‘Yes, I know and I wish things were different. I wish I could be the son he needs. The husband you had a right to expect me to be. I tried, I really tried, but my heart wasn’t in it.’
‘Then you’re right to walk away. A newspaper, a newspaper like the Chronicle, must have heart.’
‘I’m just beginning to realise that.’ He glanced at her. ‘You won’t find much of that in evidence at the Globe.’ When she didn’t respond, he extended his hand. ‘Shall we continue the tour?’
Willow knew she shouldn’t take it, shouldn’t take that short flight of stairs to his other world. She knew that what she’d see would break her heart.
But nothing in the world could have stopped her.
WILLOW climbed the spiral staircase to the upper floor knowing that the apartment would be special. Nothing could have prepared her for the elegance, the simplicity, the economy of the home that Mike had fashioned from the old hayloft.
‘It’s lovely, Mike.’ It was more than that. It was all she had ever wanted. Small, everything within reach just about, uncluttered, a place to live in rather than live up to. A total contrast to the vast, demanding house in Melchester that had been waiting to suck her up, absorb her, turn her into its slave.
The floor was a wide expanse of pale, polished wood, the fittings all clean lines and function, the soft furnishings a rich dark red that she recognised instantly from the towels he’d brought to the cottages.
Willow knew he was watching her as she walked slowly through the place he’d made with his own hands. Her hand trailed along the rounded edge of the simple screen dividing the living area from a raised sleeping space. She took two steps up the ladder to where a thick mattress was installed on a platform beneath a huge, angled skylight.
‘This is…cosy.’ Her mouth was dry but she had to say something.
‘It was the only way I could fit in the shower room. It’s quite something lying under the skylight on a frosty night.’
There was a pause that seemed to go on for ever while Mike wondered what she’d say if he invited her to stay and try it out. While Willow wondered what she’d say if he asked her.
‘It must be like sleeping beneath the sky,’ she said finally. She glanced down at him.
‘Better. No matter how cold it is outside, it’s warm beneath the covers.’ He smiled briefly. ‘And when it rains you don’t get wet.’
Right now she could think of nothing she’d like better than to climb up there, burrow down beneath the quilt with Mike and stay there for a week. Pure self-indulgence.
A week or a month, their problems would still be waiting.
She backed down the steps and followed the smooth, curved transition from the white and steel shower room and on into the kind of galley kitchen that featured in lifestyle magazines. Her fingers recognised the work. He’d made all this. Mike had made this and it was beautiful.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked again.
‘That I was a carpenter by inclination, a managing director only by duty? The truth?’
She thought his description of himself as a carpenter was disingenuous. A carpenter was a craftsman, a man who made windows, doors, a thousand artefacts for everyday living. Mike was an artist. She turned to him. ‘The whole truth, Mike,’ she warned. ‘I’m not interested in the edited highlights.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘I don’t expect to. That’s why you didn’t tell me about any of this before. But if you don’t want me to walk out of here right now, you don’t have any choice.’
She waited, breathing on hold, until he nodded. Then she dropped her bag, curled up on a huge sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, and waited.
Mike glanced at the space beside her and, choosing the wiser option, took the armchair facing her, stretching out his long legs, scraping his fingers through hair that immediately flopped back over his forehead. Putting off the moment.
At last, he said, ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew Willow Blake wouldn’t be interested in a man who made his living with his hands.’
‘You’re right.’ He stilled, paled as he met her steady gaze. That encouraged her a little. Her reaction was important to him. ‘I don’t like it. Not one bit. Where do you get off judging me like that?’ Then, when he didn’t immediately answer, she realised her optimism was misplaced. It was worse, much worse than that. ‘It wasn’t just that, was it? You didn’t bother to tell me because you didn’t take our relationship seriously. Here today, gone tomorrow. Thanks for the memories.’ Willow was shaking, trembling, and she drew her knees up beneath her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs.
He didn’t defend himself. There was no real defence. She was basically right on both counts. ‘It started like that,’ he admitted. ‘Isn’t that how all relationships start? Chase and kiss. Kiss and chase.’
‘Ours ended like that too. Tell me about the middle.’
‘You mean the part where I took myself by surprise and fell in love with you—’
‘Don’t say that! You don’t love me! You lied to me. You lied about who you were!’
‘The part where I realised I couldn’t live without you.’
‘Skip to the part where you suddenly realised you could live without me,’ she said bitterly. ‘Did you mean it when you asked me to marry you?’
‘Yes, damn it, of course I meant it.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his fingers still raking restlessly through his hair. Then, because he hadn’t been the only one with doubts, he looked up. ‘You said yes. Did you mean that?’
Willow wanted to fling herself at him, shake him for being so stupid, but there was only one way that could end and one of them being stupid at a time was more than enough. ‘I think I’d like a drink,’ she said, her voice shaking from the emotional turmoil she was putting herself through. But she needed answers. All of them.
‘Tea, coffee? It’ll have to be black—’
‘I think this situation calls for something stronger than tea.’
Mike didn’t argue. They were both driving, but a drink would mean she would have to stay, give him precious time to try and explain. He opened a cupboard, took out a couple of glasses and a bottle and poured out two large measures of brandy. As he pressed a glass into her hand, she fumbled it and he realised that her fingers were icy despite the heat.
He took her hands and wrapped them carefully around the glass and held them there for a moment until he was sure she was in control. Because touching her was what he wanted to do most in the world. Touch her, hold her, tell her he loved her.
That would be self-indulgence of the worst kind. He’d told her that he loved her. Now he had to show her. So he let go of her fingers and sat down beside her, lifted her feet onto his lap. ‘You’re cold.’
‘Yes.’ She sipped the brandy and shivered. And didn’t actually object when he sat beside her, took her feet onto his lap and began kneading some warmth into them.
It was easier, talking without having to confront a pair of blue eyes that demanded his soul on a plate. ‘You’re right of course. At first I didn’t think our relationship would matter. I didn’t plan on hanging around long enough for it to matter.’
‘That is honest—to the point of brutality.’
‘And