Just Say Yes (Escape to New Zealand Book 10) Page 8

  When she got back into the car, though, she couldn’t drive, even though she needed to get to the studio. She hadn’t done enough work the night before, and there was the schedule for the next school holidays’ ballet camp, preparation for today’s classes ... so many things.

  She had to go, but she couldn’t. Her hands were shaking. She picked up her phone and dialed a number.

  “Frank Donaldson’s office,” she heard.

  “Please put me through to him. It’s Chloe.”

  “Good morning,” Sonya, her father’s longtime secretary, said. “He’s in a meeting just now. I’ll give him a message, shall I?”

  “No. Break in.”

  Hesitation on the other end. “It’s an important meeting, I’m afraid.”

  “And it’s an emergency,” Chloe said. “Break in.”

  A minute, two, and her father was on the other end of the phone. “Kitten. What? Is it something with Zavy?”

  “Yes.” The anger had come straight back again, or it had never left. “You and Mum made plans with Rich without telling me? You arranged for Rich to take Zavy? After everything he’s done, or—or—” She was stammering in her agitation. “Or not done? When has he ever showed one bit of concern or interest? How could you do that, Dad? How could you do it to Zavy, and to me?” Her voice was shaking, and she didn’t care. Her mother, yes. Her mother always thought she knew best. But her dad, too?

  “Hang on,” her dad said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean, Rich took Zavy?”

  “You don’t know? How can you not know?”

  “Start at the beginning,” her dad commanded. “Take a breath, then tell me.”

  She did it as best she could, even though just saying the words again brought the fear and anger straight back. When she was done, her father said, “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know he’d been at the apartment. It must have been while I was playing golf. But you know your mother was thinking of what was best for you and Zavy.”

  “No,” Chloe said, “she was thinking what she thinks is best for me and Zavy.”

  Her father didn’t answer that, and Chloe breathed some more and tried to calm down. She had two parents, and that was most of her support system in the world, and they were Zavy’s grandparents, too.

  She knew her mother’s shortcomings. Nobody better. But she also knew how supportive her parents had been. How many ballet lessons her mum had driven her to, how many tutus and shoes her parents had bought. How willing they’d been to take their grandson for that weekend every month, and how much that had helped. They were a mixed bag, like everybody else in the world, just like she was as a mother, she was sure.

  But she was still angry. She was still furious. Maybe to keep from being terrified.

  “Setting your mother aside,” her father said, still as calm as he always sounded, “it sounds like you negotiated Rich down, so you’re starting with a day. That’s better, surely.”

  “But he’s not his ... not his dad,” Chloe tried to explain. “He never has been. He’s seen Zavy, what, three or four times since he was born, before he gave it up? He took him twice. I don’t know anything about him that makes me think he’ll know how to take care of a three-year-old. Can’t I get some sort of stipulation, some rule that he can only see him at your house or something? Can’t we get ... supervision, or whatever it’s called?”

  “Hmm. What do you have written down now?”

  “That he takes him every other weekend. You know that. You saw it.” She got out of the car again and began to pace, because she couldn’t sit still.

  “Chloe,” her father said, “calm down. I didn’t remember. It’s been three years.”

  Not to her. To her, it might have been the day before that she and Rich had signed that plan. And what had Rich done? Taken Zavy exactly twice, during which she’d spent the day wandering around like a lost soul and worrying about her baby boy. After the second time, he’d told her he was going out of town and would ring when he had time to take Zavy again. Chloe had held her breath waiting for him to come back, and had finally relaxed, because he never had rung. Never. Until now.

  “But he’s never done it,” she said, trying again. “Not for years. How can that be allowed? How can Zavy be with him alone when he doesn’t even know him?”

  “Except it is,” her father said. “Courts want kids with both parents. I told you so, and Seamus Ferguson”—Chloe’s lawyer—“told you as well. That’s not going to change. You know how I feel about Rich. I know why he didn’t come by when I was home, but there’s no evidence he’s unfit, and certainly none that he’s abusive.” When Chloe didn’t respond, his voice softened. “Anything else is a learning curve, Kitten. If he wants the boy, that’s a good sign. Otherwise, Zavy grows up feeling rejected by his dad. How would that be better? That’s what the judge would say, and how is it not true?”

  Her father was always so perfectly logical. It was maddening. “But what if Rich does reject him? What if he does the same thing he did to me? Decides it’s too hard, that he didn’t really want to do it, that it was a cool idea but isn’t for him after all? How will that feel?”

  “Could be it’ll be a bit like a car,” her father said. “If it’s got problems that are too much for you, you tend to find out straight away. A car that makes it through the first year—even the first six months—usually isn’t a lemon. At first you’re wary, and then you relax, and after that, you get attached. It’d be the same, don’t you think?”

  Chloe’s mouth opened, then shut. “Zavy,” she told her father icily, “is not a car. He’s a person with feelings.” How had she hatched from these people?

  “He’s a three-year-old. Twenty years down the road, if Rich tries it out for a few months—a year, even—Zavy won’t remember a thing. If Rich turns out to be the dad he ought to be, Zavy will be better off. And so will you,” her dad finished with all the assurance he showed in everything. “More time to yourself, and knowing that your son has two parents. You’ll see.”

  Chloe didn’t answer. She didn’t see, but she couldn’t find the argument. She was in a maze with no way out. “And now,” her dad said, “I’d better get back to that meeting. Somebody has to pay your mum’s bills, eh. Are you all right for money?” he asked belatedly. Practical, as always.

  She said the same thing she always did. “I’m fine.”

  “Kitten,” he said more gently, “try not to fret. It’ll be all right. And I’ll see you in two weeks, hmm? Now you go on to work, and let me get back to it, too.”

  “Sure,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else. She hung up, then, and wondered if she was the only sane person in the world, or the only delusional one. The hard part was—she had no idea.

  Go back to work. It was what she’d always done. Work was what you could count on. She did it today, too, trying her best to shove back the sneaky tendrils of panic that tried to wind themselves around her, to trap her and pull her under. She couldn’t afford to be pulled under. Ever.

  At four-thirty, she was in the studio accepting the ending révérence—the curtsey to the teacher—of her under-twelves when she saw Clarice, her part-time bookkeeper, hovering outside the door. Looking excited. Or anxious.

  Zavy, Chloe thought immediately, her heart instantly starting to pound. Every rational part of her knew that Rich wasn’t interested to the point of actually putting himself out to be a real part of Zavy’s life. Why would he be? And still, her heart galloped.

  “What’s happened?” she asked Clarice, after waiting with a heroic effort to ask until the girls were gone. Not a true emergency, she knew, because Clarice hadn’t broken in.

  She only had twenty minutes before her next class began. If this were a crisis—a regular, garden-variety crisis—she hoped it was quick. Somebody’s mum in the office because she thought her daughter was ready for pointe shoes, or that she should have been passed into a higher class. Those calls and visits came at least once a week. Dance m
ums could give the mothers of pint-sized beauty contestants a run for their money in the “over-involvement” stakes.

  “Got something in the office for you,” Clarice said. “Something a bit unusual.” She was smiling, which didn’t sound or look like an emergency at all.

  It turned out to be very unusual. A vase of flowers, which wasn’t so very surprising. Well, all right, it was. Once, getting flowers had been an expected part of her life. Lately, it tended to be more along the lines of Zavy picking her a dandelion.

  But it wasn’t the flowers so much. It was what the flowers were.

  Roses? No. Lilies? The complete opposite. These—blooms?—were huge, leathery, as big as a baby’s head, and shaped somewhat like oversized thistles, but oddly soft to the touch. As bizarre as growths from outer space, only their pink coloring scoring anything like “floral.” There was an envelope tucked inside, though, as well as something dangling from a ribbon.

  A miniature cement mixer.

  She opened the envelope. Inside was a twenty-dollar note, folded in two, and a card. Two cards, one under the other.

  Proteas. Strange and exotic. They look prickly, but wait till you stroke them. Beautiful when they bloom, too. All it takes is a bit of heat.

  She turned the card over.

  Thanks for yesterday, but I didn’t do it quite right. You always ask for the next date.

  And then an arrow. Ah. Card Two.

  Any night until Thursday, any time you like, you and Zavy. My house, the twins’ cooking, your risk.

  And finally, on the back—

  I enclose our $20. That’s for a takeaway, in case it’s unbearable.

  She’d given the note back to him after dinner, and he’d kept it? Really? She put both cards and the money back into the envelope, and Clarice said, “A new fella? About time. They’re lovely, if a bit ... unusual.”

  “Not really,” Chloe said. “New fella, I mean.” She didn’t say the rest. That she didn’t have space for anything just now. For one single bit more pressure. That she couldn’t.

  When Kevin hadn’t heard from Chloe when he got home from training at six, he started to wonder.

  He’d been going for a bit flirty, that was all. He knew she was wary. You wouldn’t have to be a mind reader. That was why he hadn’t suggested the candles and tablecloths. He’d thought “safe” was better for this time, even though he also knew she’d responded to that kiss. He was leaving town again next Tuesday, too, and time was running out.

  But he’d wanted to make her smile.

  The flowers had been unusual. He’d thought she’d like that, but maybe she’d thought it was some sort of insult. That “prickly” and all.

  He headed into the house, said an absent “Hi” to Holly, who yelped in response, ran into the kitchen, and grabbed a pan off the stove. It smelled like whatever was in there hadn’t fared too well.

  Mondays. Kevin sighed and went into the bedroom to drop his bag.

  At seven-thirty, he was helping Noelle with the washing-up when he heard the “ding” from his phone. He pulled it out and saw the text.

  Thanks for the flowers. And the cement mixer. Zavy loved it.

  No worries, he texted back, trying to ignore the shocking extent to which his heart had lightened. What about dinner? Warning, may need the $20 back. Rice still tastes burnt even if you aren’t actually eating the burnt bits. Ask me how I know.

  He waited and watched until the message appeared. Oh. Sorry. Bad day.

  What did that mean? His fingers hovered over the keypad, then he finally punched something in.

  She picked up after the first ring, and she didn’t say hello. Instead, she said, “Thumbs get tired?”

  He smiled. Saucy. That was good. “No. It’s what we said. I’m not subtle, and I’m not much for reading between the lines. I wasn’t sure what ‘bad day’ meant. Whether you were saying no to dinner, or whether you were explaining why you hadn’t answered, or maybe commiserating about my rice. I thought, best to go on and ask.”

  “You’re direct.”

  “Usually. It’s easier. So what does ‘bad day’ mean?”

  “Oh. Just ...” Her voice wavered on the word, and there was a pause before she said, “It wasn’t to do with you. You were one of the better parts. You were right about the flowers. Strange and wonderful, and they haven’t even opened up yet. I can’t wait. But I didn’t say ‘Thanks’ fast enough, I know. Or answer you.”

  He thought about that a moment, then said, “Never mind, then. No pressure. But if you want to tell me about that bad day, I’m willing.” He almost suggested meeting her in her courtyard, but something was dawning on him. A man might think it was a dream come true to have a woman he wanted this much living that close to him, but it could get pretty bloody uncomfortable for Chloe. He had a feeling that “stalker” wasn’t what was missing from her life.

  “You don’t want to hear about my bad day,” she said.

  “No? And yet here I am, with nothing on my agenda except the thriller on the bedside table.”

  “Really. I’d have taken you for the Sky Sport type. Motor racing, maybe.”

  “You may want to check your preconceptions.”

  “My prejudices, you mean?”

  “Could be.” He was on the veranda now, away from Noelle’s attentive ears. “Although I should point out that it’s a thriller, not a historical analysis of Western culture. Things blow up. Cars crash. People die. All that.”

  “The last film I watched,” she said, “starred Fred Astaire.”

  “There you are, then.” He waited a minute, then said, “So. Something I can help with?”

  “Not really. Besides, I could cry, and where would that leave you?”

  “At a guess,” he said, “frustrated. Exactly the way I’m feeling right now.” Ten meters away from her front door, and nowhere close.

  “Oh.” There was another tiny wobble in her voice. “I can’t. Not tonight. But I could do dinner Wednesday, if you like. I’ll promise to be fit company by Wednesday, and it’s not one of my late nights at the studio.”

  He wanted to say, I’ll take you vulnerable. I’ll take you imperfect. I’ll take you every way you are. He didn’t. He said, “Six-thirty do you? I know it’s early. Country hours, eh. Sportsman hours, maybe.”

  “That’s perfect, if you really don’t mind Zavy.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s a family dinner, remember? Means we both bring our family.”

  “And that’s really enough for you?”

  “I didn’t say it was enough for me. I said I wanted you to come.”

  Silence for a moment, and then she said, “That was pretty good. And by the way—you made me smile, and you made me feel better. Just like the flowers. Thank you.”

  “Then,” he said, “I’m glad.”

  He’d been right. Heaps better than texting.

  It was almost six-thirty already by the time he got home on Wednesday. Not good timing at all, but he had Auckland motorway traffic to blame for that. And as soon as he walked into the house and took off his trainers, he heard them.

  “Oh.” The moan was Noelle. “Oh, it’s bad. It’s bad.”

  “It’s not just bad.” That was Holly, and she was laughing. “It’s rubbish. Could we melt some more cheese on top, maybe?”

  “The cheese is the problem.” Noelle again.

  Kevin sighed. Why had he thought this would be a good idea? He walked through the lounge, picking up the scattering of remotes, textbooks, and assorted charging cords along the way, straightening the pillows on the couch, and thinking what it said about his family that he was the tidiest person in this house.

  When he got to the kitchen, Noelle and Holly were woefully contemplating something in a pan. He looked at it, swallowed, and the doorbell rang.

  Brilliant.

  Back out into the lounge again, opening the front door, to see Chloe in another pair of leggings, another stretchy top, a long one this time, and another little sweater on top.
The plum one that tied on the side, like that first day in the studio, the day he’d seen her dance. Zavy stood beside her in Batman pajamas, and no matter how Kevin felt about the disaster in the kitchen—right now, he felt good.

  “Hi,” he said, and gave Chloe a kiss on the cheek. Breathing her in, and feeling that tiny sway toward him, like she couldn’t help it. “Mm,” he said, pulling back with reluctance. “You smell like roses. Are those your favorites? I’m taking notes, you see. Can’t give you proteas every time, or you’ll start to question my motives.”

  Normal. He was being normal. And not taking her in his arms and kissing her the way he needed to.

  “Oh,” she said, stepping inside, kicking off her jandals, and setting down an enormous picture book beside them, “doesn’t every woman love roses?”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re your favorites.”

  She smiled at him sideways, that secret nymph one that hit him low in the gut. “Peonies, then, if you want to know. Inconvenient, hard to find, the season’s too short, and they’re temperamental, but oh, they’re beautiful.”

  Every bit of it like you, Kevin thought and didn’t say. Casual, that was his brief. And there was Zavy, too. He crouched down next to the boy and said, “What have you got there, mate?”

  Zavy held out both hands. “’Ment mixer. And fire truck.”

  “Ah. A good addition to any party.”

  “Kevin gave you the cement mixer, love,” Chloe said. “Say thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Zavy said. “The people go around and around,” he told Kevin, demonstrating with a flailing arm. “Inside. Then they fall out. But the firemen catch them in a big net.”

  Kevin blinked. All righty, then. “They could be covered with cement, though,” he said. “Could be an issue, eh.”

  Zavy appeared struck by this insight. “The firemen can squirt them with their hoses,” he said. “Then they’ll be all clean.”

  “That would solve it.” Kevin stood up again and told Chloe, “If we were flash, we’d have appetizers and cocktails on the veranda now. As it is, I’m not even sure about dinner. You can come see for yourself.”