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A flare of interest sparked in his eyes as he fixed that all-seeing gaze on her. ‘What happened?’
‘Dad was a geologist and loved travelling the world. Mum accompanied him on a trip to the Alps—probably for a break from the three of us. They died in an avalanche.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ he murmured, his genuine sympathy bringing an unexpected lump to her throat.
She’d had years to come to terms with her grief—long years when she’d cried herself to sleep every night while huddled beneath the blankets, trying to stifle her sobs from her angry adoptive father—yet here she was, about to blubber in front of a virtual stranger who’d offered a kind word.
‘You said three of us?’ he asked.
‘I have two sisters. Tahnee’s the youngest and Kristen’s the oldest. They split us up at the orphanage. Tahnee and Kristen got adopted out first; I spent a year in that hellhole. We found each other about six years ago.’
‘My God,’ he said, taking hold of her hand across the table. ‘How awful.’
It had to have been a purely instinctive gesture, but the minute his hand enveloped hers she couldn’t think straight. His touch elicited a response she couldn’t comprehend. But it was far too early to feel anything other than respect for this man—respect for a single father doing the best he could in raising his daughter.
She slid her hand from his on the pretext of dishing up a plate of spaghetti bolognaise and managed a weak smile. ‘Listen to us—a real pair of agony aunts.’ She handed him a plate, being careful to avoid touching him again. Otherwise he’d probably end up wearing hot pasta on his crotch. ‘Here—try this. It’s my favourite recipe.’
Casting a quizzical look her way, he took the plate she offered. ‘Thanks. It smells delicious.’
And, with that, they dug into their meal, only pausing to make the odd casual remark like ‘Pass the Parmesan, please’ or ‘More dressing on your salad?’ She would have liked more conversation but, as meals went, it wasn’t the worst she’d had with a man. In fact, there was something strangely comforting about a guy who didn’t feel obliged to babble about his business or sporting prowess all through dinner—who seemed happy to eat in companionable silence without spouting off.
‘Thanks for the meal. I’ll help you clean up, and then I think it’s time I left.’ He stood up from the table so quickly his chair teetered on two wooden legs before slamming back on the floor.
‘What’s your hurry? We haven’t had dessert yet.’
He patted his stomach, drawing her attention to the hard planes evident beneath the white cotton T-shirt and putting a new slant on dessert in her mind. ‘I’ll pass on dessert, but thanks for a magnificent meal. Now, do you want to wash or dry?’
‘Leave it. I’ll use the dishwasher,’ she said, turning away before he saw the wistful expression on her face.
She didn’t want him to leave.
She wanted him to stay and share dessert—perhaps talk some more, maybe even laugh a little? They were neighbours, and it wouldn’t hurt for them to be on friendly terms. Who knew? He might even lighten up and let her spend some time with Molly. Though, by the surly expression that had returned to his face, she doubted it.
‘Here—I made extra for you and Molly to have tomorrow.’ She held out a plastic container, surprised by the resentment that flashed across his face.
‘Thanks, but we’re fine. I can cook, you know.’
‘I never said you couldn’t.’ The food grew heavy in her hand and her outstretched arm drooped. ‘I just thought Molly might like some of this.’
‘Molly is fine.’
Anger shot through her body, surprising her with its intensity. Carissa rarely lost her temper, viewing anger as a wasted emotion for the gutless—like her adoptive father, who had wielded it every chance he got. However, Brody’s defensive act annoyed her. So the guy had a chip on his shoulder the size of Ayers Rock? There was no need for everyone around him to suffer because of it.
‘I didn’t say she wasn’t.’
‘Whatever. I better go.’
God, he was touchy! She hadn’t seen him around his daughter, but if this was how he spoke to Molly it went a long way to explaining the wary look in the little girl’s eyes she’d glimpsed the other day, when they’d first met.
‘Uh-huh.’ Their gazes locked—his angry, hers challenging. She’d stare him down if it killed her, the big grump.
‘Look, thanks again for dinner. I’ll let myself out.’
He headed for the door, almost wrenching the knob off in his hurry to leave.
‘Brody, any time Molly wants to play over here is fine by me. Just send her over,’ Carissa said to his rapidly departing back.
If she could do anything to bring a spark to the little girl’s world, she would. From what she could see Molly spent far too much time alone in her back yard, perched in that giant eucalypt, wearing a glum expression on her cheeky face. At first appearance Molly seemed a lonely girl who needed attention, and if anyone knew how that felt she did. Ron and Betty had ignored her from the minute she’d set foot in their impressive house, and though she’d wanted for nothing materially, emotionally she’d craved affection.
She’d been a model daughter—yearning for a kind word, a gentle caress from her new parents. And what had she got for her trouble? Harsh putdowns and scathing verbal attacks that gave her nightmares to this day.
Molly probably couldn’t remember too much of her mother, but loneliness was an emotion that could strike at any age, and Carissa wanted to do something to help alleviate the little girl’s pain.
If the occasional play session could brighten Molly’s day, she’d stand up to big bad Brody every day of the week to get her way.
Brody turned to face her. ‘Why the interest in my daughter?’
His fierce gaze didn’t scare her. Not much, that was.
‘I love children, and Molly’s new in town.’ She shrugged, as if his response didn’t mean much, when in fact she hoped he’d have the sense to take her honest answer at face value and give her a chance to get to know Molly. ‘I guess I thought she could use some friends.’
His frown lessened for about two seconds before he said, ‘We’ll see,’ and walked out the door.
‘We’ll see.’ She imitated his terse reply under her breath, shaking her head and trying not to break plates as she shoved them into the dishwasher.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘DADDY, is it okay if I make hot cross buns with Carissa? She has to make a whole heap for Easter, and she needs my help. She has flour and sugar and a special big mixing bowl and everything. Can I? Please, Daddy? Please?’
Brody rubbed the spot between his eyes, the one which permanently ached these days, and looked down at his daughter, hopping from one foot to the other. Her blue eyes sparkled, but a dirty smudge streaked down the side of her face, one plait had come undone, her dress was buttoned up wrong and a buckle on her Mary-Janes had come loose.
Hell, she looked like Orphan Annie—and a neglected Orphan Annie at that. Molly deserved so much more than he could give, but right now he could barely face each day, let alone find an abundance of attention to spill over to his daughter at the end of it. He was tired—so damn tired. Tired of the long, endless days, tired of having no focus and, worst of all, tired of the never-ending guilt because he’d deprived his precious little girl of her mother.
Despite the passing years, it didn’t get any easier. Nothing sparked his interest any more, and if it weren’t for Molly he probably would’ve become a beach bum by now—living like a hermit in the far north tropics, not seeing another soul for years on end.
However, he couldn’t run away. He had responsibilities, and the main one was currently staring up at him with those brilliant blue eyes so like her mother’s.
‘Okay, but don’t be too long. You need to have a bath before dinner.’
‘But Carissa said we could eat the buns for dinner.’ Molly pouted, another action reminiscent of Jackie, who had made an art form out of the gesture in an attempt to get her own way.
He sighed, deciding to give in this once. He’d gone out of his way to avoid his nosy neighbour since she’d cooked him that thank-you dinner a few days ago, not in the mood to make polite small talk with someone he had no intention of seeing any more than necessary. However, Carissa seemed like a woman with a steady head on her shoulders, and from what he’d seen she was good with kids. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let Molly befriend her. After all, why let Molly suffer because of his anti-social personality?
‘Sure thing, munchkin. You can eat the buns for dinner.’
‘Yay! Daddy, you’re the best!’ Molly flung herself at him and he scooped her up, snuggling into her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, his heart filled with love but his head wishing he could be a better father—the type of father she deserved.
‘But not too many, okay? Otherwise you might get a tummy ache.’
Molly’s eyes widened and she wrinkled up her nose, obviously remembering her last attack of the gripes. She’d moaned for what seemed like hours, and he’d felt totally and utterly helpless, waiting for the paracetamol to kick in.
So what was new? He usually felt helpless around her anyway.
‘I promise to only eat two.’ She held up her fingers and counted. ‘One. Two. See? Only this many won’t give me a tummy ache, will it?’
Chuckling, he dropped a kiss on her nose. ‘Two will be just fine. I’ll come and get you from Carissa’s in an hour, so be good.’
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