The Lost Wife. Maggie Cox
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the time-honoured habit of caring parents everywhere, she wondered yet again if she was a good enough mother—if she was perhaps failing her child in some fundamental unconscious way? Was she wrong in wanting a career of her own? To stand on her own feet at last and not feel as if she was depending on her ex-husband? At the thought of Jake she wondered if she hadn’t been utterly selfish in pushing him away emotionally and physically, and finally driving him into asking for a divorce. She should have talked to him more, but she hadn’t. Relations between them had deteriorated so badly that they’d barely been able to look at each other, she remembered sadly.
Hearing the front door open, then slam shut again, she quickly crossed the landing to the spare room. The pretty double bed with its old-fashioned iron bedstead was strewn with all manner of knitting and materials from her craft business, and she scooped them up and quickly heaped them on top of the neat little writing desk in the corner. She wouldn’t stop to sort them all out right now. Tomorrow she would venture out to the purpose-built heated office in the garden, where she created her designs and stored her materials, and she would store the colourful paraphernalia away properly. Right now she would concentrate on making the bed, so that Jake could bring up his overnight bag and unpack.
As she unfolded the pristine white sheets she’d retrieved from the airing cupboard Ailsa noticed that her hands were shaking. They might not be sharing a bed tonight, but it was a long time since she’d slept under the same roof as her ex-husband. Once upon a time they had been so very close—as if even an act of God couldn’t tear them asunder. She’d often fallen asleep at night after they’d made love enfolded in his arms and woken the next morning in just the same position … Her insides churned with grief and regret at what they had lost. The haunting memories that Jake’s appearance had brought to the surface again were so intense that it felt as if they might drown her.
‘It’s all right,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s only for one night. Tomorrow he’ll be gone again.’ But as she glanced out of the window at the cascade of white flakes still steadily falling her stomach clenched anxiously. She might well be wrong about that …
Jake had gone upstairs to take a shower and get a change of clothes. Ailsa took the opportunity to retreat to the kitchen to mull over what to cook for dinner. She’d planned on having a simple pasta dish with a home-made sauce for Saskia and herself that night, but she was concerned that it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy a healthy male specimen like Jake. He loved good food and the finer things in life, and was a surprisingly good cook himself. It was another reason why she was slightly nervous about cooking for him again. She was no domestic goddess, and during their marriage her husband had patiently tolerated her culinary attempts with great good humour—even if more often than not he had ended up suggesting they go out to eat at one of his favourite restaurants instead. Many times he’d suggested they hire a full-time chef or cook, but Ailsa had always insisted she loved to cook for her husband and daughter. At heart she was a traditionalist, and would have felt as if she’d somehow failed her family if she hadn’t prepared their meals.
Having grown up in a children’s home, it was inevitable that her greatest longing had always been to have a family of her own.
A heavy fall of snow rolled off the eaves outside the window and fell to the ground with a crash. Snapping out of her reverie, Ailsa reached for the kitchen telephone and listened intently for a dial-tone. Nothing … The lines were obviously still down. She was longing to hear Saskia’s sweet voice and find out for herself if her little girl was happy with her grandmother in Copenhagen. Knowing how warm and loving Tilda Larsen was, she didn’t doubt it, but she would have liked confirmation from Saskia herself.
Biting down on her lip, she reached for the apron behind the larder door and turned on the oven. She scrubbed and rinsed a couple of generous sized potatoes, pricked the skins with a fork and popped them in the oven on a baking tray. Then she retrieved some minced beef from the fridge, a couple of onions and some garlic, and arranged a chopping board on the counter. She would add the prepared pasta sauce to the ingredients in the frying pan, along with some kidney beans and rustle up a quick chili con carne, she decided. At least it was a recipe she knew well, and therefore there was less chance of her having a disaster.
‘You look busy.’
The huskily male voice behind her almost made her jump out of her skin. Turning, Ailsa glanced into a sea of glittering iced blue, and her whole body suddenly felt dangerously weak. ‘I’m—I’m just preparing our dinner.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble on my account.’
‘It’s no trouble. We’ve both got to eat, right?’
His gaze scanning the ingredients on the marble-topped counter, Jake shrugged. ‘Need any help?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Turning back to the job in hand, she picked up the waiting sharp knife to dice the onions. But it was hard to keep her hand perfectly steady when the image of Jake in a fitted wine-coloured sweater and tailored black trousers, his hair damply golden from his shower, kept impinging on her ability to think straight. ‘I know when we were together my cooking wasn’t great, but I’ve gotten better at it over the years and you might even be pleasantly surprised.’
The man standing behind her didn’t immediately reply. When Ailsa heard him exhale a heavy sigh, she tensed anxiously.
‘Why did you think your cooking wasn’t great?’
‘Well … you always seemed to end up suggesting we go to a restaurant whenever I made anything. Perhaps that was a clue?’
Saying nothing, Jake moved up beside her and gently removed the ivory-handled knife from her hand. Laying it down on the chopping board, he turned her round to face him. ‘I don’t remember ever suggesting we go to a restaurant when you’d already spent hours in the kitchen cooking a meal. And when I suggested we eat out it was only ever to give you a break, so that you wouldn’t stress over preparing something. You made some great food when we were together, Ailsa. You must have, because I’m still here … right?’
What special ingredient did he possess that made that crooked smile of his so heartbreaking? His eyes so penetratingly, flawlessly blue? Her breath hitched and her heart started to race …
CHAPTER TWO
IT PAINED Jake that Ailsa had harboured the belief all these years that he’d thought her cooking unpalatable. Yes, he had on occasion smiled at her earnest efforts when they hadn’t quite worked out, but he hoped he’d conveyed that he was appreciative too. He’d eat burnt offerings every day if he could turn back the clock to the time when they were together, before the shattering event that had torn them apart.
He breathed out slowly. As he examined her thoughtful amber gaze a ripple of undeniable electricity hummed between them.
‘Yes, you’re still here,’ she quietly agreed with a reticent smile.
‘Battle-scarred, but still alive and kicking,’ he added, joking.
Ailsa’s smile fled, as did the beginning-to-melt look in her eyes. ‘Don’t joke about that,’ she scolded. Her tone was softer as she looped some silky strands of hair behind her ear. ‘Does it still bother you? The scar, I mean?’
His heart thudding—as it always did whenever his scar came under scrutiny—Jake mentally strengthened his defences, hammering in iron nails to hold them fast. ‘Do you mean am I worried that it’s spoiled my good looks?’ he mocked. Spinning away from her, he jammed his hands into his pockets, but quickly turned back again before she had a chance to comment. ‘It’s been over four years since I acquired it. I’ve quite got used to it. I think it gives me a certain piratical appeal … don’t you? At least, that’s what women tell me’
‘Women?’
‘We’ve been divorced four years, Ailsa. Did you imagine I would stay celibate?’
‘Don’t!’
‘Don’t