"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."