Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep

by Michelle Douglas

  ‘I think your happiness is more important than anything else in the world to your Daddy.’ She waited and watched while Melly digested that piece of information. ‘Besides,’ she added cheerfully, ‘there’s always me. You’re more than welcome to hang out at the bookshop.’

  Melly didn’t smile. ‘Grandad’s picking me up today. I stay with him and Grandma on Tuesday nights.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  Melly didn’t say anything for a moment, then, ‘Grandma thinks little girls should wear dresses and skirts and not jeans. I don’t have any jeans that fit me any more. Yvonne Walker thinks skirts are prissy.’

  ‘Yvonne is in your class at school?’ Jaz hazarded.

  ‘She’s the prettiest girl in the whole school! And she has the best parties.’ Melly’s mouth turned down. ‘She didn’t invite me to her last party.’

  Jaz’s heart throbbed in sympathy.

  ‘But if she could see my hair like this!’

  Melly touched a hand to her hair. Jaz had pulled it up into a ponytail bun. It made Melly look sweet and winsome. ‘I’ll do it like that for you any time you like,’ she promised.

  Melly’s eyes grew wide.

  ‘And you know what else? I think if you asked your daddy to take you shopping for jeans, he would.’

  Jaz waited on the next corner, out of sight, until Melly’s grandfather had collected her, then walked back to the shop and installed herself in front of the computer.

  She turned it on and stroked the top of the monitor, murmured ‘Pretty please,’ under her breath.

  Above her a set of work boots sounded against bare floorboards, the scrape and squeal of some tool against wood. She glanced up at the ceiling. Why wasn’t Connor at home with Melly? Why was he here, working on her flat, when he could be at home with his daughter?

  She glanced back at the computer screen and shot forward in her seat when she realised the text on the screen was starting to break up. ‘No, no,’ she pleaded, placing a hand on either side of the monitor, as if that could help steady it.

  Bang! She jumped as a sound like a cap gun rent the air. Smoke belched out of the computer. The screen went black.

  ‘No!’

  No staff and now no computer?

  She shook the monitor, slapped a fist down hard on top.

  Nothing.

  She sagged in her chair. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not now.

  Don’t panic.

  She leapt to her feet and started to pace. I won’t let you down, Mum.

  The filing cabinet!

  With a cry, she dropped to her knees and tried to open the top drawer. Locked. She fumbled in her pockets for the keys. Tried one—didn’t fit. Tried a second—wouldn’t turn. Tried a third…

  The drawer shot open so fast it almost knocked her flat on her back. She rifled through the files avidly. She stopped. She rifled through them again…slowly…and her exultation died. Oh, there were files all right, lots of files. But they were all empty.

  She yanked open the second drawer. More files, very neatly arranged, but they didn’t contain a damn thing, not even scrap paper. Jaz pulled out each and every one of them anyway, just to check, throwing them with growing ferocity to the floor.

  Finally, there were no more to throw. She sat back and stared at the rack and ruin that surrounded her. Maybe Richard had taken the files for safekeeping?

  She smoothed down her hair, pulled in a breath and tried to beat back her tiredness.

  No, Richard wouldn’t have the files. He’d have given them back to her by now if he had.

  Maybe her mother hadn’t kept any files?

  That hardly seemed likely. Frieda Harper had kept meticulous records even for the weekend stall she’d kept at the markets when Jaz was a teenager.

  Jaz rested her head on her arm. Which meant Dianne or Anita—or both of them together—had sabotaged the existing files.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on in here?’

  Jaz jumped so high she swore her head almost hit the ceiling. She swung around to find Connor’s lean, rangy bulk blocking the doorway to the kitchenette. Her heart rate didn’t slow. In fact, her pulse gave a funny little jump.

  ‘Don’t sneak up on a person like that!’ Hollering helped ease the pulse-jumping. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I thought I was making plenty of noise.’ His gaze narrowed as it travelled around the room, took in the untidy stack of files on the floor. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Having a clean out.’ She thrust her chin up, practically daring him to contradict her.

  For a moment she thought the lines around his mouth softened, but then she realised the light was dim in here and she was tired. She was probably only seeing what she wanted to see.

  His nose wrinkled. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘I was burning some incense in here earlier,’ she lied.

  He stared at her. She resisted the urge to moisten her lips. ‘I have a question about a wall,’ she said abruptly, gesturing for him to follow her through to the bookshop and away from eau de burning computer.

  She was lying through her teeth.

  Man, he had to give her ten out of ten for grit.

  Keeping one eye on her retreating back, Connor bent to retrieve a file. Empty. Like its counterparts, he guessed, air whistling between his teeth as he flung the file back on the top of the pile.

  He glanced at the computer. He knew the smell of a burning motherboard. He’d told Frieda months ago she needed to upgrade that computer. He dragged a hand through his hair, then followed Jaz out into the bookshop.

  ‘This wall here…’ She pointed to the wall that divided the kitchenette from the bookshop.

  He had to admire her pluck. But that was all he’d admire. He refused to notice the way her hair gleamed rich and dark in the overhead light—the exact same colour as the icing on Gordon Sears’s chocolate éclairs. He refused to notice how thick and full it was either or how the style she’d gathered it up into left the back of her neck vulnerable and exposed.

  He realised she was staring at him, waiting. He cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t advise building bookshelves on that wall, Jaz.’ He rapped his knuckles against it. ‘Hear how flimsy it is?’

  She stared at him as if she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I can strengthen the wall if you like.’ But it’d cost and it’d take time…time she wouldn’t want to waste waiting for work to be done if he had her pegged right. ‘I could write you up a quote if you want.’ What the hell. He’d do the job for cost.

  ‘I don’t want bookshelves there. I just want to know if you’re doing anything to this wall when you start work down here?’

  ‘No.’ One section of floorboards needed replacing and a couple of bookcases needed strengthening, but not the walls.

  ‘So I’m free to paint it?’

  ‘Sure.’ He frowned. ‘But surely it’d be wiser to wait until all the work is finished, then paint it as a job lot.’

  She stared at him. Her eyes were pools of navy a man could drown in if he forgot himself. She moistened her lips—lush, soft lips—and Connor tried not to forget himself.

  ‘I don’t mean that kind of painting, Connor.’

  It took a moment for her words to make sense. His head snapped back when they did.

  She stared at the wall and he knew it wasn’t pale green paint she saw.

  ‘I mean to paint a portrait of my mother here.’ She turned, a hint of defiance in her eyes, but her whole face had come alive. So alive it made him ache.

  A memorial to Frieda? He wanted to applaud her. He wanted to kiss her. He needed his head read. ‘Do you mean to start it tonight?’

  ‘No, but I might prime the wall tomorrow.’

  For Pete’s sake, did she mean to work herself into the ground? ‘I thought you’d be back at Gwen’s by now.’

  ‘Hmm, no.’

  Something in her tone made his eyes narrow.
‘Why not?’ Jaz and Gwen had been great pals.

  She didn’t look at him. She cocked her head and continued to survey the wall.

  He resisted the urge to shake her. ‘Jaz?’

  ‘I think the less Gwen has to see of me, the happier she will be.’

  He’d considered Richard’s suggestion that Jaz stay at Gwen’s an excellent one at the time. He’d thought it’d give Jaz a friend, an ally. He’d obviously got that wrong…and he should’ve known better. ‘Sorry.’ The apology dropped stiff from his lips. ‘My fault.’

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I hardly think so.’

  ‘I should’ve thought it through. Gwen…she was pretty cut up when you left. She wouldn’t speak to me for months. She kept expecting to hear from you.’

  Jaz stiffened, then she swung around, closed the gap between them and gripped his forearms. ‘What did you just say?’

  Her scent assaulted him and for a moment he found it impossible to speak. Her face had paled, lines of strain fanned out from her eyes. He couldn’t remember a time when she’d looked more beautiful. The pressure of her hands on his arms increased, her grip would leave marks, but he welcomed the bite of her nails on his skin.

  ‘She thought you were friends, Jaz. She cared about you.’ After him and Faye, Gwen and Richard had been Jaz’s closest friends. ‘Then you left and she never heard from you again. You can guess how she took that.’

  Air hissed out between her teeth. She dropped his arms and stepped back, her eyes wide, stricken—an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck; something wild and injured trying to flee. Without a thought, he reached for her. But she pulled herself up and away, drew in a breath, and he watched, amazed, as she settled a mask of cool composure over her features. As if her distress had never been there at all.

  Hell! That couldn’t be healthy. He dragged a hand back through his hair, surprised to find that it shook. His heart hammered against his ribcage and he cursed himself for being a hundred different kinds of fool where this woman was concerned.

  ‘Well—’ she smiled brightly ‘—that’s me done for the day.’ The knuckles on her hands, folded innocuously at her waist, gleamed white. ‘So, if you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘No!’ He cleared his throat, tried to moderate his tone. ‘I mean…’ Ice prickled across his scalp and the back of his neck. Was it something like this that had tipped Frieda over the edge? ‘I mean, where are you going?’

  Her eyes had gone wide again. This time with surprise rather than…He didn’t know what name to give the expression he’d just witnessed—shock, pain, grief?

  ‘Why, to Gwen’s, of course. I have an apology to make.’ Sorrow stretched through the navy blue of her eyes. ‘I can’t believe how shabbily I’ve treated her. It—’

  She waved a hand in front of her face, as if to dispel some image that disturbed her, and he suddenly realised what it was he’d seen in her eyes—self-loathing. She’d never considered herself worthy of his love, or of Faye, Gwen and Richard’s friendship, had she?

  Why was he only seeing that now?

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Where’s the best place to buy a bottle of wine at this time of night? And chocolate. I’ll need chocolate.’

  ‘The tavern’s bottle shop will still be open.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She smiled at him and he could see that concern for herself, for the bookshop, had been ousted by her concern for Gwen. He didn’t know why that should touch him so deeply. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  She snorted. ‘Connor, it’s a two-minute walk. Thanks all the same, but I’ll be fine.’

  She stared up at him. He stared back. The silence grew and she moistened her lips. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  He nodded, dragged in a breath of her scent as she edged past him, then watched as she let herself out of the shop and disappeared into the evening.

  He turned to stare at the wall she meant to paint.

  With a muffled oath, he strode into the storeroom, disconnected the computer and tucked it under his arm.

  He told himself he’d do the same for anyone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT LUNCHTIME on Wednesday a group of teenagers sauntered through the bookshop’s door and it immediately transported Jaz back in time ten years.

  Oh, dear Lord. Had she ever looked that…confrontational? She bit back a grin. All of them, boys included, wore tip-to-toe black, the girls in stark white make-up and dark matt lipstick. Between the five of them they had more body piercing than the latest art-house installation on display at the Power House Museum. Their Doc Marten boots clomped heavily against the bare floorboards.

  Jaz stopped trying to hold back her grin. She shouldn’t smile. They were probably skiving off from afternoon sport at Clara Falls High. But then…Jaz had skived off Wednesday afternoon sport whenever she could get away with it too.

  ‘If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know,’ she called out.

  ‘Cool,’ said one of the girls.

  ‘Sweet,’ said one of the boys.

  Jaz went back to studying the book she’d found in the business section half an hour ago—Everything You Need To Know About Managing a Bookshop. So far she’d found out that she needed a new computer and an Internet connection.

  One of the girls—the one who’d already spoken—seized a book and came up to the counter. ‘Every week, I come in here to drool over this book. I can’t afford it.’

  It was a coffee table art book—Urban Art. Exactly the same kind of book Jaz herself had pored over at that age.

  ‘Look, we know the people who used to work here quit.’ The girl ran her hands over the cover, longing stretched across her face. ‘If I worked here, how many hours would it take me to earn this book?’

  Jaz told her.

  ‘Will you hire me? My name is Carmen, by the way. And I’m still at school so I could only work weekends, but…I’ll work hard.’

  Jaz wanted to reach out and hug her. ‘I’m Jaz,’ she said instead. They probably knew that already but it seemed churlish not to introduce herself too. ‘And yes, I am looking for staff—permanent, part-time and casual.’ At the moment she’d take what she could get. ‘How old are you, Carmen?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘I would love to hire you, but before I could do that I would need either your mum or dad’s permission.’ No way was she going to cause that kind of trouble.

  Five sets of shoulders slumped. Jaz’s grew heavy in sympathy.

  ‘I hate this town,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘There’s never anything to do!’

  ‘If you look the least bit different you’re labelled a troublemaker.’

  Jaz remembered resenting this town at their age too for pretty much the same reasons. ‘You’re always welcome to come and browse in here.’ She motioned to the book on urban art.

  ‘Thanks,’ Carmen murmured, but the brightness had left her eyes. She glanced up from placing the book back on its shelf. ‘Is it true you’re a tattoo artist?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ And she wasn’t ashamed of it.

  ‘And are you running drugs through here?’

  What? Jaz blinked. ‘I could probably rustle you up an aspirin if you needed one, but anything stronger is beyond me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I told you that was a lie!’ Carmen hissed to the others.

  ‘Yeah, well, fat chance that my mum’ll let me work here once she catches wind of that rumour,’ one of the others grumbled.

  The teenagers drifted back outside.

  Drugs? Drugs! Jaz started to shake. Her hands curved into claws. Just because she was a tattoo artist that made her a junkie, or a drug baron?

  She wished Mac could hear this.

  The whole town would boycott her shop if those kinds of rumours took hold. Very carefully, she unclenched her hands. She drummed her fingers against the countertop for a moment, a grim smile touching her lips. Very carefully, she smoothed down her hair. Her smile grew.
So did the grimness.

  She hooked the ‘Back in five minutes’ sign to the window, locked the door and set off across the street. ‘You’ll enjoy this,’ she said, without stopping, to Mrs Lavender, who sat on her usual park bench on the traffic island. She reminded herself to walk tall. She reminded herself she was as good as anyone else in this town. Without pausing, she breezed into Mr Sears’s shop with her largest smile in place and called out, ‘Howdy, Mr Sears! How are you today? Aren’t we having the most glorious weather? Good for business, isn’t it?’

  Mr Sears jerked around from the far end of the shop and his eyes darkened with fury, lines bracketing his mouth, distorting it.

  ‘I’ll take a piece of your scrumptious carrot cake to go, thanks.’

  The rest of the bakery went deathly quiet. Jaz pretended to peruse the baked goodies on display in their glass-fronted counters until she was level with Mr Sears. ‘If you refuse to serve me,’ she told him, quietly so no one else heard her, ‘I will create the biggest scene Clara Falls has ever seen. And, believe me, you will regret it.’ Her smile didn’t slip an inch.

  Mr Sears seized a paper bag. He continued to glare, but he very carefully placed a piece of carrot cake inside it. It was a trait Jaz remembered, and it brought previous visits rushing back. He’d always treated his goods as if they were fine porcelain. For some reason that made her throat thicken.

  She swallowed the thickness away. ‘Best bread for twenty miles, my mother always used to say,’ she continued in her bright, breezy, you’re-my-long-lost-best-friend voice. A voice that probably carried all the way outside and across to where Mrs Lavender sat grinning on her park bench.

  Carmen emerged from the back of the bakery. ‘Hey, Dad, can I…’ She stopped dead to stare from her father to Jaz and back again. She swallowed, then offered Jaz a half-hearted smile. ‘Hey, Jaz.’

  ‘Hey, Carmen.’ Carmen was Gordon Sears’s daughter? Whew! His glare grew even more ferocious. She grinned back. That was too delicious for words. ‘And I’ll take a loaf of your famous sourdough too, Mr S.’

  He looked as if he’d like to throw the loaf at her head. He didn’t. He placed it in a bag and set it down beside her carrot cake. His fingers lingered on the bag, as if in apology to it for where it was going.