Her heart had held more than a three-decade vigil, her love at the centre, and there was no mistaking her heart shone for them. Had Zander had any doubts, Charlotte had watched them fade as he moved towards his mother.
‘How do you think it went?’ Constantine asked, clearly trying to gauge it, because though both men lived on the island, were in business together, it was still early days. They were two strong personalities and the relationship was still new and, at times, overwhelming, for bruises took time to fade completely.
‘Well, they’re still talking.’ Charlotte smiled, because they were. Nico and Zander walked along the jetty. Zander was nodding at something his brother must have said, and then he looked up and saw her and smiled a smile that crossed the beach like a sunbeam. It warmed her on a cool spring day.
The trips to visit Roula were becoming more regular. Take things slowly, the doctors had warned them for Roula was still very fragile, but the brothers’ short visits to Roula were growing longer, and last week, for the first time, the sons had brought their mother for a visit home. It had been hugely emotional watching the fragile woman tremble as she stepped into Nico’s home, the home that had once been her father’s, watching her stare at the picture on the wall of the babies she had lost.
Only now and then did Charlotte and Constantine join the visits to their mother, but one day, Charlotte was sure, they would bring her home.
‘How was she?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Good,’ Zander said. ‘Better again. She asked after you.’
‘Would you like to come for supper?’ Constantine offered, for she was Greek and wanted family at her table. Normally Charlotte left it to Zander to accept or decline, but this time it was Charlotte who answered.
‘We’d have loved to, but actually we’ve got plans tonight.’
They said goodbye. Zander gave little Leo a kiss and then took his wife’s hand and walked along the beach toward the development and towards their home.
‘What plans do you have for me?’ he nudged.
‘Oh, I’ll think of something.’ Charlotte smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it and he must have heard the forced lightness to her voice and put his arm around her. ‘How was the doctor?’ Zander asked. ‘How is your mother doing?’
‘Good,’ Charlotte said. ‘He says she is doing well, better than expected.’ She stopped walking then. ‘I want more time for her …’
‘Who knows?’ Zander said. ‘They did say a couple of months but already she has surpassed that.’
‘I want more …’
And Zander heard the plea in her voice that was so rarely there. She asked for nothing and was delighted with everything. For Charlotte to beg, and for something that he could not give, had him turn and pull her into his arms, fighting for words.
‘Let’s just make each day count,’ he settled for. ‘Which you already do.’
‘I want more!’ If she was precise with her wish, maybe it would be answered. ‘I want seven months more.’ She watched him frown, watched it dawn, watched him realise the truth. ‘I spoke to the doctor about me as well. We went back to the clinic, he did a test,’ Charlotte said. ‘A scan.’
‘We’re having a baby?’ He looked at his wife, and he looked into his soul, and he wanted this so badly. He wanted everything that his brother had, not for selfish reasons now, but he had never expected that he would get more.
‘We’re having twins.’
He put his hand to her stomach, could not believe that it was two hearts that beat in her womb. He knew that things would be different for their babies and he felt the need to share, to spread the good news, to bring things full circle.
‘Can we tell him?’
And she nodded with delight, for she did want to be with his family. She had just wanted to tell Zander alone first and would not have been able to hold onto the news for a moment longer.
They walked back along the beach hand in hand, back to the house that had once been Roula’s childhood home.
Back to share wonderful news with family.
Carol Marinelli
‘SHEIKH King Emir has agreed that he will speak with you.’
Amy looked up as Fatima, one of the servants, entered the nursery where Amy was feeding the young Princesses their dinner. ‘Thank you for letting me know. What time—?’
‘He is ready for you now,’ Fatima interrupted, impatience evident in her voice at Amy’s lack of haste, for Amy continued to feed the twins.
‘They’re just having their dinner …’ Amy started, but didn’t bother to continue—after all, what would the King know about his daughters’ routines? Emir barely saw the twins and, quite simply, it was breaking Amy’s heart.
What would he know about how clingy they had become lately and how fussy they were with their food? It was one of the reasons Amy had requested a meeting with him—tomorrow they were to be handed over to the Bedouins. First they would be immersed in the desert oasis and then they would be handed over to strangers for the night. It was a tradition that dated back centuries, Fatima had told her, and it was a tradition that could not be challenged.
Well, Amy would see about that!
The little girls had lost their mother when they were just two weeks old, and since his wife’s death Emir had hardly seen them. It was Amy they relied on. Amy who was with them day in and day out. Amy they trusted. She would not simply hand them over to strangers without a fight on their behalf.
‘I will look after the twins and give them dinner,’ Fatima said. ‘You need to make yourself presentable for your audience with the King.’ She ran disapproving eyes over Amy’s pale blue robe, which was the uniform of the Royal Nanny. It had been fresh on that morning, but now it wore the telltale signs that she had been finger-painting with Clemira and Nakia this afternoon. Surely Emir should not care about the neatness of her robe? He should expect that if the nanny was doing her job properly she would be less than immaculate in appearance. But, again, what would Emir know about the goings-on in the nursery? He hadn’t been in to visit his daughters for weeks.
Amy changed into a fresh robe and retied her shoulder-length blonde hair into a neat ponytail. Then she covered her hair with a length of darker blue silk, arranging the cloth around her neck and leaving the end to trail over her shoulder. She wore no make-up but, as routinely as most women might check their lipstick, Amy checked to see that the scar low on her neck was covered by the silk. She hated how, in any conversation, eyes were often drawn to it, and more than that she hated the inevitable questions that followed.
The accident and its aftermath were something she would far rather forget than discuss.
