All They Need (12 page)

“I didn't get a chance to tell you—my sister has organized a working bee at my place this Saturday,” she said after a few seconds. “I showed her your plans and she got all gung ho. So, we're going to build my cascading garden beds sooner rather than later.”

“It's a pity it's this Saturday, I could have helped.”

“Busy washing the cat, are we? Having a violin lesson?” she joked. “My brother tried all of those excuses before my sister nailed him.”

A part of him that he hadn't even known was tense relaxed. She was back in form, the bleak look gone from her eyes.

“Your sister sounds scary. And my alibi is water tight—we're having a family meeting to discuss Dad's care.”

She immediately sobered. “Because of what happened on the weekend?”

“In part. The thing is, if we don't take the chance to talk to him now, we may lose it forever. This way, we'll at least know we're doing what he wants. Small comfort at the end of the day, but it's something.” He
realized he was going on about his parents again and sat up a little straighter. “So, have you thought about what you want to grow in your veggie patch yet?”

She eyed him sympathetically. “I don't mind talking about your parents, Flynn. You don't have to change the subject.”

Their meals arrived before he had a chance to respond. Mel gave an appreciative whistle as she inspected hers.

“Not bad. And I'm a bit of a burger connoisseur.”

“Wait till you taste it.”

She took a big bite. “Oh. Wow. I may need a moment alone with my burger. And a cigarette for afterward.”

“Please, don't let me stop you.”

She closed her eyes as she took another bite. “This is so good. This has to be Melbourne's best-kept secret.”

They compared best-burger-ever stories for the next few minutes. As usual, Mel made him laugh. When she wasn't on her guard, she had a wicked sense of humor and a very quick wit. There was a wild energy in her—an impishness—that appealed to him enormously.

On impulse, driven by an imp of his own, he gestured toward her left cheek. “You have something on your face.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She grabbed the napkin and gave her cheek a good wipe. She looked at him expectantly. “All gone?”

“Almost, but not quite. Here, let me.”

He leaned across the table, hand extended. He was about to touch her cheek when her hand snapped up and caught his wrist. She turned her head to stare at the gob of mayonnaise on his index finger. She shook her head, her eyes dancing with laughter.

“Oldest trick in the book, buddy. The old double-fake face smear. Strictly amateur hour.”

“Nearly got you,” he said, utterly shameless in defeat.

“Close, but no cigar, my friend.”

He grinned, reaching for a napkin to wipe his hands. “I like you, Mel Porter.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Mel's smile flickered for a moment, then she sat back in her seat and gave him a dry look.

“Second oldest trick in the book—distraction. Don't go thinking you've gotten away with anything, Randall. There will be reprisals, mark my word. So sleep with one eye open.”

He thought about pushing it, about declaring himself more openly, but everything in Mel's posture told him it was too soon. He settled back in his chair and smiled at her. He wasn't going anywhere, and neither was she. There was no need to rush this—whatever it turned out to be.

 

M
EL STARED OUT
the train window on the way home from the city. Around her, schoolkids played, the boys shoving each other around and checking out the girls, the girls gossiping and texting and checking out the boys.

Mel's thoughts were preoccupied with the man she'd left behind.

I like you, Mel Porter.

The words still gave her a thrill, even though it had been a couple of hours since he'd uttered them.

She liked him, too. More so every day.

She felt the now-familiar dart of anxiety as she acknowledged her own feelings. When she was with
Flynn, it all seemed incredibly easy. He was so charming and funny and sweet and sexy. Why wouldn't she want to spend time with him? Why wouldn't she let instinct take over?

Yet when she wasn't with him, reality crowded in. She had no business even thinking about being with someone at the moment. Her head was still way too full with the detritus from her marriage—witness what had happened when they'd run in to Owen in that hideous excuse for a restaurant.

She had literally flushed hot, then cold when she'd glanced across the dining room and found herself looking into her ex-husband's eyes. The angry, outraged expression on his face had propelled her back in time, back to the days when that look had meant either a lecture or cold silence in the car on the way home, punishment for whatever transgression she'd committed. Laughing too loudly, telling a bawdy joke, drinking too much—she'd been raked over the coals for all of them at one time or another.

Then the insistent weight of Flynn's warm hand on the small of her back had registered and she'd remembered that she was free and that Owen's disapproval and anger meant nothing to her now.

Less than nothing.

Of course, she knew what he'd been unhappy about. He'd done backflips trying to become Flynn's friend, trying to inveigle his way into the Randalls' inner circle. To see Mel there so easily, so effortlessly… He'd be brooding over it for hours, no doubt. Wondering what had been said between her and Flynn, what had been done.

God, she was glad she was free of it. All of it. The pretentious restaurants, the constant low-level anxi
ety about looking the right way and saying the right thing… It had been exhausting. Six long years of trying to live up to her husband's expectations.

If only she'd thought to ask him to live up to hers.

She'd expected him to love her. She'd expected him to be her friend. She'd expected him to be on her side, to support her. He'd failed to deliver on almost every score.

The train pulled into a station and Mel shook herself. She didn't want to waste more time thinking about Owen. He'd consumed enough of her life.

As for Flynn…

She didn't want to think about him, either, but for very different reasons.

It was too late, however. Her mouth was already curving into a smile as she remembered that stunt he'd tried to pull with the mayonnaise.

Flynn Randall was a goof. She never would have guessed in a million years, but he was. He was naughty and he was cheeky and he was fun.

I like you, Mel Porter.

She gazed out at the passing cityscape as the train left the station.

The feeling is mutual, Mr. Randall. Extremely mutual.

 

F
LYNN SPENT A LONG TIME
in the shower on Saturday morning. Head bowed, he let the water wash over him and tried to steel himself for the day ahead.

It didn't matter that his father had agreed to this meeting. It didn't matter that they were all going in with their eyes open, determined to listen and be patient. He didn't want to sit at a table and discuss options for his father's care once he was beyond caring for himself.
Flynn didn't want to be rational about something that made him want to bang his head against a brick wall with anguish.

But he would. As would his father and his mother, because the only other option was to bury their heads in the sand, which really wasn't an option at all.

When the hot water finally ran out, he toweled off and dressed. He thought about breakfast but decided he couldn't eat. Feeling heavier than lead, he drove to his parents' place.

His father answered the door, his hair damp from the shower. His gaze was sharp, his demeanor familiar and affectionate.

“Dad.”

They exchanged hugs.

“Come in. Rosina's making waffles. Anyone would think it was a special occasion.”

He gave Flynn a small, self-deprecating smile as Flynn walked past him and into the house. Then his gaze dropped to the folder in Flynn's hands and his smile flattened. He didn't ask, but Flynn knew he'd guessed what was in the folder: information on in-home nursing care and other support organizations for late-stage Alzheimer's patients and their caregivers.

“I don't suppose it's too late to cancel and suggest a day trip somewhere instead?” his father said.

“Sure. If that's what you want.”

“Oh, nice answer. Leaves me with bugger all room to maneuver.”

“I learned from the best,” Flynn said as they entered the dining room.

“What did you learn, and from whom?” his mother asked, looking up from arranging a large bunch of ca
mellias in a vase on the cherry-wood sideboard against the wall.

“How to get his own way, and from me,” his father said.

“Oh. That. I'd like to think I had a hand in that, too. I'm no slouch at getting my own way, either,” his mother said.

“True. Although logic would dictate that it's impossible for two people to both always get what they want all the time,” his father said. “Someone has to miss out.”

“Agreed—unless they both want the same things.” His mother angled her cheek for Flynn's kiss. “There you go, darling—the secret to thirty-odd years of happy marriage, in a nutshell. Find a woman who wants the same things as you.”

Flynn was very aware that beneath the banter and lightheartedness there was an edgy undercurrent. He pressed his molars together, wishing he could fast-forward through the next few hours and cut to the part where the hard decisions had been hammered out.

He crossed to the window and his thoughts drifted to Mel, as they were wont to do these days. He wondered if she was up and about yet, and what time her working bee was scheduled to start. Then he thought about the way she'd giggled like an idiot when he'd arranged her knees under the table at the burger place and smiled faintly.

“Would you like a coffee or a tea before we get started?” his mother asked from behind him.

Flynn turned to face his parents. “Tea, thanks.”

“How many waffles would you like?” she asked.

“I'm not hungry right now. Maybe later.” His gut was too tight to welcome food.

“Okay, then. Let's get this show on the road,” his father said decisively, taking a seat at the head of the table. He'd set himself up with a notepad and pen, along with a sheet of printed notes. His reading glasses sat on the end of his nose and he surveyed Flynn and his wife over the top of them, every inch the former CEO of Randall Developments.

Painfully aware that his father's dignity depended on the illusion that he was in control of at least some aspects of his life, Flynn took a seat to his father's left, while his mother sat opposite.

“So, where do we start?” his father asked.

Flynn rolled his shoulders. Then he opened the folder in front of him. “I think we should take this step by step. What needs to be done now, medium term and long term.”

His father nodded. “Agreed. You okay with that, Pat?”

“It makes sense.”

“So what are our short-term issues?” His father sounded utterly professional, as though this were any other meeting, yet his hands trembled as he shuffled his papers.

A sudden, white-hot surge of anger hit Flynn.

His father was a good man. He deserved far better than the fate that awaited him. He deserved some peace and pleasure, the chance to enjoy everything he'd worked so hard to achieve.

Instead, he was going to fall apart, cell by cell, memory by memory, until he was completely unravelled, his sense of self destroyed.

The urge to smash something, primitive and fierce, gripped Flynn. His hands curled around the chair's armrests, tightening until his knuckles ached.

For long seconds he simply hung on, riding the wave of his rage. Then the moment passed and he registered that his mother was speaking, talking about ways of making the house safer without his father feeling under lock and key.

He let his breath out slowly and reached for his pen and started taking notes.

“T
HIS IS WHY THEY DON'T
have girls on building sites. Grooming breaks.”

Mel rolled her eyes at her brother as she finished pulling her hair into a ponytail. He was standing next to the pile of railway ties she'd had delivered the previous day, a bored look on his face. Behind him, several cubic meters of topsoil formed a mound in the center of her lawn.

“You're jealous because you cut all your hair off,” Mel said as she tugged her leather work gloves on. Once, a long time ago, her brother had had shoulder-length rock-and-roll hair that had been his pride and joy

“Wouldn't go back there for quids.” Harry ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “No muss, no fuss this way. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, yeah, that's gonna happen. Not.” She already had man-shoulders and man-height. She wasn't about to compound the issue with man-hair.

She bent her knees and got a grip on the end of the top tie.

“When you're ready,” she said to her brother. “Take your time.”

Harry gave her a look before getting a grip on the other end. “One, two, three.”

They hoisted the beam, straightening their legs so they were both holding the length at waist height.

“Onto your shoulder,” Harry instructed. “Two, three.”

Mel felt the burn in her arms as she lifted the tie high enough to roll a shoulder under it. The weight settled heavily and she braced the beam with both hands, adjusting her stance to suit.

“Okay, let's go,” she said.

They walked along the side of the house and into the garden, passing her father and her brother-in-law, Jacob, on their way to collect their next load.

“That's my girl,” her father said approvingly, slapping Mel on the backside with his work gloves as he passed.

Mel grimaced and concentrated on where she was putting her feet. She would never admit it out loud, but there were times when she really, really wished she was a different kind of woman. The kind who was more than happy to kick back and watch men do the heavy lifting because she couldn't possibly measure up. The thing was, she
could
measure up, and she'd never been content to let others do for her. She wasn't about to start now—especially when the men in her family were giving up their weekend to help her. The least she could do was toil by their sides.

Harry led the way past Tea Cutter Cottage and into the clearing that would soon become her new garden. A dozen railway ties were already lined up to one side and she and Harry added theirs to the stack.

“Couple more trips should do it,” Harry said.

“Yep.”

Mel placed a hand on the small of her back and stretched. Her arms were aching, and her thighs felt a
little shaky. And it was barely midday. She was going to be in all kinds of pain by the end of the day.

Harry had already started walking to the front and she trudged after him. They passed her father and Jacob coming the other way, a tie on their shoulders. Mel couldn't resist mimicking her father's gesture, slapping his butt with her gloves.

“That's my daddy,” she said.

He barked out a laugh. “You'll keep.”

Mel was still smirking when she rounded the house, only to stop short when she realized Harry was talking to somebody, and that somebody was Flynn.

An absurd rush of pleasure hit her as he turned to face her.

“Hey,” she said, grinning like an idiot. “Didn't think I'd be seeing you this weekend.”

“Like I was saying, she was right behind me,” Harry said dryly.

“Hey,” Flynn said. “Sorry to barge in. I forgot about your working bee.”

He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes and she realized he was upset. Deeply so.

Then she remembered he'd had his meeting with his parents today. The one where they discussed his father's future care.

She glanced at her brother. “I'm going to grab a glass of water. I'll be out in a tick.”

She didn't wait for Harry to respond, simply caught Flynn's eye and gestured with her head for him to follow her into the house.

The moment they were safely inside and out of her brother's hearing, she turned to face him.

“What happened? Did your father have a bad day?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I just—” He shook his
head. “Sorry. I don't even really know why I'm here. I got in the car and the next thing I knew I was turning off the freeway.” He turned away from her, almost as though he was about to leave.

Mel caught his forearm. “Flynn.”

He stilled, then some of the starch went out of his spine. His blue eyes were dark with pain as they met hers. “I don't know if I can handle this, Mel.”

Her grip tightened on his arm. “You can. You will.”

He shook his head again.

“You'll do it, Flynn. Moment by moment. That's how you get through the bad stuff. One day, one moment at a time.”

He started to say something, then he stopped and lifted his free hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Fighting tears, if she had any guess.

She acted completely on instinct, closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around him. He was unresponsive for a long beat, as though she'd taken him by surprise, then his arms went around her in turn.

Her breasts were pressed to his chest and every breath she took was filled with the smell of his aftershave but there was nothing sexual about their embrace. She was offering him a little comfort, and he was accepting it. It was as small and simple as that.

After a few seconds his arms loosened and she took a step backward. Flynn didn't quite meet her eyes and she reached out and gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

“Don't,” she said. “It's okay to feel overwhelmed. You guys have been dealt a shitty hand.”

He shrugged a shoulder, still not meeting her gaze.

She imitated him, one eyebrow cocked. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Finally he looked at her. “There are plenty of people worse off. People in the same situation with money problems and other things going on. In a lot of respects we're bloody lucky.”

“So? Is that supposed to make it easier to watch your father disappear before your very eyes?”

“No.” He said it heavily, resignedly.

She led him into the living room and waved him into the nearest armchair.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I told you, nothing. It was just a lot harder than I thought it would be. And I thought it would be pretty damned hard.”

He sat on the edge of the chair, his elbows braced on his knees. Mel sank onto the arm of the opposite chair.

“How was it harder?”

He shrugged impatiently, as though he was irritated by her questions and her pushing, but after a moment he started talking. “It was okay until we started talking about late stage. I don't know how much you know about Alzheimer's…”

“Not a lot. I know there are seven stages.” She'd done a few internet searches since he'd told her about his father's condition.

“Then you know more than a lot of people. Late stage is also called stage seven. By then, the patient can't speak, can't walk, can't sit up or even hold their head up unassisted. Facial expressions disappear, except for grimaces. They need help going to the bathroom, getting clean, eating—” His voice quavered and he pressed the bridge of his nose again.

After a long moment he dropped his hand and started
talking again. “Late-stage patients need twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week care, but right from the start Mom has been determined to take care of Dad at home. The way she sees it, the house can be fitted with everything they'll need, and we can hire agency nurses and caregivers to support Mom. It's completely doable, and it's what she wants.”

Mel had a feeling she knew where this was going. “What about your father?”

“He wants to go into a home. He's even picked one out. He doesn't want to be a burden. Doesn't want my mother's final memories of him being changing his adult diaper or wiping spit off his chin.”

“What did your mother say to that?”

“Honestly? I've never seen her so angry. She told him that it was her marriage, too, and that this was happening to both of them. And that she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she let someone else care for him. She said that she didn't care about shit or spit, she cared about him, and she was going to be there with him to the bloody end because she loved him.” Flynn's eyes were shiny with tears as they met hers. “That's almost a direct quote, by the way.”

She could see the pride in his gaze, along with the pain. “She sounds pretty cool, your Mom.”

“She's awesome.”

“So, who won?”

His smile was grim. “No one. Dad got upset. He said that if this was the last chance he had to make decisions, the least we could do was respect them. Mom told him that just because he was sick didn't mean he got to rule the world. We finally agreed to have a timeout so they could both consider each other's point of view.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“Mom will win. I think in his heart my father wants her to. The thing is, he loves her too much to want to be a burden.”

Mel blinked away the sudden warmth of tears. It was all too, too sad. When her vision was clear again, she saw Flynn was watching her, a frown on his face.

“I should go. You're busy. I didn't meant to show up out of nowhere like this.”

She'd seen him backtrack like this before and understood that he was embarrassed about needing to talk about his feelings. Instinct had bought him here, but pride was about to drive him away.

Men. Sometimes they really drove her crazy.

“Are we friends or not?” she demanded.

He looked arrested.

“Because friends don't make a run for it when there's a working bee in process,” she continued.

She tossed him her work gloves. He caught them before they slid down his belly to the ground.

“And friends offer each other a shoulder when it's needed and don't make a federal case out of it.”

He eyed her for a moment. She would have given a lot to know what was going on behind his eyes. His mouth turned up at the corners and he nodded slowly. “Okay. Point taken.”

“Good.”

He glanced down at the gloves. “You know, I was jealous when you told me you were having a working bee this weekend.”

“Jealous? Of hauling heavy-ass lumps of wood around and wheelbarrows full of soil?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“You're a very strange man, Flynn Randall.” She
pushed herself to her feet. “But you should know that I am not above exploiting that.”

“Exploit away.”

She started for the door. “You are so going to regret those words tomorrow.”

“We'll see.”

She led him to the lawn, where the remaining railway ties were stacked. There was no sign of her brother and she moved to the far end of the next tie in the pile.

“Let's do this, then. On the count of three,” she said, bracing her legs and getting a grip on the end.

Flynn held up a hand, eyebrows raised. “Whoa there. You're not lifting this thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's too heavy for you.”

She grinned at him. “It isn't, you know.” She patted her right shoulder with her left hand. “You think these babies are just for show?”

“Mel. These things have to weigh at least a hundred pounds.”

“Flynn, I've already carried half a dozen of these today. I think I can handle another one.”

He continued to stare at her. She put her hands on her hips and raised both eyebrows, waiting.

Finally he shrugged. “Okay. I can't believe I'm saying that, but okay.”

Mel rolled her eyes. “Thank you. Now that I have your permission, can we get on with it?”

“As soon as you put these on.”

Her gloves hit her in the chest. Her reflexes weren't as fast as his and they slid to the ground before she could react. She started to object but he shook his head.

“I'm not using your gloves while you go without.
Besides, I'm pretty sure I've got some old gardening gear in the trunk.”

He crossed the lawn to where he'd parked the Aston Martin in the street. Half a minute later he returned minus his leather jacket with a pair of dirt-stained gardening gloves on his hands.

“Okay, bossy pants. Show me what you've got,” he said.

She huffed out a laugh.
“Bossy pants?”

“You heard me.”

She gave him a look that promised payback, then bent her legs and got a grip on the tie. On three they lifted, then she counted off again before they hefted the beam to their shoulders.

“All good your end?” she asked.

“I should be asking you that.”

“Get over it, Randall. It's called girl power.”

They headed toward the clearing.

“You've really done this six times already today?” he asked.

“At least.”

“Remind me never to arm wrestle with you.”

She was still smiling when they rounded the last corner to find the men of her family lounging like lizards on the stacked ties. En masse, they made quite the picture: Harry, close-shaved head and bulging arms covered in inky black tribal tattoos, his ears shiny with piercings; her father, equally muscular in a white wife-beater tank top with his dark horseshoe mustache; Jacob, dressed in an old Metallica T-shirt, his hair spiked into a David Beckham faux-hawk, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips.

They looked exactly like what they were—three working-class men enjoying a laugh in between bouts
of hard labour—and she couldn't help but notice the assessing glances they threw Flynn's way.

The men in her family had never rated Owen. They had never said anything to her directly, but she'd sensed the tension whenever they were in the same room as her ex-husband, which, fortunately, hadn't been very often, particularly toward the end. She didn't blame them, since Owen had always either been falsely hearty or smugly patronizing in most of his interactions with them. He'd never tried to simply engage with them person-to-person—probably because he'd not-so-secretly believed he was better than them and that her family was a waste of his valuable time.