And Daughter Makes Three

Warmth? Not heat but warmth—love, perhaps. She sensed that it was a room not often used, a room where shared laughter and tender words never echoed, and so the walls were blank, waiting for history to carve itself into the atmosphere. Or recent history, at least. The aged walls and heavy oak beams were soaked in history, but it seemed suppressed, as if it needed the heat of passion to bring it all to life.

She sensed that Robert, too, was uncomfortable in there, as if there was another room, another place that was his retreat—a place where he would rather be. They had perched in there, sipping sherry and making stilted conversation, until Jane came in and announced that their meal was ready.

She was flushed a dull rose, and her cheek was adorned with a dollop of curry sauce, but her eyes were full of eager anticipation and dread in equal measure.

How wonderful, Frankie thought achingly, to have someone to try so hard to please you. The look in Jane’s eyes reminded Frankie of her brother’s wife, eager to please, nothing too much trouble.

And how wonderful, she thought, to have someone you wanted to please, be it father, husband—lover?

Jane ushered them through into the dining room and seated them at the worn and well-loved mahogany table, then served up the meal from the vast number of bowls and dishes that were laid out on its surface.

‘JJ, this looks wonderful,’ Robert said in astonishment, and the girl flushed with pride and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Heavens, what a pretty girl, Frankie thought, and then wondered how Robert would cope without the moderating feminine influence of a wife. Would he allow Jane any freedom to explore her budding womanhood?

She thought not—or not easily. He clearly adored her, and the thought of her turning into a woman with a woman’s needs and wants would torture him, Frankie was sure.

The food broke the ice a little. OK, the rice was a little cold, and Frankie had a sneaking suspicion that her ‘vegetable’ curry was a few frozen veg quickly boiled and then doused in the chicken curry sauce. But she decided that Jane’s sensibilities were more important than her own and ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, and gradually the conversation warmed and laughter trickled in.

‘So, how are you coping with the old bossy-boots?’ Jane asked her at one point with a wicked twinkle at her father. ‘Is he awful at work?’

Frankie grinned and studied him. ‘Awful? Only five days a week.’

‘You haven’t worked with him on Saturday and Sunday yet,’ Jane pointed out.

‘So I haven’t. I expect he’ll be even worse then, as it’s the weekend.’

Robert closed his eyes and gave a mock sigh. ‘Maligned, I am. I thought I’d actually been the perfect boss.’

Frankie chuckled. ‘Of course. I expect you’re really very kind under that grim and forbidding exterior.’

His eyes flew open and he studied her in genuine astonishment. ‘Grim and forbidding? Really?’

She relented. ‘No, not really. Mostly you’re quite civilised. You only bite if I’m particularly stupid or you’re particularly hungry.’

It was an unfortunate choice of words. Something flared in his eyes, and Frankie felt the heat scorch her cheeks. She dropped her head forward slightly and her hair swung down and screened her blush. Damn, what was going on? She’d thought she’d imagined the heat between them on her first night, when he’d brushed the crumb from her lip—but perhaps not?

She hadn’t lied, in fact. He had been a little grim and forbidding. Maybe this uninvited attraction was the cause? He probably resented it for getting in the way of a professional relationship.

Well, he was safe with her. Her career was more important than her private life—for now, at least.

Finally the meal was finished and Jane ushered them out into the drawing room again where she served them coffee, then curled up beside her father on the settee with a cup of hot chocolate.

‘That was wonderful, JJ,’ he told her, and the warmth in his eyes and voice made Frankie’s throat ache. She busied herself with her coffee, giving them room while they exchanged quiet, gentle words. Did he know how lucky he was? she wondered. Or Jane? Did she have any idea how precious her father’s love was, or how fleeting?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stirred the cream into her coffee, watching the black and white merge to a dull tan.

Like her life. The contrast was gone, leaving only work to bring any colour or meaning to it. She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t happy either. Content?

She probably should be grateful.

She listened to the soft music playing in the background, and the gentle murmur of Robert’s voice mingled with Jane’s lighter tones. What was she doing here? Robert didn’t want her here, stirring up the undertones and making things difficult. She ought to go—

‘Goodnight, Frankie. Thank you for coming.’

She looked up, blinking, thinking herself dismissed, and found instead that Jane was on her feet and hovering at the door. ‘I have to go to bed,’ she said with a little grimace.

Frankie laughed wryly. ‘Don’t knock it. It wasn’t so long ago I would have given my eye-teeth for someone to send me to bed.’

Jane grinned. ‘Yeah, well, we all want what we can’t have, don’t we? Oh, well, ‘night, all.’

‘’Night, Jane—and thank you for a lovely meal. I really enjoyed it. In fact, talking of bed …’ She set her cup down with a little rattle. ‘I must go—I’ve been here for hours—’

‘Oh, you don’t have to go. Stay and have another coffee with Dad—there’s tons in the pot. ‘Night, Dad.’

‘Goodnight, JJ—and thank you, darling. It was a wonderful birthday treat.’

She grinned, her apprehension gone, and flitted through the door. Seconds later she reappeared, a rather more sheepish look on her gamine face.

‘Um—don’t worry about the kitchen, by the way, Dad. I’ll fix it tomorrow.’

Robert closed his eyes as she flitted off again, humming. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘I have a bad feeling …’

Frankie chuckled, her melancholy drifting away on his sigh. ‘Come on. She’s done enough. I’ll help you sort it out before I go.’

She followed him into the kitchen, cannoning into his back in the doorway. The grunt of disbelief echoed through his chest and, peering over his shoulder, she scanned the kitchen.

‘Yup—looks like a teenager just cooked a meal,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll wash; you dry up and put away.’

Those few words made it sound so simple. They didn’t begin to touch the bottoms of the pans, caked and burnt with rice and custard and curry sauce, or the endless pots and jars and packets strewn across the worktops—and over it all the fine, crunchy scatter of demerara sugar …