Just One Last Night

She wanted to object but when she looked at him there was an unsettling blend of concern and tenderness in his face. It wiped away her resolve. Weakly, she said, ‘James should never have said anything to your mother. I’m not pleased with him.’

‘Be as hard on him as you like,’ Forde said cheerfully, ‘but he did say something and I’ll be at yours at eight.’ He opened the truck door and then paused, turning to face her once more. ‘You were going to tell me about the baby, weren’t you?’

His uncertainty made her feel like the worst sinner on earth. She answered with obvious sincerity, her voice soft. ‘You would have been the first to know, Forde, even if you hadn’t turned up here this morning.’ And then honesty forced her to continue, ‘But it might not have been for a day or two until I’d adjusted to the idea.’

He stared at her. ‘Is it really so bad, being pregnant with our baby?’

It was the worst thing and the best thing in the world, but how could she explain that to him when she couldn’t explain it to herself? ‘I have to go,’ she said tightly.

He nodded. ‘Drive carefully.’ And then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘What are you going to tell my mother? She’s worried about you, Nell.’

She bit down hard on her bottom lip. ‘The truth, I guess.’ But that was going to be nearly as painful as these last few minutes with Forde. Isabelle wouldn’t understand why, in these new circumstances, they weren’t getting back together for a start, and who could blame her?

This was such a mess. She was a mess. And things were going to get even messier in the next days when Forde realised she wasn’t going back to him.

Her voice brittle, she said, ‘Goodbye, Forde. And—and thank you for coming.’

He smiled. ‘You don’t have to thank me. I’m your husband, remember?’

He stood and watched her as she drove away, his hands thrust in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched. He looked big and solid and very sexy, and she was indisputably pregnant by this wonderful man who was also her husband. She should have been the happiest woman in the world …

CHAPTER SEVEN

ISABELLE must have been by the window looking out for her, because the minute she drove onto the drive and parked the truck, the front door opened. ‘Melanie, dear.’ Isabelle was leaning on the stick she’d used since the accident with her hip. ‘Could you spare a moment or two before you go through to the garden?’ she called as Melanie slammed the truck door.

Better to get it straight over with, Melanie told herself as she obediently followed Forde’s mother into the house.

‘I was just making a pot of coffee and was going to take a cup to dear James with a slice of the fruit cake he likes,’ Isabelle said, leading the way into her farmhouse-style kitchen. James had become ‘dear James’ very quickly, which didn’t surprise Melanie in the least. ‘Sit yourself down while I see to him, and perhaps you’d like to cut yourself a slice of cake and pour us both a cup while I’m gone?’

Overcome with the strangest urge to burst into tears for the second time that morning, Melanie didn’t trust herself to speak, merely nodding and smiling. In the days when she had still been with Forde she had spent many mornings helping Isabelle with something in the garden, and their eleven o’clock coffee and cake break had been something she’d looked forward to. A time of cosy chats and laughter. But she didn’t think there’d be much laughter today.

Isabel

le’s fruit cake was one of her mother-in-law’s specialities and, in spite of how she was feeling, Melanie discovered she was ravenously hungry, having skipped breakfast that morning after oversleeping. She’d done that more than once recently due to tossing and turning for the first part of the night and then falling into a deep sleep as dawn began to break. Consequently she felt tired all the time. Or she’d put down the exhaustion she felt lately to that, she thought, biting into a hefty piece of cake. Now, of course, she understood there was another factor too. In the early days with Matthew she’d felt drained.

Isabelle came back, beaming as she said, ‘Such a nice boy, that James, but I don’t think he eats enough living with those friends of his. He always wolfs down his cake as though he’s starving.’ The silver-blue eyes fastened on Melanie. ‘And you, dear? Are you eating enough? You’ve looked a little peaky lately, if you don’t mind me saying so, and James said you’d gone to the doctor’s this morning?’

Melanie swallowed a mouthful of cake and nodded. ‘I have been feeling unwell but there’s nothing wrong, not exactly. I—I didn’t realise but—’ she took a deep breath; this was harder than she’d expected with Isabelle’s sweet, concerned face in front of her ‘—I’m expecting a baby. Forde’s baby,’ she added hastily, just in case her mother-in-law got the wrong idea.

Isabelle’s face was the third that morning to register stunned surprise, but she recovered herself almost immediately. ‘Well, that’s wonderful, dear,’ she said warmly, reaching out and squeezing Melanie’s hand. ‘When is the baby due?’

‘In the spring, May time.’ It was so like Isabelle not to ask the obvious questions, Melanie thought gratefully, but feeling obligated to explain a little, she said, ‘Forde came to see me one night in August to discuss— Well, to discuss my doing the work here actually. And—and one thing led to another …’ She stopped helplessly.

‘Well, I’m thrilled for you both,’ Isabelle said briskly. ‘Does Forde know?’

Melanie nodded. ‘He came to the surgery as I was leaving.’ Then quickly, before she lost her nerve, she said, ‘This doesn’t mean we—we’re getting back together, Isabelle.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Isabelle said gently, ‘Do I take it you don’t love him any more?’

‘No. I mean, I do love Forde. Of course I do.’

‘And I know he loves you. Deeply. So forgive me but I don’t quite understand …’

Melanie tried, she really tried to keep back the tears but it was hopeless. And this wasn’t polite, ladylike weeping either. She wailed heartbrokenly, her eyes gushing and her nose running, and even when she felt Isabelle’s arms go round her with a strength that belied their frailty, she couldn’t pull herself together. She was crying for Matthew, for her dear little boy, and for Forde, for the way she had broken his heart when they’d lost their son, for all the smashed dreams and hopes that had turned to ashes. And for this new baby, this tiny, little person who hadn’t asked to exist and who was so vulnerable …

When her cries had dwindled to hiccuping sobs, Isabelle fetched a cold flannel and towel and mopped her face as though she were three years old instead of nearly thirty. Utterly spent, Melanie sat quiet and docile, her head aching and her eyes burning as her mother-in-law made a fresh pot of coffee. Once they both had a steaming mug in front of them, Isabelle sat down at the kitchen table with her and took Melanie’s hands in her own parchment-like ones. ‘Talk to me,’ she said softly.

Melanie shook her head slowly. ‘Oh, Isabelle, I don’t know how to explain.’