Marrying Marcus

“Sexy?” Jenna nearly choked on her drink.

“Eleven-year-old boys tend to be into hardware. Airplanes, motorbikes and girls with a mouthful of gleaming metal.” He looked blandly solemn.

“Did you ever get to kiss her?”

“Hell, no. I worshipped her from afar—well, two desks away—for six months, then we left for different schools the following year and I never saw her again.”

“That’s sad.” Jenna made her eyes big and sorrowful.

“A tragedy,” Marcus agreed. “Romeo and Juliet all over again.”

Jenna giggled, startled that she still remembered how to laugh. The cold leaden lump that had taken the place of her heart began to melt around the edges.

Marcus was right, she would get over her shock and secret grief. Gratefully she touched his arm. “Thanks, Marcus.”

He shrugged her off, looking faintly irritated. Then, as if to make up for it, he took her hand, his fingers curving about hers in a strong clasp. “You’ve nothing to thank me for,” he said in a rather gravelly tone. “But I’m monopolizing you. We’d better circulate.”

Later in the evening Jenna was placing a platter of rock oysters garnished with lemon slices and parsley on the long supper table, when Marcus appeared at her side.

“Looks good,” he commented. “Shall I save you some before they all go?”

“Thanks.” Jenna threw him a smile and hurried back to the kitchen to help Katie and Mrs. Crossan.

When all the food was laid out and everyone milled about with filled plates, Marcus appeared again at her side, holding a large platter piled with savories, seafood and chicken wings.

“I thought we could share.” He leaned across her to snaffle paper napkins and forks from the table. Looking about, he added, “There’s nowhere to sit. Let’s take it outside.”

He led her into a broad passageway where a few people stood about with plates and forks. “Hold this for a minute.”

Jenna stood with the loaded plate as he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with an opened bottle of wine and two glasses.

Outside, light spilled from several windows, but the perimeter of the lawn was cool and dark. Marcus made unerringly for the big old puriri tree that had been there since before the house was built.

Guessing his objective, Jenna followed. She recalled when his father had built the wooden seat around the tree. And the summer that Marcus had helped the younger ones erect a rickety tree hut in its gnarled branches. They’d used it for several years before they became too old for games and it fell to pieces.

Jenna’s mother, helped by Mrs. Crossan’s practical brand of sympathy, had gradually emerged from the half world she’d been living in, fighting her way back to a normal life. She’d found a job working for a publishing house, first part-time in the office and later full-time in charge of distribution. Mrs. Crossan had promised to keep an eye on Jenna after school.

Once, when Jenna was thirteen, Karen had considered moving to a shoreside suburb closer to her office in Auckland, but when she suggested it Jenna had dissolved in angry tears. All the insecurities and misery of the two years after her father’s death rose to the surface in furious, door-slamming, hysterical protest. The subject was never mentioned again.

Jenna sat on the worn, smooth wood of the seat, placing the food between herself and Marcus. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and she rubbed at her arms.