by Lisa Worrall
"Micah, coffee's ready!"
Micah ignored the call and pulled his pillow over his head, vowing to take back the spare key. He didn't care if he dropped dead on the kitchen floor, and they had to break the door down because the smell drifted down to the post office cum village shop. If it meant he could sleep in peace and not be woken up by banging cupboards and enough cursing to make a sailor blush, he really didn't give a shit if his rotting corpse offended Mrs Abernathay, the post mistress' olfactory sensitivities.
"Come on, for heaven's sake. You're not a teenager now, you know. Get your arse out of bed!"
Sighing heavily, Micah dragged himself off the bed and shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it on the floor where it fell. He couldn't believe he'd slept in his clothes again. Yesterday had seen the birth of four babies, including Algie, and he'd been so tired his bones ached. The adrenalin rush of bringing new life into the world only kept you going for so long before you crashed. In fact, he would have liked to still be in crash position, but another expletive from downstairs indicated there wasn't much chance of that.
Micah clomped down the wooden stairs he still hadn't had time to stain, and padded along the miniscule hall to the kitchen at the back of the cottage. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit his nostrils as he entered the room, and he moaned low in his throat. The head buried inside one of the bottom cupboards popped up with a bright cheery smile.
"Mornin', sleepyhead."
"Why do you hate me?" Micah asked, sinking into one of the two chairs at the small kitchen table.
"I don't hate you."
"I didn't get home 'til nearly four. If you don't hate me, why am I awake?"
"I'm looking for your grandmother's serving set. I made a cake for the new people at the Nelson place, and I thought you'd appreciate some coffee while I was here—but if I've done the wrong thing…."
Micah sighed, recognising the tone for the fake affronted one it was but couldn’t be bothered to point it out and held up his hands in defeat. "Nope, coffee's good. I appreciate the offer." He picked up the coffee-filled mug in front of him, and curled his fingers around it to warm them. "Thanks, Mum."
He sipped at the steaming liquid and waited for the caffeine to kick in as he watched his mother bustle around the kitchen. Micah had decided long ago that his mother could be likened to a VCR stuck on one setting—fast forward. She even made whirlwinds wonder if they weren't whirly or windy enough. Jenny Lewis sped through life as though an evil witch held an hour glass high over her head, and she had a huge list of jobs to do before the sand ran out. Okay, he was tired, so may be given to waxing slightly lyrical, but it really was the only way to describe his mother. The only time he'd seen her slow down were the first few months after his dad died, and even then she'd still managed to find random things to keep her busy, including fire eating lessons of all things. But, as she'd been grieving, he'd had to sit back and let her singe her eyebrows off without giving in to the urge to have her committed.
"You're not gonna wear that when we go out are you?"
"Huh?" Micah looked down at his uniform and frowned in confusion. Another one of his mother's many talents was her ability to ask a question as if they were already half-way through a conversation. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten she'd been having the conversation with him in her head, which left him flapping like a fish out of water while he desperately tried to figure out what the hell she was talking about. "Out where?"
"Darling, please keep up," Jenny admonished as she opened another cupboard and began to search for the elusive serving plate. "To welcome the new people at Lilac Cottage. I made a cake. Don't you ever listen to me?"
"I try not to," Micah countered and took another sip of his drink.
"Get out of that uniform and I'll throw it into the machine while you go upstairs and have a shower," Jenny instructed, beginning to unload the dishwasher and put his crockery away. "Go on, hurry up. If we get there after ten-thirty it'll be too late for cake."
"I know I'm going to regret this," Micah sighed, standing and beginning to unsnap his tunic. "But how can it be too late for cake?" He tossed the cherry red tunic towards the washing machine, and unzipped his trousers before kicking them in the same direction.
"Another choice example of never listening to me," Jenny said with a bewildered shake of her head. "If we go over after ten-thirty it'll be too late for cake because it'll spoil lunch. Once we miss that window we'll have to wait until three-thirty, and if we miss that—"
"Let me guess," Micah said, holding up his hand. "It'll spoil dinner?"
"Finally," Jenny deadpanned, shooing him out of the kitchen with a wave of her hand. "My son, I'm so proud."
"And you thought I peaked at tying my shoes." Micah grinned at the roll of her eyes. He downed the last of his coffee before padding in his bare feet across the kitchen to the dishwasher, and dropping a kiss on his mother's cheek.
Jenny took the mug from him and put it in the now empty machine. "Please, the high point was when you finally stopped leaving me rabbit pellets behind the sofa."
Micah chuckled to himself as he took the stairs two at a time. She may well be as nutty as the proverbial fruitcake, but growing up in the Lewis household had definitely not been dull.
Showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Micah shoved his feet into battered sneakers and trotted back down the stairs to the kitchen. If he was honest, the last thing he wanted to do was make small talk over cake with the village's newest residents. However, he wanted to feel the weight of his mother's disapproving stare even less, so the neighbours were infinitely the better option.
"When did the newbies get here?" Micah asked as Jenny took the cake out of its Tupperware container and slid it onto his grandmother's silver serving plate. He'd been working flat out this week. Angie, one of the other midwives was sunning herself on the beaches of Costa Rica and he'd been sharing her shifts with Tom and Lara. Ergo, he wouldn't have noticed if the removal company had driven over his foot and asked him to help them unload.
"Moving van showed up yesterday afternoon," Jenny replied, turning on the tap to wash her hands. She grabbed the tea towel and dried them. "She said they were arriving tomorrow," she continued, "but I saw the agent airing the cottage out yesterday. He let slip they were coming a day early. You should have seen her chins wobbling when the old trout thought she'd got one up on me."
Micah covered his yawn with his hand. The one-upmanship between his mother and Doris Abernathay had been going on for so long he couldn't even remember why it started. He wasn't entirely sure whether the two women knew either, but they steadfastly held onto it like two dogs fighting over a bone. "Perish the thought," he muttered under his breath as she shrugged into her cardigan and picked up the cake.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Mummy dearest," Micah replied quickly. "Come on, or we're going to miss the all important etiquette spot of ten-thirty. We don't want the neighbours to think we're uneducated 'cundry' folk do we?"
"You're not too big to put over my knee, Micah Lewis," Jenny threatened and slapped a hand to Micah's rear to prove her point. He laughed loudly at the thought of his five foot mother laying six foot of him over her tiny lap.
After locking the front door, Micah tucked his keys into his pocket and fell into step beside Jenny on the short walk to Lilac Cottage. "Do we know their names yet?" he asked as he lifted the cast iron door knocker and let it go. The thud of iron on wood gave a satisfying thwack he heard echoing throughout the cottage.
"No," Jenny said, running an absent hand through her short blonde hair. "But the wife is pregnant."
Micah opened his mouth to question how the hell his mother found out these things when the door opened to reveal a beautiful willowy brunette with cornflower blue eyes. The first thing Micah noticed was the hesitant, almost fearful light in the woman's gaze, pretty much the same as the pheasant's he'd encountered in the early hours of this morning. Definite dear in the headlights. But why? Who had she
been expecting? By the time he'd finished his inner observations, his mother was already across the threshold and the two women were staring at him expectantly.
"You'll have to excuse Micah." Jenny chuckled. "He was on a late shift last night and I confess I may have woken him earlier than he'd have liked."
The woman smiled and her blue eyes came to life. "Poor you," she said. "I know what it's like to be sleep-deprived at the moment, so I feel for you. Please, come in, I'll put the kettle on. I'm Selena."
Micah stepped inside and closed the door behind him, wiping his feet on the welcome mat in the hall. "How far along are you?" he asked, taking the tiny hand she held out to him in both of his and shaking it warmly. His trained eye said about eight months, give or take, and a slight frown creased his brow as he noticed the slight puffiness of her fingers and ankles. Selena raised an eyebrow at his question. "I'm a midwife at the birthing centre in Winbourne," he explained quickly.
"Oh, I see," Selena laughed, a light tinkling sound. "For a minute I thought you had a fetish for fat and puffy."
"Technically, I do," Micah returned easily, immediately liking this woman. "But in a professional capacity, not a creepy one."
"Please, have a seat," Selena said, guiding them into the lounge. "Excellent timing," she called out as they heard the front door open and close. "You can put the kettle on." She smiled at someone standing behind Micah. "This is Jenny and her son—"
"Micah?"
The fine hair on the back of Micah's neck stood up and goose bumps immediately broke out on the smooth skin of his arms. He knew that voice. God, how he knew that voice. But why here of all places? What the hell is he doing here—didn't I run far enough? Swallowing against the sudden dryness of his mouth, Micah slowly turned and pain bloomed in his chest. It had been six years since the man standing before him had calmly walked out of Micah's life. Six years and now here he was. Acutely aware of the interested gazes of the two women, Micah squared his shoulders, and kept his tone as even as he could when confronted with the only man he'd ever loved—and his pregnant wife.
"Hello, Harry."
Chapter 2
Wow, yet another deer. The thought skittered across the surface of Micah’s mind as Harry stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. In truth it couldn’t have been more than seconds, but long enough for Micah’s traitorous heart to skip a beat. Micah had always hoped that, if he’d ever been faced with this moment, Harry would have had the decency to be fat, bald and uttering the inimitable question—“Do you want fries with that?” Of course, he should have known the cosmic forces wouldn’t be that kind. Harry Boyd looked as hot as he had on the day he’d closed the door on their relationship—damn it.
“You know each other?” Jenny asked, her tone edged with curiosity.
“Harry and I met at uni,” Micah replied, glancing at his mother and sending her a mental plea that said if she loved him she’d keep her mouth shut.
“Uni?” Selena echoed, and Micah’s stomach hit his shoes when the penny dropped for Jenny.
“Harry?”
Micah quickly cut her off at the pass by grabbing his mother’s elbow and firmly guiding her into one of the over-stuffed armchairs, and said conversationally, “Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m starving and you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Mum’s red velvet cake.”
“I love red velvet cake,” Harry said with a touch too much exuberance, Micah thought, not that he cared how uncomfortable the man was. Harry Boyd could stew in his own juice for all he cared. “I’ll make the tea and get some plates.”
After Harry’s light-speed departure from the lounge the silence became more pregnant than Selena. Micah’s fight or flight instinct had his feet itching to carry him across the street and back under his duvet, in the hope he was still asleep and all this was a bad dream. But it would be a cold day in hell before he gave Harry Boyd the satisfaction of knowing he was rattled, so he was staying put to watch Harry squirm. “So, Selena, have you made a birth plan?” he asked, deciding to stick to what he knew best.
Micah had to give Selena her due. She looked flustered for a few seconds and then regained her composure. “Kind of,” she replied. “In so far as I plan to ask for every drug available.”
“Most first time mothers write a detailed plan consisting of soft music and meditation,” Micah said with a smile. “But when it comes down to it, ninety percent of them are demanding every drug available in the end. It’s refreshing to find someone who knows they’re going to cut out the middle man.”
“Believe me,” Selena laughed. “I have no illusions about childbirth.”
“Did you bring your notes with you? The hospital is a good place to give birth, but at the risk of blowing my own trumpet, Cherry Tree does give you the more personal experience.”
“Maybe I could make an appointment to come in and have a look around?”
“Look around where?” Harry walked into the lounge carrying a large tray laden with steaming cups and side plates for four. He placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa beside Selena. “Please help yourselves to milk and sugar.” Harry motioned to the tray. “I forgot to ask how you like it.”
"Thanks," Micah said nonchalantly and shot his mother a glare that told her to put two sugars in her tea and just keep smiling. He could tell from a brief glance she was on the edge of her seat, giving Harry the infamous Lewis stare-down, absolutely dying to tear the man a new one for doing her baby wrong. But then did Harry seriously think his mother wouldn't know everything? Harry was the one who'd wanted their relationship stuffed so far in the closet they were practically living in Narnia—not Micah.
Micah slid forward to the edge of the armchair cushion and spooned three sugars into the mug closest to him, then stirred it three times clockwise, followed by three times counter clockwise. His gaze flew to Harry's when the man huffed out a derisive laugh. "What?"
"Nothing," Harry replied with a shrug. "I see you still do the stirring thing."
Ignoring Harry's reference to the past, Micah picked up the mug and sat back in the chair, crossing his leg as he curled his fingers around his drink and sipped at his very sweet tea. "I was just telling Selena I'd be happy to give her a tour of Cherry Tree, the birthing centre where I work."
"I'd like that," Selena replied and Micah couldn't help but notice the look passing between her and Harry, nor the almost imperceptible shake of Selena's head and the way Harry sank back onto the cushions behind him. "Maybe we can fix something up for next week."
"Great, next week it is."
"So, what made you decide to set up your new home in Little Mowbury? We're a little off the beaten track out here," Jenny asked, cutting four slices out of the cake she'd brought with her, then sliding them onto the side plates.
Selena took the plate Jenny held out to her and Micah noted she looked at Harry for—he searched for the best word to describe it—help?
"We wanted somewhere quiet and rural, you know," Harry took a slug of his own drink and curled his fingers around Selena's. "With green fields, horses, and a real sense of community." Harry grinned and Micah groaned inwardly. There was that hop-scotching bastard of a heartbeat again. "But I guess that's what most city folk want."
"And what do you do for work?" Jenny asked, nibbling delicately at a slice of her cake. Micah tried not to laugh out loud when his mother lifted the little finger on the hand that held the fork as it travelled to her mouth—very Emily Post. Who was she trying to kid? He'd seen her inhale an entire cake in one sitting, for crying out loud.
"I'm a web designer."
"Very interesting," Jenny cooed. "I don't really understand much about computers. I guess I'm a little old to be learning new tricks."
Micah coughed as the mouthful of tea he was taking slipped down the wrong way. Didn't understand computers? What was his mother doing? She'd taken three courses at the poly in Winbourne. There wasn't much she didn't know about computers. And what did Harry mean he
designed websites for a living? All Harry had ever wanted to do was teach. He’d been studying for his teaching degree when they met. What the hell was he doing in web design?
"The money's good and I get to do it from the comfort of my own armchair," Harry explained. "I won't miss the journey into London every day, that's for sure. Like I said, we moved here for a better way of life for all of us."
Harry looked at Selena with such open adoration, Micah felt as though a cold hand had closed around his heart and squeezed. He needed to get out—now. Of course, his stupid mouth wouldn't let him leave with his dignity intact as he gave a breathy sigh. "How romantic. If you'll excuse me too much sugar's not good for my digestion." He put his empty cup on the coffee table and stood up. "It was nice to meet you, Selena. I'll let you know about the tour."
Without a backward glance, Micah didn't stop walking until he reached his front door. He heard Harry call his name but ignored it, his hands shaking as they fumbled with the key in the lock. Micah kicked the door and it finally opened, letting him in. He slammed it behind him and breathed a grateful sigh of relief as he leaned against the varnished wood.
I'm not ready for this. I thought I'd be ready for this. I should have been ready for this. The thoughts fought for dominance in his head, furious with himself for not handling the situation with more panache, for not getting his hair cut, for not wearing his tight jeans that showed off his ass, for not… fuck it, he didn't know what the hell he was rambling on about.
He'd had six years since Harry Bloody Boyd had ripped out his heart, played a little footie with it, then tap-danced on it until it was dust beneath his shoes before making a lie of three years of his life, of everything they'd been to each other. Six years during which he'd put his heart back together, and convinced himself he’d be able to face down the man who'd destroyed him—without batting an eye. Yeah, right. He'd folded like a cheap suit, his heart beating so hard he could barely catch his breath.