Her Great Expectations. Joan Kilby

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Her Great Expectations - Joan Kilby Mills & Boon Cherish

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You can look after yourself.” This grumpiness was out of character for Steve. He’s afraid, Jack thought. Afraid of getting old, of becoming redundant.

      Of losing Hetty.

      Steve dabbed at the crumbs on the plate. “I expected the girls to take her side, but not you.”

      “I came to invite you to dinner on Saturday,” Jack said, sidestepping the issue. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in his parents’ marriage problems.

      “Football’s on that night. Will you be watching?”

      “Probably not.”

      “Then forget it.” Steve took off his steel-framed glasses and peered at the lenses. “Damn things are always blurry.”

      “Are you feeling okay? I hear you’re going to see the doctor soon.”

      “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve said, polishing his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

      Jack waited, expecting a qualifier, but none came. “That’s fine, but you should get that checkup. Why don’t you come jogging with me sometime?”

      “No, thanks. Too energetic for me.” Steve lifted his beer to drink, but it was empty. “Hetty! Can you bring me another cold one?”

      There was no answer.

      With difficulty he pushed himself out of his chair and unbent, one hand supporting his lower back. “Where is that woman? She’s never around when I need her.”

      “She’s probably outside hanging up the washing. I’ll get you a beer.” But Steve was already shuffling to the kitchen. Sighing, Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you later, Dad.”

      “OLIVER, I’M HOME.” Sienna glanced at her watch. Six o’clock. She was running late. She dropped her bag of groceries on the dark green granite counter in her small, efficient kitchen. Leafing through the envelopes she’d collected from the mailbox on her way in, she listened for her son’s reply. Electricity bill, junk mail, letter from the high school… “Oliver, are you here?”

      “I’m in my room.” His voice cracked on every second syllable. “On the computer.”

      Leaving the groceries and the mail for the moment, Sienna went to the low bookshelf in the breakfast nook and took out the local map. She didn’t have time for this, but she was curious to find out exactly where Jack Thatcher lived.

      Linden Avenue, she discovered, was on the southern outskirts of town about two miles from the village center. There the houses bordered paddocks where cattle and horses grazed. Her house was a couple of miles north of the town, in an older part of Summerside. She wasn’t likely to bump into him while out jogging. Damn.

      Sienna closed the map book and went back to the kitchen to start dinner, embarrassed by her foolish preoccupation. If she kept this up, the next thing she knew she’d be driving past his house. She shook her head. That was so not going to happen.

      She put away the groceries and got the chicken out of the freezer to defrost in the microwave. But like a terrier with a bone, her mind kept going back to Jack and his Thai green curry. If Glyneth and Rex hadn’t been coming she could have accepted his invitation. She wouldn’t have to even think about cruising slowly past like some creepy stalker—she’d be pulling into his driveway, a welcome guest.

      While the chicken thawed, Sienna opened the letter from the school, thinking it was probably a notice of some event. But as she scanned the single page her heart sank. It was from the middle-school coordinator, informing her tersely that Oliver had failed to hand in assignments in three subjects—English, math and biology. Sienna breathed out hard, nostrils flaring. Olly was a smart kid; she shouldn’t be getting letters like this about him.

      “Oliver!” she yelled loud enough for him to hear her in his room.

      “I’m right here.” He appeared abruptly in the doorway. He’d changed out of his olive-green-and-gray school uniform into a Billabong T-shirt and blue jeans, and put fresh gel on his thick curly blond hair. He made his way into the kitchen, brushing past her on his way to the cupboard that held the water glasses. At six foot, he was already taller than her by six inches. “What’s the matter?”

      She shook the letter, rustling the paper. “Mr. Kitzinger says you haven’t been turning in assignments.”

      “Oh.” Glass in hand, he edged past her to help himself to water from the tap.

      “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

      He drank a few gulps, then dashed the rest of the water into the sink. “I hate English, my math teacher is crap and I want to drop biology next year.”

      Alarmed, Sienna rubbed her bare arms, crumpling the letter. She knew Oliver was at an age where interest in school waned, but this was the first time he’d talked about dropping science subjects. “Regardless of how you feel about your teachers or the subjects, the fact is, you have to do the work. If you don’t improve your marks, you’re never going to be accepted into university.”

      He slumped against the counter, his eyebrows lowering over his deep-set gray-blue eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to go to uni.”

      Sienna felt her blood go cold. “You don’t know what you want. You’re only fourteen.”

      “Exactly. I’m only fourteen. So quit planning my life for me.” Pushing off the counter, Oliver went into the family room, threw himself onto the couch and switched on the TV.

      “Turn if off, please.” Sienna waited, silently counting to ten. She got to eight before he did as she asked. “If you want to be a doctor you need to learn good study habits—”

      “I don’t want to be a doctor. You’re the one who wants it. We’ve got enough doctors in this family already—Dad, you, Nanna and Pop.”

      “When I was your age I didn’t think I wanted to be a doctor, either. I changed my mind,” Sienna told him. “You’ll change your mind, too, when you get older.”

      “You don’t know that,” Oliver protested. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

      She took a breath, planning to say that of course she knew him—he was her son, her baby she’d taken care of since he was born. She knew the birthmark on his back and the way his big toe curved inward, just like hers. She knew he worried about global warming and that he liked comedy shows better than crime dramas.

      Then she looked at the great big boy sitting on the couch, staring at her with a mixture of sullenness and anxiety, and her words stopped in her throat. Did she know him anymore, really? Oh, he was still her son and all those things about him were still true, but he was changing. Growing up, growing away from her. He was developing muscles and peach fuzz on his chin and a mind of his own. She no longer knew his every thought and feeling, because he no longer blurted them out as soon as he came through the door. All too soon he would be a man. Blink and he’d be gone, leaving home.

      She crossed her arms over her tightened stomach. “What…what do you want to do?”

      Oliver hunched his broad bony shoulders. “I don’t know. Dig ditches, maybe.”

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