A Price Worth Paying?

by Trish Morey

  ‘I won’t …’ she started. ‘I can’t …’

  ‘That is not our way!’ he simply said, putting a full stop on that particular conversation. ‘Three weeks, you say?’

  ‘It’s early in my cycle, which is good … well … it’s better. Safer.’

  ‘Sí.’ He frowned. ‘I can wait that long. And meanwhile I will show you that you are wrong, that I can exercise control and live without sex.’

  She laughed, the sound bitter. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?’

  Maybe it was, but he could do with the time away from her. He’d enjoyed her in his bed these past few weeks, and perhaps he’d enjoyed her too much. Perhaps that was the problem.

  Putting distance between them, putting up barriers, might be the best thing for them. Felipe was growing weaker—the march of his disease relentless, the damage wrought becoming more apparent by the day. Soon she’d be going home and there was no point getting used to having her around.

  And he didn’t want her getting used to being around. His women were supposed to be temporary. That was the way he liked it.

  That was the way he’d always liked it.

  They were almost back at the cottage when they heard it, a crash followed by a muffled cry.

  ‘Felipe!’ she screamed alongside him, suddenly bolting for the door.

  ‘They won’t let him come home,’ she sniffed, sitting in a hospital waiting room chair, repeating the words the doctor had just delivered. ‘I should have been there. I should never have left him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. Felipe is ill. His bones are weak. If it didn’t happen today, it could have been tomorrow or the next day.’

  ‘But I should have been there.’

  He pulled her closer, his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Felipe hates hospitals. It will kill him being away from his vines.’

  ‘Simone, he’s dying. He’s too sick now to be at home. You can’t look after him. You can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day.’

  And she sniffed again and knew that there was nothing he could say or do that would make her feel better. Felipe had needed her and she hadn’t been there.

  And where she had been and what she’d been doing—oh God—was Felipe to get his wish for a baby after all? Was that to be yet another price she would pay for her lies?

  She buried her face in her hands and cried, ‘I should have been there.’

  Felipe’s condition steadily deteriorated after that, the break in his hip ensuring he would stay bed-ridden. Simone spent as much time with him as possible. He had moments of great lucidity, where he would talk about Maria and how they had met and the fiestas where he had courted her.

  He had moments of rambling confusion, where he would tumble words in Spanish and Basque and English all together and make no sense at all.

  At night Alesander would collect her from the hospital and take her back to the apartment and make sure she ate something before she fell into bed and woke up to do it all over again.

  He watched her withdraw into herself, watched the shadows grow under her eyes, watched the haunted look on her features and he marvelled at her strength.

  And he ached for her.

  God, how he ached for her.

  He wanted her so much. He wanted to hold her and hug her and soothe away her pain. He wanted to make love to her and put life and light back into her beautiful blue eyes.

  But, true to his word, he did not make a move on her.

  He doubted she even noticed, and that made him feel no better.

  At night he watched her sleeping, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, her beautiful face at peace for a few short hours until she woke and the pain of grief and imminent loss returned.

  ‘You don’t have to go in every day,’ he’d said to her after the first week. ‘Have a day to yourself. Relax.’

  But she’d shaken her head. ‘I have to go,’ she’d said. ‘I’m all he has. He’s all I have.’

  And he’d ached for her that she had lost so much in her short life.

  And what she hadn’t lost, he’d taken.

  They’d made a deal, he told himself, a contract, and that made him feel no better at all.

  ‘He’s all I have,’ she’d said.

  And it twisted in his gut that he didn’t figure in her deliberations at all. Was there no place for him? Did he mean nothing to her after the months they’d spent together? After the nights when she’d lain so slick with sweat and satisfied in his arms?

  Sure, they’d always planned to part and go their separate ways when Felipe died and their contract came to an end. But why should knowing that he meant so little sit so uncomfortably with him?

  An ambulance brought Felipe home to die, the two nurses setting up his bed near the window of the cottage where he’d been born so he could look out over the vineyard where he’d lived his entire life. A day, they warned her, she’d have with him. Maybe two at the most.

  She spent the first day sitting by his side, talking to him when he was awake enough to listen, about what was going on in the vineyard or about what life was like in Australia. Every now and then she was certain he had taken his last breath, and she would hold her own as he would grow absolutely still, only for the next breath to shudder from the depths of his sunken chest and make her jump. Sometimes his breathing came so fast he could have been running a race. And other times he fidgeted and shifted restlessly, muttering words she couldn’t understand.

  On the second day she grew more used to the breathing. Or maybe she just grew used to not knowing which might be his final breath. Still she expected his death to come that day.

  On the third day she sat alongside the bed, feeling exhausted. He was eating nothing, drinking less, and still he held on. It was killing her watching him—listening to his stop–start breathing and hearing the bubbling gurgle in his chest. She held his hand, talking to him when it seemed he might be awake, sponging his brow when he seemed upset or agitated.

  The fidgeting grew worse. Felipe fidgeted with the blanket again, murmuring words she couldn’t understand. She touched her hand to his to calm him and chided him gently, ‘You’re cold, Abuelo. You should put your hands under the blanket.’

  One of the nurses took her aside when he had calmed into a sleep and she had risen to stretch her legs. ‘It’s a sign,’ the nurse said. ‘His circulation is slowing. His whole body is closing down.’

  ‘But why is it taking so long?’ she cried. She didn’t want her grandfather to die, but neither did she want to see him suffer. ‘And he’s so restless at times. He wanted to go quietly in his sleep. Why does he fidget so much?’

  The nurse smiled and took her hands. ‘Sometimes the living can’t let them go. And other times people can’t let themselves go. Sometimes there are loose ends or plans left unfinished. Is there anything you know of that he is worried about? Are there loose ends he wanted tied up?’

  Simone shook her head. ‘I thought he wanted to be reunited with Maria.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else he might feel has been left undone?’

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Because there was one thing Felipe had wished for.

  But there was no chance of that now. Her period had come the week before. The much anticipated period that would tell her if her passionate encounter with Alesander amidst the vines had resulted in a child.

  It had not.

  She hadn’t bothered to tell Alesander and he hadn’t bothered to ask, whether because he’d lost count of the days or merely lost interest she didn’t know. Maybe because he’d believed her when she’d assured him it would be okay. Maybe because all he’d ever cared about was the land and any day now it would be his—every day brought him closer to his goal.

  Whatever, Alesander had stopped caring. He didn’t want to know.

  And then, when it all came down to it, Felipe didn’t need to know either.

  She looked over at him
, shrunken and tormented on the bed, biting her lip. Would it matter to tell one more tiny lie? One more on top of all the others?

  No, she decided, watching his busy fingers worry the bedding again.

  One more tiny lie would make no difference at all now.

  She sat down beside him, took his cold fingers in her own and squeezed them gently. ‘Abuelo, it’s Simone.’

  One of the nurses called him, warning him it was close, and for a while he wondered whether he should even be there. He’d kept his distance the last few days she’d been living at the cottage again. Felipe was her grandfather and after the month they’d had, he wondered if she even wanted him there.

  But he couldn’t stay away.

  She would be leaving soon. Once Felipe died, there would be no reason for her to stay. She would pack her things and return to her home and her studies in Melbourne.

  He would probably never see her again.

  He needed to see her again before that happened.

  Besides, she was about to lose the only person she cared about in the world. She needed someone to be there for her.

  He wanted that person to be him.

  He wanted her to know he was there for her, even if she didn’t care.

  He stepped into the tiny cottage, his eyes taking a few seconds to adjust to the gloom after being outside, and saw Simone sit down next to the bed where her wizened grandfather lay.

  ‘Abuelo, it’s Simone.’ She took his cold fingers in hers, wishing him her warmth.

  He muttered something low and hard to understand, but he was awake and still listening.

  ‘Abuelo, I have some good news.’ Tears squeezed from her eyes at the lie she was about to tell. One more lie to follow all the others, but maybe this would be the end of it, she told herself. And if it let him go, maybe this lie was the most important of all of them. ‘You got your wish, Abuelo. I … I am expecting a baby. And I am hoping with all my heart it will be a boy because then we will call him after you. We will name him Felipe.’

  ‘Ah,’ the old man said on a gasp, his hand jerking, tugging her closer as his jaw worked up and down. ‘Ah!’

  She leaned over him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Happy,’ he gasped. ‘Gracias, mi nieta, gracias.’

  The effort almost seemed too much as he sagged back into the pillows, and she thought he was finished until she heard his thready voice. ‘Maria … Maria is here. I must go to her.’

  ‘Sí,’ she said, nodding as tears filled her eyes and spilled onto the bedding. ‘She has been waiting for you. She will be so happy to see you again.’

  How long it was after that she couldn’t tell. She only knew that one of the nurses finally touched her on the shoulder. ‘He’s gone,’ she said, and Simone nodded, because she had sensed the exact moment Felipe had gone to join his wife.

  It was done.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE WAS PREGNANT.

  Alesander reeled from the room, needing air, blindsided by Simone’s confession to a dying man. She was pregnant and she hadn’t even bothered to tell him—the child’s father—first.

  He should be angry.

  How long had she known? A few days? A week?

  No, not just angry. He should be furious.

  This was exactly what he had feared all along, and it was really happening. Their temporary arrangement had suddenly got a whole lot more complicated.

  And she hadn’t even bothered to tell him.

  He turned his face to the sky, into air now as crisp and cool as the Txakolina wine produced from the grapes in these vineyards, searching for answers.

  So why wasn’t he furious?

  Instead he felt almost … relieved.

  He breathed out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

  Because she couldn’t go home now.

  Strange how that idea suddenly seemed so right. He would not let her go. She was bearing their child.

  She would have to stay now.

  Felipe was dead.

  Strange, how it still took so long to sink in, even when you knew it was true.

  Desolate, exhausted, she gently placed her grandfather’s hand over his chest and rose from her chair, kissing his snowy whiskered cheeks one final time. ‘Goodbye, Abuelo,’ she said. ‘Sleep tight.’

  Numb and bone-weary, she left the bedside chair that had been her home for the last three days. Her back ached, her head hurt and there was a hole where her heart had once been.

  Abuelo was dead.

  There was nothing for her here now.

  Soon she would pack her things and return home. But not even that thought brought her comfort.

  ‘Simone?’

  She looked up to see Alesander standing in the doorway and he looked so familiar and strong that for a moment her heart kicked over, as if there was life left in it after all. And then she remembered that he was supposed to mean nothing to her and it died again.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said, finally accepting it, and with acceptance came a torrent of tears.

  She would have fallen if he hadn’t been there to catch her. ‘I know,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest and he felt both a friend and a stranger. How long since he had held her in his arms like this?

  And he felt so good, so solid and warm. He smelled so good. She drank in his scent in greedy heaving gasps, relishing the masculine scent of him while she could, knowing she would miss it when she was gone. He stroked her back until the crying jag finished. ‘Come on. I’ll take you home.’

  Home.

  Where was that?

  Once upon a time she had been desperate to leave Spain and get back to Melbourne.

  But now?

  Now she’d fallen in love with a craggy coastline and cerulean sea and with vines that tangled above her head and gave the grapes a view of the sea.

  Now she’d fallen in love with a man she had to say goodbye to.

  Now she wasn’t sure where home really was.

  He led her to the car, drove her back to the apartment as day turned to night. He didn’t talk while the lift carried them upstairs, he just stood with his arm around her shoulders and never before had she appreciated anyone’s silence or support more.

  She let him lead her through the darkened apartment to the bedroom with its big wide bed and strip her down to her underwear. There was nothing sexual about the way he touched her. It was like a parent undressing a child before putting them to bed. Gentle. Caring. But with purpose.

  She clambered in, almost crying out in pleasure at the bed’s welcoming embrace. She’d imagined he’d leave her then to sleep, but a moment later he surprised her by joining her, pulling her into his arms and just holding her close to him. She wasn’t worried, he hadn’t touched her for the best part of a month.

  She felt him press his lips to her head.

  She felt … safe.

  Empty and numb, but safe in this man’s embrace. And right now, that meant more than anything.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered against his chest, the wiry hairs of his chest tickling her lips.

  ‘What for?’ he said, his mouth in her hair.

  ‘For just being here.’

  He lifted her chin with one hand. In the darkened room she sensed rather than saw his eyes on her, she felt the fan of his breath on her cheek, before he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers.

  No more than a touch of flesh against flesh, and then another, just as brief, but she sighed at the contact, sighing at the memories it stirred inside her, whispers of past kisses like the tendrils on the vines, catching and tugging at her senses.

  Oh, how she’d missed his mouth.

  How she would miss it when she was gone.

  How she would miss him.

  She blinked into the darkness, and the darkness didn’t matter because it was as if she could see. Suddenly she was aware of the press of her body against his, aware of every place their bodies touched, aware of the
stroke of his long-fingered hand over her skin.

  Suddenly she was aware of the tension in his body, as if he was holding himself rigid to protect her, so that he could comfort her.

  And numbness turned to life as comfort turned to need.

  Tomorrow she would have to make plans. There was a funeral to be arranged. There would have to be papers signed and transferred. She would have to make arrangements to return home.

  But that was tomorrow.

  First, there was tonight.

  Maybe their last night?

  ‘Alesander?’ she whispered, her toes brushing his shin, her breasts tight and aching in her bra and a pooling heat growing in her belly.

  ‘Yes?’

  She tilted her head higher, found his lips with hers and whispered over them the words, ‘Kiss me again.’

  He made a sound, strangled and thick in the back of his throat, even as he pulled her closer to him. ‘If I do—’

  ‘I know,’ she said, smoothing her hand down the long gentle slide of his back, to the small of his back and the curve of his behind, memorizing him through her skin. ‘I need it. I need to feel alive.’

  She didn’t have to ask him twice. His mouth took hers, warm and real and alive, and she drank in his taste and his heat, as welcoming as the mattress beneath her, while his hands tangled in her hair or swept down the length of her, his touch so sweet—so missed—it made her cry into his mouth.

  Then he lifted his head. ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’ he asked, and she thought how sweet he was to ask, as if finally she mattered, not just the sex.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  He did not rush. It was not like that heated encounter in the vineyard. He took his time reacquainting himself with her body, noticing the places where her flesh dipped lower or her hip bones jutted higher. She’d lost weight while she’d looked after Felipe, he could tell. He would see that she ate from now on. She would have to eat.

  He slipped off her bra and her sigh sounded like thanks. He cupped her perfect breast in his hand and she whimpered with need.