was her mother’s name.
* * *
‘I don’t believe it’ Lockie entered the kitchen and tumed a chair around, straddling it, his elbows resting on the back. ‘Talk about bad luck.’
Georgia finished stacking the folded laundry into the basket She was pondering over Peter Maclean’s mistaking her for her mother. It was an understandable error, she could appreciate, for she knew she was very like her mother. Her father said the only difference was in the colour of her eyes. Jenny Grayson had had green eyes while Georgia’s were brown, like her paternal grandmother’s, her father maintained.
Close Relations Page 9
