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He arrived home as she finished washing the pots and pans that didn’t fit in the dishwasher.
He picked up a tea-towel, but she took it out of his hands.
‘There’s football on the telly, go and watch it. We came to Braxton for a change and I’ve started my changing with a new job and new friends at work, so it’s time you started yours. I’m going to take over more responsibility for the boys and if I’m not here, I’ll get the girls, or one of them, to babysit. For a start, you should join the bridge club.’
He took the tea-towel out of her hands and lifted a wet pot.
‘I’ve already said I’d go to the quiz night at the bottom pub on Tuesday night,’ he told her, smiling as she looked surprised. ‘And spoken to Molly and Mandy in case you’re held up at work.’
‘Well!’ Emma said. ‘Good for you!’
And she reached out and hugged him, the pot caught between them, tears pricking at her eyes.
‘I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me and the boys, and for just being there for me through so much.’
He finished his task, slipped the pot into a drawer, then turned to face her, reaching out to touch her cheek.
‘I wouldn’t have been happy not being there,’ he said quietly. ‘Hadn’t you ever realised that?’
She shook her head, a couple of tears escaping now. Swiping them away, she smiled at him.
‘I don’t suppose I had, but now we’re living here, and the boys are nearly ready for kindy, it’s time you had a life of your own.’
He smiled back and kissed her on the forehead.
‘I will,’ he promised, ‘but for now get out of my kitchen. You’re probably putting things back in the wrong places. I thought after the big lunch we might just have cheese on toast for dinner.’
‘Sounds great! And I’ll cook it. Cheese on toast is something of a specialty for me.’
A shuffling noise from the direction of the boys’ bedroom told her at least one of them was awake. And if one was, the other soon would be. Hoping to spend some alone time with whoever was awake, she hurried in, grabbing Xavier as he prepared to climb onto Hamish’s cot and bounce him awake.
‘How about you and I do some painting on the veranda?’ she said quietly, carrying him out of the room before he had time to make a noise.
‘Finger-painting?’ Xavier asked hopefully, and after shaking away the knowledge of just how much mess that would entail, she agreed.
* * *
It was a quieter week in A and E, and with Emma working an early shift she was able to be home with the boys by three. Most days she would then shoo her father out of the house, insisting he do something for himself.
‘I’m playing snooker on Thursday night,’ he protested.
‘Not enough,’ she told him. ‘Go to the library. I know you take the boys there for story-time on Tuesdays but that’s hardly a peaceful, fruitful visit. You used to love poking around in libraries, and now you’re back in Braxton, you can read up on the history of the place. I doubt you had much interest in it when you were young.’
He smiled at her.
‘Actually, I did. I must have been a complete nerd because the library was my favourite place and it has always had a great local history section. I’ll see what I can find out about the history of this house because it must have been one of the first built here in town.’
The briskness in her father’s footsteps as he crossed the veranda told her he was pleased to be free, and she smiled to herself.
Maybe if she could prove to him that she could juggle work and the boys by herself, she wouldn’t have to worry about finding a man. She was making playdough while she considered this and telling herself that of course it would work.
After all, many single women coped with work and a family—coped very well in most cases. She just had to show her father that she could, too.
And the heavy feeling in her heart as she thought about these things was to do with the loss of the man she’d had—nothing at all to do with a vague idea that maybe she, too, could do with a man around the place.
Footsteps across the veranda—her father returning so quickly?
‘Anyone home?’
Marty!
‘In the kitchen,’ she called back, but the comings and goings had woken the boys from their afternoon sleep, and her only reaction to Marty’s ‘I’ll get them,’ was one of relief.
At least she could wash the sticky dough off her hands, and probably her face, before he came in.
But when he did come in, a beaming boy on each arm, the dog at his heels, her heart stood still.
Maybe she did need a man, a voice in her head whispered. A man to make a family—father, mother, children, and a dog—surely the picture-perfect family?
