Sweet Child of Mine (2 page)

“You wouldn’t...” she repeated, her voice weak.

His laugh was bitter and pained. “What choice are you giving me?”

Shaking her head, Leila turned heel and ran up the stairs. The whole house shuddered with the force as she slammed her bedroom door. No, they were not doing well at all. It was as if Sarah’s parting shot was to come completely between him and his daughter. Now every time he looked at her, doubts filled his mind. Doubts that even now refused to be silenced. Made worse every time Leila misbehaved, acted in a manner utterly contrary to the sweet girl he’d fallen in love with from the moment she’d come screaming into the world. Neither was he making anything easier for himself.

The pity in Abigail Yeboah’s eyes was enough to make him feel pathetic and weak when it came to his child. Leila was grieving, and his own disgust with his wife didn’t make it easy for him to speak kindly of her. The tantrum would end soon and she’d want to eat. It was probably a good thing he’d removed her TV and iPod from her room. She’d have to come downstairs eventually.

“…perfect for each other and…”

“Mum,” Abigail interrupted the conversation between Orna and Sheila McNamara, Liam’s mother. For two women who were all about Christian composure and modesty, they didn’t half gossip. “Have you finished? I need to close up.”

It was almost eight p.m. and her patrons knew how strict she was about closing. Everyone else had left the café in peace. Except her mother and her friend. The café sported floor-to-ceiling windows, and with the bright lights of the colander-shaded lamps and the spotlights inside the herb boxes that lined the premises, it was a beacon to the darkness outside. Someone would invariably try to come in and demand food. That same someone would be given short shrift if it was outside opening hours.

Sheila gave Abigail the once-over. “Is that what you wear every day?”

“An apron and jeans?” she murmured. “Yes. Easier to work in than four-inch heels and a suit from Next.”

Orna gave a sniff of disapproval. “You’ll never meet a man if you dress like a construction worker.”

“Maybe this will attract a woman instead.” Abigail shrugged, ignoring their gasps of horror, and collected the cream tea plates and cake stand to take to the kitchen. “I really do need to close up.”

Sheila glanced to the door. “Can you wait? Liam’s coming to collect me.”

Abigail halted. “I thought you and Mum came together?”

“Yes, dear, on the bus.”

She could see the wheels turning in both women’s heads, and nothing of what they were thinking could at all be good for her. Turning into the kitchen, she placed the dishes into the sink and gripped the sides until the urge to tell them both to stop moving her around like a chess piece disappeared. Obviously her life was empty and soulless without a man to share it with. A woman with a child had baggage. A man with a child was a saint. Living up to his role. A real man.

Taking a deep breath, she returned to the café and looked expectantly at the two gossipers. “Well?”

“Ah, there we are. Liam’s here.” Sheila got to her feet as he strolled inside. She kissed her son on both cheeks. His gaze moved from his mother to Abigail.

“Hi, Abigail.” He looked sheepish, as if ashamed by what he’d said to her the night before.

“’Sup?” she muttered, feeling like an irritated teenager.

He cleared his throat. “I did want to say thank you for driving Leila back home yesterday. I know plenty of people who wouldn’t have bothered.”

She shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Where is she?”

He jerked a thumb behind him. “Sitting in the car. We’re not friends at the moment. I’ve confiscated everything she ‘loves.’”

“Good on you,” she praised. Awkwardly, she glanced at his mother, who was beaming at the two of them. Orna had her chin propped on her hands, gazing between her and Liam.

“Liam, why don’t you give me the keys? Orna and I will wait by the car. Let Abigail close up.”

Acquiescing, he handed over the keys and with exaggerated winks and goodbyes, the two women left. Abigail carried on clearing down the tables. “I’d like to be home before half eight,” she said. “I’m listening, but I do need this done.”

He leaned over and took the cloth and table spray from her hands. “Hold on a moment.”

His palms were warm and rough around her wrists. It made her freeze. Er...hello? Did she miss a conversation where this was all right? He gently tugged her in front of him, looking her directly in the eyes.

“I’m sorry about Leila’s behaviour. And I do appreciate you being decent, rather than taking her to the police station. It’s what I would have done. I’m sorry for snapping at you. It was uncalled for.”

She carefully pulled her wrists from his grasp and returned to cleaning down the tables. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing was broken.” The sigh that came from him forced her to look up. There was some truth in her mother’s words. The man was lonely. “Do you want to talk?”

“To a professional?” he asked ruefully.

She lifted one shoulder. “To me. I feel like you need to talk to someone who isn’t related to you or your vicar.”

He wavered, rubbing a palm over his beard. “Are you sure?”

No.
“I’ve offered, so I’d hope so.”

Bowing his head, he stared at his shoes for a moment. “I’ll drop Leila with my mother. Shall I meet you somewhere in half an hour?”

“Just come back here,” she suggested. “Get a cab, come here. We’ll get on the wine I can’t serve until my licence kicks in. Get a cab home.”

He grinned. “You said the magic word.
Wine.
My mum was right about you. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

His mother was what?
He disappeared, leaving her speechless, holding the cloth and cleaning spray like a doofus. Crap, did she have makeup in her bag? Hurriedly finishing the cleanup, she closed the café and rummaged through her bag to find a bit of blusher and lip-gloss. A little powder toned down the shine on her nose, but nothing was going to rescue the tired T-shirt printed with
Books Are Friends
or her torn jeans. She brushed a hand over her cropped hair—the cut that made her mother cry for two weeks straight. It did provide endless compliments as to how it emphasised her jawline and the shape of her eyes and drew attention to her mouth. Still, she looked boyish. Hell, Liam had more hair on his head than she did. What was she doing? Why was she getting overexcited about a grieving man?

Just as she thought about how to tell him to keep his widowed arse at home, he strolled back into the café.

“You should lock that,” he said, pulling one of her mismatched chairs from the table and sitting down. “Where’s this wine you promised?”

“Aren’t we bossy?”

“We,” he pointed his thumbs to his chest, “are in need of alcohol. A lot of.”

She bolted the front door, picked up a bottle of Pinot and a corkscrew. “You open that. I’m getting some food.”

He perked up. “Food? What do you have?”

“Goat cheese tarts to start and chicken parmigiano.”

His mouth parted for a moment before he burst out, “Jesus Christ, you fucking angel.”

“Calm down.” She laughed. “Just open the wine and I’ll bring it out.”

In five minutes, she brought out the warm tarts with onion marmalade. The smile in Liam’s eyes was enough to make her feel weak and all too aware of her femininity. “Before you say, this was all made fresh this morning. I just put it in the oven to reheat.”

“This is such a luxury, I can’t tell you.” His praise was all in his groan of appreciation after his first mouthful. “I’m a cheese monster.”

“Good for you,” she teased, taking a sip of wine. “Don’t you cook?”

“I have to. But I’ve been cutting corners recently. Trying to feed a twelve-year-old who thinks you’re Satan out to ruin her life means food needs to be done in fifteen minutes or less. I used to bake.”

Abigail choked on her tart. “You used to what?”

“Bake,” he said, barely pausing in between forkfuls of tart and salad leaves. “Bread, cakes, quiches. We’d do it together.”

Abigail tried not to tense, but the sensation invaded her shoulders. The image of his demon child and his perfect wife all laughing and giggling, throwing flour at each other, did not sit well in her stomach. “Why don’t you? Any more?”

“No incentive.”

“Come on. Having fresh bread is always an incentive.”

“Nice idea,” he murmured, flicking his eyes up from the plate to rest on her. “What’s happening with your licence?”

Normally, people only ever stared that intently at her to request service or more chocolate cake. “Refused for some unknown reason. Probably because Mrs. Dalbury-Scott’s husband is the local councillor. He deals with licences and she’s called
The Library
a ghetto.”

The woman had an issue with Abigail ever since she offered a breakfast and tea menu for local schoolchildren at a very reduced price. It was to help out struggling parents who had to rush to get their children to school and themselves to work. More so, it ensured those children ate well before and after a long school day. Apparently, Abigail was simply encouraging riffraff into the area and alcohol would increase the number of ASBOs the council would have to give out. Abigail wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Dalbury-Scott to imperiously command her husband to refuse the licence without thinking. Only to be petty and completely fuck up Abigail’s revenue.

Liam’s brows rose. “Does she know half the kids from her daughter’s fancy school are here every day?”

“Like yours?” she countered.

“Without the egging. I’m sorry about that... You don’t want to listen to me complaining about my child.”

Not really, but if he carried on talking she’d try to ignore what he was saying and instead focus on his voice—deep and smooth and as rich as the wine they were enjoying. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”

He stabbed at the last rocket leaf on his plate. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Leila used to be the sweetest little thing in the world. She used to have a lisp. Once she nearly set the kitchen on fire because she was trying to make me breakfast. She said I worked too hard. I can still see the smile on her face when she rode her bike for the first time. It went straight to my heart and I think about that smile every day. She used to let me braid her hair. I learned to do French braids so I could plait her hair. Like Liber-fucking-race. And she said she’d love me forever. I’m not Daddy anymore. I’m just the bastard who is intent on playing Maleficent to her Sleeping Beauty. And I can’t blame her.”

Abigail hid behind her glass of wine, half wondering if her eyebrows were in the middle of her scalp. “Hmm.”

“Part of it is hormones. The other part is that her mother’s dead and that’s my fault. I caused the accident. I made her get in that car and drive away. Without Leila. Again. She left us both and I did it all. There’s no one else to take the blame but me. And I’m sure my wife’s parents have no incentive to change her mind.”

What alternate universe is this? What’s going on?
“I thought... You and your wife...” It was like discovering a favourite celebrity couple were breaking up. With all the lies and the fake perfection being horrifically exposed.

“Picture perfect?” he finished ruefully, tilting his wineglass. “Far from. There were a lot of things she’d done that I could accept. I left it as it was because of Leila. In fact, it was a relief when Sarah left. She couldn’t bear to have me even a little happy, so she staked me in the heart with her last words. The last words she ever said to me.
Leila’s not yours
.”

Abigail slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Liam looked up to the ceiling, exhaling heavily. “You don’t know what that means to tell someone else. Just to be able to let it out.”

The hell was she supposed to say to that? How could she even respond? “Have you... done anything about it?”

He drained his glass and topped his up before adding more to her own. “As in a DNA test? I don’t know how I can subtly stick a cotton swab inside my child’s almost-teenage mouth and excuse it as a game.” Shaking his head, he drank more of the wine. She glanced at his hands, at last noticing that they were almost bare. The only jewellery he wore was a worn signet ring on his little finger bearing the initials L.A.M.

If she died, the least she’d expect is for her husband to wear his wedding ring until he met with his maker too. Then again, if she’d caused doubts about the paternity of a child, she couldn’t be too upset if her remains were cremated and scattered over a dump.