like son.’
The words sounded like a quote, the derision in them painful, and Ruby tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. ‘I’m guessing you got into trouble—but it’s like you said yourself. In an environment like a troubled estate that’s understandable. The point is you got off that wheel and out of trouble. Look at you now—your mum must be proud.’
It was the wrong thing to have said; his face was padlocked and his eyes flecked with ice. Surely his mother hadn’t been the one to make the father-son comparison?
Disbelief morphed into anger as she saw his expression. ‘You are not a lowlife.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ His eyes were dark now, his voice vibrating with mockery, though she wasn’t sure if he was mocking her, himself or the world.
‘I don’t care. Opinion doesn’t make you into your father. It doesn’t work like that. I know that because I am not my parents. Not either of them. And I never will be.’
Her fingers clenched around the edges of the table as she faced him.
‘My parents were addicts. Booze, heroin—whatever they could get their hands on, whenever they could get their hands on it. At whatever cost. Food and paying bills and shoes were all irrelevant.’
She gestured down to the reams of Christmas wrapping paper.
‘For them the festive period was an excuse to justify extra excess—which led to extra verbal violence or extra apathy. Turkey, decorations and presents didn’t feature.’
For a moment she was back there—in the past. Feeling the tingle of childish anticipation that scratched her eyelids as she lay on the verge of sleep. The twist of hope that Santa was real...that she’d open her eyes and see four stuffed stockings for her siblings and herself. More importantly her parents, groomed and sober, would watch them opening them with love. Then reality would touch her with the cold fingers of dawn. The smell of stale cigarettes and worse would invade her nostrils and she’d know it would be another Christmas of playing avoid-the-abuse and hide-from-notice, ensuring her siblings stayed out of the line of fire.
The memory gave steel to her voice. ‘I am not like them. I won’t ever let addiction become more important than my children. Ever.’
His hands clenched on his thighs and his whole body vibrated with tension. His foot jumped on the wooden floor. As if he wanted to somehow change her past for her.
‘Ruby. I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say—except that it sucks that you had to go through that.’
She gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘It did suck, but that’s not the point. The point is I am not my parents and you are not your father.’ His jaw was set and she could almost see her statement slide off him unheeded. ‘I mean, do you even know where he is now?’
‘No. My guess would be in a prison cell.’
‘Well, you aren’t. You are here, trying to make a difference and do good.’
‘In which case I’d better get on with it.’ His tone was light, but with an edge that emphasised the end of the subject. ‘But first...’ and now his gaze was filled with warmth and compassion ‘... I can’t imagine what you went through, but I am full of admiration for the wonderful woman that child has become.’
‘Thank you.’
Frustration mixed with a yen to get close to him—to make him see that his achievements deserved kudos just as much as hers. Yet already she could see the shutters had been pulled down to hood his eyes as he picked up the tape again.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ he said. It’s a big day tomorrow.’
‘Wait.’
Something—she had to do something. Loathing touched her soul at the idea that Ethan had such a deep-rooted, downright skewed vision of himself. Without allowing herself time to think she moved round the table and took his hand, tugged at it to indicate she wanted him to stand. He rose to his feet and she kept her fingers wrapped around his, tried to ignore the frisson that vibrated through her at the feel of his skin against hers.
‘Come here.’
The small frown deepened on his forehead as she led him to the ornate gold Victorian mirror—an oval of gilt curls and swirls.
‘Look at yourself,’ she said firmly, ‘and you will see you. Ethan Caversham. You are you. You may look like your dad, but you are not like him. This I know.’
His reluctance palpable, he shrugged. But he complied, and as he glanced at his reflection she hoped against all hope that he would see what she could. It was an optimism that proved foolhardy as his jaw hardened and a haunting mockery speckled his blue-grey eyes.
She stepped forward and turned so that she faced him, stood on tiptoe and cupped his jaw in her palms. The six o’clock shadow was rough against her skin as she angled his face and met his gaze.
‘You are a good man,’ she whispered, and reached up to kiss him.
Heaven knew she’d had every intention of pressing her lips to his cheek, but instinct overcame common sense and the burning of need to imprint her sincerity onto his consciousness prevailed. Her lips brushed his and she gave a small sigh as desire shimmered and sizzled, and then his broad hands spanned her waist and pulled her against him.
For a second she thought he’d kiss her properly, deepen the connection that fizzed, but as if he’d suddenly caught sight of his reflection he gently moved her away and stepped backwards instead. He lifted a hand and ran a finger against her cheek in a gesture so gentle she felt tears threaten.
‘Thank you, Ruby. I appreciate the endorsement.’
A smile redolent with strain touched his lips and then he turned and headed back to the table, sat down and picked up the scissors.
This was a good thing, right? Of course it was. Kissing Ethan was a bad, bad idea—that was an already established fact. So she needed to crush the absurd sense of disappointment and follow suit.
* * *
Two days later Ethan watched the busload of teenagers depart round the curve of the driveway. A sideways glance showed Ruby still waving, a smile on her face, though he knew she must be exhausted.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you a cheese toastie and a cup of tea.’
‘We’ve just had lunch.’
‘No. You just made everybody else lunch. You didn’t actually eat. No protests.’
‘Okay. I am hungry. Thank you.’
Twenty minutes later he made his way to the lounge, to find her curled up on an overstuffed armchair, dark head bent over her phone as she texted.
‘Hey...’ she said, looking up as he deposited the tray on a small table next to her. ‘I’m texting Tara. To tell her I meant it when I said I’d keep in touch.’
Her expression was serious, her brow creased, as she picked up the sandwich.
He
