The Rinucci Brothers. Lucy Gordon
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it himself, explaining that he never touched alcohol.
Of course, she thought. Staying teetotal is a way of keeping control.
But then she castigated herself for dwelling so much on thoughts of him and his motives. There and then she made a resolution to put him out of her mind.
But that was hard when other people seemed so aware of him. At a nearby table sat two young women, both of whom seemed much taken with Justin. They regarded him with lustful appreciation, tried to catch his eye, smiled if his head turned briefly.
They were beauties that any man would be proud to have on his arm, and they were Justin’s, if he wanted them, which he didn’t seem to. She had to give him full marks for courtesy, for he gave her and Mark his whole attention.
She was forced to see him through their eyes as a vitally attractive man, with a presence and charisma that went beyond mere good looks, and she began to remember things she would rather forget: days on the beach with him stretched out beside her, half naked or fooling in the surf. From there it was a short step to being held against his bare chest as he kissed her fiercely, repeatedly.
It was useless to say that she hadn’t wanted that kiss. Some part of her had wanted it, although she would go to the stake before letting him suspect.
Then came other thoughts—the way she’d awoken on the sofa to find him kneeling beside her, asking gently about her sadness. His unexpected kindness had touched her heart, making her vulnerable to him. But then he’d tried to turn it to his own advantage…
‘Are you all right?’ Mark asked her.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I thought you looked a little sad.’
‘Not me,’ she said untruthfully.
It was late when they reached home and Mark’s eyelids were drooping. When Evie suggested that he go to bed he agreed without protest. Justin bade his son goodnight and immediately opened his computer.
‘I think I’ll go to bed, too,’ she said.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’
She regarded the back of his head with exasperation.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, and went upstairs.
She tucked Mark in and sat down on the bed. ‘You didn’t enjoy today, did you?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘It was like it used to be.’
‘Used to be? When?’
‘Just before Mum left. She and Dad—they were polite but it was horrible.’
Evie groaned. Why hadn’t she thought?
‘I’m sorry, Mark. We were just both in a bad mood. It didn’t mean anything. Don’t worry. Go to sleep, and everything will be all right in the morning.’
But when she’d gone to bed and switched out her light she wondered if she’d spoken truly. How could everything be all right after this?
She lay for a while, trying to get to sleep, but actually listening for the sound of Justin climbing the stairs. Instead she heard something from the next room that made her sit up in bed. There it was again—a wail from Mark’s room.
She was out on the landing in a moment, pushing open his door to find the child sitting up, his eyes closed, tears pouring down his face.
‘Mark,’ she said urgently, taking him into her arms. ‘What is it, darling?’
‘Mum,’ he wailed, ‘Mum!’
She tightened her arms, feeling the frail body shaking with misery against her. He’d given up on words now and simply lay against her, crying uncontrollably. At last she felt his hands grasping her arms tightly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he hiccuped.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. But please, tell me what’s the matter. Did you have a bad dream?’
‘No, it was a lovely dream.’
‘Was it about your mother?’
‘Um!’ He nodded against her shoulder.
‘You miss her all the time, don’t you?’ she whispered.
‘It’s worse at night, because then I dream she’s alive. She comes home to me and says it was all a mistake and she didn’t mean to go without me. Then we run away together. Or sometimes she stays home with me. It was a mistake, you see. She didn’t really leave me because she wouldn’t do that.’
His voice rose on the last few words and he buried his face against her, shaking with sobs.
‘No, darling, she wouldn’t,’ Evie murmured, racked for him.
Gradually he grew quieter. She continued to sit there, holding and soothing him, but actually alert, because her sharp ears had detected a faint sound from just outside the door.
‘She would have come for me,’ Mark said, ‘if she hadn’t died.’
‘Of course she would. And I know she never stopped thinking of you, all the time.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Then why didn’t she come home? Do you think Dad stopped her?’
‘No,’ she said swiftly. ‘I know he wouldn’t do that.’
‘You don’t really know.’
‘Yes, I do. He’d never do anything to hurt you. Mark, you must believe me.’
‘But he wouldn’t bring her home when she died.’
‘That’s different. When she was alive—’
She paused. She had no right to repeat to Mark what Justin had told her. After a moment she realised that she had no need to say any more. The child had fallen asleep against her shoulder.
Gently she laid him down on the bed and drew the covers up. Then she kissed his cheek before slipping quietly out of the room and closing the door.
It was dark in the corridor, but the sliver of moonlight from the window was just enough to show her Justin standing there, leaning against the wall, his head back, motionless.
‘Waiting at the window every week,’ he whispered.
‘Justin—’
‘Standing there for hours because today would be different—today she’d really come.’
Of course he’d heard his son’s words, and his heart had understood. If only he could talk directly to Mark like this. She could see the tears on his cheeks. He didn’t try to brush them away. Perhaps he didn’t know about them.
She reached out and held him, enfolding him in the same gesture she had used to comfort his son, and at once she felt his arms go around her, clinging on to her as if he were seeking refuge.
‘But she never came—’ he murmured.
‘Justin!’ She took hold of him, giving him a little shake.
He looked at her despairingly. ‘I was sure she’d come, but she never did.’
‘You?’ she echoed, wondering if she’d heard him clearly.
‘She promised,’ he said huskily. ‘I knew she wouldn’t break her promise—but I never saw her again.’
Only then did she understand that Justin wasn’t empathising with his son’s loss. He was talking about a loss of his own.
It was as though a pit had opened beneath her, and from its depths came an aching misery that left her shattered. It clawed at her, howling of endless despair, grief too great to endure. The man in her arms was shuddering with that grief and she held him more tightly,