crinkles appeared at the corners of her mother’s eyes. ‘Just how friendly are you two?’
‘Drop it, Mum. Please? I’m tired and sore and want to eat dinner before hitting the pillow.’ Suddenly, curling up in her old bed, curtains shut tight, pillow tugged around her neck, and her eyes and ears closed so she became completely and utterly alone was all she wanted. To try and relax, to let go all pretence that today had been easy. To be able to study every moment again, to look at everything from all angles without anyone twittering in her ear saying how great she was for what she’d done. She wanted to hold the unabridged facts and emotions and absorb the truth of it all. Only then would she fully accept the birth was over, Grace was not hers, and she had her own life to be getting on with.
Her mother’s arm was around her shoulder, tugging her close to that chest she’d always gone to in times of sadness growing up. ‘Give yourself time, Em.’
‘Can everyone see through me?’ Blink, blink.
‘We know you well.’ Her mum’s smile was lopsided. ‘I’m thinking Nixon might too.’
Her shoulders sagged. Her mum was not one for letting go a bone once it was between her jaws. She conceded, ‘He does seem more understanding than most men I’ve met.’
‘Which makes him a treasure.’
Emma slipped free and slid her hands down her tee shirt over her heavy, full breasts and onto her flabby stomach. ‘He doesn’t belong in the local museum, nor does he have a place in my life. Nor I in his. We’re too different. Seriously, Mum, I want you to drop this because nothing is going to come of it. I don’t want it to. I’m not ready to get involved with a man again.’ She only had to shut her eyes and she could see Alvin’s rage as his fist slammed into her stomach. Until images like that one went away, she’d never be ready to give her heart again or to put her safety in another man’s hands. Though if there was one thing she knew for certain it was that Nixon would not hurt her physically.
‘I want you to be happy.’ Her mum always got the last word. Or so she thought.
‘Me too, Mum. Me too. And you know what? I am. I don’t need a man to make me happy. I have to do that for myself otherwise I have nothing to offer.’
‘Fair enough.’
Huh? The fact that was all her mum was saying rang alarm bells. The subject of Nixon was clearly not over, merely on the shelf for another day.
Over dinner, Nixon answered questions about himself without giving too much away—a fact the male members of her family seemed to grasp and accept. The guy was allowed his privacy as long as it didn’t hurt Emma, was the silent message. It didn’t matter that Emma reiterated bluntly that they had no right subjecting her friend to this. She was ignored. Her brothers and her father could be pains in the backside, and yet she understood they worried about her. These were the men who had run Alvin out of town with the promise of pain if he ever so much as thought about returning. So, sorry, Nixon, but welcome to my family. Take them as you find them, or leave.
Glancing across the table, she met his scrutiny and knew he’d received her message loud and clear even when she’d been staring at her clasped hands in her lap. He nodded, smiled that smile that lately had begun taking on a tummy-tugging element, and remained in his seat. He was staying.
The only problem was that tummy-tugging smile caused an ache in her solar plexus. Post-birth pains? Not likely to be anything else. Not longing for something special with Nixon? Emma pushed her plate aside still over half full. ‘My appetite’s done a bunk.’
Shaun stopped eating to stare at her. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
She shook her head. ‘Favourite food and all, I can’t take another mouthful.’ Something was cutting off her throat, refusing to allow food past, and what little had gone down before was bricks in her stomach.
‘Nixon, you’re a doctor. Take her temperature,’ said her smart-ass brother, Daniel.
Nixon was still watching her; summing her up, she suspected. There was that astute, didn’t-miss-a-thing glint in his gaze. ‘You’re all right?’ he asked quietly, making her brother sound louder than ever.
‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus, but medically I’m fine. Think I’ll go to bed. Sorry to be disappearing on you, Nixon, when you’ve only just met this lot, but I doubt I can keep my eyes open much longer.’
‘We’ll look after him.’ Shaun grinned.
That was what she was afraid of. ‘Don’t feel bad if you want to bolt while you can,’ she told Nixon as she clambered to her feet.
‘I’ve had a glimpse of what’s for dessert and I’m staying.’ His smile was soft and enveloped her in hope and a longing for what she’d sworn off. A good sleep and she’d be back on track, no left-field ideas knocking her sideways.
Through the haze filling her skull she heard her father say, ‘In other words, he’s no coward, this friend of yours.’
Thanks, Dad.
At the moment, she needed reminding of that as much as her mum did. Especially while this longing for something—someone—squeezed her tight and forced the air from her lungs. ‘Goodnight everyone,’ she muttered as she headed down the hall, aiming for the bathroom, ignoring the tears pouring down her face.
Crying wasn’t a rarity for her. There’d been too many times when she’d not been able to stop in the past.
But not knowing why she was crying was new. And unsettling. All in all, it had been a huge day. Now she wanted it gone, finished, wrapped up and delivered, like the baby, and tomorrow’s sun coming up, bringing the beginning of the rest of her life.
‘GRACE’S FACE IS red but she’s pretty.’ Rosie bounced up and down in her car seat as much as the safety belts allowed while they headed to school for a special trip to see the llamas.
‘Isn’t she?’ Emma swallowed a yawn. There’d been little deep sleep last night, more a smattering of moments of not being aware and many long, agonising minutes of being fully alert and trying to ignore the emptiness in her heart. No, not in her heart because the baby would always be in her life one way or another. In her maternal soul, perhaps. She had carried the child and her body wasn’t ready to let her forget it. But she would—in the nicest possible way. During the pregnancy, she’d talked to other women around the country who’d been a mummy tummy and everyone had said they’d been able to move past this feeling within a few weeks. It’d continue to give her nudges but those would come less often as time passed. It seemed that women who were able to interact with the baby had better outcomes more quickly.
Her phone played ‘Jingle Bells’, and Rosie clapped her hands. ‘Santa’s coming to town. He’s bringing me presents.’
A glance at the screen. Nixon. Pulling over to the side of the road, she answered. ‘Hi.’ Why are you calling me? You don’t usually get in touch outside work. ‘You got home all right after the inquisition?’
Maybe he was phoning to demand compensation.
A deep-bellied
