If he walked far enough, fast enough, maybe Kathy wouldn’t ask questions and the present, and its regurgitated disappointments, wouldn’t catch up … at least not today.
He ended up out on the eastern balcony. For what seemed like a lifetime, he absorbed the warm afternoon sun and soothing noise of the bush … the click of beetles, the far-off cry of a curlew. To his left, a couple of wallabies were perched on a monstrous black rock. They chewed rhythmically and occasionally scratched a soft gray ear. Their manner was lazy, instinctive, as it had been for many thousands of years. Bishop breathed in, and the strong scent of pine and eucalypt filled his lungs. As fervently as he’d wanted to leave here a year ago, he’d missed this place.
Hell, he’d missed this life.
But with Laura talking to that friend inside, he felt the cool edge of an axe resting at the back of his neck. Would it fall now? Tomorrow? Next week? How in God’s name would this end?
Laura’s footfalls sounded on the Brush Box timber floor behind him and the hairs on Bishop’s nape stood up. But he was ready for the attack. Like Willis had said, it couldn’t get any worse than the first time.
He angled around. Laura was striding out onto the porch but he couldn’t read her expression.
“Kathy was home,” she told him.
He folded down into a chair. “Uh-huh.”
“But her daughter and grandbabies were over. She said there was no meeting this week.”
The sick ache high in his stomach eased slightly and he sat straighter. “She did?”
That was it?
“She said she’d call back, but I said not to worry. We’d just got back from the city and had unpacking to do.”
We?
He threaded his hands and, elbows on armrests, steepled two fingers under his chin.
“What did Kathy say to that?”
“The baby started to cry so she had to go.”
Even more relieved, he exhaled slowly. One massive pothole avoided. Although, sure bet, there’d be more—and soon.
He’d tried being subtle as a brick with his prodding last night. The questions he’d asked about possible pregnancies hadn’t ignited any sparks. Rather than approaching this dilemma at ramming speed, perhaps he ought to take this opportunity to scratch around and sprinkle a few seeds—ask some casual questions—that would grow in her mind day-to-day.
He lowered his hands. “How old is Kathy’s grandbaby?”
Laura spotted the wallabies. A brisk mountain breeze combing her hair, she moved toward the railing for a better look. “Oh, three or four months, I suppose.”
“Kathy has more than one grandchild?”
“Just the one.”
And yet she’d said grandbabies, plural, earlier. An unconscious lapse to the present?
“What’s the baby’s name?”
Her gaze skated away from the bush and she lifted a wry brow. “I think it might be Twenty Questions.” Then her grip on the railing slackened off and she gave a quick laugh. “Since when did you get so interested in the local librarian’s grandchildren?”
“I’m interested in you.”
Thinking how the afternoon light glistened like threads of golden copper through her hair, he found his feet and joined her.
Her smile turned sultry as she traced a fingertip down his arm. “How interested?”
“Interested enough.”
“Enough to take another day off?”
He focused on her lips.
“Too easy.”
The brightest smile he’d ever seen graced her face. But a heartbeat later the joy slipped away and some other emotion flared in her eyes. A cagey, almost frightened look, and he wondered what he’d said. But she didn’t say a word, although he could tell from the questions in her eyes that she wanted to.
His hands found her shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Tell me what you’re thinking.
“I—I’m not sure. I guess I’m not used to you taking time off. Not that I don’t want you to. It’s just …”
He dug a little more. “What?”
Her gaze darted around his face. The color had drained from her cheeks and some of the trust in her eyes had fallen away.
“Bishop … I have to ask.” She stopped. Swallowed. Wet her lips. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She’d just had the strangest feeling. More than a feeling. That niggling again, which, rather than waning, had grown, and a lot. Still, she couldn’t put a precise finger on where, or what or who was behind it. She only knew it had been there in the way his assistant Willis had looked at her when he and Bishop had returned from their talk in the hotel lobby. There again when she’d examined their wedding picture after they’d arrived home and just now … some gesture, some word, had brought that awareness shooting like a cork to the surface of her consciousness. It was like a runaway thought she couldn’t quite catch … a dream she couldn’t quite remember. A moment ago Bishop had asked some everyday questions about a friend and yet, standing on this spot, with those wallabies on that rock and the sun at precisely this angle …
A hot pin had wedged under her ribs and, try as she might, she couldn’t remove it. What had happened—what had been said—to make her feel as if she’d crashed into a ten-foot high brick wall at warp speed?
She focused on his eyes. What aren’t you telling me?
“There is … something,” he said.
The hot pin slid out and, breathing again, she leaned back, letting the railing catch her weight.
So it hadn’t been her imagination. For a second she’d thought she might be going mad! But whatever it was nagging, there was a reason and Bishop was about to tell her.
“I haven’t told you …” he began haltingly “… not enough anyway … how much you meant to me.”
Like a well filling, her relief rose higher, but then that niggling pricked again and she frowned. What he’d said didn’t quite make sense. The tense was wrong. I haven’t told you how much you meant to me?
“You mean, you haven’t told me how much I mean to you.”
“I want you to know it now.”
His tone was so grave and his expression … He looked almost sad.
Her heart melting, she found his hand and pressed it to her cheek as
