Bittersweet

by Jacquie Underdown

  Chapter 18

  Saturday morning, Amy cleaned the house from top to bottom. She changed the sheets on the spare bed, though when she came to change Mitch and Rachel’s linen, she left it alone. It wasn’t her decision to make. Mitch could choose that for himself when he arrived home.

  In fact, she changed nothing in that bedroom. Left everything as it was when Rachel had last slept there: her hand lotions on the bathroom cabinet. Her toothbrush in the holder. A bra hung over the towel rail.

  She went to the nursery and stocked it with nappies, wipes, soap and moisturiser. Tiny singlets and jumpsuits were in arm’s reach from the change table too. She rewashed the sheets in Lux flakes and made up the bassinet for Sophie, then placed it in Mitch’s room. She assumed he’d want her close at night.

  A cheerful mobile, still in the box, was in the cupboard. She assembled it and placed it above the cot. She plugged in a little lamp Rachel had already bought and made sure the bulb worked.

  The pictures on the walls were straightened. The rug on the floor vacuumed. The cushions on the rocking chair fluffed. Blinds dusted. Baby towels were washed and folded in the cupboards.

  Stepping back, Amy glanced over the room, breathed in the baby powder scent and was filled with a warm burst of maternal emotion. Little Sophie was coming home tomorrow.

  A blessing amidst all this turmoil.

  And all the while, Amy ignored the pink elephant in every room of the house that was shouting that Rachel never would come home.

  She headed into town then. Mitch wouldn’t want to be cooking, not with little Sophie taking up all his time. Amy was determined to bite down on her irrational reluctance to cook and make him some meals to freeze. So she bought meats and vegetables and pasta using the dwindling funds on her credit card.

  Amy turned upbeat music on, wrapped her waist in her favourite clean apron, the one Tom had bought her, and got to it. She had boeuf bourguignon stewing on the stovetop, lasagne baking in the oven, and chicken and vegetable soup simmering away by the time Tom dropped in at noon.

  He strode into the kitchen, eyes wide, lips parted. ‘Am I in the right house?’ he asked, peering into the oven and looking under lids on the stove. He spun to face her and narrowed his eyes. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Amy?’

  The first thing she felt was relief—she hadn’t known if things were going to be awkward between them now that they had slept together, but especially after she had told him they couldn’t do that again.

  She smiled and shrugged. ‘I had no excuses left. I can’t have Mitch come home to an empty fridge because I’m neurotic.’

  He grinned, and Amy’s heart skipped a beat. Sleeping with Tom was … incredible. No matter how much she tried to tell herself otherwise, she couldn’t deny that. The intense sparks between them went to levels she never knew existed once his mouth fell upon hers.

  She’d be a fool not to want to feel that—him—again. But she would also be a fool to think that this short-lived romance could be anything other than ill-fated.

  Reality had proven to be unkind. Her career, Rachel, and the fact that a little baby was coming home from the hospital tomorrow without her mother were harsh reminders of just how cruel fate could be.

  A fling amidst all of this sorrow, so soon after her best friend had lost her life, while her own heart still throbbed with the pain of loss, felt distasteful.

  One sexual encounter with Tom, two if she included the next morning, was forgivable, but to carry on with a clandestine fling—because a fling was all it could ever be—was inappropriate.

  ‘I’m impressed. How do you … feel?’ he asked.

  At first, she thought he meant about their talk the other night, but then she realised he was asking about how she felt about cooking. ‘Pretty good. So far. The proof will be in the tasting, though.’

  He was a step ahead of her, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

  He dug the spoon into the bourguignon, blew on the food before shovelling it into his mouth.

  Despite how she adored his love for eating, a nest of nerves threaded tightly in her belly to know his verdict.

  Tom groaned, closed his eyes, as he chewed. ‘Oh. My. Freaking. God.’

  Amy scrutinised his words, his expression, but couldn’t find anything disingenuous about them. Her pulse settled somewhat. ‘You really do like it?’

  He met her gaze. ‘Yes. I don’t bullshit about food.’

  She managed a genuine laugh.

  ‘I better check this pot as well, though,’ he said with a wink and cheeky grin. He scooped out a spoonful of soup and tasted. ‘Mitch wouldn’t miss it if I had a bowl of this, would he? Seeing as it’s lunch time and all, and I’m starving.’

  ‘Are you ever not hungry?’ she asked with a laugh.

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  A sudden desire to make a dish for him, something sexy and delicious, and seeing that pleasure on his face, washed through her. That desire to cook had been non-existent over the last month, and now that it was whispering in her ear again, her cells were buzzing.

  Amy found a bowl and ladled in some soup for Tom. She grabbed a crusty bread loaf she’d bought from the bakery earlier that morning and ripped off a big piece, covered it in farm-fresh butter.

  Tom sat on a stool at the bench, his bounty laid out before him. He unabashedly devoured the soup and bread, deep rumbles of gratitude grumbling in his chest as he chewed.

  Despite her best intentions, a deep pulse of desire moved inside her, warming, swelling. She wanted to rip Tom’s clothes off right here and now.

  Perhaps it was the inner-chef in her yearning to pleasure people with her food.

  Or perhaps now that she had time on her hands because she wasn’t thrusting herself firmly towards her careers goals every second of the day, her body had sprung to life.

  Or perhaps she really, really liked Tom and really, really disliked that she had to put a dampener on how she truly felt.

  Why did everything have to be so difficult at the moment?

  With all her self-control, she kept on task. She opened the oven with cooking mittens and slid the lasagne out. A delicious, golden and crispy cheese crust had formed on top.

  ‘That smells so good,’ Tom said.

  ‘Can you fit in a small piece?’ she asked, brow raised.

  He nodded, finished the dregs in his bowl and pushed it towards her. ‘Is that a serious question?’

  Amy laughed and cut into the lasagne, scooped out a slice and placed it in his bowl. She pushed it, along with a fork, across the bench for him. ‘Be careful, it’s hot.’

  So she didn’t appear too eager for his opinion, she forced herself to look away. When his long moan sounded out, she spun to face him.

  ‘I knew there was a reason why I liked you so much. How do you feel about marrying me?’

  She narrowed her eyes at him reprovingly, but couldn’t stop the grin on her face.

  ‘No? Too soon? Maybe I can just marry this lasagne until you make up your mind,’ he said, digging his fork into his slice for another bite.

  Amy turned away, checking on some rice she had cooking. She ran a wooden spoon over the fluffy white grains, then flicked the heat off and set the pot on the sink to cool.

  ‘It’s good of you to do this for Mitch,’ Tom said.

  ‘It’s the least I can do. Coming home will be very emotional for him. I want to make it as easy as possible.’

  Tom smiled warmly at her. Gazing at his handsome face, into his compassionate brown eyes and down to his kiss-me-again-and-again lips, she was reminded of how easily she could become lost in him. So she turned away and busied herself with setting out containers along the bench.

  With Mitch coming home tomorrow, this would be her last day at the house.

  She’d been looking for rentals in town and nearby and though nothing was expensive, she considered living in the cupcake shop for a while to
save money, at least until the major threatening creditors were off her back.

  The back room was big enough for a bed, small cupboard for clothes, and television. There was already a kitchen and a bathroom with a shower, and a shed was outside that could store the rest of her gear temporarily. What more did she need?

  As long as business continued to be as steady as it had been, she might just be able to cope with her debt repayments. Maybe. She was going to have to juggle a few things until the restaurant sold.

  She hadn’t had the courage to voice her plan yet, but it was now or never.

  For bravery, she drew a deep breath. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

  Tom met her gaze.

  ‘And I wouldn’t ordinarily ask, but being so far from my apartment and needing to keep Sugar Cakes running through the week—’

  He was smiling when he cut her off and said, ‘Just tell me what it is.’

  ‘I can’t get my gear packed until next weekend, so I’ve got no furniture, and I can’t justify the expense of staying—’

  ‘I’d love for you to … I mean it’s totally fine if you want to stay with me … us … Sam and I. For as long as you need.’

  ‘It’ll be for a week. You think Sam would be okay with it?’

  Tom rose from his stool and came to her with a Texan swagger. ‘He’ll be fine with it.’

  Amy sighed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not a problem. So you’ve found a rental?’

  Amy hesitated. She wasn’t sure what Tom would make of her next plan. ‘Sort of.’

  Tom laughed, his eyes narrowed. ‘What does that mean?’

  She didn’t meet his curious gaze as she said as breezily as possible, ‘I thought I’d stay at the shop. I’m not keen on taking out a lease if I’m not sure how long I’m staying in town.’

  His brow crumpled. ‘At the shop?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Hmmm. You think that’ll work? It’s a bit cramped. I mean, if it’s a money issue—’

  ‘My restaurant went under, Tom. Remember? Of course it’s a money issue.’ She hadn’t meant to be snarky, but it was embarrassing. She didn’t want to be making these kinds of tough decisions. ‘I think it makes more sense not to jump into anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘If you think that’s the best option, I can’t see it being a problem. You could always stay with Sam and I—’

  ‘No. That won’t work. I can’t impose myself on you two—’

  ‘You’re not an imposition, Amy. Look what you’re doing here,’ he said gesturing to all the food on stove tops and benches. ‘What you’ve already done with the shop and your apartment; it’s more than anyone would ask of someone. Sam and I would like the company. I’m sure he’d—’

  ‘No, Tom. Thank you, but no,’ she said.

  He was trying to help, but this wasn’t his problem, and she really did not want to make it his problem.

  ‘If it’s because of what happened between us, if you’re worried I’ll—’

  She shook her head. ‘No. That’s not it. I know you respect my position.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Good.’

  She sighed, hung her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little stressed. There’s a lot going on at the moment.’

  He nodded, stepped tentatively closer. ‘Amy, if you need help with anything, you only have to ask.’

  She managed a tight smile. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’

  Because what she needed—confidence, opportunity, and, above all, money—he couldn’t give, and she would never ever expect anyone else to solve her problems.

  And what her heart wanted, he was the only one who could provide it, yet everything she needed made sure that he would never be able to.

  Chapter 19

  Tom’s stomach was a mutiny of nerves as Mitch pulled up outside the house. The family had all gathered to welcome Sophie home: Sam, Mum, Aunt Grace, and Amy.

  They sat rigidly upright around the living room on the lounges, eating fresh scones with jam and cream, and drinking tea and coffee. Pete and Barb were also visiting, the first time they’d seen Mitch since the incident at the hospital.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Tom

  The whole moment was bittersweet, and he didn’t know if he were over the moon about Sophie coming home or so saddened by the blatant fact that Rachel wasn’t arriving with them. Perhaps it was a combination of both, one tugging on the other, never allowing him to feel either with too much intensity.

  Tom jogged down the stairs to help with bags and capsules and all the other gear that went with babies.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ he said as Mitch climbed out of the car. ‘Welcome home. How’d she go? No dramas?’

  Mitch’s hair was sticking up in all directions, his eyes red and swollen. His clothes were wrinkled, untucked. ‘She slept most of the way. We had to stop half an hour outside of town for a feed though because she wasn’t going to stop crying otherwise.’

  Mitch went to the back door, leaned in and lifted out the tiny bundle. Sophie was so small, because she was premature, but also because the placenta, or some such thing, wasn’t attached properly, and she hadn’t been getting enough food while in the womb.

  Sam joined them. ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Mitch mumbled, always with that distant glaze to his eyes as though he was somewhere else.

  ‘What can I grab?’ Sam asked.

  ‘There are bags in the boot. A baby bag on the passenger seat. A box of nappies on the backseat.’

  ‘On to it,’ Sam said, opening the boot.

  Tom helped him with the gear and followed after Mitch. But at the bottom of the stairs, Mitch hesitated. A million possibilities of what to say ran through Tom’s brain, but he discarded all of them because none of them was going to make this easier for Mitch.

  ‘We’re right behind you,’ he managed.

  Mitch’s shoulders expanded, deflated on a deep breath, then he ascended the stairs one slow, heavy step after another. Tom passed a glance with Sam. When he looked back, Mitch’s shoulders were shaking and his breaths raspy. He was crying.

  A wave of emotion struck Tom, almost taking him under too. He glanced up at the sky for distraction, space.

  He had to be strong. If he couldn’t be sturdy for Mitch today, then he could fast see this entire morning falling in a weeping mess on the floor.

  He followed Mitch up the stairs and into the house. By the time he’d placed the gear in the nursery and Mitch’s room and joined everyone in the living room, there was not one dry eye.

  Sophie was in Mum’s arms, Aunt Grace ensuring her head was supported. Mitch was sitting on the other side, his arm around Mum’s shoulders, eyes wet with tears.

  ‘She’s the most adorable baby, Mitch. Looks just like you when you were a newborn. I thought you were the cutest baby ever, but now I’ve seen … ah …’

  ‘Sophie,’ said Aunt Grace.

  ‘She’s beautiful. And where’s … what’s her name … the mother?’

  No-one answered, and Mum looked around confused—a fragility in her expression that caved Tom’s heart in.

  His throat ached, chest burned. He searched for Amy, found her standing in the corner of the room as solid as a rock on the surface, but the brittleness beneath was loud in her eyes.

  Poor Sophie would never understand the enormity of this day; Tom wasn’t sure he even understood it himself.

  This bundle of new life was here—a beautiful, healthy little girl—and the cost of her entrance into this world was the highest price possible to pay. Her priceless value was reflected in the gazes of everyone in the room, and the way they all leaned towards her as though she was a magnet for their hearts.

  Tom waited for most of the family to leave before he asked to hold Sophie. He’d not done so yet. A nest of nerves was buried in his gut. She was not much bigger than his palms combined, her little arms and legs were slender. And her head was the size of a grapefruit.

  ‘Just sit down firs
t,’ Mitch said.

  Tom sat on the lounge and cradled his arms like he’d seen the others do. Sophie’s weight barely registered as Mitch placed her in his arms. He peered down at her pink face. A tiny representation of Rachel stared back, and his breath was stolen from his lungs.

  How did Mitch look at her every day and still cope?

  A tight tugging at his heart. A creeping warmth all through his chest. Love. It negated everything at this moment that hurt.

  He hadn’t realised this was how he’d feel. Mates had spoken about their children with adoration, but he’d thought it was something reserved for parents, not something uncles had access to.

  Amy sat down beside him, her body warm, touching his. She smoothed a finger, a touch as gentle as butterfly kisses, over Sophie’s dark hair. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

  He didn’t look at Amy, nor speak, just nodded his head, hiding the gloss of his eyes and tightness in his throat. But she was right. Sophie was the most adorable baby he’d ever seen.

  He held her, watched her little lips pull inwards, listened to the restless grunting noises she made, stroked her small fingers with the tiniest fingernails on each. But after a while, she squirmed, then whimpered before full-on crying. The noise, though small, struck terror in him.

  He had no idea what to do with a crying baby.

  ‘Here,’ he said to Mitch. ‘She wants you.’

  Mitch gathered her up in his arms.

  ‘You want me to make a bottle?’ asked Amy.

  He nodded as he paced across the living room floor, gently rocking Sophie.

  Tom was awed by Mitch, whispering and swaying as if he had been a father many times before.

  Amy came back with a bottle, and Mitch sat with Sophie in the lounge chair. One second there was incessant crying, the next a gorgeous sucking sound as Sophie drank.

  Tom’s heart rate calmed. ‘Anything you need us to do?’

  Mitch shook his head, a weariness in the movement. ‘No. I’m fine. I would just like a little time to myself with Sophie.’

  Tom stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sure,’ Amy said, standing beside Tom. ‘If you need us at all, just ask. Even if it’s through the night. Early in the morning. Anytime.’