By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс
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the hell was he going to do? How could he convince her that life without her was an empty void, devoid of any real joy or satisfaction? In her crazy, mixed-up mind she thought she was protecting him in some way by cutting the threads that bound them. In reality she was killing him, inch by inch. And now there was the baby, a product of their love. Because it had been love that had given it life; this child had been created by passion and desire certainly—he only had to look at her to become rock hard—but love had been the foundation of their relationship from their first date. Before their first date. He had been born waiting for Melanie to appear in his life and he had recognised she was his other half early on. It really had been as simple as that.
A fox skittered across the road a little way ahead of him, a flash of red and bushy tail in the headlights. It was a timely reminder he was still going too fast and he checked his speed accordingly. He’d driven the car too hard too often lately—yet another indication that his normal self-control wasn’t as sharp as it could be. The trouble was, thoughts of Melanie were always at the forefront of his mind, thoughts that triggered a whole gamut of emotion and tied him up in knots. His mother had told him she was worried Melanie would crack up completely if something didn’t give soon and it had been on the tip of his tongue to say her son was in the same boat.
He smiled grimly to himself. He hadn’t, of course. His mother was concerned enough as it was. And it would have been a trite remark anyway. He had no intention of going to pieces. He was going to get his wife back come hell or high water, and the news about the baby only meant it would be sooner rather than later. He was done with the softly-softly approach and pretending to play along with the divorce. When she had first left him he’d told her she would divorce him over his dead body and that still held.
Forde glanced at the huge bunch of pink rosebuds and baby’s breath on the passenger seat at the side of him, next to the bottle of sparkling wine—non-alcoholic of course. Melanie had been obsessional regarding eating and drinking all the right things when she’d been pregnant before.
His brooding gaze softened. She’d pored over all the baby books she had bought, drunk gallons of milk, and the first time she had felt flutterings in her belly that were definitely tiny limbs thrashing about had been beside herself with joy. She would make a wonderful mother; he knew that. Her experiences as a child had made her determined their child would know nothing but love and security. He would remind her of that tonight if she persisted in this ridiculous notion of continuing with the separation.
He began to mentally list all the arguments and counter arguments he would put to Melanie to support his cause for the rest of the journey, playing devil’s advocate some of the time until he was absolutely sure she couldn’t put anything to him he hadn’t thought about.
When he parked in the little car park belonging to the row of cottages he was feeling positive. She loved him and he loved her, that was the most important thing to remember, that and the miracle that their night of love in the summer had made a little person, a composite of them both. She couldn’t dispute that. Come the spring there was going to be clear evidence of it. A baby boy or girl, a living, breathing reality.
He felt such a surge of love for Melanie and his unborn child that it took his breath away. He’d been wrong
when he’d thought she partly blamed him for Matthew’s death; he realised that now after talking to Janet and his mother. Melanie had condemned herself utterly. Maybe he should have refused to let her withdraw from him in those early days after the miscarriage? The doctors had told him to give her time, that it was natural for some women to detach themselves from what had happened for a while, nature’s way of assisting the mind to deal with something too devastating to take in all in one go.
But it hadn’t been like that with Melanie. Why had he listened to anyone when all his instincts had been telling him to make her let him in? He hadn’t known if he was on foot or horseback, that was the trouble. They had still been wrapped up in the rosy glow of finding each other and getting married, then the thrill of finding out she was pregnant—life had been perfect, scarily so with hindsight. And then, in the space of a heartbeat, their world had fragmented. He could still remember her face when he’d got to the hospital and found her in labour …
He shook his head to dispel the image that had haunted him ever since.
Getting out of the car, he looked towards the cottages. If he had his way she would be returning home with him tonight. Janet had told him not to take no for an answer when he’d told her everything earlier that day, which was all very well, but this was Melanie they were talking about. A corner of his mouth twisted wryly. She might look as though a puff of wind could blow her away, but his wife was one tough cookie when she had the bit between her teeth about something or other.
An owl hooted somewhere close by, otherwise the night was still and quiet, unlike his churning mind. He took a deep breath and composed himself, feeling like a soldier preparing himself for battle. Which wasn’t too far from the truth, he thought sardonically. And Melanie was one hell of a formidable opponent …
At Melanie’s front door, he took another deep breath but didn’t pause as he rang the doorbell. He had expected some lights to be on downstairs but the place seemed to be in darkness. He frowned, waiting a few moments before ringing again. Nothing. He glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes to eight. Surely she wouldn’t have gone out to avoid him? But no, Melanie wouldn’t do that, he told himself in the next moment, ashamed the thought had come into his mind. Whatever else, Melanie wasn’t a coward, neither did she break her word. She had said she would be here so what was wrong?
Concerned now, he threw caution to the wind and banged on the door consistently with all his might. The cottages either side of Melanie were in blackness, but there was a light on in one a couple of doors down. He’d go there in a minute if he had to. Her truck had been in the car park—he’d parked right next to it—so she couldn’t have gone far. Unless she was lying injured inside …
He knew a moment of gut-wrenching relief when the door creaked open. Melanie stood there in the robe she’d worn that night in August, her eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and her blonde hair tousled. ‘Forde?’ Her voice was husky, slow. ‘What time is it? I only meant to have a rest for a few minutes.’
‘Eight o’clock.’ He had a job to speak. From being worried to death about her, he now found himself wanting to ravish her to heaven and back in her deliciously dishevelled state.
He gave her the flowers before bending to pick up the bottle he’d put down in order to batter the door, his body so hard with desire it was painful to walk when she said, ‘Come in, and thank you for the flowers. Rosebuds and baby’s breath, my favourite.’
‘I know.’ He smiled and received a small smile in return as she turned away. He followed her into the house. Unlike the previous time he was here she didn’t suggest he sit in the sitting room like a guest, but led the way to the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not ready,’ she said flusteredly, stating the obvious as she rummaged about for a vase in one of the cupboards. ‘It’ll take me a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Coffee, juice, a glass of wine?’
‘A coffee would be great.’ He didn’t really want one; he just didn’t want her to fly off upstairs immediately. On impulse, he said, ‘We don’t have to go out for a meal tonight if you’re tired. I can order something in. Chinese, Indian, Thai? Whatever you fancy.’
He could see her mind working as she looked at him. Going out for a meal would be less intimate, less cosy, but the thought of not having to dress up and make the effort to go out was clearly tempting. He waited without saying anything. She fiddled with the flowers as the rich smell of coffee began to fill the room, but he still didn’t speak.
‘There’s a Chinese in the next village,’ she volunteered after a few moments. ‘The leaflet’s under the biscuit tin there.’ She pointed to a tin close to where he’d sat himself on one of the two kitchen stools tucked under the tiny breakfast bar. ‘Perhaps you could order while I get dressed.’
‘You