Josie Metcalfe - Miracles in the Village

He swallowed. If Fran felt brave enough to go for it. And if she did, he’d have to find the strength from somewhere to support her when it all went wrong.

Assuming she even wanted a baby with him any more. Right now, he wasn’t sure she did. He didn’t know what was going on in her head, and that made life with her an absolute minefield.

And to make matters worse, Sophie was coming back on Sunday week and he still hadn’t worked out how to tell Fran that Kirsten was pregnant.

Oh, damn.

THERE was only one way to do this, Mike decided, and that was to tell Fran straight.

So he did—eventually.

She’d prepared a lovely meal—chilled watercress and tomato soup with basil and garlic croutons, a really tasty chicken dish in a creamy blue cheese sauce with shiitake mushrooms on a bed of wild rice served with the freshest, crunchiest runner beans out of their own garden, and then a fabulous fruit salad rammed with fresh summer fruits topped with a dollop of clotted cream. It was streets away from the usual food they ate, when she was up to her eyes in schoolwork and he was milking until six-thirty and then fighting with the paperwork. He didn’t care if it was geared to helping his leg mend, it was gorgeous, and he scraped the last dribble of cream off the edge of the bowl and pushed it away with a sigh of regret.

‘That was delicious, darling, thank you,’ he said with a smile, and she smiled back and took his plate.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

It would have been easier if he hadn’t felt so guilty because he was about to wreck it all by telling her about Kirsten. In fact, he was so preoccupied with working out how to do it he was surprised she hadn’t picked up on it.

But apparently she hadn’t, because she cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and topped up his glass of apple juice without commenting on his silence.

He wished he didn’t have to do this. Telling her about the baby was going to spoil their evening, and good times between them were so few and far between. She’d made a real effort tonight—did he really have to say anything to spoil it?

Yes, because otherwise Sophie would come next weekend and if she knew she was bound to say something, and he owed Fran a few days to get used to the idea without having to pretend enthusiasm to a delighted little girl who was finally having her dream realised.

But not now. Later, perhaps. When they’d gone to bed. When he could lie there and hold her, and hug her when she cried—because she would, of course. She was bound to, and if she was already in his arms, maybe she wouldn’t run away and cry in private.

Although he hated it when she cried, he hated even more the idea that she’d run away and do it in a corner somewhere, like a wounded animal. That he really, really couldn’t bear.

‘Coffee?’ he suggested.

She hesitated, then smiled. ‘OK. Just a little one. I don’t want to keep you awake.’

He’d love her to keep him awake, but that wasn’t what she was talking about, and, anyway, there was still this whole pregnancy minefield.

Oh, hell. Life was so incredibly complicated.

‘What’s wrong, Mike? You’ve been frowning all evening.’ He turned towards her in the darkness. With the bedroom curtains open, as they always were, he could just about make out her features, but he couldn’t read her expression. That was a definite disadvantage of doing this in the dark, but it was more intimate, easier to say the things that would hurt her so badly.

‘Nothing’s wrong, exactly,’ he said, not knowing where to start. He reached out and found her hand, curling his fingers round it and squeezing gently. ‘It’s just—Kirsten’s …’

He let it hang, and after a few seconds she sucked in her breath and he knew she’d worked it out.

‘When?’ she said, her voice almost inaudible.

He ached to gather her into his arms. ‘February,’ he told her, although he couldn’t see that it made any difference, but it had been his first question, too, and he supposed it was only natural, part of the process of establishing just when the changes would start to show. Soon, he thought, remembering Kirsten’s first pregnancy.

Fran’s fingers tightened on his, and he squeezed back and didn’t let go.

‘Does Sophie know?’ she asked eventually, her voice hollow.

‘I don’t know. She didn’t when Kirsten told me.’

‘When did she tell you?’

‘On Sunday.’

‘Sunday?’ she exclaimed, pulling her fingers away. ‘But—it’s Thursday!’

‘I know,’ he said heavily. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘Oh, Mike, that’s silly,’ she said, her voice more normal now—or was it? ‘It’s lovely for them. And Sophie will be delighted.’

‘Are you going to be OK with it?’ he asked, wishing to God he could read her face. If only he’d done this in daylight …

‘I’ll live. It was always going to happen, Mike.’ But this time there was a little wobble in her voice, and without thinking about it, because if he did he’d talk himself out of it, he reached out and gathered her against his chest.

For a moment she resisted, then he felt her chest hitch, and her arms slid round him and she squeezed him tight. Right over his cracked ribs, but he stifled the groan and held her, running his hands gently up and down over her back to comfort her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured, and she sniffed and her chest jerked again, but she wouldn’t let the tears fall, wouldn’t give way to them.

Damn, she was so ridiculously brave! If only she’d cry—let it out, let him hold her while she worked through all her feelings, but she wouldn’t, and he could understand that. He wouldn’t lie and cry in her arms either. It was just all too revealing.

‘I knew it would happen,’ she said finally. ‘I mean, why not? Everyone else in the world seems to be pregnant.’

Everyone but her. He knew that, knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t pregnant because she’d had a period this week. Not that it made any difference without the means to conceive, but it must just rub it in when something like this happened.

And she’d been in a foul mood earlier in the week, distant and unapproachable, and he didn’t know if she was still angry with him about the accident or unhappy because she wasn’t pregnant again or if it was just PMT.

In the good old days, if she’d been grumpy like this he would have made a wisecrack about her hormones. Not now. He knew better now, because PMT was an indicator of just how monumentally unsuccessful they were being in the baby department, and frankly it just wasn’t funny.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, and she snuggled closer, letting him hold her. He wasn’t really comfortable. He should have had his leg up on a pillow, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been and for now it wasn’t his priority.

Fran was, and he wasn’t going to do anything that might make her leave his arms. He wished he knew what to say, how to comfort her, but he didn’t, so he just held her, and after an age she fell asleep.

It was hot—too hot to lie so close—and he shifted slightly, easing away from her and stretching his leg out, wishing he’d propped it up on the pillows first before they’d started this conversation.

She’d rolled to her side away from him, and he shifted to face her, hunting for a better position. It wasn’t, but his good leg brushed hers, and she wriggled back towards him, seeking him out in her sleep the way she always did if things were tough.

The way she always had, he corrected himself, and let his arm circle her waist, drawing her back more firmly against his chest. To hell with the heat. She needed him, and it was little enough to do for her.