Buch lesen: «All They Need»

Was she up for this?

Flynn’s gaze was intent on her face as he closed the distance between them. He stopped a scant few inches away. Mel could feel his body heat. His beard was starting to grow through and shadowed his chin.

Her gaze slid to his mouth, tracing the sensuous curve of his lower lip. She’d been too scared to allow herself to even think about kissing him before, but now she let herself go there, wondering how it would feel to press her mouth to his, to feel his tongue inside her mouth, to taste him.

The thought alone made her knees weak. Hot desire unfurled inside her, foreign and familiar at the same time.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, his fingers cradling her jaw. She swallowed, awash with nerves and lust and anticipation and fear.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“I do. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had for a long time.”

Dear Reader,

I’m not going to lie to you—this was a tough book to write. I’m not sure exactly why, but it took me a while to work out what Mel and Flynn both needed in life and from each other—but I’d like to think I got there in the end. By the time I’d finished writing, these people had become very real to me, and I hope that you feel the same after you finish reading.

I did a lot of research into Alzheimer’s disease for this book and read some incredibly heartwarming and moving stories written by both sufferers and their caregivers. I’d like to acknowledge the people who have shared their time and stories, and if this is something that is or has affected you or your loved ones, my best wishes go out to you—it’s a sad, tough road to travel.

The Summerlea Estate as imagined in this book does not exist in Mount Eliza, although there are a number of homes on the Mornington Peninsula that open their gardens to the public as part of the open garden’s scheme. I have been to one of them and could only marvel at the owners’ dedication to their six acres of beautifully landscaped and maintained gardens, complete with bridges, lily ponds and topiary. Edna Walling was a real person, and her gardens are still celebrated in Australia. As described in the book, her style was very “English,” with rustic stone fences and rambly pathways and lovely vistas.

I love hearing from readers, so drop me a line via my website, www.sarahmayberry.com.

Until next time, happy reading,

Sarah Mayberry

All They Need
Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Mayberry lives in Melbourne with her husband in a house with a large garden by the sea. She loves to cook, read, go to the movies, shop for shoes and spend time with her friends and loved ones. She’s starting to love gardening, which is just as well, and she’s hoping to begin a major renovation on her house in the near future. Exciting times!

This one is for Wanda and Chris, the two best

hand-holders in the business. Thank you for the

long phone calls, the patience, the humor, the

meals, the tissue-passing and for your faith in me.

There were times when I was ready to sink rather

than swim, but you two were my lifeline.

Bless your little cotton socks!

Special mention also to Lisa

for brainstorming over the fence and

listening to my rambling monologues.

Go the steam press!

Contents

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

FLYNN RANDALL SWALLOWED a mouthful of champagne as he stepped through the French doors onto the terrace.

It was February and even though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, it was still warm. Sweat prickled beneath his arms and he tugged at the collar of his shirt as he surveyed the sea of people. Like him, the men were all in formal black and white, the perfect foil for the women in their colorful gowns. There must have been close to two hundred people congregating on the wide, long terrace and the sound of their laughter and chatter drowned out the jazz band playing on the lawn below.

He searched in vain for a familiar face but everyone looked the same in their penguin suits. He shrugged. The perils of arriving late.

He was about to start down the stairs to the lawn when someone called his name. He glanced over his shoulder. A tall redheaded man was waving at him.

“Tony. Good to see you,” Flynn said as he joined his friend.

“Bit late, aren’t you?” Tony said, tapping his watch.

“I’m a popular guy,” Flynn said, deadpan. “Gotta spread the love around.”

“I bet.”

Flynn kissed Tony’s wife, Gloria, before turning his attention to the tall, blond man standing next to her.

“This is a bit of a coincidence,” Owen Hunter said as Flynn shook his hand. “I’ve been trying to get an appointment to see your old man all week.”

It was said with a grin, but Flynn could see the glint in the other man’s eyes. What was that Shakespeare line his mother was always quoting? Cassius has a lean and hungry look.

In Flynn’s experience, Owen always looked hungry, despite the fact that there was nothing lean about him. He was as tall as Flynn and built like a football player. Flynn guessed women probably found him attractive, with his square jaw and very white teeth.

“Well, you know, my father’s a busy man.” Flynn raised his glass to his mouth.

“Don’t I know it,” the other man said ruefully.

Flynn smiled but didn’t pursue the subject, well aware that Hunter was waiting for Flynn to offer to set up an appointment. Owen Hunter had political ambitions; no doubt he planned to ask Flynn’s father for a donation.

Maybe Flynn was getting cranky in his old age, but he couldn’t help thinking that Hunter could have waited a few minutes before hitting him up for a favor. A little civility never hurt anyone.

A cry rose over the general hubbub, drawing people to the balustrade. Flynn drifted over with the rest of his group, idly curious. The lawn was six feet below, a lush green carpet dotted with yet more people. A large marble fountain sat in the center, decorated with cavorting cherubs and nymphs, many of whom spouted plumes into the wide, deep basin. The thing had to be well over ten feet tall, easily dominating the formal garden. Flynn winced, wondering where his hosts had found the monstrosity, before he shifted his attention to the source of the scream.

A couple he recognized as Andrea and Hamish Greggs were standing at the edge of the fountain, Andrea gripping the edge with both hands as she peered into the bubbling water. In their fifties, they were old friends of his parents and regulars on the social circuit. Towering over them both was Melanie Hunter, wearing a blush-colored gown, her hair in a sophisticated updo. Her face was creased with concern as she talked to the older couple.

She was easily the tallest woman at the party—at least six feet tall—with broad shoulders that would put a lot of men to shame. Her breasts were full and round, her hips curved. As much as Flynn was wary of Owen’s naked ambition, he’d always liked the other man’s wife. There was something about Mel Hunter that always made him want to smile. Maybe because she was often smiling herself.

“I wonder what happened?” Gloria murmured.

“Looks like someone’s lost something in the fountain,” Tony said.

“Isn’t that your wife, Owen?” Gloria asked.

“Yes, that’s Melanie,” Owen said. He was frowning, his gaze intent on the trio by the fountain.

“Shit,” Owen said, so quietly Flynn almost didn’t hear him.

He glanced at the other man briefly before returning his gaze to the lawn. He soon realized what had made Owen swear—his wife had stepped out of her shoes and was hitching up the skirt of her long dress. A crowd had started to gather, drawn by the promise of a spectacle.

Still talking to the older couple, Mel put a knee onto the waist-high rim of the fountain and boosted herself up so that she was balanced on both knees. She held out a hand and Hamish grasped it. Mel laughed, the sound floating up from the suddenly silent lawn—this was gripping stuff, much more interesting than any gossip that was being exchanged.

“Oh, dear. This has the potential to end badly,” Tony said with a smirk.

Flynn didn’t take his eyes off Mel as she leaned out over the water, while the older man used his weight as a counterbalance.

The crowd held its collective breath as she dipped her hand into the water and leaned farther and farther away from the rim, straining for all she was worth.

“Almost got it… There!” She pulled her arm from the water and the floodlights threw sparks off what looked like a diamond bracelet.

The crowd started to applaud—then Mel gave a startled yelp and fell into the fountain with a mighty splash. There was a communal gasp, followed by a wave of titters as she broke the surface. Her elegant updo had dissolved in the water and her dark hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Mascara ran down her face as she pushed herself to her feet. Another round of titters washed through the crowd. The water had turned her blush gown translucent, leaving very little to the imagination. The dark outlines of her nipples were clearly visible, as was her underwear—which appeared to be bright pink with white stripes.

She should have looked ridiculous, standing there wet and bedraggled in her silly underwear, but she looked magnificent. Like some kind of mythical goddess rising from the mists of time.

Statuesque, utterly feminine. Breathtaking.

Flynn couldn’t take his eyes off her and only remembered to blink when she threw back her head and laughed. The sound—loud and boisterous and incredibly sexy—echoed across the lawn. She wasn’t alone in her amusement—Flynn couldn’t keep the smile from his own face and everyone around him was either smiling or laughing.

Except Owen Hunter.

Without saying a word, he pushed his way through the crowd and headed toward the stairs to the lawn. Flynn barely registered his departure—he was too busy watching Mel fling a long, athletic leg over the edge of the fountain and extend both hands forward in an unspoken request for assistance. Two men rushed forward, and within seconds she was standing on dry land, dripping from head to toe and thanking her rescuers.

She presented the bracelet to Andrea Greggs with a little bow, which earned her more laughter, then turned and held up her hands as though accepting a standing ovation.

“Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. I’ll be here all week,” she said.

Her audience was still laughing and applauding this show of chutzpah when her husband pushed his way to her side. Shrugging out of his coat, Owen flung it over her shoulders and leaned close to say something in her ear. The smile fell from her lips and she nodded, then ducked her head. The crowd cleared a path for them as he led her away from the fountain.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Gloria said with a quick, expressive lift of her eyebrows.

“It was hardly her fault. Hamish shouldn’t have let her go,” Flynn said.

“Or she could have let the Hollands take care of it,” Gloria said, referring to their hosts. “Like a normal person. They could have easily arranged to have the bracelet retrieved tomorrow morning.”

Flynn drank the last of his champagne instead of continuing the discussion. Melbourne society was notoriously stuffy for a supposedly egalitarian culture. Old Money only very grudgingly accepted New Money, and No Money didn’t stand a chance in hell. There was an unspoken social hierarchy and a set of rules that were only bent for the right people—and Melanie Hunter was not one of them. Personally, he thought she was bloody gutsy, the way she’d waded in to do her bit while everyone else stood around watching. And he definitely wasn’t going to object to the view he’d enjoyed when she’d stepped out of the fountain—he had a pulse, after all, as well as a healthy appreciation for the female form.

He glanced at his glass. “I’m hitting the bar. Anyone else want a refill?”

A series of head shakes meant he was on his own as he made his way into the house. The bartender was working at full pitch to serve a slew of people and Flynn stood to one side, waiting for the crush to subside. He nodded to various acquaintances and friends and lifted a hand to acknowledge an ex-girlfriend, but didn’t go out of his way to connect with anyone.

He was tired. He probably should have gone home instead of come to the party. As a rule, however, he liked to honor his commitments and he’d said he’d attend.

His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with his mother earlier in the week. She’d asked him to meet her for lunch and then surprised the hell out of him by asking if he’d noticed anything “different” about his father, Adam, lately. She’d cited several instances of finding things in odd places around the house—the kettle in the fridge, shoes in the washing machine—as well as a number of memory or attention lapses on his father’s part. At the time, Flynn had been quick to assign his father’s slips to stress. His father’s property development business was closing a deal to build several apartment towers on government land in a former industrial suburb and his father had been working around the clock. Still, Flynn couldn’t get his mother’s concerns out of his head. She knew his father better than anyone, after all.

But his father was only fifty-eight. Way too early to be hitting the panic button over a few memory lapses.

Flynn stared into his empty champagne flute, brooding. He made a snap decision. He’d put in an appearance, done his duty. Now he was going home. Life was too short to waste time at parties talking to the same people about the same things, over and over. And he had a garden to view tomorrow with an eye to developing a design. If he was successful, it would be yet another win for Verdant Design, the landscaping firm he’d founded nearly three years ago.

He set his glass on the nearest flat surface and wove through the crowd. It took him five minutes to find his hosts to say goodbye, then he made his way to the foyer and out through the open double doors into the portico. He was about to start down the drive when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye.

It was Mel, standing in the shadows beneath the carefully manicured hedge that bordered the driveway. She was facing the street, her husband’s tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders. Gravel crunched beneath his shoe and her head swung toward him. They locked gazes across twelve feet of driveway.

There was no mistaking the unadulterated misery in the depths of her gray eyes. After a few short seconds she looked away.

He opened his mouth to say something—what, he had no idea—as his phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and saw that it was his father. He glanced at Melanie again. Her focus was once more on the driveway. Waiting for her husband to bring the car around, he guessed.

He hit the button to take the call. He kept his gaze on her tall, straight back as he spoke. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“Flynn. Thank God. You have to help me. I’ve tried to get home but none of it makes sense. The roads have all changed…?.”

Flynn’s grip tightened on the phone as he heard the panic in his father’s voice. “Sorry, Dad. I don’t understand. Where are you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I was driving home. But the roads are all changed. Nothing’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

Dread thudded low in his gut. This man did not sound like the assured, confident father he knew. This man sounded scared and confused and utterly lost.

But he was only fifty-eight.

Flynn pushed his own panic from his mind. There would be time for that later.

“Okay, Dad. Listen to me. We’re going to work this out, okay?” Flynn said, keeping his voice calm and clear.

“Why can’t I recognize anything? Why has it all changed?”

“We’ll sort this out, I promise. I want you to look around. Are you on a highway or in a residential area? Are there houses around you?”

“Yes. Lots of houses.”

“Good. I want you to pull the car over. Turn off the engine, and walk to the nearest corner to find the street sign and tell me what it says.”

He could hear his father’s panicked breathing. He dug in his pocket for his car keys and started down the long driveway at a jog.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way, Dad. We’ll do it together, and I will be with you as soon as I can. No matter what happens, I will find you. So take a deep breath, pull over and find me that street sign.”

CHAPTER ONE

Eighteen months later

MEL PORTER GLANCED UP as she exited her house. A smile spread across her face as she took in the clear blue sky.

Despite the fact that it was barely June, Melbourne had been in the grip of winter for over a month—including overcast skies, rain, bitterly cold wind, overnight frosts—and it had been particularly bad here on the Mornington Peninsula, where her turn-of-the-century farmhouse was located. Today, however, the weather gods had granted the huddled masses a reprieve. The winter-bare liquid-amber tree in Mel’s front yard stretched its branches toward the sky as though worshipping the unexpected warmth. She wondered what the neighbors would say if she did the same.

She settled for turning her face to the sun and closing her eyes.

She’d never been a winter person. Summer was what it was all about as far as she was concerned. Long days at the beach, barbecues, zinc on noses and the smell of coconut-scented sunscreen… She couldn’t wait for the warmer weather.

Rubbing her hands together, she walked down the porch steps and across the driveway to the letterbox to collect the morning’s mail. She pulled out a number of smaller envelopes with transparent windows—bills, hip hip hooray—and one larger, thicker envelope. Curious, she turned it over.

Everything in her went still when she read the words typed across the top left corner. Wallingsworth and Kent, Lawyers.

She stared at the envelope for a long beat. Then she started walking to the house.

Strange, after waiting and waiting for this moment, it had snuck up on her.

She waited until she was standing at the battered wood counter in the kitchen before she tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents.

There was a short covering letter, but she didn’t bother reading it, simply flipped to the next page. Divorce Order, the heading said in crisp black font, accompanied by an official looking seal from the Federal Magistrates Court of Australia.

Mel’s breath rushed out in a woosh.

There it is. It’s over. Finally.

Her knees felt a little weak and she rounded the counter and sank into one of the oak chairs she’d inherited from her grandmother.

Six years of marriage, gone. At thirty-one, she was single again. Free.

She blinked rapidly and tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. This was a good thing. She’d had a lucky escape. There could have been kids involved, it could have been so much messier and uglier. No way was she going to cry.

This was a good thing.

The urge to call her mother or her sister gripped her, but she resisted. She’d leaned on her family and friends enough in the past few months. They’d comforted her, held her hand while she negotiated to buy the old farmhouse and holiday cottages that now constituted her combined home and livelihood, pitched in whenever she needed help…

It was time to start standing on her own two feet.

Her gaze found the clock on the kitchen wall and she gave a little start. She needed to get moving—she had guests arriving before lunch and she needed to clean Red Coat Cottage in preparation for their arrival.

She grabbed the keys on her way out the door and took the scenic route via the garden path to the first of the four cottages on her four-acre plot of land. The property had once been part of a vast orchard that had stretched along Port Phillip Bay from Mount Eliza to Mornington. The land had been broken up and sold off years ago for residential development, and Mel’s plot included the old manager’s residence as well as four of the compact workers cottages that had once housed the pickers and other laborers. The former owner had reconfigured the latter to appeal to vacationers, and when Mel bought the property six months ago she’d revamped all four cottages, updating the decor, kitchens and bathrooms so that they would appeal to a more affluent market.

At the time, her parents had said she was crazy, wasting money on antiques and fancy bathroom fixtures when the cottages had been attracting perfectly good business for many years as they were. But if there was one thing Mel knew about, it was people with money. She might never have been fully accepted by them, but she understood what they liked. She knew that if she wanted to increase the income from her business by attracting a wealthier client base, she needed shiny, imported things that screamed of luxury and exclusivity.

Once she’d renovated the cottages to a higher spec, her good friend Georgia—the only one of her so-called “friends” to maintain their relationship postseparation—had used her network of contacts to spread the news. Between word of mouth and the ads she’d been running in various publications, Mel was hoping she was in for a busy year.

She pondered today’s guests as she cleaned the bathroom. She’d met Flynn Randall a handful of times during her six years as Mrs. Owen Hunter. He’d always struck her as being halfway decent for someone who had been born with not just a silver spoon, but a whole cutlery service in his mouth. Owen had done his damnedest to turn their casual acquaintance into a friendship, but Flynn had perfected the knack of being friendly while somehow keeping people at a distance. A necessary evil, Mel imagined, when your family was amongst the richest in Australia.

Georgia had secured the Randall booking for her—she and Flynn were old friends—and Mel had already sent her flowers as a thank-you. Next time she made the trek into Melbourne she planned to take her friend out to lunch as well.

She gave the bathtub a final swipe with the sponge before stepping back and giving the room a last inspection. Everything looked good, so she moved into the kitchen. Once she’d finished there, she laid out fluffy white towels and made the bed with high-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. She arranged luxury-brand soaps and toiletries in the bathroom and hung matching robes on the back of the bedroom door. She fluffed the king-size quilt and arranged the down pillows, then spent ten minutes in the garden gathering a bouquet of flowers to go on the tallboy.

There was champagne in the fridge, along with Belgian chocolates and a selection of gourmet teas and coffees. The living room boasted the latest magazines—cars and business for male guests, home decoration and fashion for the women—and there was kindling and wood for anyone who wanted an open fire.

Mel did a last check to ensure everything was in place before locking the cottage and heading to the main house. It occurred to her that Owen would be horrified if he knew what she’d done with her divorce settlement. The thought made her smile grimly. The notion that his ex-wife routinely got down on her hands and knees to scrub away other people’s dirt would make his eyes roll back in his head.

Mel made a rude noise and offered a two-fingered “up yours” gesture to her absent ex as she crossed the rear lawn. She didn’t care what he thought anymore. It was one of the many blessings of being a divorced woman—along with having the whole bed to herself, never having to argue over whether the toilet seat belonged up or down and the luxury of reading into the small hours if the mood took her without having to worry about keeping her husband awake.

Oh, yeah. Divorced life is one big party.

Mel paused. She didn’t like the bitter note to her own thoughts. She’d fought hard to claw back her confidence and her sense of herself in recent months; she hated the thought that she might still be grieving the loss of her marriage in some secret part of her heart, that she might miss Owen in any shape or form.

Her marriage had been unhappy for a long time and very ugly toward the end. Her husband’s constant criticism had shaped her days and her nights. She’d bent over backward trying to please him—but it had never been enough. In hindsight, she’d come to understand that it never would have been.

Her chin came up as she entered the kitchen. She regretted the failure of her marriage, but she knew she’d done her damnedest to save it and she wouldn’t go back if her life depended on it.

So, no, she didn’t miss her ex. A fairly important realization to acknowledge on this, of all days. A realization that surely called for a celebration.

She walked to the fridge and opened the freezer door. A box of her favorite Drumstick sundae cones was on top and she grabbed one and tore off the wrapper.

If she were still married, Owen would have warned her that she risked getting fat if she ate ice cream full stop, let alone for breakfast. She took a big, defiant bite.

After all, she only had to please herself now. And what a glorious thing that was.

ROSINA ANSWERED THE DOOR, her face a mask of worry.

“Any change?” Flynn asked as he entered his parents’ house.

The housekeeper shook her head. “Nothing.”

Flynn nodded tightly and strode down the hallway. His father’s study was at the rear of the house, at the end of a short hall. The door was almost always open because, even when his father was hard at work, he always made time to talk. Today it was closed and his mother, Patricia, sat in a chair beside it, her usually stylish salt-and-pepper hair a disheveled mess, her face streaked with tears.

She stood the moment she saw him and walked into his open arms. “I’m so sorry for calling you over,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

“We talked about this. We’re all in it together.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve begged, I’ve bullied, but he won’t unlock the door. I keep talking to him, making him answer because I’m so scared he’s going to do something…?.”

He kissed her temple. “I’ll break the door down if I have to, don’t worry. But Dad wouldn’t do anything to hurt himself.”

“You don’t know that. He’s never locked himself in his study before, either. My God, this disease… If it was a person, I would hunt it down and kill it with my bare hands.”

Flynn could feel the grief and anger and fear coursing through her and he pressed another kiss to her temple. “We’ll sort this out.”

She nodded, then stepped back from his embrace. He watched her visibly pack away her emotions as she pulled a scrunched-up tissue from the cuff of her turtleneck sweater and blew her nose. By the time she’d finished she was once again in control.

That was the really great thing about Alzheimer’s disease—it affected entire families, not just individuals. It killed slowly, over years, and it wore loved ones down with its relentless attack. In the twelve months since his father had been formally diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s, Flynn had watched his parents grapple to come to terms with what the future would hold. He’d seen them both rise to the occasion with humbling dignity, even while Flynn had quietly freaked out in private over the imminent loss of the man who was such an integral part of his life.

Somehow, they’d all hung in there. It wasn’t as though any of them had a choice, after all. Least of all his father.

Giving his mother a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, Flynn rapped lightly on the study door. “Dad, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There was a short pause. “No.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“Mom’s worried about you. We all are. Talk to us, Dad.”

Silence. His mother shook her head helplessly.

“Dad, if you don’t let me in, I’m going to have to break the door down.”

More silence. Flynn eyed the frame. The house was over a hundred years old, the doorjambs solid. It was going to take some effort, but it was doable.

“For God’s sake, just leave me alone.” There was so much despair and anguish in his father’s words.

Flynn exchanged glances with his mother. “Stand back from the door, Dad.”

His mother pressed her fingers to her mouth. Flynn stepped away far enough to give himself a run-up. He’d never kicked a door in before, but he figured that if he aimed his foot at the latch, something would have to give. Eventually.

He tensed his muscles, ready to power forward.

“Wait.” His father’s voice was resigned. Weary.

The key turned in the lock and the door opened an inch or two. Only a strip of his father’s face was visible through the opening.

“Just Flynn.”

Flynn’s mother swallowed audibly and Flynn squeezed her shoulder again. She gave him a watery half smile.

“You got him to open the door. That’s the important bit,” she said quietly. She sank onto her chair as Flynn entered the study.

“Shut the door,” his father barked the moment Flynn crossed the threshold.

Flynn complied and turned to regard his father. The older man stood behind his desk chair, both hands gripping the high leather backrest. His steel-gray hair was rumpled, his face pale with fatigue and anxiety. His blue eyes watched Flynn almost resentfully.

“What’s going on, Dad?”