by Joan Kilby
He was avoiding talking about his operation. After years on the wards she recognized the tactic among patients afraid of surgery. She and Roy used to be buddies, swapping plants and gardening tips, and she had a soft spot for him. “I’m in an apartment. I don’t have room for a garden.” Nor the heart for it, either. She’d lost that along with Holly.
“Nothing beats the taste of homegrown.”
“That’s true.” She wrapped the cords around the blood pressure cuff and replaced it on the trolley. “How many plants have you got this year?”
“A dozen, three of the cherry variety.” Roy tipped up the chip packet and the last one fell into his palm. “Funny you calling your baby William when you and Darcy have split up.”
“You shouldn’t eat that salty stuff with your blood pressure.” She stuck a thermometer clip on the end of his finger. “How come you planted your tomatoes so soon? You always told me to wait until the first week in November.”
“I had to get them in before I went into hospital. Marge wouldn’t get around to it if—”
“If what?”
His face settled into a frown that made his jowls droop even more than they ordinarily did. “You got a balcony? Tomatoes grow great in pots. I don’t even know where you live now. Darcy shouldn’t have let you go.”
“I’m in Mornington. It wasn’t a question of Darcy letting me go.” He’d walked out on her. Sure in hindsight she could see that maybe she drove him to it, but their problem was they hadn’t agreed on the things that really mattered—Holly, how they saw themselves as a family, what their plan was for the future. Emma managed a tight smile. “I believe it’s called irreconcilable differences.”
“I’ve seen plants that have been cut back to nothing, burned by summer drought, ripped out of the ground—you name it. You stick them in good rich soil, give ’em plenty of water and some nourishment and they survive, even thrive. Nothing can’t be fixed with a little TLC.”
“You’ve been reading Marge’s romance novels, haven’t you?” Emma recorded his temperature and removed the finger clip. Then she squeezed his hand and held it. “Don’t worry about the operation. Hip replacements are routine these days. You’ll be back in action in a few weeks.”
Roy started to bluster about how he was fine, then his gaze flicked to hers. “The doctor was in earlier—the one who’s going to knock me out. She told me I’m at risk because of my blood pressure.”
“They have to warn people. It’s a standard caution. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”
“What if I cark it on the table?”
“I’ll water your tomatoes,” she said lightly.
“Will you bring Billy around to see Marge?”
“Oh, Roy.”
“Promise me.”
If only he knew how much she would have loved for Billy to be part of the big, boisterous Lewis family, under the right circumstances, that is, if she and Darcy were together. He would have lots of cousins, including a boy nearly his own age. But how could she attend Lewis family gatherings when she and Darcy weren’t together? And Darcy was unlikely to take Billy on his own.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t leave Roy hanging. “I promise.”
A flurry of activity at the door made her turn around.
“Good afternoon.” Dr. Avery Pritchard swept into the room, his white coat flapping. “How is our patient today?”
Emma handed the doctor Roy’s chart on which she’d written her observations. “He’s doing well, Doctor.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Roy. “I’m Dr. Pritchard. I’ll be doing your hip replacement tomorrow morning. It’s a straightforward procedure....”
Emma wheeled out her trolley with the meds and blood pressure equipment, leaving Roy with Dr. Pritchard.
She wished Darcy wanted to be a part of his son’s life as much as Marge did. He was keeping himself at arm’s length with offers of money. She got that he was devastated by Holly’s death, but that was in the past. Billy was here and now. She didn’t care for herself, but for Billy’s sake she wished Darcy would let Billy into his life. How awful to think of her son growing up aware that his father lived nearby but didn’t want to know him. Besides everything that had gone wrong between them over Holly, she couldn’t ever forgive Darcy for that.
* * *
WHAT THE HELL was wrong with Emma? Darcy turned his truck out of the hospital parking lot and headed to Summerside. She was in trouble, forced back to work early. Why wouldn’t she let him help her by contributing financially? What was so wrong with him easing his conscience in that way? It was almost as if she was punishing him for not wanting to be a father to Billy.
She was really punishing herself. And the baby.
So be it. It wasn’t like he had a ton of spare cash to throw around. He’d done his monthly bookkeeping last night and business had fallen off since the wine bar opened.
He parked in front of the pub and got out in time to see two of his regular customers coming down the street—Greta, a hairdresser, and her boyfriend, Larry, a gangly apprentice baker. If it weren’t for people like Greta and Larry, who came in a couple of times a week, he would really be hurting. They didn’t drink a lot—they nursed a couple of beers and socialized—but he could count on them.
He lounged in the doorway, enjoying the first mild evening in months—spring was definitely here at last—and waited to greet them with some of that personal service he hoped would be the salvation of his pub.
Greta paused to peer into a boutique window. Larry tugged her away, waving a piece of paper in her face. Instead of coming straight to the pub, they crossed the street. Darcy’s stomach fell as he watched them walk into the wine bar.
He swore quietly. If even these two abandoned him, he was in trouble. Surely they couldn’t afford the wine bar prices. In about thirty seconds they’d be out the door again, over to his pub.
Hands on hips, he waited. Three minutes ticked by. Greta and Larry didn’t come out of the wine bar—but four more people went in. Wayne must be giving out more discounted drinks. It was almost as if he was trying to put himself out of business. Except that his strategy was drawing huge crowds. Customers were flocking to his joint and not to Darcy’s pub. Greta and Larry weren’t his only customers to defect in recent months. Oh, people still came to the pub, too, just not as often.
Thoroughly disgruntled, Darcy went back inside. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room, much as Wayne had a few months ago. In contrast to the wine bar’s colorful furniture and paintings the wood-paneled pub looked dark and, to Darcy’s now-jaundiced eye, less than inviting.
Light. He needed more light in here. More windows and modern light fixtures. Maybe he ought to get a draftsman or a builder to look over those architect’s drawings for a garden room. Alternatively, if he didn’t want to go the whole hog he could paint, put in new carpets, buy those tall tables and stools....
“What’s the matter, boss?” Kirsty said, going past with a tray of drinks. “Is your dad all right? His friends came in and then left again. Complained they couldn’t play a proper game of darts without Roy.”
“He’s doing okay.” At least the wine bar had yet to put in a dartboard or shuffleboard.
A garden room with glass walls on three sides would solve the light problem. If he put in a kitchen, he could offer simple meals and snacks.
Garden room. Kitchen. He was talking about a major project. Suddenly it seemed daunting. If he and Emma were still together, he could have talked it over with her. She was great with practical stuff. And she had excellent color sense. Darcy couldn’t afford an interior decorator but Emma would know how to match carpet shades with seat covers.
“What do you think of the decor in here, Kirsty?”
She shrugged. “It’s cozy, warm. It’s a pub.”
If he changed the atmosphere to attract new customers, would he lose the ones he had? Hell, he was already losing them. He couldn’t sit still and do nothing while the wine bar stole his business
.
If he did do major renovations, he would have to take out a sizable loan. Could he afford to do that?
Could he afford not to? Going into debt was a gamble, but if he didn’t do something he was in danger of going under, maybe not this year but possibly next. But possibly the wine bar really would be a novelty that would wear off. When people got tired of the red velvet couches they would come back to his pub.
What if they didn’t? The wine bar had been open nearly four months now and was busier than ever.
He’d been complacent, secure in the knowledge that his was the only bar in town. Circumstances had changed. Now he had to try harder. Maybe he should be grateful to Wayne for forcing him to lift his game. If he was going to go bankrupt, he might as well go out in style.
The pub was his livelihood, his home away from home, the place where the people he cared about hung out. He’d lost his wife and daughter. He’d lost his interest in Latin dancing and football. Since he’d split up with Emma the pub had become the center of his life. Hell, it had become his whole life. He lived in the upstairs apartment and worked every day behind the bar. All he had left was the pub. It represented everything that was important to him—his connection to family, friends and the community. If he lost it, he didn’t know what would happen to him.
He didn’t want to find out.
* * *
EMMA STRUGGLED TO fit the tubing onto the intake nozzle of the breast pump. Who made these stupid tubes so small? Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and on the counter. Her dishwasher had broken and she hadn’t cleaned up in days. Her cold had worsened in the night and she longed to crawl into bed. But she was on duty at the hospital this morning and she wanted to be there when Roy went in to surgery. First she needed to try to pump enough milk for Billy to take to day care.
The phone rang.
“Perfect.” She put the tubing down and fished among the clutter for her phone. “Hello.”
“Hello, darling. How’s everything?”
“Hi, Mum.” Emma forced a cheery note into her voice. “I’m good. Where are you?”
“At a roadhouse in some tiny town in the outback of Western Australia. Your dad’s tanking up the car and I’m waiting for our food order. How’s my gorgeous little man?”
Emma glanced over at Billy, strapped into his car seat. He was quiet for once, playing with the plastic keys dangling above him. At times like these she felt the best about him, that is to say, neutral.
“He’s smiling. And holding his head up. He’s definitely going to have dark hair, although I think his eyes might be blue-green like mine.”
“You can’t tell at this stage. They won’t be set for months yet.”
“Mum, I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m getting ready for work.” Emma tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder and picked up the breast pump to have another attempt at assembling the pieces.
“That’s okay. I just wanted to say hi. I wish we weren’t on this big long trip when you had the baby.”
“You were here for the first two weeks.” There, was that right? Emma gave an experimental tug on the tubing. It came off in her hands.
After the birth her parents had flown home. During their stay Billy had been a model baby, sleeping most of the day and only waking at night to be fed and have his diaper changed. Emma had blithely urged her parents to resume their trip. A week after they’d left, Billy had developed colic. Two and a half months later he was still crying every night for hours.
“If you need me, say the word and I’ll fly back,” her mother said. “I don’t feel right leaving you, and I don’t like missing out on his early months. The first two weeks were wonderful, but he’ll be doing so much more now.”
“He’ll still be small when you’re here at Christmas.”
She couldn’t let on she was struggling. Her mother had been a rock when Holly died. Emma had also leaned on her when her marriage was falling apart. Her mother would return to Summerside in a heartbeat if she thought Emma needed her. However, her parents had planned and saved for years to travel around Australia in a campervan. They deserved this trip, and Emma wasn’t going to spoil it for them.
“I tried calling Alana, but she’s never home,” her mother said.
Emma pushed at the tubing, finally easing it over the nozzle. “She’s got a new job—” The words were out before she could take them back.
“She’s working? She didn’t tell me that.”
Uh-oh. “It’s new. Might not last. Don’t say anything to Dave. She hasn’t told him yet.”
“She hasn’t told him? Why not?”
“It’s a long story....”
“And you don’t have time right now. Okay, I won’t keep you much longer. How’s your milk supply? Alana told me you were having trouble.”
“I’m fine, really.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Sorry, Mum, I have to go.”
“I talked to Marge yesterday. She told me about Roy’s hip operation.”
“You talked to Marge? Why?” Giving up on a quick end to their chat, Emma sat at the kitchen table, pushed up her top and attached the pump. She flipped the switch and gently squeezed her breast, hoping for a trickle, something, so she wouldn’t have to give Billy formula again.
“Why wouldn’t we? Darling, we’re friends. And we’re grandmothers together. Of course we talk.”
“What else did she say—about Billy?” Emma pressed her fingers to her throbbing sinuses. Here it came. Would it be a gentle reproach or a stern lecture about allowing Marge access? If her mother were here, they could talk things out but she wasn’t and Emma didn’t have time to explain over the phone. It was all building up, becoming too much, her job, her studies, Billy and now the family.
“She said how adorable he was, how precious for his age. What a wonderful mother you are.”
Marge had covered for her. That was so like her, unselfish, concerned and caring. And Emma had repaid her by not finding time for her to see her grandson. Just then Billy began to cry. Emma felt like crying, too. She was completely, utterly inadequate in every way.
“Mum, I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
She had to pull herself together and carry on. Billy needed her to be strong. But it was increasingly hard when she felt as if her life was spiraling out of control.
* * *
WEDNESDAY NIGHT WAS slow, too. So slow Darcy got out the architect’s drawings and unfurled them on the bar.
He could do a lot of the work himself, things like painting and ripping out old carpeting. Dan could do the wiring and Tony could do the brickwork. They would cut him a deal and he’d rather give them the business than some stranger.
The aspect that worried him most was the interior decorating. It wasn’t a top priority till the structural work was complete but now that he’d decided to move ahead he should at least start thinking about it.
He’d visited his dad in the hospital that morning before the pub opened. On his way home he’d swung by some paint and upholstery shops to pick up color samples and fabric swatches. He spread them out on the bar next to the architect’s plans, arranging them in different combinations, trying to visualize them incorporated into the pub’s decor. But he couldn’t mentally transform the tiny scraps of color into chair seats and walls. His brain didn’t work that way.
Riley came in dressed in civvies and pulled up a stool. “What’s all this? Are we redecorating our dollhouse? Cooper’s Pale Ale, thanks. Make it a pint.”
Darcy pulled a pint of ale and blotted the foam. “This is what I like to see, Summerside’s finest, keeping the streets safe from crime.”
“Even the senior sergeant is allowed to have a drink when off duty.” Riley glanced at the rectangles of color and fabric. “What’s with the samples?”
“I’m giving the old girl a makeover. What do you reckon?”
Riley shrugged. “I like her the way she is, but then I’m not competing with the new kid on the block.”
“Have
you checked out the wine bar’s liquor license?” Darcy was only half joking. “The owner seems to me like a shady character.”
“You want me to shut him down, I’ll shut him down.” Riley grinned as he sipped his beer.
“Not good enough. He would reapply and be back in business.” Darcy leaned over the bar and dropped his voice. “You must know some crims who would torch the place. Put me in touch, then look the other way and five percent of my takings are yours.”
Riley chuckled. “Yeah, that’ll be a big help when Paula nails my ass and puts me in jail. Seriously, have you got a plan?”
“I’m fighting fire with fire.” Darcy nodded to the chalkboard above his head listing a dozen new wines by the glass. “And the makeover. Hope it’s enough. Speaking of renovations, how’s the extension on the police station coming along?”
“Slowly, but it’s getting there. I’ll be glad when I don’t have to dust my desk for sawdust every morning.”
Darcy rearranged the swatches once more. “Which do you like best, the green and brown together or the peach and blue?”
“Mate, you’re asking the wrong person, but I’d say neither.”
“Paula makes quilts, doesn’t she? She must be good at fabrics and color combinations. If I took these over to your house one night, would she give me some advice?”
“I’m sure she would—if she was around. She went up to Tinman Island for a couple of weeks to visit John and Katie and Tuti.”
John Forster, who’d given Darcy half the cruise ticket, used to be in charge of the police station until he’d left to take up a position on a remote island in tropical North Queensland with Katie, his new wife, and Tuti, his half-Balinese daughter from a previous relationship.
“I had an email from John last week. Sounds like he and Katie like it up north.”
“He’s glad to be back on active duty. Paula called today to report in. Katie’s working on her third children’s book, and Tuti’s learning to boogie board. Apparently they can’t keep her out of the water.”
“Excellent,” Darcy replied distractedly. He leaned his elbows on the bar and studied his color swatches.