Sharon Archer - Marriage Reunited - Baby on the Way

Jack’s eyes followed the movement of her hand, a dazed look on his face. ‘We’re going to be parents in, what, three months?’ His throat moved in a convulsive swallow. ‘Twelve weeks?’

Her heart swooped, a dozen answers trembling on her tongue. But the last thing she wanted right now was to prolong this discussion. Liz settled for a simple, ‘Close enough.’ They could argue the semantics of parenthood another time.

‘We’ve got more to talk about than I’d realised.’ His eyes held a solemn appeal when they met hers.

‘Perhaps, but not now.’ She hardened her heart against the treacherous impulse to believe he could change. He’d just been caught off guard, his apology was evidence of how much. ‘I really do have work to do. Are you…? Where are you…?’ The words dried up on her tongue.

‘Staying?’ An eyebrow quirked as his dark eyes watched her quizzically. ‘At home. Unless there’s a reason why I shouldn’t.’

‘No. I…suppose it’ll be okay…for a while…It’s just that…’ She trailed off again. She couldn’t go back to the peculiar segregated life they’d been living before. Sharing a house, but not themselves. A half-life masquerading as a marriage. She’d used long hours at work to escape the house before Jack had gone overseas. That wasn’t an option these days because she was too tired.

‘Damn, Liz…What do you think I’m going to do?’ He grimaced, his eyes shuttered. She was left with the fleeting impression that she’d hurt him. ‘I’m still house-trained.’ His lopsided smile was meant to disarm. ‘And I haven’t jumped on an unwilling woman for at least a month. Let alone one who’s pregnant and unwilling.’

Did that mean he had jumped on a willing woman while he was away? She lifted her chin in rejection of the picture his words conjured up. What did it matter to her if he had been with someone? Once they were divorced, he could be with any damned woman he fancied.

She wanted a divorce…didn’t she?

Suddenly, hot moisture burned beneath her eyelids, threatened to spill over. Bending her head for a few moments, she pulled at the wrinkled front of her coat as though straightening it was the most important thing in her life.

She heard him take a deep breath.

‘Look, Liz, I’m tired. Can we have this discussion later, too? I’ll use the spare bed if it’ll make you happier.’

‘I’m using it.’ Her voice sounded hoarse with the ache in her throat.

‘I see.’ He looked away and she could see a muscle twitching along his jaw.

‘It’s the only bed made up so use it. I haven’t been home to sleep in it since I changed the sheets yesterday.’ As soon as the words were out she wished she could take them back. His eyes held hers for a long moment. She tensed, waiting for a derisive comment.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

She nodded briefly. On muscles wobbly with relief, she turned towards the door.

‘Liz?’

She looked back at him.

‘Could I borrow your keys, please?’

‘My keys? Haven’t you got yours?’

‘The airline lost my luggage in California. I didn’t want to risk missing my connecting flight home while someone tracked it down.’

He sounded exhausted, almost defeated, and she realised for the first time that there were dark circles under his eyes. Her heart ached with sympathy she didn’t want to feel.

‘Mine are in my locker, but there’s a front-door key in the old pot-belly on the veranda.’ She shrugged slightly at the patent surprise on his face. ‘Pregnancy seems to have scrambled the thought processes that keep track of my keys. After I locked myself out of the house a couple of times, I put a spare set outside.’

He regarded her in silence. ‘Have you…been okay otherwise?’

‘Mostly.’ His question touched her to the core. He sounded like he cared. Foolish, foolish woman to let herself be affected by a few kind words. She forced her lips into a smile. No way was she going to tell him about the weeks of morning sickness when she’d wanted to curl up in a ball and have someone care for her. The days when she’d had to drag herself out of bed to come to work. Or the times she’d desperately needed a hug—his hug. ‘Can you make sure you put the key back, please?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well…I’ll see you later, then.’

Jack pulled into the driveway, a mantle of lethargy settling on his shoulders as he switched off the ignition of the rental car. He sat for a minute or two, noting the overgrown garden, the bush-covered hills of the Victorian high country that formed a familiar backdrop.

A mower droned soporifically in the distance. The sound of a dog barking in the neighbour’s yard snapped him out of a daze. If he didn’t move soon, he’d fall asleep right here.

Coming back had been the right thing. More right than he’d realised when he’d made the decision. Living in Dustin was the closest he’d come to having roots. The town was large enough to provide great services, small enough to be a real community. A great place to raise a family.

A lead weight dropped through his gut.

A family. Oh, God. He wasn’t ready, he’d never be ready. A thin film of perspiration popped out of his pores, chilling his forehead and upper lip. He recognised his body’s fight-or-flight response. Pointless trying to deal with this when he was punchy with jet-lag.

Grabbing his carry-on bag, he forced his tired legs up the veranda steps. He scrupulously returned the key to the old potbelly stove after he’d used it. Inside the house, he tapped the door with his heel, listening to the latch snick behind him as he let the familiar smells soak in. Delicate, delicious scents with tones of lavender and fresh pine cones. And a trace of Liz’s favourite soap.

This house and Liz were home, where he belonged, where he wanted to stay. He rubbed his sternum as he took inventory of the wide central hallway and the living areas off to each side. His heart felt too big for his chest. The months away had given him a poignant appreciation of things he’d taken for granted. The colours, soft, welcoming terracotta and greens, had been Liz’s choice. He’d provided the brawn for the preparation and painting. And they’d both chosen the eclectic collection of new and second-hand furniture. Everything had been picked for comfort and appeal, not because it matched another item.

Liz had joked that she was exorcising the polished, regimented perfection of her childhood. If only all demons could be so easily disposed of. Not that he had a problem with his past. He’d simply used it as a blueprint of what to avoid. Growing up as the son of a drug addict had left him utterly clear about one aspect of his life. No dabbling, no social indulging. No chemical crutches needed to get him through each day. Not for any reason.

Not ever.

He tossed his car keys on the small hall desk and walked slowly through the house, pausing again in the doorway of the main bedroom. A vivid vision of Liz tumbled across the queen-sized mattress beneath his weight had heat scorching to his groin. He blinked the memory away.

Now the luxurious brocade spread hid the fact that the bed it covered was stripped and unused. A façade.

Like their marriage? His heart kicked painfully.

Not if he could help it.

He strode through to the spare room and dumped his carryon bag onto the bed’s pristine quilt cover. His mouth tightened.

Fresh sheets. The small domestic detail epitomised their estrangement. That and the question about where he was staying. Realistically, he hadn’t expected to leap back into bed with her. But since when did they need fresh sheets between them?

Perhaps this was Liz’s way of distancing herself from him even further. Things had been bad when he’d left, but at least they’d shared a bed right up until the final few weeks.