Czytaj książkę: «Merry Christmas»

CHAPTER TWO

IT HADN’T come today, either... the letter from Denise Graham with news of Kimberly and the photographs spanning another year.

Meredith Palmer struggled to fight off a depressing wave of anxiety as she entered her apartment and locked the rest of the world out. Again she shuffled through the stack of mail she’d just collected from her box; Christmas cards, bank statement, an advertising brochure. She opened the envelopes and extracted the contents, making doubly sure there was no mistake. Nothing from Denise Graham.

The packet usually came in the last week of November. It had done so for the past eleven years. Today was the fourteenth of December and the uneasy feeling that something was wrong was fast growing into conviction. Denise Graham had come across to Meredith, even in her letters, as a very precise person, the kind who would live by a strictly kept timetable. Unless the packet had somehow been lost or misdirected in the volume of Christmas mail, something had to be badly wrong in the Graham household.

Illness? An accident?

The tight feeling in her chest grew tighter as disastrous possibilities flew through Meredith’s mind. Not Kimberly, she fiercely prayed. Please...not Kimberly. Her little girl had to have a wonderful life ahead of her. Only by believing that had Meredith managed to repress the misery of not having kept her daughter.

She shook her head, fighting back the worst-case scenarios. Maybe something had happened to the solicitor who had handled the legal aspects of the adoption and subsequently become a conduit for the annual updates to Meredith. Whenever she’d had a change of address she had contacted him, at least half a dozen times before she’d saved enough money to invest in this apartment at Balmoral. Each time she had received a note of acknowledgment and nothing had gone wrong. Nevertheless, it could be that someone else was now handling his business, someone not as meticulously efficient.

She walked across her living room to the writing desk which spread across one corner, linking two walls of bookcases. Having automatically sorted her mail for future replies, she dropped it into in-baskets, then opened a drawer and took out her address book. It was too late to contact the firm of solicitors today but she’d do it first thing tomorrow. It made her feel better, simply copying the telephone number into the notebook she always carried in her handbag.

Despite having set herself a constructive course of action, Meredith still found it impossible to stop worrying. She switched on the television set to catch the evening news but didn’t hear a word of it. The glass of white wine she poured herself was consumed although she had no conscious memory of drinking it. After opening the refrigerator and staring at the contents of the shelves for several minutes without connecting anything together for a proper meal, she gave up on the idea of cooking and settled on cheese and pickles and crackers.

The problem was, she didn’t have a legal leg to stand on if Denise Graham had decided, for some reason, to break off the one promised contact with her. It had been a matter of trust, her letting Meredith know about their daughter’s life once a year...one mother’s word to another... an act of compassion in the face of Meredith’s grief at giving up her baby. If the solicitor told her there was to be no more contact, there was nothing she could do about it. Absolutely nothing.

A sense of helplessness kept eating at her, robbing her of any appetite, distracting her from doing anything purposeful. When the doorbell rang, she almost didn’t answer it. A check of her watch put the time at a few minutes past eight. She wasn’t expecting anyone and wasn’t in the mood to entertain a visitor. Only the thought of a neighbour in need prompted her to open the door.

Living alone had established automatic precautions. The security chain lock on the door only allowed an opening of a few centimetres. It was through this space—like a long crack in the fabric of time—Meredith saw the man she had never expected to see again.

His eyes caught hers, triggering the weird gush of feeling that only he had ever evoked...the wild whoosh from her heart to her head, like the sea washing into her ears, followed by a fountain of excitement shooting, splashing, rippling through her entire body, setting up an electric tingling of expectation for the most special connection in the world.

It had been like that for her thirteen years ago. As she stared at him now, the shocked sense of her world reeling backward was so strong, all she could do was stare and grip the doorknob with painful intensity, needing some reinforcement of current physical reality.

“Miss Palmer? Meredith Palmer?”

His voice struck old familiar chords that had lain dormant so long Meredith had forgotten them... chords of pleasure, of some sixth sense recognition, a deep resonant tone that thrummed through her, a seductive beat of belonging drawing on her soul.

Yet he didn’t know her. She could see he didn’t. He would have called her Merry. It had been his name for her...Merry...Merry Christmas... the best Christmas he had ever had.

“Yes,” she said, affirming her identity, her heart still bleeding over what his sister had sworn to her was the truth when she’d denied Meredith access to the father of her baby all those years ago. An accident had wiped out all memory of his summer vacation. He would have no recollection of her. Since he’d already left for the U.S. on a two-year study grant, Meredith had no possible way of testing if what his sister claimed was fact or fiction.

Now the evidence was in front of her. Not Merry. Miss Meredith Palmer with a question mark.

Yet shouldn’t there be a gut memory? Shouldn’t he feel at least an echo of what she was feeling? It hadn’t been one-sided back in the summer of her sixteenth year.

“My name is Nick Hamilton...”

There was a pause, as though he had to regather his thoughts and concentrate them on his purpose for coming to her. Since it wasn’t prompted by any memory of her—nerves tightened around Meredith’s stomach—it had to be related to Kimberly. Had he found out Kimberly was his daughter? Had something happened to her? Was he the carrier of bad news from his sister?

“...I’m Denise Graham’s brother,” he stated, identifying the connection that gave him credentials for calling on her.

“Yes,” Meredith repeated numbly, painfully aware of all the ramifications of that relationship. “You must have come about Kimberly. The packet...” She swallowed hard, a sickening wave of fear welling up over the emotional impact of seeing him again. “...I should have got it over a fortnight ago.”

“So I understand,” he said sympathetically. “May I come in? There’s a lot to explain.”

Meredith nodded, too choked up to speak. This man and his child had dominated the course of her life for thirteen years. To have him physically in front of her after all this time was both a dream and a nightmare. Her fingers fumbled over the chain slot. Her mind buzzed with the thought of letting him in... to far more than her apartment. And what of his child—her child—who had to be the reason he was here?

“Is Kimberly all right?” The question burst from her as she shakily drew the door wide for him to enter.

“Yes. Couldn’t be healthier,” came the quick assurance. He stepped inside, pausing beside her as she sagged in relief. His brow creased in concern and he made an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry you were worried. Your daughter is fine, Miss Palmer.”

The acknowledgment that she had a daughter brought tears to her eyes. No one in her current life knew. It had always been a painfully private part of her, not easily shared. Who could understand? There’d been so many forces pushing her into letting her baby go—for the best, they’d all said—but sometimes the mourning for the child she could never hold in her arms was overwhelming.

“Thank you,” she managed huskily.

Agitated by Nick Hamilton’s nearness, his understanding and his sympathy, she waved him on to her living room and made a prolonged business of relocking the door. Being situated on the fourth floor of this apartment building gave her some protection against break-ins and burglaries but Meredith was always careful. A woman on her own had to be in the city. Though it was impossible to protect against everything. She had opened her door and the past had rushed in on her tonight. Impossible to know at this point, whether it was good or bad.

“Nice place you have here.”

The appreciative compliment strove to put this meeting on an ordinary footing. It almost provoked a hysterical laugh from Meredith. She took a deep breath, struggling to keep her wildly swinging emotions under control, then slowly turned to play gracious hostess to this gracious guest. Following a polite formula was probably the best way of coping with untenable dreams.

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice steadier, more natural.

He stood mostly in profile, looking back at her from the end of the short hallway that led past the kitchenette to the living room. For a heart-catching moment she saw the twenty-two-year-old Nick Hamilton, as enraptured by her as she was by him, the air between them charged by a heightened awareness that excluded the rest of the world.

Her heart started to thump erratically. Stupid to think nothing had changed. He was still tall, dark and stunningly handsome, but his superb physique was now clothed in an executive-class suit, there were threads of silver in his glossy black hair, and the lines of his face had a mature set to them, harder, sharper, stronger. Life moved on. He was probably married. With other children.

She’d thought that thought a thousand times before, so why did it hurt like hell right now? Because he was here, she answered herself, and his eyes looked exactly the same as when he’d looked at her in the summertime of their youth, combining the slowly feasting sensuality of dark chocolate with the overlying shine of intense magnets, tugging on her soul.

But what was he seeing? She wasn’t so young anymore, either, and she was suddenly acutely aware of her appearance. Her make-up was probably looking tired after the long day she’d put in at her office, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick faded to a pencilled outline. While her smooth olive skin didn’t have blemishes to cover, the matt powder she used to reduce shine would have worn off.

Not exactly putting her best foot forward, she thought ruefully, and was instantly reminded she was standing in her stockinged feet, having kicked off her shoes when she’d come in. Not that it made much difference. She only ever wore little heels. Her legs were so long she always felt her tall, slim figure looked out of proportion in high heels. Nevertheless, the omission of shoes left her feeling even more ungroomed.

And her hair had to be adding to that impression. He’d once described it as strings of honeycomb and treacle—words of smiling whimsy. It was undoubtedly stringy tonight. It hadn’t been brushed since this morning and it was so thick and fine it tended to look unkempt after a few hours, billowing out into a fuzzy cloud instead of a smooth curtain on either side of her long neck.

At least her dress would have retained its class. The silk linen chemise was mostly printed in a geometric pattern, black, white and sand, with stylish bands of each colour running around the lower half of the skirt. It was very much an adult, career-woman dress, she thought wryly, no shades of the teenager in skimpy beach wear. Life had moved on for her, too.

He broke out of his stillness, his shoulders visibly squaring, chin lifting in a dismissive jerk. “Forgive me for staring. It must be the likeness to Kimberly. The eyes. Same unusual shade of green. It feels...uncanny,” he said in an awkward rush.

“I thought she was more like...”

You.

The word teetered on her tongue. She barely bit it back in time. Her heart somersaulted. Did he know? He wasn’t supposed to know. Meredith had no idea what it would mean to his life if he did. She quickly shook her head, dismissing the subject.

“I would have remembered if I’d ever met you,” he blurted out with emphatic certainty, his gaze skating over her, taking in the line and length of her, each finely drawn feature of her face. His brow puckered over the sense of recognition. “It has to be the eyes,” he murmured more to himself than her.

No, it’s all of me, Meredith silently cried, fiercely wishing she could say it.

He shot her a smile that dizzied her with its appealing charm. “I have to confess this situation is like none other I’ve ever been in. I’m not usually so gauche.”

“Please...go on and sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” she invited, forcing herself to move to the kitchen doorway. Easier to cover the strain of this meeting with social conventions. “Can I get you a drink? I’ve opened a bottle of white wine if you’d like a glass, but if you’d prefer tea or coffee...?”

He hesitated, then with an air of playing for time, asked, “Will you have some wine with me?”

“Yes.” Why not? She wanted time with him, too, however futile and hurtful it might be.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She took the bottle from the refrigerator, glad to have something to do. His presence had her nerves jangling. What did he want here? Why had he come?

He didn’t sit down. He prowled around, glancing over the contents of her bookcases, taking in the twilight view of the ocean beyond Balmoral Beach from the picture windows behind her lounge suite, eyeing the floral arrangements she’d done for herself, matching them against her furnishings. She’d been pleased with their artistic simplicity. Was he impressed? she wondered. What was he gleaning from this detailed observation of her personal environment?

Strange to think she would never have become a florist but for being pregnant so young, having to drop out of school and being shuttled out of sight to her stepmother’s sister in Sydney. Ironic how one thing had led to another, the unpaid apprenticeship in her stepaunt’s shop giving her the interest and training to develop a talent she had eventually turned into a successful business.

“Do you share this apartment?” Nick Hamilton asked, tense and ill at ease with the question but asking it nonetheless.

“No,” she replied. “It’s all mine,” she added with a touch of pride, knowing that the home she’d created here proved she was a woman of independent means.

She’d taken her time, selecting what she wanted to live with. The deeply cushioned, squashy leather sofa and chairs were cream so she could dress them up with the multicoloured tapestry cushions she’d stitched over many lonely nights. The wood of the bookshelves and desk was a blond ash, as were the sidetables and her small, four-chair dining suite. The carpet was a dusky pink mushroom.

She’d wanted everything soft and light, uplifting and cosy. It suited her. She fiercely told herself whatever he thought didn’t matter. He’d dropped out of her life thirteen years ago and had no right to walk back into it and be critical of anything.

She pushed his glass of wine across the kitchen counter which was open to the living area. “Your drink.”

“Thank you. You haven’t married?” His eyes were sharply curious and calculating as he came toward her to pick up the wine.

The highly personal inquiry niggled Meredith. He’d spoiled her for any other man and she resented the implication she might have had a free ride on a husband’s income. “No. I didn’t get this place from a man, Mr. Hamilton,” she answered tersely. “I’ve made my own way through a lot of hard work and a bit of luck. Did you achieve whatever you’ve got through a woman?”

In a way he had, his sister protecting him from even knowing about a responsibility he had incurred. He’d been left free to prosper in his chosen career instead of being saddled with a young wife and baby. Denise Graham had not only ensured he had every chance to succeed, she’d kept his child for him, too.

He looked abashed. “I didn’t mean to suggest...”

Resentment over his intrusion in her life now—far too late—brought a surge of impatience with his purpose. “Just why are you checking me out?” she demanded bluntly. “What answers are you looking for?”

He grimaced at her directness. “I guess you could say we’re both faced with a highly delicate situation. I’m trying to ascertain what your attitude might be toward a meeting with Kimberly. Whether it would intrude negatively on the life you have now.”

Her mind reeled at the incredible import of what he was saying. A meeting with her daughter? She’d barely dared to hope for it some time in the future when Kimberly was old enough to be her own person. How could this be when she was only twelve?

“Your sister will allow it?” Her throat had gone so dry her voice was a raw croak. Her eyes clung to his in a torment of doubt.

“My sister and her husband were killed in a car accident a year ago. Just before Christmas,” he stated quietly. “Kimberly has been in my care ever since.”

Shock rolled through her in mind-blowing, heart-wrenching waves. Denise and Colin Graham dead. Since before Christmas last year. And all this time she’d been thinking of them, picturing them going about their lives in their family unit, enjoying all she couldn’t enjoy with their daughter. A year! Her daughter had been without a mother, without her adoptive parents, for a whole year!