A Daddy For Baby Zoe?. Fiona Lowe

monumental meltdown was the last thing any guy wanted to witness. She hoped the fact he had first-aid experience meant she wasn’t the first pregnant woman to have sobbed on his shoulder and that he’d take it in his stride.

      After drying her face, she peered at her reflection and sighed. It would take way more than cold water to make any impact on the red blotches on her face and she didn’t have the energy or inclination to powder down. ‘Sprocket, stay in there. Meeting your mother face to face will terrify you.’

      Leaving the bathroom, she walked down the short hall but Raf wasn’t standing by the windows where she’d left him. Neither was he sitting on one of the many couches.

      ‘Are you feeling a bit better? If that’s even really an option …’

      She spun around towards the quiet sound of his voice—a sound that for some reason made her think of the slide of smooth, thick velvet against her skin. He stood in a now tidy kitchen devoid of all signs of the mess of macerated stalks and crushed flowers.

      ‘You’ll be relieved I’ve managed to stop crying, even if I don’t look like it.’

      His mouth curved up into what she was coming to recognise as his trademark smile—warm, gentle, kind and with a hint of teasing. ‘I think the red splotches suit you. They add colour to your cheeks.’

      She heard herself make a noise and was surprised to hear it was a laugh. ‘So there are some advantages to totally falling apart.’

      ‘Seems so.’

      She pushed her hair behind her ears and said what she needed to say. ‘I’m so sorry you had to see that. I’ve been sort of holding it together since I came down here and—’

      ‘God, Meredith, don’t apologise,’ he said firmly. ‘If anyone should be saying sorry, it’s me. It was my damn flowers that started it. If I’d known, I would have bought something else.’

      She noticed he’d put the posy in the bin. ‘I left Melbourne because I needed a break from flowers and condolences and death. Stupid, right? I can’t outrun this.’ She sighed and tugged her hair behind her ears again. ‘Richard wasn’t just mine to miss. His colleagues from around the world are grieving too and their hearts are in the right place, but if I get another bouquet of flowers …’

      ‘You’ll scream? Throw them off the balcony?’

      ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t believe he understood. ‘And I feel so guilty. I mean they’re beautiful flowers. I had those lilies and roses in my wedding bouquet.’ The lump in her throat built again and she forced it down. ‘I’m not sure I ever want to see or smell another lily again.’

      He rubbed his jaw slowly as if he was thinking. ‘What if you keep all the cards but I take the flowers to the Country Women’s Association? They’re fantastic. They’ll divide the flowers up, rearrange them and deliver them to the sick and the elderly shut-ins. They’ll get a real boost from the flowers and you’ll get a break.’

      A rush of gratitude filled her. ‘Are you sure that’s not too much trouble for you?’

      He laughed. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour. It will get Mario out of the house and those good women will insist we stay and then they’ll force me to eat the lightest scones ever made, served with island raspberry jam and island cream.’

      She started plucking the cards from the flowers. One day she was going to have to find the strength to write to every single person and thank them but not today. ‘None of that food sounds very Italian.’

      ‘When it comes to scones, lamingtons, vanilla slices and pavlova, I’m a multicultural eater,’ he said with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. He commenced carrying the vases to the sink and when they were all lined up, he started draining the water.

      Ten minutes later, he had all of the vases washed and dried and the flowers placed carefully in a box, which he’d lined with plastic. The posy he’d brought her was balanced on the top—a slash of bright colour in stark contrast to the rest. Already the house felt less claustrophobic.

      ‘Thank you so much for doing this.’

      He shrugged as if it was no big deal. ‘I’d ask you to come along because it’s a pretty drive but that defeats the purpose of separating you from the flowers.’

      She welcomed his pragmatic thoughtfulness. ‘And you’d have to share your scones.’

      He grinned. ‘Good point. I share some things but never scones.’

      ‘I’ll make a note to remember that.’

      He picked up the flower box and wrapped his wide forearm around it, the action making his triceps bulge. She was struck by the large surface veins that ran the length of his arm—veins that seemed to say, safe and strong. Looking like he was ready to leave, he unexpectedly set the box back down and met her gaze, his expression serious.

      ‘Meredith, I totally get that you needed to leave Melbourne for a while but with the baby so close to arriving, isn’t it time to go back?’

      Melbourne. She reluctantly thought about the terrace house that lived and breathed Richard. The floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with his books, the many enlarged photographs that hung on the walls staring down at her, showing him doing everything from scuba diving to skiing. All of it reminding her that his love of extreme sports had stolen him from her. From their baby.