Maeve was about to shake her head dismissively, considered perhaps even just walking away up the garden path and leaving him standing there, when to her absolute horror, from behind her, a little voice said, “Hi, Mom. I saw you through the curtain, Carole said it was okay for me to come out.”
Maeve’s body froze rigid, the blood pounding in her head as she took in the scene in snapshots, every word like an echo, images suspended in time. The music from the wedding in the distance. The rattle of the metal fence as her daughter, Zoey, swung from it, her untied shoelace. The navy Jackson General Hospital fundraiser sweater she had on that Maeve wore to do the gardening and Zoey hadtaken a shine to—even though it came down almost to her knees when she wore it. Her fluorescent-yellow leggings, her favorite red polka-dot bobble hat, and the wisps of hair that had come loose from her braid.
Then her precious little arm as she stretched it out toward Brodie, the cuff rolled over like a sausage, and said, “I’m Zoey. Nice suit.”
Watching Zoey’s fingers, pale and tiny when clasped by Brodie’s big, tanned hand, Maeve could barely allow herself to look at his face as he said, “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Brodie. Not a bad outfit yourself.”
Zoey looked down at herself as if to check what she had on and said, “Thanks.” Then she turned back to Maeve. “What were you talking about?”
Maeve said, “Nothing,” her voice strained and thin.
Zoey frowned. “Why have you got your stressed face on?”
Maeve tried to ignore her. “Go inside, I’ll be there in a minute.”
Zoey didn’t move. Instead, she looked to Brodie, giving him a proper once up-and-down as if he might provide some answers.
Clearly more than happy to oblige, Brodie said, “I was just reminding your mom about a time we met a while ago.” He paused to think back.
Maeve watched him mentally calculating, her heart thumping like a drum.
“It must have been one of the first concerts I did without the band,” he said. “So, when was that, about eight years ago?”
Zoey said, “I’m eight.” Grinning with pride at the fact. Dimples in both cheeks.
Maeve found herself struggling to breathe.
ChapterThree
Brodie felt the moment that the words registered in his brain. He went from thinking,cute kid, to just wall-coming-down blankness. Maeve was staring at him, pale face suddenly flushed red at the cheeks, eyes momentarily pulsing with panic before she blinked and looked away.
All the while, the back of Brodie’s mind was whizzing like a rollercoaster but he wasn’t listening. As if his body sensed danger, he felt an instinctive urge to back away, to ignore. “Okay,” he said, one foot stepping back. “Well, that was all I wanted to say.”
The kid was still swinging on the gate, the squeaking noise piercing the air as she watched him with eyes as big and round as one of Noah’s cows.
He thumbed behind him. “I should get back to the wedding.”
“Yep,” Maeve replied, now cool and calm, like she’d drawn on her unflappable, doctor persona in the brief moment it had taken Brodie to get his words out.
“Okay,” he said again, unable to pull out one of his usual charmingly witty one-liners. Like his head had nothing in it. Taking another backward step, he stumbled on a piece of loose paving, then laughed and said, “Need to get that fixed.” All the while he felt the scrutiny of the kid’s wide eyes.
He raised a hand to wave before turning on his heel and striding away in the direction of the wedding music, chin raised a touch, trying not to think of those huge bovine eyes following him.
When he was almost back at the orchard he reached up and loosened his tie, undoing the top button on his shirt, then he shrugged off his jacket. Everything suddenly felt too constricting. His skin hot, like he had the flu.
Around the side of the main orchard house, he could see the lights of the dance floor, the air strobing with color, the leaves of the apple trees illuminated, he could hear laughter and the buzzing hum of chatter. The clink of glasses. He walked up the front drive, lit with tealights and strung with white wedding bunting, remembering how smug he’d felt when his recollection of Maeve that night at the concert had flashed into his mind, he’d laughed as his champagne glass touched his lips. He’d found himself driven by a conceited desire to tell her what he had decided she already knew and had been haughtily pretending she didn’t. He’d arrogantly assumed that people didn’t forget a night with a celebrity.
He strolled back into the wedding reception, trying his best to appear blasé, and hooked a glass of champagne from the bar. But his hand was shaking so he put it back down on a table. Then he stood with his hands in his pockets, not totally sure what to do with himself.
Noah sidled up. “So, how’d it go with Maeve?”
“Maeve?” Brodie frowned, feigned nonchalance. “What about her?”
Noah laughed, deep and satisfied. “She blow you out?”
Brodie could feel sweat trickle down his back.
I’m eight.
