you to.’ She stopped, as though considering her words, and then continued, ‘You left because you couldn’t handle my grief.’
He felt his blood drain. ‘Did my father tell you that?’
Mila frowned. ‘Why would you think that?’
Because that was exactly what his father had accused him of in one of their last conversations before he’d left, Jordan thought in shock. After Jordan had told Greg he was leaving—that Mila had asked him to and that he was going to Johannesburg to focus on getting their research institute started—his father had accused him of leaving because Mila’s suffering had reminded Jordan of his mother’s suffering. And that that meant Jordan was in the same position that his father had been in.
He had ignored the words when his father had said them—had believed the two situations had nothing in common—and had refused to think about it afterwards. But hearing those words come from Mila now brought the memory into sharp focus. But, just as he had then, Jordan shut down his thoughts and feelings about it.
‘Do you think your contact would actually be able to make a customised marquee?’
He saw her blink, saw her adjust to his abrupt change in topic. She opened her mouth and closed it again, and then answered.
‘Yes, I think he would.’
Her voice was polite. No, he thought, controlled.
‘I think the more appropriate question would be if he’d be able to do it in such a short period of time.’
She took her phone out and started typing, changing the tone of their conversation. The tension was still there though, he realised, noting the stiff movement of her fingers.
‘If he is able to do it we’ll have solved one of the major problems of this event.’
‘I’m sure the others won’t be quite as bad,’ he said, and walked up the steps to the stage.
He needed space from her, even though she was standing a far enough distance away that her proximity shouldn’t have bothered him. The stage was clear of the usual clutter events brought, he saw, with only the large white screen used for movies behind him.
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ she warned. ‘We’ll have to see if the same food vendors are available, and we’ll have to find out if Karen can perform...’ She trailed off, as though the thought frightened her, and he felt the release of the tension in him at the memory of Mila dealing with the teenage singer.
‘Won’t that be fun for you?’
‘I can’t wait,’ she said wryly. ‘We might have to consider someone else if she isn’t available. After that, the hardest part is going to be getting people to come. Karen—or whoever we get to perform—will have a huge impact on that, but it’s still going to be a challenge.’
‘Social media will help,’ he said, and walked down the stairs to where she stood. She was taking pictures, and he realised that with the marquee the space was different from what she’d worked with before. ‘We can have Karen post something closer to the time. It could even be a pop-up concert.’
‘That won’t work,’ she disagreed. ‘Doing that would put us at risk of overcrowding or riots. Of course we can have her post about the event, but we need to sell tickets. That’s the only way we can know how many people to expect.’
If he’d thought she wouldn’t be insulted by it, he would have complimented her on her professional knowledge. But he’d learned his lesson the previous evening. He hadn’t been around before to see her in action, but his father had complimented her often enough. Now Jordan could see why.
‘Was it hard work the first time?’
She glanced over at him. ‘Yes, but for different reasons. We had to start from scratch then. Design it, figure out what would work, what wouldn’t. Now we don’t have those problems, but we’re working from a blueprint. Which means we’re confined. It also puts us at risk of making a loss.’
‘Well, regardless of that, we’re going to have to plan this.’ He stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing I wasn’t here the first time.’
‘Marketing wine in American restaurants does sound more exciting,’ she said easily, and his heart knocked at hearing her attempt something remarkably close to banter. Perhaps they should stick to work, he thought.
‘Well, seven of the ten restaurants I visited now carry our wines, so I was working. Besides, if I’d been here, we probably would have been married a lot earlier—’ He broke off, cursing himself for not thinking. He almost saw Mila’s walls go up again.
‘This event is going to take a lot of work,’ she said instead of addressing his slip. ‘I might have to give Lulu a call...’
Her face had tightened, and Jordan wondered what he didn’t know about Mila’s only real friendship.
‘Have you spoken to her recently?’ he asked, watching the emotions play over her face.
‘Now and then,’ she answered him. ‘Not nearly as often as I should have.’
The admission came as a surprise to him—and to her, too, it seemed.
‘I think we’ve seen all we need to here.’ she said quickly. ‘The stairs...they’re easier going up.’
It was a clear sign that she didn’t want any help from him, and he had to clench his fists at his sides to keep himself from doing just that as he watched her painstakingly climb the stairs.
Why couldn’t she just ask for help? he thought irritably, and then stilled when a voice asked him why she should need to ask at all.
MILA HEARD THE door to the house slam and closed her eyes. Clearly Jordan hadn’t returned from their trip to the amphitheatre in a good mood. Not that she was feeling particularly cheerful herself. She had let him bait her into lashing out, into revealing things she didn’t want him to know.
It was only because she had been feeling particularly vulnerable after hesitating at those stairs. She had always hated that reminder of her accident—any reminder, really. But as she had stood in front of those steps, her heart in her throat, she had hated that the most. Because every time she thought she would be able to take a step she was reminded of the sensation of tumbling to the ground. Pain would flash through her at the memory of lying at the bottom of the steps, her breathing staggered, waiting for someone to help her.
She blamed that feeling for the accusation she had hurled at Jordan from nowhere earlier. She had never intended letting that slip—the real reason she thought he’d left—but her tongue no longer seemed to obey the ‘think before you speak’ rule she had always played by.
Heaven knew she was tired of taking all the blame for him leaving—yes, she had asked him for space, but that had been said in grief, in pain. She hadn’t meant it, but when he’d packed his bags she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask him to stay. She had wanted him to—every fibre in her being had urged her to stop him—but she had also wanted
