The Second Promise

by Joan Kilby

  “Thanks, Rose, that sounds marvelous.” She picked up a skein of soft, moss-dyed wool and turned it over in her hands. “Graham’s been in touch. He wants me to come sailing with him at the end of March. He says he’s changed his mind about kids and wants us to try again.”

  Rose’s clear gray eyes regarded her. “Do you want to try again?”

  Maeve shrugged. “We had some good times.”

  “But whether to have more children wasn’t the only problem you two had, was it?” Rose asked, probing gently.

  “No,” Maeve said slowly, recalling how often she’d poured her aching heart out to Rose. “That was five years ago, though. Perhaps he’s changed.”

  “And perhaps you’re simply running from an untenable situation with this other man,” Rose said. “You’ve got to search your heart for what you truly want.”

  Maeve lifted unhappy eyes. “What if I can’t have what I want?”

  “Then you must learn to do without. Sometimes love hurts.” Rose got up to give Maeve a hug. “Now, dry those tears, child. I know where you can find the perfect specimen of Selenicereus.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MAEVE WAS GLAD to leave Melbourne’s peak-hour traffic behind, and as the crowded city streets gradually gave way to solid but flowing highways, the turmoil in her mind settled. She would turn off her feelings for Will, do her job, and then get out.

  By the time she reached Mount Eliza, she was humming softly and looking forward to a relaxing evening pottering in her garden. As she drove along her shaded lane, the scent of eucalyptus resin wafted through the open car windows and the magpie’s warble filled the air. She waved to old Mrs. Griffiths, who was tending her beloved standard roses, then turned the last gentle bend, which led to Wandin Cottage.

  A police car was standing in the driveway.

  Dad!

  Maeve brought the ute skidding to a halt behind the police cruiser. She jumped out and raced into the house, the screen door banging behind her. “Dad? Where are you? Are you all right?”

  A police officer stepped out of her father’s bedroom, blocking her path. His grim expression almost stopped her heart.

  “Where’s my father?” she demanded, trying to push past him into Art’s room.

  “Your father’s fine, Ms. Arden,” said the sergeant, whose gray brush cut belied his unlined face. “Mr. Hodgins is in the kitchen, giving the details to the constable.”

  “Details of what?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your house was broken into. When your father came home from work he found the front door pushed in.”

  Maeve reacted deep inside. Someone had broken into her home. Her own private place. With a gasp, she flung her arms around her waist as though someone had struck her in the solar plexus.

  Dimly, she heard footsteps at the door and a voice say, “What’s going on?”

  Will. What was he doing here?

  His hand gripped her elbow and an arm went around her shoulders, supporting her. She struggled to free herself, close to weeping with fury over the violation of her home. Will only made her feel more vulnerable. She didn’t want to need him. And she certainly didn’t want him seeing her in this state.

  Ignoring her protests, he led her down the hall. “When did the break-in occur?” he asked the sergeant.

  “And your relation to Ms. Arden is what, sir?”

  “I’m…a friend of the family.”

  “My father works for him. And at the moment, so do I,” Maeve said, pulling herself together. She glared at Will and tugged her arm out of his grip. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  But at that moment they entered the lounge room, and Maeve stopped dead, her mouth falling open in renewed horror. The TV was gone. The CD player and tape deck were missing, as well. “Oh, no!” she wailed.

  A horrible thought struck her. Kristy’s baby bracelet.

  She ran back to her bedroom at the front of the house. Skirting the high brass bed piled with lacy pillows, she went to the mahogany dresser, French-polished to a high gloss, and pulled open one of the small top drawers. She tossed aside the lacy bras and panties she wore on special occasions and removed a black velvet jewelry case, which she cracked open. She scrabbled through the gold necklaces and opal earrings. Not until she found Kristy’s baby bracelet nestled safely at the bottom did she breathe a sigh of relief. Eyes closed, she pressed it to her lips.

  “Good thing you don’t hide your valuables in an obvious place,” Will said from the doorway.

  Maeve’s gaze snapped to his.

  He glanced at the small bracelet of coral beads in her hand. “Sweet. Was it yours?”

  She dropped the bracelet back in the case so he couldn’t see the letters engraved in gold on the center beads. “Yes.”

  Then she shoved the case back in her drawer. If she ignored him, maybe he would go away. Quickly she checked the back of the drawer, where she kept a small amount of cash. Still there, thank God. She rested her head against the top of the dresser, weak with delayed shock and relief. Clearly the thieves had carried off only what they could grab.

  Then she remembered her lacy underthings, strewn over the bed and Persian carpet. For a split second, her imagination put her in them and herself in Will’s arms. Her cheeks burning, she retrieved the spilled lingerie, as Will regarded her with amusement, sympathy and— No. She refused to think about what else burned in that warm gaze.

  Straightening, she found Will glancing around her room, from the lace curtains at the windows, to the fresh flowers by her bed, to the framed prints of lush pre-Raphaelite paintings on her wall. Then he turned his bemused eyes on her, as if trying to reconcile her romantic and sensual side with the brawny woman who wielded a chainsaw and turned the soil in his garden.

  “Excuse me. I have to check my computer,” she said, pushing past him. Damn it, they’d tacitly agreed not to acknowledge any feelings between them, much less intensify their heat. Somehow, Will’s intrusion into her bedroom seemed to complete the invasion begun by the burglars and left her scared and vulnerable.

  But by the time she reached the kitchen she’d cooled enough to wonder if the heat had all been in her mind. After all, he’d done nothing amiss. Said nothing. Maybe she’d misinterpreted the look in his eyes.

  Then she saw the corner of the kitchen where she’d set up a mini-office after Art had moved into the second bedroom, and forgot all about trying to sort out the vagaries of mind and heart. Her computer, printer and scanner—all were gone.

  Her father, who’d been sitting at the table, was on his feet and at her side in a trice. “There now, Maevie, the insurance will cover the loss,” he said, wrapping her in his arms.

  “All my gardens were in that computer,” she wailed, and sank into a chair. With a glance at Will, who’d followed her into the room, she added, “Your garden, too.” She’d drawn his house and garden on a grid and marked each existing and future plant and shrub in its exact location.

  “Don’t you have backup floppy disks?” he asked.

  “Yes, but reprogramming a new computer and reentering all my data will be a hassle. I didn’t budget time for this kind of delay.” She clenched her fist on the tabletop. “When I get my hands on those thieves, I’ll bloody murder them.”

  The constable across from her filling in the incident report looked up. “You don’t want to be making a statement like that in front of the police.”

  “Oh!” She threw her hands in the air.

  “Of course, she didn’t mean it literally.” Will bent over and briefly squeezed her shoulders, saying close to her ear, “Everything will be okay.”

  Amid the turmoil and chaos, she found comfort and strength in his grip. She didn’t dare turn her head for fear she’d do something silly like lift her mouth to be kissed. Then his hands slid from her shoulders, and without another word, he filled the kettle and put tea bags from the canister on the bench top into the teapot.

  “Any cash or other valuables missing? Jewelry? Cam
era?” the constable asked Maeve.

  She shook her head. “No, thank goodness, although I don’t understand why not.”

  “Probably they were surprised in the act and scarpered. What make was the TV?”

  “Some obscure brand. Wilson, I think. Terrible reception.”

  “Approximate age?” the constable added, jotting down the information.

  “Twenty years. Maybe thirty.”

  The constable raised an eyebrow. “You were lucky they got away with as little as they did.”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t home when they broke in,” Will amended. “You might have been injured.” Arms crossed, he regarded her. His hard gaze contradicted the compassion he’d shown a moment ago. “What kind of security system do you have?”

  She pushed a hand wearily through the hair escaping from her braid. “We don’t.”

  He swore and straightened away from the bench top. “I’m not saying this to tout my own product, but I have an excellent tamperproof alarm on the market. People who care about their safety or the contents of their home shouldn’t be without it.” He glanced at Art, who frowned down at his folded hands.

  “It’s a good alarm, all right. The best,” Art said quietly. “But too expensive for us.”

  Maeve felt a twinge of conscience. Art had recommended she buy one, even offered to pay half, but she’d declined, thinking no one would break into a modest cottage on a no-through road. Plus, the alarm was pricey, and she couldn’t justify the expense at a time when more money seemed to be going out than coming in.

  “I made the decision. I guess it was the wrong one.” She propped her head in her hand, elbow on the table. “No sense locking the barn door after the horse has bolted.”

  “Nonsense,” Will said. “Thieves often return once they think you’ve replaced the stolen items. I’ll give you one of my alarms and install it personally.”

  “That’s extremely generous—” Art began.

  Maeve snapped up her head. “But we can’t accept it.”

  “Exactly what I was about to say,” her father added gently.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Will said, pacing the kitchen. “I…I was planning to give all of my employees one as a parting bonus. Yes, that’s it. You can have yours now.”

  Maeve exchanged a glance with her father. Neither believed for a moment that Will had had any such intention until thirty seconds ago.

  “Sounds an excellent plan,” the sergeant said firmly, as though his approval sealed the accord. The doorbell rang. “That’ll be my men, come to take fingerprints.”

  The constable went to let them in. Maeve slipped out the back way before the police officers could reach the kitchen. She lifted the garage door and flipped the light switch to scan the interior. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Her tools and her bags of potting mix and fertilizer were all as she’d left them. Even the stacks of empty terra-cotta pots, ripe for smashing by vandals, were intact.

  She retreated to her garden and, suddenly exhausted, sank into the wooden swing. Her eyes fell shut and she tuned her senses to the floral scents and birdsong, trying to distance herself from what was happening inside her house.

  “Are you all right?”

  Will’s voice brought her back to reality. “You still here?”

  “Don’t be rude,” he admonished mildly. He sat beside her and pushed off with his feet, making the bench swing gently. As lightly as a breath of air, the back of his hand touched her forehead. “Maybe you should lie down.”

  His voice held nothing but concern for her health. So why did the slight pressure of his fingers on her skin send her heart rate soaring? Why did she long to nestle into the crook of his shoulder, to wind her arm about his neck—

  She jumped to her feet. “You shouldn’t be here. Why are you, anyway?”

  He stood and pulled a key from his pocket. “To give you a key to my house. I’ll be working long hours from now on and won’t be at home when you come.”

  “I don’t go into my clients’ houses when they’re not home,” she said, resisting the urge to accept the key in his outstretched hand. The urge to enter his life as someone more significant than a gardener.

  “You might want to use the bathroom, or make a cup of coffee…” He pressed the key into her palm and folded her fingers over it, then wrapped his hand around hers. “Take it.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said almost desperately, aware that the jagged strip of metal was still warm from his touch. Either Will had moved or she had, but somehow they stood only inches apart. His eyes were so blue, so warm, so…close. “You’ve got to leave. I don’t want your security system, or your concern, or—”

  The back door creaked open, bringing her abruptly to her senses. Wrenching her hand from Will’s, she turned to see her father glowering from the doorway.

  “The sergeant wants to speak with you,” Art said to Maeve, before his outraged gaze fixed on Will.

  “I’ll be right there.” She glanced back to Will, searching his frozen expression for a clue to what she should do. She wanted to return his key, but she was afraid her father would leap to further erroneous conclusions.

  Art came down the steps toward them. “Go inside, Maeve.”

  As she walked toward the house, she heard Art growl at Will, “Be off with you. I don’t care if you are my boss. You keep your cheating hands off my daughter.”

  Maeve slipped the key in her pocket and went inside.

  MAEVE STAYED AWAY from Will’s house for five days. She filed a claim with her insurance company, bought a new computer and re-input all her records, both financial and botanical. Then she worked with her assistant, Tony, on the landscaping jobs he’d taken over while she’d been preoccupied with Will’s place.

  On the sixth day she decided her continued absence was not only ridiculous but simply not an option. She had plants to get into the ground and landscaping to do. The fencing subcontractor had to be instructed on the finer points of the kissing gate, and the bricklayer was coming on Thursday to build a cubby house behind the lilacs.

  She timed her arrival for nine o’clock, when she knew Will would be at work. Even so, she drove cautiously down the driveway and only relaxed when she saw that his Mercedes wasn’t sitting in its usual spot outside the garage.

  The fencing subcontractor arrived shortly after, and she showed him where she wanted the cream-colored wrought-iron fence. The kissing gate she had commissioned separately, from an ironwork specialist. When it was ready, she would call the fencer back to install it.

  The bricklayer was two hours late, but he turned up eventually. Maeve showed him a sketch of what she wanted—a small enclosure with walls four feet high and a door facing the lilacs. Around the outside, completely enclosing the brick structure, she erected a sturdy trellis, then planted jasmine vines. The flowering vines would grow up and over the top to completely enclose the cubby. Near the door, she left a gap just big enough for a child to slip through.

  By the time Will and Ida’s baby was old enough to play outside alone or with a friend, he or she would have a private space with a roof of green leaves and light. Will would have to prune the fast-growing jasmine, but she didn’t think he’d mind.

  The bricklayer worked quickly and competently, and before the afternoon was over the structure was complete. Dark red-and-black mottled bricks with ragged edges gave the cubby an aged appearance, and all that would be required in addition was a wooden bench and perhaps a table of rustic design.

  After the bricklayer left, she stood back and viewed their handiwork through half-closed eyes. An image formed in her mind of the cubby in three years’ time, overgrown with flowering greenery, cool and inviting on a sweltering day like today. In her fantasy, she glimpsed small brown limbs and the back of a tousled dark head duck through a gap in the foliage to disappear into his or her own world.

  Without warning, she thought of Kristy, who hadn’t lived to run and play in the sun. Maeve strode away from the cubby, her jaw c
lenched, fiercely trying to quell her grief for her lost child. Sorrow flowed from some inexhaustible well deep inside and poured through her, weakening her limbs. Halfway across the lawn she dropped to her knees as if to pray, except she’d learned long ago that her prayers went unanswered. Oh, Kristy. Oh, my baby.

  She wanted to weep huge gulping sobs, but she held them in check. She hadn’t given in to her grief in years, and never in a place that wasn’t her own. Her tears dried unshed, leaving her with a throbbing head and an ache in her chest that felt as though her heart would never heal.

  For a long time she sat on the grass at the edge of the cliff and stared vacantly at the shimmering water, waiting for the numbness that always followed a grief attack to block the pain. The angle of the sun made her check her watch at last. Will could arrive home at any time.

  Wearily, she gathered her tools and loaded her empty pots and equipment into the ute. It wasn’t until she’d backed around and started down the driveway that she remembered Will’s house key was in her pocket, unused. She’d planned to put it under a pot by the back door and later leave a message on his answering machine telling him where he could find it, but she’d forgotten in her hurry to get away. She glanced at the house through the rearview mirror, wondering if she had time to go back.

  Beep. Her gaze snapped forward at the sound of a car horn. She stepped on the brakes just in time to avoid a front-end collision with Will’s Mercedes. Maeve reversed up the driveway, her sweaty palms slipping on the wheel. Damn, this was a stupid situation.

  She waited for Will to drive past. Her heart stopped when he slowed to a halt beside her. Oh God, he was going to get out and talk to her. Thoughts flashed through her mind: all the things she wanted to say to him, all the things she couldn’t say. His garden, the cubby…Ida.

  But he didn’t get out of the car. Nor did he roll down his window. He simply looked at her, then nodded gravely. Stiffly, she inclined her head. He released the brake and motored slowly toward the garage.

  Maeve threw her vehicle into gear and continued on her way, her heart beating hard and fast.