Buch lesen: «Merry Christmas»
“Merry...short for Meredith,” Kimberly mused About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Copyright
“Merry...short for Meredith,” Kimberly mused
“Is that what your friends call you?”
Meredith hesitated, glancing quickly at Nick Hamilton. “Only one other person has ever used that name for me.”
There was almost a savage, primitive satisfaction in relating who it had been, knowing that Nick Hamilton was listening, unaware she was speaking of him. “It was your father, Kimberly. Your real father. When he met me he said it was like all the Christmas lights in the world switched on inside him.”
Suddenly she choked, the memory so vivid, and here she was, all these years later, sitting with the heart-wrenching outcome of the one love affair of her life...with a daughter she didn’t know and the lover who didn’t know her.
Initially a French/English teacher, EMMA DARCY changed careers to computer programming before marriage and motherhood settled her into a community life. Creative urges were channeled into oil painting, pottery, designing and. overseeing the construction and decorating of two homes, all in the midst of keeping up with three lively sons and the very social life of her businessman husband, Frank. Very much a people person and always interested in relationships, she finds the world of romance fiction a happy one and the challenge of creating her own cast of characters very addictive. She enjoys traveling, and her experiences often find their way into her books. Emma Darcy lives on a country property in New South Wales, Australia.
Merry Christmas
Emma Darcy
CHAPTER ONE
“UNCLE NICK? You asked me what I want for Christmas?”
Kimberly’s belligerent tone was forewarning enough that Nick was not going to like it. His twelve-year-old niece could be as difficult and as trying as a fully fledged teenager. She’d been sulking in her room ever since Rachel had arrived for Sunday brunch and this sudden, dramatic challenge, fired at him from the doorway to the balcony, was not a promise of peace and harmony. The plot, he deduced, was to demand something totally unreasonable and stir contention.
“Mmmh?” he said non-committally, staying behind his newspaper in the hope of taking the sting out of the bait.
Rachel’s newspaper rustled down. Undoubtedly she was looking at Kimberly with a brightly encouraging smile, doing her best to win the girl over. An increasingly futile exercise, Nick thought gloomily.
“I want my real mother.”
The shock of it almost wiped him out. The wallop to his heart took some absorbing and his mind totally fused. Fortunately his hands went into clench mode, keeping the newspaper up in cover defence while the initial impact of the surprise attack gave way to fast and furious thought.
Her real mother...was it a try-on, a fantasy, or sure knowledge? Impossible to tell without looking at her. He composed his face into an expression of puzzled inquiry and lowered his newspaper.
“I beg your pardon?”
Fierce green eyes scorned his bluff. “You know, Uncle Nick. The solicitor would have told you when Mum and Dad died. You couldn’t have become my legal guardian without knowing.”
Still he played it warily. “What am I supposed to know, Kimberly?”
“That I was adopted.”
Absolute certainty looked him straight in the face. It threw Nick into confusion. Kimberly was not supposed to know. His sister had been almost paranoid about keeping the secret. After the fatal accident last year, Nick had thought it best to keep the knowledge from his niece until she was eighteen. After all, losing both parents in traumatic circumstances and learning to live with an uncle was a big enough adjustment to make. Any further erosion of her sense of security did not seem a good idea.
“I have a real mother,” came the vehement assertion, her chin tilting defiantly, her eyes flashing resentment at Rachel before pinning Nick again. “I want to be with her for Christmas.”
He folded the newspaper and set it aside, realising this confrontation was very serious, indeed. ‘How long have you known, Kimberly?” he asked quietly.
“Ages,” she tossed at him.
“Who told you?” It had to be Colin, he thought. His sister’s husband had been a gentle man, dominated by Denise for the most part, yet retaining an innate personal dignity and integrity that would not be shaken over matters he considered “right.”
“No one told me,” Kimberly answered loftily. “I figured it out for myself.”
That rocked him. Had he conceded confirmation too soon? Too easily? How on earth could Kimberly figure it out for herself?
If someone had actually worked at matching a child to a family to ensure an adopted baby looked like natural offspring, Kimberly would be a prime example of outstanding success. She could easily be claimed by his side of the family.
She was long-legged and tall, like himself and his sister. Her black hair had the same springy texture and she even had a widow’s peak hairline, a family feature that went back generations. The eye colour—green instead of brown—was easily explained with Colin’s eyes being hazel. There were untraceable differences—every person was uniquely individual—but if his sister had declared her adopted child her own flesh and blood, Nick would never have doubted it.
So why had Kimberly?
“Would you mind telling me what gave it away to you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calmly controlled.
“The photographs,” she said as though throwing down irrefutable proof.
Nick had no idea what she was talking about.
She flounced forward and picked a cherry off the fruit platter he and Rachel had been sharing, popped it into her mouth and ostentatiously chewed it, hugging her budding chest, aggressively holding the floor, waiting for him to comment. Her green eyes had a fighting gleam.
Rebellion was in the air, from the swing of her ponytail to the brightly checked orange-yellow shorts teamed with a lime green tank top. Kimberly was making statements; right, left and centre. She was not going to be ignored, overlooked or left in the wings of anybody’s life.
Nick glanced at Rachel who had tactfully withdrawn any obvious interest in the family contretemps. From the balcony of his Blues Point apartment, one could take in a vast sweep of Sydney Harbour. Rachel’s gaze was fixed on the water view but her stillness revealed an acute listening and suddenly Nick didn’t want her hearing this, despite their intimate relationship.
“Rachel, this is a very private family matter...”
“Of course.” She rose quickly from her chair, flashing him an understanding smile. “I’ll let myself out and leave you to it, Nick.”
There was so much about Rachel he liked...very capable, highly intelligent, shrewdly perceptive about most people, though his twelve-year-old niece frequently flummoxed her. Even their careers dovetailed, she an investment advisor, he a banker. They were both in their thirties. As a prospective partner in life, Rachel Pearce looked about as good as Nick thought he was going to get, desirable in every sense, yet...the magic connection was missing.
As she stood up, sunshine glinted off her auburn hair, turning the short hairstyle into a glorious, copper cap. Good-looking, always chic, sexy, comfortable with men, her sherry brown eyes invariably warm for him... Nick wondered what more he could want in a woman?
Nevertheless, it didn’t feel right for her to be privy to such sensitive family secrets as Kimberly’s adoption. It involved delving into lives that only he and his niece had known and shared. It was not Rachel’s business. Not yet.
He rose from his chair at the same time, intent on taking command of the situation. “Thanks for your company, Rachel.”
“My pleasure. I hope...” She glanced at Kimberly who was helping herself to another cherry, stiffly and steadfastly ignoring her, then with a last rueful look at Nick, she shrugged her helplessness and turned to leave.
“Even if my real mother doesn’t want me, I won’t go to your old boarding school anyway,” Kimberly shot after her. “So you needn’t think you can get rid of me that easily.”
Rachel froze in the doorway to the living room.
Nick’s heart sustained another breathtaking blow. His mind, however, did have something to clutch on to this time—his conversation with Rachel last night. Kimberly should have been in her room asleep but she must have eavesdropped. This current mood and stance had clearly been fermenting ever since.
“It’s not a matter of getting rid of you, Kimberly,” he said tersely. “It’s a matter of what’s best for you.”
“You mean what’s best for you,” she retorted. “And best for her.” Her eyes flared fierce resentment. “I’m not stupid, Uncle Nick.”
“Precisely. Which is why I’d like you to start your secondary education at a good school. To give you the best teachers and the best education.”
“Most girls would consider it a privilege to go to PLC,” Rachel argued with some heat. “It’s certainly been advantageous to me.”
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?” Kimberly retaliated. “Anything to shunt me out of the way. You think I don’t know when I’m not wanted?”
“That’s enough, Kimberly,” Nick warned. Rachel had tried to reach out to his niece. There just didn’t seem to be any meeting place. Or she wasn’t granted one.
“Why boarding school, Uncle Nick?” came the pointed challenge. “If it’s only education you’re thinking of, why couldn’t I go as a day pupil? PLC is right here in Sydney.”
“You’re on your own too much, Kimberly,” he answered. “I thought the companionship of other girls would round out your life more.”
“You thought?” An accusing glare at Rachel. “Or Ms. Pearce suggested?”
“I was going to discuss it with you after Christmas.”
The accusative glare swung onto him. “You told her to go ahead and try to get me in.”
“That’s still not decisive, Kimberly. And you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.”
“If Mum had wanted me to go to an expensive, private boarding school, she would have booked me in years ago.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “You don’t want me. Not like Mum and Dad did.”
The recognition of unresolved grief was swift and sharp. His stomach clenched. He couldn’t replace her parents. No one could. He missed them, too, his only sibling who’d virtually brought him up, and Colin who’d always given him affectionate support and approval. It had been a struggle this past year, trying to merge his life with a twelve-year-old’s, but not once had he begrudged the task or the responsibility.
“I do want you, Kimberly,” he assured her gravely.
She shook her head, her face screwing up with conflicting and painful emotions. “I was dumped on you and now you want to dump me somewhere else.”
“No.”
She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing the wetness aside. “You won’t have to do anything if my real mother wants me. You can give me up and have your lady friend free and clear of somebody else’s daughter.” She glared balefully at Rachel. “I don’t want to be stuck with you any more than you want to be stuck with me, Ms. Pearce.”
Rachel heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes at Nick, powerless to stop the hostility aimed at her.
“Just go, Rachel,” he advised quietly.
“Sorry, Nick.”
“Not your fault.”
“No, it’s my fault,” Kimberly cried, her voice rising toward shrill hysteria. “I spoil it for both of you. So I’m the one who should go.”
The arm Nick swung out to stop her was left hanging uselessly as she rushed to the doorway and ducked past Rachel into the living room. He swiftly followed her but she ran full pelt to the front door, pausing only to yell back at him.
“If you care anything at all about me, Uncle Nick, you’ll do it. You’ll get my real mother for me for Christmas! Then maybe it could turn out right for all of us.”
CHAPTER TWO
IT HADN’T come today, either... the letter from Denise Graham with news of Kimberly and the photographs spanning another year.
Meredith Palmer struggled to fight off a depressing wave of anxiety as she entered her apartment and locked the rest of the world out. Again she shuffled through the stack of mail she’d just collected from her box; Christmas cards, bank statement, an advertising brochure. She opened the envelopes and extracted the contents, making doubly sure there was no mistake. Nothing from Denise Graham.
The packet usually came in the last week of November. It had done so for the past eleven years. Today was the fourteenth of December and the uneasy feeling that something was wrong was fast growing into conviction. Denise Graham had come across to Meredith, even in her letters, as a very precise person, the kind who would live by a strictly kept timetable. Unless the packet had somehow been lost or misdirected in the volume of Christmas mail, something had to be badly wrong in the Graham household.
Illness? An accident?
The tight feeling in her chest grew tighter as disastrous possibilities flew through Meredith’s mind. Not Kimberly, she fiercely prayed. Please...not Kimberly. Her little girl had to have a wonderful life ahead of her. Only by believing that had Meredith managed to repress the misery of not having kept her daughter.
She shook her head, fighting back the worst-case scenarios. Maybe something had happened to the solicitor who had handled the legal aspects of the adoption and subsequently become a conduit for the annual updates to Meredith. Whenever she’d had a change of address she had contacted him, at least half a dozen times before she’d saved enough money to invest in this apartment at Balmoral. Each time she had received a note of acknowledgment and nothing had gone wrong. Nevertheless, it could be that someone else was now handling his business, someone not as meticulously efficient.
She walked across her living room to the writing desk which spread across one corner, linking two walls of bookcases. Having automatically sorted her mail for future replies, she dropped it into in-baskets, then opened a drawer and took out her address book. It was too late to contact the firm of solicitors today but she’d do it first thing tomorrow. It made her feel better, simply copying the telephone number into the notebook she always carried in her handbag.
Despite having set herself a constructive course of action, Meredith still found it impossible to stop worrying. She switched on the television set to catch the evening news but didn’t hear a word of it. The glass of white wine she poured herself was consumed although she had no conscious memory of drinking it. After opening the refrigerator and staring at the contents of the shelves for several minutes without connecting anything together for a proper meal, she gave up on the idea of cooking and settled on cheese and pickles and crackers.
The problem was, she didn’t have a legal leg to stand on if Denise Graham had decided, for some reason, to break off the one promised contact with her. It had been a matter of trust, her letting Meredith know about their daughter’s life once a year...one mother’s word to another... an act of compassion in the face of Meredith’s grief at giving up her baby. If the solicitor told her there was to be no more contact, there was nothing she could do about it. Absolutely nothing.
A sense of helplessness kept eating at her, robbing her of any appetite, distracting her from doing anything purposeful. When the doorbell rang, she almost didn’t answer it. A check of her watch put the time at a few minutes past eight. She wasn’t expecting anyone and wasn’t in the mood to entertain a visitor. Only the thought of a neighbour in need prompted her to open the door.
Living alone had established automatic precautions. The security chain lock on the door only allowed an opening of a few centimetres. It was through this space—like a long crack in the fabric of time—Meredith saw the man she had never expected to see again.
His eyes caught hers, triggering the weird gush of feeling that only he had ever evoked...the wild whoosh from her heart to her head, like the sea washing into her ears, followed by a fountain of excitement shooting, splashing, rippling through her entire body, setting up an electric tingling of expectation for the most special connection in the world.
It had been like that for her thirteen years ago. As she stared at him now, the shocked sense of her world reeling backward was so strong, all she could do was stare and grip the doorknob with painful intensity, needing some reinforcement of current physical reality.
“Miss Palmer? Meredith Palmer?”
His voice struck old familiar chords that had lain dormant so long Meredith had forgotten them... chords of pleasure, of some sixth sense recognition, a deep resonant tone that thrummed through her, a seductive beat of belonging drawing on her soul.
Yet he didn’t know her. She could see he didn’t. He would have called her Merry. It had been his name for her...Merry...Merry Christmas... the best Christmas he had ever had.
“Yes,” she said, affirming her identity, her heart still bleeding over what his sister had sworn to her was the truth when she’d denied Meredith access to the father of her baby all those years ago. An accident had wiped out all memory of his summer vacation. He would have no recollection of her. Since he’d already left for the U.S. on a two-year study grant, Meredith had no possible way of testing if what his sister claimed was fact or fiction.
Now the evidence was in front of her. Not Merry. Miss Meredith Palmer with a question mark.
Yet shouldn’t there be a gut memory? Shouldn’t he feel at least an echo of what she was feeling? It hadn’t been one-sided back in the summer of her sixteenth year.
“My name is Nick Hamilton...”
There was a pause, as though he had to regather his thoughts and concentrate them on his purpose for coming to her. Since it wasn’t prompted by any memory of her—nerves tightened around Meredith’s stomach—it had to be related to Kimberly. Had he found out Kimberly was his daughter? Had something happened to her? Was he the carrier of bad news from his sister?
“...I’m Denise Graham’s brother,” he stated, identifying the connection that gave him credentials for calling on her.
“Yes,” Meredith repeated numbly, painfully aware of all the ramifications of that relationship. “You must have come about Kimberly. The packet...” She swallowed hard, a sickening wave of fear welling up over the emotional impact of seeing him again. “...I should have got it over a fortnight ago.”
“So I understand,” he said sympathetically. “May I come in? There’s a lot to explain.”
Meredith nodded, too choked up to speak. This man and his child had dominated the course of her life for thirteen years. To have him physically in front of her after all this time was both a dream and a nightmare. Her fingers fumbled over the chain slot. Her mind buzzed with the thought of letting him in... to far more than her apartment. And what of his child—her child—who had to be the reason he was here?
“Is Kimberly all right?” The question burst from her as she shakily drew the door wide for him to enter.
“Yes. Couldn’t be healthier,” came the quick assurance. He stepped inside, pausing beside her as she sagged in relief. His brow creased in concern and he made an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry you were worried. Your daughter is fine, Miss Palmer.”
The acknowledgment that she had a daughter brought tears to her eyes. No one in her current life knew. It had always been a painfully private part of her, not easily shared. Who could understand? There’d been so many forces pushing her into letting her baby go—for the best, they’d all said—but sometimes the mourning for the child she could never hold in her arms was overwhelming.
“Thank you,” she managed huskily.
Agitated by Nick Hamilton’s nearness, his understanding and his sympathy, she waved him on to her living room and made a prolonged business of relocking the door. Being situated on the fourth floor of this apartment building gave her some protection against break-ins and burglaries but Meredith was always careful. A woman on her own had to be in the city. Though it was impossible to protect against everything. She had opened her door and the past had rushed in on her tonight. Impossible to know at this point, whether it was good or bad.
“Nice place you have here.”
The appreciative compliment strove to put this meeting on an ordinary footing. It almost provoked a hysterical laugh from Meredith. She took a deep breath, struggling to keep her wildly swinging emotions under control, then slowly turned to play gracious hostess to this gracious guest. Following a polite formula was probably the best way of coping with untenable dreams.
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice steadier, more natural.
He stood mostly in profile, looking back at her from the end of the short hallway that led past the kitchenette to the living room. For a heart-catching moment she saw the twenty-two-year-old Nick Hamilton, as enraptured by her as she was by him, the air between them charged by a heightened awareness that excluded the rest of the world.
Her heart started to thump erratically. Stupid to think nothing had changed. He was still tall, dark and stunningly handsome, but his superb physique was now clothed in an executive-class suit, there were threads of silver in his glossy black hair, and the lines of his face had a mature set to them, harder, sharper, stronger. Life moved on. He was probably married. With other children.
She’d thought that thought a thousand times before, so why did it hurt like hell right now? Because he was here, she answered herself, and his eyes looked exactly the same as when he’d looked at her in the summertime of their youth, combining the slowly feasting sensuality of dark chocolate with the overlying shine of intense magnets, tugging on her soul.
But what was he seeing? She wasn’t so young anymore, either, and she was suddenly acutely aware of her appearance. Her make-up was probably looking tired after the long day she’d put in at her office, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick faded to a pencilled outline. While her smooth olive skin didn’t have blemishes to cover, the matt powder she used to reduce shine would have worn off.
Not exactly putting her best foot forward, she thought ruefully, and was instantly reminded she was standing in her stockinged feet, having kicked off her shoes when she’d come in. Not that it made much difference. She only ever wore little heels. Her legs were so long she always felt her tall, slim figure looked out of proportion in high heels. Nevertheless, the omission of shoes left her feeling even more ungroomed.
And her hair had to be adding to that impression. He’d once described it as strings of honeycomb and treacle—words of smiling whimsy. It was undoubtedly stringy tonight. It hadn’t been brushed since this morning and it was so thick and fine it tended to look unkempt after a few hours, billowing out into a fuzzy cloud instead of a smooth curtain on either side of her long neck.
At least her dress would have retained its class. The silk linen chemise was mostly printed in a geometric pattern, black, white and sand, with stylish bands of each colour running around the lower half of the skirt. It was very much an adult, career-woman dress, she thought wryly, no shades of the teenager in skimpy beach wear. Life had moved on for her, too.
He broke out of his stillness, his shoulders visibly squaring, chin lifting in a dismissive jerk. “Forgive me for staring. It must be the likeness to Kimberly. The eyes. Same unusual shade of green. It feels...uncanny,” he said in an awkward rush.
“I thought she was more like...”
You.
The word teetered on her tongue. She barely bit it back in time. Her heart somersaulted. Did he know? He wasn’t supposed to know. Meredith had no idea what it would mean to his life if he did. She quickly shook her head, dismissing the subject.
“I would have remembered if I’d ever met you,” he blurted out with emphatic certainty, his gaze skating over her, taking in the line and length of her, each finely drawn feature of her face. His brow puckered over the sense of recognition. “It has to be the eyes,” he murmured more to himself than her.
No, it’s all of me, Meredith silently cried, fiercely wishing she could say it.
He shot her a smile that dizzied her with its appealing charm. “I have to confess this situation is like none other I’ve ever been in. I’m not usually so gauche.”
“Please...go on and sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” she invited, forcing herself to move to the kitchen doorway. Easier to cover the strain of this meeting with social conventions. “Can I get you a drink? I’ve opened a bottle of white wine if you’d like a glass, but if you’d prefer tea or coffee...?”
He hesitated, then with an air of playing for time, asked, “Will you have some wine with me?”
“Yes.” Why not? She wanted time with him, too, however futile and hurtful it might be.
He nodded. “Thank you.”
She took the bottle from the refrigerator, glad to have something to do. His presence had her nerves jangling. What did he want here? Why had he come?
He didn’t sit down. He prowled around, glancing over the contents of her bookcases, taking in the twilight view of the ocean beyond Balmoral Beach from the picture windows behind her lounge suite, eyeing the floral arrangements she’d done for herself, matching them against her furnishings. She’d been pleased with their artistic simplicity. Was he impressed? she wondered. What was he gleaning from this detailed observation of her personal environment?
Strange to think she would never have become a florist but for being pregnant so young, having to drop out of school and being shuttled out of sight to her stepmother’s sister in Sydney. Ironic how one thing had led to another, the unpaid apprenticeship in her stepaunt’s shop giving her the interest and training to develop a talent she had eventually turned into a successful business.
“Do you share this apartment?” Nick Hamilton asked, tense and ill at ease with the question but asking it nonetheless.
“No,” she replied. “It’s all mine,” she added with a touch of pride, knowing that the home she’d created here proved she was a woman of independent means.
She’d taken her time, selecting what she wanted to live with. The deeply cushioned, squashy leather sofa and chairs were cream so she could dress them up with the multicoloured tapestry cushions she’d stitched over many lonely nights. The wood of the bookshelves and desk was a blond ash, as were the sidetables and her small, four-chair dining suite. The carpet was a dusky pink mushroom.
She’d wanted everything soft and light, uplifting and cosy. It suited her. She fiercely told herself whatever he thought didn’t matter. He’d dropped out of her life thirteen years ago and had no right to walk back into it and be critical of anything.
She pushed his glass of wine across the kitchen counter which was open to the living area. “Your drink.”
“Thank you. You haven’t married?” His eyes were sharply curious and calculating as he came toward her to pick up the wine.
The highly personal inquiry niggled Meredith. He’d spoiled her for any other man and she resented the implication she might have had a free ride on a husband’s income. “No. I didn’t get this place from a man, Mr. Hamilton,” she answered tersely. “I’ve made my own way through a lot of hard work and a bit of luck. Did you achieve whatever you’ve got through a woman?”
In a way he had, his sister protecting him from even knowing about a responsibility he had incurred. He’d been left free to prosper in his chosen career instead of being saddled with a young wife and baby. Denise Graham had not only ensured he had every chance to succeed, she’d kept his child for him, too.
He looked abashed. “I didn’t mean to suggest...”
Resentment over his intrusion in her life now—far too late—brought a surge of impatience with his purpose. “Just why are you checking me out?” she demanded bluntly. “What answers are you looking for?”
He grimaced at her directness. “I guess you could say we’re both faced with a highly delicate situation. I’m trying to ascertain what your attitude might be toward a meeting with Kimberly. Whether it would intrude negatively on the life you have now.”
Her mind reeled at the incredible import of what he was saying. A meeting with her daughter? She’d barely dared to hope for it some time in the future when Kimberly was old enough to be her own person. How could this be when she was only twelve?
“Your sister will allow it?” Her throat had gone so dry her voice was a raw croak. Her eyes clung to his in a torment of doubt.
“My sister and her husband were killed in a car accident a year ago. Just before Christmas,” he stated quietly. “Kimberly has been in my care ever since.”
Shock rolled through her in mind-blowing, heart-wrenching waves. Denise and Colin Graham dead. Since before Christmas last year. And all this time she’d been thinking of them, picturing them going about their lives in their family unit, enjoying all she couldn’t enjoy with their daughter. A year! Her daughter had been without a mother, without her adoptive parents, for a whole year!
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