This time she smiled her thanks.
‘Does it hurt?’ Patrick asked as they stopped at a traffic light.
She rubbed her lips together. ‘It’s like a constant migraine, but without the nausea. At least now I know I’m not becoming a painkiller addict for no reason.’
He didn’t laugh. ‘How long have you been having the headaches?’
‘I think a few months, but I’m not exactly sure. I just thought it was stress, trying to juggle the kids and work and everything.’
‘Have you told your children?’
‘No. They’re still with my ex in Hawaii. They get home in a few days.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not sure what or when I should tell them. Caleb has his final exams in a few months. I don’t want him worrying about me on top of that.’
‘I might not have children, but if my mum had something serious like a tumour, I’d want to know about it. Flick mentioned it was benign? Surely that will reassure them.’
‘In the case of brain tumours, benign doesn’t always mean not dangerous. There are huge risks with surgery. The neurosurgeon might even recommend leaving it in there and waiting to see if it gets worse.’
‘But if you do have surgery, you’ll need to be in hospital a while I imagine. The kids will know something is up then.’
‘Dammit, you’re right.’ She bunched her fingers into fists. ‘See. This thing in my head is affecting my thinking. I’ve thought of nothing else except how to cope with this but that never even crossed my mind. They’ll have to stay with Max, I suppose.’ She didn’t like that idea any more than Chanel would.
‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ he said as he turned into her driveway. ‘Just take it one day at a time. I shouldn’t have mentioned the kids; here I am trying to help and I’m making it worse.’
‘No. You’re not. I’m glad you’re here. And I don’t mind talking about this.’ In New York, she hadn’t wanted to even utter the word tumour out loud, but something about Patrick made it easier for her to discuss. ‘Would you like to come inside for a drink?’
‘Only if you’re not too tired.’
‘Well I am, but I won’t be able to switch off straight away anyway.’
‘In that case, I’d love to.’
Emma opened the passenger door and by the time she’d climbed out, Patrick was already at the boot lifting out her suitcase. She dug her house keys out of her bag and started up the path with him following closely behind.
He’d never been to her house before and when she opened the door and welcomed him inside, she silently praised God she’d scrubbed it from top to bottom in anticipation of Max coming to get the kids. It even still smelt of her favourite vanilla cleaning spray but it was hard to believe that day was only a week ago—so much had happened since then, it felt like a lifetime.
She dumped her keys on the hallway table and gestured to the floor beside it. ‘You can leave my suitcase there. Can I get you a drink?’
‘How about that shower you mentioned first?’
‘What?’ Emma swallowed as her thoughts took a nosedive towards the gutter—contemplating what it would be like showering with him. The expression on her face must have given this away, for Patrick’s eyes widened and he rushed to set her straight.
‘Oh. No! I didn’t mean with … me. Just you said you needed a shower, food and bed and I thought while you freshen up, I could make you something to eat.’
‘Of course you didn’t. Sorry. Jet lag messing with my head’ She felt so stupid. ‘Anyway, that’s a good idea. I’ll go freshen up. You make yourself at home.’
‘Okay. You take your time and I’ll see what I can whip up.’
Emma scurried towards her bedroom, mortified that she’d imagined he wanted to shower with her. Problem was, once the image of Patrick naked in her ensuite had entered her head, she didn’t know how she was going to erase it. Only when she’d stripped and stepped into the shower did the thought of what Patrick may find in her kitchen eradicate the thought of him sans clothes. Or rather, what he would not find. Knowing the kids would be away for a week, she’d not bothered to stock up her fridge or cupboards.
Her head started to throb again, so she washed and dressed quickly—choosing flannelette pyjamas, a reminder to herself that Patrick wasn’t here to be impressed. Then she popped two strong supposedly fast-working painkillers and went to join him in her kitchen.
‘Nice PJs,’ he said, glancing down at her outfit.
She raised an eyebrow and he grinned. ‘I didn’t find much to work with, so I’ve planned a gourmet meal of Vegemite on toast and hot chocolate. Would you like to dine at the table or would you prefer the couch?’ He spoke in a faux-formal tone as if he were a waiter in some posh restaurant listing the expensive wine choices.
Relaxing a little, she laughed. ‘The couch wins every time. I hope you’re feeding yourself as well.’
‘I didn’t want to presume, but if you’re offering, I’d love to join you.’
‘Please do. You have the very important task of keeping me awake long enough to eat.’
He saluted her and then turned to the toaster. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Emma went into the lounge room, picked up the remote, switched on the TV and flopped down onto the couch, curling her feet up beside her. She’d never been happier to be home. And strangely, despite the misunderstanding when they’d first come inside, it didn’t feel weird sitting in one room while her boss cooked toast for her in another. Perhaps that was a perk of having a brain tumour—you learnt to embrace the unexpected.
A few minutes later Patrick joined her, carrying two plates of Vegemite toast and two steaming mugs of delicious-smelling hot chocolate on an old floral tray of her mother’s.
‘I haven’t used that thing in years,’ she said as he placed it down on the coffee table.
‘I hope you don’t mind me digging it out.’
‘Not at all. It was my mum’s. I love it, but the kids generally inhale whatever food is in the house as soon as it gets as far as a plate. Never mind a tray.’
‘I can imagine. My mum was always grumbling about my hollow legs when I was growing up.’
Emma smiled and then gestured to the couch beside her. ‘Sit,’ she instructed.
He hesitated a moment and then did as he was told. She got another whiff of that sweet-smelling scent that had been in his car.
‘Vanilla,’ she shrieked.
‘Huh?’
‘Your aftershave has vanilla undertones.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No.’ She resisted the urge to lean in closer and inhale. ‘I love vanilla.’
He seemed pleased by this confession and they smiled at each other a few long moments. Yes, this week would go down as one of the strangest in her life thus far.
‘Eat up,’ he said, picking up one of the plates and handing it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She took the plate, picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. ‘There really is nothing better than Vegemite on toast when you’re not feeling great,’ she said when she’d finished the mouthful.
‘Do you have another headache?’
‘I always have a headache. At least now I know why.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
She shook her head as she chewed another bite. Patrick may be sweeter than a lot of men she knew, but whatever his sexual orientation, he was still male and men liked to fix things.
Emma attempted to distract him. ‘You can change the channel if you like.’
‘You don’t want to give me control of the remote. You’ll get whiplash. I’ve been told I have a bad habit of channel hopping.’
‘Really? Who told you such a thing?’
He blushed again. ‘An old girlfriend.’
Emma almost choked on her last mouthful. She coughed hard, tears springing to her eyes as she tried to dislodge the bit of toast stuck in her throat. Patrick rushed to her assistance, patting her on the back and then dashing off to fetch a glas
s of water. When he returned, she’d almost recovered and she took a sip, a deep breath, and then looked sheepishly at him.
He raised one eyebrow. ‘What? Did you think I’d never had a girlfriend?’ He sounded half-amused, half-horrified.
‘Well, I …’ The words tripped on her tongue. What could she say? That from the moment she’d started working at Donoghue’s her fellow employees had led her to believe he was gay? That his good dress sense, his thoughtfulness and the fact that he worked in travel and annually sponsored a float at the Perth Pride-Fest had only reinforced this belief?
Patrick’s lips quirked and his eyes widened—she saw the moment realisation dawned. ‘Shit. You think I bat for the other team?’
She swallowed, her cheeks so hot she thought she must look like a baboon’s bum. Her embarrassment at believing such a cliché overrode the joy she felt upon discovering that perhaps he wasn’t what she’d always assumed. ‘It’s not that I… It’s just … Well, you …’
He interrupted. ‘I’m not gay, Emma.’
And the way he looked at her, the deepness of his words, the way he said her name, as if it were the most precious name in the world, sent shivers rolling through her.
Their gazes locked and she found she couldn’t look away, despite feeling all kinds of foolish. What else in her world would be turned upside down? Because right now, it felt like nothing, no one, was as she’d imagined.
‘You know, Patrick,’ she said, trying to sound normal when she felt like leaping off the couch and doing a celebratory jig around the living room. He’s not gay. He’s not gay. He’s not gay! ‘You know all about my crazy kids and my ex’s sordid affair, but I know very little about your past or your family. Why is that?’
He shrugged and leaned back into the couch. ‘There isn’t much to tell. What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’ She put down her plate, lifted the mug and curled her fingers around the warmth. ‘Who is Patrick Donoghue when he’s not working?’
‘I don’t want to bore you to sleep.’
She tossed him a look similar to those she gave the twins when they were trying to get out of telling her something. ‘You won’t. I’m interested. Besides, you’ll keep my mind off … other things.’ It mightn’t be fair to use her tumour to manipulate him into sharing, but if it helped him open up, she didn’t care. She wanted to know more and she wasn’t going to waste this opportunity.
Fatigue ate at her insides, but she didn’t want him to go home. Not yet.
‘Well, I was born on the fifteenth of January 1968 in a little hospital in County Cork,’ he offered in a storytelling voice. Emma smiled and sat back to listen, taking a sip of hot chocolate. ‘My mum and dad were good Catholics and I was their eleventh child.’
Hot chocolate spluttered most ungraciously from her mouth as she almost choked at his words. ‘Eleven?!’ She grabbed a tissue from the side table next to the couch and wiped her chin.
‘Yes. Do you want the birthdates and names for all of them as well?’ he asked, his expression poker-faced.
She punched him playfully on the arm. ‘Do you have any younger brothers and sisters?’
He shook his head. ‘My parents stopped when they finally got the perfect child.’
Emma laughed and he continued, jumping forward to his early twenties and telling her about how he almost married a woman he met travelling in the United States. ‘I’d always wanted to travel—we could never afford to when I was a kid—and I thought I’d found a like mind in Gemma. I couldn’t wait to get married and start a family. We got engaged but she never turned up to the church.’
‘Oh my God. Deserted at the altar. What a witch.’ She wanted to track down this Gemma woman and kill her. Her visceral reaction shocked her—she’d never considered violence before. The sooner she got this lump out of her head the better.
Patrick shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago now. It hurt like hell when it happened, but she didn’t love me, so I guess in hindsight she did me a favour. There’s not much to tell after that. I kept travelling, came to Western Australia and started working for a travel company.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure I’m not boring you?’
‘No. Go on.’ She finished her drink as he talked and although she was hanging on his every word, eventually tiredness overcame her. Patrick sharing about himself helped her focus on something else aside from the elephant in her head. It relaxed her, and somehow she ended up stretching out on the couch, her legs resting on his knees. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
She must have drifted off because the last thing she remembered was him telling her about his annual trip back to Ireland to visit his parents and the next thing, she felt a blanket being placed gently on top of her. Was this what being looked after felt like? All warm and snuggly. The thought of getting up and walking the short distance to her bed didn’t appeal. She was about to open her eyes and thank Patrick for the evening, when the air shifted above her and he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
Her heart stilled, along with every other part of her body.
‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ he whispered, obviously thinking her to be zonked out. And then he stepped back and quietly left the room. A few moments later, Emma heard him turn the latch in her front door so that it locked when he pulled it shut.
She opened her eyes and touched a finger to her forehead. His kiss had sent a fresh burst of energy pulsing through her. If Patrick had kissed her like this before, she’d have assumed it was a platonic peck between good friends, but this evening had changed everything. And although this filled her heart with joy, her illness cast a shadow.
Even if she were lucky enough to find that Patrick had feelings for her, would it be fair to get close to him when her future was so uncertain? She’d felt his pain as he told her about his broken heart and she didn’t want to be the person to break it all over again.
But, as she drifted back to sleep, she couldn’t help replaying his kiss over and over again.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Genevieve
‘It’s so good to be home,’ Neve said as she and Will waved Flick, Seb and Toby down the road.
He dragged her suitcase two steps ahead of her as they headed towards the house. ‘You can say that again. Another few days with Nan and I’d have lost it.’
‘I thought you loved your grandmother?’
‘I do. In small doses.’ Will stopped at the front door and dug his key out of his pocket, so like the man of the house. ‘Was she such a slavedriver when you were at school?’
‘What do you mean?’ Neve asked as they stepped inside.
‘She wouldn’t let me use my phone until I’d finished all my homework, and you know how much the teachers give us in year twelve. Nan took it off me as soon as I got home every afternoon and put it in the biscuit tin up on that shelf which she thinks I can’t reach.’
Neve smiled, reminiscing. ‘You never used to be able to.’
‘Whatever.’ Will looked down at her and rolled his eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re home, Mum, and not just because of Nan. I ordered pizza for us—should be here any minute. I didn’t want you to have to cook on your first night back.’
Neve hadn’t been planning to cook, but he didn’t need to know that. She understood her mum fussing over Will. He’d grown up so fast and they sometimes forgot he was almost an adult, legally at least; everyone knew boys didn’t begin to mature until they were thirty. Possibly why she’d always had a thing for older men. Not only were they more her mental age, but they also had added experience in other areas.
‘Thanks, hon,’ she said, toeing off her shoes. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’
He beamed and that little boy who had craved the approval of others shone through. Her heart almost burst with love for him.
‘What?’ he asked, looking at her like she’d lost the plot.
‘Nothing.’ She blinked back tears. ‘I missed you, that’s all.’
Discomfort crossed Will�
��s face. ‘You’re not going to get all soppy on me, are you?’
She laughed. ‘I was considering it, but—’
The doorbell rang before she could finish her sentence.
‘Saved by the pizza.’ Will stepped past her and opened the door again, paid the delivery guy, took the two boxes and then stepped back inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
The house filled with the aroma of fast Italian.
Neve rarely ate such unhealthy food but tonight she couldn’t wait to bite into a slice of Will’s favourite meatlovers supreme. She followed him into their tiny kitchen and he slapped the boxes down on the benchtop, then grabbed a couple of plates, a jug of water from the fridge and two mismatched glasses. They didn’t do formal dining at home; Will’s homework was usually scattered over their dining table so they mostly ate at the breakfast bar or in front of the TV.
‘How come you guys came home early?’ Will asked, biting into a slice of pizza even before he sat on a stool.
Neve hesitated a moment—she couldn’t tell him the truth because Emma hadn’t told her kids yet. Why hadn’t they come up with a story? ‘Umm … well …my job finished earlier than they thought it would.’
Will screwed up his beautiful face. ‘Why didn’t you stay and shop? See a few plays on Broadway?’ He shared her passion for the theatre; he just didn’t know he’d inherited it from both his parents.
‘We shopped up big the first couple of days and didn’t have any money left, but we saw Mamma Mia!’ A knot formed in her stomach. ‘And then we got homesick.’
He shook his head as if she were crazy and shoved the rest of his slice of pizza into his mouth.
‘Tell me about your week,’ Neve said, picking up a slice. ‘How’s Stacey?’
He shrugged. ‘Nan wouldn’t let me see her—said I’m too young for girlfriends—and she had my phone most of the time.’
‘Poor baby.’ Neve reached over and ruffled his hair. It was slightly too long, just like his dad’s. The knot in her stomach tightened as a little voice in her head reminded her James would be here in just over a week. She put her pizza down without taking a bite.
The Art of Keeping Secrets Page 29