by Maggie Cox
The word came out when she didn’t mean it but something inside must have been trying to save her from further heartache, to make her see sense. Dammit… Slowly Mac withdrew his hand, then his body, and got carefully to his feet. Disappointment was like a fever burning her up. For a few moments Tara just lay there in the soft green grass, staring up at the perfectly blue sky, wanting to die. Then, as the slightly inclement breeze drifted across her exposed flesh, she pulled the seams of her shirt together, hastily did up the offending button and pushed herself to her feet.
Risking a quick glance at Mac, she shrugged and started to walk again. ‘We’d better get back,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘I think there’s a good chance of rain.’
‘So you’re a meteorologist now as well?’ he shot back from behind.
The corners of Tara’s mouth eased up into a relieved smile. At least Mac hadn’t lost his sense of humour. And, thinking of that potentially explosive little encounter just now in the grass—at least he didn’t bear a grudge either.
Tara was in the shower. Knowing that fact and feeling unable to cope with just the thought of that curvy, slender body beneath the warm, reviving spray of which he’d so recently taken advantage himself, Mac made his way into the generous-sized living room to stare out at the awe-inspiring vista of sea, sand and sky. The view was truly something else. The sight of it seemed to reach right inside him to the place where not even he sometimes dared to dwell, swirling round emotional wounds and scars, hopes and dreams, like a cleansing wind challenging him to dream some more. Folding his arms across his black cashmere sweater, he couldn’t help but sigh. Was he a fool to hope for more than this? This short time together trying to right past wrongs? To hope that Tara might find it in her heart to give him a second chance? They’d made a baby together—didn’t that count for anything? Thinking about the baby—the son who had grown inside Tara’s womb for six short months then died—Mac reluctantly remembered his dream. The sound of the infant crying so mournfully came back in an instant and the pain that swelled up inside him was unrelenting and totally unforgiving. Mac thumped his chest to release the breath that was suddenly trapped there, alarmed to find that his eyes were stinging with tears.
Angered by the emotion that washed over him, at his inability to control it—a skill he’d once prized so highly—he walked out the door onto the rectangular patio. Leaning against the waist-high stone wall that separated the house from the rolling panorama of green that dipped down to the sand then the sea, he took several deep breaths to calm himself, glancing up in surprise when he felt a few droplets of rain on his face. Just a few minutes ago there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky. Now there were several little ones and one large grey mass moving ever so slowly but ever so purposefully overhead. She’d been right, the little minx. As he thought about Tara and their eventful morning’s hike, Mac felt his skin growing warm. Throwing off the feeling of despair that had so suddenly sideswiped him, he turned and walked back into the house for shelter. Even as he moved the rain started to descend in big, fat drops. It splattered onto the patio and the potted plants that had a home there and he shivered as he stepped inside the living room, thankful that Mitch had also arranged for a basket of logs and some turf to be left in the utility room to light the fire. They’d certainly need it tonight.
‘How are your feet?’ Her blonde hair swathed turban-style in a big white towel, and dressed in white jeans and a light blue chambray shirt, Tara sauntered in, a becoming dimple at the side of her luscious pink mouth.
‘Massacred, thanks to you.’ Mac glanced down at his bare feet, at the matching set of blisters on his toes and heels, and promised himself that his boots would be well broken in before he ever even considered hiking a similar distance again.
Following his gaze, Tara strolled up beside him, leaning over a little to inspect the damage for herself.
‘They don’t look too bad. You’ll live,’ she announced brightly, then moved across the room to the big, inviting sofa with its myriad patterned and coloured cushions and its crocheted throw across the back. Making herself comfortable, she proceeded to unwrap the towel around her head and shake her damp hair loose.
‘Is that all the sympathy I’m going to get?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Exasperated, Tara speared her fingers through the heavy, damp strands of her hair and shook out the towel. ‘Men are such little boys! If you had to endure half the things we women have to put up with you might have some grounds for receiving some sympathy!’
For some reason, her words didn’t just glance off him in the way she’d obviously intended. She was right. Tara had endured the agonising loss of a baby—something that had been an integral part of her body, her psyche, for six whole months then was suddenly gone. On top of that she’d had to endure the physical agony of giving birth, knowing that at the end of it she wouldn’t have a living child…
‘Mac?’ Dropping the towel onto the arm of the sofa, Tara frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’
He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, either that or unexpectedly delved into a place in his mind where he didn’t really want to go. Her heartbeat skittered a little.
‘Did you have a funeral for the baby?’ he asked, gravel-voiced.
Shock rolled over Tara. Her throat threatening to close, she stared down at her hands, focusing on her slim platinum wedding band as if compelled.
‘I named him Gabriel,’ she told him, glancing up. ‘And yes, I did have a small ceremony, just me and Aunt Beth and a couple of friends. He has a headstone too…with all his details on.’
‘That’s good. Perhaps I can visit some time?’ It was amazing he was able to get the words out without cracking, Mac thought desolately. Moving to the fireplace, he put out a hand to lean against the marble mantel. ‘I’m sorry things couldn’t have been different. I hadn’t intended to walk out, you know…but things were a little crazy back then.’
Picking up the damp towel, Tara folded it across her arm and got to her feet. Her features appeared very pale.
‘Crazy? It was hell! You know it and I know it. Something had to give. You probably did the right thing. I was the foolish one…the dreamer, holding on to nothing. We were both so unhappy and you took steps to put an end to our misery.’
‘Only the misery didn’t end there, did it, Tara? You were pregnant and alone. Then the baby died.’ Moving away from the fireplace, Mac paced the room, feeling as if his legs were suddenly lead weights that didn’t want to carry him. Stopping at the huge window, he stared out unseeingly at the view, taking no pleasure in it, his expression bleak.
‘Things weren’t easier for you when you left?’
Her question shocked him to his bones. Did she really believe that they were? He’d missed her with every cell in his body. Night-time was the worst. Used to having her beside him in bed, waking up and seeing her there, he felt as if he’d been bereaved when she wasn’t. Once a good sleeper, he’d become a total insomniac, resorting to sleeping pills to try and get some rest at night to face the long, demanding days at work. He’d looked and felt like hell.
‘No.’ Gritting his teeth, he moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘Things weren’t easier.’
His expression said it all. Her chest feeling as if it was trapped in a vice, Tara clutched the damp towel to her shirt and wondered why people who once professed to love each other more than life itself could so easily let that love be destroyed. Mac’s reply was a revelation to her. Somehow she’d convinced herself that he had got his life back on track pretty much straight away after leaving her. She’d died a hundred small deaths every day, imagining all the women that would now feel free to come on to him. Would he welcome them? Would he forget the long, passionate nights they’d spent in each other’s arms so easily at the sight of another pretty face? Another warm body? Now he seemed to be telling her that he had suffered too. He hadn’t left her for someone else—he’d simply been trying to find a way to end a situation that had become close to i
ntolerable for both of them.
‘I’m going to the bedroom to dry my hair. Perhaps we can think about doing something tonight? Maybe find a place where they have some music? What do you think?’
Mac turned round fully to face her. It was only because he knew her so well that he noticed the slight quiver of her lower lip that told him she was nervous. Was she afraid the olive branch she was tentatively holding out would be rejected? Didn’t she know the fact that she was holding it out at all, and not catching the next flight home, gave him a tremendous surge of hope that he probably had no right to feel?
‘I think that sounds good. The nearest village isn’t far away. They’re bound to have a pub or two…this is Ireland, right?’
‘Good. That’s settled, then.’ Feeling a delicious warmth spreading right through her body because she had his smiling agreement, Tara tentatively smiled back then hurried from the room.
With a fine fire roaring in the grate and two glasses of creamy smooth Guinness placed squarely in front of them on the little wooden table, Tara and Mac made themselves at home in the unashamedly traditional Irish tavern and let the foot-tapping music of the flute and fiddle happily wash over them. When they’d entered the small, cosy interior of Paddy’s Bar, the glances from the locals had been curious but not intrusive and the famous Irish reputation for warmth and friendliness hadn’t disappointed either. The large, florid-faced barman—‘call me Mike’—had bantered and joked with Mac and thrown several appreciative smiles Tara’s way before leaving them to settle in by the fire and enjoy the night’s entertainment. The two male musicians, one young, one old, the older one with a great bushy beard, played their respective instruments with a passion and a relish that made Tara think longingly of her dancing.
Hearing her sigh, Mac glanced across the table at her with concern. ‘What’s the matter?’
To Tara, observing him sitting there in his navy cable-knit sweater and snug black jeans, his newly washed hair gleaming in the firelight, Mac looked yummy enough to eat. In three years of marriage she’d hardly ever seen him so casually attired. Because he was nearly always at work, he mostly wore immaculately tailored suits, and with his pristine shirts, silk ties and expensive Italian shoes, Tara had often felt the clothes defined the man because somehow they seemed to put up a barrier between them that she often felt too unconfident to transgress. How often had she just longed to ruffle his feathers a little? To muss his hair before he left the flat in the morning, to loosen his tie and maybe leave a discreet little love-bite on his neck? To make him lose that rigid control he naturally assumed for himself. The only place she’d succeeded in doing that was bed, and when she had she’d been more than gratified by the result…
Colouring slightly at the direction of her thoughts, she took a brief sip of her drink before answering him.
‘Nothing’s the matter. This is great. The music just made me think about dancing, that’s all.’
‘Why did you give it up? Was it because you were pregnant? That wouldn’t have stopped you teaching, would it? And please don’t tell me to mind my own business because I want to know.’
‘I lost my concentration.’ As she tussled with a multitude of emotions, Tara’s expression was torn. ‘My nerve. You need joy inside you to dance, you know? And I felt empty, drained. Even more so after what happened to Gabriel… Working for Aunt Beth seemed a much safer option, plus I didn’t want to stay in London.’
‘And now?’ Mac raised his glass, took a sip of his drink and put it down again, his blue eyes watchful as a cat’s.
‘Now? I wouldn’t go back to London if you gave me a million pounds.’
He’d expected as much. Now he knew for sure. ‘And the teaching?’
‘I’ve been thinking about looking for a post locally. There are a lot of private schools in the locality with lots of nicely brought-up young “gels” whose parents want them to learn ballet. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem finding something.’
‘What about the school you wanted? Your own school?’
‘That takes time and money to organise. As you well know.’ She rubbed her hands up and down her arms in the dusky pink sweater she wore as if she was uncomfortable with the subject, which she was.
‘Why didn’t you cash the cheques I sent you?’ He’d sent two cheques because after six months had passed he’d realised to his bewilderment that she hadn’t bothered to cash the first one. The same thing happened to the second.
‘I didn’t want your conscience money, that’s why!’ The heat of the fire making her scarlet cheeks even redder, Tara swallowed down her sudden spurt of anger and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You were probably just trying to do the right thing.’
‘Yeah,’ Mac agreed soberly. ‘Like I always know how to do the right thing. If I had done the right thing in the first place we wouldn’t be in this God-awful mess!’
His pain and frustration tore at Tara’s heartstrings. The man was clearly doing his best to make amends for what had happened in his own way and she wasn’t even meeting him halfway. If she really was tired of playing the blame game then her words and her actions had to reflect that. The man deserved a break, if nothing else. Once upon a time he had been her whole world. She hadn’t forgotten that, even if he had.
‘Why don’t we just sit back and enjoy the music? Better still, why don’t we dance?’ Her mouth trembled a little as she finished speaking but she stood up before he could register his surprise and Mac was still in shock when she slipped her hand into his and urged him to his feet.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ she whispered next to his ear as she led him to the small area where one other couple had bravely taken to the floor. ‘I’m not expecting you to be one of the cast members of Riverdance.’
Unable to hold back the grin that tugged at his lips, Mac pulled her gently and expertly into his arms as if he’d been doing it every day of his life. His heart was beating too hard, too fast, because he’d been longing to hold her like this ever since he’d seen her at the museum. Now that he had her, her blonde hair soft beneath his chin, her supple dancer’s body pressed intimately next to his, Mac reflected that this must surely be one of those perfect moments that the universe conspired to bring humans every now and then…if they were lucky.
‘Not bad,’ Tara murmured softly as he led her round the room, to the slightly mournful tune ‘The Maid of Culmore,’ ‘for a desk-bound city guy.’
The look he gave her in return was pure fire, pure need, and, tightening his arms possessively round her slender waist, he put his lips to her ear and whispered, ‘There are other things this desk-bound city guy can do even better…if you’ll just give him the chance.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAC stood in front of the fire, gazing deeply into the flickering, crackling flames. Outside the wind roared in gusts and the sea encroached onto the shore, waves licking greedily at the undisturbed white sand, although he’d drawn the curtains against the evidence, to shut out the night. From the kitchen he heard Tara humming as she went about making hot chocolate and for the first time since he couldn’t remember when, Mac felt oddly at peace. Even though he knew the feeling wouldn’t last—that the road to a possible reconciliation with his lovely wife was paved with rocks—he told himself to just enjoy the moment. Life, after all, was just a succession of moments when all was said and done and there were no guarantees—even though he might wish there were…
‘You look very reflective standing there, like a blond, brooding Heathcliff—what’s up?’
Her footfall was so soft Mac hadn’t heard her come in. Gazing at her now as she carefully carried their drinks, he felt her pale, innocent beauty give him a little jolt inside. Their unexpected dance together in the tavern had only fuelled his desire for further contact and he was having trouble tempering the raw need inside him with the undoubtedly more sensible demand to proceed more cautiously.
But her comment made him smile. ‘You always did have a wil
d imagination.’
Tara handed him his drink then turned away before he saw the heat in her face. His words made her think of the hot nights, tangled sheets and sweet, erotic loving that they had once shared; loving that she still craved despite her vow not to cave in to the powerful attraction she harboured for her husband.
Beneath her sweater, her breasts ached at the memory. ‘I had to have something to while away the long, lonely evenings when you weren’t home,’ she replied, then, placing her mug on the coffee-table, dropped down onto the sofa, drawing her jean-clad legs gracefully up beneath her.
‘Do you really think I preferred being at work to being with you?’ Leaving his drink on the mantelpiece, Mac dropped his hands to his hips and sighed deeply. ‘There were a lot of major things going down. I needed to be there. My clients expected it…so did my staff. It’s a myth that when you’re the boss you don’t have to work as hard—you have to work harder because people are relying on you. Anyway, things are a lot easier now. As I said, I have good people working for me. People I can rely on to take care of things. I don’t have to show up every day if I don’t want to.’
‘Lucky you.’ Reading between the lines, Tara thought she could still detect a heavy commitment to his job. There was no way she’d consider going back to him if that was still the case. Her heart grew heavy at the thought.
‘Is this the line you’re going to take the whole time? Antagonism?’
‘Of course not.’ Chided, she pushed her fingers agitatedly through her hair. ‘But if you’re serious about us getting back together, what compromises are you willing to make, Mac? The hours you put in at work were always the main bone of contention between us. What’s the point in being married if we hardly ever see each other?’
‘I’d work a lot fewer hours.’ His reply was immediate. ‘And I’d be more flexible. We could take more holidays—’
‘We only took one in three years of marriage,’ Tara reminded him, ‘and even then you flew back to London after only three days. I was in Bali, one of the most beautiful places in the world…on my own.’
