‘We haven’t had the picnic.’ Rosie bounced up and down between them. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘When aren’t you?’ A soft, sad smile appeared as Emma ran her hand over her daughter’s head. ‘We’ve got orange juice to go with those biscuits,’ she told him, ‘plus bananas and apples.’ Tipping her head around, Emma finally eyeballed him. ‘If chocolate biscuits and bananas are your thing then you’re welcome to join us.’ The smile dipped. ‘I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind.’
‘Hey, stop that. You’re allowed a bad moment without expecting me to think the worst of you.’ Now he understood her need to appease people over some of the least likely things. ‘If you want to talk about it some more, then I’m here for you.’
‘I’ve never been one for prattling on. It’s hard, you know?’
‘I imagine it is. But not with me, okay?’ Never with me.
‘You didn’t like me mentioning your reaction to that little boy’s predicament the other day, yet at the same time you think I should spill my guts about what’s turned me into the blithering wreck I can sometimes be?’ Astonishment glittered out at him.
Way to go for the throat, Emma.
‘I’m a better listener than talker.’
Glib, man. Also true.
‘Same here, especially with someone not prepared to share what’s made them who they are, not willing to open up. I thought we were friends, Nixon.’
He wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t when every word she said hit the truth on the head. Instead, his heart was skittering all over the show. They were on the brink of something here, something huge. Something he didn’t understand. Something he’d already stepped back from once. Now he tried again, took a pace back physically and mentally, saying, ‘I’m unable to talk about certain things. I don’t know how to vocalise my emotions.’ Like Henry? Where had that come from? Was there any truth in it?
The astonishment softened. ‘Unfortunately, the result’s the same. You expect more from me than you intend sharing about yourself.’ They’d reached her little car and she flicked the locks before facing him. ‘I can’t work like that, Nixon. For me it takes a lot to trust someone and I’ve found that with you, but I need the same back.’
Another truth slammed him. ‘I do trust you, Emma.’
‘You want to explain why you were so desperate to save the boy’s mother? Apart from that you’re a doctor and you want to save everyone.’
Forcing his mouth open to answer her, to give her what she was asking for, he found that nothing came out. Not a word. Zip. Nada. Bloody hell.
Say something…anything.
No, not anything. Emma will turn her back on me. For ever.
‘I see.’ Her body slumped. ‘Come on, Rosie. We’ll take our picnic back down to the lake’s edge.’ She lifted the lid of the boot, retrieved a shopping bag and slammed the boot shut. Pinged the locks. Held her hand out to Rosie. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Nixon, race me to the water.’ Rosie didn’t pick up on the tension crackling in the air.
Emma didn’t acknowledge him, kept walking away. Her hand gripped her daughter’s tight, the bag swinging hard in her other hand.
With every step she took, cracks opened deep inside him. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from that tight, straight back, those short, sharp steps. He’d hurt Emma as hard as one of her ex’s fists had. He took a step after her. Stopped. This needed thinking through, not some rash compromise he couldn’t fulfil. Getting it wrong would only compound the hurt.
Pain flared in his chest, as if his heart had been sliced in two. But love had nothing to do with this breakdown in communication. He liked Emma a lot, admired her strength and bravery, enjoyed being with her, wanted to spend more time with her, but love didn’t—couldn’t—feature. He’d shut that emotion down for so long, so deep, it was beyond being resurrected.
Chocolate biscuits and bananas weren’t going to be a sweet fix for what ailed him. He turned away, aiming for his vehicle. What was required for that was impossible.
He would go back to being her boss and hopefully, eventually, they’d put this behind them and return to their comfortable friendship. Some time in the not too distant future. Only problem with that scenario—his body craved intimacy with hers. Got hot and flustered at the sight of those lush curves, the swell of her breasts, that copper-shaded hair spilling down to her waist, the multitude of expressions flitting across her face. Oh, yes, he wanted Emma Hayes as he’d never wanted a woman before. Friends? Baloney. Not any more.
*
Emma glanced over her shoulder as Nixon all but ran to his four-wheel drive. He was so desperate to get away from her he hadn’t said goodbye to Rosie. That stunk. Her daughter had done nothing wrong.
Did I? By being honest did I wrong Nixon?
For once, tears did not appear to track down her face. Sure, she wanted to cry, loud and ferociously, to shout at Nixon that he was wrong to keep everything so locked up.
But how could she when she was guilty of the same thing? Her family had often heard about her marriage and the horrors it held. Abbie more often. But they knew her, they’d been there all of her life so naturally she turned to them when she finally opened her gob.
She doubted Nixon had ever talked about what was eating at him. Not to a soul. There mightn’t have been anyone to tell, so he’d become a master at keeping quiet. No denying that horror and determination in his eyes the other day when he’d looked at the little boy screaming for his mother. But talk about it? About as likely as winning the lotto.
Then it hit her. Hard. Did Nixon know how it felt to lose his mother at a young age?
Emma’s stomach sucked in. That was it. Had to be. Or, if not his mother, then his dad or someone very close. Whoever it had been, the raw pain that had been there at that crash site spoke of loss. A loss he’d been determined to prevent Paddy learning. It had been in Nixon’s actions, his steady, determined compressions and dark voice counting to thirty. Paddy had not been about to lose his mother if Nixon had anything to do with it.
He’d beaten the odds, brought the woman back from death’s door. Apparently she’d coded in Resus too and again Nixon had been her saviour. Driven by those ghosts, Emma bet.
‘You’re holding too tight.’ Rosie tugged at their joined hands.
‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ She looked around for an available picnic table and came up short. ‘Let’s sit on the grass and have some biccies.’ An engine started up, probably Nixon leaving. So he wasn’t coming back to join them. Not today. Probably never.
Rosie had other ideas and was waving frantically towards the car park. ‘Doesn’t Nixon like chocolate, Mummy?’
‘I’ll eat his.’
If only life were so easy. Emma wished hard for Rosie to know only this sun-kissed version for many more years. She hated that one day her sweet little girl would learn that not everything went her way, that sometimes things went belly up very badly.
‘Can I call my puppy Nixon?’
Despite everything, Emma could not stop a shout of laughter.
No, you can’t.
‘You’re not getting a puppy.’
But if you do I’ll make sure it’s a bitch so you have to think of a girly name.
‘I will one day.’
Shades of her own determination as a young girl were shining through more often lately. Where had that determination gone when she’d needed it the most? Into the mine of pain riding on a hard fist. That was where. Now she was getting closer to a man determined to kee
p her on the edge of his life who at the same time kept dropping in as though he couldn’t stay away. What was going on between them? She was seeing possibilities for a new, happier life, shared with someone she might one day care a lot about. But every time hope lifted, Nixon went and proved how wrong she was. He did not want to get involved.
‘Right, let’s eat.’ Swallowing was going to be difficult when there was a lump of bewilderment and disappointment in her throat, but she’d give it her best shot. Chin up. Tomorrow she might drop into work and apologise to Nixon for raising an obviously painful subject. Then she’d put on her mother hat to go pick Rosie up from school, cook dinner and go to bed to get up in the morning and start all over. By the end of the week the routine would surely have settled her down on all fronts. Baby hormones needed to start backing off and give her breasts a break, and then her head space could calm down and return to being rational.
The same needed to happen with the yearnings for Nixon that cranked up whenever she was around him. They had to go away so she could get on with her comfortable, safe, single-mother life.
Except she’d acted totally out of character when she’d stood up to Nixon about his reactions to that boy’s mother’s situation. Where had the cowering, be-nice-or-get-hit woman gone? She’d actually told him what she thought, and then watched him walk away. Was she finally getting a backbone? Standing up for what she believed to be right and true? She sank further onto the ground, her bones resembling jelly.
She hadn’t backed down when Nixon had got upset, because it was important for their future. Not that they had one.
Determination in spades. Yes. Good. Great, even.
So why did she feel so tearful and pleased and worried?
Blasted hormones. Hadn’t taken a hike at all.
CHAPTER SIX
‘IT FEELS GOOD fitting into my old-size scrubs again.’ Emma laughed at her reflection in the changing-room mirror, ignoring the stretched fabric across her breasts and the tightness around her waist. Slightly forced laughter, but hey, whatever it took to start out the day on the right note.
Her colleague Steph laughed too. ‘Like you were huge when you were carrying Grace. You made most of the other girls jealous with your lithe figure right up until you gave birth.’