The Maxwell Sisters (12 page)

She spun away, a hand going immediately into her hair and pulling at the roots.
What's the matter with you?

She knew the feel of that chest. Huddled close beneath an umbrella to get out of the rain. Snuggled tight after sex. She could still recall the graze of her cheek against the light smattering of hair in the centre. His heartbeat thrumming loudly in her ears.

The door to the walk-in robe swung open again and she nearly jumped as he came striding out, a towel hung low around his waist on his otherwise naked body. She avoided eye contact as he crossed the room. He opened the door and walked out of their bedroom to use the family bathroom down the hall. As soon as the door clicked shut, she began to pace the floor, wringing her hands. Honestly, this was a nightmare. Made all the worse by the fact that she didn't seem to be in complete control of her feelings any more.

Heath was the man who had abandoned her emotionally when she needed him the most; the man who hadn't stopped to grieve the passing of his own child.

She had only seen him cry once, the day after he brought her home from hospital. The day Sophia had been taken from her womb. They'd sat in the living room, looking out the window, not really saying anything as shock had dried up all their words. And then he'd teared up. Great silent sobs. He put his head in his hands to catch the tears that carved a path down a face that was normally so strong, so controlled. And she had been about to reach for him, she really had, but her hands had balled up when he said, ‘If only we'd slowed down a little. If only we hadn't been working so hard. We should have just taken it easy.'

And that's when she knew that he blamed her.

He blamed her for the loss of their daughter. And really, how could she fault that, as she had come to the same conclusion herself only a few moments earlier? She shouldn't have been pushing to get her campaign program finished before the birth. She shouldn't have been taking on extra work to compensate for her upcoming maternity leave.

He'd got up abruptly from the couch and picked up the baby rocker that she had only just assembled the night before, going against his advice that it was too early to be doing this. The instructions still lay next to it on the coffee table. He'd sat down on the floor and began to take it apart, piece by piece.

‘Heath?' she had asked. ‘What are you doing?'

‘I can't look at this thing. I'm putting it back in its box.'

For the next two weeks that had pretty much become his strategy. He removed all things baby from their house and put them in the garage.

And then he started his life again, like nothing had ever happened.

She didn't know how to deal with that, how to process such callous disregard. She wanted to talk about it. He didn't. She wanted to apologise for her part in their baby's death. He didn't want to hear it. He wanted sex though. He wanted sex a lot. Something she couldn't give.

And she couldn't understand his need. What sort of man was this? To replace grief with lust.

So she had started blocking him out. Separating her life from his, ignoring his efforts to reel her back in. As they grew distant, she could feel him growing more desperate. Maybe that's why he had suggested they try again for another baby so soon. Maybe he thought this was the way back into her heart.

It was this very tactic that had caused her to say those awful words to him. Those awful words that she couldn't take back. ‘I don't love you any more.'

How cruel. And how final. But it summed up everything they had both been feeling in the lead-up to the separation. That phrase had destroyed in a few seconds what had taken years to build.

He had taken it stoically, leaning heavily against their kitchen counter, his face a mask as always. By then, she had absolutely no idea how he really felt. He hid behind his plans and his strategies, his suggestions for their future. All horrendously misplaced. Any communication between them was always misdirected. They were like two people talking to walls instead of to each other. He didn't get her.

She didn't get him.

‘I guess that's it then.' He'd said it quite calmly and left the room.

He was gone the next day. Not just from their house but from the city as well. He flew out to Melbourne and she hadn't laid eyes on him again.

Till now.

She stopped pacing and glanced about the room. What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to act? Was this really her lot for the next month? Trapped here in a marriage neither of them wanted.

Or did they?

Because despite the pain, and the loss, and the suffering that had come before this point, it had not prevented her heart from leaping at the sight of him. Or recalling their last kiss. She may have said she didn't love him. She may have tried to persuade herself of that fact, but she did not feel that there was no connection there.

There was
something
. Definitely something, if only she could define what that was.

Tash was all about compartments and boxes and making sure everything had its own place and a definition. And now here she was in no man's land, with nowhere to run or even hide. Her eyes swung nervously to the bed.

Oh shit.

Where did he intend to sleep? Surely not next to her.

She looked at the floor – polished wooden floorboards, treated with the same magic cleaning product her mother used throughout the house. The hard surface wasn't exactly comfortable, nor was there much room for Heath's tall lean frame. This room had been a single bedroom for a young girl. With a queen bed in it, there was walking space only. If someone had to lie down on the floor, the best place would be at the foot of the bed. But even then, his head was going to be hard up against the wall unless he curled into a ball, which would then have his kneecaps knocking on the plane instead. She swallowed.

This is not the time to panic.

To distract herself, she lifted her suitcase onto the bed, opened it and saw her nightie.

Okay, now you can panic.

It was a short, pink satin slip that she hadn't expected an audience for. It was very comfortable to wear, probably because there wasn't a lot to it. She had brought the dressing gown that matched it as well but this was just as short and, even with the belt tied, dived just as low at the neckline. She quickly riffled through the rest of the clothes in her suitcase. She had brought a couple of other nighties but they were very similar in style.

Damn it!

She clutched the lingerie to her person, wondering what her options were. Her husband chose this moment to return. The door swung open and the glory of his damp nakedness hit her like a bucket of water in the face.

He shut the door quietly behind himself, a slight smile on his lips as he took her in and what she was holding. She felt heat crawl up her neck but couldn't seem to move as he closed the slight distance and lifted a hand to finger the hem of her nightie.

‘This is a surprise. I always liked you in that.'

She gasped and flung the nightie back into the suitcase, which she then zipped up and pulled off the bed.

‘If you don't mind,' she said formally, ‘I'm going to use the bathroom now.'

‘I'm not stopping you,' he purred.

In frustration she had to step around him, their bodies brushing and her skin burning with the contact. She hoped the wheels of her suitcase ran over his toes. If they did, he neither flinched nor made comment.

Standing outside in the dark hallway – the hallway of childhood pranks and secret midnight treasure hunts – she should have felt some comfort but tears smarted in her eyes.

What do I do? What do I do?

She headed for the bathroom, dreading the return to her bedroom. Suddenly, another door opened and Eve came spilling out, wrapped in an oversized towel, a bag of toiletries in one hand and her nightie hanging over her shoulder – a wonderful, conservative, baggy t-shirt with a high neckline. The two of them nearly collided.

‘Eve,' she said urgently.

Her sister stopped in the doorway. ‘Tash?' Eve's eyes squinted at her in the dark and then opened wide in recognition.

Natasha knew she had no right, possibly no hope to ask, but she had to.

‘This is going to sound really weird.'

‘O-kay.'

‘Can we swap nighties?'

‘Huh?'

Natasha put her suitcase down, knelt on the floor, extracted her nightie and dressing gown and then stood up again.

‘Here, look, it has a dressing gown to match.' She held it out, grateful that Eve could not quite make it out completely in the dim lighting of the hallway.

‘But I won't fit into it,' Eve protested. ‘I'm too big.'

‘You're not that much bigger than me,' Natasha protested. ‘Besides, it's stretchy. It'll fit all sizes. In fact, I think you'll probably look better in it than I would.'

‘Not possible.' Eve's voice was slightly strained.

‘It's true,' Natasha protested. ‘The world knows I have no boobs to speak of. You'll fill it out much better than me. You should have it.'

‘But I –'

‘
Please, Eve?
' The desperation in her voice was so blatant that even she was embarrassed to hear it.

‘I don't know.' Eve's voice was uncertain. ‘Why can't you wear it?'

‘Long story.' She shut her eyes. ‘Look, I know we haven't been on the best of terms lately.'

‘Try twelve months,' Eve returned levelly, making Natasha cringe with remorse and then shame at trying to sweep it under the carpet just so she could get her way.

‘Okay fine. Sorry. I shouldn't have asked. You take the bathroom first.'

She started to back away, while Eve continued to watch her silently. There was a heavy sigh and her sister shut the door to her bedroom and held out her big t-shirt.

‘Okay, you win. Take it.'

‘Seriously?'

‘I'm the girl who can't say no, remember? Now take it before I grow a brain.'

They exchanged clothes. ‘Okay, I'll wait for you,' Natasha said.

‘No.' Eve shook her head in the dark. ‘There's no way I'm walking out of that bathroom in this getup in front of an audience. You go.'

Natasha smiled in both gratitude and affection. ‘You won't know yourself, Eve.'

‘That's what I'm afraid of.'

She giggled, spontaneously kissed her stunned sister on the cheek and then made a beeline for the bathroom.

It didn't take long to shower, tie her hair up and slip on Eve's t-shirt nightie that had the words ‘Born to Cook' sprawled across it in big pink letters, along with a cartoon of a woman juggling pots and pans in a colourful kitchen.

A few seconds later she was wheeling her suitcase back into her bedroom and was disappointed that Heath had not gone to sleep as promised but was sitting up in bed, still shirtless, reading a book.

She shut the door and wheeled her suitcase to the wall again.

He looked up and took in her shirt. ‘Wow, how much did you pay Eve to give you that?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' She refused to look at him and made some show of trying to arrange her suitcase neatly, all the while dreading having to get into bed with him. When she finally turned around, however, he was still looking at her with that crooked smile of his, which unfortunately still had the power to set her heart beating faster.

‘So I have rattled you,' he murmured.

‘Hardly.' She tossed her head with all the confidence she didn't feel.

‘Then why couldn't you wear your own nightie tonight?' he enquired silkily.

She rubbed her eyes. ‘Heath, I can feel a fight coming on and as much as I'd like a trip down memory lane with you, I'm tired and I want to go to sleep.'

‘I wasn't picking a fight.' His eyes returned to the book as she walked slowly towards the bed. ‘I was just trying to talk to you.'

‘Talk to me?' she scoffed. ‘That'll be the day.'

His brow wrinkled. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, you never want to talk about anything. That's why we're in this mess.'

‘Talking and dwelling are two completely different things.' He looked up sadly. ‘Why focus on the depressing when you can get on with rebuilding your life?'

She held up her hand. ‘Okay, I'm going to stop you there. This is hard enough without opening old wounds.'

‘Old wounds?' He sighed. ‘This house is full of them. They're like ghosts in the walls.'

Her eyebrows twitched together. ‘Why do you say that?'

He did not lift his eyes from the book he was reading – a volume ironically titled
The Art of War
.

‘Go on, Heath,' she prompted. ‘You obviously think you know something.'

He looked up cautiously. ‘How are you and Eve getting on? Best friends again?'

‘Not really.'

‘Yeah, I noticed.' His mouth twisted. ‘I'm surprised she gave you her nightie tonight with the tension between you two.'

Heat infused her as his gaze slid rather thoroughly over her braless chest. Baggy as her sister's nightie was, there were still some things she couldn't hide and she suddenly felt quite naked in it.

‘I don't see how that's any of your concern,' she croaked, realising for the first time that being in the bed under the covers might actually be better than standing beside it, unprotected. She flicked back the doona on her side, trying not to notice the part of his body she'd briefly exposed. He was wearing a pair of boxers, exactly how he used to sleep when they'd lived together.

‘Still too proud to forgive, Tash?' Heath asked, flicking to the next page in his book. He had always been a champion of Eve's when it came to the restaurant, protesting that Tash was too hard on her sister.

‘That's where you're wrong.' She lifted her chin, trying to slide into the bed nonchalantly. ‘I'm not angry at Eve any more. I forgave her a long time ago. Now I just want to move on.'