Michelle Vernal Box Set

by Michelle Vernal

  “BEN!” JACK WAVED OVER at another late straggler, wrestling himself away from Rebecca, who was trying to do what she assumed all good substitute mothers did: kiss their on-loan offspring goodbye. The curly-haired boy Jack was calling to was legging it in through the open gates of the primary school. She watched from the side of the Land Cruiser as he stopped and waited while Jack caught up to him.

  “Hi.” A male voice from behind her made her jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” The voice’s rather gorgeous source held his hand out, and she shook it lightly. Warm, dry, and strong, she thought as he released his grip and introduced himself. “I’m Ben’s dad, David, and I guess you’re Rebecca, right?”

  Momentarily flummoxed as to who this god was whom she’d never slept with but who knew her on a first-name basis, she managed to reply, “Uh yeah, that’s right.” Good on you, Rebecca. Impress him with your scintillating small talk.

  He gestured towards his son and Jack, who were halfway across the netball court and laughed at her perplexed expression. “Don’t worry, I’m not psychic. Those two are great buddies except for when they’re up against each other on the motocross circuit!” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his sexy, slouch-fit blue jeans. “That’s how I came to hear you were coming to look after Jack and Hannah for a couple of weeks.”

  As he paused to watch the two boys run up the concrete ramp leading to the one-storey, wooden rectangle housing their classroom, she seized the chance to check him out properly. She wouldn’t have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him, nor would she have to leave her high heels at home. And even though he was veering towards the lean side of forty, there was no sign as yet of a middle-aged paunch. Yes, she decided, completing a quick head-to-toe inventory of broad shoulders, toned torso, and strong thighs, he worked out. His mid-brown, slightly too long hair was not peppered with grey, nor did it show any evidence of being tampered with. Thank goodness, because men with highlights were a non-starter.

  She was already in love with the etching of laughter lines spanning a set of greenish-grey eyes that complemented his smooth, olive complexion. The smattering of almost black chest hair peeking cheekily out at her from the top of his V-neck sweater added to the mix. As her eyes roamed languorously back towards David’s face, they collided with his. Rebecca felt herself flush while a little smile played at the corner of his mouth as though he knew what she had been doing.

  For a few agonising moments, neither of them spoke until David decided to break the standoff. “Mark and Jennifer are a great couple.” Grateful for the distraction but not having learned her lesson, she watched hungrily as his lips continued to move. “I don’t know how they do it all. You know, running Cuisine with Carlton’s, Mark’s architectural practice, and raising two great kids. If anyone deserves a break, they do. It’s Aussie they’ve headed to, isn’t it?”

  He obviously didn’t know the finer points of their marital situation, she deduced, as her mouth automatically formed the sentence. “Uh-huh, Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast.” Once more, she hoped she hadn’t intimidated him with her sparkling repertoire.

  David showed no signs of intimidation, though; more grim determination to elicit a two-sided conversation. “So, I hear you’ve been in Dublin working?”

  “Yeah.”

  Spurred on by a response, he said, “It was pretty good of you to leave the Irish summer behind for this.” He indicated towards the gunmetal sky. “How long is it they’ve gone for?”

  “Two weeks and, believe me, it’s no biggie leaving the Irish summer behind.”

  “I guess it’s not so bad. Not when you consider we’re supposed to be having the mildest July on record for ten years.”

  “Yeah, if only I’d known that, I could have left my thermals back in Ireland where they belong!” Her giggle threatened to turn into a snort. Where had that come from? Now she’d given the sexiest man she’d laid eyes on in a long time a mental picture of herself in polypropylene. It didn’t seem to put him off, though.

  “So I take it the rumours are true about it raining all the time over there then?”

  “Four seasons in one day,” she affirmed, wondering how much longer they could stretch this meteorology discussion.

  Thankfully, David changed the subject. “Ireland’s on my wish list of places to visit one day.”

  “Oh, you should go,” Rebecca breathed excitedly. “Dublin’s such a fun city, but you want to bring a babysitter.” He laughed, and she watched the way the lines round his eyes scrunched up, giving him a lived-in sort of look.

  “Are you available for a two-week stint in 2008 then?”

  It was her turn to laugh, and she was pleased that it came out sounding like a ladylike titter and not the nervous guffaw she’d let rip earlier. “No way! If this morning is an indicator of what I am in for over the next two weeks, then my child-minding career will be over the minute Jen and Mark set foot back onto New Zealand soil.”

  “That’s a shame. I guess the trip will just have to wait until my daddy duties are redundant then. Am I to take it that you don’t have kids of your own?”

  She suddenly noticed the raspberry jam handprint emblazoned on the arm of her polo fleece with embarrassment. He must think she was a right mess. “Uh-huh.”

  Following her gaze, he smirked. “Ben prefers peanut butter. It’s a pity they don’t come with a survival manual, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, mine did,” she chirruped, filling him in on her sister’s lengthy list.

  “If you need a break, Jack’s welcome at my place anytime. It’s easier to have two than one, believe it or not.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, and thanks for the offer,” Rebecca said, knowing she’d be taking him up on it, whether she needed a break or not.

  The next thing she knew, David produced a worn, brown leather wallet from his back pocket and flicked it open. “I’ve got a card in here somewhere...here you go.” He handed her his small white business card. Handcrafted Furniture from Akaroa was centred on the top of it in bold black italics while beneath it in lighter type were the words by David Seagar. Scanning the bottom of the card greedily, Rebecca wished she had a photographic memory: much safer to commit his contact details to memory than to rely on a flimsy piece of cardboard.

  “So you make furniture?” That wasn’t stating the obvious or anything. Surely she’d sweep him off his feet with her conversational skills now. She hoped he hadn’t noticed the battle she was having trying to wedge the card into the pocket of her jeans. Bugger the bloody slim fit. That would teach her for buying jeans designed for women with no hips or buttocks, criteria she didn’t meet. By now, she thought ruefully, he’d probably accepted her abnormal behaviour as being the norm.

  “Yeah, when Ben’s mum and I split, Ben and I moved here,” he gestured expansively, “to paradise and I did what I should have done years ago and opened my workshop. That’s how Ben and Jack first met.” Seeing her quizzical look, he carried on, “Jennifer commissioned me to make the dining table for Cuisine with Carlton’s.”

  “Oh, the huge kauri one?” Rebecca replied, swiftly absorbing the fact that David was a single carpenter. Granted, he had a bit of baggage, but who didn’t?

  “Yeah, it was an amazing piece of wood to work with.”

  Rebecca shivered. You can work on me anytime, big boy, she thought, watching his hands lovingly mould an imaginary lump of wood.

  “Speaking of workshops, I should get back to mine. It was great talking to you, Rebecca, and I meant what I said about two being easier than one.” He gave her one last lazy smile before fishing his keys out and striding off towards the only other vehicle left in the car park, a mud-splattered Land Rover. Rebecca stood where he’d left her, entranced by the rhythmic motion of his high, rounded rear when an ominous click sounded from inside the wagon.

  Spinning around, she was confronted by a grinning Hannah, who, in Houdini-like effortlessness, had freed herself from her car seat restraints. She ha
d flicked the internal locking switch and was now sitting behind the Land Cruiser’s steering wheel, proclaiming, “I’m driving the bus!” As Hannah jerked the wheel from left to right, the expression on her face was so maniacal that Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Good for you, Hannah!” she applauded before attempting to retrieve the keys from her pocket. It wasn’t the simple task it should have been, as she could only push one finger into the tight denim at a time. Finally, she squeezed her middle finger in and, waggling it around, realised with a plummeting sensation in her stomach that there were no keys in there. Shit! She quickly patted down her left pocket. No, nothing in there either. Bugger! Putting her hand up to the car window and peering in, she spied them swinging happily to and fro in the ignition.

  Okay, Rebecca, don’t panic—deep breaths. “Hannah, sweetheart, push that button there and unlock the car for Auntie Becca.”

  “No. I told you, I’m driving the bus!” She poked her tongue out and broke into song. “The wheels on the bus go round and round.”

  Shit, shit, shit! What was she supposed to do now? Reason with a three-year-old? There was nothing else to do but begin negotiations.

  “Come on, Hannah sweetheart, there’s a good girl.”

  “No! The horn on the bus goes beep, beep, beep.” Hannah was now flicking the headlights on and off, having a high old time.

  “Need a hand?” David asked, bemused as he pulled up alongside her.

  “I’ve left the bloody keys in the car.”

  Leaving his engine idling, he opened the door of his Land Rover and jumped down. “Number-one rule when your vehicle’s parked up with children inside it: never leave the keys in it.”

  “I know, I know, and I can’t believe I was so stupid. I didn’t think she could get out of her car seat,” Rebecca wailed. “And besides, I was right here the whole time.”

  Gently elbowing her aside, it was David’s turn to peer in the window. He spoke in a firm voice. “Hannah, it’s time to stop messing around now. Open the door please.”

  Then, Rebecca watched in disbelief as her niece did as she was told. “Who are you?” she murmured, awestruck. “The toddler whisperer?”

  He flashed her a sexy smile as he hopped back up behind the wheel and the thought crossed her mind that if he had been wearing a trilby hat, he would have tipped it at her.

  “I’m a man of many talents,” he said enigmatically and then he was gone.

  “I bet you are, Mr Seagar. I just bet you are.”

  Glancing in the rear-view mirror as she crawled out of the car park, Rebecca let rip with a “FUCK!” She followed it up with an apology. “Shit, sorry, Hannah, I didn’t mean to swear.” She’d forgotten she hadn’t put any makeup on before she’d left the house. Oh, why did she have to meet David Seagar today of all days? There was no way he’d fancy her in her current nude-faced state and with turban hair to boot. It wasn’t fair.

  “HI THERE. I’M REBECCA Loughton, Hannah’s aunt. Jennifer would have told you I’ll be taking care of Hannah for the next fortnight?” Rebecca shouted her introduction over the din of preschoolers charging around the colourful playroom. There were a dozen or so bright paintings hanging up to dry on a piece of washing line stretched across the middle of the large, airy room. Children in plastic aprons were sitting industriously at activity tables dotted across the vinyl-covered floor. She spied a sign proclaiming “Quiet Zone” over in the far left-hand corner where a small couch with foam stuffing sprouting from its seat was placed next to an overflowing bookshelf. French doors, closed against the morning chill, led out to a covered outdoor play area and up against the wall was a rack of dress-up clothes.

  I’d have been straight into those, she thought with a pang for her childhood as the teacher rose from one of the little tables where she’d been supervising cutting and gluing. She was apparently opting for the safety net of a career in childcare since her looks obviously weren’t going to get her a free ride through life, Rebecca deduced. “Playaways—early education through play” was emblazoned across a pink sweatshirt worn over black slacks and flats.

  “I’m Anna, the manager of Playaways. And yes, Mrs Carlton has informed us that you’ll be Hannah’s primary caregiver while she and Mr Carlton are away.”

  Ooh-ah, primary caregiver. Rebecca liked the sound of her new job description, and she and Hannah followed as she was shown where to leave Hannah’s bag and lunch box. She hoped Anna would be impressed with the latter’s contents.

  Clapping her hands authoritatively, Anna called, “Linda, Abbey—this is Rebecca Loughton, Hannah’s aunt, and she’s going to be doing Hannah’s pick-up and drop-off over the next fortnight.” Two other identically kitted-out teachers with wailing toddlers hanging off them looked over and grinned. She didn’t envy them their jobs. Anna bent down, holding her hand out to Hannah, who was clinging tremulously to Rebecca’s leg.

  “Come along now, Hannah. Auntie Rebecca can’t stay here all morning, can she?”

  She beat a hasty retreat as the little girl looked up at her scary preschool teacher and replied earnestly, “Fuck, shit.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “WHAT A MORNING! YOU would not believe it.” Rebecca trudged through into the lounge, dumping the car keys into the little pot sitting on the fireplace mantel. These days, the fireplace was purely ornamental as gas and a heat pump had long since replaced the open fire. Melissa brushed past her impatiently, her arms laden with magazines. Stepping into the toasty warmth of the sunroom, she sighed happily. Rebecca followed her, leaning against the timber framing as she arranged herself on the window seat. She epitomised country living in her casual but hellishly expensive olive-green merino. No doubt, Rebecca thought a touch cynically, she’d carefully picked it for the contrast it afforded against her spray tan and camel cords.

  The sunroom was an alcove off the lounge with a large bay window overlooking the front garden and classroom. It was Rebecca’s favourite room. The neutral Spanish white that Jennifer had chosen for the walls throughout the house flowed to give the room an airy feel while rosy pink stripes in the floor-to-ceiling drapes and window seat cushion added warmth. It was in total contrast to the earthen minimal style of the living room. In summer, the roses in the garden outside grew tall and fragrant, framing the bay window so that you felt like you were looking out at a painting. Today, their withered branches tapped at the window as if begging to be allowed inside, where it was warm. It was an oddly relaxing sound.

  Jennifer had opted to leave the original floorboards bare, sanding the solid rimu boards back and polishing them until they shone with their former glory. Her finishing touch had been the plush pink Oriental carpet, which kept the chill off bare feet.

  “Be a love and make me a coffee,” Melissa ordered while settling down to flip through one of her magazines. Not up for an argument, Rebecca moseyed off to make a brew and, depositing two mugs on the windowsill a few minutes later, she hoped they wouldn’t leave a mark.

  “Scrunch up.” Pushing Melissa’s feet out of the way, she plonked herself down on the edge of the seat while her friend grunted with annoyance at being disturbed. Ignoring her, Rebecca launched into the David Seagar saga. She’d just gotten to her favourite bit where he’d told Hannah to unlock the doors when she slopped her coffee with fright. Melissa was stabbing frenziedly at a picture of Paris Hilton.

  “Look there!” she screeched. “She does have cellulite; I knew it!”

  Shaking her head, Rebecca watched Melissa scrutinise the photo, her face illuminated with bitchy delight. How silly of her to assume that her having possibly met the man of her dreams was newsworthy compared to the staggering revelation by some vindictive photographer that Paris had the teeniest amount of orange peel on her thighs.

  Rebecca got up to check for any coffee spray during the explosion and, finding none, she headed to the lounge, noting that the morning’s devastation had not been tidied away in her absence. Oh well, she’d deal with it later. Taking an absent
minded sip of her coffee, she realised it was officially her free time now. What to do, what to do? Emails—yes, that was it. She’d catch up on some goss of her own.

  With its proximity to the front door, what had been the study when Mark and Jennifer took possession of the house now acted as the “Cook’s Quarters.” It was a reception area for guests to register upon arrival. The little room caught the afternoon sun, which was an ideal arrangement as this was when most of the guests arrived. At this time of the morning, though, a definite chill presided over it and Rebecca shivered, looking around for the heat pump’s remote, wishing for good old-fashioned central heating. The remote wasn’t hard to find; her sister was a big believer in putting things back where they came from. True to form, she’d stored it neatly away in the top drawer of her oversized oak desk. With its gleaming array of mod cons arranged neatly on top, the desk dominated the room. Opposite it and flush with the wall was a cream chez lounge for guests to sit on while their booking was processed. Watercolours from local artists dotted the walls.

  A moment later, as the heat pump and computer sprang to life, Rebecca spied three messages winking out at her from her inbox. Without thinking, she moved the mouse to click on the message from Ciaran first.

  To: Rebecca Loughton

  Subject: One More Sleep Til Galway

  Dear Rebecca,

  I am sorry I didn’t get to say bon voyage to you properly. As you discovered, before I came out to introduce myself to Kate, I was working on a very important quiz. Thanks for answering number 20; it had been twisting me up all week. Before I knew it, I was running late. I am sure you’ll be relieved to know that the client bought my excuse. I tried to phone you later that night, but no one answered at your apartment. To prove you have forgiven me for not wining and dining you, can you please bring me back a Kiwi Bird key ring or something equally as cheesy?