The Wife Before Me(38)
‘She still talks to you?’
‘Of course.’
‘You loved her so much.’
‘Yes.’
‘I feel the same way about Nicholas.’
‘He’s a very lucky man, Amelia.’ He bent to kiss her cheek, then padded softly from her bedroom.
Love at first sight, she had told him soon after she met Nicholas Madison. ‘Was that how it was with you and Jennifer?’ She never called her dead mother by any other name. Perhaps, once, she had called her ‘Mama’ or just ‘Mum’, but she had no memory of doing so, nor of calling her father anything but John. Compared to her early childhood, Nicholas’s upbringing had been uneventful and happy, yet he was still able to appreciate what it was like to walk in darkness. The headiness of being with him and knowing that he shared her feelings still had the power to dazzle her. His hand on hers was strong when she spoke about the guilt she felt over her mother’s untimely death. All that talking, a floodgate opening, in those early months.
She told him about Leanne, so far away from her now, yet in touch all the time from New York. Mark, who would later come out as gay to his parents after talking it over with Amelia’s father. And then there was Jay, her first love, though they were both only sixteen at the time. The young men she had dated in her early twenties were no different from the boys she had known in her teens. All they had to offer was the added sheen of experience and, apart from Jay, she had never been in love until Nicholas came along.
They met when she was contracted to refurbish the offices of Keogh & Harris Investments. This was Amelia’s first major commission. She would never have dared set her sights so high if Leanne had not encouraged – Amelia would say ‘bullied’ – her into applying for it. The staff had been moved to temporary accommodation while work on the redesign was ongoing, but Nicholas had called often to see the progress she was making. As he was a fund manager, she suspected these calls were not in an official capacity. Looking up from a table laid with sample fabrics and tiles, she would find his eyes resting on her and she was increasingly aware of a crackling excitement when he stood too close to her. The real deal, she told her father when the project was complete and Nicholas had asked her out on their first real date. Two months later, John invited him to Woodbine.
* * *
The russet Virginia creeper had set the walls ablaze and the old house, bathed in a lilac twilight, had never looked more beautiful, Amelia thought, as she waited on the steps to welcome him. John had prepared coq au vin for dinner. Conversation flowed easily around the table and politics, her father’s favourite subject, was discussed at length. After the meal ended, they walked through the garden at the back of the house. Leaves were crinkling into autumn and the first fall crunched under their feet. John was a keen gardener and Nicholas proved to be as knowledgeable on soil types and compost as he was on the machinations of government. Amelia was amused as she listened to him, knowing he was making an effort to impress her father and that the potted plants on the balcony of his apartment on Custom House Quay had long withered through his neglect. She watched the soft bow of his mouth as he listened to her father explaining how roses should be pruned and wondered how long it would take before John excused himself and headed off to his local pub with Billy Tobin. Billy was also a widower and the men, friends since they were boys and both now retired, walked to and from the Kilfarran Inn together three nights a week.
Logs crackled on the hearth as she and Nicholas slowly undressed in front of the fire. His skin on hers, playing his fingers over her body, and she, impatient, wanting him hard inside her, both of them reaching towards the wheeling relief that would leave them spent and sated. He cradled her in his arms afterwards, his long, lithe frame relaxed against her yet, she knew, capable of spilling her into the wildness of his desire once more.
Nicholas had left by the time John returned and Amelia, showered, was waiting in her dressing gown when her father entered the living room.
‘What do you think of Nicholas?’ she asked.
‘He can certainly talk.’ John’s speech was slightly slurred, his face flushed from the cold and the drink.
‘That’s not an answer. Do you like him?’
‘I hardly know him, Amelia.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘That’s not what I said. He’s a handsome lad and entertaining company.’ He paused and wrinkled his forehead.
‘And?’ she prompted. ‘Be honest with me.’
He still hesitated, uncertain of his ground, a mild man by nature and incapable of lying. ‘I’m sorry to say this, Amelia, but I can’t help feeling he came here tonight with a script that was well-prepared.’
‘That’s not true.’ She was stung by his attitude and, also, surprised. Was he suggesting that Nicholas was conniving when he had made such a determined effort to talk about subjects that were of interest to her father?
‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with him trying to create a good impression,’ John hastened to reassure her. She suspected that the few pints of Guinness he had consumed had loosened his tongue. ‘But you know me. I don’t think there’s any man out there who’s good enough for my daughter. I’m such a contrary old sod, I had to find some fault with him.’
Amelia, knowing he was trying not to hurt her feelings, had to be satisfied with that. She forced her disappointment to the back of her mind as she undressed for bed and fell asleep with Nicholas’s name on her lips.