Adam’s Boys Page 3

  “My wife … Ellen—she died when Pete was a baby.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma threw back in immediate response.

  “It was a long time ago,” he explained, hoping to shut the subject down.

  “Then you’ve met the right person!” Emma declared. “I’ve volunteered to be class mother—I can help you out in any way you need.”

  With that announcement, Adam suspected he’d just been appointed the charity case for the St James’ prep mothers.

  “Thanks for the offer, Emma, but Pete and I are only here for a few months. We won’t be needing any help, and we’re managing pretty well so far,” he added, surprised at how easily that final lie had tumbled out of his mouth as he pictured his house in disarray and guessed his son would be a complete cot-case for the rest of the evening after his disaster of a first day at school.

  “Oh! Such a short time?”

  “I’m only here to finalise some business arrangements, then I’m heading back to the UK.”

  “I see. Well, there’s no need to be shy for the time that you’re here. You’ve no doubt got a lot on your plate,” she added with a shrug, eyeing off his suit. “My husband and I are separated so I know what it’s like to be a single parent. And we’re a very tight knit community at St James’. We all help each other out.”

  Adam opened his mouth to say ‘thanks again but I’ve managed so far without the parent body of St James’, but thinking better of it, he closed it again.

  How he felt about Emma Martin offering to take him under her wing was irrelevant. After a year of watching Pete shunned by every single child at his pre-school, the only thing that mattered to Adam was that his son made friends at St James’. If that was not reason alone to welcome an offer of help from the class mother and all of her connections on Pete’s first day, nothing was.

  He was about to mutter more sincere thanks when his attention was interrupted by a terse exchange unfolding across the hall. He’d let his watchful gaze drift away from the registration table for a few minutes as he’d spoken to Emma Martin, but on hearing raised voices, his eyes swung back in that direction again. Instantly Adam received the body blow of visual confirmation that he’d somehow managed to enrol his four-year-old in the very same school as Abbie McCarthy’s son.

  Only then did the penny drop: Justin must have recommended St James’ to him because of Abbie’s connection to the school.

  Adam sighed roughly, wishing that Justin had thought to mention the Abbie-factor when he’d made his suggestion about a school for Pete. But by God, whatever the reason for her presence, there was simply no mistaking that petite figure of hers in jeans, T-shirt and trainers—not to mention the dark red hair in its loose ponytail falling in waves down her back. It was a far cry from the way she’d looked—and felt—in that satin backless dress the night before. But she was still nothing if not compelling to look at the following day—even in her casuals.

  As Adam watched Abbie from across the hall, it was soon clear she was not simply waiting her turn in the queue of parents as they awaited a brief audience with the sour Janet Wilson and her rows of nametags. There was something about Abbie’s posture that suggested she had a whole lot of pent-up energy inside her that might detonate at any moment.

  What exactly was the focus of that Abbie McCarthy energy as she stood there with her arms folded and her toe tapping impatiently in front of her?

  Suddenly Adam could see what was going on: an elderly Japanese woman ahead of Abbie in the queue was upset and gesticulating pleadingly to the intractable Janet Wilson.

  “And you are?” Janet Wilson ignored the Japanese woman directly in front of her to turn and bark her enquiry at Abbie.

  “Abbie McCarthy,” Abbie replied in a cool voice. “But please don’t worry about helping me yet, Ms Wilson. Mrs Yukimura is ahead of me in the queue and will need a folder and a nametag. You may also need to talk a little more slowly as English isn’t her first language.”

  “Well, Ms McCarthy, as you have no idea how this process works, and as this isn’t any of your business anyway, perhaps you’d like to keep your suggestions to yourself and let me decide how I run things.”

  Shooting a withering look at Abbie, Janet Wilson turned back to the Japanese woman. Waving her hand at her as though she was shooing away an annoying insect she said, “I’ve told you three times already, Madam, you’re not on my list and I don’t have a nametag for you. You’ll have to go without. And don’t take a folder—there won’t be enough left for the parents who are on my list.”

  At that point the woman began shaking her head in anxious confusion and speaking in rapid Japanese.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes!” Janet Wilson answered, the tedium of having to deal with an unlisted relative of one of the children heavy in her tone. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”

  “She said she’s here to pick up her grandson,” Abbie translated as she stared straight at Janet Wilson, her hands resting lightly on her narrow hips. “She says she’s very sorry she can’t speak English and is inconveniencing everyone, but her daughter has been held up in traffic. She said there won’t be a nametag for her but she’d like to collect the folder today nonetheless.”

  With that Janet Wilson stared at Abbie as though murder was on her mind before switching her eyes back to the woman in front of her. “All right then, Madam! How do you spell your name?” she asked in an angry voice, clearly flummoxed at Abbie’s ready understanding of Japanese, a language Adam knew she’d picked up during a post-university stint in Tokyo. In the next moment Janet Wilson had seized a blank nametag, her black marker poised for writing.

  “Yukimura,” Abbie interjected before spelling it. “Y-U-K-I-M-U-R-A.”

  Reaching over to pick up a folder from the end of the table, Abbie handed it to Mrs Yukimura with a reassuring smile. Mrs Yukimura then placed herself before Abbie, bowed slowly in front of her, muttered heartfelt thanks and then took her nametag from Janet Wilson and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Name!” Janet Wilson barked at Abbie who smiled sweetly back—too sweetly—and repeated her name again.

  Emma Martin immediately began to air her outrage to Adam about new parents who walked into the school and started throwing their weight around with the staff. But Adam wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy absorbing the onslaught of Abbie’s skyrocket energy as it whizzed around the hall and ploughed into a million nerve endings he’d written off years ago. For it was the very same energy that had wrapped around him like a warm, protective cocoon during their three weeks together, finally rallying him enough to get on that plane and return home to his new life as both a mother and father to his baby son. But what he hadn’t managed to do was go back for her. He hadn’t even managed a phone call to let her know he wouldn’t be back, even though he’d asked her to wait for him—unforgiveable.

  With a poker-faced expression that told Adam she was not at all perturbed by locking horns with Janet Wilson, Abbie applied her nametag to her T-shirt. She then took a folder from the end of the table, wandered a short way through the crowded hall and flipped it open to skim the paperwork inside.

  At that moment a flicker of distraction crossed her face. Lifting her dark eyes, her gaze locked with his across the hall before her mouth dropped open in horror. With an imperceptible movement of her hands, her open folder began free falling. As it impacted with the timber floor, it made the sound of a gunshot, its contents exploding in four different directions at once.

  * * *

  Adam Cooper—in Henry’s school!

  Cursing her shock induced clumsiness, Abbie hurriedly dropped to her knees.

  With hands shaking violently, she began scrabbling together the contents of the broken folder now lying in a three-metre radius around her.

  Helpful strangers were picking up sheets from the floor too. With muttered thanks Abbie collected the loose pages, bundled them up and stuffed them back inside the folder before shoving the whole mess straight in
to her over-sized shoulder bag as she got to her feet. With lowered eyes she folded her arms across her body and rapidly withdrew amongst the parents behind. Only when the safety of mingling bodies closed around her did she begin the frantic exercise of trying to jam the puzzle pieces together at breakneck speed.

  In short, what on earth was Adam Cooper doing at St James’ School that afternoon?

  She knew from her brief conversation with Adam the night before that he was settling Pete into a school orientation the following day. But was it really possible that of all the schools in Sydney he’d chosen St James’ for Pete, as she had for Henry? Was it really possible that fate would throw them together now when the meeting she’d arranged through Justin’s secretary to tell him about Henry was not until tomorrow?

  No, it wasn’t possible, because life rarely dealt out such extraordinary coincidences—unless, that is, the Justin Murphy dimension was also starring in your life.

  Abbie lifted a hand and pressed it against her perspiring forehead. The only explanation for Adam’s presence at that school was jumping out at her, no matter which way her mind dodged and weaved to avoid it. Adam must have asked Justin for a school recommendation for Pete and Justin had suggested St James’ because he knew she would never have chosen it for Henry unless she was satisfied it was a great school.

  That had to be it.

  And with her heart sprinting like an Olympic athlete down the hundred-metre track, Abbie began to think fast.

  Finding Henry and getting him out of that school hall was now her main objective. But it would have to be done quickly—before Henry and Adam collided in a meeting with one another that would be catastrophic for them both.

  At that moment, the sound of laughing, shouting children reached her ears. Two doors were thrown open at the top of a flight of stairs behind her. Children spilled through them and raced down towards parents in high excitement. And, for a moment, Abbie forgot all about Adam. She forgot all about everything except seeing Henry.

  Emerging from behind some tall fathers, Abbie searched the crowd of children. Then she saw him: her boy was standing at the top of the stairs opposite her, grinning happily in confident expectation he would see his mother at any second.

  “Henry!” she called out and waved. Henry noticed and began to run towards her. Tearing across the hall, he soon took a running leap to become airborne. And before she could do anything to stop him, he’d propelled himself like a fully blown missile attack into her open arms.

  “Henry! I’ve told you not to do that, haven’t I?”Abbie scolded when she finally managed to steady her footing after absorbing the full impact of his body arriving all at once against hers. “One day I might not be able to catch you and you’ll get hurt.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” Henry assured her patiently in his unflappable manner as he wrapped his legs around her waist and his arms around her neck. “You always say that, but then you always catch me.”

  “So how was your first day?” she asked with forced lightness, quickly withdrawing back into the crowd to avoid being seen by Adam.

  “Really good! I made a friend. We sat next to each other in class. And we played basketball. And we did drawings. And I met my year six buddy. How was your day?”

  Abbie felt a wave of pride course through her, because Henry always remembered to ask.

  She was in awe of her three-year-old’s temperament. Little fazed him. He made friends easily and floated through every challenge with a smile on his face. Even his childcare teachers had said that although he would be young it would be a crime to curb his gifts by keeping him from prep for another year.

  “He must take after his father,” her Aunty Maeve declared almost every other day.

  Her aunt didn’t know who Henry’s father was and had given up pressing her on the issue. Still, she loved to tease Abbie about Henry’s steady temperament and remind her that she’d been a tantrum-throwing tearaway child herself.

  “My day was fine,” Abbie smiled at him. “I went to the bank. I returned your library books, did the washing, cleaned the house. Then the day was over and I came here.”

  “I made a friend!” Henry repeated, his jewel-like blue eyes shining with excitement.

  “That’s wonderful, Henry. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

  “Well, don’t worry. You can ask him tomorrow. And if you like, I’ll ask his mum if he can come over for a play soon.”

  “I know! Maybe he can come over now!” Henry declared triumphantly, delighted with the brilliance of his idea.

  “Not today,” Abbie replied firmly, her eyes sweeping the crowd to make sure the two of them were still well concealed from Adam within a surrounding crush of mingling parents.

  Then her heart stopped.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see that Adam was standing just to their left. And disturbingly, she sensed he’d moved closer to have a better viewpoint from which to watch her reunion with Henry as it unfolded.

  Despite willing it otherwise, her gaze shifted and locked with Adam’s. And try as she might, she couldn’t tear it away. But then Adam had to turn his eyes from hers anyway; a woman who appeared to be a teacher had approached him with the hand of a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy in hers. He was crying—it had to be Pete.

  Adam scooped the little boy up into his arms, talked gently to him and wiped the tears from his cheeks with a handkerchief, visibly swallowing as he tried to comfort his son. Right then Abbie was hit with the unwelcome reminder of the warm, fragile man she’d once fallen for—just weeks before he’d thrown the emotional switch to the ‘off’ position and disappeared out of her life.

  “Mum, can I please have my friend over today?” Henry pleaded, taking his mother’s cheeks in his small hands and turning her face towards his.

  “No, not today,” Abbie replied, railing at herself to rein back her heart as it went out to Adam, still trying to soothe his distraught son. “It’s been a big day and your friend will be tired like you. But I’ll organise it soon, I promise.”

  “Okay,” Henry conceded in disappointment before his expression became instantly brighter again as he asked, “Then can I make blue and yellow cupcakes for afternoon tea?”

  Fifteen minutes later, she and Henry were still discussing cake options as they strolled up and down the cooking aisle of their local supermarket. Despite the lightness of their chatter, Abbie remained edgy over Henry’s near encounter with his father. She’d breathed a huge sigh of relief when they’d escaped the front gates of St James’ and avoided a run-in between them. But Abbie had wondered whether Adam might have been long gone from the school by the time she’d made it through the front gates anyway—just as keen to avoid another encounter with her.

  “What about this one, Henry? Don’t you think they look nicer than those rainbow coloured cupcakes?” Abbie asked hopefully, picking up a box with delicious looking chocolate cupcakes featured on the front.

  Most of the cake mixes were on the top shelf. Abbie had hoisted Henry onto her hip so that he could assess his cooking options. But he was tall for his age and heavy boned—she was beginning to flag under his weight.

  “No, Mum. I don’t really like that one,” he explained with forced patience. He took the offending cake mix box from her hand and placed it back on the shelf.

  Minutes later, as Abbie watched yet another option rejected by her three-year-old, she began to feel lightheaded. She’d been anxious about Henry’s first day and had forgotten to eat lunch. Now her sugar levels were plummeting fast—they always did when she skipped meals.

  “Henry, you’re going to have to decide soon. I can’t hold you up for much longer.”

  “Okay!” he agreed with a dramatic moan of creative compromise in the face of his mother’s impatience. “I’ll take this one.”

  With that, Henry reached over and selected a box with a picture of four lurid yellow cupcakes with pink icing.

  But Abbie no longer cared
about the colour of cupcakes. All she cared about was sliding her son off her hip and onto the floor. As his feet touched the ground, he pointed in excited delight at someone behind her.

  “Mum! That’s him!” he shouted. “That’s my friend from school!”

  In the next moment Henry had bolted past her and up towards the chilled goods. Abbie called out to him to come back, but it was no use. With a skillful slide across the supermarket floor, her three-year-old rounded the end of the aisle and disappeared.

  Abbie snatched her handbag off the floor and jogged to the point where Henry had vanished, but there was still no sign of him. She then began to walk along the back of the store, scanning the aisles she passed. It wasn’t until she reached the third that she stopped dead.

  Because there they all were: Henry, Pete and Adam.

  Adam was next to Pete, crouching down in front of Henry and smiling gently at her little boy with those warm blue eyes of his. Then Henry and Adam were shaking hands, like two old gents who’d just met unexpectedly on the street.

  But for Abbie it was all too much in one afternoon—and now she was facing the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. For at that moment the world was slowing on its axis and she was reaching out to steady herself. But it was too late. A wave of raging heat was coursing across her skin and sweat was pouring into her hands as the supermarket circled around her. Then the giddiness hit. The last thing she knew was that the pyramid of baked bean cans she’d leant on to stop her fall was giving way.

  Chapter Three

  “It’s okay, Henry. Your mum’s coming around.”

  Adam watched on as Abbie’s eyes opened and she began to take in the faces around her.

  Her gaze hovered over Henry and she gave her son a small but reassuring smile.

  She then turned her eyes to him. But the moment that happened, the smile died on her lips and her amber eyes became dark and haunted against the pallor of her complexion. It was the look of a cornered animal in fear for its life—it chilled him to the bone.