‘Pretty hungry,’ Dylan admitted. ‘I’ll feed wee Sophie first, though.’
Yes. He was a good guardian. Jane didn’t need to feel guilty at the prospect of allowing her offspring to be raised by a more distant genetic relative.
Still, she hesitated, having shown Dylan into the farm-style kitchen that took up nearly half the ground floor of the house and turned on the main switch so that the microwave and other appliances would be functional.
‘Do you need any help?’
Dylan seemed to consider the offer carefully. ‘I can manage for now,’ he decided. ‘Your plan for some lunch sounded good.’
‘There’s instant coffee and tea in those canisters but I’ll have to pick up some milk.’
A tin of formula had appeared on the wooden bench top that surrounded an ancient ceramic sink. Then Dylan put a bottle beside it.
‘There’s a rocking chair out on the veranda.’ Jane still felt the urge to assist in some way. ‘It might be a nice place to feed her while it’s sunny.’
Dylan smiled and Jane was aware of a sudden need to escape. ‘I won’t be long,’ she promised.
She wasn’t. When she returned less than thirty minutes later with bags full of supplies, she found Dylan in the spot she had recommended. She saw him before he spotted her coming up the path and Jane’s step slowed unconsciously. Part of her wanted to stop and freeze-frame this moment in time but she knew it was an image she would never forget, however short it was in reality.
Dylan sat in the rocking chair with Sophie in the crook of one arm. He held her bottle in his other hand but the baby looked as if she was trying to help, with a tiny hand on top of one of Dylan’s fingers. She was staring up at the man who held her while she sucked on the bottle, and Dylan was looking down. The sense of communion between the two of them was so powerful that Jane felt totally excluded.
She didn’t want to be included in Sophie’s life to the extent of having that kind of a bond so why did she feel as though she was missing something? Something…huge.
Maybe it was because they were here and so many of the good things in her childhood were associated with this house. That veranda. That rocking chair, even. The distant and long-forgotten memory of sitting on her grandmother’s knee and being rocked to a state of blissful fantasy as she listened to a story being read was poignant enough to bring tears to Jane’s eyes.
Good grief! She was turning into an emotional train wreck! Demonstrating the kind of feminine weakness that had never been allowed in her life. Weeping uncontrollably at frequent intervals was as unthinkable as…as being a mother!
Dylan had seen her now. Hopefully he hadn’t seen the way she was blinking so hard but, in any case, it was Sophie he spoke to.
‘She’s back,’ he said softly, making it sound as if Jane’s arrival was the exciting occurrence they’d both been anticipating. ‘And I think there might be some food for me in those bags.’
‘There is.’ Jane could do something helpful now. Something pleasingly nurturing, even. ‘I’ve got fresh bread and milk. Ham and cheese and biscuits and fruit.’
Dylan put the bottle down and shifted the baby so that she was over his shoulder. He began to rub her back and even though she managed to start climbing the steps to the veranda, Jane couldn’t look away from that big hand moving so gently on the tiny body.
Then Sophie gave a very unladylike belch and Dylan glanced up to catch Jane’s gaze. They both grinned.
And Jane had the strangest sensation of falling. She actually put a hand out to touch a veranda post to make sure she didn’t end up flat on her face.
‘I’ll…um…get some coffee brewing, shall I?’
‘Please.’Dylan was holding her gaze. ‘With fresh coffee and a ham sarnie, I’ll be yours to command, Dr Walters.’
There was no reason to blush. Or avert her gaze hastily as if she was being coy. What on earth was happening to her?
Jane escaped into the house. She set food out on the antique kauri table, collecting plates and cutlery from the matching hutch dresser with such determined efficiency she almost dropped one of her gran’s lovely old blue and white china cups. While the coffee was percolating, she rushed through the lower level of the house, throwing windows open to let in the sunshine and fresh air.
And, hopefully, a bit of common sense.
He stayed right where he was. Holding a baby heavy with contentment, in the dappled shade of the veranda. Dylan was aware of the creak of the rocking chair on old wooden boards, the call of birds in the trees and the snuffling sounds of the small creature in his arms. He could smell the subtle fragrance of the glorious blue flowers that wept from the vine above his head and the uniquely baby smell of Sophie.
He needed a moment here.
Time to let his mind flick back a minute or two. To when he’d seen Jane coming down the narrow brick path with a bag in her arms that had a long stick of crusty, French bread poking from the top.
The sleeves of her soft white shirt had been rolled up and it was tucked into jeans that were probably some designer brand judging by the way they fitted like a second skin. The legs of the jeans had been rolled up too and the sandals and bare toes had made it look as though Jane was heading for a beach.
It wasn’t just the clothing that had made her seem so different, however. Or the way the wind had teased wispy curls from the fancy braid on the back of her head. The feeling of a shift in perspective had gone way deeper than that.
For just a heartbeat, it had felt like Jane was no longer a stranger. As though he had always known her. That this wasn’t the first time he’d been here, sitting like this and watching for her return. That it wouldn’t be the last time, either, because this was where he was meant to be.
This was home.
The odd sensation had only lasted a moment but it was disturbingly easy to recall.
Fortunately, it was just as easy to dismiss.
It was…ludicrous.
How could this feel like home when it was completely unlike anything he’d ever associated with home? Not that he remembered much of his own mother because he’d been too young when she had been torn from his life, but what he did remember was engraved on his heart.
Instinctively, Dylan changed his grip on Sophie as he remembered the soft voice and the cuddles. The smell of home baking. The safety of knowing she would always be there. When he woke up in the night or came home from school. When he was feeling sick or had grazed his knees falling from his bike. Her praise had been a coveted prize and her touch had had the power to heal. Her songs and laughter had been music he could still catch occasionally, like a fairy whisper.
Dylan pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the downy fluff on Sophie’s head.
That was the kind of mother he would wish for this precious child.
Jane’s touch could heal, he reminded himself. And he could be confident that she cared about her young patients. Enough to dedicate her life to their well-being, in fact, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough because…Why? Because it felt empty?
Distant?
Yes. That was the key. Real emotional connection was missing. The kind of love that was selfless and so pure that it became more important than life itself. A mother’s love.
Power-dressing Dr Walters, the ultimate professional with an apartment sterile enough to rival an operating theatre and a prestigious sports car in her garage couldn’t be further from the ideal.
Couldn’t be more wrong. Was he dreaming to think that, given time, Jane might find a real connection with her biological child? Was he expecting magic?
With a sigh, Dylan eased himself from the rocking chair and went inside.
He made a nest for Sophie on an old rolled-arm couch in a living area that was separated from the kitchen by an open archway. He could see Jane in there, busy at the kitchen bench, as he crouched to make sure Sophie would be safe within her wall of cushions. The baby lay on her side, wrapped snugly in her fuzzy blanket, one tiny fist pressed a
gainst her nose. Gently, Dylan moved the hand.
‘Don’t want you scratching your beautiful wee nose, hinny,’ he murmured. His fingertip brushed the deep dimple on the top of the little button nose. Dark eyelashes fluttered and the corner of Sophie’s mouth lifted in what looked like a smile.
Dylan was certainly smiling as he straightened. He found himself looking at a crowded bookshelf and the smile faded. He felt his heart miss a beat as he experienced another flash of that curious feeling of having been here before.
It was just the books, he told himself. The same books his mother had treasured. Anne of Green Gables and Little Women and Heidi. Classics anyone might have. Even old, well-loved copies like these that had plain, rubbed covers in muted shades of moss green and dusty pink.
Maybe it had something to do with the clutter of photographs as well. On top of the bookshelf and the mantelpiece of the open fireplace and the upright piano in the corner. Photographs of people. Of family.
Many wore graduation gowns. Formal portraits to celebrate academic achievement, but some were less formal. Like that one of a woman holding an infant. Dylan stepped close to the piano and picked up the photograph in its silver frame.
The baby was older than Sophie. Maybe nine or ten months. She had big, round eyes and a gorgeous smile, but what caught Dylan’s attention enough to make him catch his breath was the baby’s nose. A little button of a nose with an obvious dimple on the top.
His stride was almost urgent as he entered the kitchen.
‘Is this you?’ he demanded.
Jane’s eyes widened. She stared at Dylan for a long moment before dropping her gaze to the photograph clutched in his hand.
‘Yes.’ She looked up again. Wary.
‘Your nose!’ Dylan couldn’t help the stupid grin that tugged at his lips.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Jane was frowning now.
‘Nothing. It’s a very bonny nose.’
Jane took a step back. She gave her head a tiny disbelieving shake and then pulled a serrated bread knife from the wooden block beside the cooker.
‘It’s the dimple,’ Dylan explained patiently. ‘It’s identical to Sophie’s. She’s got your nose, Jane.’
She took another glance. ‘It’s a baby nose,’ she said dismissively. ‘They all have dimples.’
Dylan’s grin died and his hand lowered as he watched Jane deftly slicing the loaf of bread. He knew she was wrong but refuting that confident tone could only lead to strife. Judging by the way she was attacking the bread, she was not someone who liked to come off second best from any confrontation. And maybe she wasn’t wrong. She did have more experience with babies than he did.
It seemed politic to change the subject.
‘Lunch looks good.’ Even if it didn’t show any evidence of home baking.
‘The food here is wonderful.’ Jane nodded, piling the bread slices into a basket lined with a blue and white gingham cloth. ‘And some of the restaurants will do their meals as take-outs. We could do that for dinner.’
No home cooking on offer, either. Dylan put the photograph face down on the hutch dresser that had a collection of fine old blue and white china.
‘Take a seat,’ Jane directed. ‘Lunch is ready if you are.’
You couldn’t describe her voice as soft, Dylan noted as he sat down at the table. It had a clarity and energy about it that made you think of authority figures. A headmistress perhaps. Or a CEO. Nothing like his image of a mother’s voice. And as for cuddles…
He couldn’t help raking a glance over Jane as she turned to join him at the table. That open-necked white shirt was unbuttoned far enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. In the moment before she’d turned, he’d already registered the way her jeans covered a neat backside. Apple cheeks he could probably cover completely with his hands. She’d given up on that plait in her hair now, too. It hung in loose waves to her shoulders.
Dylan pulled in a breath.
No. Jane could not be deemed cuddly. She was…hot, dammit!
He pulled in another breath.
Jane stared at him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not asthmatic or something?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You seem short of breath.’
‘Healthy as a horse,’ Dylan muttered. ‘And hungry enough to eat one.’
Jane watched him eat. Piling ham and cheese and tomatoes onto lengths of the split loaf of bread. Clearly enjoying the food she had prepared.
It felt good.
Disturbingly good, because it should feel like an intrusion, having a stranger here. Sitting at this table. This was her retreat. A place like none other in her world. A private place where she could unfailingly—if only intermittently—find real contentment. And she hadn’t exactly chosen to invite these guests. It felt like it had been entirely Dylan’s idea.
Maybe it didn’t feel like an invasion because of the way Dylan was reacting to everything. She had seen him begin to fall under the spell of this tiny patch of the globe from the instant he’d first seen it. He was falling in love with it. A stranger who had no previous association with her life. He had no reason to think it odd that she had such a bond with an old, cluttered cottage miles from anywhere, so maybe that was why he seemed to…understand.
When they had finished their lunch and Jane was tidying the kitchen, he picked up a tea towel and dried dishes, and he handled Gran’s china with the kind of respect it deserved. He wiped down the table as Jane was putting leftover food away in the refrigerator and, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the way he ran his fingers over the pitted surface and moulded edge. As though he could sense its history. The times when food had been served with love and shared with laughter.
He looked far too big when he followed Jane up the narrow staircase to see the two bedrooms upstairs.
‘That’s my room,’ Jane said. ‘You and Sophie will have to share this one.’
It was only a step across the tiny hallway from her own. Close enough for the thought of sleeping in such proximity to bring warmth to Jane’s cheeks.
‘If that’s OK,’ she added hurriedly.
‘OK?’ Dylan had to duck his head a little to go through the doorway. He looked at the ancient double brass bed covered with one of Gran’s patchwork quilts. His gaze moved to the Scotch chest with the old enamel basin and pitcher and then he moved closer to Jane, who was standing by the window with its tiny built-in seat and a view that overlooked the rambling garden. When he lifted his gaze, Jane knew he would be looking at the sea and the jetty with its quaint little structure on the end and the lighthouse she loved further round the bay.
He turned his head to Jane then and she watched the smile grow on his face. She could feel it as well as see it. It stretched inside her chest, reaching out to touch her heart.
‘It’s not OK,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect, hinny. This place is like something out of a fairy-tale.’
Hinny. The odd endearment she had heard him use for Sophie. He shouldn’t be using it on her. And it certainly shouldn’t be making her feel so delighted. And it wasn’t. She was just pleased that he appreciated the view.
Her nod of acknowledgement was curt. She shouldn’t be feeling this pleased. It would be dangerous to start enjoying the company of this man. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring him here. She had seen it as a way out of an impossible situation. A reprieve. And, yes, it had occurred to her that this place might suit the gypsy man.
She just hadn’t realised how well it would suit him. For a crazy moment it felt like this was his home.
That he belonged here.
But he didn’t. And neither did his baby.
‘Might be a tight squeeze,’ she pointed out briskly. ‘For the cot and everything.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Dylan repeated, his accent curling around the word, making it sound as though this was all anyone could wish for. ‘Thank you for bringing us here, Jane.’
He smiled at her
.
It took a conscious effort to pull in a breath.
‘It’s a bit stuffy in here, isn’t it?’ Jane tugged on the brass fitting on the bottom of the sash window but it refused to budge. She tugged harder. Then she transferred her grip to the underside of the wooden frame but the window resisted her effort to open it.
‘Let me.’ Dylan’s hands brushed hers as he reached for the sash. The window creaked in protest but rose a few inches.
‘It hasn’t been opened for a while.’ Jane’s hands were beside her now. Clenched into fists. It had been a shock, that sharp tingle of Dylan’s touch. Had it worn off? Experimentally, she opened them and flexed her fingers.
‘Easily fixed.’ Dylan’s gaze flicked down. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’
‘No.’
But it was too late. Dylan had picked up her hand to examine it. Her fingers lay on top of his and his thumb was brushing over them, checking for sign of injury.
Pull it away, Jane told herself. Move. This is…not good.
Like an echo of her own unease, a faint wail filtered up the stairs. Sophie was awake.
Jane snatched her hand back. ‘I’m fine,’ she assured Dylan. ‘And I think you’re being summoned.’
Keeping busy was the answer, Jane remembered. It had worked before, when she’d been getting lunch ready, and it could work again. She aired the beds and tidied and dusted, keeping a good distance from Dylan as he attended to changing and feeding the baby, putting the cot together and unpacking and sorting all the gear he had purchased that morning.
She was dusting the photographs on the piano when he laid out a colourful quilted mat on the living-room floor. It had padded arches over the top with bright, soft toy animals that dangled with pompom feet on string legs. He laid Sophie on the mat to look up at the animals and Jane had to smile as she heard the gurgle of delight and saw the way those tiny hands moved.
It was disconcerting, however, to see Dylan sprawl on the floor beside the baby and roll onto his back with his head right beside the mat, so that he could see what she was seeing.
‘There’s a lion,’ she heard him whisper. ‘Can you see, hinny? And a wee monkey. And a heffalump.’
Her Baby Out of the Blue/A Doctor, A Nurse: A Christmas Baby Page 6