Their Miracle Baby

by Caroline Anderson

  She peeled and chopped the fruit—strawberries, a chunk of melon, two bananas and a handful of blueberries—threw in a good glug of locally sourced apple juice and turned on the liquidiser.

  At least it drowned out the silence, he thought, and then she handed him a glass of purplish mush, clinked hers against it and said, ‘Welcome home, Mike.’

  What could he do? He picked up the glass, took a breath and sipped, then frowned at it. ‘This is really nice,’ he said, surprised, and she smiled—in relief?

  ‘Good. Drink up, and you can go and have a lie-down. You look tired.’

  He was, and, curiously, what he wanted more than anything was to ask her to join him, but he didn’t think he could. Not easily. Not after last night.

  So he drank up, took some more painkillers and went to bed.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HE SLEPT most of that day, and the night was made easier by the stack of pillows under and around his leg, propping it up and protecting his toes from the pressure of the quilt. Not that he needed it, because it was hot, and in the end they abandoned it in favour of a sheet.

  But then it grew cooler, the wind picking up a little, and because their bedroom was on a corner and there was a cross-draught from the windows, Fran found herself snuggling closer to him for warmth.

  Only her head and shoulders, her body carefully kept out of reach, but he slid his arm round her and held her, and together they slept the rest of the night till the fingers of light crept over the horizon and woke them.

  Well, woke her. And when she looked up, Mike was watching her, his eyes curiously intent, and her heart thumped.

  ‘Want a drink?’ she asked him, easing away and stretching out the kinks in her neck.

  ‘Mmm. Tea would be nice.’

  She hesitated. ‘How about juice? It’s quicker and it won’t keep you awake.’

  ‘OK.’

  She slipped out of bed and went down to the kitchen, foraging in the back of the cupboard for the decaf tea bags she’d bought for them. ‘Oh, Brodie, it would be so much easier if I could tell him what I was doing and why, but I don’t know if I can. What do you think he’ll say?’

  And that was the trouble, of course. Mike was avoiding her, she was avoiding him, and they just weren’t talking. Not that they ever had, really. Maybe that was the trouble, but once the lid was off that box…

  ‘I can’t talk to him, Brodie. Not about getting pregnant again. Not until I know how he feels about me.’ And, of course, without talking to him, she never would.

  ‘So—what are we going to do today?’

  Mike dragged his eyes from the window and looked at her. They were in the sitting room overlooking the garden and the sea in the distance, the church and lighthouse just visible on the horizon.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ he said, wondering if he sounded like a spoilt brat. He felt like one. If it wasn’t for the physical impossibility, he would have stamped his foot, but because he couldn’t he just ground his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers on the other arm.

  God, he hated the inactivity! Hated sitting still, being unable to do anything, just—sitting, for heaven’s sake! He never sat! Well, not unless he was in front of the computer,

  ‘How about going for a drive?’

  He thought about it, but his ribs probably weren’t up to being jostled and he’d quickly discovered that if he didn’t have his foot up, the cast got uncomfortably tight. Although comfort wasn’t really a word he could have used truthfully and it was all a matter of degree.

  ‘We could play Scrabble.’

  Fran stared at him. ‘You hate Scrabble.’

  ‘Not as much as I hate lying here doing nothing. Got any better ideas?’

  She looked away, and he was stunned to see a warm sweep of colour brush over her cheeks. Fran, blushing? She got up hastily and crouched down, rummaging in the cupboard where the games were kept, and by the time she straightened up her colour had returned to normal.

  She still didn’t look at him, though, and he was fascinated. Fascinated, and very curious, and strangely a little edgy.

  ‘If I move the coffee-table over by you, can you manage on that?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  It worked. Sort of. It was a little low, but that was fine, because every time she leant over to put her letters down on the board, he got a view straight down the V of her T-shirt, and it was worth every second of the discomfort he felt when he put his own letters down.

  Especially when she realised it was hurting him and started taking the letters from him and putting them down for him. So he got twice as many opportunities to see the soft, warm shadow between her breasts.

  ‘Grackle? You can’t have that!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Want a bet?’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘It’s a type of mynah bird.’

  She sat back and stared at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Look it up.’

  ‘And lose my go? No way. I know you and animals.’ She added the score, and he leant over and shifted one of the letters to expose the coloured square.

  ‘Don’t forget it’s on a double word score,’ he pointed out, and she scribbled out the score and wrote the correct one in.

  ‘I’m not going to let you win,’ she said fiercely, scowling at her letters and checking the board. ‘You always win—even though you hate it, you always win.’ She put down ‘lathe’, and he added an ‘r’ to it and got another double word score.

  ‘Don’t sulk,’ he teased, and she glared at him, then laughed and threw a letter at him.

  ‘Don’t gloat, then! I was going to do that when I got an “r”.’

  ‘You should have hung on.’

  ‘No doubt.’ She shuffled her letters, grinned and hung ‘runcible’ on the ‘r’ of ‘lather’, getting a triple word score and a bonus for using all her letters.

  ‘Runcible? You can’t have that, it’s not a proper word!’ he protested.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s Edward Lear—he has a runcible spoon in “The Owl and the Pussycat”—“They dined on mince and

  ‘And a runcible cat in “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”,’ she said, and quoted back at him, ‘ “ He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s runcible cat with crimson whiskers.” I rest my case,’ she said smugly.

  He tried not to laugh. ‘It’s not in the dictionary.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is.’

  ‘I bet it isn’t.’

  ‘What do you bet?’

  He took a slow breath, his eyes locked with hers. ‘A kiss.’

  She coloured, and then looked away and laughed a little oddly. ‘You’re on.’ And she handed him the dictionary.

  Except he didn’t take it. He caught her wrist, gave it a gentle tug and toppled her towards him. She gave a little shriek and grabbed the back of the sofa with her free hand so she didn’t fall on him, but his nose ended up in her cleavage, and he turned his head and brushed his lips against the soft, shadowed skin.

  She caught her breath and straightened, sinking down onto the edge of the sofa, and their eyes locked. Slowly, carefully, he leant forwards, stifling the groan as his ribs pinched, and touched his mouth to hers.

  For an endless, aching second she was still, then she moved away. ‘Uh-uh,’ she said, her voice over-bright and her smile pinned in place. ‘You have to win a kiss, and you haven’t looked it up yet.’ And she stood up and moved back to the other side of the coffee-table and safety.

  He found it—of course. She was never so definite if she wasn’t sure about something, and he’d bet she’d looked it up recently when they’d been doing Lear at school.

  ‘Shame,’ he said softly, closing the dictionary, and her eyes flew up and met his, then slid away again, but he’d had his kiss. Sort of. And it had left him aching for more.

  He wanted to drag her off to bed, kiss her senseless and dr
ive out this reluctance of hers, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t and, anyway, it was as much as he could do to drag himself there, never mind an unwilling woman.

  Besides, he didn’t want to. Not if it meant her going through hell again with another failed pregnancy somewhere down the line because of him.

  He reached out, letters in hand, but she tutted and put another word down before him. ‘My turn,’ she pointed out. ‘You forfeited your turn when you looked in the dictionary.’

  He gave up trying and let her win, as much as anything because he couldn’t sit there any longer and look down her cleavage at something he wasn’t able to touch…

  Sophie came later, running into the sitting room with her eyes wide with worry and fascination. ‘Wow, you’ve got a proper cast!’ she said in awe. ‘Can I draw a picture on it?’

  ‘Sure—when I’ve had a hug.’

  ‘Mind his ribs, darling,’ Fran warned her. ‘He’s a bit sore.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Will I hurt you if I hug you?’ she asked, nibbling her lip, and he shook his head and pulled her up onto his lap, snuggling her close on his right side, the side that didn’t have the bruises. Well, not so many, anyway, and he needed a cuddle from his little girl.

  She wriggled down tighter, burrowing under his arm, and then lay almost motionless, even breathing carefully

  ‘So—are you all ready for your holiday?’ he said, and she shuffled round so she could see him, gently kneeing him in the groin as she did so. He grabbed her leg and held it still, and over her shoulder he could see Fran biting her lip and trying not to laugh.

  ‘Yup. I’ve packed my things already. I want to see Nessie again. Last time we went to Scotland we saw Nessie,’ she said. ‘Didn’t we, Mummy?’

  Kirsten smiled. ‘Well, there were some ripples on Loch Ness that might have been caused by an animal, but they could have been the wind.’

  ‘It was Nessie, I know it was,’ Sophie said adamantly. ‘And we had haggis. I’m not eating that again!’ She pulled a face, and Mike chuckled.

  ‘Didn’t you like it?’

  ‘It was disgusting!’ she said. ‘All greasy and smelly and made of a sheep’s stomach! It was horrid. But we had lots of shortbread and I like that. Mummy says we can go back to the shop we bought it from and get some more. Oh, and we’re going up Ben Nevis again! We walked halfway up last time, to the little lake, and Andrew had to carry me down ’cos I had bendy legs, but I’m bigger now. Maybe we’ll even get to the top!’

  He smothered the laugh and hugged her again. ‘Poor old Andrew! Let’s hope you make it both ways this time. Coming down’s always the hardest bit.’ He knew—he’d carried Sophie down his fair share of hills over the years, and it got your knees like nothing else. ‘Hey, how about

  ‘Good idea,’ Fran said with a smile. ‘Come on, guys, let’s go and make tea for Mike.’ She held out her hand to Sophie, who slithered over his chest, grabbed her hand and cuddled up to her side.

  ‘Can I make him banana sandwiches?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Fran chuckled, and Mike listened to them making their way towards the kitchen and smiled at Kirsten.

  ‘Sounds like you’ll have a busy holiday.’

  ‘Well, we will if she has anything to do with it, but we all love Scotland and Andrew’s parents spoil her to death. So—are you OK to have her for the week when we get back?’

  ‘Fine. Make it Sunday afternoon, can you? I should be able to help out in the shop over the weekend by then, and I feel I ought to be pulling my weight.’

  ‘Sunday’s fine. It’ll give me time to unpack and wash her stuff.’ She stared at his leg. ‘I’m sorry about your accident.’

  He shrugged. ‘I was being stupid.’

  ‘So I gather. And I always thought you were clever. Maybe we should get Sophie screened for the reckless gene.’

  He snorted. ‘So rude.’

  ‘You asked for it.’ She stopped smiling and perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Actually, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  He looked up into her face, and his heart sank. He knew, before she opened her mouth, what she was going to say.

  ‘When’s it due?’ he asked.

  She frowned, then said sadly, ‘Is it so obvious?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, don’t forget. So when is it? February? March?’

  Yes, he knew. What he didn’t know was how on earth he was going to tell Fran. He dredged up a smile. ‘Congratulations, Kirsten,’ he said softly, and, drawing her down, he hugged her gently and brushed a kiss against her cheek. ‘I hope it all goes well for you. Sophie’s dying for a little brother or sister and we don’t seem to be getting any closer to achieving that for her, so I’m really pleased for you.’

  She blinked hard and smiled. ‘Thank you. I know it isn’t easy for you.’

  ‘Mummy—Mummy! It’s a chocolate fudge cake! Absolutely my favourite! And I’ve made some banana sandwiches, and Fran’s made a huge pot of tea—she’s bringing it on a tray.’

  ‘How lovely—I’ll help her,’ Kirsten said, standing up and giving him another slightly worried smile. ‘Mike, are you sure you’re OK about it?’

  ‘About what?’ Sophie asked, bouncing around the room with the dog on her heels.

  ‘Having you for the week once you’re back,’ he said quickly. ‘I think if Fran’s OK with it, we could have you from the weekend after next? I should get a walking cast so I might be a bit more mobile by then. And we’re pushed on the farm at the moment, because one of the shop ladies is off on holiday, so we’ll have you from Sunday afternoon, perhaps? Then we’ll have plenty of time to hear about your holiday.’

  Kirsten shot him a grateful look for his hasty intervention. ‘That would be fine. I’ll bring her over—we’ll go and talk to Fran now and sort out the times,’ she said, and went out to help with the tea things.

  Pregnant.

  Hell. It was going to kill Fran—and he was going to have to strike the fatal blow…

  Mike seemed much more comfortable with the new cast.

  Maybe it was because his leg was starting to recover from the insult of the fracture and the repair, or maybe he was giving in and taking the painkillers regularly and not trying to be heroic.

  Whatever, he was sleeping better, and that meant Fran was too.

  Just as well, she thought, because with him out of action, now she was on holiday from school she was doing as much as she could on the farm to help out. She didn’t do the milking—Russell seemed more than happy to do that, and she didn’t like to stop him. She sensed that he missed the farm, and also that he needed to be needed, something that Mike wasn’t very good at understanding.

  He was so busy trying to take the pressure off his father that sometimes she wondered if they’d taken too much too soon, but it was certainly back on now, and Russell seemed to be thriving on it.

  And Joy was helping in the farm shop, as usual, and so Fran ended up making the cheese.

  She didn’t mind. It was quite therapeutic, really, and because of the tight timings—adding the starter culture once the milk was the right temperature, then stirring it, then leaving it, then adding the rennet, and the mould if it was to be a blue cheese, then cutting it, then scooping out

  There was all the work in the cheese stores as well, turning and salting and testing, and then packaging the cheeses for sale, either in wheels or cut into wedges and shrink-wrapped.

  It all took time, and as they were so busy with the summer tourist influx it kept her well out of Mike’s way, but it was quite hard physical work, and she was feeling drained this week. Just because it was another thing, another turn of the screw at a time when things were already tough enough, she’d started her period on Sunday evening, and although she knew she couldn’t be pregnant—well, after all, how could she without any contact with Mike?—nevertheless it still made her feel down.

  She’d just finished a long session of salting and turning in the blue cheese store on Thursda
y and was cooking their supper when she saw Ben heading towards the house with a book in his hand. She went to the door and opened it with a smile. ‘Hi, Ben!’ she said, and he smiled back.

  ‘Hello, Fran. Is Mike in? I’ve got something for him.’

  ‘Yes—go on through. He’s in the sitting room. He’s bored to death. He’ll be delighted to see you. Want a cup of tea?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I won’t hold you up, I can see you’re cooking. I’ll just go and have a chat for a few minutes.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. You carry on, I won’t be long.’

  * * *

  Ben was standing in the doorway, and Mike chuckled and shifted up the sofa, propping himself up against the backrest and moving his leg into a more comfortable position.

  ‘Absolutely. Come on in, make yourself at home.’

  ‘So how are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know—bored, sore, frustrated with the ceaseless inactivity…’

  ‘Peachy, then.’

  ‘Oh, utterly.’

  Ben grinned and dropped into the armchair opposite. ‘Thought so. I’ve brought you a book—it’s an autobiography I’ve just finished reading. The guy was unfortunate enough to become one of my patients and he gave it to me. Nice man. I thought you might enjoy it. It’s quite funny and very touching—he used to be a farmer.’

  He slid it over the coffee-table and Mike picked it up, flicked through the pictures and put it down. ‘Thanks. I’ve heard about it—if I’d thought I’d have the time, I would have bought a copy, so I’ll enjoy reading it. God knows, there’s not much else to do at the moment.’

  Ben chuckled. ‘I can imagine. So when did they change your cast?’

  ‘Tuesday. It doesn’t seem to be swelling too much, so they were happy to do it. I have to say it looked pretty grim.’

  Ben nodded. ‘I expect it’s black.’

  ‘Mmm—like this,’ he said, lifting up his T-shirt and making Ben wince.

  ‘That’s a goody. You were lucky your chest didn’t cave