After the first two days, Gemma had stopped jumping every time the doorbell tinkled. It was now almost a week since their first unpleasant meeting in the cafe, and Nash had obviously decided he had better things to do than think about her. The first few days she’d been a nervous wreck, convinced he’d be back once he’d had time to cool off, but thankfully the business was continuing to pick up and she’d been kept too busy to think about anything but making coffee and cooking enough scones, cheesecakes and muffins to keep the display shelf stocked.
The lunchtime crowd was also growing, and Gemma had begun to experiment with a few gourmet hamburgers. She didn’t want to scare off her new clientele with anything too outrageous—dishes that would be fine in an inner-city sidewalk cafe would not necessarily go down as well in a rural, more traditional kind of place—but she didn’t want to become just another hamburger joint either. Fast food had its place, but she was determined it wouldn’t be the main focus of her cafe. Just because Bingorra was in the sticks didn’t mean its population might not enjoy broadening their culinary experiences. It was her ambition to eventually include a gourmet section on her menu, and she hoped people might even discover something new and exciting through her cooking. After all, that’s why she’d been determined to study under Micca before opening her own business. She didn’t have to be a qualified chef to open her own cafe, but she wanted to at least learn everything she could from a top chef and know that she had the confidence to do it well before she risked her money and reputation on a business venture of her own.
To her relief and satisfaction, with each passing day the number of happy customers was growing. And with each compliment and promise to return, she felt her own confidence growing too.
One customer with a very set view of what constituted good food was Ben. Every day at lunchtime he came into the cafe and ordered what he called a real hamburger, one with as much beef, bacon, cheese, egg and pineapple as would physically fit on the biggest hamburger bun she had.
This afternoon he came in later than usual, just as Gemma was handing Finn over to his new babysitter, Bess, after picking him up from day care.
‘Hey there,’ Ben greeted Finn and received a big grin in return. ‘You should bring him out home one day. Mum’s got some new lambs she’s bottlefeeding. I reckon Finn would get a kick outta seeing ’em.’
Gemma smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, Ben, Finn would like that.’
‘Just Finn?’ he asked, his gaze dropping to hers while Finn gripped his finger playfully. ‘What about his mum? Would she like that too?’
‘I like sheep,’ she conceded lightly. She knew that wasn’t what he was asking, but she really didn’t want to get into this with him right now. Sooner or later she would need to have the ‘talk’ with him and make sure he was under no illusion that there was anything more than friendship between them.
‘Fair enough. Then we’ll make it a date,’ he said with a cheeky grin before taking his seat in a booth and waiting for his hamburger.
Heading upstairs later that afternoon after locking up the cafe, Gemma was tired, but it was a good tired. It had been another busy day, and she was growing steadily more confident that the business would be a success. At any rate, she was proud of what she’d accomplished so far.
She smiled as she walked into the tiny apartment and saw Finn sitting on Bess’s lap as she read him a book. Bess was perfect. Once again, Wendy had come through for Gemma in spectacular fashion. A couple of weeks ago, Gemma had asked her if she knew of anyone who might like a babysitting job that involved weird hours. It turned out that the hours would suit a year twelve student who lived next door to Wendy. When Gemma eventually opened the cafe at night she’d need someone to stay with Finn while she worked. That would be great for Bess, who was the eldest of four children at home. Finn would be asleep by seven and Bess would have the rest of the time to study for her HSC in peace without the distraction of her younger siblings. For now, though, she spent a few hours with Finn after school until Gemma shut the cafe.
‘Thanks, Bess,’ Gemma said now, reaching for Finn. ‘Any problems?’
‘There’re never any problems,’ said Bess, smiling and running a finger along his cheek. ‘He’s always a good boy.’
‘I think you have the magic touch. He’s always good for you,’ said Gemma. In actual fact, Finn was a good baby. She was incredibly lucky; he rarely cried unless he was tired or hungry.
She waved Bess off before starting the nightly routine of dinner, bath and Finn’s bedtime. During that time she was completely focused on her son, and no one and nothing else existed for her. It was only once Finn was in bed, in those few hours of quietness and solitude before she went to sleep herself, that her mind would turn again to Nash and the inevitable day of reckoning that was approaching. She’d picked up the phone on more than one occasion but always chickened out before she could dial his number. She knew she was running out of time to tell him about Finn herself, but she kept finding excuses and putting it off. And they weren’t just excuses: her life was busier than she could once have imagined. But the fact was that she was terrified of the confrontation she knew would follow when she told him the truth. And once that happened, life would change for all of them.
The next day, Nash found himself pacing up and down the main street like a teenager working up the courage to ask a girl out on a date. It had been almost a week since his encounter with Gemma. He’d wanted to come back before now, but every time he’d thought about coming into town he’d talked himself out of it. He was still too confused and a little angry.
Part of what had thrown him was the change he’d seen in Gemma. Unlike the girl he’d known before, she’d been confident and composed. She also seemed to have hardened up a little, and he felt sad to think that his actions had probably contributed to this change in her. She had every right to be furious with him. Still, he couldn’t not go back to see her. He wanted to apologise for the way he’d spoken to her the other day, and for the way he’d made her leave Dunoon. If he was honest with himself, though, more than anything he wanted to see her smile again. He didn’t feel too hopeful about that last one, given her angry reaction the last time they’d spoken. But the thing that kept nagging at him was that even after everything he’d done, how badly he’d behaved, she’d moved back here. That had to mean something, though he wasn’t sure exactly what.
He squared his shoulders and headed back towards the cafe. Before he did anything else, he needed to apologise for how badly he’d treated her fourteen months ago. As he walked past the window of the cafe he saw Gemma standing beside a booth and smiling, and the sight made him stop in his tracks, his breath hitching in his chest. Christ, he missed that smile. Then his gaze moved down to take in the person she was talking to, and his jaw clenched tightly. What the hell was Henderson doing in there?
But then he noticed something else, something that made him stare in confusion. Gemma was holding a baby. He knew it wasn’t Henderson’s, and there was no one else in the cafe. And there was something about the way she was holding him—relaxed and confident.
Nash stared at the kid in her arms and knew there was no way it could belong to anyone else. For the second time in less than a week he felt the colour drain from his face.
Gemma had a child.
He turned on his heel and headed numbly back along the road. A few moments later, barely aware of how he had got there, he found himself sitting on a stool at the bar, a pint in front of him.
Gemma wasn’t here for him. She’d come to start a new life with her kid. Somewhere along the line she’d moved on from him and met someone else. Whatever her reasons for coming back to Bingorra, they didn’t include him.
It was quiet in the pub, though he knew that wouldn’t last long. After finishing one beer and ordering another, Nash was staring into his glass, ignoring the muted conversation going on at the other end of the bar, when he heard someone come in.
‘What’ll you have, Ben?’ said the bartender, the unwelcome name jarring Nash out of his thoughts.
‘Just a lemon squash, thanks, mate.’
Nash kept his head down, willing Henderson to walk away, not to start anything. No such luck.
‘This is a bit of a role reversal,’ said Ben, taking the seat next to Nash.
‘What is?’ Nash ground out.
‘You drinking and me not.’
Nash didn’t bother replying. Ben didn’t seem deterred by his lack of civility. ‘I saw you earlier, you know,’ he went on, after sipping his lemon squash. ‘Outside the cafe.’
Nash gritted his teeth.
‘Must have been a shock seeing Gemma again.’
‘What is it you want, Henderson?’ said Nash in a low growl.
‘I don’t want anything, mate. Just making an observation, that’s all.’
‘Well, take your observation and shove it. Mate,’ Nash snapped.
Ben let out a soft whistle through his teeth and shook his head. ‘Guess it sucks to be on the outside for a change, huh.’
Nash picked up his glass and drained the contents in one long swallow, before placing the glass back onto the bar with a firm thunk.
‘You never could take coming off second best, could ya, Nash?’ said Ben. ‘But it must hurt like hell this time to lose the woman and the kid.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Nash finally looked across at him.
Ben took a long swig of his drink, apparently fascinated by the horseracing on the television above the bar. ‘Oh? Didn’t you know?’
Nash was up off his stool and at Ben’s side in one smooth movement. He grabbed Ben’s shirt in his fist, snapping the man’s eyes from the television to his. ‘Know what?’ he demanded. But somewhere in the back of his mind he knew exactly what Henderson was talking about. Ever since clapping eyes on the baby in Gemma’s arms he’d felt something he couldn’t quite bring himself to acknowledge. He was no expert on kids’ ages but he could sure as hell make a rough guess. He’d been sitting here quietly doing the maths in his head, but his mind kept stumbling at what it revealed.
Ben’s smirk grew wider and Nash’s fist itched to pound it right off his arrogant face. ‘You just keep doing what you’re doing, arsehole,’ Ben shot back. ‘Keep pissing her off and driving her away. That suits me just fine.’
‘Didn’t. Know. What?’ Nash repeated, shaking the man roughly.
‘That the kid’s yours, you prick. Any moron can see that.’ Ben took advantage of Nash’s slackening hold to push his hands away. Getting off the stool, he stood in front of him. ‘Who’s the arsehole now? I may be a bastard, but even I wouldn’t leave a woman to have my kid all by herself.’
The words cut deep, snapping Nash out of his stupor. His arm whipped back and he swung wildly. But Ben had obviously been expecting it—more than that, Nash realised, too late, he had been trying to force this confrontation and he ducked just in time, bobbing back up with a sly, knowing look. Nash knew that look: it was the same one he’d worn the night he drove away with Kim in the car.
A veil of rage dropped over Nash’s eyes and he was once again standing in the hospital hallway, staring at Mrs Sweeney as she screamed at him, over and over again, ‘Why?’
Barely aware of what he was doing, he threw punch after punch, his fists connecting with Ben’s cheek, stomach and nose. He felt Ben returning the blows but he didn’t feel any pain. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt something warm trickling down his forehead, but he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was inflict the same kind of pain on Henderson that he’d been carrying around inside him all these years.
They’d moved away from the bar and into the middle of the floor, and Nash lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Ben’s middle and ramming him back against a bearer beam that supported the exposed roof beam above. Ben gave a loud grunt at the impact, briefly going limp, but as Nash staggered backwards, Ben recovered and drove his shoulder into Nash’s chest.
They fell to the floor and wrestled. Nash threw a few punches and tried to roll Ben’s heavy frame off him, but you don’t spend six years in prison and not learn a few dirty tricks; Nash had to give up his advantage in order to prise Ben’s fingers away from gouging at his eyes.
‘Not so self-righteous now, are ya, Whittaker?’
‘It should have been you, not her,’ Nash snarled, finding the leverage to push Ben off him, raising his fist, ready to smack it down square in the centre of the other man’s face.
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Ben yelled. ‘Everyone wishes it was me who died that night. You think I don’t know that? Go ahead. Do it,’ he said, his gaze holding Nash’s unwaveringly.
Nash felt something shift inside him at the words. Maybe it was something about the deadness of Ben’s eyes, or maybe he’d just needed to get this burning hatred out of his system. Whatever it was, the urge to hurt and punish went out as quickly as it had ignited.
‘Every goddamn day I wake up, I wish it had been me instead of her,’ Ben muttered in a broken voice.
Nash let his hand drop to his side and he lowered his head in defeat. Suddenly the fight just went out of him. He was tired, not just physically, but emotionally. This thing between them had been eating at him for too many years and now he was just . . . done.
Slowly their surroundings began to register, the smell of sweat and stale beer, and the annoying computerised chortle of the poker machines above the quiet voices of the few other men in the pub, who had stood back and let them belt each other.
Placing his grazed knuckles on the multicoloured carpet, Nash slowly pushed himself up, then rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Now that the entertainment was over, the small crowd of onlookers quickly dispersed and went back to their drinking and gambling, leaving the two men breathing heavily and beginning to feel the effects of their fight.
For Nash, something had changed during the last few minutes. A weight had been lifted somehow. It hadn’t absolved him of his guilt over Kim’s death, but the burning need to take it out on the man who was responsible had gone. He and Ben Henderson would never be friends, but somehow he suspected that Ben had been needing a similar violent catharsis. He wondered if, like him, Henderson always carried around the same numb kind of pain that nothing seemed to touch. Maybe he, too, had just wanted to erase that numbness and feel something for a change.