by Liz Fielding
‘Just leave her with me,’ Willow said as soon as she arrived, ushering the old lady out of the garden.
‘She shouldn’t be struggling with the garden in her condition. And you needn’t look at me like that, Willow Armstrong. I didn’t get to be seventy-eight without being able to tell when a woman’s expecting a baby. Where’s the father when he’s needed for something useful? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘I’ll make her a cup of tea—’
‘Tea? If I was asked my opinion, which I won’t be, I could tell you that it’ll take more than tea to get her through what’s ahead of her…’
Jake was picking up the broken pottery when the phone rang. ‘Jake Hallam,’ he said.
‘Don’t you Jake Hallam me,’ came back at him in a fierce whisper. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Nowhere…working…’
‘There are more important things in the world than making money. It’s time you put your clever mind to sorting out the mess you’ve made—’
‘Willow? What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
‘I’ve just found Amy sitting in her vegetable garden in tears—no, breaking her heart. And I don’t think it’s over a few beans, do you?’
The question was clearly rhetorical, since she didn’t wait for an answer before hanging up.
‘Beans?’ he repeated. Then frowned. ‘Tears? According to all the books she shouldn’t be tearful for another month.’ Grabbing his car keys and heading for the door, it occurred to him that this was no time to be complaining that Amy wasn’t sticking to the schedule laid out in all the baby books he’d read in the past couple weeks.
Tears were good. In fact tears were great. They were the first sign of weakness she’d shown. Maybe now she’d be ready to listen to reason. And he went back for the decorator’s folder.
Willow opened the front door as he walked up the path, her finger to her lips. ‘Amy’s asleep in the back garden. She’s tired, Jake. She shouldn’t be gardening.’
‘You think I don’t know that? I sent her a housekeeper to ease the load. Where is she this afternoon?’
‘It’s Sunday. Even the most peripatetic of housekeepers usually get Sunday afternoon off.’ Yes, of course they did. Stupid of him. Willow put her hand on his arm.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re doing all that you feel you’re able to.’
Damned with faint praise, he said, ‘Do you want to show me what upset her in the first place?’
‘I’ve got to get back to my own family. Just take a look at the vegetable plot and you’ll see the problem. And bear in mind that while it might not seem much to you, when your hormones are up the creek without a compass it doesn’t take a lot to set you off.’
‘I suppose not. Willow?’ She paused. ‘Thanks for calling me.’
‘Who else is there? She has no family.’
‘None?’
‘None that I’ve ever heard her speak of.’
They had that in common, then. ‘Willow?’ She turned in the gate. ‘That estate you drive, would you recommend it? For a mother?’ She came back and gave him a silent hug, as if she understood how hard this was for him. She didn’t, but under the circumstances it was kind of her to try. He watched her for a moment as she hurried back to Mike and her own baby, then he walked around the side of the house.
Amy was asleep on a garden lounger laid out in an arbour shaded by thick, sweetly scented honeysuckle. Her cat, stretched out on the ground beside her, looked up at his approach.
He bent, rubbed Harry’s ears gently for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of her breast as she slept. Then he realised that if she woke and saw him standing over her she’d probably get the fright of her life, so he tore himself away to examine the damage to the vegetable garden.
Maybe, he decided, looking at the row of bare stalks, it wasn’t hormones that had turned on the waterworks. If he’d spent as much backbreaking effort in growing his own vegetables, he might just weep at the decimation to the crop.
He looked around. The weeds were getting ahead of the flowers, he realised. The grass needed cutting. He’d have to start getting tough about this, insist that she let him get some help for her, at least for the heavy stuff.
Then he’d have to find someone who could be relied on not to be subverted to the good of the village while Amy carried on in her own sweet way. He was no longer fooling himself that this was going to be simple, but she needed to be convinced that she couldn’t do it all.
He glanced back at her. She was still sleeping. He could sit and watch her or do something useful. Watching her was a deeply appealing idea.
Useful, he suspected, would be wiser. And, sleeping, she couldn’t stop him from helping.
Amy stirred, lay for a moment listening to the sound of a hoe chopping into the soil, the occasional clink of a small stone. ‘Willow?’ she half turned, opened her eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be…’
Not Willow. Jake.
Stripped to the waist, working in her garden.
Lean, hard, his finely muscled body gleaming in the late-afternoon sun as he bent to his task, he looked wonderful, better than the dreams that had haunted her sleep.
Each time he went away hurt more. Each time he managed to stay away a little longer. Six weeks this time, and she thought she’d die for want of him. And now he was back, working in her garden. Jake himself, hoe in hand, clearing the weeds from the vegetable garden. Not someone he’d paid to do it.
Domesticity of the kind on which dreams were built.
Castles in the air.
She swung her legs off the lounger and sat up abruptly. The world spun and in an instant he was at her side, pushing her head down between her knees.
‘Don’t sit up so quickly or you’ll faint,’ he said, taking her hand as if concerned that she might fall.
‘I know that,’ she said irritably, pulling her hand free.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Willow rang me. She thought you could do with a little help in the garden.’
‘She shouldn’t have done that.’
‘No, Amy. You should have called me.’
‘And asked for help out of working hours? Isn’t it difficult getting agency people on a Sunday?’
He straightened. ‘Absolutely impossible,’ he said. ‘It’s a good job I had nothing more exciting planned. Can I get you anything? Tea? Something cold? A sandwich?’
‘Why does everyone think I need an endless supply of tea?’ she demanded crabbily. Then held up her hand.
‘That question doesn’t require an answer. I can take a hint.’
His hand dropped to her shoulder as she began to rise. ‘Stay there. I’m the hired help for today.’
‘That can’t be cost effective. How much is your time worth by the hour?’
‘A lot more than the average jobbing gardener, so you’d better make the most of it.’
His smile, for all its self-mockery, was infectious. While she didn’t know what to make of his concern, couldn’t fathom his motives for responding to Willow’s SOS, she decided that it didn’t matter. He was here and for the moment that was enough.
‘You’ll find some camomile and honey teabags by the kettle. And there are some ginger biscuits in the tin.’
Once that had been settled, he quickly took his hand away. Her shoulder immediately felt cold; she shouldn’t have capitulated quite so quickly, she thought. Then was cross with herself. No tricks. No lures. No feminine wiles to keep him at her side. He’d know and he’d despise her for it. But not as much as she’d despise herself.
So she stayed where she was, feet up, eyes closed, until she heard the clink of the tray as he put it down on the ground beside her before reaching for his shirt, hanging on a nearby branch.
‘How’s the decorating going?’ he said, as he turned and saw her watching him.
‘It isn’t,’ she said, taking the mug he stooped to pass to her. ‘I still haven’t found the exact colour match for the c
eiling.’ She shrugged. ‘To be more exact, I haven’t had time to look. But there’s no hurry.’
‘Are you sure about that? How much ladder-climbing time do you think you’ve got left? Six, eight weeks? And that’s ignoring the fact that you shouldn’t be climbing ladders at all.’
‘Six weeks will be plenty of time.’
‘Assuming you find your colour straight away. Fortunately, I know a talented decorator.’ There was a folder lying on the tray beneath a plate of biscuits. He picked up the plate, offered her a biscuit, then handed her the folder. It bore the name of a well-known interior design consultant. ‘She’s used her database to try and find exactly what you’re looking for.’
‘You’ve commissioned a decorator to design my baby’s nursery?’ she asked.
She didn’t easily betray her feelings. She’d learned early in life that emotion, visible expressions of it, embarrassed people. Jake Hallam was making it difficult to keep up the calm faade.
Delight that he’d taken the trouble warred with the knowledge that he’d employed someone to do the hard work for him. He didn’t want the commitment, the responsibility of fatherhood, any of the effort. But he just couldn’t resist the fun parts.
‘Without asking you first? As if I would.’ His innocent grin didn’t fool her for a minute. ‘I just asked her to come up with some colours. Anything else is purely wishful thinking on her part.’
‘And shrimps can whistle.’
‘She’ll keep going until you get exactly what you want. Check them out and let me know. There’s no hurry,’ he said, echoing her own words. None at all. The longer it took, the bigger she’d be and, hopefully, the more amenable to offers of help. ‘But personally I think the navy stripes are very classy.’
His smile didn’t disguise his tension as he waited for her reaction, certain that she wouldn’t be able to resist taking a peek.
‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling right back. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ And she put the folder down on the far side of the lounger.
He sipped the herb tea. Pulled a face. Tried another tack. ‘Why don’t you drive?’ he asked.
The cup wobbled in her hand. This was too much. ‘Does it matter?’ she asked.
‘You’ll need to drive. You might be able to manage your business without transport, but you won’t be able to combine a full-time career and motherhood without a car. Ask Willow. She’ll tell you.’
Amy took a slow deep breath. This was something she didn’t want to talk about. ‘This is none of your business, Jake. I don’t know why you’re here. You don’t have to be.’
‘So you keep telling me. Do you want me to walk away, is that it? Do you really believe I could be that uninterested in the welfare of my baby?’
His baby? That sounded just a mite possessive for a man who’d tried to buy his way out of responsibility.
‘She’s not yours, not in any way that matters. Your interest, or lack of it, is no concern of mine.’
‘Have you lost your licence?’ he persisted.
He would think that. Why couldn’t he just accept that some people didn’t want to drive? ‘Do you mean lost as in mislaid? Dropped somewhere? Can’t find?’ she enquired politely. No answer. Of course not. They both knew that if that were the case she would simply apply for a replacement. ‘No, Jake. I haven’t lost my licence. I’ve never had a licence to lose. Only a learner’s licence and that was a waste of time because I never did learn to drive.’
‘Then it’s time you did.’
Breathe. Smile. Breathe. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever wanted to do.’
‘So why did you apply for a provisional licence?’
‘Because it’s what you do on your seventeenth birthday. Because you can. It doesn’t mean anything.’ Other people managed without cars. She’d just need to be totally organised. She was good at that. ‘Holding a driving licence isn’t compulsory, Jake,’ she said in a tone that made it quite clear that the subject was closed.
He listened to the words, heard the cool, dismissive tone and knew she was faking it. He couldn’t say why. There was nothing to betray her. But it seemed that he was tuned in to every nuance, every gesture. Had been since the moment he set eyes on her.
That cool, totally controlled front Miss Amaryllis Jones put on for the world he already knew was just that—a front. He’d been there when she was hot, burning with passion and totally out of control, and he knew there was a lot more to the lady than an unsettling look that left you feeling psychologically exposed, emotionally naked.
Maybe that kind of intuitive conduit flowed both ways because, try and hide it as she might, he was feeling her pain as if it were his own. Not driving wasn’t a choice she’d made. She didn’t drive because she was afraid, and impulsively he reached out for her hand, held it.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Jake.’ Her voice warned him that he was trespassing. Intuition urged him to press her, because this was important.
‘I might be able to help.’
‘I don’t need help.’ She tugged her hand free from his grasp, swung her feet to the ground and stood up. ‘Heavens,’ she said, dragging her fingers through her hair and looking about her, anywhere but at him. ‘Haven’t you done a lot of weeding?’
Jake unwound himself slowly from the grass, but kept his distance, respecting the touch-me-not force field that was holding her together. He should be grateful for it, he knew. It was all that was keeping him from taking her in his arms and promising that whatever had happened in the past, whatever was so bad that she couldn’t face talking about it, he was here to make sure that nothing could ever hurt her again.
Empty, meaningless words. He wouldn’t promise what he couldn’t deliver. He knew how it felt to be on the receiving end of hollow words.
‘If you’ve got any more bean plants, I’ll put them in for you,’ he offered. ‘Before I go.’ Practical help was something he could do. Then, catching her doubtful expression, he said, ‘I haven’t always lived in a penthouse.’
‘I know. Willow told me that you’d been in care. Fostered. When she was telling me that you were going to be Ben’s godfather.’ When he didn’t respond to this prompt, she let it go. ‘It’s getting late to plant out beans.’
‘They’ll soon catch up.’
She shrugged. ‘There are a few plants left. If you really want to do it, they’re in the greenhouse.’
‘I’ll get them. If you’ve got an empty washing up liquid bottle I could find a use for that, too. And a pair of scissors.’ He’d got her full attention now, the remembered horrors sliding back into the past as she tilted her head to one side with a smile that tucked up the corners of her mouth and made him long to reach out for her, pull her close, kiss her.
If he hadn’t found out about the baby so precipitately it was probable that he would be making hot, sweet love to her now, blissfully ignorant of the time-fused secret about to blow up in his face.
Was that his problem? A childish pet because this dalliance hadn’t had a chance to run its course, had ended before it had begun? Before he’d grown tired of it? Was that the reason for his restless need to keep coming here? Because he still wanted her with an ache that increased rather than diminished, his desire apparently inflamed by the knowledge that she was carrying his child?
One part of him wanted to lie with her, hold her, be part of this miracle. The other part understood the impossibility of it. That was the part he should be listening to.
‘Scissors?’ Amy repeated, in disbelief.
He dragged himself back to the present, the sweetness of the garden, a blackbird singing somewhere nearby.
‘Pinking shears would be even better.’
‘This,’ she said, ‘I have to see.’
An hour later, with Amy’s precious plants protected by serrated circles of plastic—a trick he’d learned from the practical, down-to-earth woman who’d fostered him— Jake opened the fridge door and regarded the contents.
&nb
sp; ‘What are you doing?’
‘Thinking about supper. You haven’t got much in. You should be making an effort to eat properly for the baby’s sake, even if you are feeling sick. Is this cheese pasteurised?’ He glanced back at her. ‘You should only be eating pasteurised cheese. You do know that?’
‘Yes, Jake,’ she replied solemnly. ‘I do know that. But thanks for the interest.’
‘And plenty of green vegetables.’
‘Tell me, did you learn this from The First Nine Months, or did it come from Growing a Baby?’ Jake felt the heat rise to his face. Could she read his mind? Was Mike right…? She scooped up the cat, who was stropping her ankles, and said, ‘Vicki—my assistant—has an aunt who works in the local bookshop.’
‘I would have thought the books one bought were privileged information.’
‘You’d have thought so. But then, you haven’t met Vicki.’
‘Actually it was from Father-to-Be,’ he confessed.
‘Would you like to read it? It’s full of really useful stuff about—’
‘I’m sure your need is greater than mine, Jake. I’m already up to speed on all the really useful stuff. And, since I’m not an invalid, I’m allowed out after eight o’clock. Why don’t we go down to the pub and have someone else slave over a hot stove for us? It’s what I’d planned to do this evening.’
‘By yourself?’ he demanded, then realised just how possessive that sounded. Jealousy had no place in this relationship. Oh, yeah? Not much. An amused and scathing voice inside his head taunted him. He ruthlessly suppressed it. ‘If I’m in the way, just say.’
‘On the contrary, a man who’ll pick up a hoe without being asked is always welcome,’ she said, ignoring a question he wished he’d never asked. ‘Just remember that it’s your choice that you’re here. I didn’t ask you to come.’
‘It’s a good thing someone did.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry. You’re a grown woman, quite entitled to go into a pub on your own.’
‘Yes, Jake,’ she said. ‘I am.’ Then, ‘This is a very friendly village. Everyone knows everyone else. And most of their business,’ she added thoughtfully, her look steady. ‘Will that bother you?’ She meant that most people would know that she was pregnant, and if he was with her they’d take it for granted that he was the father of her child. The man who wasn’t offering a quick trip up the aisle. ‘We could go somewhere else if you’d prefer?’