A Southern Star (35 page)

“Blake, what have you arranged? I just wanted takeaways, something simple, what—”
 

His phone buzzed with a text; he stood up. “That will be dinner,” he said calmly. Just then Christie’s parents arrived; she could not insist on an explanation as Blake left the room, was instead caught up in reassuring her parents when her mother spotted the breathing monitor. Her mother’s perceptive questions unnerved Christie, reminded her of her emotions during the afternoon. Emotions she had camouflaged from Blake she now also hid from her parents, minimising the concern she felt.

Christie looked towards the door as her father noticed Blake’s arrival with a large box. Stunned, Christie watched him unwrap four meals that had obviously been professionally prepared and were still piping hot. Blake met her gaze, his eyes suddenly intent, warm, fixed on her. Incredulous, Christie was speechless, barely heard her parents’ amazed comments as
 

Blake moved the sliding table closer to her and started opening a bottle of wine as her parents pulled chairs closer to the bed.

“This is from the winery,” Christie said, suddenly realising how Blake had arranged the meals. Blake nodded, pouring her a glass of wine. Christie could see her mother mouthing something behind Blake’s back; she shook her head slightly, trying to discourage her mother from—

“Blake, this is such an extravagance, even if it is Christie’s birthday. Thank you for going to so much trouble. And for getting a meal for all of us; we were just going to pick up some takeaways.” Christie looked at Blake, embarrassed, feeling unaccountably guilty. She saw Blake’s eyes darken as he watched her, the hurt on his face instantly hidden, replaced with his most charming expression as he turned to acknowledge her mother’s comment, offering her mother first choice of the four meals that had been delivered.

Oblivious to the fact Christie had not told Blake it was her birthday, Christie’s mother laughingly suggested Christie choose first. Blake turned to Christie. “Blue cod or steak?” he asked, his face impassive. Christie’s face burned as she remembered the blue cod Blake had insisted she try on Stewart Island, the steak he had cooked for her at his cottage.
I don’t need to tell him everything
, Christie thought, ignoring her feeling of unease. She smiled at Blake.

“You decide, Blake,” she said, meeting his gaze, seeing the hurt flare again in his eyes.

— # —

It seemed to Christie, looking back over the evening, that Blake had been at his most relaxed. From the moment he placed a beautifully presented pan fried fillet of blue cod in front of her, he had engaged her parents and her in easy conversation, making comments about his new home, asking about Australia, explaining about the winery.

He had displayed no disappointment at her parents’ presence, gone out of his way to be polite, attentive to them and to her. The emotion she had seen so fleetingly in his eyes had not reappeared; instead, his eyes were clear, direct
. I don’t have a brother
, Christie thought inwardly
, but this evening is what it would have been like
. Disappointment flooded through her. Again she felt the disbelief, the stunned wonder as she had seen the meals, the preserved fruit and half melted ice-cream Blake had also brought to the hospital room.

A romantic gesture, she knew, and yet Blake’s entire attitude had been so—fraternal. She replayed his casual assistance while she fed Isla, his polite questions about her impressions of Queenstown, making a point of bringing her parents into the conversation.

Her parents had left several minutes ago; Blake had taken the plates, glasses and wine bottles out to his car. Christie caught her breath, looking at Isla in the crib, realising that tonight she had seen the friendly, genuine side of Blake, his inherent strength of character.

And he thinks I don’t trust him…he’s seen me at my absolute worst…and I’ve got another man’s child in tow…
Doubts assailed Christie. The open, expansive personality Blake had demonstrated that evening was a stark contrast to the reserve, the secretiveness he usually displayed while demanding extensive disclosure from her.
Maybe he’s not attracted to me anymore after what he’s seen recently…maybe…
Her thoughts circled endlessly as she watched Isla stir, her miniature arm, her tiny hand, stretching out as she started to wake up.

“I’ll get her,” Blake spoke, making Christie look up quickly as she realised he had returned.
 

“You don’t have to, she can stay in the crib,” Christie said, an unintentional edge to her voice, not wanting to upset herself further seeing her infant daughter being held by Blake.
 

“Yes of course, if that’s what you want.”
 

Blake sounds disappointed,
Christie thought, suddenly weary. “Blake, I didn’t mean Isla had to stay in the crib, I just didn’t want you to think you had to pick her up.” Christie tried to smooth things over, aware Blake was now offended on a number of levels. “She always looks very contented, being held by you.” Every word was an effort as she tried to keep her tone casual.
 

“Unlike her mother,” Blake said bitterly, shocking Christie.
 

“Blake, please, I didn’t mean to—”

“What?” he demanded. “Tell me, again, that you don’t trust me? Do you think I’ll drop her?”
 

“Of course not!” Impatience entered Christie’s voice as she sought to convince him, turn the conversation away from the argument it had become. She cast around for something to say. “How is your house going? What decisions has Rebecca made?” She immediately realised he had again taken her words the wrong way; was scowling at her.
 

“You said you’d help me.” Blake’s voice was cool. “Yes, I did,” Christie said awkwardly. “But I thought—”
 

“That I’d changed my mind?” Blake interrupted harshly.
 

Christie floundered, feeling like she was mired in quicksand. “I didn’t know,” she began, trying to keep her mind focused on his generosity towards Isla. “I can help, if you still want me to. I really appreciate what you’ve done for Isla,” Christie added, desperately hoping this sounded like a credible reason, knowing at the same time it was the last thing she should be offering to do.

“You sound so enthusiastic, Christie. Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.”
 

Christie closed her eyes briefly, fighting down her warring emotions and her genuine gratitude at all of Blake’s help. “I am keen to help you, Blake. I just…I don’t want it to be awkward,” she said as neutrally as possible. “That’s why I assumed Rebecca would help.”

He watched her silently, not saying anything.
I can’t read him at all,
she thought, flushing uncomfortably as his gaze stayed on her. Christie looked away briefly, trying to speak normally, continue the conversation. “I asked about progress on your house because I was interested. You don’t have to let me know now. But I can help.”

“Maybe in a couple of months or so,” Blake said, surprising her. “I’ll let you know, send you a text.”
 

Christie inclined her head, silently wondering whether he would or not. “Of course,” she said quietly.

“How’s it been today?’ Blake said suddenly, bluntly. Christie thought back over the day, her tired misery, the woman’s comments, the breathing monitor. Dinner with Blake and her parents.
 

“Fine,” she lied.
 

Blake exhaled. “When are you actually going to talk to me rather than just pretend everything’s all right?” She looked at him, stubborn, not wanting to display further weakness in front of him.

Blake said nothing further, seemingly wholly focused on Isla in her crib. Dully, Christie realised he had obviously taken offence at her comment and had made no effort to pick up Isla, was instead ensuring a blanket was securely tucked in as Isla went back to sleep. Christie watched him, intensely aware of the contrast between his sudden coldness towards her and his continuing tenderness towards Isla.

Reluctantly, Blake stepped away from the crib, knowing he could not stay longer in the absence of any encouragement or invitation from Christie. Disappointment filled him as he battled with his emotions, knowing he should not involve himself further, knowing he should really cut his losses, hesitating nonetheless. “If you need a friend to head back in, just call me. Pretend it’s by mistake if you need to.” His sardonic voice completely masked the concern he felt at her flat, apathetic demeanour.

Christie’s face burned as she registered Blake’s reference to mistaken calls.
Does he think I did that deliberately?
she wondered wildly as common sense battled with lack of sleep. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” Christie said politely. “We’ll be fine.”
 

Blake took a step towards her, aching to comfort her, knowing she would rebuff any attempt at comfort from him in this current detached, distant mood. He found himself having to concentrate on maintaining the fraternal manner he knew was safer. He tried a final time, driven by a futile impulse, his initial anger and hurt at being excluded melting away as he recalled the depth of her distress over the day. “I could stay.”

Christie’s eyes fixed on Isla, determined not to betray any further weakness. Her heart screamed at her, its voice deafening her as she fought the urge to turn into Blake’s arms, talk to him openly, share her thoughts. She shook her head mutely, trying to bring herself under control, watching him silently, terrified of displaying any emotion, not wanting to break down completely.
 

Blake’s eyes narrowed, every word an effort. “I know you don’t need me, Christie. You make that very clear. I just thought you might want a friend to stay.” Blake’s mention of that word, his reasonable tone, was enough to make Christie starkly aware of the reality of the situation. She pushed aside the seductive thought of Blake staying for the rest of the night, his silent support, his casual assistance with feeding Isla.

“Thanks again, Blake. But we really will be all right. Besides,” Christie added lamely, “you’ve got work tomorrow.”
 

Blake looked at her, smiling without humour. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. But you’ve made your point.” Christie looked blankly at the door as Blake walked out of the room as abruptly as he had arrived.
Blake’s gone.
Numb, Christie realised he had not taken his jacket; almost guiltily she reached for it, still feeling its warmth against her as she fell asleep.

— # —

Christie lay awake in the darkness, sensing the shadowed form of the nurse hovering at the door of her room, relieved as she heard the nurse walk quickly down the corridor. Christie curled up in the bed, trying to calm herself without success as the traumatic events of the previous day caught up with her, her distress breaching the protective front she had displayed to her parents, to Blake. Fresh tears overwhelmed her at the thought of bringing Isla up alone.

Blindly, she reached for Blake’s jacket, the wool becoming damp against her face, intensifying Blake’s scent. Her lack of trust taunted her as she replayed the many ways he had tried to support her, spend time with her.
But I’m just one in a line,
she told herself, ignoring the voice in her heart reminding her she had not even bothered to ask Blake for any kind of explanation. Her gaze moved to the bedside cabinet in the semidarkness, knowing her phone was there.
Call him…It’s 3 a.m.…He said I could call…

Christie’s heart warred with her mind as she longed for Blake’s presence, moving towards the cabinet, her hand feeling along the top of the cabinet, closing around the cold phone. Her heart pounding, Christie settled back onto the bed, furtively looking at the glowing screen, her thumb hovering over the symbols, her resolve wavering as she glanced towards Isla.
 

— # —

Blake was wide awake instantly, reaching for his mobile phone in the darkness of the night. He fought off disappointment as he heard the voice, knew he had to focus. He asked several precise questions, ending the call as he hastily threw on clothes, grabbing the car keys from the cold kitchen bench, heading out the door.

— # —

Christie watched, holding her breath, as Blake strode into the hospital room, glancing at Isla in her crib before his eyes fixed on Christie, raking over her, satisfying himself she was all right.

“Blake?” Her face creased. He smiled at her, hiding his concern at her obviously reddened eyes as he took a seat next to the bed.
 

“The nurse rang,” he said calmly.
 

“Why was the nurse ringing you?” she asked suspiciously, glancing quickly at the phone she had replaced on the cabinet.
 

“Because I asked them to call if there was a problem,” Blake replied as though it was obvious. “I knew you wouldn’t call yourself. Good to see you’re still fine,” he added.
 

Blake’s words chilled Christie, a direct reference to the polite assurance she had given him. She looked up at him, wondering whether to tell him she had in fact considered calling him, marvelling at his utter calmness, his complete control. It was as though she could see him with total clarity, could not take her eyes from his face. His devastating looks seemed even more pronounced, his dark eyes the colour of the shadows in the dimly-lit room as he waited for her to speak.