Marion Lennox - Misty and the Single Dad

Took, it seemed, wasn’t following instructions. She stood on Misty’s chest and continued quivering, but not with fear. This was excitement.

So much for separate. Misty chuckled and moved sideways in the bed so Bailey could join them. Then she realised Ketchup was at the window, whining at being left out. With one gammy leg, he couldn’t manage the twelve-inch sill, so she had to climb out of bed, scoop Ketchup up and scoot back to bed before anyone…anyone in particular…came looking for his son.

She tugged the covers to her chin. She was covered in two dogs and Bailey. She was respectable.

‘Where’s your father?’ she asked, trying to sound…uninterested.

‘In the shower. He takes ages. What will we do today?’

‘I’m not sure what you’re doing,’ Misty said cautiously. ‘This morning I’ll visit my gran, and this afternoon I’m sailing.’

‘Sailing.’ Bailey lit with excitement. ‘I like sailing. Can Dad and I come?’

‘Come where?’ And it was Nick-of course it was Nick-speaking from right outside the window. So much for showers taking ages. He did have the decency not to stick his head in, though. ‘What are you two planning?’

‘Sailing,’ Bailey said and flew to the window to tug the curtains wide. ‘Miss Lawrence and I are going sailing.’

Nick was wearing jeans again and a T-shirt, a bit too tight. His hair was wet. He looked… He looked…

Like it was totally inappropriate for him to be looking through her bedroom window.

At first glance he’d been smiling-his killer smile-but Bailey’s words had driven the smile away.

‘You’re not sailing,’ he told his son.

Misty thought that was his prerogative, but his voice was so hard, so definite, so unexpectedly angry that, before she could help herself, she heard herself say, ‘Why not?’

‘We don’t sail.’

‘You design yachts,’ she said in astonishment. ‘You built a yacht.’

‘I design yachts, yes, but that’s all. Bailey doesn’t sail.’ It was a grim snap, and somehow it was impossible not to respond.

‘Says your mother.’

His face froze. Uh oh, she thought grimly. That was out of line. She’d overstepped the boundaries-of what was wise, of what was kind. This was not her business.

But she’d said it. The words hung. It was the second time she’d goaded him about his paranoia, and his smile wasn’t coming back.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, icy with anger.

Should she apologise? Part of her said yes. The other part wasn’t having a bar of it.

‘Ooh, who’s cross?’ she ventured, thinking there was no unsaying what she’d said. It might even be a good thing that she had said it, she decided. Someone had to fight for Bailey. Maybe they should have this out when Bailey wasn’t around, but Bailey looked interested rather than worried.

‘Dad fusses,’ he said and she nodded.

‘I guess if I had a little boy who’d just come out of hospital I might fuss, too.’ She peeped Bailey a conspiratorial smile, a smile of mischief. ‘But the sailing I do is pussycat. I have a Sharpie, a tiny yacht, I’d guess it’s far smaller than anything you guys have ever sailed. The bay’s safe as houses. Bailey, if your dad lets you try Mudlark out-that’s the name of my boat, by the way, because the first time I tried her out I got stuck in mud-we could stay in shallow water. And of course we’d wear life vests.’

‘You got stuck in mud?’ Bailey said, entranced.

‘It was very embarrassing,’ she told him. ‘Philip Dexter, the town’s lawyer, had to tow me off. I’m a better sailor now.’

‘Dad…’ Bailey said.

‘No,’ Nick said, refusing to be deflected.

‘I can swim,’ Bailey said, jutting his jaw at his father. They really were amazingly alike.

‘No.’

‘I’ll wear a life vest.’

‘Life vests are great,’ Misty said. ‘They take all the worry out of tipping over.’

‘You tip over?’ Bailey said, casting a dubious glance at his father.

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted, being honest. In truth, there was nothing she loved more than setting her little boat into the wind, riding out conditions that had more experienced yachtsmen retire to the clubhouse. Tipping was part of the fun. ‘But today’s really calm-not a tipping day at all. If your dad did decide to let you come I’d be very careful.’

She ventured a cautious peek at Nick then and thought, Uh oh. She wasn’t making headway. Nick looked close to explosion. But if he was about to explode…Why not take it all the way?

‘You know, if your father was on board, too…’ she ventured. ‘I’m thinking your dad knows yachts better than I do. I bet he’d never let it tip over.’

‘No!’ Nick said, and it was a blast of pure icy rage.

Should she leave it? She glanced at Bailey and she thought Nick had brought him here, to this house, because he thought it was safe. Because he thought she was safe.

And something inside her matched his fury. She was not going to stick to his rules.

‘So what else do you intend to forbid?’ she demanded. ‘Every kid in Banksia Bay plays in a boat of some sort. Canoes, dinghies, sailboards, surf-kites, water-skis. This is a harbour town.’

‘Will you butt out?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not when you’re being ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Bailey said and finally-and probably too late-Misty decided she’d gone too far. Nick’s face was almost rigid. His own child calling him ridiculous…

A woman might just have to back off.

‘Maybe your dad’s right,’ she told Bailey, and she hugged him against her. She was still in bed, with Bailey and dogs crowded in with her. Nick seemed suddenly an outsider.

She looked at his face and she saw pain behind his anger. Worse, she saw fear. He’d been to hell and back over the last year, she thought. What was she doing, adding to it because she was angry?

‘Maybe ridiculous is the wrong word,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe I’m not being fair. Your dad worries because of what happened to you and your mum, because he knows bad things happen. He brought you to Banksia Bay because it’s safe, and it is, but maybe he needs time to see it. I tell you what; why don’t you and your dad bring the dogs to the beach this afternoon and watch? When your dad sees how safe it is, then maybe next Saturday or the one after that he’ll agree.’

‘You think I’m being dumb,’ Nick said, sounding goaded.

‘I do.’ She hugged the dogs and she hugged Bailey. ‘But that’s your right.’

‘Being dumb.’

‘Being…safe. But let’s change the subject,’ she said-and the frustration in his eyes said it was high time she did. ‘You and Bailey talk about sailing and let me know if you ever want to join me. Meanwhile, I need to go see Gran. So if you gentlemen could give me a little privacy and if you could take the dogs with you it would be appreciated,’ she said, and she smiled at Nick and she kept her smile in place until he’d taken his son and their dogs and let her be.

‘Why not?’ Bailey demanded as soon as Misty’s door was shut.

‘If anything happened to your arm…’

He was talking to a six-year-old. He should just say no and be done with it. What happened to the good old days when a man was master in his own home?

This was Misty’s home. Her rules?

‘I can wear my brace,’ Bailey said, and he slid his hand into his father’s. Beguiling as only a six-year-old could be.

‘No.’

‘Dad…’

‘We’ll think about it. Later.’

‘Okay,’ Bailey said. He really was a good kid. There’d been so many things he couldn’t do over the last year that he was used to it. ‘Can we make Ketchup and Took bacon for breakfast?’

‘Yes,’

‘Hooray,’ Bailey said and sped away, dogs in pursuit.

How much bacon did he have? Enough for dogs?

He could borrow some from Misty.

The way he was feeling… No.

But then he thought of Misty, her chin tilted, defiant, pushing him to the limit.

And he thought of his son.

There’d been so many things Bailey couldn’t do over the last year…

What was he doing, adding more?

Define safe, he thought, and he thought of Misty in bed with dogs and Bailey.

Misty was safe.

Misty was gorgeous.

The feeling stilled and settled.

Misty was home.

MISTY visited Gran, who was so deeply asleep she couldn’t be roused.

Discomfited, worrying about Gran and worrying almost as much about the guys she’d left at home, she made her way to the yacht club. There was no need for her to go home to change. She kept her gear here.

‘Hey, Misty, how’s the boyfriend?’ someone called, and there was a general chuckle.

She didn’t flush. She didn’t need to, for the words had been a joke. But inside the joke made her flinch. Was it so funny to think Misty could ever have a boyfriend?

It had been four years since she’d had any sort of relationship, she thought, as she fetched her sailing clothes from her locker. She’d been twenty-five. Luke had been her friend from kindergarten. He’d been away to the city, broken his heart and come home to Misty. He’d wanted to marry, settle on his parents’ farm and breed babies and cows.

She’d knocked him back. He’d married Laura Buchanan and they had two babies already and four hundred Aberdeen Angus.

Since then… Misty was twenty-nine and for four years she’d lived alone with her scrapbooks and a list. Miss Havisham in the making?

‘What’s he like?’ someone called, and she tugged herself back to the here and now. ‘The boyfriend.’

‘Wildly romantic,’ she threw back, figuring she might as well go along with it. ‘I’ve seen him in his pyjamas. Sexy as.’

She hadn’t seen him in his pyjamas. She’d seen him in his boxers. He was indeed sexy.

Let’s not go there.

‘Woohoo,’ someone called. ‘Our Misty has a life!’