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‘Might have been his mother,’ he added.
No, she was too young to have been his mother—the clothing told Emma that much. She’d seen a similar dress in another photo somewhere—a photo of her paternal grandmother perhaps? They’d discovered boxes of old photos when they’d moved into the old house…
She was so engrossed in the distraction she’d provided for herself that she was startled when Marty pulled up at her front gate.
She opened the door and turned to thank him—well, to look at him really but she’d thank him as well.
He was staring straight ahead, his face so still it might have been carved from marble—a bust that was titled, ‘Say Nothing’.
She thanked him anyway and slipped out, heading for the gate and, now that she was home, praying that the boys would still be asleep and she could tiptoe into her bedroom and maybe get an hour’s rest before they woke.
Puppy—why hadn’t they found a real name for the huge dog? Puppy was just ridiculous!—was there to greet her, and she patted him gently then sent him back to his bed on the veranda.
Making it safely to her bedroom was one thing, but she desperately needed a shower, and as the bathroom was close to the boys’ room that was hardly an option right now.
‘One day I’ll put in an en suite bathroom,’ she muttered to herself, sinking down onto the bed and flopping back, staring at the ceiling, at the wall opposite her bed, at the portrait of a woman that had hung there when they’d moved in and which she’d decided to leave hanging there.
She sat up, looking more closely, then knew, tired as she was, she’d have to stand up and look more closely.
Standing in front of it, she shook her head, unable to believe the coincidence. The artist had put a glint of laughter in the eyes of the woman as he’d painted her—maybe they’d been talking, joking—but the dress was certainly the same as the one in the photo, and the heavy-lidded eyes were unmistakeable.
She’d always assumed it was a portrait of her great-aunt, the woman who had left the house to her father because she’d never married, never had children of her own.
Because of unrequited love?
Because Ken Irvine hadn’t asked her—or had he asked her and been turned down?
Not by her, if the sadness in her eyes in his picture was any guide.
Separated by her family perhaps, so she’d lived on alone, a lonely woman in a large house that should have been filled with children’s laughter, while deep in the forest Ken kept her near him in a picture on his wall…
It’s all nonsense, she told herself. You’re tired and your imagination’s gone into overdrive. You should give up doctoring and write romance novels if you can come up with such a story so quickly.
Or was it something else that had fired her imagination?
Had the picture been symbolic of—?
No!
Perhaps?
No!
Although it could be, couldn’t it? Symbolic of her and Marty…
Except Marty didn’t love her, and she wasn’t sure she loved him.
Not definitely sure…
Go to bed!
CHAPTER TEN
OFF DUTY FOR the day, Marty drove carefully back to his little house on the top of the hill.
From the day, aged fourteen, when he’d started work at the local Wetherby surf shop, he’d banked every penny he’d earned—drawing out what he needed for gifts for family members at Christmas or birthdays or sometimes a bunch of flowers for Hallie, but squirrelling the rest away with one aim in mind.
Eventually he’d have enough for a deposit on a house—his house, his home.
He’d once joked to Mac that he’d learned more maths working out how to get the best interest on his money than he ever had at school.
So why, as he dumped the rubbish bag from Ken’s shack into his wheelie bin and walked into his house, did he not feel the usual thrill of possession—the pride of ownership—that the house usually gave him?
Because it was empty?
Ridiculous. He was here, wasn’t he?
Was it because the air retained a faint scent of Emma?
He shook away that memory. It had been something they’d both needed, an affirmation of life—nothing more…
No, it was the house itself that bothered him. It seemed to echo with the same kind of…not exactly sadness but definitely emptiness as Ken’s shack had.
He touched the walls he’d painted with such care, walked through to the kitchen where appliances he’d chosen himself stood neatly on their shelves.
Maybe it was because he was hungry.
He pulled some bacon from the refrigerator and set it under the grill, turning the heat up high so it wouldn’t take forever. Made himself a pot of tea—not for him a tea-bag in a cup—he had enough of that at work. No, Hallie had instilled in him that tea came from a pot, pointing out that you could always pour a second cup, or even a third, if you felt like it.
