The Ideal Choice

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘I did my best with the shopping, but I wasn’t sure where everything went,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I expect you’ll get irritated because you can’t find anything in your system.’

  His laugh was soft and rueful. ‘Tricia, I don’t have a system.’

  A smile escaped her feeble attempt to control it. ‘I did rather wonder,’ she confessed, and met his eyes. Such a clear grey, she thought—so open, so honest, without a trace of guile. How could his wife have left him like that, without a word?

  Not that she knew much about the event. Linsey had been fairly close-mouthed on the subject, but she had been furious on Rhys’s behalf. Now, meeting him for the first time, Tricia could see why.

  She followed him back into the kitchen, and promptly cannoned into his broad and quite unyielding back. ‘What the—? Oh, my God, Tricia, you didn’t need to do this!’

  She saw faint colour run up from his collar and stain the back of his neck a fascinating ruddy brown. He shook his head and walked on into the kitchen, staring round in disbelief.

  ‘I was bored,’ she explained, to soften what she now realised in dismay he had taken as criticism. ‘Anyway, didn’t Linsey tell you I’m a tidiness freak? I used to make her life hell.’

  His laugh was short. ‘She did mention it.’

  She smiled tentatively. ‘I’m sorry—did you want that soggy spaghetti for anything special?’

  His mouth lifted at the corner. ‘Sorry. I’m an ungracious pig. Thank you, Tricia. Thank you very much.’

  She pointed at the oven. ‘I stuck a pizza in there—it was thawing and I didn’t think you would have had lunch yet. There’s salad in the fridge, too.’

  The mouth quirked again. ‘Don’t tell me—you got bored.’

  She laughed. ‘No. I thought the children would be hungry.’

  ‘They will—you’re very kind. At least join us.’

  She hesitated for a second, then nodded. ‘OK. Thank you. I can’t get into the surgery until you can take me over and show me the alarm system anyway, so I might as well.’

  He struck his forehead with his palm and pulled an expression of dismay. ‘Hell, Tricia, I’m sorry. You’ll be wanting to get settled in and all I can do is grouse because you’ve looked after my children and cleaned up the kitchen. I’m a rat.’

  He sent Mark, who was standing watchfully by studying the exchange, to wash his hands, and carefully wiped Emma’s, avoiding her new bandages.

  ‘Where’s Bibby?’ he asked.

  ‘Asleep on the dog.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  She nodded. ‘In the sitting room.’

  He went and looked, then came back sporting another faint flush and a grim, tight-lipped expression. ‘You tidied up in there too,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Only a little. I just straightened the magazines and gathered up the dirty cups.’

  He harrumphed and started chucking tins into a cupboard. ‘Bloody women. They step over the threshold and start interfering.’

  She stared at his back, her face frozen. ‘I’m sorry. I was only doing what was needed—’

  ‘In your opinion.’ He whirled round, slamming a tin down on the worktop. ‘Listen, lady, when I need help, I’ll ask for it. OK? Until then, just butt out.’ He turned back to the cupboard, throwing the tin inside. ‘I’m up to here with women who think—’

  Tricia didn’t wait to hear the rest. Without a word she picked up her handbag and let herself out of the back door. He was so busy banging tins and swearing about her he wouldn’t even notice, she reasoned, and did a bit of swearing herself as she marched down the path and round the corner. She didn’t cross the lawn. The path with its echoing slabs was much more suited to her temperamental exit.

  She stalked up the pavement to her car, marched out into the road and flung the door open in the path of an oncoming car. There was a screech of brakes and a blast of horn, and she sank into her seat with a sniff and glared at his house.

  ‘You are such a fool, Tricia Page. When will you learn not to interfere?’ she ranted at herself. She started the engine and pulled out, precipitating another episode of braking and horn-blowing, and drove down to the sea front. She’d go for a walk, explore the town, get some fresh air. Then, when tempers were cooler and she thought he might be more likely to let her into the practice, she’d go back.

  Maybe.

  And maybe not. Maybe Linsey’s idea of having her there to cover her maternity leave was a lousy one. If she’d had any sense she’d have steered clear of Milhaven, Linsey and any single male whom Linsey might have had her eye on as a prospective mate for her last remaining bachelor girlfriend—because that, Tricia realised belatedly, was what her friend had had in mind.

  ‘We’ll be out—Rhys will let you in,’ she mimicked furiously. ‘I’ll just bet.’

  She turned her car in the direction of Sway, drove out into the forest and found two cars in Matthew and Linsey’s drive.

  She let herself in through the gate, parked the car beside their two and marched up to the door, still fuming. Her bell-ringing was less than subtle, and seconds later the door was answered by Matthew, barechested and splashed with paint.

  ‘Tricia What a nice surprise!’

  ‘Don’t give me that—where is she?’ she demanded, and pushed him out of the way. ‘Lins? Where the hell are you?’

  Linsey appeared at the top of the stairs, heavily pregnant, rather more clothed than Matthew but similarly paint-splattered. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi nothing. Bloody-minded gorilla.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘He doesn’t like women very much, does he?’

  Linsey sat down on the top step. ‘Rhys?’

  ‘Of course Rhys. He said they get over the threshold and interfere—’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I washed up.’

  Behind her Matthew groaned. ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘And I tidied the sitting room.’

  ‘Whoops.’

  She turned on him. ‘You’re telling me whoops. He was not impressed.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Linsey asked, coming slowly down the stairs.

  ‘Because I was looking after the kids while he took Emma to hospital with her finger.’

  Both Matthew and Linsey frowned. ‘Finger?’ they said in unison.

  ‘Oh, fiddle. Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  She did, starting at the beginning and working through to the end. ‘So now what?’ she demanded.

  ‘He’ll apologise,’ Matthew said calmly. ‘Just let him vent his spleen for a while and cool his heels, then he’ll settle down again.’

  ‘But it’s my fault!’ Tricia wailed. ‘He’s right, I did interfere, but only to help—’

  ‘You didn’t interfere; you simply took over the domestic tasks while he dealt with an injured child,’ Linsey said reasonably. ‘He’s only sore because you’ve bruised his ego.’

  ‘I know,’ Tricia said miserably. ‘I really didn’t mean to. I just didn’t think.’

  ‘Nor did he. Don’t worry, Tricia; he’ll come round. He’s very defensive about the fact that he’s not coping well. He knows he isn’t, but he can’t seem to get sorted. Actually, we’re rather worried about him. He never goes out or has fun any more, and the house seems to be a prison for him.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have a cleaning lady?’ Tricia asked, thinking that the place could certainly have done with one.

  ‘Yes. She’s on holiday.’

  ‘So he can accept her help—’

  ‘No. He can employ her. He won’t accept any help, any handouts, any charity, any gestures of friendship that could be construed as an implication that he can’t manage.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Tricia exploded. ‘Of course he can’t cope! Nobody could under the circumstances!’

  ‘But Rhys has to,’ Matthew said quietly, ‘because he can’t trust anybody else. He daren’t rely on anyone else, except maybe his parent
s on rare occasions.’

  Tricia let her breath out on a sigh, and with it her anger. ‘Poor man,’ she said softly. ‘Poor, poor man.’

  Matthew’s smile was wry. ‘I shouldn’t let him hear you say that, if I were you. Not if you want to draw a pension.’

  Tricia smiled, but it was a sorry effort. Her heart was aching for him, and she was still angry with herself for having so thoughtlessly gone in and ‘helped’ to so great an extent. And she was worried too, about Emma and her bouncing finger.

  ‘Do you suppose he’s calmed down yet?’ she asked her friends.

  Linsey grinned. ‘I expect so. He doesn’t hold a grudge. His temper’s legendary, but, big as he is, his kids aren’t frightened of him, which must tell you something.’

  Tricia chuckled. ‘Yeah—it tells me they’ve missed the point!’ she said drily.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘No. He’s all hot air. He’d never hurt you, or anyone. Only himself. He’s good at that.’

  ‘I’d noticed. I’ll go back and see if I can talk to him—apologise or something. Then perhaps I can persuade him to let me into my flat—but if I fail, would one of you come over and do it, please? I mean, I know you were supposed to be out, but as you’re not...’ she said, her voice ripe with sarcasm. ‘Unless it was all a ruse to throw me into the bosom of his family so I would be totally captivated...?’

  Linsey looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Matthew shot her a keen look. ‘Not on my part,’ he said firmly. ‘And yes, of course we’ll come and let you in if there’s a problem. We’ll be here.’

  She went out with them to her car, only to find that a small group of ponies had taken advantage of the open gate and had sneaked in and were now munching happily in the herbaceous border.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Tricia wailed. ‘Oh, hell’s teeth, I can’t do anything right!’

  Behind her, Matthew and Linsey laughed.

  Rhys scraped the last of the pizza and salad into the bin, flung the dishes in the sink and then thought better of it, emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it. God, he was a fool. Poor Tricia. It was kind of her to help, to think of bringing in the shopping and getting the kids some lunch, and all he’d been able to do was slam around the cupboards like a demented adolescent and complain that she’d helped!

  What was the matter with him? She was a colleague, for heaven’s sake! A friend of a friend, no less. And a very beautiful woman. A single woman. A friend of Linsey’s—Linsey who mothered him and fussed over him and hugged him and was desperate to find him another wife. She was a trap—a beautiful, sensuous, feminine trap.

  Don’t forget that, he reminded himself. Not that he was likely to forget anything about her. She was engraved on his memory, from the top of her fingerdried, soft blonde chin-length bob to the tips of her painted toenails encased in those delicate, strappy little sandals. And every inch in between.

  The memory of her soft, full breasts under the baggy T-shirt made his body tighten. Damn, it had been so long—too long. He shouldn’t be reacting this way.

  He threw the last dish into the machine, shut the door and pulled open the fridge, taking a can of lemonade out and wandering into the garden with it.

  He would rather have had beer, but he’d finished with alcohol now. One bender too many.

  Mark was next door, playing with Stephen, Emma was in bed sleeping off the effects of her traumatic morning and Bibby was still draped over the dog in the sitting room.

  With a soft sigh that might have been mistaken for contentment, Rhys lowered himself onto the big teak sun-lounger under the apple tree and stared up into the branches.

  Lord, she was pretty. Soft, full, warm, generous eyes like pools of clear water reflecting the sky, a delicate nose, fine-boned jaw and cheeks, a mouth that smiled often and with kindness—and those breasts. A man could die happy, buried in their softness.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. What a fool. She was off limits, a definite no-no. A sweet, decent woman, a dedicated physician, and, above all, Linsey’s closest friend—no, Tricia Page was definitely off limits, he told himself.

  His body didn’t listen.

  She found him in the garden, sprawled on a sun-lounger in the cool shade, a can dangling from his fingers. He was fast asleep, and in the house she could hear Bibby crying. She was unbearably torn.

  He needed to sleep, to escape the nightmare of his life and take away the haunting shadows in his eyes, but if she left him and went to see Bibby, would he resent her interference again? Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to wake him.

  She went into the house and found Bibby sitting by the dog, her face crumpled with sleep. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said softly.

  The dog whined and wagged his tail, and Bibby held up her arms to Tricia in a gesture of trust that brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘Need a wee,’ she wobbled.

  Well, that was easily dealt with. ‘Come on, my love,’ Tricia murmured, and, scooping her up, she carried the little one to the loo, helped her balance on the seat and then lifted her down. ‘Shall we find Daddy?’ she asked as they both washed their hands.

  Bibby nodded soberly.

  They were heading for the back door when it occurred to Tricia that there was no sign of Mark or Emma. They found Emma in her bed, still fast asleep, but of Mark there was no sign.

  Tricia was immediately worried. Was he all right? Had he slipped out somewhere? Perhaps she should wake Rhys after all.

  Hand in hand they went back out to the garden, Doodle at their heels, and as they walked towards Rhys Tricia heard Mark’s voice in the next garden, calling to a friend. Panic over. Now she just had Rhys to deal with.

  ‘He’s sleeping,’ Bibby said in a stage whisper, regarding her father thoughtfully.

  ‘Shall we let him sleep and I’ll push you on the swing?’ Tricia asked softly.

  Again Bibby nodded. “Cept Doodle barks when I’m on the swing.’

  ‘How about the sandpit? We could make something.’

  So they sat on the slabs of the patio with their feet in the sandpit, and Doodle snuffled around the garden, cocked his leg against a likely-looking plant and then came and flopped beside them, tongue lolling, head propped on his paws.

  The can had slid from Rhys’s fingers with a little plop, but he didn’t stir. The lemonade dribbled out onto the grass, and Tricia watched as he lay as motionless as the dog. Heavens, he must be exhausted to sleep through Bibby’s gentle chatter and the wild yelling of the boys next door, she thought. She heard a cry from inside and went in, leaving Bibby in the sandpit under Doodle’s watchful eye, and found Emma sitting on the stairs nursing her hand and looking lost

  ‘Hello, darling. How’s your hand?’ she asked.

  ‘Sore. Daddy yelled at you.’

  Tricia nodded. ‘Just a bit. Don’t worry; we’ll sort it out. I’m in the garden with Bibby and Doodle, and your Daddy’s having a rest out there—want to come?’

  The little girl slid off the step and stood up, holding her good hand trustingly up to Tricia. The tiny fingers felt so familiar. How many times had she led a little brother or sister by the hand? How many times had she soothed tears, wiped noses and bottoms, cleared up after parties, put toys away, folded tiny clothes, cooked and cleaned and wiped and tidied—it hardly bore thinking about.

  Sometimes Tricia felt as if she’d been a mother all her life.

  And sometimes she felt as if she’d never be a mother at all, because life was ebbing away and Mr Right just didn’t seem to notice her. Not that she’d noticed him either. She wasn’t sure there was such a thing.

  Was she too fussy? Was it too much to ask for a kind, funny, loving, intelligent partner? One that didn’t want her as a doormat or a substitute for his mother—or, come to that, as a mother for his children?

  At least Rhys had complained when she’d helped. Most men in his position would have asked her to move in on the spot!

  She went back into the garden with Emma and watched as the little girl went into
the sandpit with her smaller sister and started to organise her. Predictably there was a scuffle, and before Tricia could intervene Bibby screamed at Emma in frustration and Rhys jackknifed off the sun-lounger, eyes wide in panic.

  ‘Bibby?’ he yelled.

  ‘We’re here; it’s all right—they just had a tiff.’

  His eyes swung round and fastened on her like lasers. ‘You again! I thought you’d gone.’

  She stood up and walked towards him. Her heart was pounding, not because she was afraid but simply because she hated rows and confrontations.

  She stopped at his feet and looked endlessly upwards into his furious grey eyes. ‘Yes—but not for good, I’m afraid. I came to apologise.’

  ‘So why didn’t you just wake me and apologise?’

  ‘Because you looked tired, and Bibby was quite happy playing in the sand—’

  ‘It’s not your job!’

  She hung onto her patience with difficulty. ‘It’s never been my job. It hasn’t stopped me doing it before.’

  He looked puzzled, as well he might. He didn’t know her family history.

  ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I’m still waiting for you to let me into the surgery so I can unpack and get settled in in my flat, but we couldn’t go while the girls were asleep, so there was no point in waking you up.’

  He glared at her for a moment longer, then stabbed his big hands through the dark, thick strands of his hair. It flopped again, soft and glossy, and Tricia found herself itching to touch it, to see if it could possibly feel as good as it looked.

  ‘I didn’t mean to sleep,’ he said gruffly. ‘I just lay down for a few minutes in the shade.’

  He sat abruptly, the adrenalin obviously having worn off, and dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ he muttered.

  ‘Maybe,’ Tricia conceded. ‘And maybe I owe you one. I didn’t mean to take over; it’s just habit. At home, whoever got to a job first did it. There were too many of us for rows and rotas. We just all got on with it. Everybody did something, no matter how small or insignificant, or how young we might have been. We all pulled our weight. We had to, with ten of us.’