by Julie Mac
Ben said nothing, but the gentle squeeze of his hand around hers told her he understood.
They walked on, past a big vegetable garden and implement sheds and back to the car park and café, which was like a much smaller mirror image of the house, with verandas on the front and back.
On the phone this morning, Ben had suggested a walk in the gardens, followed by a meal in the café. She’d agreed then; half an hour or so ago, down there on the bush track, she’d decided there was no way she was going to sit at a table with him and share a meal.
Now, in the cool of the evening, with the fragrance of flowers heavy in the air and his calm presence by her side, dinner with him seemed infinitely preferable to going home to an empty house so early in the evening.
“Have you got a table out on the veranda for me and my lady?” he asked the waitress, who smiled and led them to a secluded table for two outside, overlooking the gardens.
She handed them menus listing meal choices that were fairly basic but appetising.
Kelly chose tempura battered scallops and chips with salad, while Ben opted for beer battered fish and chips. And because she was driving, she turned down his suggestion of a bottle of wine to share, and instead asked for a glass of red.
It arrived quickly, along with a beer for him, and a delicious looking platter of breads, cheese and dips.
She smiled across the table, watching his eyes, intrigued at the way they seemed more gold than green in the soft light of dusk, while he told her about a new recipe he’d tried for fish curry.
“This is lovely,” she thought, and for a moment, let herself dream. If things were different, if he’d chosen a different lifestyle, this could be the first of many shared dinners Julie Mac
out—or at home.
Tonight, he looked like a smart young executive taking time out. He wore a fitted black shirt over dress jeans, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
She sipped at her glass of pinot noir, savouring its rich mellowness, and wondered: what would it be like to have Ben—handsome, funny, sexy Ben—chopping vegetables at her kitchen bench and swapping recipes with her. She repressed the urge to smile wider as she thought of the incongruity of this big, strong, decidedly masculine man wearing an apron in her kitchen.
What would it be like to have him sitting across the dinner table from her, sharing a meal, often? Once a week? Three times a week? Every night?
He’d referred to her as ‘my lady,’ and her body glowed at the thought. Ben’s lady.
Ben and Kelly. Ben, Kelly and Dylan. She sipped at her wine and let the names run around in her head, forming little groups, separating, regrouping.
And then Ben’s phone vibrated on the table top.
“Excuse me, sweetheart.” He picked up the phone and pushed back his chair. “I’ve just got to take this call.”
He rose from the table and walked down the veranda steps into the garden, several metres away, out of earshot, before he answered.
Like a bucket of icy water thrown over her, that phone call dumped Kelly back in the real world. Okay, she could have a one‐off meal with him, but dreaming crazy dreams about anything more? Just plain stupid. They could never be an item. Full stop.
She was tempted to ask him the nature of the call—confront him now, when he got back to the table. How could it be an innocent call? An innocent call could be answered in company.
But she remembered his reaction when she’d broached the subject of his lifestyle, down there by the bush. Best leave it till after they’d eaten. Perhaps she could bring the subject up over coffee.
“Do you like cooking?” Her question sounded banal, even to her own ears, but it fitted her criteria for safe conversation—nothing too personal, nothing too deep.
He’d come back to the table frowning a little and looking preoccupied, but now his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.
“Cooking’s good if you have someone to share the food with, otherwise it’s a bit of a chore.”
“My sentiments entirely,” she agreed, selecting a piece of bread and dipping it in the little pannikin of olive oil on the platter.
“Where’s the fun in trying out a new recipe when you’re on your own,” she continued, “and you know that if you cook the amount they specify in the recipe it’s going A Father at Last
to be far too much, and you’ll just end up putting most of it in the freezer.”
“No fun at all.” He said it in a silly voice, and she couldn’t help laughing.
She sliced a thin sliver of brie and placed it on the bread. “Not that Dylan’s not a good eater, but he’s only six for heaven’s sake, and his tastes don’t exactly run to the exotic.
He wouldn’t be interested in bread and olive oil, and brie, I can tell you that. But another adult to share with—someone who enjoys good food—now that’s something special.”
She stopped, realising what she’d said, the bread and cheese midway to her mouth.
He was watching her, his smile gone. In the silence that hung between them, she registered background noises: laughter from a big table inside, where a family group was obviously celebrating someone’s birthday, birds singing in the gardens and the tick‐tick of the sprinklers watering part of the lawn.
“Is there someone you cook for sometimes, Kelly?” he asked softly. He picked up his glass, but didn’t drink from it. “A man? You said you didn’t have a husband or partner, but do you have a boyfriend? Someone who comes round for a meal and…company?”
She wanted to laugh. Ben was jealous. Especially about the ‘company’ bit. She watched him take a big swig from his glass and realised it felt good to know he was jealous.
With an effort, she stopped herself from smiling. “Nope, I haven’t got a boyfriend, although I do have a male friend—” she paused and saw his eyes narrow “—Leighton. Do you remember Leighton from school? He’s gay.”
“Of course I remember Leighton. Nice guy.” He smiled.
“He and I go to the movies sometimes, usually if Dylan’s having a sleepover at a friend’s. And I’ll cook for him or vice versa, before the movie.”
“Sounds good—for both of you.” He looked smug, and she let herself smile. Her friend Marnie often said all men were cavemen at heart, and right now, she was inclined to agree.
She took a bite of her bread and cheese and felt decidedly Neanderthal‐ific herself.
Ben had said he enjoyed cooking when there was someone to share with. Women?
Although the evening was still warm, Kelly shivered as an involuntary, unpleasantly cold sensation snaked up her spine. She was being hypocritical, she knew. It had been her decision to cut Ben from her life when they were twenty‐one.
Whatever he got up to now with women was nothing to do with her.
Still it hurt.
“Are you seeing someone?” She didn’t really want to know, and she did want to know, all at the same time.
Ben could see war being waged in her eyes. Of course she wanted to know if he had a woman. And if he did, the knowledge would hurt her. She wanted him, of that he had no Julie Mac
doubt, he’d seen it in her eyes, felt it in her touch.
But she was a mother—a mother resisting him to protect her child. Their child.
Anyway, he could answer honestly, and not hurt her feelings.
“I’m not seeing anyone. Haven’t for a while.” And would have been nuts to do so with this current gig in progress.
“But you must have had girlfriends over the years? Was there anyone special?” Kelly made the question sound casual, but he could see she was gripping the stem of her wine glass far more tightly than she needed to.
“Girlfriends, yes. But no‐one I could say I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”
After you, none of them quite made the grade.
“Oh. I see.”
Her grip had eased on the glass, and some of the tension had gone from her eyes.
“And you, has there been anyone special for y
ou since…since that night we had together?”
Zap! The tension was back—in her eyes, in her face, in her whole body. And he knew darn well why. She’d told him her son— his son—had been fathered by some other man—
some bloke from the other side of the world who was here in New Zealand studying.
Now she’d be debating whether to tell him the guy was special, which would be a big, fat lie on top of an even bigger lie, or that he wasn’t special at all, which would make her feel cheap.
He wished he’d never asked because she looked so embarrassed.
She shook her head slowly and reached up to fiddle with her hair.
“No‐one, Ben, although I really tried hard at one stage.” She sat up straighter, and he was pleased to see the fight returning to her eyes.
“When Dylan turned four, I went to speed dating—don’t laugh—and joined one of those dinner club thingies. I even tried dating on the net. I met men all right—” she rolled her eyes theatrically “—in droves!”
She stopped talking while the waitress cleared away the bread and dips platter.
“And none of these…droves of men wanted to whisk you away to a happy‐ever‐after ending?” Ben prompted when the waitress had gone. He tried to keep his tone light, but it was hard work.
“Oh, yeah, they sure did. The problem was me.” She fiddled with her hair again, and looked straight at him, her blue eyes wide and trusting.
It made him feel almost physically ill to think of other men gazing at those beautiful eyes with interest—or worse.
A Father at Last
“How do you figure that? That the problem was you?”
“Oh, you know, I tried hard to be open‐minded and outward looking and positive, and all those things, but there wasn’t a single man among all those men that I had any real connection with.”
She paused for a big swallow of wine.
“I met guys who texted me love poems fifteen times a day and sent me roses, and guys who thought no‐strings‐attached casual sex was a perfectly reasonable request—”
“Cretins!” He breathed deeply and slowly to quell the black surge of anger that welled in his gut.
She must have noticed because she laughed softly, and said, “Don’t worry Ben. I wasn’t interested in any of them. Settling for second best isn’t in my nature.”
She smiled and suddenly the atmosphere around the table felt lighter.
“That’s my girl,” he said, trying to keep the tone airy, but the words came out in a growl.
Their main courses arrived, and as they ate and chatted easily, Ben thought about what he had to tell her tonight. It would be easier to say nothing—far easier. But he’d made a promise—and time was running out.
He ordered another glass of pinot for her, and one for himself, and when she’d eaten the last of the succulent little scallops on her plate, he drew a deep breath.
“Kelly, sweetheart, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Julie Mac
Chapter 6
She looked up as sharp little nerves clenched in her stomach.
His tone was serious and worry showed in his eyes. This was it, the moment he would tell her about the crooked path his life had followed—her chance to set him on the road to redemption.
Frantically, she tried to remember all the pointers she’d jotted down in her diary at work today: counselling, mentor, rehab…something else…what was it? She wished she’d had a little less wine.
He reached across the table and took her hand in his, and she gave a little squeeze to reassure him. He lifted his wine glass, took a sip and cleared his throat.
Training. That was the other thing. Now she was ready. “Go on Ben,” she encouraged.
“It’s about your father—”
“Oh no, please!” Her tummy muscles clenched tighter. Everything had been going so well—the talking, the eating, the relaxing. And now this again.
She dragged her hand out from under his, and willed herself to stay calm. “I’ve told you—as far as I’m concerned…” She pressed her lips together and looked away from him, out into the darkening garden.
“As far as you’re concerned, your father’s dead?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper; saying it aloud shamed her.
The hand she’d pulled from his was still on the table, and he reached across again.
This time, he didn’t take hold of it, but instead laid his fingers gently across hers.
“He’s not dead, Kelly. He’s very much alive and he wants to see you.”
Some giant machine sucked all the air, all the blood from her body.
Dad wants to see me?
She stared at him across the table, unsure whether she’d said the words out loud or just in her head. Ben said nothing. He was simply watching, waiting for a reaction.
Fleetingly, she thought of getting up from the table, picking up her handbag and walking out, away from Ben, away from her father, away from the past, away from a million bad A Father at Last
memories.
But there were some good ones, too. She didn’t have to run and hide anymore. She was grownup. She could cope with this.
A picture filled her mind, the same one she’d seen down there by the pond earlier; Dad’s face, happy, smiling—healthy. And then other pictures crowded in: that awful photo they’d used in the newspapers when the court case was on, the one where he looked like a hunted, scared, skinny human being—a criminal. Dad in prison on that first and only visit she’d made, when he was gaunt and sad and shaking like a leaf. But despite all his own problems, he’d hugged her and told her to be strong.
And she had been.
And still was.
“Where is he?” She picked up her glass and drank some wine.
“Here in Auckland.”
She put her glass down too quickly and a couple of drops of wine splashed onto the white tablecloth. Red drops like blood. His blood is running in my veins. His blood is running in Dylan’s veins. He’ll always be a part of me, of us. I can’t change that.
“Where? How do you know? Have you been talking to him? Have you seen him?”
Her left hand still lay under his on the table, and now he turned her hand over gently to clasp it in his.
“He works for a non‐profit organisation dedicated to helping ex‐prisoners get back on their feet when they’ve left prison. The idea is to prevent re‐offending and—”
“I know what they do. Just tell me…tell me about him.” She was the little girl at the prison all over again, acting strong, but feeling shaky and scared inside.
But did she need to be scared? She could listen to Ben, absorb his information, store it away, walk away. Nothing had to change.
She lifted her glass and drank again. “Tell me about him.”
He squeezed her hand. “Are you okay about this?”
Okay? How could I be okay? She shrugged. “I guess.”
He frowned slightly, examining her eyes, her face. Then he nodded once, and continued, “As I said, he’s working for the prisoner rehab organisation and has been for the last few years. They’ve got an office over in west Auckland, and he lives out that way, too.
By all accounts, he’s great at the job, and has a very good reputation for success with the people he works with.”
“And you’ve seen him?” Kelly could picture him, Dad, working with people, quietly encouraging them, patiently setting them on a better path. She hadn’t thought about it for years, but Ben’s words had conjured lost memories: Dad helping out with her hockey team Julie Mac
at school, Dad helping out at pony club.
“I’ve seen him,” said Ben, simply. “He’s healthy and he looks well—in fact he looks very fit and well. He told me he’s been running marathons for the last few years.”
“Dad running marathons?” Kelly found herself smiling. “I remember him talking about that when I was a kid. He always wanted to train but he never had time, with the business
and everything else.”
“Well, he’s doing it now and looks to be in great shape. How old would he be? Early fifties?”
“Something like that.” She looked away from Ben’s knowing gaze. She had no idea how old her own father was. And how embarrassing was that?
Sipping again from her wineglass—more for something to occupy her hands and fill the awkward gap, than for any great desire for the wine—she made some quick mental calculations. Mum would have been fifty‐two this year, so that meant…
“He’s fifty‐three.” Kelly looked back at the man sitting across the table from her; smart, capable, good‐looking Ben Carter, who’d had the world at his feet a few years ago, and was now well into the process of chucking it all away. Where would he be at fifty‐three?
Would his nefarious activities bring their inevitable consequences? Would he spend the best years of his life in prison?
And then there was Dylan, fatherless, and quite content to be so at present. But what would happen when he was a teenager, and needed some strong male guidance? The thought was like a punch in the stomach. Dylan would miss out on having a father in his life for those important years, just as she had.
How would she cope when he demanded answers—real answers—about who his father was? Could she go on telling convenient little white lies?
Her father and Ben—they’d both let her down, both put her in a situation where she had to avoid the truth for Dylan’s sake and her own. Really, she was dumb to even think about including either of them in her life, or Dylan’s.
“He wants to see you. Soon. I’ll come with you.”
Ben’s words, quiet but firm, smashed through her thoughts. His eyes were still watching hers, steady, unrelenting, boring unbearably into her head, seeing her weaknesses. If he looked any harder, he’d see the truth—all of it.
She swung her head to look across the veranda, out into the gardens cloaked now in dusk’s velvet. Somewhere a morepork called; she waited for the little native owl’s mate’s answer, but none came.