And Jamie, her son or not, needed her now. She might not be his mother, but she was the closest the poor child would ever get, and she fully intended to do her job well. ‘I must get home,’ she said now. ‘Jamie will be fretting.’
‘Of course.’
He seemed suddenly distant, and for a moment Emily felt a shocking sense of loss sweep through her.
Absurd.
Without giving herself time to think, she bade him goodnight and made her way out.
He was the last person she would want to see, David told himself disgustedly, but it didn’t stop him pulling up outside her cottage with a pot plant from the local garage and a bottle of plonk.
It was only a welcome to the area, after all, a simple gesture from an old friend.
And he might get to meet this child of hers, the child she had conceived not two years after their separation—before their divorce was final, even.
He fought down the bitter jealousy that surged in his veins, and concentrated instead on juggling the plant and bottle while he locked his car. Perhaps he should just go, he thought, take the stuff to the surgery in the morning and forget about invading her privacy—
‘Can I help you?’
A matronly woman stood in the open doorway, lit from behind by the welcoming glow that spilt from the cottage across the path to his feet. It didn’t quite reach him, and somehow stepping into the light suddenly assumed an almost mystical significance.
‘Is Emily at home?’ he asked, remaining where he was.
‘Who should I say it is?’ she responded, without inviting him in.
‘David—David Trevellyan.’
The door was immediately held wider, and a smile broke out on the woman’s face. ‘Come in, Dr Trevellyan. I’ll fetch her—she’s putting Jamie to bed.’
He stepped into the light, his heart easing even as he did so. ‘Could you find a home for these? Just a sort of house warming present.’
‘How kind.’ The warm hazel eyes twinkled like currants above plump cheeks that rose with her smile and squashed her eyes into merry slits. David found himself returning the smile and feeling grateful that Emily and her son had such a kindly soul caring for them.
‘Make yourself at home, Dr Trevellyan—I’ll just pop these in the kitchen and go and find Emily.’
He stood in the hallway while she bustled into the kitchen and then out again, hurrying up the stairs.
He heard a mumbled conversation overhead, then Emily appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘David?’
Was it his imagination, or did she sound breathless?
He tipped his head back and shielded his eyes from the overhead light. ‘Hi. I just wondered if you wanted to go out for that drink now—if Jamie’s settled.’
‘Oh.’ She looked flustered, her hands fluttering over her clothes. ‘I’m not really dressed for going out.’
‘That’s OK. The local isn’t smart; your jeans are fine.’
More than fine, if the tightening in his body was anything to go by.
‘Um—let me brush my hair and I’ll be down.’
He watched as she turned, the faded denim taut over the smooth curve of her bottom, and cursed softly under his breath.
He must be mad.
Emily felt sick with fright—or was it anticipation? Ridiculous. She brushed her hair until the roots protested, then dragged a scrape of colour over her lips and smudged them hastily together. That would do. It would have to.
Abandoning her brush, she ran down the stairs like an eager teenager.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I just need my coat.’
He held it for her, his fingers brushing her neck as he lifted her hair away from the collar in a gesture she remembered so well. A little shiver ran over her skin and, forcing a smile, she turned to him.
‘Shall we?’
He opened the door for her, closed it behind them and then settled her into the car before going round and sliding behind the wheel.
The inside of the car seemed suddenly terribly small and intimate, and her breathing seemed unnaturally loud.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked to fill the emptiness.
‘The Bull-remember it?’
She did—vividly. They had spent many a happy lunchtime there, sandwiched between long, lazy mornings in bed and long, equally lazy evenings in front of the fire at the cottage.
‘Has it changed?’
‘Not much. Nothing round here changes much. It gets a bit hectic in the summer, but at this time of year it’s mainly locals.’
They pulled up in the nearly deserted car park, and she followed him through the low doorway into the heavily beamed lounge that was empty except for a grizzled, thick-set man wiping down the bar.
‘Evening, George.’
‘Evening, Doctor. What’ll it be?’
‘I’ll have the usual—Emily?’
‘Dry white wine, please.’
George set the drinks on the bar and eyed her curiously.
‘This is Dr Thompson—she’s just joined the practice,’ David told him.
‘Pleased to meet you—you’ll cheer that place up no end,’ he said gruffly, and pushed a glass of wine towards her. ‘Here—have them on the house.’
She smiled, his welcome warming her. ‘Thank you. Cheers—your very good health.’
His rusty laugh crackled in the empty room. ‘Of course, you’ve got a vested interest in that, haven’t you? Keep the surgery empty.’
She smiled again. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that. Still, at least you won’t have to pretend to be ill to satisfy your curiosity.’
He laughed again as he headed for the other bar, and David steered her over to a table in the corner, tucked in behind the deep chimney breast where they had often sat during their honeymoon. It was too intimate, and she was very conscious of his nearness.
He lifted his glass, condensation beaded on the outside, fogging the pale beer. ‘Here’s to a long and happy partnership,’ he murmured.
His eyes were in shadow, but she sensed the intensity of his gaze. Was he talking about the practice? Or them? She didn’t dare ask.
She lifted her glass, dropping her eyes to the contents. Silently she drank, the chilled wine soothing her tight throat.
‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘tell me about Ann Blake and this affair.’
‘Ah.’ He set his glass down precisely in the centre of a beermat and squared it up with the edge of the table. The task seemed to require an inordinate amount of attention.
‘Richard Wellcome is a local farmer. He and his wife are patients of mine. His wife, Jenny, has MS and is in a pretty sorry way. She hasn’t had much in the way of remission, and I don’t think she will. She’s getting increasingly spastic—she’s on Baclofen to combat it, but it’s a bit of a juggling act because it makes her very sleepy, and she keeps dropping things. Last week it was a cup of tea. Luckily it wasn’t too hot or she could have had a nasty scald.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘Mmm. And Richard, of course, is having a hard time.