by Helen Brooks
There was a moment’s silence. Then Isabelle said gently, ‘Do I take it you don’t love him any more?’
‘No. I mean, I do love Forde. Of course I do.’
‘And I know he loves you. Deeply. So forgive me but I don’t quite understand …’
Melanie tried, she really tried to keep back the tears but it was hopeless. And this wasn’t polite, ladylike weeping either. She wailed heartbrokenly, her eyes gushing and her nose running, and even when she felt Isabelle’s arms go round her with a strength that belied their frailty, she couldn’t pull herself together. She was crying for Matthew, for her dear little boy, and for Forde, for the way she had broken his heart when they’d lost their son, for all the smashed dreams and hopes that had turned to ashes. And for this new baby, this tiny, little person who hadn’t asked to exist and who was so vulnerable …
When her cries had dwindled to hiccuping sobs, Isabelle fetched a cold flannel and towel and mopped her face as though she were three years old instead of nearly thirty. Utterly spent, Melanie sat quiet and docile, her head aching and her eyes burning as her mother-in-law made a fresh pot of coffee. Once they both had a steaming mug in front of them, Isabelle sat down at the kitchen table with her and took Melanie’s hands in her own parchment-like ones. ‘Talk to me,’ she said softly.
Melanie shook her head slowly. ‘Oh, Isabelle, I don’t know how to explain.’
The old lady sighed. ‘You’re the daughter I never had, you know that, don’t you? And that will never change, whatever the future holds. But this blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault has to stop, child.’
Melanie looked at her through tear-drenched eyes. ‘I don’t feel I have the right to be happy again, not after losing Matthew, and I’m frightened …’
‘What?’ Isabelle pressed, when Melanie paused.
‘I’m frightened something will happen to Forde if I’m with him, and now this baby too.’ Instinctively she put a protective hand on her stomach. ‘I think I’m perhaps meant to be alone, Isabelle.’
‘Nonsense, dear.’ Isabelle never minced words. ‘You had a terrible and tragic accident, and on top of that woman’s curse of hormones came into play, colouring your thinking and causing the depression you’re still suffering from. If you had taken the medication the doctor prescribed you might be feeling better by now.’
Melanie’s chin came up. ‘I didn’t want to. Matthew deserved to have me grieve for him. It was all I could do.’ She retrieved her hands, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose before she said, ‘I know you mean well, Isabelle, but I have to work out what I’m going to do in my own way.’
‘Yes, dear, I know that, but will you do one thing for me? For all of us? See Forde now and again. He loves you very much. Just talk to him, explain how you feel, even if it doesn’t make sense. Don’t shut him out, not now. This is his child too.’
Melanie nodded. ‘I know that,’ she said, through the tightness in her throat. ‘And—and I’m seeing him tonight.’
‘Good.’ Isabelle’s voice became brisk. ‘Now, drink your coffee and have another piece of cake. Two, if you wish. You have to keep your strength up and you’re eating for two, remember.’
Making a great effort, Melanie responded to the lightening of the conversation. ‘The health experts would take you to task for that thinking these days.’
‘No doubt, but I’ve never yet listened to what the experts say, and I’m not about to start now.’ Isabelle chuckled. ‘I’m an irksome old lady, I know.’
Melanie smiled, her voice soft. ‘You’re a lovely old lady,’ she said, with a tenderness that brought moisture to Isabelle’s eyes.
Melanie had two more pieces of cake and they talked about the progress of the garden and the weather and other such non-intrusive subjects before she left the house and went outside to break the news to James, whereupon Isabelle immediately picked up the telephone and called Forde.
James was busy working on the large informal pond Isabelle had requested in a low-lying area of the garden, his artfully random arrangement of large stones enhancing the soft outlines and sinuous curves of the water feature. Knowing how passionate Isabelle was about wildlife, Melanie had suggested the margins of the pool be masked by soft, naturalistic planting, which extended into the shallows to provide safe shelter for fish fry, amphibians, and bathing or drinking birds.
He looked up as she approached, his gaze taking in her red-rimmed eyes and pink nose, and his face was openly apprehensive as he stood up.
‘I’m fine, don’t worry,’ Melanie said before he could speak. ‘But there’s something I’ve got to tell you because I won’t be lifting or carrying anything heavy for a while. I’m having a baby.’
James took a step backwards as though she was going to deliver on the spot. ‘What?’ he all but screeched.
Melanie laughed; she couldn’t help it.
Smiling sheepishly, James said, ‘Forde?’
She nodded. ‘Of course. Who else?’
‘So you’re back together?’
‘Not exactly.’ But a reasonable assumption, she supposed.
‘Right.’
Not for the first time Melanie blessed the fact that James was the sort of easy-going soul who accepted people for exactly what they were. She was going to have enough explaining to do to various folk over the next months, but with James no explanation was necessary. ‘The baby will be born early May, which isn’t the best time, I know. We usually get busy then after the winter.’
‘No sweat.’ James grinned at her. ‘We’ll manage.’
‘I’ve been thinking for a while of getting someone else on board, perhaps over the next weeks would be a good idea so we’re ready for the spring?’ And then, in case he thought he was being usurped, she added, ‘They could be your assistant.’
He nodded. ‘Whatever you think.’
She smiled, and they began to get on with some work, but Melanie’s mind was buzzing. James had said ‘whatever you think,’ but that was the thing—she didn’t know what she thought about anything any more. Except that she loved this baby with every fibre of her being. She hadn’t known of its existence this time yesterday, but now it was the centre of her universe.
For the rest of the day she worked automatically, her mind a seething cauldron of hope and doubts and fears, but as she drove home from Isabelle’s in a deep November twilight she felt she knew what she had to do. Maybe she had known it from the moment Dr Chisholm had told her she was carrying Forde’s child. She just hadn’t been able to bear acknowledging it.
It was dark by the time she parked the truck and walked wearily into the cottage. Once inside, she went through the routine of a working day—outdoor clothes and boots left in the kitchen, upstairs to strip off and then a hot bath. It was close to seven o’clock when she emerged from the bathroom, pink and warm after a long soak, and once in the bedroom she knew she just had to lie down for a few minutes before she began to get ready to go out with Forde. She was so tired she felt drugged.
Promising herself she would simply shut her eyes for a little while and relax her aching muscles, she snuggled under the duvet, and was asleep as her head touched the pillow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FORDE knew he had a fight on his hands. He would have known that without his mother’s phone call earlier in the day, but when she’d repeated her conversation with Melanie it had confirmed everything Janet had spoken about.
He frowned to himself as he drove the miles to Melanie’s cottage. Damn it, he didn’t understand her. He loved her, more than life itself, but this consuming need to punish herself—and indirectly him—for something that neither of them had been able to prevent was something outside his comprehension. And this idea of hers that she brought misfortune on those she cared about was sheer garbage. His mother was convinced the idea had taken root even before they’d married due to Melanie’s past, and the miscarriage had given credence to something that would have faded away in time, shrivelled into nothing whe
n it hadn’t been given sustenance. But the accident had happened.
He gripped the steering wheel, his face grim. And the seed of this nonsense had been watered and fed by her depression that had followed.
He realised he was so tense his body was as tight as piano wire and forced himself to consciously relax, expelling a deep breath as he stepped on the brake. He’d been driving far too fast, way over the speed limit.
What the hell was he going to do? How could he convince her that life without her was an empty void, devoid of any real joy or satisfaction? In her crazy, mixed-up mind she thought she was protecting him in some way by cutting the threads that bound them. In reality she was killing him, inch by inch. And now there was the baby, a product of their love. Because it had been love that had given it life; this child had been created by passion and desire certainly—he only had to look at her to become rock hard—but love had been the foundation of their relationship from their first date. Before their first date. He had been born waiting for Melanie to appear in his life and he had recognised she was his other half early on. It really had been as simple as that.
A fox skittered across the road a little way ahead of him, a flash of red and bushy tail in the headlights. It was a timely reminder he was still going too fast and he checked his speed accordingly. He’d driven the car too hard too often lately—yet another indication that his normal self-control wasn’t as sharp as it could be. The trouble was, thoughts of Melanie were always at the forefront of his mind, thoughts that triggered a whole gamut of emotion and tied him up in knots. His mother had told him she was worried Melanie would crack up completely if something didn’t give soon and it had been on the tip of his tongue to say her son was in the same boat.
He smiled grimly to himself. He hadn’t, of course. His mother was concerned enough as it was. And it would have been a trite remark anyway. He had no intention of going to pieces. He was going to get his wife back come hell or high water, and the news about the baby only meant it would be sooner rather than later. He was done with the softly-softly approach and pretending to play along with the divorce. When she had first left him he’d told her she would divorce him over his dead body and that still held.
Forde glanced at the huge bunch of pink rosebuds and baby’s breath on the passenger seat at the side of him, next to the bottle of sparkling wine—non-alcoholic of course. Melanie had been obsessional regarding eating and drinking all the right things when she’d been pregnant before.
His brooding gaze softened. She’d pored over all the baby books she had bought, drunk gallons of milk, and the first time she had felt flutterings in her belly that were definitely tiny limbs thrashing about had been beside herself with joy. She would make a wonderful mother; he knew that. Her experiences as a child had made her determined their child would know nothing but love and security. He would remind her of that tonight if she persisted in this ridiculous notion of continuing with the separation.
He began to mentally list all the arguments and counter arguments he would put to Melanie to support his cause for the rest of the journey, playing devil’s advocate some of the time until he was absolutely sure she couldn’t put anything to him he hadn’t thought about.
When he parked in the little car park belonging to the row of cottages he was feeling positive. She loved him and he loved her, that was the most important thing to remember, that and the miracle that their night of love in the summer had made a little person, a composite of them both. She couldn’t dispute that. Come the spring there was going to be clear evidence of it. A baby boy or girl, a living, breathing reality.
He felt such a surge of love for Melanie and his unborn child that it took his breath away. He’d been wrong
when he’d thought she partly blamed him for Matthew’s death; he realised that now after talking to Janet and his mother. Melanie had condemned herself utterly. Maybe he should have refused to let her withdraw from him in those early days after the miscarriage? The doctors had told him to give her time, that it was natural for some women to detach themselves from what had happened for a while, nature’s way of assisting the mind to deal with something too devastating to take in all in one go.
But it hadn’t been like that with Melanie. Why had he listened to anyone when all his instincts had been telling him to make her let him in? He hadn’t known if he was on foot or horseback, that was the trouble. They had still been wrapped up in the rosy glow of finding each other and getting married, then the thrill of finding out she was pregnant—life had been perfect, scarily so with hindsight. And then, in the space of a heartbeat, their world had fragmented. He could still remember her face when he’d got to the hospital and found her in labour …
He shook his head to dispel the image that had haunted him ever since.
Getting out of the car, he looked towards the cottages. If he had his way she would be returning home with him tonight. Janet had told him not to take no for an answer when he’d told her everything earlier that day, which was all very well, but this was Melanie they were talking about. A corner of his mouth twisted wryly. She might look as though a puff of wind could blow her away, but his wife was one tough cookie when she had the bit between her teeth about something or other.
An owl hooted somewhere close by, otherwise the night was still and quiet, unlike his churning mind. He took a deep breath and composed himself, feeling like a soldier preparing himself for battle. Which wasn’t too far from the truth, he thought sardonically. And Melanie was one hell of a formidable opponent …
At Melanie’s front door, he took another deep breath but didn’t pause as he rang the doorbell. He had expected some lights to be on downstairs but the place seemed to be in darkness. He frowned, waiting a few moments before ringing again. Nothing. He glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes to eight. Surely she wouldn’t have gone out to avoid him? But no, Melanie wouldn’t do that, he told himself in the next moment, ashamed the thought had come into his mind. Whatever else, Melanie wasn’t a coward, neither did she break her word. She had said she would be here so what was wrong?
Concerned now, he threw caution to the wind and banged on the door consistently with all his might. The cottages either side of Melanie were in blackness, but there was a light on in one a couple of doors down. He’d go there in a minute if he had to. Her truck had been in the car park—he’d parked right next to it—so she couldn’t have gone far. Unless she was lying injured inside …
He knew a moment of gut-wrenching relief when the door creaked open. Melanie stood there in the robe she’d worn that night in August, her eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and her blonde hair tousled. ‘Forde?’ Her voice was husky, slow. ‘What time is it? I only meant to have a rest for a few minutes.’
‘Eight o’clock.’ He had a job to speak. From being worried to death about her, he now found himself wanting to ravish her to heaven and back in her deliciously dishevelled state.
He gave her the flowers before bending to pick up the bottle he’d put down in order to batter the door, his body so hard with desire it was painful to walk when she said, ‘Come in, and thank you for the flowers. Rosebuds and baby’s breath, my favourite.’
‘I know.’ He smiled and received a small smile in return as she turned away. He followed her into the house. Unlike the previous time he was here she didn’t suggest he sit in the sitting room like a guest, but led the way to the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not ready,’ she said flusteredly, stating the obvious as she rummaged about for a vase in one of the cupboards. ‘It’ll take me a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Coffee, juice, a glass of wine?’
‘A coffee would be great.’ He didn’t really want one; he just didn’t want her to fly off upstairs immediately. On impulse, he said, ‘We don’t have to go out for a meal tonight if you’re tired. I can order something in. Chinese, Indian, Thai? Whatever you fancy.’
He could see her mind working as she looked at him. Going out for a meal would be le
ss intimate, less cosy, but the thought of not having to dress up and make the effort to go out was clearly tempting. He waited without saying anything. She fiddled with the flowers as the rich smell of coffee began to fill the room, but he still didn’t speak.
‘There’s a Chinese in the next village,’ she volunteered after a few moments. ‘The leaflet’s under the biscuit tin there.’ She pointed to a tin close to where he’d sat himself on one of the two kitchen stools tucked under the tiny breakfast bar. ‘Perhaps you could order while I get dressed.’
‘You don’t have to on my account.’
Her whole demeanour changed and he could have kicked himself. ‘Joke,’ he said lightly, although it hadn’t altogether been. ‘What would you like?’
‘Anything, I don’t mind.’ She clearly couldn’t wait to escape. ‘Help yourself to coffee. I won’t be long,’ she added as she turned away.
He sat for a moment after she had gone and then stirred himself to pour a mug of coffee. Melanie looked exhausted and no wonder—she’d been living on her nerves for well over twelve months now. She was like a cat on a hot tin roof most of the time. A soft, warm, blonde cat with big wary eyes and the sweetest face, but a cat that was nonetheless quite liable to show its claws if the occasion warranted it.
Forde reached for the menu under the biscuit tin and glanced through it. He was absolutely starving, he decided, and quite able to do justice to double helpings. After a little deliberation he thought one of the set dinners would be a good idea to give Melanie plenty of choice. He picked up the telephone and ordered one that was allegedly for three people comprising of sweet and sour chicken Cantonese style; king prawn, mushrooms and green peppers in spicy black bean sauce; shrimp egg Foo Young, chicken in orange sauce; beef with ginger and spring onion; dry special fried rice and prawn crackers.