Short and Sweet Page 10

“You’ve got a few months to go,” she said. “You’ll be good by then.”

  “I’m not bad now.” There was a challenging flash of something macho in his eyes, and a slight flare of nostrils – enough to let her see the confident and attractive man he was going to be in another few years.

  Anna knew her imagination would slide into full-on fantasy mode if she wasn’t careful, so she cleared her throat and asked what kind of music he liked best.

  “I could play you some later,” he said, closing the paperback and pushing it into his bulging black canvas sports bag as the train slowed for the final station on the line. Plainly they’d be leaving together. “How far away do you live?”

  And, despite her scruples, she had no trouble conjuring up a scene where a handsome young guitarist arrived at the door to serenade her...

  Get over it, Anna, she scolded herself. You need to stop drifting off every time you see a great-looking guy. Especially if he’s only a kid.

  “Just up Duntroon Drive a bit,” she said as she stepped onto the platform.

  “You must be further up than us. I’ve never seen you.”

  “It’s not my normal train. I had a dental check-up today and it wasn’t worth going back to work, so I’m earlier than usual.”

  The boy bent to get a firmer grip on the sports bag handles and they set off together.

  “I practise in the park over on the corner sometimes,” he said, pouring cold water on her steamy serenading scene. “It gets me away from the noise of the TV and the neighbour’s hot-rod testing.”

  She nodded as though she’d been expecting just such an explanation. The annoying motor-revving sometimes carried to where she lived further on.

  “In the rose garden corner,” he added, with a glance up to the cloudless sky. “If you want to come and listen tonight, you can.”

  “Thank you...?”

  “Pete,” he supplied. “Pete Adamson.”

  “Thank you Pete.”

  I might just come and surprise you, she thought.

  “Once the TV news is finished,” he added, brandishing the guitar case in farewell, and loping into the driveway of the slightly unkempt brick-and-cedar at number two.

  Anna walked on as far as 17A and let herself in to the quiet, tidy, pretty townhouse where she’d lived since Robbie died. Her too-quiet, over-tidy, too-pretty townhouse if she was truthful.

  She changed out of her business suit and wondered what she should wear to guitar practice in a rose garden. Chinos or smart slacks? A dress, or skirt and blouse?

  Chinos won, with a soft old blue polo shirt. After all, it was just a casual wander on a fine summer evening, and she shouldn’t read any more into it than that.

  She grilled her lamb chop and rustled up some salad. The TV news ended. She gave Pete a few minutes’ start and then sauntered off down the road and through the park gateway. Soon she heard cascades of guitar notes floating on the still air; the boy was right – he was good.

  She stepped up onto the grass to stop her sandals crunching on the gravelled pathway as she walked toward the music. The heady fragrance of the roses deepened and darkened as she drew nearer.

  Pete was sitting on one of the benches, guitar case at his feet. But the complicated syncopated tune came from the flying fingers of an older man. A man with the same dark hair and gorgeous mouth as Pete.

  She froze, not liking to intrude. The piece ended, and the last notes shimmered away as she stood perhaps thirty feet distant in the shadow of a birch tree.

  “Awesome. I’ve still got a way to go, eh Dad?”

  “You’ll get there,” the dark-haired man assured his son. “Your turn now.”

  “Hi Anna,” Pete called – with a grin that told her all too clearly he knew she’d been lurking. “This is my father, Mike Adamson.” His mischievous eyes flashed in the dusk light as he reached down for his guitar case. “Anna’s an author,” he added.

  The man set his guitar aside and rose to greet her. “Pleased to meet you, Anna. An author?”

  “Three books,” Pete inserted quickly, opening his guitar case to stop further comment. Anna sank down beside Mike, ready to listen to Pete’s music, and embarrassed by such a misleading description of her writing.

  “Well, look at that!” Pete exclaimed, tilting the case. “No guitar – totally gone. You’ll just have to entertain Anna yourself, Dad. I’ve got heaps of homework to do tonight, anyway.”

  And with the widest of grins he snapped the catches shut and jogged away between the rose-beds.

  There was a small silence.

  “Does this feel like a set-up to you?” Mike asked.

  She nodded, and bit her bottom lip in a vain effort to stop her laughter. “Pretty slick. Does he do this often to you?”

  “Never before,” Mike replied, reaching for his guitar and caressing the strings.

  Slowly the random doodling became a haunting melody that wrapped around them as they sat together in the lusciously perfumed moonlight.

  *

  Anna’s enjoying coaxing the garden into spring bloom at number two, but the new owner of 17A is really letting things slide. Her pretty townhouse now looks unloved.

  Mike teases her that their home is too ‘girly’, but he and Pete are giving the pretty new curtains and cushions some competition—you should see their wide-screen TV and the music system. There are always guitars on the sofa and DVDs on the sideboard, magazines and coffee mugs on the floor, big boys eating her baking, and Mike smiling every time he catches sight of her. The house is bursting with life.

  Anna thinks her fourth book, with its much more passionate storyline, will undoubtedly be the first one to sell. And that ‘Anna Adamson’ is an ideal author’s name.

  ***

  KEPT IN THE DARK

  Emma screwed up her nose at the rain and raised a hand to stop her elderly friend from leaving the car. “Hang on Margaret—I’ll get the umbrella from the back.”

  It took only a few seconds to grab the brolly and open the passenger door—then they made their way up the slippery steps to the front entrance of the house.

  “Thank you so much for driving me, dear,” Margaret said. “I enjoyed that more than you can imagine. Seeing everyone again… getting that presentation…” She opened her small handbag and searched for the keys. “Oh, don’t tell me…” she muttered. “I changed bags. Oh my goodness.” She pointed at something on the wall. “Well, never mind, I have a spare key hidden in that little lock-box. Can you press the numbers for me and get it out? Seven-three-two-eight.”

  Emma peered into the pitch-black corner. “Is there a switch for the light?”

  “I should have left it on when I came out, shouldn’t I?” Margaret said, sounding far from concerned after two gins and a good dinner. “No—I’m afraid the switch is inside.”

  “Ummmm,” Emma said. “Hold on and I’ll get the torch from the car.” She sprinted down the steps, rummaged in the glovebox where it always lived, and finally admitted defeat. Where could it have gone? So no torch. No light. And her cell-phone was too old to have one. She’d have to take Margaret home for the night.

  “I say…” Margaret called from the darkness. “Annie and I keep keys for each other. Annie across the road.”

  “It’s a bit late, isn’t it?” Emma asked, glancing across to the dimly lit house. It was after ten.

  “No, she’ll still be watching telly,” Margaret said, gripping her walking stick with determination and lurching down one step. Emma sheltered her with the umbrella again, and together they progressed downward, across the road, and up a rose-lined path to the front porch.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Margaret yelled, bashing the doorknocker with enthusiasm.

  Emma flinched at the noise.

  “She’s a bit deaf,” Margaret confided. “Yoo-hoo Annie.”

  Emma closed her umbrella now they were under shelter. She stood it in the corner of the porch and steadied Margaret’s arm in case they had to wait for a while.

 
Seconds later, light poured over them from a moth-filled globe on the ceiling, and the door swung open. A man in low-slung black pyjama pants stood there, beautifully illuminated by the overhead fitting. Emma decided his abs looked unnaturally corrugated because of the angle of the light… although they possibly were that good. She took another look to be sure. Yes, very good indeed. Mesmerising really.

  “Antony!” Margaret exclaimed, stepping inside and grabbing him for a perfumed hug. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “Auntie Marg!” He wrapped a long tanned arm around her and patted her broad back. His eyes found Emma’s, and she saw the crinkles tighten at the corners as he grinned.

  “I’m not really his auntie,” Margaret said to Emma once she’d released him. “He’s Annie’s grandson and he’s always called me that.”

  “Margaret?” called a quavery voice from further inside the house. “Is that you?”

  The owner of the voice beetled around a bend in the hallway, resplendent in a floral dressing gown and furry slippers.

  “Yes, it’s me, dear,” Margaret said, leaving Emma standing with the owner of the spectacular body. “How are you keeping?”

  “A few aches, but mustn’t grumble,” the old girl replied. “I was just making us a bedtime cuppa. You’ll both stay for one?”

  “Thanks, but—” Emma managed before Margaret over-rode her objections.

  “Annie makes the most wonderful ginger slice, Emma. And I’m sure you’d like to meet Antony?”

  Antony flicked Emma an amused glance. “Are you match-making again, Auntie Marg?” he demanded, motioning Emma inside before closing the door. “She’s already tried with her gardening lady and the dog-walking girl.”

  “I’m sure she won’t be,” Emma murmured. “Not with me.” She checked out Antony’s long back as he led her into the sitting room. Beautiful. He must practically live in a gym.

  He reached for the remote and muted the TV. David Attenborough fell silent but two tigers continued mating on the screen.

  “I’m glad your grandpa was never that rough,” Annie said, shaking her head at the copulating couple.

  “My Uncle Dickie had a tiger-skin rug,” Margaret inserted. “I don’t know what became of it. We used to sit on the head when we were children and pull the whiskers out.”

  Emma caught Antony trying to keep a straight face and she let loose a small puff of mirth.

  “They’re good value, these old girls,” he said so quietly only she would hear. “You never know what they’re going to come out with next.”

  “I do love Marg’s company,” Emma agreed. “She’s a real character. I thoroughly enjoy being her occasional chauffeur.”

  Antony motioned her to a chair. “So where have you both been tonight?”

  “To a dinner meeting of our club. She was given a special presentation for long service.”

  He sank onto the end of the adjacent settee, swinging an ankle up onto his opposite knee and leaning back into the cushions. Emma couldn’t help imagining a resting tiger. Black pyjamas, bronzy skin, sleekly powerful, and with alert dark eyes. She forced herself to look away from his face and fixed her gaze on his foot. Bare. High-arched. Ridiculously sexy for some reason.

  “Antony’s in the army,” Margaret said, at last turning away from the tigers.

  “Not any more, Auntie Marg. I’ve just finished up.”

  She stared at him, goggle-eyed. “Really? You’re leaving a good career like that?”

  Annie, who was plainly not that hard of hearing, poked her head around the kitchen doorway and said over the bubbling of the electric kettle. “Good thing too. You’ve more than done your duty. I’m pleased you’re never going back to that nasty place.”

  Emma’s breath caught. “Afghanistan?”

  He nodded. “No fun, but fascinating. Not why I’m leaving though. A mate and I are setting up a business. It’s time to do something different.”

  Margaret lowered herself onto the settee beside him and patted his knee. “It’s time you gave your grandmother some kiddies to spoil.”

  Antony’s mouth quirked. “She has Diana’s girls to spoil, and Paddy’s three kids, too. She doesn’t need any from me as well.” He tilted his head up and called toward the kitchen, “You don’t want any more birthday presents to buy, do you, Gran?”

  The bubbling of the kettle ebbed away, and Emma heard the rush of water being poured and the lid being clapped onto the teapot.

  “No—no more presents,” Annie called back. “I give them those iTunes cards from the supermarket now. They can choose whether they want games or books or music. Makes life much easier.”

  Antony rose to his feet. “Moving with the times there, Gran. Who’d have thought it?” He crossed to the kitchen and returned with a laden tray. Pretty cups and saucers and plates rattled against each other as he lowered it onto the big coffee table.

  Emma couldn’t help but admire the muscles in his shoulders and arms, and thought how wonderful a hug from him would be. He glanced in her direction, and she tore her gaze away. Hopefully she hadn’t had too dreamy an expression on her face.

  “You got kids?” he asked, sitting again.

  She swallowed. Did she take that as a roundabout way of asking if she was married? And was he therefore interested if she was available? She had no idea.

  She settled deeper into the green velvet cushions. “No. Haven’t got around to it.” Let him make what he wanted of that.

  “Of course you haven’t, dear,” Margaret said, giving the game away. “You’re too sensible to be one of those solo mothers.”

  Emma took a sharp breath. “I don’t think it’s always lack of sense that brings extra children into the world, Marg. Contraception’s not 100% guaranteed.”

  She heard Margaret take a sharp breath in return. Had she overstepped the mark mentioning protection in front of two elderly ladies and a man she’d met a bare five minutes ago?

  Apparently not, because Annie carried the plate of ginger slice in, set it on the table beside the tray, and said, “My sister Evelyn had four children and often assured me that four different methods had failed.”

  Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “Did we have four different methods in those days?”

  “Maybe great-auntie and uncle went at it like cats?” Antony suggested, obviously amused.

  Annie glanced at the TV, which now showed a beaver chewing through a log. “Like those tigers? Goodness, did you see the way he bit her?”

  Emma nodded, picturing Antony doing the biting. “They’re animals though.”

  “We’re all animals,” Antony insisted.

  “You shouldn’t speak about Annie’s sister and her husband like that,” Margaret said.

  “Like what? Saying they’re animals, or inferring they were going at it like cats?”

  Emma saw all too clearly he was trying to wind her up. He was doing a good job of keeping a straight face though.

  “Now you’re just being naughty,” Margaret said, unruffled. “You should take Emma out for a nice dinner and see how you get on together.”

  “Marg!” she protested, knowing she’d be bright pink in seconds. Already heat rushed up her throat, making her skin prickle and burn.

  “Ginger slice?” Annie asked, dealing plates around like a pro card player. “Yes, that’s a good idea. He doesn’t know anyone here after being overseas.”

  Antony accepted his plate. “I know plenty of people,” he protested.

  “But they’re all men,” Annie pointed out.

  “Not all,” he muttered. “But okay—how about it?”

  Emma glared at him. “Is that aimed at me?”

  He shrugged a smooth brown shoulder. “I’m being put in a bit of a spot here, babe. I could make it sound more inviting if these old biddies weren’t constantly on my case.”

  “Could you?” she asked sweetly. “What would you say?”

  To her astonishment Antony rose from the sofa, dropped to one knee, took her plate, set it
to one side, and grasped both her hands in his. “Ms Emma, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner one evening?”

  “Much nicer,” Annie said.

  “That’s more like it,” Margaret agreed, reaching for the teapot and starting to pour as though matters were now settled to her satisfaction.

  Emma tried to pull her hands away, but he held them in place and quirked one dark eyebrow. “And your reply is…?”

  Had she ever felt so tempted? She raised her chin. “I hardly know you. Why would I want to go out with you?” she teased.

  He narrowed his dark gaze. “I come highly recommended. These two old girls think I’m worth a spin.”

  Annie sniffed. “Not so much of the ‘old’, thank you.”

  “You’re eighty-two, Gran,” he said over his shoulder. “How else would I describe you?”

  “Experienced?” Margaret suggested.

  “Had a lot of that, did you?”

  “We could out-fox you any day, young man!”

  Emma’s shoulders started to shake as she tried to hold her laughter in.

  Antony’s fingers gave hers an encouraging squeeze. “For God’s sake say yes, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Oh, all right then,” she said in her best I-don’t-give-a-damn tone. Dinner with a hunk like him? A playful charmer who was kind to old ladies? A brave man with a wicked sense of humour and a body she’d wanted to lick from the moment she’d set eyes on it? Her good deed of driving an elderly lady to and from a meeting had been repaid more than handsomely.

  *

  “I almost forgot something,” Antony said a few nights later as he and Emma dawdled along the waterfront, his arm around her shoulder, and hers around his waist. Her thumb was tucked into one of the belt-loops of his jeans, and her fingers pressed against his very cute butt with every step. Sometimes she gave it a little pat.

  They’d now enjoyed two dinners, a movie, and several long walks together.

  “Gran found your umbrella in the porch. And Marg trotted across from her house with a torch she said was yours.”

  Emma closed her eyes and grinned. “Sneaky,” she murmured, laying her face on his warm shoulder. “She must have whipped it from the glovebox while I was walking around the car to let her out the other night. I’ll bet she left her security light off deliberately so we had to come across to your gran’s.”