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MAC DROVE DOWN THE winding road toward Russell with a pounding heart.
Once he’d gotten the idea into his head about his mother having an affair, he hadn’t been able to get rid of it. Even though he kept telling himself it was stupid, and that his mother would never have cheated, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
When he was younger, he could remember a man coming to visit his mother. His name had been David, and Mac vaguely remembered his mother and this David sitting in the kitchen talking while he played with his Lego on the floor, and taking walks around the garden while he kicked a football on the lawn. He didn’t remember them being intimate at all, and he’d never given much thought to it, but now he began to wonder whether David had been more than a friend.
If that was the case, though, where was he now? Megan had dated a few guys over the years that he knew of, although not until he’d grown up and left home, and even then she’d been very discreet about it, so it was possible David was still on the scene, even though Mac wasn’t aware of it. Had David remained in touched with her because they shared a link stronger than friendship?
If James wasn’t his father, Mac wasn’t sure why James hadn’t refused to acknowledge him at all. He might have been a bad father, but he’d still called Mac his son.
It was a puzzle, and now he had the idea in his head, he needed to know the truth.
Fred had asked him to stay at the house, but that decision needed more discussion and thought. They’d made big steps forward tonight, but they weren’t there yet, and neither of them were ready to move in together. He needed to get this sorted first, so he’d left her with a goodbye kiss and a promise to let her know what he’d found out, and headed down the hill to Russell.
The town was its usual lively self, the bars and restaurants spilling light out onto the pavements. The tables outside were half full, customers now wearing jackets or shawls to keep off the cool evening breeze. Autumn had truly arrived, he thought as he drove along the sea front toward his mother’s house. Winter would be a few months yet, and even then, up here, it would be mild, but he could smell it in the air.
He reached the end of The Strand and turned into Wellington Street, drove a little way, then pulled up outside his mother’s home. This wasn’t where he had grown up—that had been right in the middle of town. Megan MacDonald had moved here after her divorce, when a bitter James had all but forced her out of the family home. Another move that puzzled Mac. If a marriage failed, even if there had been arguments and sadness, it took some doing for a man to make life so unpleasant for his wife and two-year-old that she felt the need to move out.
Leaving his stuff in the ute for now, he let Scully out of the back, and they walked up the garden path, past the hostas and begonias growing in pots, to the front door, and rang the bell.
“I’ll have to get you a key,” Megan said as she opened the door. “Can’t have you waking me up at all hours of the night. Hey, Scully-dog.” She ruffled the dog’s ears.
“Yeah, because I’ll be out at all the nightclubs until the early hours.” Mac gave her a wry look as he passed her.
“You’re a babe-in-arms,” she said, following him into the living room. “You should be out partying the night away.”
“Mum, I’m thirty-two. And anyway, I’m married.”
“Ha! How is Fred, by the way?” She walked over to the cabinet where she kept her alcohol, took out a bottle of Islay malt, and showed it to him.
“No, thanks.” He wanted a clear head for the conversation.
Raising her eyebrows, she replaced the bottle. “Tea, then?”
“Sure.”
She went into the tiny kitchen and started sorting out the mugs. “You didn’t answer me—how is Fred?”
Fantastic. Sexy. Beautiful. “She’s good.” He scratched behind Scully’s ears, thinking about how he’d taken Fred on the floor. He definitely had to get her to the bed next time, and he had to slow things down. Fast and furious was fun, but she deserved better than that.
Megan cast him a glance before putting the teabags in. “Anything you want to tell me?”
His heart began to race again. “About what?”
“About you and Fred?”
He blew out a breath. “No. But I do want to talk to you about something.”
“Oh?” She took out the teabags and poured in some milk, stirred the mugs, then brought them into the living room. “That sounds ominous.”
“It kind of is. It’s serious.”
“Oh dear.” She sipped her tea. “Is Fred pregnant?”
His eyes widened. “No! Jesus. Nothing like that.”
She just smiled at him over the rim of the mug.
He tried to thrust away the idea of Fred at his side, pregnant and barefoot, and concentrated on his mother. “No, this is about you—about us.”
Her smile faded and she sat back. “Okay.”
“Mum, there’s something I have to ask you.” He paused, suddenly embarrassed. He respected his mother, who had brought him up almost single-handed, and who had remained his most loyal advocate through his life.
“What is it?” she prompted.
“I don’t want to insult you,” he said softly.
She tipped her head to the side. “Come on, sweetheart. Nothing you could say would insult me. You’re my boy—you always will be. Is this about your father?”
“Kind of. Mum... I need to know... before I was born... did you have an affair?”
Her eyes widened so fast it was almost comical. “What?”
“Only I’ve been thinking,” he said, the words tumbling out fast now he’d said it, “how I don’t really look like Dad, and we’re not similar in character at all. And how it took him so long to get you pregnant. And I wondered if he’s not my father, and that’s why he’s resented me all these years. I’m sorry to ask, but I was thinking about it, and I had to know...”
She held up a hand. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m not offended. I understand why you wanted to know. I’m not sure why you’re asking now. I expected this years ago.” She looked into his eyes, and he saw realization dawn. “Ah,” she whispered. “Fred.”
He swallowed hard. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he waited for her to answer.
She looked at her mug for a long time. Then, finally, she said, “I’m sorry to tell you this...”
He held his breath.
“...But no, I never had an affair. James MacDonald is your father. There’s no doubt about it.”
He stared at her. He couldn’t believe it. It had made perfect sense, and now it all came crashing down around his ears.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
Her lips curved up. “Am I sure that I didn’t have an affair? Yes, Mac, I’m sure.”
He closed his eyes. What a stupid question. But he couldn’t believe it. “Then... why did the two of you break up when I was so young?”
“Because of his drinking. He was such a jealous man, and he was jealous of the attention you demanded of me when you were a baby. He drank too much even then, and one night he got drunk when he was supposed to be looking after you, when I had a rare night out with a friend. He left you crying in the cot for hours. I was so angry, I walked out with you that night. We hardly said two words to each other after that.”
“Why have you never told me any of this?”
“Because you never asked, and Mac, I’ve always tried hard not to put your father down in your hearing. He was far from perfect, but he was your father, and I never wanted to come between the two of you.”
She moved to sit on the sofa beside him. “I can see how it would have been the answer to some of your problems if James hadn’t been your father. But it is what it is.”
“I hate it.” Leaning forward, he sank his hands into his hair. “I hate having his blood in my veins. It’s like poison—I can feel it coursing around me, tainting everything it touches.”
“Mac.” Her voice was sterner this time. “You have to learn to deal with this. You can’t spend the rest of your life hating him.”
“Can’t I?” He threw a glare at her. “I’ve had him hanging around my neck like a millstone all my life. He spent years putting me down, telling me I was worthless, that I’d never amount to anything. Why? If he really was my father, why did he do that?”
He’d thought she would get angry, but instead she just smiled. “Because you were better than he was. Can’t you see that? He was jealous of you, Mac. You were more intelligent, warmer, wittier, better looking... You worked hard. You weren’t lazy. You were determined to make something of yourself. He fell into working at Blue Penguin Bay because Harry persuaded him to. James wasn’t into the vineyard. He didn’t give a damn about the estate. He saw a chance of an easy job, and he took it.”
Mac stared at her. “I didn’t know that.”
“Of course, over the years he picked up some knowledge about it just by watching Harry and the other guys around him, but how do you think he felt when you went to university and got a degree, then spent years learning your trade at different vineyards across the world? He hated it when you came back with new ideas. It made him feel stupid and out-of-date. And he wasn’t the sort of man to say ‘hey son, show me what you know.’ He was far too old school for that.”
“I never thought about it,” Mac whispered. He’d just wanted to show his old man how they could make the place better.
She sighed. “Something you should know is that Harry told him near the end that he considered you the son he’d never had. Harry loved you, and you shared a bond that James envied—both in the sense of a relationship, and in the sense of loving Blue Penguin Bay. I think that may have been behind what James did at the end.”
“I never knew that.” He felt a surge of fondness for Harry, who had always treated him with kindness and respect. In another world, they might have been closer, and maybe Harry might have named Mac as his heir, but the man had possessed his own demons, and his family in the U.K. had obviously never been far from his thoughts.
Megan squeezed her son’s fingers, bringing his attention back to her. “James was weak, and petty, and he could be spiteful, but he did have some good attributes. He was faithful to me while we were married. And I loved him for many years. When a woman is young, she often finds a particular type of male confidence sexy, until she realizes it’s not just confidence, it’s arrogance. But he was fun and flirty when we were young. He wasn’t all bad. And you must remember that just because you’re his son, it doesn’t mean you have to be like him. His weaknesses don’t run in your veins, Mac, only his blood.”
Mac stood and went over to the window. He looked out at the Pacific Ocean, which churned, thick and dark like treacle, under the cloudy sky.
His emotions were churning in the same way, stirring up lots of feelings he’d hoped to keep buried. What his mother had said made sense, and cleared up some of his frustration behind not knowing why his father had seemed to dislike him so much. It didn’t make it any easier to bear, but at least he felt as if he understood it now.
But it hadn’t solved his main problem. He was still James MacDonald’s son. The son of the man who had betrayed Harry Cartwright. Who had tried to take away Fred, Sandi, and Ginger’s inheritance.
What if his mother was wrong? If James’s character did run in his veins? All his life, Mac had striven to ensure he wasn’t like his father, but there had to be some similarities, didn’t there? He didn’t feel as if he had alcoholic tendencies—he liked a drink the same as the next man, but he didn’t have that urge to keep drinking, to keep filling up his glass. But what if deeper, nastier things lurked beneath his skin, like the Loch Ness Monster under the lake? How did he know they wouldn’t surface in the years to come?
Ultimately, it didn’t matter what he thought. The fact was that Fred had difficulty looking at him without thinking of what his father had done to Harry, and he wasn’t sure that would ever go away. She was attracted to him, and the attraction felt fierce and strong, but he didn’t know if it was powerful enough to overcome the deep sense of betrayal she felt toward his family.
“She’ll come around,” his mother said behind him. “She won’t want to lose you.”
But Mac wasn’t so sure.
