Therese Beharrie - From Heiress To Mum

She was a bright kid who’d picked up on things without much encouragement. She’d noticed their father’s lack of interest. Hunter had done everything he could to make up for it.

When she’d passed away, he hadn’t wanted friends to know how much his life had changed. How his heart ached, all the time. How alone he felt. How...broken. He hadn’t been able to tell his parents about it when they’d been fighting, all the time. So he’d stuck his head into books, reading about technology and then, after his parents’ divorce, renewable energy. It had distracted him enough to survive. To thrive, even, if he thought about the tech business he’d started ten years ago during university.

But that had meant he’d spent his entire university career studying or working. And when his business had taken off, he’d spent his time making sure it stayed in the air. He’d hired Ted to help with that. He hadn’t even thought about Ted when it came to this, though.

When he’d first seen Grace. When she’d told him about the baby. When she’d showed him pictures, and he’d seen a face that looked so much like Janie’s his heart had flipped over in his chest. When she’d asked Hunter to help take care of the child.

No, for that, he’d immediately thought about Autumn.

‘You’re the only person who knows why this is...’ He trailed off. He hoped she’d interrupt him. That she’d finished his sentence for him. She didn’t. ‘You’re the only person who knows about my family.’

He didn’t let her speak when she opened her mouth. Too late, he thought. Because if he didn’t continue, he’d lose his courage.

‘You have to help me take care of him.’

‘What?’

‘You... You have to help me. She wants me—needs me—to take care of him while she’s finishing her articles at a law firm in Gauteng for the next three months.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. A rasp. A sacrifice. ‘I... I don’t know how. Please, Autumn. Please, help me.’

* * *

Hunter’s gaze felt like lasers pointed straight at her heart.

‘I... I need a moment,’ she said, and rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘Coffee?’

He angled his head, looked down, and she chose to interpret the gesture as a yes . Though in all honesty, he could have shaken his head for no and she’d still have made him one. She was barely paying attention to him. She was only focusing on getting away from him.

She strode by him, through the glass sliding doors and past the stone-coloured furniture and yellow pillows she’d chosen because they made her happy. It had been the same reason she’d chosen the bright paintings on the walls, and why she’d stacked the bookshelves beneath them with romance novels.

Her kitchen looked much the same: splashes of colour that made her feel bright. Light. But the appliances were sleek and top of the range; the cupboards meticulously arranged for optimum usage; the pantry filled with every ingredient she needed for when she experimented with cakes or biscuits or cupcakes or desserts or, really, anything that tickled her fancy.

With unsteady fingers, she popped a pod in the espresso machine, put a mug where it was needed, pressed buttons and let the machine do its work. She frothed the milk while she waited, keeping her hands busy, avoiding the thoughts speeding through her mind. She placed the second mug in the machine with a new pod, added milk to the first, then did the same for the second when it finished. She set them both on a tray, fixed a plate of cookies she’d baked before she’d left for her parents’ anniversary weekend, and set that on the tray.

She was ready to go out. Except she couldn’t. She...didn’t want to. Not yet. She braced her hands on her kitchen counter, lifting her head so she could see out of the window. She’d insisted the window be included when she’d been fixing up the house. Had insisted on the same thing when she’d built the bakery.

Usually, she’d take her coffee there in the mornings, about an hour before she’d have to be at the bakery, which was about the time the sun rose in summer. She’d watch the golden orb appear from over the hills in the distance; she’d see the faint blue of the river that ran along the edge of the Bouw Estate; and her eyes would rest on the fields of flowers she refused to cut, giving the estate a wild feeling she genuinely enjoyed.

Now, all she saw was blue-black darkness. It seemed like an appropriate representation of what was going on in her mind.

The rope that had been keeping her together since their break-up felt dangerously frayed. Which was in itself a danger, as pretending everything was fine was the only way she kept her insecurities at bay. The voices that told her it wasn’t that Hunter didn’t want a future, a family; it was that he didn’t want one with her.

Look at how he spoke about his sister, the voice said. With such emotion. Respect, fondness, love. How could a man with so much to give not want to share that in a family?

She’d managed to dismiss it with Hunter’s words. The truth, he’d assured her, was that he couldn’t bear to repeat the painful experiences of his childhood. His sister had been sick, then died; his father had been physically present, but emotionally absent; and his parents had eventually divorced after Janie’s death. How could she argue with that?

But she had. In silence, with herself, her insecurities making damning arguments. Convincing arguments. Hunter’s news made those arguments hard not to believe.

As she thought of it—that he had a child—a fresh bomb of pain went off inside her. She closed her eyes, held her breath, hoping it would stop the devastation. But it didn’t, and she felt her insides be destroyed. Felt them crumble and lie disintegrated inside her.

As she let air into her lungs, she took the tray outside. Hunter sat exactly as she’d left him—stiff, staring out over the city—and she put the tray down in front of him.

She settled in with her coffee, but since her back was towards the city she was forced to look at Hunter. She sipped thoughtfully, waiting for him to look at her, ignoring the throbbing in her chest as she did. When he finally met her eyes, she tilted her head.

‘How did it go?’ she asked quietly. ‘When she told you.’

He stared at her for a moment, then picked up his coffee.

‘I...struggled.’

‘So you were perfectly stoic, but freaking out inside.’

His mouth lifted. ‘Pretty much.’

‘You don’t think she’s lying?’

‘No.’

The answer was quick and immediate, his voice hard. He was defending the woman, Autumn realised, though she didn’t understand why the woman needed defending. She was only asking a question. But then, this was Hunter. Protecting what was his. And the woman was his now.

Her stomach twisted.

‘She has no reason to lie,’ he continued. ‘And she showed me a picture. He looks...exactly like Janie did when she was a baby.’

‘Oh.’

It was all she said; it was all the pain allowed her to say. All the other words that came to mind were selfish.

We could have had a child who looked like Janie . We could have done this together, and you wouldn’t have had to ask for help.

‘Is he sick?’ she asked.

The cup he’d lifted crashed against the table as he set it back down. ‘I... I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘No.’

‘Hunter, why the hell wouldn’t you ask if your baby was sick?’

He didn’t answer her, only looked stricken. Her heart softened, though she refused to allow herself to show it. Beneath the softness was a pain she hadn’t known she could feel.

He’d told her it was probably good he wouldn’t have children when he was a carrier of the CF gene. There were zero chances then that he’d pass it down—the disease or the gene. Now she was supposed to believe he’d forgotten about it?