I hesitate. If the money goes into our bank account, there’s a danger it won’t be there when the rent is due on Friday.
“Or I can give you cash,” he says swiftly.
“If that’s possible, that would be great.”
“Give me a sec.” He strides off around the corner, presumably to his office, then returns in less than a minute. He holds out the notes.
I take them. It’s three times more than I was expecting. I look up at him, opening my mouth to query it.
“For today and an advance on Friday,” he says. “With a bonus for making that amazing food.” Again, he’s guessed that I probably need it for rent.
My bottom lip trembles. I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’ll see you Friday?”
I nod, and he smiles. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” I walk to my car, knowing he’s watching me.
The Ark is a sanctuary, after all.
For the first time in a long time, I feel a brief flicker of hope that I might make some real friends here. That I might not be alone when the baby comes.
The thought is enough to bring a smile to my lips, and I’m still smiling as I drive away.
Chapter Five
Noah
On Friday, I get back from my walk earlier than usual. I have a lot of work to do, and I want to be there when Abby turns up. I want to check that I didn’t make things awkward for her by giving her the food on Wednesday. I saw her hesitation, and I knew she was thinking her partner wouldn’t approve. I hope he didn’t give her a hard time.
She turns up at five to nine in her old and battered red Toyota, and parks to one side, the same as last time, as if she’s embarrassed to let me see it. I open the door as she approaches, and smile as she walks in. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I respond. Her returning smile is bright. I’m relieved she doesn’t look worried.
“How are you today?” she asks.
“Good thanks.” I close the door behind her, take her jacket as she slips it off, and hang it on the peg. “You?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“And Peanut?”
She laughs and strokes her bump. “He’s good, too. Very active this morning. I think he’s excited to be here.” She walks through to the kitchen, places the bag she’s carrying on the worktop, and takes out the white dishes and the plastic box that had held the food she’d taken home.
“The shepherd’s pie was amazing,” I tell her, standing beside her and resting a hip against the worktop. “Did you enjoy it?”
She gives me a wry glance. “You’re quite the diplomat, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
She nudges me. “The pie was lovely, and so were the muffins. Thank you for your generosity.”
“Jeez, you took the time and effort to make them.”
“For which I got paid extremely well.”
I shrug. “What’s on the menu today?”
“I thought maybe a lasagna?”
“Mm. Terrific.” I check my watch. “I have to go; I’m supposed to be making a phone call at nine.”
“Okay. Anything special you want done today?”
“There are a few shirts to iron in the laundry room.”
She grins. “I’ll get started right away.”
I leave her to it, pleased she seems a bit happier, and go into my office.
After the call to the council in Hawke’s Bay, chasing up the resource consent application for the new Ark, I spend an hour or so going over the budgets that Leon wants to discuss with me later, making notes and jotting down a few questions. Then I pick up my iPad and take it through to the library.
In the distance, I can hear Abby in the kitchen, singing. I stop and listen, unused to the sound of a female voice in my house. Paula never sang; she was like a ghost around the place. Izzy and some of the other girls visit, of course, but this is different.
It’s an old hymn, one I remember my mother singing to me as a child, ‘I Danced in the Morning.’ Or is it called ‘Lord of the Dance’? I remember reading an article on the author of the song, Sydney Carter. He was inspired not only by his feelings about Jesus, but also by a statue of the Hindu God Shiva as Nataraja—the cosmic ecstatic dancer, and it was a tribute to Shaker music. Abby’s voice is high and somewhat ethereal; I imagine the notes drifting up to the high ceiling, dancing on the sunlit beams.
Glad she seems happier, I go into the library, sit in an armchair with my feet up, and start reading through the departmental reports.
Most of them are short and to the point. Stefan talks about the new rooms we’re having built for the veterinary center and suggests that once Clio—my sister—has qualified as a vet, she has one of the new rooms, because she won’t be joining the Animal Welfare Team yet. “She’s young,” Stefan says, “and I think a couple of years in the center will benefit her before she thinks about joining the AWT.” I smile; he’s being diplomatic. Clio’s a softie, and we both know she’d struggle to deal with belligerent owners refusing to give up their mistreated pets.
I read through Poppy’s rundown of life at the petting farm. She’s much more vocal on paper than she is face-to-face; like Albie, she struggles somewhat with communication, and is more able to voice her opinions when she has time to compose her thoughts. She used to be a primary school teacher, and she talks about how she can see the farm working with the new Hands-On unit and lists a few ideas of ways to get children with disabilities to have contact with the animals in a safe environment.
Jules’s report on the grooming center is brisk and businesslike; she’s run off her feet while Remy’s away. Fitz’s is the same, but then he’s always like that. His army background means everything in Fitz’s world is in order and runs on time.
Ryan’s summary is longer; he gives a brief report on the rehoming center, then talks for a while about the app he developed, PetForever. People who are interested in rehoming a rescue animal can browse through the photos and descriptions of those available, and then book an appointment with Ryan on his online calendar, to ensure there aren’t hordes of people traipsing around the center. My eyebrows rise as he tells me he’s been approached by the Ministry for Children, who have been impressed by the app and are thinking of asking him to adapt it for their adoption agency.
“Of course it would only be for the initial stages of contact,” he explains, “a way for those applying to record their backgrounds, social status, that kind of thing, and to calculate initial matches with pregnant women considering giving up their baby for adoption. Once their expression of interest is registered, social workers would carry out visits as normal and everything else would be done face-to-face, but it would be a way to begin the process and log applications without worrying about losing paper questionnaires.” He sounds excited about the prospect. I’m pleased for him. He’s had a tough time and deserves a break.
Hal’s report always reads more like a diary. “The Animal Welfare Team rescued a total of sixteen animals,” Hal states. “Izzy fell in love with a Beagle with eyes like Puss in Boots from Shrek. So it looks as if we’re adopting another dog. Miss Daisy’s like a mother with a newborn, fussing around it.”
I smile as he names the rescue dog he adopted back in February. The Border Collie dotes on him, but then most animals do. He has a special charisma that makes every female within ten feet fall in love with him. It certainly worked with Izzy. Once he came to his senses and acknowledged his feelings for her, the poor girl didn’t stand a chance.
I know Leon’s not keen on relationships in the workplace, but I like that my cousins are finding love at the Ark. Hal and Izzy are getting married in September. Leon himself has Nix now, and they’re planning on an early December wedding. And I’m pretty sure Albie and Remy will return from Paris engaged, because he’s head over heels for her. I’m hopeful the others will eventually find their perfect match and find happiness.
Will the Ark work its
magic on Abby, too?
I put down my iPad, get to my feet, and wander out into the kitchen. Some amazing smells are wafting through the house. The finished lasagna rests on the worktop, cooling in the six white dishes; she’s now washing up the utensils from another batch of muffins, judging by the aroma that reaches my nostrils.
“Hey.” She looks up and smiles as I approach. Her face is flushed from the heat of the oven. Her hands sparkle with soap suds. “How’s the work going?”
“Good. I’m about done. They smell amazing. Is it coffee time?”
She laughs. “They’ll be out in about five minutes. Perfect timing. Are you sure you’re not too busy?”
“I don’t have much on this afternoon. And anyway, I’m never too busy for a muffin.”
“Fair enough.”
I make the drinks as she finishes the dishes, and by the time she brings the muffins out, we’re ready to go. She places two on plates, and we carry them through to the conservatory.
“This is beginning to be a habit,” she says, curling up on one of the chairs and placing the plate with the muffin on her bump.
“I can think of worse habits to have.” I smile and break my muffin open, releasing a spiral of steam.
We sip our drinks and eat our muffins in silence for a while. It’s not an awkward silence; I get the feeling she’s enjoying the moment as much as I am, a kind of shared peace.
“I heard you singing,” I say eventually. “My mom used to sing that to me when I was young.”
“Oh, sorry, did I disturb you?”
“Not at all. You have a lovely voice.”
A touch of color appears on her cheekbones. I get the feeling she’s not used to receiving compliments.
“So what do you have planned for the rest of the day?” I ask.
She pops a piece of muffin in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I’m supposed to be going to my group, but I don’t know if I’ll bother. Paula’s not there, and with her gone… I’m not sure how helpful it is.”
I sip my coffee. If she didn’t want to talk about it, I’m sure she wouldn’t have brought it up. I opt for humor, as usual. “I’d ask if it’s a prenatal group, but I don’t think Paula would be going to one of those.”
She chuckles. “I think she’d be horrified at the thought. No. It’s a group for people… whose partners are…” She lowers her gaze to her mug. “Gamblers.”
It all clicks into place. Her partner has a gambling addiction. That’s why they’re short of money. And presumably why they’ve moved recently; he must have got into trouble wherever they were living before. We’re having a fresh start, she’d said last time she was here. Clearly, it’s not going swimmingly.
“Paula’s husband is a gambler?” I asked, surprised I didn’t know. But then why would I? It’s hardly something that would come up in conversation.
Abby nods. “Being with her gives me hope. She’s been married thirty years, and she’s managed to get through it. She does have a large family to help her, though.”
“Of course, your family is in England, isn’t it? You don’t have anyone here?”
“Not really. We’ve moved around a lot. If I have made friends, I’ve had to leave them behind when I’ve moved.”
So she’s completely alone. No wonder she seems so forlorn. I can only imagine how it must feel to be pregnant and living with a guy who gambles away your rent money, and you’ve nobody to help you.
“Tell me about your cake decorating business,” I say.
As I’d hoped, she brightens a little. “It was called The Mad Batter.”
I laugh. “That’s brilliant.”
“I thought so. I’ve always enjoyed baking, but I started to get into decorating and really enjoyed it. I made a birthday cake for a friend’s son with a Spider-Man on the top, and other moms who were at the party thought it was brilliant. Soon I was getting requests left, right, and center. So I decided to set up a business from home. I had to apply for licenses and make business cards. It was a tough process but I really enjoyed it. I was just starting to make a name for myself.” She drops her gaze to her mug.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
She uncurls her legs and stretches them out. She strokes her bump, subconsciously, I think, because she’s lost in thought.
“Tom was a banker,” she says. “He worked in investment, in stocks and shares. He’d go to work in the morning and come home at night, and he’d try to tell me about his day, but I’m not great at math, so even though I tried to understand what he was saying, it went over my head.
“He made a steady wage, but he’d occasionally come home with extra money, sometimes thousands. He told me a successful investment had paid off, and I was stupid enough to believe him. He helped me get the business off the ground. I thought it was wonderful. How many partners come home having made an extra two thousand dollars that day?
“Things went well for several years. And then gradually they started to change. Tom became sullen and aggressive. He was secretive and evasive. I thought he was having an affair, and I accused him of seeing someone else. He denied it, but I was convinced I was right.
“He was always the one who looked after our money and paid the bills. But one day I got a telephone call from the bank saying our mortgage payment had been rejected due to insufficient funds. For the first time in months, I checked our bank accounts. All our savings had gone. All our accounts were empty. I couldn’t believe it. I assumed he’d taken it out and was planning to leave me, so I confronted him. That’s when he broke down and told me everything.
“He’d started online gambling, and for a while he’d done well. But then it had all started to go wrong. He’d been laid off from his job at the bank a whole year before. A year! He’d gradually gambled more to try to make up the loss, lost more and more, and wiped out our accounts. We had nothing left.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. It’s hard for me to imagine how a person could reach that stage. I’ve been lucky enough to have always had money in adulthood. How must it have felt that day to see all your balances at zero?
“He broke down and cried. Swore he’d change if I’d help him. Oddly, at the time the main emotion I felt was relief he wasn’t having an affair. I promised we’d work through it together. We went to see the bank, who extended our loan and lowered our payments. But after a few months it became clear to me it wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t make enough money to pay all the bills. I took a couple of other jobs, but Tom was having trouble finding work, and he’d sunk into a deep depression. Eventually we decided—I decided—to sell the house and repay the home loan. Luckily the house hadn’t devalued in the time we owned it. We paid off the mortgage and had a few thousand left over. We decided to move away and have a fresh start.”
I can see from her thin, pale face that it’s not gone as well as she’d hoped. And now she’s pregnant, so there are going to be three mouths to feed. My heart aches for her.
I know debt is a black hole from which it’s so hard to escape. I wish I could give her a couple of hundred thousand and make all her troubles go away, but I know that would never work. For a start, she’d never accept it; nobody’s as proud as someone who’s poor. And I wouldn’t want her partner getting his hands on it, either.
The man deserves pity, I’m sure. Addiction of any kind is a curse, and it’s not his fault, any more than it’s an alcoholic’s fault that he can’t stop drinking. Still, I can’t summon any sympathy for the guy. A man should put the woman in his life before anything else. He should treat her as a princess, and make sure she never wants for anything. That’s what I would do with Abby, if she were mine.
But she’s not, and all I can do is sit and listen, and hope that somewhere along the line I can think of a way I can do more.
Chapter Six
Abigail
Noah sips his coffee and looks out of the window. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. No doubt it’s that I’m an idiot to have stayed with Tom.
B
ut he says, somewhat gently, “I can’t think of a better place to attempt a fresh start than the Bay of Islands. It has healing qualities, I think.”
I’m so relieved he isn’t criticizing me that tears sting my eyes. I was all ready to be defensive if he mocked me or said I was crazy. His kindness is going to be my undoing.
“You must love him very much,” he says.
A tear trickles down my cheek, and I wipe it away. He doesn’t look embarrassed. He’d make a good counselor, I think. I bet he’s the heart of the operation at the Ark. All the others must come to him with their problems.
“I hope Tom realizes how lucky he is,” he states.
I finish off my tea. I don’t want to talk about how Tom and I feel about each other. I’ll collapse into a sobbing heap if I do that.
“I was thinking,” I announce, changing the subject. “Izzy offered me a tour of the Ark.”
“That was nice of her. I’m sure she’d be delighted.”
“Mm. Except I wondered whether you’d like to do it instead.”
His eyebrows rise. He studies me for a moment.
“You mean me give you a tour?” he says eventually.
“Yes.”
He puts down his empty mug. “I’m a bit busy today.”
“No you’re not,” I scold. “You told me you didn’t have much on this afternoon.”
His expression turns wry. “I was being polite.”
“It’s your Ark, Noah. Your sanctuary. I’d love it if you were the one to show me around.”
He hesitates and looks out of the window. I study him for a moment; his short graying hair, his clean-shaven face with his strong jaw and straight nose, his violet-blue eyes. He’s been so nice to me. I want to give him something in return, but I doubt that I’m going to be the one to change his life.
His gaze comes back to me, and to my surprise there’s a firm determination there. “All right,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
My heart races as we get to our feet. I can’t believe he’s agreed to go outside with me. We bring our mugs and plates through to the kitchen and place them in the sink, and then we don our coats and shoes.
My Lonely Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 4) Page 4