But it was a risk.
‘Are you sure you’re up to it, giving me lessons? I think we’ve established I’m not a natural out on the slopes,’ he asked her now, dropping a little kiss on her nose. He hoped to God she said yes. It was too late to take back now.
She reached up and put her hand around the nape of his neck, slowly pulling him in. Her eyes were on his.
‘Yes.’ She touched her lips to his. ‘I want to help.’ He went to open his mouth, to check she wasn’t just toughing it out, but she kissed him again and he forgot his own bloody name for a second. He thought his skis might curl up with his toes at one point. ‘And I call bubble. No more talk.’
Luke looked at her and nodded his head.
‘Bubble. Now kiss me again.’
Chapter 9
Saturday morning, and Frank was awake as usual. Dante would be coming into his room any moment, to open the curtains and make him get out of bed. Frank lay there, slowly trying to wake his body up. Some parts of his body still felt alien to him, as though someone had removed a limb and replaced it with another. One that didn’t connect with his body. His left arm was a dead weight when he’d come to. Dante’s face gave him away whenever he looked at it, lying there on a cushion. Frank looked at it himself now. His wedding ring was still on. They’d tried to take it off in the emergency room, worrying about swelling and circulation. He didn’t let them near it. His right hand was still strong enough to slap a doctor or two if they got a bit close. That ring had never been off his finger, and he wasn’t about to let them take it now. He wanted to be buried with it, with his wife. She was still wearing hers. The funeral home had offered him it, at the time. He’d booked all the appointments for the same day, wanting to confine the misery to one horrible twenty-four hours. He had a son to raise now, and he was not going to let his beloved wife down.
He still remembered sitting there in the draughty old council offices, a tiny bundle in his arms. His son slept on, full to the brim with formula milk and oblivious to the fact that they were there registering his birth, and his mother’s death. It was just too sad for words. Even the registrar took a break halfway through. He could hear her sobs in the little side kitchen next door. When he got to the funeral home, and they asked about the ring, he declined. He wanted it with her. To be honest, if he could have got in there with her himself, he would have. In a heartbeat. Anything to avoid the sheer gut-wrenching pain of missing her, and knowing he could never get her back. To just close his eyes and surrender, that would be sweet relief.
Then his son had woken up, with a little chicken squawk as he opened his beautiful blue eyes. When Frank looked at him, he smiled through watery, tear-filled eyes.
‘Hello, little man. You awake?’ He could hear the registrar pulling herself together, splashing her face in the sink. ‘We’re having a horrible day, I know, but it will get better.’ The little pair of eyes opened a little bit further. Frank leaned in and kissed his son on the top of his head.
‘Truth is, the bad days are all we have for now, but it won’t always be like that.’ He thought of the plans they’d had, and his resolve hardened. ‘We will have adventures, you and I. We shall see the world.’ His smile dimmed a little. ‘Your mother was the wild one, you know. I never quite understood what she saw in me. The adventures were her idea really.’ He thought of how carefree his wife had been, how full of life. She’d never showed any fear, on the slopes, in life. Not even in the delivery room, when things started to go bad. She kept her bravery till the end, but then it was snuffed out. Now, looking down at this tiny human, totally dependent on him now, his chest clenched tight. He had to protect his son. That was his new life.
As the registrar click clacked back into the room, giving them both her best professional smile, Frank made his mind up. He would love this little baby enough for the both of them, and never let anything happen to him. Ever.
His leg flinched as he moved in the bed now, feeling frustrated. He wished he could go back, shake the sad little lump that he was out of his melancholy. It’s too late though. My boy is grown, and I’m stuck in this bloody bed. His memory was much clearer, but his anger was still there. His frustration. It had lessened, but only to conserve energy. Frank had never felt so tired before. Well, he had once. When he’d walked through the doors of his house, the one he still owned, a new father and a widower, all in one day. The weeks and months that had followed that day were one big blur now to Frank, but he remembered the small details. The registrar office. The little white romper his baby son had worn at the funeral. Frank hadn’t let him out of his sight that day. The cards, letters and Pyrex dishes of food left on his doorstep, the packs of nappies for the baby. Marilyn, the woman who owned the sandwich shop, and had been their friend for years. His friend for long after. She was the annoying woman who waggled the fake pot at him. She was there at the accident, he felt sure. She was the one that
