Just Another Miracle!

by Caroline Anderson

  He was silent, his face grave, and a muscle worked in his jaw.

  ‘James, please—’

  ‘Poppy, I haven’t time for this. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour and I have to sort out some notes—’

  ‘You were going in late,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘That was before Mike arranged this meeting yesterday.’

  ‘So delay it.’

  ‘I can’t—Poppy, don’t do this to me. I’ll be back later—I’ll talk to him then.’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘You know, last night I really thought we were making some progress, but it’s all just water off a duck’s back, isn’t it? Your business comes first, then the boys—a very poor second. For heaven’s sake, James, you’re all they’ve got!’

  For a moment she thought she was going to win, but then he turned on his heel, picked up his briefcase and walked out of the front door, slamming it behind him.

  ‘Well, damn you, James Carmichael!’ Poppy muttered under her breath, and, taking the stairs two at a time, she ran up to the boys’ bedroom.

  William was face-down on the bed, sobbing as if his heart would break, and George was sitting next to him, patting him helplessly and swallowing hard.

  ‘I hate him,’ William hiccuped. ‘He’s mean and horrid and I hate him!’

  ‘Oh, darling...’

  Poppy scooped William up into her arms, gathered George in on the other side and rocked them gently until the storm died away.

  ‘Don’t be angry with him—he’s working very hard at the moment, and he’s awfully tired.’

  ‘He’s always tired—he always works hard. He’s never here, and when he is he shuts himself in the library and won’t come out.’ George’s voice was full of bitterness.

  ‘I wish he’d died instead of Mummy,’ William said then, and Poppy could have wept for them.

  James came back later, showered and changed and went out again for his dinner date with Helen.

  He didn’t have time to talk to the boys, and said he’d do so in the morning.

  Poppy didn’t hold out any great hope.

  She and the boys had supper quietly in the kitchen. They were all subdued, and after they’d finished Poppy suggested they should go in the sitting room and watch the television.

  But there was nothing on that appealed to them.

  ‘We could look at the pictures,’ William suggested.

  ‘Pictures?’

  ‘Of Mummy. Daddy won’t let us get them out because he thinks it upsets us, but we think it upsets him. Anyway, he doesn’t like it if we look at them when he’s around—would you like to see her?’

  ‘Yes, William, I think I would.’

  He slid off the settee and ran to the bookcase in the corner, pulling out two photograph albums.

  The first one was a wedding album, with their names embossed in silver on the cover. ‘James Robert Carmichael and Clare Louise Thompson,’ Poppy read.

  She opened it and was confronted by a laughing, pretty girl with sparkling eyes and dark brown hair, and beside her a younger James, his arm possessively round his bride, his eyes alive and full of love and happiness.

  ‘She was very pretty,’ Poppy said to the boys. They nodded and turned the pages, introducing her in turn to all the various members of the family, but Poppy had eyes only for James, his eyes filled with pride, and Clare, small and pretty, bubbling over with joy.

  She wondered how someone so full of life had died so tragically young. Perhaps the next album would give some clues.

  But it didn’t. There were more early photos, obviously taken on their honeymoon, and then baby photos of the boys, growing to toddlers, then to busy little terrors with wicked smiles and grubby knees.

  Then, abruptly, there was nothing.

  ‘She died that summer,’ George told her. ‘We don’t go to the cottage any more.’

  ‘Cottage?’

  ‘In north Norfolk. It’s on the clifftop. We can’t remember going, but it’s in lots of the photographs.’

  ‘Is it your father’s?’ Poppy asked them.

  William nodded. ‘We asked Dad why we don’t go any more, but he just says he’s too busy.’

  “The Frisbee goes, though, and lots of other people from work. It’s just us that doesn’t.’

  ‘The Frisbee?’

  William wrinkled his nose. ‘Helen Fosby-Lee. We call her the Frisbee. She’s dire!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I mean, if you have an itch you ought to scratch it, but with that?’

  Poppy bit her cheeks and struggled not to laugh. Where on earth had they heard that? Because there was no doubt about it, it was regurgitated parrot-fashion.

  She scolded them gently for repeating things they didn’t understand, and then chivvied them up to bed via the bath, ignoring their protests.

  So he was scratching his itch with Helen, was he? she thought later as she tidied up the sitting room. Well, she supposed he was entitled. Why should the man live like a monk?

  She was annoyed, though, that after the upset this morning he had gone out with his mistress rather than talk to his sons.

  She decided it was time for a confrontation, and, curling up on the settee, she turned on the television with the remote control and channel-hopped her way through the evening.

  He came back at midnight, just as the old grandfather clock in the hall was striking twelve.

  ‘Hello, Cinderella,’ she said to him, and he gave her a weary smile.

  ‘Hello, Mary Poppins. You’re up late.’

  ‘Yes—I wanted to talk to you.’

  He groaned. ‘Can I get myself a drink? I’m stone-cold sober, bloody tired and harassed to death, but I don’t suppose you’re going to give up till you’ve had your say.’

  He went over to the drinks cabinet in the corner and poured himself a hefty Scotch.

  ‘OK, fire away.’

  Poppy shrugged slightly. ‘It’s the boys,’ she began.

  He snorted. ‘What else?’ He threw himself down at the other end of the settee and watched her struggle for words. ‘OK, come on, Poppy, hit me with it. What’s been going on?’

  She took a deep breath, let it out on a sigh and met his eyes. ‘Do you ever talk to them about their mother?’

  ‘Clare?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Not very often—but then, as you’ll no doubt point out to me fairly soon, that probably isn’t surprising.’

  She lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘They say you’re never here, you don’t care, you won’t let them look at pictures of their mother, you won’t take them on holiday to the cottage, and—’ She broke off, shaking her head.

  He watched her. ‘And?’ he prompted gently.

  ‘He probably didn’t mean it—it was just said in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘Who didn’t mean what, Poppy? Tell me.’

  She lifted her shoulders helplessly and met his eyes, her own filled with sorrow. ‘William said he wished it had been you and not your wife.’

  Pain clouded his eyes and he closed them briefly, shutting Poppy out. When he opened them again, they were shuttered and remote.

  ‘On that, at least, we’re in agreement. However, perhaps fortunately, things like that are beyond our control.’ He drained his Scotch and refilled the glass. ‘Drink?’

  She shook her head. ‘Did you have to go out tonight?’

  ‘Yes—it was a business dinner, set up weeks ago. We were entertaining a foreign buyer. Fortunately he left early.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Helen—she’s my Corporate Affairs Director. She handles the PR and contract side of the business.’

  Corporate affairs. How appropriate, Poppy thought uncharitably. ‘The boys aren’t very keen on her, I think.’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I believe it’s mutual. The last time she was here, they let her tyres down.’

  Poppy stifled the grin, but not quickly enough.

  He quirked a brow, and then his eyes twinkled. ‘She was furious.’

  ‘I’ll bet
. Who pumped them up?’

  ‘The boys. It took them hours. I lent her my car.’

  Poppy chuckled.

  ‘Look, about tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I’ll try and spend the day at home, but we’ve just taken over another company and we’re having to rationalise it and turn it around. It’s in a hell of a mess, but we’re getting there. It just needs a bit more time.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  He sighed. ‘As soon as possible, really. There are a lot of families who’ll be affected unless we can get the company back on its feet and soon.’

  He loosened his tie and leant his head back, rolling it towards her as he spoke.

  ‘Buy me time, Poppy. Keep the kids in one piece while I get through this rough patch. It won’t be long—two, maybe three weeks—then we can spend some time together.’

  ‘Unless something else crops up.’

  ‘It won’t I won’t let it.’

  His face was sincere, his eyes troubled, and his voice held conviction. He looked like a politician on the eve of an election, Poppy thought. She wished she could believe him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE boys were up early on Sunday morning, and they sat in the kitchen with Poppy, planning the day.

  ‘We could go for a walk in the woods—would you like to do that?’ she suggested.

  ‘With Dad?’

  She hesitated. Would it be better to say nothing, for fear of disappointing them?

  ‘He did say he’d try and spend some time with you today.’

  ‘Humph,’ George said eloquently. ‘He’ll find something else to do.’

  ‘He’ strolled out of the library then, and smiled cheerfully at them. ‘Morning, boys—morning, Poppy.’

  She looked up and her heart sank. James was wearing his suit trousers, a shirt and a tie. I knew it, she thought.

  He hitched up a chair and sat down with them. ‘So, what are we doing today?’

  Poppy eyed him sceptically. ‘We,’ she said with slight emphasis, ‘were considering taking a walk in the woods behind the house. What are you doing?’

  ‘Sounds good. I think I’ll join you.’

  ‘Great!’ the boys yelled, and ran to get ready.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Poppy said casually. ‘Do you sleep in your suit?’

  He glanced down, as if surprised. ‘I have to go into the office later. I thought it would save changing.’

  Poppy suppressed a smile. ‘I doubt it. It’s awfully muddy out there. Haven’t you got any jeans?’

  He looked astonished, as if the idea of mud in early February hadn’t even occurred to him. ‘Somewhere, I think—maybe. I’ll go and look.’

  Five minutes later he was back, and Poppy instantly regretted sending him off to change. The jeans were old and soft, hugging his body with a familiarity that made her breath lodge in her throat. He had changed his shirt, too, putting on a dark polo-neck that clung to his chest and showed off his board-flat stomach to perfection, and he’d knotted a soft cream cable-knit sweater loosely round his shoulders.

  He looked about ten years younger and rippling with raw, untamed masculinity, like a big cat in his prime, and Poppy felt suddenly terribly feminine and defenceless, desperately aware of the fact that they were almost alone in the house.

  ‘Better?’ he asked her.

  Better? It was far, far worse, but she could hardly say that. Damn her hormones, anyway.

  She mumbled something incoherent and turned away.

  He followed her, catching her chin with his long, blunt finger and turning it towards him.

  ‘Now what have I done?’ he asked softly.

  She met his eyes, her own wide and expressive, and suddenly the heat was flaring between them. He opened his mouth to say something, but the boys tumbled into the room excitedly and grabbed him by the arms.

  ‘Come on, Dad! Let’s go.’

  Poppy dragged her eyes away from his and took a deep breath. ‘Good idea,’ she muttered, and pulled on her wellies and coat.

  The boys tumbled out into the garden like puppies, rushing down towards the gate at the end that led to the woods.

  James and Poppy followed more sedately, a careful distance between them. OK, so he’d said she was safe. Fine. So he wouldn’t attack her. But then on the other hand the man wasn’t fool enough to turn down what was offered him on a plate, and she was doing a fair job of that at the moment. She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets, shrugged down inside the collar and tried to ignore him striding along beside her.

  It was a gorgeous day, the sun breaking through the gaps in the trees and sparkling on the light frost that covered the ground.

  Their breath misted on the cold air, and the boys ran ahead, laughing and chasing and playing tag.

  ‘You’re still mad with me, aren’t you?’ he said suddenly.

  ‘No. No, I’m not mad with you. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s what I asked for.’

  ‘Yes, you did, didn’t you? I wonder, was it just for the boys?’ He stopped and turned her towards him. Their eyes meshed again, the message in his loud and clear. Poppy hoped her own were less expressive.

  His hands came up to cup her shoulders, easing her gently towards him. They were so close that their breath mingled in a soft cloud between them, hanging in the still air. Oh, Lord, he was going to kiss her, she knew it, and any minute now her legs would give way and she would collapse in an undignified heap.

  ‘Poppy...’

  ‘Dad! Dad, come and see, there’s a rabbit hole!’

  He groaned and dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Coming,’ he called, and, casting her a look that smouldered with promise, he loped off along the path.

  Poppy found a convenient fallen tree and sat down abruptly. What on earth was going on here? She’d been kissed before—heavens, she hadn’t even been kissed by James, and she was carrying on like some fainting Victorian virgin with a fit of the vapours!

  Well, she’d just have to make sure it didn’t happen, because once it did she’d have no defences against him, and the boys needed her.

  Let him scratch his itch with Helen, she thought ruthlessly, and felt a sudden, shocking stab of jealousy that ripped through her like a bullet.

  ‘Indigestion,’ she said aloud, and, pushing herself to her feet, she made herself go and join them.

  James was watching her, his eyes following her every move, but she ignored him and talked to the boys, joining in their games with an excess of enthusiasm that brought a knowing smile to his lips.

  ‘Avoiding me, Poppy?’ he asked on the way back in, when they were alone for a second in the kitchen.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said briskly. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’

  He chuckled. ‘Trying to get rid of me? I thought you wanted me here?’

  She gave a sharp sigh and turned to face him. ‘Don’t play games with me, Mr Carmichael. I’m here for the boys, not for your entertainment.’

  His mouth hardened and he stepped back. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Taylor,’ he said coldly. ‘I’ll be here for lunch, then in the office for the remainder of the day.’

  She swallowed the hurt and turned away. It was for the best.

  ‘Fine. I’ll just go and change and then I’ll start cooking.’

  She tossed her head back, finging her hair over her shoulder, and walked away, head held high. To hell with him, anyway. Arrogant beast. Why should she want him to kiss her? The next thing was he’d be suggesting an affair..oh, Lord. Her heart lurched against her ribs.

  Oh, no. No way. Anyway, he had Helen. He was just playing with her, like a cat with a mouse.

  It was a curiously painful thought.

  Poppy lay in bed that night and tried to analyse her feelings for James Carmichael.

  Physical desire, certainly. He was a very attractive man, and he had a charismatic appeal that went beyond his looks, but that was just hormones. Continuation of the species. Sex.

/>   She felt heat lick along her veins, and fidgeted restlessly.

  How could she feel that way for a man who neglected his children so badly?

  Be fair, a little voice coaxed. He doesn’t neglect them out of malice or ignorance, just circumstances, and he was doing his best to alter the circumstances—now. A little smile touched her lips. Poor man, she really must stop lecturing him and using emotional blackmail to get his co-operation. What he needed was support, not condemnation!

  So, all right, she was attracted to him despite his failings. The fact remained she could never love a man who would allow his work to interfere with his relationship with his children—and, anyway, who was talking about love? She was just a temporary diversion, a little light relief in a hectic world that gave him no respite.

  Except, of course, for Helen.

  Poppy found it most odd that she could feel such jealousy and animosity towards a woman she had never even met, but she did. She wondered how serious their relationship was, because if he was considering marrying her, the boys would undoubtedly be most unhappy about it.

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she chided herself. ‘Maybe they just resent her because she isn’t their mother. You haven’t even met her yet. She might be really very kind.’

  Somehow that made it worse. She bashed the pillow, turned over and counted sheep—then goats, then ducks... Finally she sat up and read until nearly four, and woke up at six-thirty with a crick in her neck where she’d fallen asleep sitting up.

  James had left the house by the time she got downstairs just after seven. She was glad. After the tension yesterday she really didn’t want to be alone with him any more than she had to.

  The boys delivered safely to school, she returned to find the cleaning lady, Mrs Cripps, vacuuming noisily in the little sitting room. She had had the whole of last week off as well, and this was the first time Poppy had met her.

  She approached her with an air of humility, as befitted a new arrival. The last thing she needed was to get on this lady’s wrong side!

  ‘Hello!’ she said loudly over the ghastly din. ‘I’m Poppy, the new nanny—and you must be Mrs Cripps.’

  Mrs Cripps switched off the machine. ‘Thought he must have got another one,’ she said in the sudden silence. ‘The mess isn’t as bad as usual.’ She was short and fat, her body encased in a cotton pinny, and she ran a jaundiced eye over Poppy. ‘Hope you’re better’n the last—she left pregnant. Got no more’n she deserved, I suppose. Morals of an alley-cat.’