A Marriage Worth Saving

by Therese Beharrie

  He had ignored the words when his father had said them—had believed the two situations had nothing in common—and had refused to think about it afterwards. But hearing those words come from Mila now brought the memory into sharp focus. But, just as he had then, Jordan shut down his thoughts and feelings about it.

  ‘Do you think your contact would actually be able to make a customised marquee?’

  He saw her blink, saw her adjust to his abrupt change in topic. She opened her mouth and closed it again, and then answered.

  ‘Yes, I think he would.’

  Her voice was polite. No, he thought, controlled.

  ‘I think the more appropriate question would be if he’d be able to do it in such a short period of time.’

  She took her phone out and started typing, changing the tone of their conversation. The tension was still there though, he realised, noting the stiff movement of her fingers.

  ‘If he is able to do it we’ll have solved one of the major problems of this event.’

  ‘I’m sure the others won’t be quite as bad,’ he said, and walked up the steps to the stage.

  He needed space from her, even though she was standing a far enough distance away that her proximity shouldn’t have bothered him. The stage was clear of the usual clutter events brought, he saw, with only the large white screen used for movies behind him.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ she warned. ‘We’ll have to see if the same food vendors are available, and we’ll have to find out if Karen can perform...’ She trailed off, as though the thought frightened her, and he felt the release of the tension in him at the memory of Mila dealing with the teenage singer.

  ‘Won’t that be fun for you?’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she said wryly. ‘We might have to consider someone else if she isn’t available. After that, the hardest part is going to be getting people to come. Karen—or whoever we get to perform—will have a huge impact on that, but it’s still going to be a challenge.’

  ‘Social media will help,’ he said, and walked down the stairs to where she stood. She was taking pictures, and he realised that with the marquee the space was different from what she’d worked with before. ‘We can have Karen post something closer to the time. It could even be a pop-up concert.’

  ‘That won’t work,’ she disagreed. ‘Doing that would put us at risk of overcrowding or riots. Of course we can have her post about the event, but we need to sell tickets. That’s the only way we can know how many people to expect.’

  If he’d thought she wouldn’t be insulted by it, he would have complimented her on her professional knowledge. But he’d learned his lesson the previous evening. He hadn’t been around before to see her in action, but his father had complimented her often enough. Now Jordan could see why.

  ‘Was it hard work the first time?’

  She glanced over at him. ‘Yes, but for different reasons. We had to start from scratch then. Design it, figure out what would work, what wouldn’t. Now we don’t have those problems, but we’re working from a blueprint. Which means we’re confined. It also puts us at risk of making a loss.’

  ‘Well, regardless of that, we’re going to have to plan this.’ He stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing I wasn’t here the first time.’

  ‘Marketing wine in American restaurants does sound more exciting,’ she said easily, and his heart knocked at hearing her attempt something remarkably close to banter. Perhaps they should stick to work, he thought.

  ‘Well, seven of the ten restaurants I visited now carry our wines, so I was working. Besides, if I’d been here, we probably would have been married a lot earlier—’ He broke off, cursing himself for not thinking. He almost saw Mila’s walls go up again.

  ‘This event is going to take a lot of work,’ she said instead of addressing his slip. ‘I might have to give Lulu a call...’

  Her face had tightened, and Jordan wondered what he didn’t know about Mila’s only real friendship.

  ‘Have you spoken to her recently?’ he asked, watching the emotions play over her face.

  ‘Now and then,’ she answered him. ‘Not nearly as often as I should have.’

  The admission came as a surprise to him—and to her, too, it seemed.

  ‘I think we’ve seen all we need to here.’ she said quickly. ‘The stairs...they’re easier going up.’

  It was a clear sign that she didn’t want any help from him, and he had to clench his fists at his sides to keep himself from doing just that as he watched her painstakingly climb the stairs.

  Why couldn’t she just ask for help? he thought irritably, and then stilled when a voice asked him why she should need to ask at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MILA HEARD THE door to the house slam and closed her eyes. Clearly Jordan hadn’t returned from their trip to the amphitheatre in a good mood. Not that she was feeling particularly cheerful herself. She had let him bait her into lashing out, into revealing things she didn’t want him to know.

  It was only because she had been feeling particularly vulnerable after hesitating at those stairs. She had always hated that reminder of her accident—any reminder, really. But as she had stood in front of those steps, her heart in her throat, she had hated that the most. Because every time she thought she would be able to take a step she was reminded of the sensation of tumbling to the ground. Pain would flash through her at the memory of lying at the bottom of the steps, her breathing staggered, waiting for someone to help her.

  She blamed that feeling for the accusation she had hurled at Jordan from nowhere earlier. She had never intended letting that slip—the real reason she thought he’d left—but her tongue no longer seemed to obey the ‘think before you speak’ rule she had always played by.

  Heaven knew she was tired of taking all the blame for him leaving—yes, she had asked him for space, but that had been said in grief, in pain. She hadn’t meant it, but when he’d packed his bags she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask him to stay. She had wanted him to—every fibre in her being had urged her to stop him—but she had also wanted him to want to stay. She had wanted him to refuse to go, to tell her that he needed her, to acknowledge that they needed each other to get through the heartbreak of losing their son.

  But he hadn’t, and she had been forced to admit to herself that their make-believe life—the one where they were playing at being a happy family and where she was a worthy wife—was never really going to be her life. Jordan hadn’t had any reason to be with her before she had lost their baby, so why would he bother with her now, when she’d proved that she wasn’t capable? When she’d proved that she was broken, especially during her grieving?

  He must believe that, too, or he would never have asked her if Greg had told her that. Jordan must have said it to Greg at some point, in confidence, and the stunned expression she’d seen on his face must have been because Jordan had thought Greg had broken his confidence...

  Hurt beat at her heart, but she set her shaking hands down on the lists of the things she needed to do and the notes from the phone calls she had made at the kitchen counter.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, and the deep voice made her heart jump in the same way it had when they’d first met.

  She turned and saw the amicable expression on his face. Had she been mistaken about his mood? Perhaps not, she thought as she looked in his eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied, determined not to let her emotions get in the way of amicability. If he could do it, so could she. ‘You were gone for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, I bumped into Frank and we talked about the vineyard. I got us some food, too.’

  She could tell from his voice that something was bothering him, and while her heart wanted to ask him about it, her head told her to keep to the game they seemed to be playing.

 
‘That was nice of you,’ she said measuredly, and took the pizza from him.

  It had already gone cold, she saw when she opened the boxes, making her wonder if he’d gone somewhere else after picking the food up. But she was distracted when she saw he had got her favourite pizza, and she had to force herself not to be swayed by something as simple as that that only indicated his memory.

  ‘Frank couldn’t have told you all that much,’ she said, and took out two oven trays to warm the pizza on. ‘You two spoke about the place quite often while you were gone.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  She looked back at him, and was suddenly struck by how attractive he was. He’d taken off the red winter jacket he had on that morning, and now she was being treated to the sight of the muscles he sported almost lazily under his long-sleeved top. Even his light blue jeans highlighted the strength of his lower body.

  She swallowed, and told herself to answer him instead of staring like a fool. ‘Frank’s mentioned it, yes. But he told your dad first, and Greg told me. I think he thought that if I knew you’d kept in touch, I’d get in touch with you.’ She closed her eyes briefly as soon as she realised she’d said it. It was being in this kitchen with him, she thought, and desperately changed the topic. ‘Do you want to eat now?’

  ‘I’d like to take a shower first, but that shouldn’t take too long.’

  There was a pause, almost as if Jordan had wanted to say something else and then decided not to. She glanced at him and saw an unreadable expression on his face. That in itself told her something was bothering him, but still she refused to ask him. That wasn’t supposed to be her job any more.

  ‘This is different,’ he said, abruptly changing the topic.

  She followed his gaze and for the first time since Jordan had first brought her to his father’s house she saw the brown cupboards and cream countertops. But since that was the part of the kitchen that hadn’t changed, she knew he was referring to her new additions.

  ‘I thought a little colour might cheer the place up.’ She didn’t add that she’d hoped it would cheer his father up, as well. Greg had always been a man of a few words, and often she’d thought that it was because of sadness. He hadn’t ever spoken much about his wife—like father, like son—but when he had she’d seen that Greg had loved and missed her. And then in his ill health and missing Jordan, his sadness had become grumpiness and sometimes even meanness.

  Jordan was watching her when she looked up, a complicated expression on his face, and she wondered if he realised what she hadn’t said after all.

  ‘I knew it would be something like that,’ he said, and it sounded forced. ‘I would never have pegged Dad as a fuchsia kind of guy.’ He nodded his head to the curtains and matching utensils that were scattered across the counters.

  She smiled a little, felt her guard ease a touch. ‘I think he grew fond of it after a while. Though at the beginning he made all sorts of noises.’ The smile widened. ‘And then he started seeing how the colour lightened up the place, and how the art helped me, and he got much better then.’

  The walls were covered with her mosaic artwork—something her doctor had once suggested she do to keep herself busy during a postaccident, postbaby check-up—and she was quite proud of it. It made her remember the simple things she had taken pleasure in before her life had been destroyed.

  ‘How did it help you?’

  He said the words so quietly that at first she didn’t register what he’d asked. And then she realised that her guard was down, and her shoulders stiffened in response. It shouldn’t be this easy to slip up in front of him, she thought. Not when slipping up meant talking to him about the time she was trying to move on from. Not when it meant him prodding her about it again.

  ‘It just gave me something to keep busy with while I recovered,’ she said firmly, and then turned to put the oven on and slide the trays with the pizzas into it.

  She took her time with it, and it didn’t take long for Jordan to get the picture. After a few moments, she heard the shower being turned on and she sighed with relief.

  He was getting under her skin, she thought. He had always been able to do that to her, from the moment she had first taken that glass of wine from him two years ago. She’d forgotten all her insecurities then—had slipped into those enticing eyes of his and had believed that they would last, that she could be someone he wanted. Someone he needed.

  The past didn’t matter now, she thought, checking the pizzas. She had been young and completely in love then. Now she knew better. She could protect herself now—she would protect herself, regardless of how easy it seemed to be to slip up in front of him. Whether it was out of anger, or out of familiarity, she would control it.

  A sharp pain snapped her from her thoughts, and she looked down to see an angry welt spread across her hand where she had reached for the oven tray without a mitt. She rolled her eyes as she ran the hand under cold water, blaming her silly thoughts for distracting her, but grateful that she had only used one hand instead of both, as she usually did.

  Once the pain had subsided to a throb, she saw the welt was threatening to blister and rushed to the bathroom to get the first-aid kit and the gel she knew would soothe the burn.

  She realised too late that Jordan was still in there, and barely had the chance to move back before the door opened. A cloud of steam followed a muscular body precariously covered by her white-and-pink towel out of the room.

  ‘I’m so sorry! I was just—’ She felt her face redden as she tried to avert her eyes from Jordan’s half-naked body.

  Except every time she tried, her eyes moved back to him of their own accord. She had been right when she’d thought his body was more muscular than she remembered. His broad shoulders were more defined, the muscles in his chest and abs sculpted so perfectly that she wondered if it were possible for her insides to burn, as well. Then she cleared her throat and told herself that she had seen him like this before. There was no reason to panic.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I just need to get the first-aid kit.’ She gestured to her hand and was quite proud of the way she’d managed to put words together in the calm tone her voice had taken.

  Which all went out the window when he immediately walked to her and took her hand in his.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I...I burned myself.’ Her mind was whirling at the feel of her hand in his, at the contact between them—however minimal. But her heart was the problem—it was thumping at a rhythm she thought she couldn’t possibly sustain, merely because of his proximity.

  ‘Still a clumsy cook, I see. Even when you’re just heating pizza,’ he said softly, and then he led her into the bathroom.

  She had no choice but to stand there as he reached for the first-aid kit. He pulled out the soothing gel and spread it gently over her burn, and the heat went from her hand to the rest of her. His body was still warm from the shower, and she could smell his body wash—the same kind he’d used before they had broken up. The same kind that had thrilled her each time she had smelled it.

  And suddenly her heart and her body longed for him with an intensity that had her backing away from him.

  ‘It’s fine, thanks. I’ll finish this up in the kitchen.’ She grabbed the kit and almost ran back to the kitchen, not caring if he saw.

  All she cared about was putting some distance between them so she could try and convince herself that he wasn’t affecting her.

  * * *

  ‘Did you manage to call Lulu?’ Jordan asked Mila when he’d finally got his body back under control.

  He hadn’t expected her to react like that after seeing him in a towel. The look she had given him before she had bolted had been filled with the desire that had marked their entire relationship, and his body had acted accordingly. But that was over now, he told himself, and he was mak
ing an effort to forget it. Except that all of a sudden he was noticing the curve of her neck, the faint blush of her cheeks...

  ‘I did,’ she replied, her voice husky, and he thought that maybe she wasn’t as recovered as she pretended to be. ‘She’s coming over to the house tomorrow.’

  Something in her voice made him forget about the curls that had escaped the clip she’d tied her hair back with. He looked up, saw the shaky hands that handed him his pizza and a glass of wine, and something pulled inside him.

  ‘You’re worried.’

  ‘About seeing her?’ She picked up her glass and plate, walking past him on her way to the lounge.

  He followed, saw that she took one couch, and sat on the other. He didn’t need another reason to be distracted by her. He watched as she broke a piece of pizza from the rest, but didn’t lift it to her mouth.

  ‘No, I think that’s going to be fine,’ she said, and lifted her head with a defiant smile.

  But he could still see the uncertainty, and he knew that she was pretending. He just didn’t know for whom.

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. I mean, we’ve spoken in the last year.’

  She was desperately trying to convince him—or perhaps again convince herself.

  ‘Then why are you worried?’ he asked again. ‘And don’t tell me you aren’t because I can see that you are.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s nothing,’ she replied, picking at her pizza, and he had to force himself not to be annoyed by her denials. He had to force himself not to push her just because he wanted to know. Because he wanted to help.

  So he didn’t answer her, biting from a slice of pizza that he didn’t taste, chewing mechanically, waiting for her to speak. Her hands grew busier, and soon there was a pile of cheese on her plate and her pizza base was nearly bare. Still, he waited, because he could see it unnerved her, and perhaps it would do so enough that she would open up to him.

  ‘I have to apologise.’