Her Secret, His Son

She didn’t answer, but she shook her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom added, and his throat worked.

The smell of coffee filled the room and Mary distracted herself by collecting the coffee pot and their mugs and setting them on the cleared kitchen table. They took seats opposite each other and Mary felt painfully self-conscious. She wondered if Tom felt as awkward as she did to be sitting in such a domesticated setting—after all these years. It was so strange to be taking coffee with Tom Pirelli as if he were no more than a friend of Ed’s.

Was he feeling as self-conscious as she was? Was he inwardly calm, or was he battling memories? She couldn’t stop thinking about the past…Their past.

Good grief, here she was, worried about her husband, and yet she was remembering it all. Dancing and laughing with Tom, kissing him, riding on the back of his motorbike, walking hand-in-hand with him in the moonlight along a beach of silver sand. Making love…

And then her father’s insistence that Tom Pirelli couldn’t possibly love her.

‘Do you take cream or sugar?’ she asked, forcing the memories aside.

‘I’ll have a little milk, no sugar, thanks.’ He watched her fill his mug and then his face broke into a smile.

‘What’s amusing you?’ she asked tightly.

‘The way you call milk cream—like a proper Yank.’

She gave an offhand shrug. ‘It happens when you spend eight years in a place. After a while you don’t even notice the differences.’

‘There are differences, though, aren’t there?’ he said, as if he were deliberately trying to steer their conversation into safe, pedestrian waters. ‘I mean, on the surface Australians and Americans seem to speak the same language, but—’

‘But here nappies are diapers and tomato sauce is ketchup.’

‘Yeah—and footpaths are sidewalks and taps are faucets.’

‘And scones are biscuits and biscuits are cookies.’ Mary smiled too.

Tom watched her, then looked away and seemed to study her kitchen. It wasn’t a remarkable kitchen but he took his time, as if he wanted to remember the yellow walls, white cupboards and sandstone-coloured bench tops, the decorative touches of blue and white pottery—Ethan’s artwork stuck on the refrigerator door with magnets. On the wall, stars and stripes fashioned in cross-stitch framed the words ‘God Bless America’.

‘Ed’s mother made that and gave it to us last Thanksgiving,’ she said, feeling a need to explain.

She sat stiffly, twisting the coffee mug back and forth and not looking at him, aware that they would very quickly run out of safe topics to discuss. ‘How is your Nonna?’ she asked. ‘I hope she’s still alive.’

Fresh smile creases showed around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. ‘You bet she is. I think nonna’s organised a special deal with God. No doubt she’s promised him that when she gets to heaven she’ll cook gnocchi gorgonzola on a regular basis, if he’ll let her stay here till she’s good and ready.’

‘You’ve always loved your nonna’s gnocchi gorgonzola, haven’t you?’

‘I’m surprised you remember.’

‘Of course I remember.’ I remember everything about you, Tom. ‘Your nonna’s very special.’

‘Yeah.’ Tom released a long sigh. ‘It’s too damn long since I’ve seen her.’

‘Are you going back to Australia now?’

‘Definitely. Soon as I can.’

The awkwardness returned and this time Tom must have decided he’d had enough. He jumped to his feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I’d better get going.’

‘Yes,’ she said, jumping up just as quickly.

Was he happy to be leaving? Was that relief in his eyes? She remembered the way he used to smile whenever he saw her. The way his whole face would light up and his dark eyes would glow—and how she used to cling to him when it was time for them to part, begging for one more kiss—for him to hold her just a little longer.

And now they were both relieved to be parting.

He walked to the front door and she followed.

They said simple, unsatisfactory goodbyes without mentioning Ed again…Or their shared past.

Apart from the cold ache in her heart, there was nothing in the formal way they shook hands that suggested they had ever been lovers—nothing in the way she slipped her hand just a little too quickly from his that indicated that they had planned to marry.

Any second now, Tom would be turning away, walking out of her life. She knew this was best. His mission was accomplished. He’d brought the McBride family watch for Ethan and there was no more to do. Already she could sense his next move; he would execute a sharp about-turn and get the hell out of her home.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he stood on her front step and looked at her for ages. The muscles in his throat worked. ‘Have you been happy, Mary?’

Oh, help! This was the one question in the world she didn’t want to answer. And Tom was watching her so intently she feared he must see her sudden dismay. Had it shown in her eyes? Had it twisted her mouth downwards? She couldn’t be disloyal to Ed now. He’d been a good husband. There was no one better. In a flash she recovered and sent Tom a bright smile.

‘Of course I’ve been happy,’ she said. ‘You’ve met Ed, Tom. You know what a great guy he is. He’s a very good man.’

‘Sure,’ Tom grunted. ‘Ed’s top shelf—he must have been a prize catch.’

He gave a curt nod and spun on his heel, at last eager to get away. Mary watched him and told herself she was glad he was leaving. It was best that they hadn’t made any attempt to rake up the past. What was the point? They couldn’t go back. Parting without regret or recrimination was the adult way to behave.

But as Tom’s foot touched the bottom step she felt the cruel weight of finality sink into her bones. Tom Pirelli was walking out of her life. A picture flashed before her of the last time she’d seen him, waiting on the corner, waiting to run away with her, to marry her.

And she heard herself calling suddenly, softly. ‘What about you, Tom? Have you been happy?’

CHAPTER FOUR

THE fear came the very moment Mary asked the question.

Have you been happy? As soon as the words were out she felt a dreadful quaking terror deep inside. Why? Why couldn’t she ask the question as easily as he had? And why was Tom staring at her with such a dark, accusing shadow in his eyes, as if he were angered by her question?

Was she imagining that sense of deep resentment that seemed to cling to him—as if it were a menacing presence that haunted him?

Was it guilt that made her so scared?

She had no cause to feel guilty. Eight years ago, on that night they’d tried to elope, Sonia had gone to Tom to explain why she couldn’t meet him and Mary had waited for his answer. And waited…But there had been no word. And he’d never tried to contact her afterwards.

He hadn’t suffered the agonies of disappointment that had made her so ill. He hadn’t suffered in silent, lovesick misery the way she had. And he hadn’t been left with a terrible, frightening secret. He knew nothing of the burden he had left her with, and he’d gone off to play heroes in the SAS without a backward glance in her direction.

Of course he’d been happy.

‘I haven’t been as happy as I should have been,’ he said.