by Jo Bannister
Brodie went on looking at him, seeing the earnestness, the determination in his eyes. She had no doubt it was a genuine offer, not merely a sudden improbable surfeit of sentimentality. It was the first time he'd said it. But it wasn't the first time either of them had wondered about it and thought that was probably where they'd end up. They'd had worse ideas in their time together.
At length Brodie said quietly, ‘This is a really bad time to be making life-altering decisions. I'll tell you what, Jack. If you want to, ask me again on this baby's first birthday. Let's see where we are then, where we stand. What we want. Ask me again in a year's time and I might say yes.’
They sat for a long time after that in silence. But it was a different silence. Companionable. Satisfied.
Finally Brodie reached for her dressing-gown. ‘Come on -it's time you met your son. By the way,’ she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her – which it had, although it arrived fully formed, signed, sealed and delivered as if someone had been thinking about it. ‘His name is Jonathan.’
Deacon's craggy features softened in a slow smile. ‘Of course it is,’ he said.
