More Than One Night

by Sarah Mayberry

  “I’m not usually like this, I promise,” she said, risking a quick glance his way.

  His dark eyes were very serious as they watched her. “I’m sorry I was such a dick this morning.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does. I’m not proud of the way I reacted. Believe me, it’s not great to learn that when the chips are down your first impulse is to be a selfish bastard.”

  “My first thoughts were selfish, too. How I’d cope, what I’d do about my business. The only difference was that I didn’t say any of it out loud.”

  “Seems like a big difference from where I’m standing. I meant what I said before, Charlie. I’m up for this. You’re not on your own, okay?”

  She nodded. She realized that she was still holding his tie. “Better take this or you’ll have to come back again and God knows what I’ll be doing then.”

  He smiled faintly. “I’m almost tempted to find out.”

  “But then you’d be late for your nephew’s party.”

  “True.” He turned and she followed him to the front door.

  “Have a good night,” she said as he stepped into the hall.

  “You too. And, Charlie? Call me if you need anything, okay? Even just to talk.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She managed a small smile, but this time she shut the door rather than watch him walk away. She went into the study instead and jostled the mouse to wake her computer from hibernation mode. She reached for the keyboard and realized she was still clutching Rhys’s handkerchief. Strange—he was the last person she would have pegged as a handkerchief kind of guy. He seemed too driven and forward thinking and dynamic to be bothered with putting a little square of cloth in his pocket every morning. Yet clearly he had—this morning, at least—and he’d insisted on clearing his own dishes.

  He’d also pulled her into his arms to comfort her.

  She smoothed the wrinkled linen flat on her desktop as she remembered the way his arms had wrapped around her. Only now did she allow herself to think about how hard and warm and strong his body had felt against hers.

  He’d been wearing the same aftershave he’d worn that night. Masculine and earthy and warm. There had been nothing sexual in his embrace, but the memory of it triggered other memories inside her. Hotter, more intense, more dangerous memories…

  You have got to be kidding. Don’t even go there. Don’t even consider the possibility of it.

  She crumpled the handkerchief into a ball and stuffed it into her pocket. Reaching for the mouse, she opened the file she’d been working on and very deliberately focused on her work.

  Because she was not a fool, appearances to the contrary.

  RHYS THOUGHT ABOUT Charlie for the entire sixty minutes of the rush-hour drive to his parents’ place on the North Shore. He’d grown up with two younger sisters who had never been shy about using whatever means at their disposal to get their own way, so he was no stranger to tears. Charlie’s tears, however…those had hit him in the gut.

  Perhaps it was because she’d been so obviously reluctant to give in to her emotions, fighting the tears even as they slid down her face. Whatever the reason, it only made him more determined to get this right, to shoulder his share of the burden they’d inadvertently created.

  The street outside his parents’ place was already choked with his siblings’ cars by the time he arrived. He managed to wedge his car behind his eldest brother’s beaten-up van before collecting Garth’s present and the bottle of wine he’d bought and heading for the house.

  East Pymble was one of the most exclusive and established suburbs in Sydney, full of gracious homes on leafy streets. His parents lived in far less exclusive West Pymble, in the modest 1950s yellow brick home he’d grown up in, surrounded by other modest yellow brick homes. He stepped over the gaping crack in the concrete path—the same crack that had been there since he was twelve years old—and climbed the three steps to the concrete porch. A jumble of shoes sat there—a pair of his father’s sneakers, his mother’s gardening clogs, various mismatched pairs of flip-flops. He knocked briefly on the door to announce his arrival before trying the handle. It opened easily and he stepped into the hall, inhaling the scent of roasting chicken.

  “We’re in the kitchen, Rhys,” his mother called.

  Where else? The kitchen had always been the heart of the Walker home. He could hear the laughter and chatter as he approached and, for the second time that night, he felt the strong, visceral urge to bail on his family and go find a quiet corner and a bottle of whiskey to lose himself in.

  Instead, he took a deep breath and plunged into the social chaos that was the Walker family en masse.

  His mother was holding the fort at the stove, stirring something in a pot while chatting to his sister Rebecca. Holly Walker had been as dark as her children when she was younger, but now her short, curly hair was salt-and-pepper gray. The smile she sent his way was warm with affection and welcome. His father, Ken, stood to her right, dicing up something green and frondy-looking on the chopping board. His shirt was wrinkled around the collar and only half tucked in and he needed a haircut, his graying hair shaggy around his ears and nape.

  He glanced up from his work to acknowledge Rhys. “Almost the last, but not quite. Good timing.”

  “I try,” Rhys said.

  “I’ll take that,” Rebecca said, slipping the bottle of wine from his hand and checking the label with interest. “Is this one of your fancy ones or something more suited to us plebs?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not telling,” Rhys said.

  The rest of the family were gathered around the scarred kitchen table. Rhys’s older brother, Tim, sat with his wife, Amber, on his knee, one arm around her waist, the other holding a very full glass of red wine. Next was Mark, his youngest daughter in his arms. The other twin, Kim, was at the opposite side of the table, her husband, Lee, sitting beside her. The eldest of his many nieces and nephews—there were eight in total—occupied the rest of the chairs, while the smallest members of the family had taken up residence beneath the table where they appeared to be playing “guess which feet belong to whom.” Obviously they were still waiting on a few arrivals, since Rebecca’s husband, Rod, was nowhere in evidence or his other sister-in-law, Meg.

  “There he is, the captain of industry. Take over any businesses today, mate? Got any good stock tips for us?” Mark greeted him.

  “If I did I wouldn’t waste them on you,” Rhys said easily.

  Last time he’d tried to pass on a hot stock tip to his family, Mark had given him a lecture on the social evils brought about by free trade and the “myth of the global village.”

  Mark laughed good-naturedly.

  “Here,” Rebecca said at his elbow, and he saw she’d poured him a glass of wine.

  “Thanks.”

  Conversation swirled around him as he took a big gulp. Tim and his father were discussing an education department directive that had caused some kind of controversy at the school they both taught at, while Kim and Amber were laughing over the antics of one of Kim’s patients. Rhys let the noise wash over and around him as he took a second big pull from his wine.

  “Hard one, sweetheart?” his mother asked.

  He realized she was watching him, a frown pleating her forehead.

  “Just the usual.” Apart from the small matter of learning he’d made a baby with a woman he hardly knew. But there was no point burdening his mother with that particular piece of bad luck.

  His hand tightened on the glass as it hit him for the first time that his mistake—his monumental, life-changing mistake—wouldn’t remain a private matter for long. Charlie was going to have a child, and that child would be cousin to all these noisy children. It was going to be a part of the Walker famil
y, whether he’d planned for it or not. Whether he was ready for it or not. And he knew absolutely that his parents would want to be involved once they learned what had happened.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

  Just when he thought he had a grip on how big this thing was, it grew an extra set of arms and legs and another head.

  “Is that for me, Uncle Rhys?”

  Rhys focused on the slight figure in front of him. Garth’s hopeful gaze was fixed on the brightly wrapped parcel Rhys had left on the table when he came in.

  “Garth Michael Walker, what do you think you’re doing?” Amber said, rising from her perch on her husband’s knee. “Did we or did we not have a conversation about being gracious on your birthday and that spending time with loved ones is more important than anything someone might buy for you?”

  Garth frowned. “I waited a whole five minutes. What more do you want from me?”

  Rhys made a solid attempt to hide his smile at his nephew’s cheekiness, but Amber shot him a reproving look nonetheless.

  “Thanks for the backup there, Uncle Rhys.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to know what you want in life and not be afraid to go for it.”

  “Why do I always have a picture of Alex P. Keaton in my head when you say things like that?” Kim said.

  Rhys gave his sister a dry look. Comparisons to the success-oriented character Michael J. Fox had played on Family Ties had grown old a long time ago. “That’s the best you can do? Really?”

  Kim grinned at him, utterly unrepentant. “I thought it was pretty good, actually.”

  “You have low standards,” Rhys said.

  “Now, now, children. No squabbling until dessert,” his mother said.

  “Good luck with that one, Mum,” Rebecca said with an inelegant snort of amusement.

  “I’m with your mother. Let’s pretend to be civilized for a few more minutes,” his father chimed in.

  “I’m confused. Does this mean I get my present or not?” Garth asked plaintively.

  Everyone burst into laughter, including Amber.

  “You’re incorrigible, you know that?” she said, reaching out to give her son an affectionate shove on the shoulder.

  “Happy birthday, Garth,” Rhys said, handing the gift over. “May it annoy your parents for many hours.”

  Tim’s eyes narrowed. “If this takes lots of batteries and means I have to wear my noise-canceling headphones when I’m marking, you’re in big trouble.”

  Rhys smiled mysteriously as Garth tore the paper off a set of state-of-the-art walkie-talkies.

  “Oh, man. These are so cool,” Garth said, eyes wide with awe.

  “Don’t forget to spy on your parents, okay?” Rhys said.

  “Again, thank you, Uncle Rhys,” Amber said dryly.

  “My pleasure.”

  Garth stepped close and flung an arm around Rhys, his head burrowing into Rhys’s stomach. “Thanks heaps, Uncle Rhys.”

  Looking at his nephew’s dark head, feeling his skinny arm around his waist, Rhys felt something odd and unfamiliar shift in his chest.

  Bending at the knees, he crouched to his nephew’s height and gave him a proper hug, what was left in his glass slopping dangerously close to the rim. Garth seemed surprised for a second, Rhys being more of a wrestling-on-the-rug kind of uncle than a demonstrative one, but after a second he returned the embrace and pressed a kiss to Rhys’s cheek.

  Again, there was that unfamiliar feeling in his chest.

  I could have a boy like this. Or a girl like Alison or Sami. Dark hair, dark eyes. A little person to love and protect.

  Out of nowhere, his throat got tight. He released his nephew and stood, using the excuse of straightening his jacket to cover the unexpected rush of emotion. Amber was watching him with a faint smile when he finally glanced up.

  “You big softy,” she said.

  He shrugged off the comment, but only relaxed when Mark started talking about a new supplier he’d found for his organic-produce store.

  Meg and Rod arrived within ten minutes of each other and his parents set about serving dinner to the gathered hordes. Rhys sat between Meg and Sami, his eldest niece, and did his best to keep up his end of the conversation. Twice he caught his mother giving him a searching look and he made a point of picking a fight with Mark over the merits of food miles, since it was the sort of thing he would normally do at a family gathering.

  In that way the Alex P. Keaton reference wasn’t a mile off—he was the only one who had chosen to enter the world of commerce and chase the almighty dollar, while the rest of them all held community-based jobs that focused more on social good than personal wealth. While he admired them a great deal, he didn’t see anything wrong with being ambitious and having big dreams, and he definitely didn’t believe that being successful and being a good human being were mutually exclusive concepts. His siblings—and, he suspected to a certain extent, his parents—begged to differ, and it usually resulted in some kind of standoff when they were together.

  In fine family tradition, the debate carried them into dessert and only ceased when the lights were dimmed and the candles lit for Garth’s cake.

  Rhys cheered and hooted with everyone else when Garth failed to blow out all five candles at once, but he sneaked a quick glance at his watch as Amber and Kim took the cake to cut it. It was nearly eight-thirty, which meant things would start to wind up pretty soon, since the younger kids would need to be in bed. He decided he’d leave after the first of his siblings had made their exit and applied himself to the cake he’d been served. Afterward he helped clear the table and rinse the dishes for the dishwasher alongside Mark and Tim.

  “It’s getting late. We’d better head off,” Meg said as the men finished with the pans and baking trays.

  Her youngest, Helen, was asleep in her arms, her head resting on Meg’s shoulder.

  Rhys heaved a silent sigh of relief as Mark started gathering their baby paraphernalia and their other two children together in preparation for departure. Rhys finished rinsing out the sink and was about to announce his own intention to exit when his mother appeared at his side.

  “Could you help me take the garbage out?” she asked, indicating the dual bins beneath the sink.

  “Sure.” He grabbed the garbage while she tackled the recyclables and they made their way out to the patio. The bins were stationed on the side of the house nearest the driveway and Rhys dumped his load before lifting the lid on the second bin for his mother.

  “Right. That’s that sorted,” she said, dusting her hands together. She fixed him with a steady eye. “Now, you want to tell me what’s going on with you?”

  Rhys did his best to look surprised by her question. Despite having five children to spread her attention amongst, his mother had an uncanny knack for sniffing out anything out of the ordinary in her children’s lives.

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Rubbish. You’ve been quiet all night.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You have. You’re not your normal self. Is there something wrong with work? Has that big deal fallen through?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I know you were excited about it, but I don’t want you thinking that anyone is going to judge you or feel sorry for you if things have gone pear shaped.”

  Rhys smiled faintly at her concern. When he’d told his parents about landing the Gainsborough contract they’d been almost disbelieving when he’d explained what it would mean for the business and what his growth projections were over the next few years.

  “Nothing’s wrong at work, Mum.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  He looked at her concerned face. He could hear his
family in the kitchen, the ebb and flow of their laughter and conversation. This was hardly the time to tell his mother what had happened.

  And yet, somehow, he found himself taking a deep breath and saying the words. “I’m going to be a father.”

  “But—but you’re not even seeing anyone at the moment. Are you?”

  For a moment he considered fudging the truth a little, but then he remembered his mother’s sixth sense, the same sixth sense that had led to this conversation in the first place. She would know if he was snowballing her.

  “I met Charlie when we were out celebrating the Gainsborough account. She tracked me down this morning to tell me she’s pregnant and that she’s keeping the baby.”

  “Oh, Rhys.” Two words, but they contained a world of understanding and disappointment.

  He fought the urge to shuffle his feet like a naughty schoolboy. “Before you ask, we used condoms. I don’t know what went wrong.”

  His mother’s face was creased with worry. “When is she due?”

  “She’s seeing the doctor tomorrow, but based on the dates, I’d say in November sometime.”

  “And what do you know about this woman? You said she tracked you down—I assume that means what happened between you was a one-night-only sort of arrangement?”

  “Her name is Charlie. Charlie Long. She recently left the army to set up her own web-design business.”

  “The army. Well, that’s not what I was expecting. How old is she?”

  “I’m not sure. Thirty, if I had to guess.”

  He could feel his face heating. He wasn’t in the habit of discussing his love life with his mother and he had to swallow the impulse to explain to her that it wasn’t his usual practice to take home unknown women for the night. But failed condom or not, there was no way to make what had happened between him and Charlie sound less stupid and irresponsible.

  “And she wasn’t on the pill? I hate to say this, Rhys, but can you be sure this baby is yours?”

  “She says it is and I believe her.”