aftershave he’d worn that night. Masculine and earthy and warm. There had been nothing sexual in his embrace, but the memory of it triggered other memories inside her. Hotter, more intense, more dangerous memories…
You have got to be kidding. Don’t even go there. Don’t even consider the possibility of it.
She crumpled the handkerchief into a ball and stuffed it into her pocket. Reaching for the mouse, she opened the file she’d been working on and very deliberately focused on her work.
Because she was not a fool, appearances to the contrary.
RHYS THOUGHT ABOUT Charlie for the entire sixty minutes of the rush-hour drive to his parents’ place on the North Shore. He’d grown up with two younger sisters who had never been shy about using whatever means at their disposal to get their own way, so he was no stranger to tears. Charlie’s tears, however…those had hit him in the gut.
Perhaps it was because she’d been so obviously reluctant to give in to her emotions, fighting the tears even as they slid down her face. Whatever the reason, it only made him more determined to get this right, to shoulder his share of the burden they’d inadvertently created.
The street outside his parents’ place was already choked with his siblings’ cars by the time he arrived. He managed to wedge his car behind his eldest brother’s beaten-up van before collecting Garth’s present and the bottle of wine he’d bought and heading for the house.
East Pymble was one of the most exclusive and established suburbs in Sydney, full of gracious homes on leafy streets. His parents lived in far less exclusive West Pymble, in the modest 1950s yellow brick home he’d grown up in, surrounded by other modest yellow brick homes. He stepped over the gaping crack in the concrete path—the same crack that had been there since he was twelve years old—and climbed the three steps to the concrete porch. A jumble of shoes sat there—a pair of his father’s sneakers, his mother’s gardening clogs, various mismatched pairs of flip-flops. He knocked briefly on the door to announce his arrival before trying the handle. It opened easily and he stepped into the hall, inhaling the scent of roasting chicken.
“We’re in the kitchen, Rhys,” his mother called.
Where else? The kitchen had always been the heart of the Walker home. He could hear the laughter and chatter as he approached and, for the second time that night, he felt the strong, visceral urge to bail on his family and go find a quiet corner and a bottle of whiskey to lose himself in.
Instead, he took a deep breath and plunged into the social chaos that was the Walker family en masse.
His mother was holding the fort at the stove, stirring something in a pot while chatting to his sister Rebecca. Holly Walker had been as dark as her children when she was younger, but now her short, curly hair was salt-and-pepper gray. The smile she sent his way was warm with affection and welcome. His father, Ken, stood to her right, dicing up something green and frondy-looking on the chopping board. His shirt was wrinkled around the collar and only half tucked in and he needed a haircut, his graying hair shaggy around his ears and nape.
He glanced up from his work to acknowledge Rhys. “Almost the last, but not quite. Good timing.”
“I try,” Rhys said.
“I’ll take that,” Rebecca said, slipping the bottle of wine from his hand and checking the label with interest. “Is this one of your fancy ones or something more suited to us plebs?”
“If you don’t know, I’m not telling,” Rhys said.
The rest of the family were gathered around the scarred kitchen table. Rhys’s older brother, Tim, sat with his wife, Amber, on his knee, one arm around her waist, the other holding a very full glass of red wine. Next was Mark, his youngest daughter in his arms. The other twin, Kim, was at the opposite side of the table, her husband, Lee, sitting beside her. The eldest of his many nieces and nephews—there were eight in total—occupied the rest of the chairs, while the smallest members of the family had taken up residence beneath the table where they appeared to be playing “guess which feet belong to whom.” Obviously they were still waiting on a few arrivals, since Rebecca’s husband, Rod, was nowhere in evidence or his other sister-in-law, Meg.
“There he is, the captain of industry. Take over any businesses today, mate? Got any good stock tips for