The Wedding Party Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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“Done!”
Demetra rose and was already halfway to the door when Damon called her back. “Better ask Jane for some apple slices for the boy, as well,” he said drily. “And Rebecca would like coffee with her fruit.”
“Okay.”
Then she was gone.
Rebecca blinked. That vital, vivacious creature was Demetra? Her heart lifted. She could see exactly why Savvas had fallen for her verve and warmth. She smiled at Damon—the first real smile since he’d erupted back into her life. “Demetra seems very nice.”
“Nice?” Damon raised an eyebrow. “How you like that word.”
Rebecca coloured and decided to ignore him. She stayed silent until Demetra returned at whirlwind speed, her arms piled high with plates for herself, Rebecca and T.J.
By the time T.J. licked the last morsel of scrambled egg off his spoon, Rebecca was ready to explode at Damon’s rudeness. He’d barely uttered a word, answering only when spoken to and leaving the conversation to herself and Demetra to carry. Not that it had been a hardship; Demetra was a delight. Already she’d offered to look after T.J. while Rebecca visited Soula in hospital later in the morning. Demetra had also confided sotto voce that she viewed the approaching wedding with dread.
“Big, splashy functions are not me. But Savvas says his family expects it—and I know mine will, too, once they get here. So I’m relying on you, Rebecca, to make it a wonderful occasion for the parents. I don’t need to know about the choices you make. All I want to see beforehand is the final venue you choose and I’d like to help choose the cake and I want your advice with my dress. Nothing too grand. The rest is up to you!”
“I’ll do my best to make it a wedding that you and Savvas will enjoy, as well,” Rebecca said, bemused by Demetra’s quicksilver personality.
“All I want is Savvas—I love him!” Sincerity radiated from Demetra, and Rebecca wished she’d been blessed with the same love that Demetra shared with Savvas. “Okay,” Demetra said more loudly. “Enough of this bride stuff, I’m off for a quick workout in the downstairs gym.” And she vanished out the door.
A silence descended in her wake.
Rebecca started to segment the orange she had peeled, an orange she was already too full to eat. She placed two pieces in front of T.J., who attacked them with relish, juice dribbling down his chin.
With a brooding glance in T.J.’s direction, Damon said, “The boy may be excused if he wants.”
“T.J. His name is T.J.,” Rebecca said impatiently.
“It’s a ridiculous name, for God’s sake.”
“It’s his name,” she rebuked, dropping her voice. “And he can be excused after he’s finished the orange—I’ll take him up with me.”
Damon leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “What I call him, it upsets you?”
He hadn’t taken her advice about Fliss’s name preferences on board, so she shrugged. “He’s a person, an individual with a name chosen just for him. He’s not ‘the boy.’”
She put another two segments on T.J.’s plate. He shoved one into his mouth with sticky fingers and picked up the remaining sliver. With a tiny-toothed grin at her, he slid from the chair before she could stop him and was around the table in a trice.
Rebecca watched, frozen, as T.J. offered Damon his last segment of orange. There was a moment of utter silence, then T.J. pushed the messy bit of orange at Damon, insistent now. Rebecca unfroze and leaped to her feet, hurrying toward them, aware that any moment the juice would land on Damon’s expensive suit, aware that Damon was not accustomed to three-year-olds and sticky hands and that T.J. was likely to suffer the consequences of his impatience.
Damon’s next act stunned her.
Taking the orange, he popped the sodden mass into his mouth. Then he gave T.J. a beaming smile. “Delicious, thank you, T.J.”
T.J. squealed with pleasure. He battered his juice-stained fists against Damon’s trousers and cackled, “Dee’icious, dee’icious.”
Rebecca swept him up into her arms before he could do any more damage. Taking in the wet patches on Damon’s thighs with a harassed glance, she said, “I’m so sorry.”
Damon shrugged. “No matter. The suit will clean.”
He was still smiling at T.J., and Rebecca went utterly still, staring at him. When his head turned, she tore her gaze away. “Excuse us, please.” Without waiting for a response, she snatched a paper napkin from the table, flashed him a meaningless smile and made for the door.
“I’ll collect you to visit my mother at noon. Be ready.” Damon’s command followed them out the room.
As she bolted through the doorway, T.J. reached over her shoulder to wave at Damon before whispering in her ear, “I like the man.”
It was a shock to see Soula lying so frail and passive in the high hospital bed. Rebecca didn’t dare look at Damon. Not that it would’ve helped. On the drive to the hospital, he’d continued the cold and remote treatment he’d started at breakfast, the silence building a wall of ice between them.
Far better to think about poor Soula, whose chalky pallor was barely distinguishable from the white sheets enveloping her, and whose eyes were closed despite the wide-screen plasma television blaring across a room that looked more like a luxurious hotel suite than a hospital ward.
As the ward door clicked shut, Soula’s eyes opened and lit up. “Rebecca, how good to see you! Damon, you’re back!” She struggled to sit up, paying scant attention to the drip secured to the back of her hand—or the wiring that protruded from under the bedclothes.
“Mama!” Damon crossed the private ward in two hasty strides. “No, Mama. Lie still.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not yet dead, my son. Switch the television off.” Damon complied. “Now raise the back of the bed.”
While Damon was adjusting the bed-frame setting, Rebecca approached the high bed, deeply shaken by Damon’s mother’s appearance. Only the dark, indomitable eyes showed a shred of the proud woman Rebecca remembered.
“I must look a wreck, hmm?”
Rebecca forced a smile, aware that Soula must have read the shock in her eyes but unable for the life of her to think of any platitude that would sound sincere.
“What? No answer, Rebecca?” The older woman gave a wan smile. “Better that than the lies the rest of the family feed me. This morning my eldest sister, Iphigenia, said I still put women of half my age to shame. Pah! All lies!” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “But I have to admit it’s not as bad as it looks. White is a terrible colour. Look—” she flung an arm out “—white nightdress, white sheets, white blankets. So bad for an older woman—it simply doesn’t do a thing for my complexion.”
Affection for the acerbic woman overwhelming her, Rebecca bent to plant an impulsive kiss on the cheek that wore a few more wrinkles than it had in the past. “Nonsense,” she whispered into Soula’s ear. “True beauty comes from within. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”
They exchanged a long look, then Soula’s arms crept around Rebecca’s neck and pulled her close. “It’s so good to have you here, child. I was starting to despair.”
The note of very real desperation in Soula’s voice and the unexpected warmth of her hug caused something to splinter deep inside Rebecca and she hugged Soula back fiercely. Swallowing the burgeoning lump in her throat, she glanced up at the bank of equipment above the bed and said in a choked-up voice, “I have to admit I don’t like seeing you tied to these machines. When will you be out and about?”
Damon reared up on the other side of the bed, outrage in his eyes. “Out