by Nicola Marsh
As for women, his deliberate dating drought suited him fine. If he couldn’t muster enthusiasm for much in his life, he’d be useless with a woman. Until he dealt with his guilt, he couldn’t move on.
When Sara had looked at him with that mix of fear and sorrow, a certainty in his gut told him she knew the feeling.
“Is there a husband in the picture?”
“No.” Cilla’s eyes narrowed, fixing him with a disapproving glare. “Issy didn’t think much of him. Said she’d only seen him once, at the wedding, that he never came to visit. An uptight city type, according to Issy. More in love with his cell than with anyone else, apparently. Didn’t have much time for Sara or their daughter.”
Jake couldn’t fathom the relief at Cilla’s pronouncement. He had no intention of starting anything while he was in town, least of all with a grieving mother. “Then she’s better off without him.”
“Issy agreed.” Cilla picked up a bunch of thyme and tied it with a string. “What about you? Anyone special in your life?”
Jake shook his head. “Relationships aren’t my thing.”
Cilla frowned. “Never been close to marriage?”
“I’d need to be in a long-term relationship for that to happen, so no.” Increasingly uncomfortable with discussing his lack of interest in forming a lasting bond with a woman, he pushed off the bench. “Give me a holler if you need help in here.”
Thankfully, she accepted his abrupt change of topic.
“I’ve been doing this on my own for a while, but thanks.” She turned back to her mint and basil and rosemary, effectively dismissing him. “But remember what I said: Sara needs time to heal.”
According to the shrink he’d seen at work to debrief, the day of the crash, he did too.
No one understood the darkness he struggled with on a daily basis.
Who knew—maybe he and Sara could heal together.
Mentally chastising himself for being foolish, he bounded up the back steps and into the kitchen, to find Olly hunched over the dining table, crayons scattered across it.
For the first time since he’d taken custody of Olly, his nephew’s face lit up at the sight of him.
“Uncle Jake, check this out.” Olly bounced up and down in his chair, brandishing a folded piece of paper with a giant red balloon on the front. “I’ve made a card for Sara to cheer her up.”
Jake’s chest ached for this incredibly intuitive boy who wanted to make someone else happy, when he still must be feeling disoriented himself.
He crossed the kitchen to crouch next to Olly. “That’s great, buddy.”
Olly grinned. “Want to see the inside?”
“You bet.”
Olly opened the card with a flourish. “I hope Sara likes sharks. Because that’s what I drew. And seaweed. And some fish. See?”
Jake looked at the colorful drawings and his chest constricted further. “It’s brilliant, Olly. Really great.”
“Thanks.” Olly shrugged like Jake’s praise meant little. “But I think you should give it to her. I might make her cry again.” Olly’s smile waned. “Mom cries sometimes too. At night, when she thinks I can’t hear her, but I do. It makes me sad.”
Jake wanted to bundle Olly into his arms and squeeze him tight. But Olly rarely tolerated more than a hair ruffle the last few days and he didn’t want to push the tentative bond they’d formed.
He straightened and slid onto the chair next to Olly. “You know, buddy, we all get sad sometimes. And crying is a way to express that sadness. It’s normal.”
Olly studied him with solemnity. “Do you cry?”
Jake nodded, remembering the night of the plane crash, when he’d barely made it through his front door before breaking down and sobbing like a baby. Compared to the tears he’d shed in private as a kid, after another of his dad’s brutal putdowns, it had been a doozy of a crying jag.
“Yeah, when I’m really sad.”
“Me too,” Olly whispered, glancing over his shoulder like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “When Mom’s sad, I get sad, and sometimes I cry.” He scrunched up his eyes. “And that time I fell off the swing and hurt my leg. And when the class guinea pig died when it was my turn to take it home. And that other time . . .”
Olly glanced away, furtive, and Jake didn’t know whether to encourage him or leave well enough alone.
When Olly started pushing the crayons around roughly, Jake felt compelled to ask. “What other time?”
Olly pushed the crayons harder until one tumbled off the table onto the floor and he glanced up, fearful. “That first night at your house. Because I missed Mom and didn’t like that seaweed stuff for dinner and I was scared.”
“It’ll be okay.” This time Jake didn’t hesitate in wrapping his arms around Olly and hugging hard. “I know being in a new place is scary but you can always count on me.” He rubbed his cheek against Olly’s curls and battled the burning rising in his chest. “Always.”
“Thanks, Uncle Jake.” Olly slid his arms around him, tentative, but when he squeezed back Jake knew they’d made serious progress.
When Olly wriggled free, he grabbed the card and thrust it at him. “Can you give Sara my card now please? Because if she has no kids to give her a hug, she won’t have anyone to make her feel better like we just did.”
The kid was a genius. “Okay, I’ll deliver it to her now.”
“And tell her I said hi.” Olly scooped crayons into a pencil case. “Is it okay if I watch TV ’til you get back?”
“Sure. I’ll be back soon.” This time, when Jake ruffled Olly’s hair, the kid beamed.
A hug might not be much in the grand scheme of things but it was progress in their relationship. And Jake knew he had Cilla to thank for it. She’d been a gentle buffer between them the last few days, getting them to help her with simple things, from weeding one of her many herb gardens to cleaning windows.
Olly had been hesitant at first—city kids didn’t get to do stuff like that—but Cilla had been patient and encouraging, and soon Olly had been splashing soap suds and hoeing like a kid enjoying himself.
He’d been wary around Jake, as if he blamed his uncle for taking him away from his mom. But Cilla had advised to give it time, not to rush the boy, and Jake valued her opinion.
So that hug had been huge. A monumental step forward. Jake hoped the peace would continue. But he wasn’t a fool. While Cilla had agreed to letting them stay, what happened if she grew tired of having them around? What if Jake had to head back to New York City and care for Olly alone in his sparse apartment? There were no gardens to explore or hedges to crawl through or vegetables to pick there. He had a feeling Olly would revert to being sullen and scared.
Cilla’s kindness knew no bounds but the key to staying around was to make himself useful. He was good with his hands. Whatever she needed doing, he’d do it. Maybe see if he could help out in town too.
Satisfied with his plan, he slipped out the front door, wanting to bypass Cilla and a potential lecture if she knew where he was heading. It took a brisk two-minute walk to reach Sara’s front door. Her house wasn’t as large as Cilla’s but appeared upkept, with the shutters painted a pristine white, stark against the red bricks. The garden looked tended too, a riot of color with flowers of different shades. The place looked cozy. Like a home. Something he’d never really had and had always coveted.
For him, home conjured up visions of roaring fires in winter, a hammock on a sundeck in summer and a kitchen filled with food and laughter. Happy people to love and support and nurture.
The closest he’d ever had to it growing up was when he visited next door and Cilla served up her baked goodies. Laughter had been at a premium. The rest had been a pipe dream.
Shaking off his maudlin memories, he knocked at the door. He didn’t want to intrude, not after Sara had been upset earlier, but Olly had asked him to do this and at the moment, with their tentative bond slowly solidifying, he’d do anything for his nephew.
The door swung open and Sara stared at him like he’d delivered a pile of horse manure on her front step.
“What are you doing here?” A tiny frown line appeared between her brows as she half hid behind the door.
“Olly was concerned that he upset you earlier so he made you this.” Knowing this could be a bad idea he thrust the card at her. “It’s his way of saying sorry.”
When she stared at the card in growing horror, he said, “He also asked me to say hi.”
Almost as an afterthought, he added, “He’s a good kid.”
Sara didn’t speak, her eyes downcast and expression dismayed, but she finally reached for the card. She opened it as if in slow motion and when she glanced at the drawings, a lone tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek.
Hell.
“Anyway, I just wanted to drop it off . . .” He trailed off as more tears followed the first, and Sara stumbled back with an anguished cry, before pressing her fist to her mouth.
Jake’s gut went into free-fall. This was bad. Really bad. He’d stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions when he should’ve left well enough alone.
She didn’t slam the door and he felt awful leaving her in this state, so he followed her into the house, concern and discomfort making him feel gauche. What did he do in a situation like this? He barely knew the woman so he had no right comforting her, but as the card slid from her hands and she cried harder, he instinctively reached for her.
Surprisingly, she let him hold her. Let him smooth her hair, stroke her back, and whisper trite things like “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. At least, not for him. Because as he held her, he started to notice things. The way she fit perfectly against him. The way her hair smelled: like vanilla and coconut. The way she snuggled into him and clutched at his shirt, like she never wanted to let go.
At that moment, the hug morphed from comforting to something else for him and he slowly disengaged, not wanting to scare her off completely if she felt exactly how much he liked holding her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her eyes with her fingertips. “You must think I’m an idiot for blubbering all over you like that.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” He glanced at the card on the floor, unsure whether to pick it up or not.
She followed his gaze and her lips compressed, as if she struggled to fight back tears again. “My daughter Lucy died a year ago. I’m coping okay but there are days . . .” She squatted, picked up the card, and straightened. “It’s rough.”
“I’m so sorry about Lucy.” He shook his head, powerless to do anything but offer trite condolences. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”
“Not many can,” she said, staring at the card with a glimmer of interest. “Olly seems like a sweet kid. Especially to do this for me when he thought he upset me.”
“He is,” Jake said. “If seeing him makes things worse for you, I’ll make sure he stays out of your way.”
To her credit, she didn’t offer false protest. Instead, she headed down the hallway and beckoned for him to follow. “Let’s see how it goes.”
As he followed her, the walls caught his eye. Or more precisely, what covered them. Beautiful pictures burned into pieces of wood and leather. Exquisite drawings made by a very talented artist.
“These are amazing,” he said, gently tracing the outline of a rose etched into a pale wood. “Was your grandma an artist?”
Sara paused in the kitchen doorway, shuffling her weight from side to side, uncomfortable. “Actually, I did those.”
“Wow, you’re good.” He stepped closer to another piece of wood, depicting the house. “Exceptionally good.”
“Thanks. I haven’t done pyrography for years, but I’ve just ordered some new materials and was planning to tinker.”
“You should.” He met her gaze, felt that jolt again, the same one he’d experienced in the garden. “Have you ever shown your work professionally?”
Her eyes widened. “Like an exhibition, you mean?”
“Yeah. I’ve been to a fair share of gallery openings in New York and your stuff is much better than anything I’ve seen there.”
A tentative smile played about her lips and it made something twang in his chest. He’d hazard a guess she didn’t smile often these days—he knew the feeling—and it transformed her from pretty to stunning.
“After a compliment like that, I should either offer you a coffee in gratitude or pour you a whiskey in the hope I’ll hear more lies like that.”
He found himself smiling back at her, the muscles in his face almost creaking at the foreign movement. “A coffee would be great.”
He followed her into the kitchen, a huge room that also housed a dining table, a sideboard and giant chest of drawers. Various pieces of wood and a tool that looked like a soldering iron covered the table.
“This your stuff?”
At the sink filling a kettle with water, she glanced over her shoulder and nodded. “Yeah.”
“You did all those pieces in here?” It didn’t look like much of a workspace.
The light from her earlier smile faded. “No. There’s a shed at the back of the property. I loved working down there.”
“And now?”
“I prefer to work here.” Her tone curt, she busied herself with spooning coffee into cups and he knew there was more to the story.
But he had no right to delve, not when it might precipitate another crying bout.
He picked up the soldering iron and turned it over. Tools fascinated him, always had, hence his interest in mechanics. “So you burn pictures into the wood using this?”
She nodded, the tension of a moment ago fading. “Traditionally defined, pyrography is the art of writing with fire.”
She crossed the kitchen and plucked the tool out of his hands. “See this tip? It’s electrically heated to scorch designs into the wood or leather, the mediums I work with.”
Intrigued by how animated her expression was when discussing her art, he wanted to keep her talking.
“How did you get started?”
“I loved art at school.” She wrinkled her nose and gave an unladylike snort that he found cute. “Had a huge crush on my teacher, so it was the only class I paid any attention in.” She flipped the tool over, weighing it in her palm. “One day he started talking about some cultures, like the Egyptians and a few African tribes, and how they practiced pyrography. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since.”
She laid down the tool and blinked, as if reawakening from a memory. “But like anyone who led a nomadic life and got dragged around the country and brought up without much money, I ignored my artistic side, did a finance degree at college and became a financial analyst.”
She didn’t sound bitter but he saw the way she glanced at the paraphernalia on the table. Wistful, with a hint of hope.
Anything that could make her hopeful after what she’d been through, he was all for.
“You’re taking a sabbatical?”
She shook her head. “I quit. Gran left me this place and I’ve got enough saved to have a year off work. After that . . .” She shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll find a job around here.”
“Or you could concentrate on your art.”
She stared at him like he’d suggested she pose naked for art rather than do it. “I couldn’t make a living out of that.”
“Why not? Other artists do.”
She pulled a face. “But they’re good—”
“So are you, sweetheart, trust me.”
The endearment slipped out and he held his breath, expecting her to renege on her offer of coffee pronto. Instead, she chose to ignore it, and finished making the coffee.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Neither,” he said, content to watch her move about the kitchen. There was nothing overtly sexy about her outfit: fitted red tank top, knee-length navy shorts, and beaded flip-flops. But the way the clothes clung to her body, highligh
ting her trim waist yet curvy hips and breasts, made him wonder why he’d sworn off women until he got his head together.
“Let’s take these outside,” she said, glancing over her shoulder in time to see him staring at her legs.
Great.
He hoped his rueful grin conveyed he wasn’t a perv as much as a red-blooded male appreciating a pretty woman.
Her brows knitted together, as if she were perplexed that he’d find her attractive, and she waited until he opened the back door before stepping through.
Cilla might have warned him off Sara, and he might not want to date while he was still screwed up over the crash, but for a brief moment, when she’d noticed his appreciation of her assets and acknowledged it with confusion rather than a backhander, he wondered if getting to know Sara better could be an option after all.
13.
After living with Jake and Olly for five days, Cilla needed a break. Not that she didn’t love the company, but after living on her own for so long, it was tough having her personal space invaded.
She was used to early nights, waking at dawn, then puttering at her own pace. She liked the solitude, having her house sorted and everything in its place. She’d forgotten how kids made a mess and didn’t always follow the same routine she did.
As a child, Tam had, because Cilla made her. She hadn’t wanted Tam getting underfoot with Vernon and potentially drawing his wrath, so she’d made her follow a strict routine. Tam had rebelled initially, like any sane kid would, but after a vicious tongue-lashing from her father when she’d accidentally knocked over one of his beer bottles, Tam had fallen into line.
She’d been five at the time, only a year younger than Olly, and the thought of what her child had grown up with—the regimented routines, the forced quiet, all because she hadn’t wanted to annoy Vernon . . . damn, was it any wonder Tam didn’t want to have much to do with her these days?
No child should be made to feel like they’re an intrusion in their own home. But fear had been a powerful motivator for Cilla back then and she would’ve done anything—and had—to protect Tam from Vernon.
