'What-' Gemma stared at them. 'But I thought you were going to ring- both of you, I mean.'
'Bryony's holding her first clinic this afternoon,' explained Marc. 'And the dog's owner brought him round, so Bryony asked me if I'd bring him to you as a surprise. Heavy beastie,' he added, setting Geordie down.
'And as I was lending a hand at the clinic,' said Wesley, 'I thought I'd bring your tree.' He nodded towards a white van sitting at the curb. 'Otto's contribution- he loaned the van.'
Gemma recovered enough to say, 'Oh, come in, please. Forgive my manners.' Kincaid had appeared behind her, a hand on her shoulder. She introduced him, then gave him what she hoped was a coherent explanation of their visitors' burdens.
'Geordie, eh?' Kincaid dropped to one knee to fondle the dog's silky ears. 'The kids will be thrilled.'
'You don't mind, do you?' Gemma asked softly. 'He was meant to be a Christmas surprise… for the family.'
'I think he's lovely.' He gave the dog a last pat and stood up. 'Now, what about this tree?'
The three men managed to unload the tree from the van and lean it against the wall in the corner of the sitting room before the children, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, came trooping in from the garden.
It was the dog they noticed first, Kit wide-eyed with surprise, Toby his usual vocal self.
'What kind of doggie is he, Mummy? What's his name? Is he ours? Can we keep him?'
Gemma was accustomed to answering sequential questions. 'Well, he's a cocker spaniel, his name is Geordie, and we'll have to see how he gets along with Tess and Sid before we're certain he can stay.'
Tess was sniffing the spaniel cautiously, while Geordie stood, alert and quivering. Gemma watched anxiously, terrified the dogs might snap, but after a thorough investigation, Tess gave a playful bark and Geordie, his stump of a tail wagging furiously, sniffed back. Gemma breathed a sigh of relief.
'That just leaves Sid,' she said, 'though heaven knows where he is.' Sid the cat had been released from the downstairs loo yesterday evening and had promptly vanished under the furniture, but his food bowl had been empty that morning. 'Now he'll be even more upset.'
'He was rescued from a rubbish bin when he was a kitten, so I imagine he can deal with another dog in the household,' Kincaid reassured her.
'Do you mind if I nip out to the van for a minute?' asked Wesley. 'I left a couple of things.'
He came back with a paper bag from which he removed several boxes of tiny white fairy lights. 'I didn't know if you had any, and I thought it would be rather a letdown if not…'
'Oh, Wesley, I don't know what to say. I bought a stand for the tree at the supermarket this morning, but I completely forgot lights.' She retrieved the stand from the pantry, and Marc lifted the heavy tree into it with one apparently effortless heave.
'Can we put the lights on the tree now?' asked Kit, with the quiet intensity Gemma was learning meant he was either very excited or very happy.
'There is one more small thing,' said Wesley. He pulled what looked like a pasteboard shirt box from the bag and opened it. A dozen little nests of white tissue paper held what at first glance looked like bright birds. But when Gemma examined them more closely, she saw that they were angels, their faces delicately painted on cloth, their robes and wings exquisitely sewn from colorful scraps of silks, brocades and organdy.
'But-'
'A housewarming gift from my mother. She makes them, and when I described you- Anyway, she said a new household needs its own set of angels.' He shoved his hands in his pockets, and Gemma wondered if he were blushing. It was the first time she'd seen him discomfited.
'Wesley, they're gorgeous. Thank your mother for me. Where on earth did she learn to sew like this?'
'My grandmother was a crack seamstress-'
'Why is your hair like that?' interrupted Toby, pointing at Wesley's head. 'Can I touch it?'
'Toby!'
'No, it's all right,' said Wesley, laughing. He knelt down. 'Put your fingers right in. They're called dreadlocks. White people can have them, too, but they have to work harder at it.'
The doorbell rang again. This time it was Hazel, with Holly in tow and arms laden with carrier bags. Gemma did what any good hostess would do in such circumstances: She made tea.
Bryony packed her few remaining supplies into her case. The last of her clients had gone, and Marc had not yet returned from delivering the cocker spaniel to Gemma James.
Her task finished, she sat back in contentment, recalling each of the dozen or so dogs and the two cats she'd treated, and their owners. Sore paws, skin conditions, minor infections, fleas; there'd been nothing she wouldn't see in a normal day's work. But the owners' gratitude had been completely out of proportion to the seriousness of the animals' condition, and the work had given Bryony the greatest satisfaction she could remember experiencing.
Of course, there had been frustrations as well, things she'd been unable to treat, and she'd used most of the medicines and bandages she'd brought from the surgery. If she were going to continue this, she'd have to find some other means of financing- her bank balance wouldn't hold up long at this rate. And Gavin had been a right prat yesterday, standing over her, making sure she noted every item against her account. Did he think her dishonest?
It seemed to her that Gavin had been more difficult than usual this past week, making her wonder if Dawn Arrowood's death had had more than a casual impact on him. Could there have been more to their relationship than Gavin's flirting? She couldn't imagine a woman like Dawn taking Gavin seriously.
But then, who was she to say? She'd been attracted to Tom, after all, and had not seen him for the complete rotter he was until he'd waved it in front of her like a red flag.
A niggle in the back of her mind asked her if she could be wrong about Marc, too, but she refused even to entertain such an idea. The real question, the one she'd been avoiding for a good bit now, was where their relationship was going.
She'd invited him over for dinner the previous evening, as she often did, and although she couldn't compete with his cooking, she'd done her best with wine, candles, and atmosphere. For a moment, as he was saying good night, she'd thought something might happen. But then he'd given her his usual quick peck on the cheek and left.
Had it been her imagination, that instant of chemistry? Or did he truly believe that men and women could simply be friends, in which case her feelings for him could only lead to her complete humiliation. What if she were to slip up, say something blindingly obvious, and be kindly, politely rejected?
Just the thought made her face burn with anguish and embarrassment, and at that moment Marc walked in.
'Bryony? Are you all right?' He came closer and peered at her. 'You're as red as beetroot.'
'I'm fine,' she lied. 'I'm absolutely fine.'
Toby had commandeered Hazel and Holly for an immediate tour of the house and garden, while Marc helped Kincaid and Kit level the tree in its stand.
Gemma glanced at Wesley as they waited for the water to boil in the kitchen. 'You're good with the kids. Didn't you say you help Otto out a bit? I remember you were picking his girls up from school the other day.'
'Poor mites. At least their dad's around all day, but Otto doesn't have a clue about little girl things, you know what I mean? Plaiting hair and choosing dresses, stuff like that. Now me, I grew up with five sisters, so I know about girls.'
'Five? One was bad enough in my case,' Gemma said with feeling. Having nothing that matched, she put an odd assortment of mugs on a tray. 'You've worked for Otto for a while- are you planning to stay in the restaurant business?'
'No way. It just pays my school fees. I can only afford to go part-time.'
'University?' When he nodded, she asked, 'What sort of degree?'
