a much-chewed tennis ball long and straight, a sportsman in the making, his father’s son. They applauded the retrieval part of the act, even though Digger absconded with the ball, circling the yard and refusing to give up his toy.
“See, Daddy? He doesn’t give it back when he wants to play chasies.”
Eventually Joshua gave up the chase, falling flat on his back at their feet. A small boy filled with exuberance, happy and exhausted from the simplest kind of play, not thinking about the mother who deserted him. Emily’s heart twisted with sympathy. Her own mother might still be alive, but she knew all about that kind of rejection.
“After we take your stuff to Chantal’s,” the boy said, puffing from his supine position, “we’re going shopping. Can you come with us? We hate shopping.”
“Why is that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Last time, Mrs. Hertzy patted me on the head. I’m not a dog.”
“You smell like one.”
He laughed uproariously and Emily was doomed. This kid…how could she turn her back on him?
“But we’ve got to shop,” he continued with breathless sincerity. “We’re sick of eating s’getti.”
At which point Digger dropped the slobbery ball on his new friend’s chest, his eyes lambent with come-play pleading. Batteries recharged, Joshua leaped to his feet and took off again. As she watched him run, Emily felt her own peculiar sense of breathlessness. She shook her head.
“What?” Mitch asked, and she turned to catch him watching her, his expression tricky.
“‘We hate shopping. We’re sick of spaghetti.’ Have you been coaching him?” she asked.
A corner of his very attractive mouth kicked up. “He has a point about the head patting.”
“They do that to you, too?” she asked, tongue in cheek.
He didn’t laugh. “I’d pay you triple just to avoid the supermarket.”
Oh, yes, she saw it very clearly now. The pained looks of pity and tuttings of sympathy for “that poor Mitch Goodwin whose wife up and left.” How he must hate that. And, oh, how she ached to help. She felt herself wavering, the need churning and building and crying out for her to accept.
“I’m no use to you as a shopper,” she said, striving for a light tone. “Unless you think I can wheel one of those trolleys all the way out to your place.”
“You know I’ll provide a car.”
“I don’t drive.” There, she’d said it. The truth. And she turned her gaze to Joshua climbing into the tree swing again.
“You used to drive just fine,” Mitch said slowly. “What happened, did you have an accident and lose your nerve?”
“Something like that.”
“Then you just need to retrain.”
She blew out a scoffing breath and shook her head. “You just need to force me behind the wheel of a car, first.”
“I’ll get you driving again, Emily.”
That confidence—he was a man who thrived on accomplishment—could have convinced most people. Except Emily knew how easily she froze, not every time but with certain combinations of stimuli. Darkness, city streets, a male passenger, the strident sound of an overrevved engine.
She didn’t know what to say or how to explain her problem with driving. Remembering his vehemence when she’d told him about losing her job…no, she could not add this story to her growing inventory of victimhood. He would ask more questions, demand more answers, when all she wanted was to forget the whole episode. When all she wanted—just one blessed time—was to feel strong and in control.
Agreeing to work for Mitch Goodwin did not seem like a wonderful step in that direction. She exhaled on a ragged sigh just as Joshua scampered back to unwittingly tighten the screws. “Can Digger come and live with us, too?” he asked.
Oh, boy. Emily hunkered down to his level. “I’m not coming to live with you, sweetie.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed? “Because I’m moving in at your aunty Chantal’s and uncle Cameron’s.”
Joshua stared at her hard. “D’you mean Uncle Quade?”
Everyone called him by his surname, why not Joshua? “Yes, I mean your uncle Quade. It’s not far from your house if you want to come visit.”
“Daddy said I’m not to go ’cross the paddocks.”
“That’s because he’s worried that you might get lost.”
Expression solemn, he seemed to consider her point. His eyes were deep, gray-green pools of hope. “Not if I had a smart dog like Digger. He wouldn’t get lost.”
Emily struggled to suppress a grin. The dog might be smart, but Joshua Goodwin was a genius at twisting the conversation. He wanted a dog. Perhaps she didn’t have to let him down completely.
“I think it’s time you guys got going,” she suggested, rising to her feet. “I have to finish packing.”
“Is there much more?” Mitch asked.
“Not really.” She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, not wanting to think about the implications. Once she finished packing, there’d be nothing left to do but leave. She would be adrift again, homeless. “Just some clothes and personal things.”
“I’ll call back in a few hours, then?”
She nodded. Watched as Mitch let his son through the gate, then followed them around to the front of the house. Seeing them together, fair and dark, short and tall, but bonded by blood and love, her own feeling of aloneness swelled from the pit of her stomach, tightening her chest and constricting her throat. She had to sit on her porch steps, had to close her eyes and fight the tears and the clamoring need to call out.
She also had to ask Mitch about the dog.
Taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet as he closed the truck door behind Joshua and started around to the driver’s side.
“Mitch.”
She waited until he came back, out of Joshua’s earshot, one brow raised in query.
“It’s about Digger. I can’t keep him.” The reason didn’t need stating—a dog couldn’t be packed away in a storage box. “I was thinking that a dog might be good for Joshua.”
“It would,” he said slowly, but his expression remained closed. Not the good-idea-Emily smile she’d hoped for. His eyes met hers, hard and direct. “But right now he needs something more than a dog. He needs you, Emily. We both do.”
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