The Secrets Mothers Keep

by Jacquie Underdown

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  She frowns. “I’m sorry. I’ve been snappy lately.”

  He rubs her shoulder. “Understandable. There’s been a lot going on.”

  “How are we going to make this work?” she asks.

  “What work?”

  “You and Mum. Rachel. The baby. The fact that there is no way all of you will ever be able to be in the same room again.”

  Dad scrubs his palm over his chin. “It’s not for you to worry about. We’ll make it work.”

  “I don’t want to feel anxious each time you visit.”

  “Nor should you have to. Like I said, don’t you worry, your mother and I will sort it out.”

  “I don’t know how dating Mum’s best friend can make the situation any better—”

  He breathes in, opens his mouth to interject, but she doesn’t let him.

  “I know Mum did the wrong thing, but I don’t know how dating Rachel makes it right.”

  He purses his lips, looks down at his hands. No answer.

  “But as I said, I don’t want to talk about it. How about we order a big piece of cake to share?”

  He smiles. “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  A little after five, Pia arrives home at Viewtree House. All she wants is Luca. Only when emotions are high does she miss the comfort a man’s presence can bring. When in a relationship, there is always that solid, stable terminal to vent to, receive sympathy from, or simply be with.

  Of late, she has missed having that. How will it be when the baby is born? A sickly feeling of dread brews in her belly and burns up her throat, but she swallows it down. Worrying won’t help her.

  She doesn’t go through the house, instead heads directly around the back. Hopefully, she hasn’t left coming home too late. Though, intuitively, she knows Luca will wait for her. She saw that look he gave her at the café—the look Dad caught. He will be as eager to see her alone as she is him.

  This is wrong. She knows it’s wrong. But she can’t stop.

  His employees are packing their tools away into the big trailer attached to Luca’s ute. They smile and offer greetings as she passes them.

  “Luca’s in the fifth apartment,” one says, thumbing in the direction of the farthest end of the stables.

  “Thanks.”

  She finds Luca on his back, reaching deep into a square hole in the plaster. His front is covered in sawdust, his knees pale from leaning in it. His shirt rides up, revealing his tanned stomach with a dusting of dark hair trailing down under his shorts.

  Tall, toned, dirty and everything she wants in a man at this moment. The exact opposite of Ben with his beige slacks and business shirts.

  “Good afternoon,” she says when he still hasn’t noticed her arrival.

  A smile spreads across his face and he lifts his head to meet her eyes. “Hi. Give me twenty seconds.”

  “Of course,” she says, eyeing all the progress they have made. The shell of the apartment is done—all the plasterwork is in, electricals, plumbing, and the staircase up to the mezzanine. All that’s left are fittings and decorations.

  She takes a seat on the second step of the staircase to wait.

  Luca soon jumps to his feet and dusts off his hands. “How was your afternoon with your father?”

  “Pleasant.”

  “Good to hear,” he says, sitting beside her and sighing deeply, all the hard work performed over the day communicated in that simple action.

  “Big day?”

  “Huge.”

  “I should have brought you in a beer.”

  “I would have loved you forever if you had,” he says with a cheeky grin.

  “I’ll keep it in mind next time.”

  He bumps her shoulder playfully. “So tell me about what’s been happening while I’ve been in Queensland. Sounds like I missed world war III.”

  “A few hydrogen bombs were dropped,” she says with humour, though the fallout is still being felt by the way her muscles constrict recalling it. “It all started with Aunt Grace before Christmas. She received an email from a woman claiming to be her late husband’s daughter.”

  His eyes widen. “Wow. Okay.”

  She tells him all about it, the email back, the meeting with the daughter in Perth, and the subsequent explanation given about the amnesia.

  Luca can’t speak for a long moment as he attempts to process it. “Bloody hell,” he says at last.

  “But best keep that one between us because as far as I know, Aunt Grace hasn’t told my cousins yet.”

  “Lips are sealed,” he says then squeezes his lips together, which only accomplishes drawing her attention to them, soon followed by images of kissing him.

  She clears her throat. “Then yesterday, Dad turns up here with his new girlfriend.”

  “And?”

  “His new girlfriend is Mum’s best friend.”

  His brow creases. “How did your Mum take that?”

  “Not good at all. I’d say the moment she slapped Rachel’s face might have been the moment the second bomb was dropped.” She tells him in detail about what happened.

  “And you had to watch that?”

  She nods. She wants to tell him how she fears that when the baby is born, her parents won’t be able to be in the same room as each other, but she can’t because the baby is the one thing she’s not willing to share with him yet.

  “I missed a lot,” he says.

  “Probably best you did. You were right when you said about old houses holding secrets.”

  “In my experience, there’s always one or two that pops up.”

  “You must have the history of the whole town.”

  “Just about.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  He stills. “Depends.”

  She hesitates because she’s unsure if the topic she wants to discuss might be too personal. “I hadn’t realised that you had a son who passed. I’m sorry if I’ve been insensitive about that.”

  He shakes his head. “You haven’t been insensitive.”

  “Good. I’m so sorry to hear you’ve experienced that pain.”

  He shuffles a hand through his hair and looks away for a moment. “Thanks. And I … I’m sorry I haven’t told you. It’s still difficult to talk about.”

  “I can understand that. You had no obligation to tell me. You still don’t.”

  He stares straight ahead, clasps his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees. “I was engaged to a local woman—Daniella. She fell pregnant, but at one of her medical check-ups, the doctor couldn’t hear the baby’s heartbeat. She delivered him at thirty-eight weeks… but he wasn’t…” his voice shakes with his final words.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

  “It hurts every single day, but I keep looking forward.”

  The back of her throat aches. “Sure.”

  When he looks at her again, his eyes are glossing. “It was hard for a long time. Too hard for Daniella. She hit a low and couldn’t claw her way back up.”

  Tears blur her eyes. “How horrible.”

  “Our relationship didn’t make it. Obviously. But these things happen.”

  She reaches for his face and holds his jaw, thumb rubbing gently against his cheek. “You’re a strong man, Luca. A good man. And I’m so sorry.”

  His eyes slowly close and he nestles his face into her palm.

  All breath escapes her lungs.

  When his eyes open, he reaches for her, strokes hair behind her ear, and runs his fingertips along her neck. “You’re good for me, Pia.” His voice is low and gravelly.

  Her attention drops to his lips, and she can’t help but lean into him until her lips press against his. A sigh sounds in the back of his throat and pulls her under, deeper. His mouth parts. Her lips fall open, and she pushes her tongue against his. Electric, the sensations racing through her.

  She is drawn closer to his heat and kisses him more de
eply, both hands holding his face. Nothing and nobody else exists, only the two of them, the sensations and this warmth.

  Never has she felt more connected to a man.

  Too soon, he pulls away and rests his forehead to hers. His breaths are deep. “If I don’t stop kissing you, I’ll never stop.”

  She runs her tongue over her bottom lip and grins. “Mmm.”

  “And if you make sounds like that, I’m going to kiss you again.”

  She grins and slowly edges back from him, teeth grazing her lip. “I want you to kiss me again.”

  He shuffles his fingers through his hair. “Keep saying stuff like that and I’m not going to be able to go out there and tell the boys they can head home.”

  She giggles. “Oops. I forgot about them.”

  “Give me a minute,” he says and gets to his feet. “I’ll go see them off.”

  She nods.

  In a few minutes, he’s back. His eyes are blazing with heat as he marches to her and pulls her up to her feet. “I can’t resist you,” he whispers and wraps his hands around her waist, drawing her into his warmth until her chest is pressed to his, and he kisses her. Everything about this moment, the hot resistance of his flesh, the sensual heat of his tongue against hers, the feeling in her belly, the pooling arousal, is new, brilliant and exciting. She never wants this moment to end.

  Chapter 36

  Mary

  1981

  Mary met Julian nine months after Robert died. Her inheritance had finally settled, but she didn’t trust herself with big decisions yet as she was still whirling from Robert’s death. The safest place for the money, in the meantime, was in a savings account at the bank.

  She didn’t go out much socially anymore, preferred the solitude of her home with June and Lily-Rose, but she had seen Julian around town every now and then.

  Julian had a beautiful young wife—tall and svelte, tanned with lovely long brown hair and chocolate coloured eyes. Mary remembered the first time she saw her. She was standing beside her at the grocery store. Not many moments in her life had she ever felt envy, but she did when she looked at Julian’s wife.

  Julian was striking too. Tall and strong with flawlessly combed dark brown hair and rich brown eyes. He had a musical Italian accent but spoke beautiful English. He was obviously intelligent—a quality she found attractive.

  Mary sat down in front of him in his office at the bank one afternoon and told him of her predicament. She did all she could to hold back the tears, not out of embarrassment, but so she could give the remote impression of professionalism. As always, though, every time she spoke of Robert, she cried.

  When he reached for tissues, handed them to her and soothed her with accented words that moved through her body like a balm, something ignited inside. Something that had been dormant for many months—desire.

  So consumed by guilt, she left the meeting in a flustered rush, without the matter of her inheritance finalised. When she arrived home, she ran to her room, threw herself onto her bed and bawled.

  How could she feel desire for another man so soon after Robert? A married man?

  She would have to find another bank.

  But later that evening, on his way home from work, Julian stopped by the house. Mary reluctantly allowed him inside. As they drank tea in the living room, he apologised for upsetting and flustering her. He said it was his Italian heritage that meant he felt emotions so freely, and he knew it wasn’t the way of things here, that men held their emotions in.

  “I felt such sorrow on your behalf, Mary. I wanted to wrap you in my arms and comfort you.”

  She couldn’t find an answer to his alluring brown gaze and expressive mouth that spoke of sympathy and sadness as deeply as those emotions existed within her heart. He suggested if it would be better to conduct their business at home—perhaps that would make her feel more comfortable.

  Of course she wouldn’t, so she agreed instead to visit him at his office the following week—that would give her some time to squash her guilt and gain a level head.

  The realisation that her desire had found a new object, hit her like a blunt hammer. The last nine months without Robert were the hardest of her entire life. She yearned for him every day with such intensity it made her lungs burn. Her body ached all over, desperate for his touch. And her heart was now molten lava in the centre of her chest, bruised and tender, from his loss. Mary had loved Robert every single day that she knew him, from the moment she saw his blue eyes at the train station nineteen years ago.

  One morning in a flurry, she rushed up to the library and closed the door behind her. She needed something of Robert—his familiar script on paper, a book he had read, a penknife he had once touched—anything to allow her to be as close as she could be to a man who was no longer in the world of the living.

  She trawled through all his medical papers, articles and journals, so she could read the rhythm of his speech and the words he had once used. She laughed and cried as she reacquainted herself with his mind. He was an amazing man—full of desire to be brilliant in his profession despite his station in a small town.

  An expander file was beneath his desk. She sat on the carpet, legs crossed, and pulled it to her. Her fingers grazed the many letters and documents that were housed inside. Impatiently, she turned it upside down and spilt the river of paper over the floor.

  She picked at the papers like a crow picked at a carcass—as though she was feasting on the life that once was and would never be again. Oh, how she throbbed with want for him to come back to her.

  A letter fell from the pile and hit her shin. Mary’s name was scrawled across the front of it in Robert’s neat, precise pen.

  Her heart thumped with anticipation. Goosebumps spread over her arms. A letter she had not seen before. Joy burst through her as the thrill of reading something new from his mind, written specifically for her, dawned.

  She reached onto the desk for his letter opener and carefully tore the paper, ensuring not to damage any part of this precious article.

  Her fingers were trembling, her head buoyant, as she pulled the letter out and unfurled it.

  His handwriting. Black ink. Her heart swelled when she saw the first words: My dearest Mary, the love of my life.

  Tears pricked her eyes as she held the letter against her chest and breathed in the love that blossomed from those few words.

  But she had to read more.

  I firstly want to let you know that I love you with all my heart and soul. I knew from the first moment I saw you, a young woman hauling a bounty of library books in your arms, that I was going to marry you.

  For many years you have completed my life and made me the happiest man alive. And maybe a part of me is selfish, and that’s why it has been so hard to be completely honest with you.

  So many times I tried to confess with words, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it, knowing that I could potentially lose you. I already had one failed marriage, I couldn’t bear a second, not with you, whom I adore more than anyone else on this Earth.

  A letter seemed the easier road or the cowardly path—both are not honourable, but maybe, for having kept this secret from you, I’m not an honourable man. Perhaps at my core, I am despicable and self-seeking.

  Mary, my darling, I am so sorry, but all these years I have sat passively by and allowed you to believe that the reasons for us not bearing children was your fault when all along it was mine.

  We don’t have children because I am sterile—something I’ve known since I was a young boy.

  Mary gasped. Blood was pumping to her ears making them ring. Her face was hot. She climbed to her feet and paced along the carpet, the letter still in her hand, though it burnt her to hold it. Could this possibly be true?

  She held the letter up again and continued to read at a quicker pace, aching to find that this letter was a lie.

  A childhood illness rendered me sterile and it has been the bane of my existence ever since. How my heart heaved when your sweet f
ace turned to me that day on the train and uttered that your greatest wish was to be a mother.

  I should have walked away and never saw you again, but I couldn’t because I was weak. I am still weak.

  I gave you everything I could. I loved you with all my heart. But every day I agonised that I couldn’t give you the one blessing you truly wanted and deserved and for that, I am a failure.

  I am sorry. With all my heart, I am sorry. But I hope you can forgive me, and I hope that you can continue to love me like I love you.

  Yours forever

  Robert Rivers

  Mary stomped over to the table and picked up the envelope. With trembling fingers, she pushed the letter back inside and shoved it down her bra. She found an empty wastepaper basket and retrieved all the other bits of paper and threw them inside.

  Everything else she had kept, papers and notes and annotated books, she pulled from shelves and draws and made a pile in the centre of the room.

  Basket by basket, she filled and refilled, carrying it all downstairs and out the back where she created a mound of his things. Next, she moved his suits, pants, shirts, ties and shoes and bundled them all on the back lawn.

  She poured a capful of kerosene over the clothes, then flicked a lit match at the mount, sparking a bonfire. Her chest heaved with heavy, angry breaths as the flames licked and blackened everything. Slivers of ash whirled in the air as Robert’s items turned to charred dust.

  Smoke billowed around her, black and toxic smelling, much like their relationship had been. It started with a lie. A lie that didn’t cease until after Robert had died.

  Was he ever going to tell her? If he had have lived, would she ever have known the truth or would he have watched on while she festered in her ostensible inadequacy, in her pining and hoping for the one thing she was never ever going to have.

  And he knew it!

  He watched her, day by day, curl in on herself, weathering what was, in the end, him. His inadequacy. His sterility. His lies.

  She looked up to the smoke-rimmed sky and screamed. His betrayal was broken glass slicing her open. Her entire marriage was a lie. How could he have done this to her? How could he have robbed her of the one thing—the only true desire—she had ever wanted like a thief?