by Grace Lowrie
As I reach the clearing in the trees I spot that the door to Pan’s newly-restored grotto garden is open. My wife has the only key.
Barefoot and lost in thought, Mel stands before the reinstated statue of Aphrodite; the goddess of love, beauty and procreation. In her long pale green summer dress and flowery hair-band, Mel looks like a goddess herself; or a nymph of the wood; a spirit of the trees. Sensing my presence she turns and smiles and I take the key from the door, lock it behind me and push through the ferns towards her.
‘Everything OK?’ I murmur, reluctant to disturb the tranquil, meditative peace of the space.
‘It is now,’ she says, rising up on her toes, linking her arms up around my neck and pressing her mouth to mine. Every word that passes Mel’s lips is precious to me, even after seven years, even when she is upset or angry about something and shouting at me, I am grateful for her voice. ‘I knew you’d find me,’ she whispers against my cheek.
‘I’ll always find you.’ Dipping my head and breathing her in, I trail kisses down her throat. ‘Always.’
She draws back, her pale grey gaze serious and arresting mine. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Go on.’
She opens her mouth but no words came out, and after a pause she closes it again, swallowing hard. Worry slithers through me and I touch my fingers to her face. ‘What is it?’
Stepping back she takes my hand and presses my palm to her abdomen. Wordlessly we stare at each other in silent, intense communication; emotion building inside me as I search her gaze for confirmation.
‘Are you...? Are we...? Are you saying we’re having a baby...?’
She nods, a smile trembling on her lips, and I kiss her hard, overcome with joy, before abruptly pulling back.
‘Wait, are you sure? We only started trying a few weeks ago...’ My eyes are brimming with tears and I try to blink them away.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says, finding her voice again, ‘Don’t wimp out on me now, Liam Hunt...’
I laugh, wiping a hand across my face and pull her back into my arms. ‘I won’t, I promise.’
‘You’d better not, I don’t know the first thing about being a mother.’ I hear the fear in her voice and cup her face in my hand.
‘Hey, we’ve talked about this – you’re going to be a wonderful mum – Ferne, Aster, Heath, Daisy, the twins; they all adore you, you know that. You’re going to be a natural.’
She pulls my head down to kiss me and as I explore and revel in the sweet familiar taste of her mouth, I lift her up and draw her close. She moans – a delicious sound – as she wraps her legs around my hips and presses herself against where I am already hard for her.
‘Make love to me...’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
We undress each other until we are completely naked and lie right there between the ferns at Aphrodite’s feet. We make love as if we are the only souls on Earth; as if there is only her and me and the life we are creating between us, until Mel cries out my name and we climax together, euphoric, dazed and breathless. For a long time afterwards we lie in silence just listening to the rustle of the breeze and the birds in the trees above. And then we hear laughter in the distance.
‘Oh crap,’ she says, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. ‘You don’t think anyone heard us do you?’ Chuckling I shake my head. ‘I think we got away with it.’ She strokes her fingers across her smooth stomach and I stare at it, mesmerised. ‘I love hearing you scream my name,’ I mutter.
She grins. ‘I know.’
‘I love you, Melanie Hunt; I’ll love you forever.’
‘Good. I’m holding you to that, Mr Hunt,’ she says, returning her lips to mine.
THE END
Grace Lowrie
Having worked as a collage artist, sculptor, prop maker and garden designer, Grace has always been creative, but she is a romantic introvert at heart and writing was, and is, her first love.
A lover of rock music, art nouveau design, blue cheese and grumpy ginger tomcats, Grace is also an avid reader of fiction – preferring coffee and a sinister undercurrent, over tea and chick lit. When not making prop costumes or hanging out with her favourite nephews, she continues to write stories from her Hertfordshire home.
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2019
Octavo House
West Bute Street
Cardiff
CF10 5LJ
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Grace Lowrie 2019
The right of Grace Lowrie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781786155313
elSBN 9781786155320
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd,
Elcograf S.p.A
Proudly published by Accent Press
www.accentpress.co.uk
