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Could he deny his genes?
* * *
Refusing to think about what had happened in the car and adamant not to dwell on her reaction to Marty’s kiss, Emma had marched into the house determined on action.
‘You’re home early,’ her father called to her. ‘The boys are still asleep.’
‘That’s great,’ she said, joining him in the kitchen where the sight of him, ironing board out, carefully ironing small T-shirts strengthened her resolve.
‘What afternoons does the bridge club meet?’ she asked.
‘And why would you want to know?’ he asked, not looking at her as he folded the now ironed shirt into a neat square.
He was so much better at this housework stuff than she was!
‘Because I’m about to employ a housekeeper,’ she announced. ‘I’ve been thinking it over for a while, and now we’ve settled in up here, it’s time I made a move. Not full time, I wouldn’t think, but a few days a week, and, no, it’s not for your sake but for mine.’
‘I’m not good enough?’ her father teased.
‘You’re too damned good,’ Emma retorted. ‘So much so I’ve taken you for granted for far too long. I know I would never have coped alone when Simon died, let alone even thought of having children, but I’m fine now, and you need your life back.’
‘But—’
Emma held up her hand.
‘No, don’t tell me how much you’ve loved doing it or any other nonsense. I know you love the kids and me, but we can’t be your whole life, not anymore. You deserve better than that, Dad, and it’s your turn now.’
Her father picked up another tiny shirt, smoothed it flat on the ironing board, and carefully pushed the iron across it, and only when it was done and folded, sitting on top of the small pile, did he look at her again.
‘I have enjoyed it,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Every last minute of it, although we’ve had some hairy times, haven’t we?’
Emma smiled at him, thinking of the night Xavier had had croup, and her father had been on a rare night out and she’d driven to the house where he’d been having dinner with friends to leave Hamish with him before taking Xavier to the hospital.
‘Some,’ she admitted.
She made herself a sandwich and a cup of tea then retired to the room they’d allocated as an office in the big, rambling, old house. Setting the snack down on the desk, she pulled out the book where they kept phone numbers, knowing Carrie’s number would be in it.
But Carrie was in Retford, and possibly in the PICU where no phones were allowed…
Would Joss be home? She’d be off duty by now, and as she’d grown up in Braxton she’d be sure to know someone who’d know someone who might be able to help.
Joss put her on to her mother, Mrs Carstairs, who was only too happy to recommend a couple of women, giving Emma the names and numbers, and adding, ‘Christine, the first one, probably needs the money most,’ she said, ‘and she’s wonderful with children. She used to work at the childcare centre until the new regulations came in about all helpers needing at least six months at a training course before they could work there. All nonsense, of course, because six months at a college doesn’t help you comfort a child who’s not feeling well, or tell you when a child needs a cuddle.’
Emma smiled at the woman’s disgust but she understood what she was saying, although she was pretty sure these days the college courses for early childhood education would include a fair amount of work in kindergartens, spending hands-on time with children.
As predicted, Christine was delighted at the idea and, yes, she could call around at Emma’s house in an hour, by which time the boys would certainly be awake, and hopefully in good moods after their sleeps.
Research time…
Emma opened her laptop and searched for childcare wages. She’d known for some time she’d have to get a local accountant but had been putting it off. If she was going to become an employer, she’d need him to work out things like superannuation. But at least that could wait until Carrie got back, or she could ask the nurses at work. Right now, she had to pin her father down to what day the bridge club met, and whether he wanted to take up bowls again.
And if, at the back of her mind, there was a whispered suggestion that employing a housekeeper could also free her up to have more of a life outside work and childcare, she ignored it.
Although that Andy Richards had seemed a nice guy…
And wouldn’t finding someone else, even on a temporary basis, help her ignore her futile feelings for Marty?
Probably not, but at least she could try…
