Morgan's Secret Son

‘You can’t!’ Chas said in desperation, as she picked up her new suede gloves purposefully.

‘Watch.’

‘But…we could have babies!’

She froze at his last-ditch, sneaky attempt to keep her, then swivelled around, her jade eyes glittering with such ferocity that Chas quailed. For the past six years she’d longed for marriage and children. Chas had refused.

‘Goodbye!’ she said coldly. ‘You can pick my car up from JFK airport!’

‘You’re not serious! Where’s your luggage?’ he scorned.

‘In the car already.’ Feeling free as a bird, she opened the door.

‘Wait a minute! Where—where are you going?’ he wailed.

‘England,’ she replied more softly, happiness lighting her face. ‘To be with my father.’

‘Whaaat? You’re mad! I know he wrote to you, but that was six months ago and you haven’t heard anything since! If he’s the sort of guy to abandon you and your mother when you were barely a year old, he’s hardly going to cheer when an emotional cripple lands on his doorstep!’ Chas bellowed nastily.

‘I’ll ignore that vicious remark,’ she said, utterly calm and collected. ‘I fully understand why he might have changed his mind about seeing me. Anyone can get cold feet over a situation like this. But I’ve realised that I have to meet up with him. He’s my only living relative and I have to try.’

Taking charge of her life was such fun! Why hadn’t she done it long ago? Seven years she’d worked for Chas! For six of those she’d been living with him! She gave the stunned Chas an amused glance.

‘You’ll find the thongs and the push-up bras in my top drawer,’ she murmured. ‘Enjoy.’

Elated, she swept out into the snow. She felt gorgeous, dressed in new and sensual—rather than uncomfortable and tacky—underwear. Over it she wore an outrageously expensive tangerine silk T-shirt, the slim-fitting amber suit with its shockingly brief skirt, a theatrical cape, hat and boots. She had become a new woman in every way—and she was setting out on an adventure.

Seemingly all legs and slim suede boots, she wriggled into the driving seat, gave a little wave to the open-mouthed Chas and giggled. Then she drove away, her thoughts returning to that moment when she’d opened the letter for the first time.

The sincerity of her father’s affection had burst upon her like a ray of sunshine and hope. Your loving father, Sam, he’d signed it, and the breath had caught in her throat when she’d read those words. Someone cared. Someone really loved and wanted her. The tears came to her eyes as she remembered and she had to hastily dash them away or end up flattened by a bus.

Her mother had died when she was small. Foster-parents had brought her up, and now she recognised that they had begun the curbing of her naturally happy, outgoing nature with their rigid rules and punishments. Love had never figured. Not true, unselfish, accepting love. But now things would be different.

Jodie beamed cheerfully at a cab driver who was trying to cut her up and she let him through with a friendly wave. She laughed out loud when the man hesitated, unable to believe what he was seeing. But she was on top of the world and in love with everyone—Chas excepted!—even cab drivers.

Soon, she thought dreamily, she’d be arriving at her father’s house in the south of England. He would have her letter announcing her arrival by now, and he could hardly refuse to see her when she’d come so far.

Just in case he did, there was Plan B. She’d booked into a nearby hotel, from where she planned to work on his heartstrings until he agreed to a meeting.

She felt sure he wouldn’t reject her. Something, someone, had dissuaded him from answering her many letters, she was sure. She understood only too well how other people could cloud one’s judgement.

It had taken her this long to realise that Chas’s advice—to forget her father—had been totally selfish. For years she’d relied on Chas, becoming increasingly dependent and subservient. But now she saw him for what he was: a bully and a control freak.

Her present confidence came from the fact that her father had been so eager for her to visit, and had even asked for her mother’s address. A pang went through her. The weeks of loneliness and bewilderment after her mother’s death had been so awful that she could recall them with crystal-clearness even now.

That was all over, though. Her eyes sparkled. This was the happiest she’d ever been in the whole of her life. No clouds on the horizon, no thongs, and a case stuffed to the brim with sizzling citrus and scarlet clothes!

‘Brace yourself, England,’ she cried with a laugh, seeing the sign for the airport. ‘Here I come!’

With Jack hooked expertly over his shoulder and his hands slippery with suds, Morgan finally succeeded in opening the door.

Why did people always call when he’d just got the baby in the bath? It was one of life’s irritating mysteries—and it was getting beyond a joke.

He grunted when the postman’s cheery, gossip-ready face hove into view. Village life in rural Sussex had its drawbacks. People expected to chat, to share information. And there were too many busybodies around trying to find out what the devil he was doing in Sam Frazer’s house.

The postman had taken a step back. Morgan realised he’d been scowling and modified the severity of his expression.

‘Morning,’ he muttered. It still sounded like a veiled threat, even to his ears. Must do better!

‘Recorded delivery,’ the postman said, warily handing over the package.

‘Thanks,’ he said, mustering a little more grace.

He signed for the letter with his free hand and gave it a cursory glance. For Sam. He dropped it onto the pile of unopened mail on the hall table which was waiting till Sam’s health improved, and made to shut the door. He had a million things to do.

‘Er…baby all right?’ enquired the postman meekly.

With a concealed sigh, Morgan mused that curiosity must be stronger than fear.

‘Fine.’

‘Must be five weeks old now. I love kids. Can I have a peep?’

It would have been churlish in the extreme to refuse, tempting though it was. Resigned to having Jack poked about by any number of strangers in the next few months, he pushed back the folds of the hooded towel which he’d wrapped around Jack’s wet body and his face softened as two tiny boot-black eyes stared back at him.

‘Like his father,’ observed the postman, making funny faces for Jack’s benefit.

‘Is he?’

How a snub-nosed scrap of humanity could look anything like an adult, he couldn’t imagine! Ironically everyone declared that Jack resembled Sam.

Guilt and resentment sucked relentlessly at his stomach. It was terrible being torn in two like this… He stared bleakly at the baby, despising himself for what he’d done, almost sick with anger and worry.

‘We were all sorry to hear Mr Frazer had been rushed into hospital again. How is he?’ persisted the postman with genuine sympathy.

‘Critical,’ Morgan jerked, all hell breaking loose in his heart.

‘That’s bad! He’s had some rotten luck since he moved in last summer.’ The postman patted his hand comfortingly. ‘It was a nice funeral you gave his missus,’ he said soothingly. ‘Lovely oration.’

Morgan winced and didn’t correct him. Teresa hadn’t been married to Sam—a fact which had virtually caused her death.

He supposed that the postman was trying to be kind, but Morgan did not want to be reminded too vividly of that terrible day when he’d stood in the driving rain watching Teresa’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

And then there’d been the expressions of sympathy to deal with. Teresa’s London friends knew his secret: that he’d had an affair with her, before she’d switched to Sam.

They had stared with open curiosity at his hollow eyes and shocked appearance, whispering salaciously behind their hands.

He had known what they were saying. He’d overheard a comment: ‘Did he never stop loving her? Is that why he’s so distraught?’