under a huge dustcloth which I drag down. I spent an hour trying to wrap it yesterday, and I don’t think I was entirely successful. It’s rather lumpy.
“You’re so good at wrapping, Jude,” Billy says earnestly.
Yep, I was right. It is lumpy.
“Okay, you go ahead and open the door, Bill,” I instruct him, and we manage to manoeuvre the present down the hall and into the lounge.
“Ta-da, Daddy,” Billy says, dancing about wildly.
Asa comes towards us. “Jude?”
“Open it,” I say nervously. “Hope you like it.”
He props it against the sofa and tears off the wrapping. The last piece of red and gold paper falls away, and he goes still. “Jude,” he says reverently.
“Do you like it?”
He stares at the beautiful painting. There on the huge canvas in light oils is our tree on Frenchman’s Creek. The tree-lined water gleams in the late afternoon sunlight, which is shining down on the three figures sitting there. They’re absorbed in each other and very definitely a family.
He looks up, and his eyes are wet. “It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “It’s Rebecca’s work, isn’t it?”
I nod, smiling at Dylan’s mum’s name. “I gave her a photo of it in the summer. She wanted to do it for free, but I insisted on paying.”
“It must have cost a fortune.”
I shrug. “I took a modelling job.”
“But you said you didn’t want to do that anymore,” he protests.
I tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear and tug gently on his beard. “It’s modelling, not going down the mines. You’re worth it.” I smile. “I did it during the summer while you were in Ireland. Gabe babysat Billy for me.”
He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you just said that Gabe babysat Billy.”
I grin. “I did. Remind me to tell you about it later.” I look at the picture. “You like it?”
“I love it,” he corrects me, standing up and drawing me into a hug.
“Okay,” Peggy says happily. “I’m going to make breakfast. Why don’t you and Jude and Billy take this mad dog for a walk along the beach, and by the time you come back it’ll all be ready?”
“You sure you don’t want a hand, Peggy?” I ask.
“No, I do not,” she says immediately. “I like my kitchen to myself, thank you very much.”
“I’m not arguing with that at all.”
“That’s because you’re a very sensible young man.”
I laugh, and we all race upstairs, throwing on jeans and jumpers and coats and whistling to Stanley. Using the path at the end of the garden that leads to the beach, we make our way down. It’s a cold, fresh morning with a blustery wind, and we start to make our way along the beach, nodding to the other people who’ve had the same idea.
I smile, and Asa looks at me. “What?” he asks.
“Just thinking what a performance you made going on that beach in Mallorca. Going on about everyone recognising you. And now look at you.”
“I don’t care anymore,” he says simply. “When I’m with you and Billy, I’m just me. Asa Jacobs.”
“You’ve always been just Asa Jacobs to me.”
He draws me to him, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “I know. And that’s just one of the many reasons why I love you so much.”
“Many, many reasons. I’m extremely loveable.”
“Too many reasons to count.”
“I love you too.” I look at Billy racing ahead with Stanley lolloping along next to him and then back at the big man walking beside me. I inhale the scent of salt on the wind and watch the sun gleam on the waves. “I love this life.”
He smiles. It’s wide and warm in the early morning Christmas sunshine. “I know.”
Marrying Jude
Jude
When I wake up, I’m lying in a patch of early morning sunshine. The windows are open, letting in a soft breeze and the sound of the street outside. For a second I feel disoriented, expecting to hear the surf, but then I remember that I’m in London in the pink palace. I stretch my hand out on a search-and-discover mission for a big bearded man, but when my fingers touch cold sheet, I open my eyes fully. He’s not here. Hmm.
I stretch, and I don’t need to feel the ache in my arse to remember the wild night. I just have to inhale the scent of sex and amber and lavender on the sheets. He got back from Ireland last night, and our reunion was strenuous. I grin and brush my hair back, before registering the extreme silence of the house.