Authors: Anya Forest
Too late, he realised this was the midwife who thought he was Christie’s partner, who he had actively encouraged to think so, to find out information to help Christie. Now the midwife was obviously expecting him to assist Christie, participate in learning Isla’s routine. Blake smiled at the midwife, taking refuge in his usual charm. “Just the support person,” he said, his heart aching savagely. “I need to get going, I’ll leave you to it.”
He saw the flash of emotion on Christie’s face as she held Isla; in any other circumstance he would have sworn it was hurt. He glanced at Isla, noticing her blue eyes, mirroring Christie’s so exactly, as her brand new gaze wandered around the room, again seeming to look right at him.
“Of course,” Christie said softly, quietly devastated, hearing Blake’s polite goodbyes to her parents. She had secretly hoped Blake would stay, spend more time with them both.
Get real,
she thought harshly.
After my loss of control this morning, after everything…
Not knowing what else to do, Christie looked down at Isla, focusing solely on her child as Blake left the room.
— # —
Blake drove home, the rich late autumn scenery a blur as he parked the car outside the cottage. He walked inside, wandering around, unable to settle to anything, picking up yesterday’s newspaper, a magazine, turning the stereo on then off again as even that action reminded him of Christie. It was already late afternoon; eventually, he made a cursory phone call to Brenda, then spoke with Lisa.
I’m just avoiding this
, he thought bitterly, thinking again of Christie, of Isla. He went out to his workshop, thinking he would try and distract himself with a practical task.
A mistake
, Blake thought harshly, slamming down his bevel tool.
Coming out here was hardly going to distract me from anything.
He swore, turning on his heel, returning to the cottage, snatching up his car keys from the bench. He started the car abruptly, almost flooding the engine in his haste. Out of habit, he glanced at the sign marking the upcoming turnoff as he drove past, his heart pounding. Without stopping to think, Blake indicated at the last second, turned the wheel to drive into Arrowtown, pulled into the first empty car park he saw.
Blake walked purposefully along the Arrow River track; drinking in the vibrant autumn colours, remembering his walk with his family—and Christie—on his mother’s birthday. Remembering so much more, his mother bringing him here so regularly as a small child; how it had always been their special place. How she had watched him practice swimming here in the summer, laughed with him as he felt the freezing temperature of the water in the winter, ran back to her to dry his hands, to get help to put his small gloves back on, be swooped up into her arms.
He remembered learning about the changing of the seasons with the rich bronze and copper shades of the falling leaves, being taught about local history as she helped him pan for gold. The excited drive home, running with determined small strides out to his father on the farm to show him the tiny granules of gold he had found.
And then the times his father had joined them; Blake remembered being swung between his parents as they walked along the track, each of them holding one of his hands as he laughed with delight, demanded to be swung higher. Piggybacks from his father; his father’s praise of Blake’s swimming ability, how he had helped Rebecca as she toddled into the shallows, the proud big brother, both of them under the constant supervision of their parents. Family outings finishing with an ice cream in the summer, reluctantly shared with Rebecca in her pushchair, or even a small serving of hot chips by the pub fireplace in the winter. He remembered his father’s laughter as Blake screwed up his face with distaste after once sneaking a sip of beer from his father’s pint.
Then walking as a family to the ghost town of Macetown to camp; the dark green hills; the relics of gold digging, excitedly asking his parents questions, carrying his own small pack for the first time, turning to wait for Rebecca to catch up, his exceptional height and her petite stature already forecast. Now he looked ahead, saw the river crossing and the start of the track that he knew led up to Macetown. Memories tugged at him.
And then he became a teenager, and then…
Eventually, Blake became conscious of the chilly autumn temperature; with a final look towards the river he turned around, retracing his steps to the car. Thirty minutes later he was climbing out of the car again, determined to see her, to finally talk to her. She had come to the front door, opened it, her eyes fixed on his face.
She took a step forward, hesitant, unable to believe he was here, her heart filling as he walked towards her. She felt herself enveloped in his arms, realised how long it had been since... “Blake,” she whispered against him, heard his reply as they walked back inside the house together.
Alternating between nervousness and excitement, she moved around the kitchen, automatically making coffee, not needing to ask the way he wanted it. Blake shook his head; she realised he was opening the wine he had brought with him. Laughing, she took the glass he held out for her, tilting her head, her blue eyes sparkling, filled with love.
“What’s happened, Blake?” He smiled, his dark eyes fixed on her as he gave her details, responded to her questions. They kept talking, Blake unable to stop asking questions, displaying the emotion she had dreamed of for so long. “I know I said this…some time ago,” she said carefully. Flinching, he thought back to that long ago argument, her pleading for his understanding, his refusal to listen. “But I want you to know, I fell in love the moment I saw you. I think we both did.”
Blake inclined his head, unable to speak as an image of Christie holding Isla flashed before his eyes. “I know,” he said eventually, looking across the lounge at her, realising it was growing dark; the wine bottle was nearly empty. “You were everything I dreamed of. I’ve never wanted anyone else,” she continued. “I missed you so much when you went overseas.” He heard the emotion in her voice. “But I understand…” Her voice faltered. “I’m so proud of what you have achieved, done for yourself.”
She paused, watching as Blake left the room, returning with another bottle of wine. “Can you stay for dinner?” she asked hesitantly, painfully aware of his strong character, one that could never be dictated to.
Blake nodded. “I’d like that.” He looked over at the back door. “I might head outside.” She inclined her head, understanding what he was trying to say.
Later, they came back inside, her heart filling with joy as Blake stayed in the kitchen, his face relaxed, his dark eyes alight, sparkling, talking to her, helping her. Eventually, some time after dinner she moved over to him, lovingly put her arm around him. “Blake, really, that’s another bottle you’re opening.”
“I haven’t drunk it all myself,” he replied, his eyes glittering. She smiled back at him, shook her head, filled with happiness.
“I don’t want you driving,” she replied. His face creased into a smile as he looked at her. “Guess I’ll have to stay the night then,” he said cheekily. “Of course,” she said softly, taking a step towards the hallway.
Chapter Sixteen
Christie held Isla, tears of frustration welling up as Isla continued wailing, tensing her tiny legs, refusing to latch on to the teat of the bottle. Her small hand fisted, knocking against Christie. Normally, that reflex always made Christie smile; now, it simply made her weary. Christie had not slept well the night before in the now almost full ward, disappointed Blake had not visited at all the day before, at the same time telling herself she could not expect him to. She glanced briefly at the birth registration form on the cabinet, her heart sinking even as she tried to remain positive.
Much of the labour, the birth two days ago remained hazy, but she found she was remembering more each day, the pain, Blake, the doctor.
I haven’t thanked Blake properly,
Christie thought.
I wanted time to talk to him
. She was grateful nonetheless for the almost constant presence of her parents, one or both of them virtually always with her. Now they had both left, taken Christie’s car into Queenstown to have a short break from the hospital. Christie had assured them she would be fine, carefully camouflaging the sudden misery she felt.
Isla, who up until now had been so adorable, a dream baby, was continuing to wail, still tense as she resisted Christie’s efforts to give her a bottle of formula.
I must be doing something wrong,
Christie thought, starting to panic as Isla became more upset.
“That wouldn’t happen if you were breastfeeding.” Christie looked up in shock as the woman’s voice invaded her consciousness. “Don’t you know formula-fed babies are more prone to cot death? They aren’t as intelligent either. You’re just being selfish!”
Absolutely stunned, Christie realised an older woman visiting another mother in the ward had been watching her, was chastising her for not breastfeeding Isla. Tears spilled over as she tried to defend herself, a spark of anger extinguished by the weight of her misery.
“That is enough.” Christie looked towards the door, recognising Blake’s voice, hearing the power of the cold anger in his voice. Christie’s heart filled with relief, with love, realising Blake was standing just inside the doorway, his face taut, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare criticise Christie’s parenting. Don’t you dare make assumptions about Isla.” The absolute uncompromising strength of his words, his tone, took Christie’s breath away as she registered his defence of her and Isla. The woman shrank slightly, blushing, muttering, obviously embarrassed. “What did you say?” Blake asked, his voice low, steel behind it.
“Formula doesn’t give babies the right nutrients to develop,” the woman said defiantly. Blake leaned against the doorway, absolutely sure of himself, his toned, towering frame watched by every woman in the ward.
“Really?” he said with exaggerated surprise. “Will you tell my mother or should I? She probably won’t agree with you.” Blake shook his head, infuriated beyond reason at the woman’s criticism of Christie.
He strode across the ward without another word, drawing the privacy curtain around Christie’s bed decisively, realising instantly she was deeply upset, almost crying, that Isla was unsettled, fractious in her arms. His eyes scanned the rest of the room, noticing the birth registration form on the bedside cabinet, the pen on top. Without a word, he gently took Isla from Christie, reached over to press the call button.
Christie realised Blake was holding Isla, that she was starting to calm down as Blake carefully held her in the crook of his arm, her small face relaxing.
I know that feeling
, Christie thought, her heart contracting painfully.
And I threw it all away because I didn’t trust him.
“Do you want to just shuffle over, Christie,” Blake said tentatively, his voice low, almost hesitant. Silently, she moved over on the wide hospital bed; Blake swung his legs up to sit next to her. Christie was no longer conscious of the noise of the rest of the ward, only of Blake’s presence, his closeness, her eyes blurring again as she saw Isla in his arms.
And I’ve lost control again
, she thought, embarrassment warring with desire.
I’ve got to focus on practicalities,
Blake thought, wondering where Christie’s parents were.
I’ve got to sort out what’s worrying her.
He hesitated. “How’s Isla going today?”
Christie tensed as he asked only about Isla. “Obviously, not so good,” she replied, an edge to her voice. “She wouldn’t take a bottle just now, even though the nurse said I should feed her. I didn’t even realise she was hungry. It turned into a bit of a war.”
“Christie, if you didn’t think Isla was hungry, and she won’t feed, you’re probably right,” Blake said reasonably. “So just flag the feeding for now.” He grinned at her. “If she’s anything like her mother, there’s no point trying to tell her what to do.”
A faint smile lit Christie’s face, died away again. Blake’s eyes narrowed; he glanced down at Isla, already regretting holding her, unprepared for the protective emotion sweeping through him. He was desperate to comfort Christie, knowing at the same time he could hardly involve Christie in a discussion about a relationship when she was rightly so caught up in looking after Isla.
And there’s the small matter of trust,
he thought silently.
Christie realised Blake was shifting Isla against him, slouching slightly so that Isla could fall asleep against him, her tiny hand trying to grip the rough wool of his jumper, fisting, then falling back to her side as she relaxed. “You were right,” he emphasised. “Sleep, not food.” Christie found she couldn’t even look at Blake as regret swept through her, hearing him comment on Isla’s hat. Christie looked down at her sleeping daughter hesitantly, realising she was wearing the pale green hat from the outfit Blake had bought in Dunedin together with one of the small sleeping suits he had also chosen.
“It’s too big for her right now,” she said, striving for a casual tone. “The whole outfit is. But I can roll up the rim of the hat.” Just then a nurse called to Christie, came through the curtain.
“I want to see the lactation consultant,” Blake said before Christie could say anything. “Urgently. And I want to find out about Christie moving to a private room, or a smaller ward. I asked about it the other day. Thanks.” His tone brooked no argument. Christie looked at him, shocked at the raw emotion still visible in his eyes. She heard the woman’s words repeating in her head again, feeling faint with fear, focusing only on the health of her child.