Chapter Twelve
Cell to his ear, Ross filled his water bottle from the U-shaped faucet in Linda’s designer kitchen in preparation for soccer training, and listened to Tilly’s other uncle wax lyrical about his new Ford truck.
“Three liter, four-cylinder,” said Dan. “Turbo.”
“Farming’s paying then?”
“The Ute’s an investment.”
Ross snorted. “Is that how you sold it to your bride?” He packed the water bottle into the sports bag on the gleaming white marble counter.
“What do you mean?” Dan was all hurt innocence. “Jo helped choose it.”
“That explains the reinforced steel cage and bull bars.” Ross teased Jo mercilessly about her driving.
His buddy laughed. “Torque peaks at 1800 rpm which gives it great lugging power. Hauls up to 3000 kg.”
“If the suspension’s tuned for load-carrying, how’s the road ride affected?” Ross pulled out his rain jacket, glanced at the overcast sky through the kitchen window and replaced it in the bag again.
“Pretty good. Wishbones and coil springs up-front…solid axle and leaf springs rear.”
“Shame the model’s got a hood like a storm trooper’s helmet.”
“You’re just jealous.”
God it was good to relax his guard. Talk about stuff that wasn’t loaded with moral dilemmas. Ross carried his bag out to the SUV. All day he’d kept Viv’s secret from Charlie and all day he’d felt dirty.
Briefly he considered telling Dan—Shep to his former troop mates, short for Good Shepherd. The twins’ levelheaded sibling would soon toss a nice bucket of ice-cold reality over their harebrained scheme, and Ross would be off the hook. Except he’d given Viv his word. She might have elastic ethics, he didn’t.
“So, you get hold of Viv last night?”
“No,” lied Ross, hating the woman who’d forced him to it. Dumping the sports bag in the trunk, he slammed it shut. “Guess my friends holidaying in New York will have to pay full price for Broadway tickets like everyone else.” He opened the driver’s door. “Shep, I have to go but I need you to do me a favor. The boss wants to sign me up for advanced instructors courses.”
“Congratulations. Obviously, the old man considers you leadership material.”
Ross paused with his hand on the ignition. “Have you been inhaling too much methane on that farm of yours?” he demanded. “I’m a combatant, always have been. You know that. Put a word in for me will you? You were always one of the CO’s favorites, he’ll listen to you.” He turned the key and the engine roared into life.
“Ice,” Dan said slowly. One word to hold so much emotion. Regret, apology, defiance.
Ross turned off the engine, forcing himself to articulate the unthinkable. “Except he already has listened,” he rasped. “Hasn’t he?”
Dan cleared his throat. “Jo and I were in Auckland for a checkup.” His bride was a cancer survivor. “I called in to see everybody and the CO requested a word. He asked me if I shared his concerns for you. Did you want me to lie?”
Why the hell not? Your sisters have no trouble doing it! His lungs felt constricted, he had to struggle to breathe. “If I was one-legged, Dan, I’d still be more use on patrol than any recruit I train to take my place.”
“His concerns aren’t about your physical fitness. You think I’m the only person who’s noticed this is about reprisal?”
“And if it is? You of all people should understand it.” Dan hadn’t been with his patrol during the ambush and his survivor’s guilt had nearly derailed his wedding.
“The best revenge is not letting tragedy destroy your life.”
“You needed some kind of emotional catharsis to get you through, but I don’t. Let me make peace with it my way.”
“Peace?” There was a snort from the other end of the line. “Mate, you’ve been slow-burning with rage from the moment you regained consciousness in a German military hospital. Would you arm an angry man and send him back to a war-torn region where there’s already too many angry men bent on thoughtless, reflexive violence? Is that what the SAS stands for?”
“So, what are you suggesting?” Ross challenged. “We walk away with our tails between our legs?” He clenched his jaw. “Let Steve’s and Lee’s deaths signify nothing?”
“Going Rambo isn’t going to serve you or the future unit you’re assigned to. We don’t make war personal.”
“What about our friendship…isn’t that personal?” He could barely speak. One of his best friends had stabbed him in the back.
“Yeah, which is why I can’t stand by and—”
“Fuck you, Dan!” Ross cut the connection, slammed the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. For a long time he sat staring through the windscreen at the garage door.
At last he stirred.
Lying in a hospital bed, working through rehab, Ross had kept his sanity by setting goals. To stand, to walk. To run. Fight it, fight the futility, the sense of powerlessness. Hopelessness. Find solace in action. In purpose. With a mighty effort he distanced himself again now. What did Dan know?
He needed to do damage control, undermine his former buddy’s credibility. Ross glanced at his watch. The CO was still at HQ. He’d go there now. Quickly, he phoned Meredith’s cell. Busy. He left a brief message for her impersonator.
“I can’t make soccer but I’ll come by later to sort things out for tomorrow.” He stopped himself from adding, “sorry.”
* * *
She was never ever going to rely on Ross again.
The school field was still soft from winter rain and green with spring growth. Mud splattered the kids’ trainers as Viv warmed them up with jumping jacks, so she sent her fourteen-strong team on a jog around the field, while she stood in the middle under an overcast sky with the sports kit of balls and marker cones and racked her brain for appropriate drills.
Tilly hadn’t seemed surprised when Viv told her Uncle Ross wasn’t coming. “He always skips out of stuff now. That’s why Mum had to take over coaching. Uncle Ross used to do it.”
The kids returned too soon, eager to begin the real stuff and Viv bought more time with yoga stretches. In team shirts obviously meant to be grown into, they were puppy-dog keen and exuberant from being cooped up in class all day.
“Can we get the balls out soon, Mrs. Coltrane?”
“Mrs. Coltrane, do I have to be goalie on Sunday, I wanna be the striker.”
“I can only stay for the first half of practice, Mrs. Coltrane, so can we do the practice passes first?”
Viv surrendered to the inevitable and got a soccer ball out of the bag. “Sure, Karl—”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle,” she amended. “Everyone get in a circle and we’ll pass the ball to each other.” She hadn’t bothered to learn the rules of soccer because Ross was going to be here. Only he wasn’t here. One cryptic message as she was leaving the house. And no time to revisit Plan A.
The circle formed and she threw the ball to Kyle, who caught it with a look of surprise. “Pass it on,” she encouraged him.
“With our hands?”
Viv looked at Tilly who scowled.
“Only the goalie can touch the ball, remember, Mum?”
“Just seeing if everyone’s paying attention,” Viv said, and added jokingly, “You’re all on the ball today.”
They looked at her blankly. She was going to kill Ross for this.
“We need a few balls for this drill,” Tilly prompted.
“Sure.” Viv grabbed another couple.
“Meredith.”
She straightened to see Charlie crossing the fieldd with Harry. The baby looked like the Michelin man in a padded rain jacket and gum boots with a Bob the Builder logo.
The last thing she needed was a witness to training. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you until later.” Please don’t be here to watch.
“How’s the game going, kids?”
Viv said quickly, “Tilly, take over for a couple of minutes while I talk to your dad.” Tossing the balls into the circle, she steered Charlie out of earshot. “Anything wrong?”
Harry held out his arms to her. “Iv.”
“What’s that,” said his dad, “a new word?”
“Wind.” Grabbing the baby she put him down and pointed to the sports kit. “Go get the balls out of the bag, sweetie.” Harry didn’t need any more invitation.
“Look, I’m sorry but something’s come up at the Sycamore Street job,” said Charlie. “The owner’s requested an emergency site meeting.” In team shirt and track pants, Viv shivered in the wind, wishing she’d remembered a rain jacket. “I can’t take Harry to a construction site,” Charlie reasoned, “and Ross isn’t answering his cell. You’ll have to take him.”
She stared at him. “I’m training the kids for an hour.”
“Thank God you’re superwoman then, huh?” Charlie looked at his watch. “While I remember, I told Mum’s bridge club there was an open invitation back to the house after the funeral. You might have to order a few more club sandwiches from the caterer…I’d do it but—”
“But it’s easier to palm it off on me.” Viv curbed her temper. “Look, I understand it’s a terrible time for you but stop treating me like I’m still your wife. You left, remember? And frankly, Charlie, you shouldn’t have treated me like your personal assistant when we were married, either!”
He blinked. “But you offered to help with the funeral.”
“And I am helping. I’ll take Harry, if there’s no other option, but you phone the caterer with your extra order.”
Charlie looked hurt. “It isn’t like you to get pissy over a simple request.”
“Well, maybe you walking out on the family changed me,” she snapped.
“I wasn’t the one who—”
“Save it, Charlie, I’ve heard it all before.”
“Mrs. Coltrane?” Kyle, Karl, whatever the hell his name was, ran over panting. “Tilly says I have to drop and give her twenty…do I?”
“No, Kyle, you don’t…I really must revert to my maiden name,” Viv added.
Charlie’s lips tightened. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said crisply. “And I’ll go write my mother’s eulogy.”
She refused to feel guilty. “Like I said, I’m happy to help out in this difficult time, but there are limits, Charlie. You set them, not me. The name of the catering company is Bite Delight,” she added. “They’re in the phone book.”
Without another word Charlie turned on his heel. Viv stared after him, then took a deep breath and glanced toward her charges.
It looked like a hostile game of British Bulldog—the team was lined up on one side facing Tilly who’d found a whistle and was blowing it so hard, her face was red with the effort. The little girl opened her mouth and the whistle fell. “You have to do what I say. V—Mum left me in charge.”
Oh, great.
And where was Harry? For a moment Viv couldn’t see him and her heart stopped with terror, and then she caught sight of a bald head among the soccer balls—he’d climbed into the bag. Viv ran over and scooped him up, resisting the urge to yell at him for giving her such a fright. If anything happened…
He gave her a gummy smile. “Iv,” he said.
* * *
Ross caught a drift of choir music as he opened the gate to Meredith’s house at five-thirty. It swelled to a hymn as he approached the front door, a blending of angelic voices. He made out the words, “To save a wretch like meeee.”
He hoped God was feeling benevolent, because after his afternoon, Ross wasn’t in the mood to forgive anyone.
Supporting Charlie through Linda’s death was already sucking time away from his rehab schedule. Dan’s betrayal meant it would take everything he had to convince the CO he was combat ready. Except the boss was out of town, pressing the flesh in government circles in a bid to avert cuts to the defense budget. Unavailable until next week. Ross didn’t need this farce on top of everything else, but Viv had left him no choice.
He was a dangerous man with his back to the wall.
His profession had taught him that preparation was everything so he figured he’d assess Viv’s strengths and weaknesses and compensate accordingly. However erratic her behavior, even the chaos theory had some predictability, if not of outcome, then of pattern. That didn’t mean he had to like it.
Feeling manipulated, frustrated and aggrieved, he pushed the doorbell.
No one answered. The music was probably too loud. He tried the handle; it turned. The house was a bomb site and as a demolitions expert, Ross knew bomb sites. His sense of grievance grew. In the living room, he found Tilly curled on the couch in her pajamas, her hair wet, reading 1001 Pictures of Adorable Cats. Harry sat beside her with a bottle.
At least the kids looked cared for. “How was soccer practice?” Ross called above the hymn.
Without looking up from her book, Tilly shrugged.
Harry dropped the bottle and held out his arms, gurgling something indecipherable.
Ross picked him up. “At least someone’s pleased to see me.”
Tilly didn’t respond. This kid could reverse global warming when she had a frost on.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make practice.”
She turned the page.
“When I’m redeployed, I’ll go back to the way I was, I promise.”
She looked at him with a seer’s eyes. “No, you won’t,” she said.
Ross gave up. “Where is she?”
Tilly pointed and, carrying Harry, he followed the music to the bathroom.
“Iv,” the baby said proudly.
Ross stopped dead. “No, buddy, now is not the time to learn new words.”
“Dog,” Harry offered.
“Better.”
The door was ajar, he saw a flailing arm and hesitated, but Harry, no respecter of privacy, had already planted his tiny palms against the door and pushed. It swung open. Viv stood in front of the mirror, her right arm swinging like a maniacal metronome.
“Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come.”
His heart sank.
“No thanks to you,” she said tightly, still marking time. “Down…across, up.” She still wore her soccer training gear, and had obviously been caught in a rain shower because both the navy shorts and T-shirt clung damply to her body and her ponytail dripped down her spine. Mud splatters dotted her shapely calves.
Through the semitransparent white T, Ross got an eyeful of the leopard-print demibra he’d last seen wrapped around Salsa’s paw and made a mental note to lecture Viv about deep cover. At least there was one positive to this mess—he could stop feeling like a pervert.
Viv started to sing along. “We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise—” her singing voice was awful “—than when we first beguuun.” The last strains faded, she finished with a circled flourish and met his eyes in the mirror. “How’d that look, convincing?”
His heart sank. “Tell me you’re not conducting the choir tomorrow.”
Harry flung himself forward with a delighted gurgle and she caught him, kissing the downy head before she answered. “Okay I won’t tell you.”
“Then we’re screwed,” he said.
She leveled a look at him. “We will be if you keep setting me up to fail.”
“What?”
“I was relying on you to help with soccer…where the hell were you?”
“Since when am I at your beck and call? I left a message.”
“Too little, too late.” Viv put the restless baby onto her other hip. “Don’t encourage people to rely on you if you can’t deliver on your promises.”
The echo of Tilly’s disappointment stung. “My priorities come first.”
“And have done for months, I hear,” she countered. Harry started to fuss and she patted his cheek. “Good luck with whatever’s more important than your family.”
“You’re the one who’s going to need the luck.”
“I haven’t got time to cross swords with you,” she said impatiently. “Tilly’s in a snit, I still have a cake to bake, names and faces to memorize, another hymn to practice and I’m worried sick about my sister. If you’re in, Ross, then be in. Otherwise—” she covered the baby’s ears and glared at him “—fuck off.”
The only way to save his brother further pain was to make this farce work. Ross sighed. “I’m in.”
Viv uncovered Harry’s ears. “Then talk nice and trust me to have some sense. Merry’s teaching me to conduct on Skype and if she says I’m doing well, then I must be bloody fantastic because she’s even more critical than you are.”
She swept past him, baby on her hip and a glint of tears in her eyes.
Ross followed. “What’s wrong with Meredith?” he said quietly.
Viv put Harry down. “She’s picked up some kind of infection. Iop…ison-something.”
“Iatrogenic cause?”
Her anxious gaze met his. “Yes, that’s it.”
“It means she picked it up in hospital, through procedures or treatment. More common than you’d think. Is she on antibiotics?”
“Yes, but I don’t see an improvement. Someone should be with her.”
Ross resisted the urge to say Viv would have if the sisters hadn’t pulled this stunt. “What does Meredith say?”
“That she’ll be fine and for me to concentrate on the funeral.”
“Then let’s do that.” God knows, they had enough to worry about.
“Anyway, I need to make these kids dinner.” She started toward the kitchen. Definitely no spring in her step today.
“Shower and get out of those wet clothes first.”
“The kids are hungry.”
He began to feel caught in a vice, Viv and her misguided altruism on one side, his need to disengage on the other. “I can start dinner,” he said grudgingly.
“You can cook? No, don’t tell me.” He saw a flicker of returning spirit in her smile. “SAS guys can do everything.”
“My mother taught me.”
“Well, if you could beat some eggs for me, fry bacon and put pasta on to boil that’d be great. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“No hurry. I can handle carbonara.”
“Just don’t add anything green, including herbs. Tilly’s in a bad mood as it is.”
“So training wasn’t a success?”
She pulled her hair free of its constricting ponytail and rubbed her scalp. “I let her run some of it.”
“Let me guess. It was like inviting Captain Bligh back onto the Bounty.”
Viv nodded. “We had a mutiny after ten minutes.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Ross caught himself watching her legs as she walked away, and frowned.
Twenty minutes later, the kids were eating and Tilly was pouring her troubles into her uncle’s ear. “She can’t do anything right, Uncle Ross. At soccer, we hardly even kicked the ball.” Tilly was a grade ahead of her age through sheer tenacity but she struggled to match the coordination of the eight-year-olds. She mis-hit the ball, kicked wildly and then blamed the pitch, the boot, the ball, the pass…. But you couldn’t question her fierce and unswerving passion for the game, or her dedication.
Viv, her hair hanging in shiny waves, walked in wearing kick-ass boots teamed with a shirt and jeans too well-fitting to be Meredith’s. “I need some ‘me’ time,” she said, mistaking his surprise for disapproval. It wasn’t.
Seventeen months and suddenly his libido was firing for this woman?
Harry opened his mouth to greet his aunt and Ross took the opportunity to shovel in another spoonful. They didn’t need to hear “Iv” right now. “Tilly’s getting a few things off her chest,” he warned.
“And she put onions in the ground beef and then smelly cheese on top,” Tilly continued. “She’s just not as good as Mum.”
“This isn’t a competition, Tilly.” Viv’s tone was light but it was obvious their niece had struck a nerve. “I’m just filling in. I’m good at other things.”
“Like what?” The little girl was genuinely curious.
“Building an international career in costume design,” Viv offered, pulling up a chair.
Losing interest, Tilly returned to her carbonara. “Well, Mum has a job and she can play soccer and cook mac and cheese and put the trash out on the right day and teach Brownies and drive without saying, ‘stay left, stay left’ all the time.” She paused to suck up a strand of spaghetti. “And dogs like her,” she finished.
“Dogs like me,” said Viv in a small voice. “Just not your dog.”
“Attila, you could help Viv with Salsa,” Ross suggested.
She shook her head, sucking up another spaghetti strand. “I don’t have to help anyone. I’m a little girl.”
“Except how will you be able to do all the things your mum can if you don’t practice?”
Viv added, “You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”
“No,” said Tilly.
Viv’s smile faltered.
Ross coaxed another spoonful into Harry’s mouth. “Your aunt does have a cool party trick,” he said casually. “She can do a cartwheel holding a glass of wine and not spill any.” He’d seen it at the wedding.
“Really?” Tilly looked at Viv with new interest.
“I used to do gymnastics when I was a kid.”
“I thought you did ballet with Mum…I saw a picture. You were fat then,” she added.
“The exploding meringue next to the dainty princess picture? I wish she’d destroy that. Anyway I only lasted in ballet two weeks before changing to gym.” She added reflectively, “All those tiny, careful movements made me want to scream. But I always envied your mom her sparkly pink tutu.”
As he wiped the excess food off Harry’s chin, it occurred to Ross that a free spirit would have a difficult time being an identical twin.
Tilly handed Viv her empty plate. “Mum said you wore it to a party and spilled green jelly on it and the stain never came out.”
Viv stood up with the plate. “Gee,” she said, “does she say anything good about me?”
“She said you’re the fun one.” Tilly’s tone made it clear she didn’t agree with that assessment.
Brat.
Shoulders slumped, Viv turned to the sink.
“If Tilly won’t help with Salsa,” Ross suggested, “maybe you could look up the patron saint of dogs in that book of yours.”
His niece jumped to the bait. “Dogs have a saint?”
Viv dumped Tilly’s plate in the sink and dug the tattered booklet out of her back jean pocket. They fitted so snugly Ross was surprised she got a hand in there—not that he was complaining. “Every animal has a saint,” she said, thumbing through the pages. “Here we go…Saint Roch. Busy guy. He’s helping your mom’s knee. And he also covers plagues and pestilence. Hmm, I would have thought Salsa was a pestilence.”
“You can talk,” Ross commented.
She ignored that. “Tilly, you have a saint too. Saint Agnes watches out for girls.”
“Lemme see.” Viv pulled a chair close to Tilly’s and they bent their heads over the book. Their hair was the same rich brown. Suspecting he might be missing some fun, Harry squealed to get out of his highchair.
“Hang on, mate.” Ross cleaned him up with the dishcloth first.
“Look, Tilly, Joan of Arc has the Girl Guides, which is what Brownies grow into.” Viv lifted the baby into her lap. “Girl Guides and soldiers, Ross. Isn’t the juxtaposition sweet?”
“Darling.”
But Tilly was delighted. “Uncle Ross, the same saint looks after both of us.”
“That’s cool, honey.”
“Here’s another patron for your uncle,” added Viv. “Elmo.”
Tilly gurgled with laughter. “That’s silly. Elmo is a toy.”
“Let me see that,” he said.
She held the book out of his reach. “His real name is Erasmus, Tilly, but his friends call him Elmo and he looks after pyrotechnicians. That’s a fancy word for people who enjoy blowing things up.”
“So Viv and I share a patron saint, too,” he retorted. “Since she excels in destroying the peace. Tilly, if you’re done, go wash your hands. We’ll make the cake while Viv eats.” Tilly scrambled from the table and left for the bathroom.
Viv stared at him. “You made enough food for me?” Her delight made him wonder when she’d last eaten.
“Running on empty leads to mistakes, mistakes lead to discovery.” Nothing personal in it. He dished up a portion and put it in front of her. She’d used her own perfume…that honeysuckle again. “I figure I’ve got an hour and a half before Charlie expects me home.” Ross held out the cutlery. “Use me.”
The remark hadn’t been intended as sexual, but their eyes met and the cutlery clattered on the table as they mistimed the exchange.
“Harry, want an ice cream?” Ross grabbed the baby, plonking him in the highchair, then opened the freezer, tempted to stick his head in to cool down.
It disgusted him that he wanted her. He reminded himself that she was a liar, aiding and abetting a cheater to mislead his brother. That he’d been emotionally blackmailed into this scam. And that her brother had just sold him down the river. It helped.
When he shut the fridge Viv was eating, focused on her plate. As if it was her first good meal in days. Ross tore his gaze from her mouth. Making Harry a small cone, he reminded himself she was identical to his brother’s wife, and he’d never been attracted to her—but his body didn’t buy it. He’d thought after Dan’s betrayal today, that his life couldn’t possibly get worse. Seemed it could.
Viv cleared her throat. “Was Susan there when Charlie picked up Harry from day care?”
“She does work there.” He handed his nephew the chocolate ice cream and Harry gummed it.
“That could have been awkward…their first meeting since the breakup.”
He shrugged and picked up the cookbook lying open on the table. “I guess.”
Viv cleared her throat again. “Did Charlie mention anything about it?”
“Of course.” Ross scanned the cake recipe. “We talk about that kind of stuff constantly. How Charlie could have done things better or differently. Oh, no, wait, I forgot. I’m a man.”
“Is he interested in dating Susan again or not?” Viv asked impatiently.
He glanced up. “Not. Your. Business. Not my business, either.”
As Viv opened her mouth to argue, her cell rang. She checked caller ID. “Meredith,” she said to Ross. “Hey, sis.” Ross disappeared into the walk-in pantry where he scanned the shelves for ingredients.
When he emerged a few minutes later, Viv was waiting for him with a pensive expression. “Merry rang Dan to reiterate that he didn’t need to come to the funeral.” Viv saved the egg carton, precariously balanced on the top of the armful he carried and put it on the counter. “He said he’s having trouble getting a hold of you and asked her to remind you to phone.”
“I’ll do it later,” he lied. He’d blocked Dan’s number. Viv finished her meal and started unbuttoning Harry’s ice cream-splattered bib and pajama top.
“He said it’s urgent.”
“Later,” he said harshly, drawing that astute gaze.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, everything’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” The house phone rang. “Will you get that?” she asked. “Normally I’d let call answer pick up but if you’re here…”
It could be Dan. Brown eyes challenged his. She knew it, too. The woman was smart. Holding his nerve, Ross picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“’ello? This is Jean Paul. May I speak with Vivienne, please?”
“Sure, mate,” Ross said easily. “She’s just undressing ’arry.”
“Excuse me?”
He thought about clarifying and discounted it, figuring any guy stupid enough to take on Hurricane Viv had to be a masochist anyway.
He held out the phone. “The Frenchman.”
Shaking her head, she whispered, “I’m not here.”
Ross put the phone to his ear. “She’s right here, mate, and dying to talk to you.”