A Father At Last Read Online Free PDF Page B

and he knew she was struggling for composure.

    “I tell him the romance didn’t work out, that we didn’t love each other enough, and that mummies and daddies have to love each other to be married and live happily ever after.”

    “And he bought that?” Ben hated the way he sounded so cynical.

    “He’s a little boy,” she said simply. “It’s enough for now. And I told him his father had gone away, a long way away, to the other side of the world, and that’s why we don’t see him.”

    Ben felt a tightness in his throat, solid, unrelenting, choking, as if a big hand was squeezing, squeezing. When he opened his mouth to speak, he was surprised at how normal his voice sounded—conversational almost.

    “And if you could choose the perfect father for your son, what would you be looking for?”

    She faced him once more. “Do you really need to ask that question?”

    “Yes.”

    “Okay, you want the list—here it is. I’d look for stability, reliability, goodness, honesty. I’d look for a law‐abiding man who was home when we needed him.” Her voice, though still low and quiet, was stronger now.

    “I’d look for someone steadfast and loving, someone who would be there for us.
    Always.” Her eyes, intense as the deep blue ocean beyond, held his in unmistakable challenge. “I’d look for a man who wasn’t going to be dragged away from us by the cops one day…I’d—”

    He stepped forward then, and cupped her face with both his hands, resisting the impulse to kiss away the impending tears.

    “I’m sorry, sweetheart, really sorry,” he murmured. “I was way out of order. Let’s rewind a bit.”

    “Where to?” She looked forlorn. “To the start of the seventh form when we were Julie Mac
    top of the perch and innocently thought the world was our oyster? To the time before my father went to prison and we were two happy little kids without a care in the world?” She shifted her gaze towards Dylan and his friends, and Ben dropped his hands to his sides.

    He studied her profile, noting the tightly‐coiled tension in the muscles around her mouth, her too‐fast breathing, and felt an utter heel.

    “Let’s go back to where I say, ‘Dylan’s a great little kid.’ Full stop. And you say…”

    He held out his hands, palms up, inviting her to speak, and Kelly, relief plain on her face, faced him again with a hint of a smile and said, “Thanks, you’re right, he is.” Pride lit her eyes as she added, “And I’ve never regretted having him.”

    “Okay, good. I’m glad.” He meant it. He let his eyes follow the boys on the beach, running, kicking the ball, shoving each other, all accompanied by happy shouts and laughter, and he felt sick to the stomach when he thought of Kelly—alone and pregnant, her father in prison, her mother dead—and the choices she faced.

    Ending the pregnancy was an option. Adoption too. But she’d kept their little boy and God knows, it must have been a struggle for her, juggling her law degree with child care, but there he was, healthy, robust and to all appearances, perfectly happy and well-adjusted.

    Against the odds, she’d brought him into the world safe and sound and given him a good life.

    He heard Dylan yell at one of the other boys, his voice loud and strong, his head up—
    a confident kid.
    A memory surfaced from far away, sharp, painful as a fresh wound and totally unexpected.

    A little kid of five, curled in a corner of the living room, arms wrapped around his head, silent as a stone, the taste of blood like iron in his mouth. A man towering huge above the boy, dark hair black with sweat, face red with fury, features contorted, screaming and hitting, hitting, hitting. A woman, crying, begging the man to stop. A little girl, younger than the boy, sobbing and screaming, ‘Stop, Daddy, stop.’

    Now, with willpower born of practice, he forced himself to discard the memory, concentrating on the sounds around him—the gentle shush of the