Then Gillian had died, and in his despair and grief and agony, in the muddle of his mind where fear that he had failed her had grown unchallenged, he’d changed his mind, thinking if he could bring some happiness into one woman’s life, it might somehow, in part at least, make amends.
Hilary had been adamant she’d never make a claim on him—that the child would be hers and hers alone.
Tumble-turn and another lap.
And he’d promised Hilary he’d never make a claim on the child, never reveal his paternity or ask to be involved. Filled as he’d been with remorse and sadness over Gillian’s death, that had been an easy promise to make. He’d not wanted or needed to be a father, and, anyway, he had children in his life—children he cared for and made well, then passed back to their parents. Not to mention nieces and nephews. That was enough, he’d told Hilary—and himself.
But in the emotional tumult of that time he’d somehow failed to think through that promise—he’d failed to consider the child.
How fair had they both been to him? To deny him a father—deny him all knowledge of his father?
Not fair at all…
But now Hilary was gone, things were different. With her death, the promise had to be broken.
He had to say something to Sophie—but how? When?
He turned and swam back the other way.
Sophie let herself into the door of the flat, aware of the silence in the big house, going first to Thomas’s room where she smiled at the sleeping cherub before bending to kiss his cheek.
‘Two more days, Thomas,’ she whispered to him. ‘Two more days then maybe we’ll know something.’
She sat for a moment, looking at his face, seeking some definition in features that still held the chubby blandness of babyhood, and though her heart skipped a beat at the possibility of losing this precious child, she was beginning to think she had to find his father for his sake, as well as for hers.
One day he’d want to know! One day he’d become aware that other children had two parents.
How old would he be when that happened—when he started asking questions about his father?
And would she tell him what she knew, even if the man stuck to his decision to have nothing to do with his child? Hilary had always said it had been she who’d insisted on this arrangement, but had she been protecting a man she loved? Sophie suspected this was the case, not being able to imagine Hilary having an affair with someone she didn’t love. But whatever had happened in the past, she needed this man now—needed his consent to her formal adoption of Thomas, needed him to keep Thomas safe…
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY FRIDAY Gib had rationalised most of his wild suppositions. For a start, he’d decided that Hilary Cooper had kept to their agreement—had stuck to her promise not to ever reveal who had fathered her baby.
Sophie didn’t have a clue.
Not that he could be certain Thomas was his child, although he’d dug out the photo album his mother had presented to him on his twenty-first birthday and studied numerous photos of his three-year-old self, trying to compare the photos to the little boy.
The timing was right.
He worked through the day, missing Sophie’s presence, saddened that she was going through something as emotionally distressing as preparing for a memorial service for her sister yet hadn’t told him.
Why should she?
At three-thirty he left the hospital, driving reluctantly to the small chapel on a hill on the outskirts of the city, not sure exactly why he was going to the service.
In memory of a friend, he told himself, although he knew his original impulse to attend had been to find out about a child—something he now knew. Or kind of knew!
As support for Sophie?
When she hadn’t asked for support?
He shook aside useless speculation and concentrated on driving. The traffic was thicker than he’d expected, with inexplicable hold-ups every few hundred metres.
Sophie had finished what she had to say about Hilary, had handed over to Paula, Hilary’s best friend at the institute, and was moving to take her seat in the front row when she saw him come in.
Gib?
Here?
Had someone told him she was doing this?
Had he come to offer his support to her?
Warmth crept through her body. For all his talk of non-involvement she’d felt they were getting closer. As well as the kisses, there’d been a touch here, a look there, and although this week she’d been too distracted to think much about it, there’d been his dinner invitation as well.
The last few days she’d seen less of him—he’d had a series of hospital meetings and had been away overnight last night—but now this was over and done with—
She pulled herself out of this pleasant but useless speculation, reminding herself of her purpose in holding the service. Yes, it was to honour Hilary, but it was more important was to check out who had attended.
What men attended!
There was a book to sign at the front of the chapel, and she’d asked people to put both their names and their addresses, but she squirmed in her seat, wanting to check out the male attendees, wondering which one her sister had loved.
Paula finished speaking, then invited everyone to stand and sing, as it was Christmas, Hilary’s favourite carol, and as the voices rose in the simple melody of ‘Silent Night’, Sophie forgot her quest, forgot her problems, even forgot Gib, thinking only of the sister who had protected and nurtured her all her life—the sister she had loved with all her heart.
The carol finished, people began to file out. She should be at the door with Paula, thanking them for coming, but tears Sophie couldn’t stem were seeping from her eyes, and she sank back down onto the seat and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, hoping the storm would pass.
‘Hey!’
It was Gib, there beside her, the gentle word spoken so he didn’t startle her.
Now he put his arms around her and drew her close, pressing her head to his shoulder and holding her tight.
‘Hey,’ he said again. ‘It’s OK to cry, Sophie. Sometimes it’s what we need to do to cleanse the grief.’
She snuggled closer in his arms, the tears subsiding, taking the handkerchief he handed her and scrubbing at her face—seeing make-up smear across it and knowing she couldn’t give it back.
‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry. You might not believe this, but I’ve never been a teary person. Now I seem to be making a habit of it—and, worse, a habit of needing comfort so you end up having to put your arms around me.’
‘It’s not exactly a hardship,’ he murmured, running his hand down her arm, soothing and stroking until the feeling changed from solace to something else.
‘Thank you for being here.’ Sophie tried to straighten up, to move away from him, but he held her close. So she spoke instead, hoping words might distract her from the feeling his hand was generating ‘It’s been a year and I was sure I could manage. I had no idea I’d crack up like this.’
She should ask him how he’d known to come, but it was so nice, being held against his chest, she decided it didn’t matter. Especially as his lips were pressing against her hair and if she moved her head just a little they’d meet skin.
Then another small shift in their configuration and lips could touch…
‘Do you want to take the flowers?’
Sophie jerked away from Gib, unable to believe she was sitting in a chapel, kissing her boss, right after her sister’s memorial service.
‘Could you send them to the hospital?’ she told the man as she struggled to her feet. Her knees were wobbly, her toes still tingling, but somehow she made it upright.
‘What hospital?’ the man was asking, and fortunately Gib took over, telling the man where to send the flowers then leading her gently out of the chapel.
‘Let’s leave your car. I can run you back to get it in the morning,’ he suggested, and Sophie, given the uncertainty of her lower limbs, was happy to
agree, although now, as she stared at the all but deserted car park, she started worrying about her behaviour.
‘This is terrible! I should have talked to people—thanked them for coming—stood with Paula at the door…’
‘People will understand,’ Gib soothed, pleased they’d sat long enough for everyone—Claudia in particular—to have departed. ‘And you’ve got the guest book.’ He’d picked it up himself. ‘You can write and thank people.’
Sophie nodded, happy to accept the excuses he was making on her behalf, happy just to be with him, to have his arm around her shoulders and the long length of his body pressed against her side.
He opened the car door for her, and held it while she got in, then, when he’d settled himself behind the wheel, he leant across and kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I think a walk on the beach might be what we both need,’ he said, and delight flooded through Sophie’s body.
‘The beach? Brisbane’s got a beach?’
‘No, but the Gold Coast has fifty kilometres of beaches and we’re less than half an hour away.’
‘I’ll have to phone Etty.’
He handed her his mobile, but though her fingers shook with emotion—to walk with Gib on a beach at sunset? To touch? To kiss again?—she hesitated.
‘I should go home,’ she muttered. ‘I know Thomas loves Etty but I do feel guilty if I leave him with her when it’s not work-related.’
‘Etty was going to pop corn and string it onto thread for the tree—do you really think Thomas will miss you with all that going on?’
He took the phone from her restless fingers and made the call himself, passing it back to her so she could talk to the little boy.
Gib had been right—Thomas was so excited about the popcorn she could barely get a word in.
‘Etty’s wonderful,’ she said, as she slipped the phone into the console between them. ‘I’ve never thanked you for finding her for me—or giving her to me might be more like it. And for the flat, which makes things so much easier.’
He was pulling out of the parking area and she turned and laid her hand gently on his cheek.
‘Thank you for everything.’
He turned his head far enough to press a kiss against her palm and then kept his concentration on the road, a small frown on his face as he wove through the traffic.
Could he do it? Commit to another woman and not make the mistakes he’d made with Gillian? Was Sophie right about mental illness? That some deaths were inevitable?
Could he accept it and move on?
Marry Sophie?
It would be the perfect solution, Gib realised as he drove up the ramp onto the motorway. He’d have his son—he’d have Sophie. Muscles tightened at the thought.
‘You look worried. Is it Mackenzie?’
He felt Sophie’s hand touch his leg as she asked the question, and turned to see anxiety in her face.
‘Not Mackenzie,’ he assured her, wishing he could tell her of his chaotic thoughts, but he needed to wait at least until he’d sorted through the chaos and reached a rational decision that he knew for certain wasn’t based on his increasingly irresistible attraction to the woman by his side.
She didn’t probe, simply rested back in the seat and closed her eyes, her hand still creating a warm spot on his leg and sending wayward messages along his nerves.
‘Beach!’ he announced some time later, pulling up in the parking area at Narrowneck and smiling with delight as he saw the tide was low and the long, wide stretch of sand was virtually deserted.
He took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers and got out of the car, opening Sophie’s door and waiting as she slipped off her sandals. Then he took her hand and led her down the boarded path that protected the dunes from too much wear and tear.
But once on the beach proper, he lost her, for she ran ahead, long legs lifting high as she headed towards the water, then her skirt lifting to show even more leg as she splashed in the shallows.
‘Oh, Gib,’ she said, turning a radiant smile in his direction. ‘This is so exactly what I needed.’
She threw her arms into the air as if to embrace the sky, sea and sand, then splashed again, kicking at the water so diamond drops of it sprayed through the air.
Behind them, the dying rays of the sun had turned the heavens pink, but already, on the far horizon, they could see the sky lightening as if the moon would soon be shedding its silvery light across the water.
He took her hand again, and together they walked through the little waves that ebbed and flowed around their feet.
Had he ever felt so at ease with Gillian?
He could remember excitement, could remember despair, but contentment?
Had he not been seeking it that it had eluded him?
Was it an age thing that suddenly it seemed so important—as if this was how he’d like to feel for ever?
‘I should have gone home to Thomas.’
The guilt in Sophie’s voice brought him out of his reverie. He knew all about guilt—knew how it could excoriate a person’s soul.
‘He was happy when we phoned,’ he reminded Sophie, though he knew all the excuses in the world wouldn’t ease the guilt. ‘Don’t you ever programme time just for Sophie?’
He stopped walking and used their clasped hands to tug her close.
‘Not these days I don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Since Hilary died, well, Thomas was only two, he needed a lot of my attention.’
Would she tell him now? Tell him Thomas was Hilary’s son and so lead into a conversation he knew he had to have with her?
He waited, but she’d turned away, gazing out towards the far horizon, leaving him with a sense of disappointment that she didn’t trust him enough to confide in him.
Was it fear that she’d lose the child she so obviously adored?
In which case, if she even so much as suspected he was Thomas’s father, would she flee?
Cold dread inside him told him how he’d feel about that particular scenario!
He hadn’t realised he’d sighed until she turned towards him and once more placed a hand against his cheek.
‘This is Sophie time,’ she said quietly, and he forgot everything but his attraction to this woman, the length of her body against his, the feel of silken hair sliding through his fingers. He eased his hands into the neat pleat of hair and found the pins that held it in place, pulling them out and hurling them into the ocean before combing his fingers through the dark tresses so they spread across her shoulders.
Then, in case she was thinking of explaining her statement, or fretting more about Thomas, he stopped her lips with a kiss, drawing her body towards him until it melded with his, feeling her soft breasts against his chest, drinking in the taste and scent of her—content!
Sophie felt his body pressed against hers, his hands making magic happen to her skin. His kiss teased and probed and plundered, filling her with a tingling excitement that went far beyond her toes.
Deep muscles that had been dormant for a long time tensed, and heat burned at the very centre of her being, and with the tingling and the heat and the heady happiness came a certainty that this was her man, so she kissed him back, losing herself in kisses—losing the sadness of the past and making promises to the future.
Well, she was, but was he?
‘This is non-involvement?’ she said lightly, easing away from him a long time later.
He pressed a final kiss to her lips then turned her to walk again on the wet sand.
‘Look,’ he said, and they stopped to watch the magic of the moon rise, red-gold and huge, out of the sea.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ he told her quietly, but that was all, and they walked again.
But Sophie’s heart brimmed with happiness. Maybe, just maybe, the love she felt for Gib would eventually be returned.
They strolled for an hour, reaching a long jetty Gib explained was the sand-pumping jetty, pumping sand that clogged the narrow seaway far out in
to the waves where wave action helped it build up sand deposits on the beaches.
‘There’s a café up behind the dunes. Fancy some fish and chips?’ he added.
‘In paper? Can we eat them on the sand?’
He dropped a short, sweet kiss on her lips.
‘We can,’ he promised, then took her hand and led her up through the dunes.
So they ate fish and chips on the beach then washed their sticky fingers in the ocean, walked back to the car and drove home, not talking much, although it seemed to Sophie that contentment lay between them.
Thomas was still up, excited by the idea that his Christmas tree was coming the very next day, so they had a night swim, the little boy again showing off for Gib, Sophie again wondering about the little show-off’s father.
Surely having a father in his life would be a good thing. She and Hilary hadn’t had much luck with fathers but that wasn’t to say Thomas’s father would be anything like either of them—although to have an affair with Hilary then say he wanted nothing to do with the child, that had been cold…
‘Sophie, watch this!’
Thomas was on Gib’s shoulders, squealing with delight as Gib’s strong hands lifted him and threw him into the water—high enough to please Thomas with the dangerous adventure but gently enough for Sophie not to worry.
Gib would make a wonderful father.
The thought shocked her. How could she be thinking that far ahead on the basis of a few kisses—most of which, if she had to be perfectly honest, had come from kindness on Gib’s part?
Even today…
‘Watch, Sophie!’
She watched them both playing in the water and her heart hurt because it was all becoming so difficult.
On a practical point, she should say something about not getting Thomas too excited before he went to bed, but she knew swimming was the best thing to tire him out, and he’d splash around for a while then be happy to go to bed.
And Gib? What would he do when they finished swimming?
Suggest they go down and watch the river gliding by?
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