Maybe This Time Page 3

  “C-condom,” she managed to moan. She’d almost completely fogged out and forgotten. Lucky...

  “You...IUD.”

  “No.” It was all she could say.

  He groaned but he pulled out and guided her over to the bed. She sank onto the turned-back sheets while he found a plastic packet in the bedside drawer. Within seconds he was sheathed, sliding on top of her and into her almost in one motion.

  She met his thrust with a strong surge of her hips, clenching her muscles so she didn’t come immediately. His gaze focused on her as if she were the only thing in the universe. As he was to her. When his eyes started to glaze over she abandoned control. A cry tore from her throat and she was swept away in the climax that she’d been waiting for.

  * * *

  “HOLLY, STOP!” Emma waved a gloved hand holding a trowel dirty from planting pansy seedlings next to the front porch. “Come back now.”

  Holly’s bright red-gold curls bounced in slow motion. Her small sturdy legs sprang toward the red ball rolling along the driveway. She laughed, unaware of the black 4WD reversing toward her....

  “No, Holly!” Emma tried to run. Couldn’t...move. She looked down. She was buried up to her hips in the garden bed. “Stop!” she screamed again—at Holly, at the faceless driver, at the universe. “Stop!”

  A flash of white face in the driver’s window, panic and confusion. The 4WD jerked once then zoomed backward, smashing into Holly, throwing her through the air—

  “Holly! Oh, God. No, no, no, no...”

  Emma awoke sobbing, dripping with sweat. She blinked her eyes open and peered at the dark unfamiliar room. Collapsing on the pillow, she closed her eyes but the dream still permeated her mind. Images flashed. Holly, a broken rag doll on the pavement, blood running from her nose. Darcy, hauling Emma off their daughter’s body. The ambulance, siren wailing, then abrupt silence. The paramedic pulling a blanket over Holly’s face. My baby, my baby...

  “Em, what’s the matter? Are you okay?” Darcy, his voice groggy with sleep, cupped her shoulder.

  She shook his hand off and rolled out of bed, now as repelled by his touch as she had been eager for it earlier. The grieving mother in her longed for comfort. Darcy should have been the one to give it to her. Except that even though he wasn’t driving the vehicle, he was to blame for Holly’s death.

  “No, I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay again.”

  He turned on a lamp and squinted at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Holly.” She dragged her dress over her naked body and managed to zip it halfway before she got on her knees to hunt beneath chairs for her shoes. How could she have been so stupid as to sleep with Darcy?

  He groaned and flung himself on the pillow. “Not this again.”

  “Yes, this again.” She should leave this subject alone, but she was still gripped by the horror of the nightmare. “You, a bartender of all people, should know better than to serve your friends alcohol and then let them get behind the wheel.”

  Darcy sat up in bed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I barely knew the guy. He came with someone else. And I get tired of being the booze police. I have to do that at the pub. I shouldn’t have to in my own home. People brought their own grog. I couldn’t monitor everyone’s intake. Whatever happened to personal responsibility?”

  That was all very well in theory—except that her child had been killed. Someone had to be accountable.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror, makeup smeared, her hair a fright. Who cared? Darcy had seen her at her worst and this wasn’t it. She wanted to get to her own cabin so she could cry. “Where the hell is my other shoe?”

  “What about you?” Darcy said. “You were right there in the yard with her. You were supposed to be watching.”

  “I was watching. Could I help it if her ball rolled into the driveway? When did you ever watch her for even five minutes? You played with her but you didn’t watch over her. You didn’t look after her.”

  Ah, there was her shoe, under the bed.

  “How could you not have noticed that guy was staggering drunk when he left the house?” she continued. “When the police tested him he blew 0.15.”

  “I didn’t see him leave! If he was staggering, how come you didn’t stop him from getting in his vehicle?”

  She turned away. They’d gone over the day in forensic detail a million times. “If we’d gone on a picnic the way I wanted, it never would have happened.”

  “It was the footy grand final! I’ve been watching with these guys every year, since long before you and I got together. But that’s just like you, Emma, not wanting me to have a life outside the family.”

  “That’s not true. But you seemed to enjoy your outside life more than spending time with Holly and me. Why weren’t we enough for you?” She threw up her hands. “What am I saying? Nothing’s ever enough for you. There isn’t enough excitement, people, activity in the world to satisfy you.”

  “You like reading books. I like being around people. Does that make me a criminal?”

  Emma sat to strap on her sandal, sick to death of the familiar litany, the going off on tangents. They’d been through this over and over with no resolution. “This was a mistake, thinking we could have one night. Let’s forget it ever happened.”

  “Fine by me.” He slumped farther down in the bed.

  She grabbed her purse, made sure her key card was inside, then went to the door. There she paused to look at Darcy, hoping for...what? For him to call her back, hold her, find the magic words that would somehow make all the pain go away?

  He opened his mouth as though he would speak. Something flashed in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability that went so deep it was scary. She almost went over and hugged him. Then his jaw clamped shut and the lines around his eyes hardened.

  She shook her head. What was she thinking? Darcy wasn’t vulnerable. He was Mr. Goodtime Charlie. He didn’t exactly laugh off tragedy and adversity, but he somehow set it aside and carried on. Nothing gave him nightmares or had him weeping in the middle of the day. He wasn’t as affected by Holly’s death as she was because family life simply wasn’t as important to him.

  “Goodbye.” Before she closed the door, she added, “Next time fate throws us together let’s hope we have the sense to walk in the opposite direction.”

  * * *

  FRIDAY NIGHT AND THE PUB was hopping. Darcy poured beers as fast as the foaming head would allow. Kirsty, a young and mouthy waitress with spiky black hair and arms of steel, picked up a loaded tray, grumbling good-naturedly, “I should be paid by the glass on Friday nights.”

  Darcy blotted the overflow from a pint of Cascade Lager and passed it down the bar. “How does five cents per round sound?”

  “I was thinking more like five dollars. Do you know how much these things weigh?”

  “Look at it as saving on a gym membership,” he teased. He paid her well and she knew it; she just liked to joke around.

  Darcy’s gaze moved over the crowded room. Ten o’clock and it was standing-room only. A roar of laughter came from the far corner by the dartboard, where his father was holding court with his cronies. With his thick head of white hair and black eyebrows, Roy Lewis stood out in a crowd. Seeing him lean on his cane to limp to the table, Darcy frowned. His dad was waiting for a hip replacement and living on painkillers in the meantime. Roy glanced over and made eye contact, giving Darcy an approving nod. Darcy turned his frown to a smile. At least the old man still enjoyed himself.

  Darcy liked that his father had owned the pub before him, liked the continuity and the community. This was Darcy’s home, where he belonged. Here in the pub he was among friends, some he’d grown up with, others he’d met as recently as last week. He thrived on the energy and buzz of people having a good time. Emma had never understood that.

  When the pub had been built sixty years ago Summerside had been in the country instead of the outskirts of suburbia the way it was now. The dark wood-panel walls were covered w
ith photos, cricket and football pennants from local teams and other bric-a-brac. His older regulars kept their own special beer mugs on a high shelf over the bar, a motley array of ceramic, pewter and glass.

  Occasionally he thought about upgrading the pub but really, why should he change? His was a classic small-town watering hole. Everyone knew everyone else. It had suited him and his customers for the past ten years.

  He bent to open the fridge for a bottle of imported beer and the door swung out, letting out cold air and blocking Kirsty’s passage to the till. Of course a few modernizations like sliding doors would be welcome. He would get around to them one of these days.

  Riley came in with Paula, his new wife and a detective on the Summerside police department. Darcy automatically reached for a frosted glass and a bottle of James Boag classic. He had it poured before Riley elbowed his way to the bar. As he passed it over, he winked at Paula. “Gin and tonic for the missus?”

  “If you call me missus one more time, I swear, I will arrest you.” Paula’s blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll have Cinzano with a twist, just to keep you on your toes.”

  “Careful.” Riley sipped his beer and regarded his wife with relish. “She’s in a feisty mood tonight.”

  “I love a strong-minded woman.” Darcy grinned at Riley as he poured a measure of ruby-red vermouth over ice and added a sliver of lemon. “Makes for a challenge.”

  “Speaking of women...” Riley raised his eyebrows. “How was the cruise?”

  “Well...” Darcy deliberately let it dangle, trying to figure out a way not to tell Riley what happened.

  “If you boys are going to talk dirty, I’m going to see if I can find a table.” Paula saluted Darcy with her glass and headed off into the crowd.

  Before Darcy could answer, one of his regulars, Tony, a young bricklayer with russet sideburns and an angel tattooed on his right arm, came up to the bar. “Six pots of Carlton Draught, thanks, Darcy.” He doffed an imaginary cap to Riley. “How’s it going, Sarg?”

  Riley replied easily and made a comment about football. Darcy watched the exchange as he poured beers and lined them up on the bar. The bricklayer’s deferent but friendly attitude masked a wariness of cops. Tony had had a couple of run-ins with the police in his younger days over minor infractions but he’d kept his nose clean for some years. Darcy was glad. He liked Tony.

  “Cheers, mate.” Tony paid for his drinks and left with six glasses clutched between his callused fingers.

  “He’s a good kid,” Darcy said.

  “Did I say anything?” Riley asked mildly. He leaned forward and beckoned Darcy in close. “So, I want to know how you fared on the cruise. Did you get laid?”

  Darcy affected a pained expression. “So crude.”

  “Well, did you? John and I want you to get our money’s worth from that ticket.”

  “I suppose you think that entitles you to a blow-by-blow.” Darcy took an order from another customer and moved down the bar to pour a Scotch from the liquor bottles lined up in front of the mirror. No way was he going to mention he’d hooked up with Emma. It was not only indiscreet, he felt foolish.

  “Blow-by-blow?” Riley said with a twinkle in his eye when Darcy returned. “Are you saying you engaged in rough play?”

  Darcy picked up a cloth and began to wipe the beer-splattered bar, recalling the sexy love-dance between him and Emma. “Vigorous and athletic, but no, not rough.”

  “You did get laid!” Riley grinned widely. “Was she hot? Are you going to see her again?”

  “She was hot,” Darcy admitted, getting a visual flash of Emma in that blue dress—and out of it. He was getting hard just thinking about her.

  Would she tell her friends? He didn’t want to be a source of gossip. They’d already weathered that storm and he was glad it had died down. Their friends and acquaintances had pretty much split down the middle when they divorced. Everyone said they didn’t want to take sides but inevitably, they had—some more than others. For instance, Riley, seeing the hell his friend was going through during the marriage breakdown, had been critical of Emma. In turn, Emma’s sister Alana had been hard on Darcy for “treating Emma so badly.”

  “Come on, tell an old married man the juicy stuff. Blond or brunette? Tall or short?”

  “Redhead, slender but curvy.”

  “Like Emma.” Riley shook his head. “Jeez, mate, you’re supposed to be getting over the woman, not banging her body double.”

  Darcy rubbed his cloth in circles, the wood getting shinier and shinier. “So what do you think of Geelong’s chances to make the final this year?”

  “Huh? You don’t watch football anymore—” Riley’s jaw dropped. “No way. Don’t tell me, she was Emma.”

  “She happened to be on the cruise, too,” Darcy explained defensively. “We started dancing and, well...one thing led to another.”

  “You two and your Latin dancing.” Riley stabbed a finger at him. “You are not getting back with that woman. I like Emma a lot and I know she went through hell after Holly died but she also made you miserable. She’s not right for you.”

  Darcy disagreed. Sure, he and Emma were different in a lot of respects and they had their problems. But way down deep past the superficial stuff he still thought they were soul mates. It was just that some tragedies were so terrible they tore even soul mates apart.

  “We’re not getting back together. It was a one-off.”

  “Good,” Riley said fervently. “But man, couldn’t you have found another woman among the hundreds on board to sleep with?”

  He hadn’t wanted any other woman. Right up to the point where she’d accused him of being responsible for Holly’s death. Then, oh, boy, he’d wished he’d chosen any other woman but her. “In hindsight, it was probably a mistake. But aside from an awkward moment when we woke up—” to put it mildly “—there was no harm done. Can we let it go now?”

  “Sure.” Riley slid off his stool. “I’d better go find Paula. Give me a packet of nuts. You know, you should offer hot food. I bet you would do a roaring business.”

  “You’re only the five-hundredth person to tell me that.” Before Holly died he’d been talking to a catering company about supplying light gourmet snacks that could be easily heated in the pub’s small kitchen. After the funeral that idea had been quietly swept under the carpet. No particular reason, he simply hadn’t gotten around to it again.

  Riley headed off to find Paula. Darcy moved along the bar, checking if anyone needed a new drink. A cheer went up at the other end of the bar from a group of guys watching the football game. He turned away. He had to have it on because his customers expected it, but Riley was right, he didn’t watch the game anymore. Like alcohol, he didn’t have the stomach for it.

  The door opened and a tall stranger with a shaved head entered. His solidly muscled torso was encased in a tight black polo shirt and a toothpick rolled around his mouth. He paused in the doorway, taking a few minutes to survey the room. Then he made his way to the bar. Even there, he didn’t speak but studied the mugs on the high shelf and the yellowing postcards tacked to a pillar.

  “What can I get you?” Darcy asked.

  “A glass of ’98 T’Gallant Reserve pinot noir.” He said it with an almost insolent grin, as if deliberately asking for what he knew Darcy couldn’t provide and relishing Darcy’s discomfort.

  Darcy flushed. Not much usually bothered him but this guy made his hackles rise. “Sorry, mate, we don’t serve specialty wines. The house pinot is a 2010 Paringa Estate. Not a bad drop.”

  “I’ll have a Stella Artois in that case.” He slid onto a stool. “Name’s Wayne Overton.” He reached across the bar and pumped Darcy’s hand with a grip so firm it bordered on crushing. He glanced around the pub. “You the owner?” Darcy nodded. “You’ve got a good business here. I always like to meet the competition.”

  Darcy handed him a stemmed glass with the Stella Artois emblem. “I beg your pardon?”

  Wayne’s grin made the toot
hpick stick up at a cocky angle. “I bought the old hair salon across the street. I’m going to turn it into a wine bar.”

  “Is that right?” Darcy took his money and put it in the cash register. “Well, we’re a friendly bunch around here. It’s a small town but big enough for both of us.”

  “That’s the spirit. Keep each other on our toes, eh?” Wayne glanced around again, his gaze lighting on Tony and his bricklayer mates. “We would have a different clientele, though, wine bars being a bit more upmarket than a country-style pub. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Darcy’s smile hardened slightly. The guy was a jerk. “I take it you’re new to the village?”

  “Oh, I don’t live here. I’ve got a winery with a restaurant in Red Hill. My financial planner suggested I start up another business. You know, for a tax write-off.” He looked out the window onto the quiet street. “This place is a bit of a backwater.”

  “We like to think it has character,” Darcy said.

  “Yeah, real cute. I notice some big houses along the cliff and on the north side of town. There’s a bit of money here.”

  The more Wayne opened his mouth, the less Darcy liked him. “This is a diverse community—some rich, some middling, plenty of working folk.”

  Wayne was in here checking out the competition. Darcy wasn’t worried. He knew his clientele, who, for Wayne’s information, included doctors, stockbrokers and teachers as well as tradesmen and business owners. They came for the friendly atmosphere and the familiarity of his establishment. They liked their beer and they tolerated his limited wine list.

  No upstart wine bar could compete with that.

  Setting aside his distaste for the guy’s attitude, he stuck out a hand. “Welcome to Summerside.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Late February

  EMMA MENTALLY ADDED UP the days and weeks since her last period as she walked briskly along the corridor of Ward 5G North. When she figured it out she stopped dead, forcing an orderly pushing a patient on a gurney to weave around her.