no choice but to seek help from this man, his father.
Gus was watching her closely, his expression a mixture of frowning puzzlement and tender concern. ‘Are you still in contact with the boy’s father?’
It was too much. Her eyes filled with tears. She’d waited too long to tell him this—twelve years too long—and now she had to deliver a terrible blow. It was so, so difficult. She didn’t want to hurt him.
She had no choice.
Clinging to the last shreds of composure, she looked away from him to the flat sea stained with the spectacular colours of the sunset. She blinked hard and her throat felt as if she’d swallowed broken glass.
Beside them, a party of young people arrived on the balcony, laughing and carefree, carrying their drinks and calling to each other as they dragged tables together and sat in a large happy circle. It was a scenario Freya had seen many, many times at the pub on the Sugar Bay waterfront. Once, she and Gus had been part of a crowd just like that.
Terrified that she might cry in public and cause Gus all kinds of embarrassment, she said, ‘I’m sorry. Would you mind if we went somewhere else to talk about this? We could go for a walk, perhaps?’
‘Of course.’
Gallantly, he rose immediately and they took the short flight of steps down to The Esplanade that skirted Darwin Harbour.
Offshore, yachts were racing, bright spinnakers billowing, leaning into a light breeze. The same breeze brought the salty-sharp smell of coral mingled with the scent of frangipani blossoms. The breeze played with Freya’s hair and she didn’t try to hold it in place. Instead, she wrapped her arms protectively over her front as Gus walked beside her, his hands sunk in the pockets of his light-coloured chinos.
‘Are you OK, Freya?’
‘Sort of.’ She took a deep breath, knowing that she couldn’t put this revelation off a second longer. ‘You asked if I’ve been in touch with my son’s father.’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t, Gus.’
She slid a wary sideways glance his way and she saw the exact moment when he realised. Saw his eyes widen with dawning knowledge, and then a flash of horror.
He stopped walking.
The colour drained from his face as he stared at her. ‘How old is this boy?’
His voice was cold and quiet, and Freya’s heart pounded so loudly it drummed in her ears.
‘He’s eleven—almost eleven and a half.’
Gus shook his head. ‘No way.’
He glared at her, his eyes angry—disbelieving—already rejecting what she had to tell him next.
Chapter Two
GUS struggled to breathe, struggled to think, to believe, to understand…but, all the while, gut-level awareness was shouting the truth that Freya still hadn’t told him.
He had a son. A boy. Now eleven years old.
‘Gus, I’m so sorry.’ Freya stood on the path in front of him, wringing her hands, her face a blurred wash of tears.
His mind flashed back to their past, to the last magical summer he’d spent at the Bay—three halcyon months between the end of high school and the start of university—when he and Freya had been almost inseparable.
Twelve years had passed since then and in many ways it had felt like a lifetime. Now, for Gus, it felt like a lifetime in exile.
He rounded on her. ‘Say it, Freya. Spit it out. This boy is my son, isn’t he?’
Shoulders back, chin lifted, she met his angry gaze. ‘Yes, Gus, you’re Nick’s father.’
‘Nick?’
‘He’s Nicholas Angus.’
A terrible ache bloomed in his throat, swiftly followed by a tumult of emotions—alienation and loneliness, frustration and anger. He spun away from her, fighting for composure. The sea breeze buffeted his face and he gulped in deep needy breaths.
He tried to picture his son, this boy he’d never seen. His flesh and blood. Damn it, he had no idea what the kid might look like.
How crazy was that?
His thoughts flew haphazardly. He had a son. Every boy needed a dad. What right had Freya to keep such a secret?
Had it worked both ways? Did the boy know anything about him?
Unlikely.
Gus whirled back to challenge Freya. ‘Why? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ He knew he sounded bitter but he didn’t care. He was bitter. ‘Did you keep this to yourself because you didn’t know who your father was? Is it some kind of warped tradition in your family?’
‘No, of course not.’
Her protest wasn’t convincing but he didn’t stop to investigate. ‘Why then? Why didn’t you tell me that I had a son?’
‘I thought—’ Freya’s hands flailed with a wild kind of helplessness, then fell to her sides and she gave a groan of frustration. ‘I tried, Gus. I did try to tell you.’
‘When?’ he shouted, not trying to hide his disbelief.
‘The day I came to the university to see you.’
His mouth sagged open as memories of that day arrived in a sickening rush. His skin flashed hot and cold and a feeling suspiciously like guilt curdled unpleasantly in his stomach.
Over the years, he’d blotted out Freya’s sudden appearance on the St Lucia campus, but he couldn’t deny that he’d never felt comfortable about the last time they’d met.
Now, she was walking away from him, leaving the walking track and hurrying across the velvety lawn to the rocks that bordered the foreshore. By the time Gus reached her, she’d pulled tissues from a woven shoulder bag and was blowing her nose.
‘We have to talk about this,’ he said.
‘Of course. That’s why we’re here.’ She spoke with quiet resignation.
They found a flat rock to sit on—side by side, looking out to sea—and it was uncannily like old times, except that, unlike the pounding surf in Sugar Bay, this sea was flat and calm. And they were facing west now, rather than east, so the setting sun was suspended inches above the horizon like a giant glowing balloon.
Freya shoved the tissues back into her bag, then drew an elaborately deep breath and let it out very slowly.
Despite his rage and frustration, Gus couldn’t help thinking how lovely she looked, sitting on the rock beside the sea.
She directed her steady gaze his way, giving him the full effect of her darkly lashed aquamarine
