‘There is no Mrs Thompson.’ He cut her off, jaw tightening as he looked at his feet. An awkward silence dropped, heavy and thick, around them.
Oh. What to say now? His abruptness was disconcerting. Was it just with her? It seemed to be. With everyone else he was soft and friendly.
And what the hell had happened to his wife?
‘What’s that?’ The girl from this morning skipped into view, eyes zeroing in on the plastic container. Hair in messy lopsided pigtails and with gaps in her teeth and a very sunny smile, she was adorable. ‘Is that for us? I’m starving. Daddy said we’re not allowed takeaway ’cos it’s unhealthy.’
And Rose could have kissed her for breaking the uncomfortable atmosphere. Joe looked over at his daughter and his whole demeanour transformed: his eyes softened, his hiked-up shoulders dropped. Love for her was stamped in every gaze, every movement.
Rose smiled at the girl. ‘Kale and chicken pasta bake.’
‘What’s kale?’
‘The devil’s work.’ Brighter now, or putting on a show for his daughter, Joe lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘But it smells delicious. It is very late so I was going to do beans on toast, but this is much better. Go get some plates out, Katy. And say thank you to Rose.’
‘Okay, Daddy. Thank you, Rose. You’re nice.’
The kid’s smile tugged at Rose’s heart and she had a sudden urge to run her hand over the top of those messy bunches. Weird. Not something she’d ever wanted to do to a child before. Maybe the fresh air was going to her head?
She followed Joe through to the large kitchen/dining room. ‘Cute kid.’
‘Yes. Too cute for her own good sometimes. Or maybe I’m just a pushover.’
That was the last thing Rose imagined him to be, judging by his general manner. He frowned and leaned a little closer. The air around her filled with a scent that was light and fresh and yet very masculine.
She had to stop herself leaning into it as he whispered, ‘Kale?’
‘It’s healthy if that’s what you mean.’
‘In which case you’ll want to join us?’
Did she?
She looked round at the comfortable farmhouse kitchen. There was warmth here in the scrubbed, well-used pine table, the overflowing toy box, a cushion-filled window seat that, she imagined, looked out over the village. There was a sense of calm, a familiar smoky smell of wood-burning stove and coffee. A sense of family and love. Scuffed skirting boards and the faint bruises of handprints on the walls…the perfect family house.
On an old wooden dresser leaning against one wall stood myriad framed photos of Joe and a small baby—she imagined to be Katy—and a woman who looked like a younger version of Maxine. The same laughing eyes. Same corkscrew curls that made up Katy’s lopsided bunches.
No Mrs Thompson. Rose’s heart began to thud. Because the photos were all from when Katy was little. Not of now. Not of the intervening years. Divorce?
She doubted it. Joe and the woman were staring into each other’s eyes, obviously deeply in love with each other and with their child. Rose’s heart jerked uncomfortably—she wasn’t destined to have that. No children for her…no happy little family.
She had no idea, but she doubted a mother/son-in-law relationship would be so strong after divorce. Toby’s mum had distanced herself from Rose the minute they’d split up…or before…when it became apparent that Rose wasn’t headed on the path they’d all thought she would.
So…did Mrs Thompson die?
That didn’t bear thinking about. A woman so young and clearly full of life and love. And yet it happened, as Rose knew well, through illness or disease or pure bad luck. There was no woman here. No mention of Maxine’s daughter going with them to visit her in hospital.
Rose shivered, a strange panicky sensation prickling over her chest. And a sudden deep sadness.
What the hell was she doing here? Intruding on this family?
She found her voice. ‘No. Thank you. It’s late and I really need to go.’
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