Saving Nathaniel Read Online Free PDF Page B

not an issue to be gossiped about with your sister, speculated on with those busybodies down at the Post Office or discussed over the garden fence with the old trout next door. Do I make myself perfectly clear?' Megan, holding her breath, nodded. 'Now, get back to the work I'm paying you for, mind your own damned business…and keep your hands off my fucking car!'
    Shocked into virtual speechlessness by the abrupt change in his temperament, she could only force out a fragile, 'I'm sorry…'
    He wasn't interested in her apology, and she abandoned it. She got to her feet and strode quickly into the safety of the house.
    After fifteen minutes spent brooding on the wall, he had calmed down. He took the polishing rag from his pocket and gave his car a final wipe over. Content with the standard of finish, he tidied the cleaning materials into the garage and went back into the kitchen. He put his dirty coffee cup on the sink drainer and washed his hands. From a respectable distance, Megan handed him a towel to dry them. As he took it from her, their fingers accidentally touched and she withdrew hers as if burned.
    'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't have yelled at you, but you overstepped the mark.'
    She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the towel. 'I know. It was my fault. I wasn't thinking.'
    He held it out for her to take. 'Don't do it again.'
    She glanced up and met his eyes for an instant 'I'll try not to.' Immediately she corrected herself. 'I won't.'
    'See that you don't.'
    He clapped his hands loudly, startling her, and rubbed them briskly together. 'Now, is there any chance of some lunch? I'm famished!' he said, all trace of harshness gone,
    She had now witnessed Nat's volatile temper firsthand and it troubled her deeply how easily a seemingly trivial comment could set off such fury. Rebecca had cautioned her it could happen, but she hadn't heeded the warning. In future, she knew, she would have to be more careful.
    It's never a good idea to prod a sleeping bear with a sharp stick , she told herself.
    She made a concerted effort to curb her tongue and become more observant of his moods, and soon became adept at spotting an impending change by the set of his face, his mannerisms or the tone of his voice.
    Often she could turn him around with a kind word, careful attention and an encouraging smile. Other times she simply needed to stop talking, walk away and leave him alone. When his temper did get the better of him he was usually, but not always, apologetic and remorseful afterwards.
     
    Despite her preparedness, Nat still managed to perturb her.
    He had called her into the study one afternoon. She hadn't been in the room since her initial furtive survey of the house, but it looked different from how she remembered it. He had seemingly taken it upon himself to tidy up and move the furniture around.
    He was now busily sorting books into a pile, and she stood quietly in front of the fireplace, waiting for her instructions. The only sound in the room, apart from the quiet thud of book being stacked upon book, came from the hypnotic ticking of the wood-cased mantle clock. It reached into the expectant silence and as it did, she allowed her eyes to wander around the revered study.
    It was an odd mix of old and new items, each contrasting the other. The massive, antique oak desk that dominated one side of the room carried Nat's ultra modern shiny laptop. The flat screen TV and satellite system looked out of place beside the wood panelled walls and the high stained glass window with its Victorian window seat cushioned in plush green velvet, in patches a little threadbare. A functional, high-backed office chair stood in stark black newness compared to his shabby brown leather armchair. The armchair was showing considerable age, and both it and its matching footstool had been almost worn through to the stuffing in places.
    Against the walls, bookshelves groaned with books of all shapes and sizes, and where there was no more