A Daddy For Baby Zoe?. Fiona Lowe
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between a traditional bunch of white roses and the posy. The florist had said that the riot of yellow daffodils, purple irises, pink gerberas and fragrant purple hyacinths all interspersed with blue gum leaves would make any woman smile. That offhand comment had sold the posy. He had a ridiculous urge to see Meredith truly smile.
He couldn’t shake the feeling she was going through the motions of living—enduring each day rather than revelling in it. For half an hour yesterday after Mario had badgered her to stay for hot chocolate, she’d relaxed a little and although he wouldn’t say she’d looked happy, she’d certainly seemed less miserable for a moment or two. But less miserable wasn’t enough to quieten his misgivings.
It made no sense that a doctor would say so emphatically that her baby wasn’t coming early. It was as if she really didn’t want it to come and that, coupled with the fact she didn’t know the sex, had him up at midnight and on the computer, researching antenatal depression. Apparently it existed.
He could understand a younger woman with less education and financial stability being very stressed and worried about impending motherhood. He knew he was only a stranger looking in from the outside but given the value of her house and the very expensive German car she drove, money didn’t seem to be an issue. Was it the absent husband that was causing her anguish? Was the marriage in trouble because of the baby?
Bitter experience had taught him all about that. Nothing could drive the final nail into the coffin of a failing marriage faster than the emotions surrounding a child. Whether a child was wanted or not, if both parties disagreed the marriage ended in divorce.
He gripped the flowers in his uninjured hand and rang the doorbell with the other.
He heard the even tread of her walk on the stairs and then the door opened. Today she was wearing a royal-blue cable jumper that seemed to make the multifaceted blues in her eyes sparkle like the crystals in a kaleidoscope. It did nothing, however, to lessen the black shadows that stained the delicate skin under her eyes.
Beautiful and haunted.
The thought struck him hard and he almost raised his hand, wanting to stroke her cheek with his thumb and wipe away the smudges. Stunned by his reaction, he covered it by abruptly thrusting the flowers forward. ‘Thank you for saving me a trip to the medical clinic yesterday.’
She stood still, staring at the posy as if it was on fire. ‘You really didn’t need to bring me flowers.’
This wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d expected or hoped for. Not only wasn’t she smiling, her pretty mouth had tightened into a thin line.
He brought the flowers back to his side, holding them with the heads facing down. ‘I could exchange them for chocolates if you prefer.’
The words seemed to bring her out of her trance. ‘I’m sorry. Come in.’ She turned and walked up the stairs, and he followed, losing the battle not to stare at her curvy behind. It wasn’t big but it wasn’t small either and the contours of the long jumper outlined its curves to perfection.
Married and pregnant, dude. So not available.
Under his feet the stunning jarrah floorboards gleamed red and when he hit the top stair he was standing in an enormous open living space filled with light. The view of the ocean was as spectacular as he’d imagined but it was the dozen vases of flowers—every possible shade of white, cream and green—that stopped him in his tracks. All of them had the trademark card of Shearwater Flowers and Gifts inserted into the middle of them.
‘I can see why you didn’t need my flowers,’ he said with an ironic laugh. ‘They don’t match your colour scheme.’
A muscle twitched in her cheek but she didn’t say anything.
‘Special occasion?’ he asked, hoping she’d tell him so it would break the ice and he could congratulate her.
Meredith continued to stare out to sea with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
She was giving him nothing so he pressed on. ‘Birthday? Conferment of your fellowship?’
She shook her head hard, sending her golden hair flying across her face. She quickly tugged it back behind her ears. ‘Condolences.’
The word came out softly but it barrelled into him with the impact of a rampaging bull. The white roses, the white stargazer lilies, the white daisies with the green discs and the white orchids all catapulted him back in time so fast he almost got whiplash. Memories of standing next to his mother’s casket, with the cloying scent of lilies clogging his throat, rushed back to him unbidden.
Suddenly it all made sense—her paleness, the black rings under her eyes and her all-encompassing sadness. She was grieving, but for whom? They were both of an age where parents might die. Hell, three months ago he and Bianca had been faced with the possibility that Mario might die. Raf wanted to offer his condolences but for whom? Was it her mother? Father? Was it crass to ask who had died?
Yes!
Meredith cleared her throat but her gaze didn’t leave the horizon. ‘Richard … my husband … was snowboarding with a group of back-country enthusiasts. They’d hiked to Mount Feathertop,’ she said in a flat tone, as if she’d told the story many times before. ‘He was caught in an avalanche and …’ She sucked in a deep breath, her whole body trembling. ‘He didn’t survive.’
Her pain tore through him, tightening his chest and making his gut heave. He’d seen the television news reports and read the articles in the paper a few weeks ago about the talented trauma surgeon whose life had been cut short so dramatically. ‘Bloody hell, Meredith. That’s … It’s …’ He swore softly. ‘So very wrong.’
She raised her gaze to his. At first he saw desolation and despair but then anger sparked bright like a flint. ‘Oh, yes, it’s wrong all right. I’m so furious with him for doing this to me.’ She rubbed her belly. ‘To us.’
Raf frowned and said quietly, ‘I doubt it was his intention to die.’
‘You think?’ Blue jets of fury flared in her eyes and she jabbed her finger at him. ‘It’s just the sort of selfish thing he’d go and do.’ She spun away from him and grabbed a vase of flowers, dumping them in the sink and snapping the stalks in half. ‘For years I’ve waited to have our baby. I fitted into his life. I moved cities and countries, leaving good jobs behind to support him and his career.’
She threw the broken blooms into the bin, her actions jerky. ‘Now it was supposed to be my turn. He should be here, supporting the baby and me. He owes me that. He promised.’ Her voice broke and she sagged against the sink like a deflating balloon, her shoulders shaking as the emotion of her outburst caught up with her.
Her agony tugged at Raf and guilt propelled him forward. Gently and silently, he put his hands on her shoulders. The last time he’d spoken, his words had been a match to her outrage and powerlessness over her husband’s death. This time he wasn’t saying a word. This time he was just offering comfort in the same way he offered it when he was on first-aid duty.
Her shoulders heaved under his hands and with a choking sob she turned into his chest. Without a second thought, he wrapped his arms around her, wishing he could absorb and dilute her distress.
Shuddering, she dropped her head onto his shoulder and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to bring his hand to the back of her head and stroke her hair. The silky strands caressed his palm and he breathed in deeply, enjoying her subtle fragrance of salt, spring flowers and a touch of apple far too much.
Her gulping sobs brought tears that soaked through his shirt and the dampness was cool on his skin. He didn’t care. It felt right to have her in his arms and he’d stay here for as long as she needed him.
Slowly, her ragged breathing calmed and they fell into a matching rhythm of long, slow, deep breaths.
The baby kicked him hard in the belly. Kicked a second time as if to say, You’re not my father