A Husband's Regret (The Unwanted Series)(34)

"But I was taking care of her the only way I knew how; I was keeping her  fed, healthy, and happy. I needed to work, you understand? I'd made  arrangements in case anything happened to me; I made sure that the  authorities would know to call you, for Kayla's sake. I wouldn't have  left her alone. I knew that you'd take her if I wasn't part of the  package. I knew that you'd love her and take care of her." He seemed at a  loss and frowned down at his plate before sighing tiredly and scrubbing  his hands over his face.

"God," he groaned wearily. "How did we ever get to this point?" He  reached over and stroked one long finger down the side of her face.  "Eat, sweetheart. I never want you to go hungry again."

"I'm . . ."

"Please?" She couldn't resist the naked pleading on his face, and she  smiled before nodding and lifting her fork, her appetite restored. He  remained quiet for a while longer, breaking the silence to tell her an  amusing story about taking Kayla into the office the previous day. He  peppered the story with wry humor, and she found herself laughing more  than she'd laughed in a long time. Eventually they started talking about  other things-university and work-and for a short while, it felt as  companionable and comfortable as it had been in the past.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Is she asleep?" Bryce asked when Bronwyn joined him in the den after  putting Kayla down for the night. She nodded in response to the question  and tried not to let the intimate domesticity of the scene unnerve her  too much. He was sprawled on one of the huge comfortable sofas that  Bronwyn had begged him to buy when she had first seen it, four years  ago.

"Yes, she was still going on about ‘Nebo' when she dropped off."

He smiled faintly at that.

"I don't think she's going to forget about today too quickly," he  murmured, fingering the rim of the glass of scotch he had poured for  himself, indicating a glass of red wine on the little table beside the  sofa. "Wine?"

Not wanting to refuse and end the comfortable atmosphere between them  just yet, she nodded and curled up on the opposite end of the large  sofa, tucking her feet beneath her.

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if today turned out to be her first real memory?" He smiled faintly at her dreamy question.

"It would be a happy one for all of us," he agreed. He tilted his head  to look at her appraisingly, and she met his eyes with a laugh.

"What?"

"What's your first memory?" he asked, and she giggled.

"Chasing a butterfly around our backyard, tripping over the puppy and  falling down, hard. According to my Gran, I was three when it happened.  She remembered because it was at my birthday party and I made such a  fuss because I thought I'd hurt the dog. Apparently I insisted that we  take him to the ‘doggy doctor'!"

His eyes crinkled at the corners.





  

"What about you?" she asked him, still smiling at her own memory. "What  was your first memory?" The smile faded from his eyes to be replaced by a  somber frown as he shrugged.

"I don't remember."

She laughed at that. "It's your first memory. By its very definition you  should remember it." He looked uncomfortable and refused to meet her  eyes. Realizing that something was wrong, she tried to catch his eye.

"Bryce?" she prompted, waving her hand to get his attention and not  expecting much in the line of a response from him. If this followed the  old pattern of their marriage, he would freeze her out and retreat back  behind the walls that seemed to have been specifically designed to keep  her out. It amazed her now, how little she actually knew of the man and  merely brought home the fact how much was still wrong, how much would  always be wrong, with their relationship. She was just resigning herself  to watching him get up and leave when he unexpectedly spoke, still not  looking at her.

"My first memory is of my father. He's shouting at me and angry because  I'd accidentally dropped his wristwatch into a toilet bowl. Can't really  blame him-it's a gold watch. Of course, I wasn't aware of the  significance of that at the time. I was three as well. I know because  that was the same day I broke my arm . . . so there are records of the  date," he said it almost absently, and Bronwyn's brow furrowed.

"How did you break your arm?" she asked, but he wasn't looking at her  and didn't see the question. She reached over and in a gesture similar  to the one he'd used on her the previous night, gently tilted his jaw so  that he was looking at her. She repeated the question and he seemed to  shake himself out of his reverie, but when he spoke again, his voice was  so horribly empty.

"He was very angry," he said with a shrug.

"Your father broke your arm?" She needed clarity on this point and  wasn't sure she understood. He nodded abruptly before draining his  glass.

"I'm exhausted," he muttered gruffly. "I was wondering, would you and  Kayla like to go to the beach with me tomorrow? I'll fix a picnic lunch.  Unless you've moved your ladies' get-together to tomorrow? Since you  missed it today?"

"A couple of the others had other plans this weekend as well, so we  decided not to meet until next week. Anyway, the beach sounds nice," she  agreed absently, not really paying attention, her mind on what he had  just revealed. He smiled before getting up abruptly.

"Great." He sounded pleased. "It'll be an early-ish start. I think eight  o'clock should do it." He turned to head out of the door, then  hesitated and turned back to her. He leaned over her.

"Thank you for today, Bron," he said sincerely, bending down to drop an  unexpectedly sweet kiss onto her opened mouth. "I'll see you in the  morning."

"No, wait. Bryce . . ." But he was already striding away, leaving her to  fret over the unexpected information he had divulged about his father.  Had it been an accident? Or deliberate? The latter possibility left her  cold and unable to fall asleep for the longest time.

Bronwyn woke to the conspiratorial sound of whispering just outside her  door, and a bleary-eyed look at her bedside clock told that her it was  seven thirty a.m. She groaned at the thought of getting Kayla up and  ready in time for Bryce's early start. She was exhausted after an uneasy  night's sleep. She cleared her throat and frowned when the whispering  outside her door continued. She pushed herself up when the door handle  turned slowly and braced for an energetic wake-up call similar to the  one Bryce had received the day before. She leaned forward when nothing  happened; the whispering continued for a few more moments before her  daughter's dimpled face appeared around the door. When the little girl  caught sight of her mother, she gasped and abruptly jerked back out of  sight.

"Mummy not sleep!" Bronwyn heard the toddler hiss frantically before she  was shushed by an unmistakeable, deep voice that always managed to send  delicious shivers down her spine. Intrigued now, Bronwyn leaned even  farther forward, wondering what they were up to. After another few  moments of whispered exchanges, Kayla stepped around the door, already  dressed in a pair of pink denim dungarees, a yellow-and-pink T-shirt,  and her favorite pair of red squeak sneakers. In her hands she solemnly  clasped a handful of multicolored autumn flowers, which Bronwyn  recognized from the garden outside.

"Hello, Mummy." She grinned.

"Good morning, sweetheart. What do you have there?" The little girl  solemnly handed her the flowers before leaning up on tiptoes to kiss her  mother on the cheek.





  

"Happy Mummy day," the little girl said carefully in a well-rehearsed way.

"Mummy's day? But . . ." She glanced up to see Bryce standing in the  doorway with a tray clasped in his hands, her eyes huge and vulnerable  in her face as she tried to figure out what on earth was going on here.  "Bryce, it's not . . ."

"Yes it is. You've missed out on two, so Kayla and I are making up for  lost time." He placed the tray in her lap and removed the flowers from  her numb fingers to place them in the empty vase on the tray, before  moving the vase to her nightstand. He dropped a kiss on her cheek.  "Happy Mother's Day, Bronwyn."

Kayla solemnly held up a small gift-wrapped box, and when Bronwyn opened it she frowned in confusion.

"What's this?" It was an electronic beeper-like device nestled in a custom-molded Styrofoam cushion.

"The smart key to your new car," he informed with a slight smile, and  her eyes widened when she turned the small device over and spotted the  prominent BMW logo on the other side of the key.

"Bryce, this is too much," she protested helplessly.

"This is nowhere near enough," he interrupted gruffly. "Nothing I do can ever be enough."

"I don't know what to say," she said, unable to read his mood and not sure how to react.

"You don't have to say anything." He grinned, flashing a dimple  identical to his daughter's and looking just as mischievous as the  toddler. "Just enjoy the car. It's not quite as sporty as the last one  you had; I wanted something bigger and safer because of Kayla."