Christmas Miracle. Линда Гуднайт

him. Oh, Ben, I want you. I want you every day. What would you have been like? Would you have loved singing, like me, or would you have been tone-deaf like your mother? Tall or short? Quiet or noisy? I would have loved you, whatever. I’ll always love you. He glanced out of the window and saw a pale swirl of snow, and his heart contracted. Are you cold tonight, my precious son, lying there in the churchyard?

      Oh, God.

      A sob ripped through him and he stifled it, battening it down, refusing to allow it to surface. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She hadn’t known about Ben, hadn’t realised what she was saying. And maybe she was right. Maybe he’d overstepped the mark with Edward.

      He needed to talk to her, to go and find her and apologise—but not yet. Not now. Now, he needed to get himself under control, to let the pain recede a little.

      And then he became aware of Rufus, standing just a few inches away from him, his tail down, his eyes worried, and when he held out his hand, the dog’s tail flickered briefly.

      ‘Oh, Rufus. What’s happened to us all?’ he murmured unsteadily, and Rufus came and sat down with his side against Jake’s thigh, and rested his head in his lap and licked his hand.

      ‘Yeah, I know. I need to talk to Amelia. I need to tell her I’m sorry. But I can’t—’

      He bit his lip, and Rufus licked him again, and he ruffled his fur and waited a little longer, until his emotions were back under control, because he owed Amelia more than just an apology. He owed her an explanation, and it would mean opening himself to her, to her pity, and he never ever did that. It was just too damned hard.

      But eventually he couldn’t leave it any longer, so he got stiffly to his feet, found the whisky and limped down the hall to the breakfast room and pushed open the door.

      She was sitting in front of the fire, her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped round her knees, and he could tell she’d been crying. Her face was ravaged with tears, her eyes wide with distress. He went over to her, poured two hefty measures of spirit and held one out to her.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have thought—should have asked you before showing it to him.’

      ‘No. You were only being kind. I was so rude—’

      ‘Yes, you were, but I’m not surprised, with everything going on in your life. You’re just fighting their corner. I can’t criticise you for that.’

      And then, before his courage failed him and he chickened out, he said, ‘I had a son.’

      She lifted her head and stared at him.

      ‘Had?’ she whispered in horrified disbelief.

      ‘Ben. He died five years ago—five years yesterday, just a month after his second birthday. He’d been Christmas shopping with my wife, Rachel, and they were by the entrance to the car park when someone mounted the kerb and hit them. They were both killed instantly.’

      ‘Oh, Jake—’

      Her voice was hardly more than a breath, and then she dragged in a shuddering sob and pressed her hand against her lips. Dear God, what had she said to him? If you want a son … then get your own. And all the time—

      ‘Oh, Jake, I don’t know what to say—’

      ‘Don’t say anything. There’s nothing you can say. Here, have a drink. And please don’t worry about the presents, they really are nothing. It was just a gesture, nothing more. They aren’t lavish, I promise, so you don’t have to worry. I wouldn’t do that to you. I just … it’s Christmas, and I’d expect to give something small to any child who was staying here. And I promise not to say anything more to any of them that might give you a problem later on. So come on, drink up and let’s go and stuff the turkey, otherwise we’ll be eating at midnight.’

      She hauled in a breath, sniffed and scrubbed her cheeks with her hands. ‘You’re right. We’ve got a lot to do.’ And just then she couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t say another word or she really would howl her eyes out, and so she sipped the whisky he pressed into her hand, feeling the slow burn as it slid down her throat, letting the warmth drive out the cold horror of his simple words.

      No wonder he didn’t do children. No wonder he hadn’t been pleased to see them in his house, on the very anniversary …

      She took a gulp and felt it scorch down her throat. What had it done to him, to come home and find them all there? His words had been cruel, but not as cruel as their presence must have been to him. And her own words—they’d been far more cruel, so infinitely hurtful, and there was nothing she could do to take them back.

      ‘What I said—’

      ‘Don’t. Don’t go there, Amelia. You weren’t to know. Forget it.’

      But she couldn’t, and she knew she never would. She couldn’t bear the thought that she’d hurt him with her words, that their presence in his house must be tearing him apart, but there was nothing she could do about it now— the words were said, the children were sleeping upstairs, and all she could do was make sure it all went as well and smoothly as possible, and kept the children away from him so they didn’t rub salt in his wound.

      ‘I’m going to get on,’ she said, and she set the glass down and stood up, brushed herself off mentally and physically, and headed for the kitchen.

      ‘We still haven’t dealt with the decorations in here,’ he said from behind her, and she looked up at their makeshift decorations in the light fitting over the breakfast table, still half-finished and looking bedraggled and forlorn.

      Damn. ‘I’m sorry, I meant to take them down,’ she said, tugging out a chair, but he just shook his head.

      ‘No. Leave them. The children made them.’

      She stopped, one foot on the chair, the other on the table, and looked down at him.

      ‘But—you said it was tat. And you were right, it is.’

      ‘No. I’m sorry. I was just feeling rough and you took me by surprise,’ he said, master of the understatement. ‘Please, leave them. In fact, weren’t there some more bits?’

      She nodded and climbed slowly down off the chair. ‘Edward put them out of the back door.’

      ‘Get them and put them in—finish it off. And I’ll put the wreath we bought on the front door. And then we ought to do the things you need help with, and then I’m really going to have to turn in, because I’m bushed, frankly. It’s been a long day, and I’ve had enough.’

      She felt another great wave of guilt. ‘Oh, Jake—sit down, let me get you another drink. I can do everything. Please—just sit there and rest and keep me company, if you really want to help, or otherwise just go to bed. I can manage.’

      He smiled wryly. ‘I’m sure you can. I get the feeling there’s not a lot you can’t manage. But I’m OK.’

      And he helped her, even though he must be feeling pretty rough, because she got the distinct impression that he didn’t give up easily. So she made them both a cup of tea, and finished off the decorations in the light fitting while he put the wreath on the door. Then he sat down in the chair to drink his tea while she stuffed the turkey and wrapped the sausages in bacon, and the next time she looked he’d leant back and closed his eyes, with Rufus curled up on his lap and his legs stretched out in front of the fire. She made another batch of mince pies and peeled potatoes and carrots and trimmed the sprouts while they cooked, and then she woke him up and sent him to bed.

      It was almost Christmas Day, she thought as she tiptoed into the children’s room and hung their stockings on the end of their beds. Nothing like what they’d had last year or the year before, but they were good kids and they understood, in their way, and thanks to Jake they had tiny oranges and chocolates and little bits of this and that to add to her offerings.

      And at least they were alive, unlike Jake’s little boy.