St Piran's: The Wedding!

And … oh, God … the cheeky smile on the little boy’s face had a charm out of all proportion to his age. His eyes were too dark to determine their colour but they were so … alive. His face danced with mischief and Megan could feel the pull of a personality that went past being cute or attractive.

It was the kind of pull that made it impossible not to get sucked in.

To fall in love.

The kind of connection that could be overwhelming. That had the capability of derailing, if not destroying, a life.

Megan sucked in a deep breath. How ridiculous to be … what, afraid of a child?

But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Much, much more.

Her gaze jerked up again and now she could see past the folds of the scarf and a woollen hat pulled low over her forehead. She could see a woman who looked to be well into her sixties but could be younger because those lines suggested a life that had not been easy. Behind the spectacles she wore, Megan could now see the colour of her eyes and her heart skipped a beat. She knew who had inherited that shade of indigo blue.

‘Oh, my goodness. You’re Josh’s mother … Claire O’Hara?’

‘Indeed I am.’ Claire blinked in surprise. ‘Have we met?’

‘Just once. At the hospital. When the twins were still in the intensive care unit. The day before.’

The gaze Claire O’Hara directed at Megan was intense. And then it turned distinctly wary. ‘Oh … You’re Megan Phillips. The doctor. I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognise you. It was such a terrible time … the day before poor Rebecca’s funeral and …’

‘There’s no need to apologise.’ Megan was still caught by the undertone she couldn’t fail to have missed in the older woman’s gaze. Recognition of more than her identity.

Had Josh filled her in on his star-crossed lover history?

Unlikely. But this was a small village and St Piran’s hospital grapevine was robust thanks to people who loved to gossip, like that dreadful woman—the ward clerk in the NICU … what was her name? Ruth? No … Rita.

Oh … Lord. Had Josh’s mother heard about the way they’d met, way back when Megan had been a final-year medical student? That she’d become pregnant after a one-night stand with Josh, who hadn’t been remotely interested in seeing her again? That he’d saved her life but that their son had been too premature to survive?

That baby—Stephen—had been Claire’s grandson.

Even if she hadn’t caught up on ancient history, she couldn’t have missed the scandal of the way she and Josh had been drawn back to each other when he’d moved to St Piran’s.

“Poor Rebecca”, she’d said. Because her daughter-in-law had been badly treated by her husband, who had given up on their marriage and had been more interested in another woman? That Megan was the “other woman”? And that, in the end, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other?

Or maybe she felt sorry for Rebecca because she’d died knowing that Josh was only staying in the marriage for the sake of the children.

Megan was acutely embarrassed. Ashamed, even. The way she might have felt if Claire was her own grandmother and she’d disappointed her beyond measure. It had been a mistake to come back here. A dreadful mistake.

Except that Claire wasn’t eyeing her as if she was the cause of all her son’s troubles. ‘And you look … different,’ she continued. That wary expression had completely gone now. Claire’s face actually creased with a kindly concern. ‘You’re so pale, dear. Are you all right?’

‘I’m … um … fine.’ Megan nodded for emphasis and then tried to cover her embarrassment at the undeserved sympathy by looking down and smiling at the children. They stared back, wide-eyed and still shy.

‘This is Max.’ Claire smiled. She turned her head. ‘And this is Brenna.’

They were so impossibly cute. Small faces with perfect features and she could see now that their eyes were as blue as their grandmother’s and their father’s. She wondered if the hair beneath the animal hats would be glossy and black and so soft to run your fingers through it, just like Josh’s. Or had they inherited their mother’s blondeness?

Josh’s children. Josh and Rebecca’s children. Living proof that he’d gone back to his wife’s bed after his marriage was supposedly over, leaving him morally available to Megan.

Maybe something of how hard this was showed in her face.

‘Up,’ Brenna demanded, dropping her grandmother’s hand to hold both arms in the air. ‘Up, Nan. Pick me up.’

Claire had to let go of Max’s hand to pick Brenna up. Max immediately toddled off, at some speed, towards the waves. Crash loped after him.

‘Max. Come back. We have to go home now. It’s starting to rain.’

It was starting to rain. Big, fat, icy drops of water began pelting the small group on the beach.

Claire tried to put Brenna down to run after Max but the little girl shrieked a protest. Crash had dropped his lump of wood and was circling Max, who looked determined to get closer to the wild surf.

‘I’ll get him.’ Megan dropped her shoulder bag and took off.

It took only seconds to reach the toddler but the burst of energy it took was enough to make Megan feel faint. She really wasn’t fine at all, was she?

It was just as well that Max’s little legs had also exhausted their energy reserves. He grinned at Megan. ‘Puddle?’ he asked hopefully.

Oh, help … he was totally irresistible with that crooked little smile and the hopeful expression on his face.

‘Not today, sweetheart.’ She scooped up the toddler and held him in her arms. ‘It’s not sunny enough, is it?’

Her steps almost faltered as she carried the child back to Claire. She was holding Josh’s son. The closest she had ever come to holding the child she could have had herself. The shape of the soft little body cuddling into her was delicious. When Max wrapped his arms around her neck to hang on tighter, Megan felt a flash of pain in her chest, as if her heart was cracking. An old scar, perhaps, being torn open?

Thank goodness it was raining. If any tears escaped, at least nobody would know except her. All she wanted was to grab her bag and escape the moment she got back to Claire, but how could she leave her now? The rain was coming down harder and she had to get two small children and a very large dog off the beach and—presumably—into a car. Or was Josh now living this close to Penhally beach? To her cottage?

‘The car’s not far,’ Claire said. ‘Just down the road a bit.’ She put Brenna down and took a leash from her coat pocket, which she clipped to Crash’s collar. Holding the lead with one hand, she held out her other hand to Brenna. ‘Can you walk now, pet?’

‘No-o-o. Up.’

Relief that Josh wasn’t going to turn out to be a close neighbour made Megan take a deep breath.

‘Let me help,’ she said. ‘You’re getting wet and you’ve got a bit of a handful here.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Claire picked Brenna up, managing to keep hold of the leash. ‘And there I was thinking that it would make my day easy if I gave them all a quick run on the beach before we did our messages in the village. I don’t know where these tots get their energy from.’

Megan had to hide a smile as she found herself struggling to keep up with Claire on the way back to the car. Limitless energy was clearly an O’Hara trait.

Not that she could leave Josh’s mother to cope alone once they reached the car either. The wind had picked up and was threatening to blow the heavy doors closed and it was a mission to strap two wriggling toddlers into their car seats and then shove a folder double stroller out of the way to make room for a big dog to jump into the back hatch of the station wagon.

Finally, everything seemed to be sorted but as Claire reached up to pull the hatch down, she suddenly stopped. She closed her eyes and bent her head, her breath escaping in almost a groan.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, I am. Just need to catch my wind.’

But Megan could feel a prickle of awareness. One that she’d learned never to ignore.

‘Sit down for a minute,’ she said. ‘Here …’ She pushed the stroller further back and guided Claire to sit on the edge of the car floor. Crash shuffled sideways to make room. The car was pointed into the wind and with the hatch cover still up they were fairly well protected from the weather. ‘You are a bit short of puff, aren’t you?’