Merry Christmas (Mills & Boon Vintage 90s Modern) by Emma Darcy Page A
Authors: Emma Darcy
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reproof. “We’re supposed to be saying good things today.”
“I stand corrected,” he said with mock ruefulness. “From here on in I’ll tell Miss Palmer you’re a perfect angel.”
Kimberly sighed in exasperation.
Meredith laughed, happy to see the easy rapport between the two, the love that was taken for granted. It was obvious her daughter was fine and Nick was taking good care of her.
Kimberly gave her a look that appealed for understanding. “I’m not a perfect angel...”
“None of us are,” Meredith assured her with a grin. “On the other hand, it’s such a perfect day, let’s enjoy it all we can.”
“Starting with food,” Nick popped in. “I don’t know about you, Miss Palmer, but the nervous energy that’s been swirling around me this morning seems to have drained my stomach. I’m starving.”
He was handling this so well. No constraint. Smoothing the path. Her eyes thanked him, loving him for caring to make it as right as he could. “Lunch would be good,” she agreed, half turning and holding out her left hand for Kimberly to take if she wanted to, smiling encouragement.
She took it. “Uncle Nick said this restaurant served super food. I hope you’ll like it.” Eager to impress.
“How could I not? It has such a lovely position.” And I’ve got the best company in the world. Her heart was so full it was difficult not to pour out her feelings. Only the thought of overwhelming the child stopped her. She forced herself to hold her hand lightly as they walked along together, chatting about food preferences.
Long tubs of shrubs formed a demarcation line between the outside dining area of the restaurant and the public domain. A waiter took Nick’s name and ushered them to a table by the water. A wide umbrella overhead provided welcome shade, lowering the glare and protecting them from the harmful rays of the sun.
They had an unrestricted view of Fort Denison, the small island in the harbour where the worst criminals were marooned in the early convict days. Pinchgut, it had been commonly called, because the men had been left for lengthy periods with only very small rations. Like her with Kimberly, Meredith thought, remembering the long emptiness in between the once-a-year photographs and the subsequent craving for more.
She watched her daughter covertly as they settled into their chairs, secretly feasting on the wealth of detail that photographs could never impart; the way she moved, the wonderful mobility of her face as her expressions changed, the bright intelligence in her eyes, the fascinating dimple in one cheek, the holding-her-own tilt of her chin as she bantered with the man she believed was her uncle.
A jug of ice water was quickly brought, menus handed around. The business of selecting their orders helped to set a more relaxed mood, though Meredith noticed Kimberly took every discreet opportunity to eye her in more lingering detail. Meredith fiercely hoped she liked all she saw.
The menu was a blur of choices. It didn’t matter what she ate. It was highly doubtful she’d even taste it. When the waiter returned, Kimberly ordered battered fish fillets and chips and Meredith said she’d have the same. Nick decided on a chicken dish and added a green salad for three as an accompaniment to their meal. He asked if she’d like to share a bottle of wine but Meredith declined, not wanting her perceptions even slightly fuzzied. They all requested soft drinks.
“Uncle Nick said you live at Balmoral. Do you like the beach?” Kimberly asked.
“Very much. I was brought up in Coff’’s Harbour on the far north coast.” She flicked a glance at the man who had met and known her there. His expression held speculative interest, no personal reaction to the name of the seaside town. “The beach used to be my playground,” she added to Kimberly. “Since I came to Sydney I’ve always lived somewhere near one.”
“Because it reminds you of home?”
No, not home, Meredith
“I stand corrected,” he said with mock ruefulness. “From here on in I’ll tell Miss Palmer you’re a perfect angel.”
Kimberly sighed in exasperation.
Meredith laughed, happy to see the easy rapport between the two, the love that was taken for granted. It was obvious her daughter was fine and Nick was taking good care of her.
Kimberly gave her a look that appealed for understanding. “I’m not a perfect angel...”
“None of us are,” Meredith assured her with a grin. “On the other hand, it’s such a perfect day, let’s enjoy it all we can.”
“Starting with food,” Nick popped in. “I don’t know about you, Miss Palmer, but the nervous energy that’s been swirling around me this morning seems to have drained my stomach. I’m starving.”
He was handling this so well. No constraint. Smoothing the path. Her eyes thanked him, loving him for caring to make it as right as he could. “Lunch would be good,” she agreed, half turning and holding out her left hand for Kimberly to take if she wanted to, smiling encouragement.
She took it. “Uncle Nick said this restaurant served super food. I hope you’ll like it.” Eager to impress.
“How could I not? It has such a lovely position.” And I’ve got the best company in the world. Her heart was so full it was difficult not to pour out her feelings. Only the thought of overwhelming the child stopped her. She forced herself to hold her hand lightly as they walked along together, chatting about food preferences.
Long tubs of shrubs formed a demarcation line between the outside dining area of the restaurant and the public domain. A waiter took Nick’s name and ushered them to a table by the water. A wide umbrella overhead provided welcome shade, lowering the glare and protecting them from the harmful rays of the sun.
They had an unrestricted view of Fort Denison, the small island in the harbour where the worst criminals were marooned in the early convict days. Pinchgut, it had been commonly called, because the men had been left for lengthy periods with only very small rations. Like her with Kimberly, Meredith thought, remembering the long emptiness in between the once-a-year photographs and the subsequent craving for more.
She watched her daughter covertly as they settled into their chairs, secretly feasting on the wealth of detail that photographs could never impart; the way she moved, the wonderful mobility of her face as her expressions changed, the bright intelligence in her eyes, the fascinating dimple in one cheek, the holding-her-own tilt of her chin as she bantered with the man she believed was her uncle.
A jug of ice water was quickly brought, menus handed around. The business of selecting their orders helped to set a more relaxed mood, though Meredith noticed Kimberly took every discreet opportunity to eye her in more lingering detail. Meredith fiercely hoped she liked all she saw.
The menu was a blur of choices. It didn’t matter what she ate. It was highly doubtful she’d even taste it. When the waiter returned, Kimberly ordered battered fish fillets and chips and Meredith said she’d have the same. Nick decided on a chicken dish and added a green salad for three as an accompaniment to their meal. He asked if she’d like to share a bottle of wine but Meredith declined, not wanting her perceptions even slightly fuzzied. They all requested soft drinks.
“Uncle Nick said you live at Balmoral. Do you like the beach?” Kimberly asked.
“Very much. I was brought up in Coff’’s Harbour on the far north coast.” She flicked a glance at the man who had met and known her there. His expression held speculative interest, no personal reaction to the name of the seaside town. “The beach used to be my playground,” she added to Kimberly. “Since I came to Sydney I’ve always lived somewhere near one.”
“Because it reminds you of home?”
No, not home, Meredith
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