Her Ideal Husband

She shrugged, awkwardly. ‘It’s being a mother,’ she began. ‘You just can’t help yourself.’ She swallowed, and tried to ignore the dangerous tingle where his fingers had touched her wrist. She wasn’t feeling motherly. Oh, no. Not one bit. ‘I, um, helped myself to a few strawberries,’ she said, bringing up the subject before he did. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I thought you were very restrained not to take more. Were they good?’ He’d been standing there watching her? Her face competed with the poppies again.

‘Mummee!’ Another desperate plea.

‘I think the captain of the team wants to get on with the game,’ he said, stooping to pick up the ball, offering it to her.

‘What? Oh, no, that’s Rosie. She’s only seven. Clover makes her play in goal. She’s not very good.’ She took the ball, tucking it under her arm. ‘I’ll try to keep them under control, but when they’ve been in school all day…’

‘No problem. I’ll be around for a day or two. If the ball comes over again, just give me a shout and I’ll throw it back.’

‘You could be sorry you said that.’ She forced her legs to make a move, to put some distance between her and the temptation to stay and just look at him, but he walked alongside her as she headed back to the wall.

Was he going to offer her a hand up? She tried not to think about his hands around her waist, his breath on her neck.

‘What’s going to happen to this place?’ she asked quickly. To distract herself. ‘Do you know?’ She looked back. ‘I heard it was going to be sold to some awful developer.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘Oh, Lord, is that you?’

‘Would that be a problem?’ The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile as he glanced sideways at her.

She wished she’d done more than tie her hair back with one of the girls’ bobbles. And put on some mascara. Lipstick even.

To paint a door? Get real, Stacey; this guy is a Grade A hunk and you’re a mother of two with the muscle-tone to prove it...

‘We’d miss the view,’ she said, quickly. Not that it would be hers for long. One wild-flower meadow at the local primary school, no matter how much admired, did not a career make. She really had to stop kidding herself that she could make a business out of her passion for wild flowers and get the house into shape so that she could sell it. He glanced across the garden to the fields rising away to the hazy hills in the distance. ‘Maybe they won’t get planning permission,’ she said, hopefully.

‘They already have.’

‘Oh.’ She’d expected it, but it was still a blow. ‘Houses?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Industrial units.’

‘Oh,’ she repeated dully. Then, ‘Are you working for the developers?’

He shook his head. ‘Just for myself. Nash Gallagher,’ he said, introducing himself, stopping to offer his hand before realising that, between the strawberries and the ball, her hands were now fully occupied. It was probably just as well. She hadn’t recovered from the hand around the wrist yet. Palm to palm was going to leave her reeling. And incapable of climbing that wretched wall.

But she could hardly deny him her name. ‘Stacey O’Neill. And you’ve probably gathered that the nuisances are Clover and Rosie.’

‘Well, I’m glad to have met you. As I said, I’ll be staying here for a few days, in case you see a light and think someone might be up to no good and call the police.’

‘Staying? You mean you’re camping? Here?’ She looked around, saw the small one-man tent pitched in a shady corner and wondered if he had permission. Then decided that it was none of her business.

‘This is the height of luxury compared to some of the places I’ve lived,’ he assured her, evidently mistaking her concern. ‘It’s got running water, plumbing—’

She wanted to ask what places, but restrained herself and wondered if he’d broken into the office to get at the plumbing and running water. Did it matter? If it was all going to be flattened... ‘You’re still sleeping in a tent.’ Then she shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s okay when it’s not raining.’ It had been a very wet spring.

‘Are you suggesting this spell of good weather is unlikely to last?’ he asked, with just a touch of irony in his voice to match the infinitesimal lift of one eyebrow.

‘This good weather has lasted all of a week so far, which, for this summer, is a record.’ Then she relented. ‘But according to the forecast you should be safe for a day or two.’

He glanced up at the cloudless sky for a moment. ‘Let’s hope so.’

‘Mummeeeeee!’

‘They’re getting impatient.’ She tossed the ball over the wall. ‘I’ll try to keep it on our side of wall from now on.’

‘It’s not a problem, really.’

Maybe not, but she had one. Getting over the wall with what remained of her dignity intact while he stood there and looked at her winter-white legs. Winter-white splashed with the forget-me-not-blue gloss that she’d finished the door with. And a scraping of brick dust. And squishy green plant juice on her knees from her expedition into the strawberry bed.

She looked at the strawberries in her hand and wished she left them for the slugs. Now she would have to get over the wall with one hand, or throw them away.

‘Can I help?’ he offered. Again.

She thought about those big hands lifting her, or giving her a push from behind. ‘Er…’ This was getting ridiculous. She was heading at what seemed like break-neck speed towards thirty. She had two children. Blushing was for girls... ‘Perhaps if you hold the strawberries while I climb up?’ she suggested.

He made no move to take them; instead he linked his hands together and offered them as a foothold. She felt a momentary stab of disappointment, then quickly placed her battered tennis shoe into the cup of his palms, and as he lifted her, she grabbed for the wall and was deposited on the top without the usual ungainly knee-skinning scramble.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘My pleasure,’ he replied, grinning broadly as she swung her legs over to the other side. ‘Drop in any time.’

She pretended not to hear, sliding down into her own garden and finishing off the foxgloves in her hurry. And not doing the strawberries much good, either. Despite the lift over the wall, she had still managed to squash them into a juicy mush.

Nash Gallagher watched as his new neighbour swung her lovely legs over the wall and quickly disappeared. She’d been decorating, he’d noticed. There were streaks of blue paint on her thighs and clothes and her fingers, as she’d cupped the strawberries protectively in her hand, still had paint embedded around her nails. Did she just enjoy doing it herself?

With Daddy in heaven, it would seem she had little choice.

Stacey was mashing the strawberries to mix with ice cream for Clover and Rosie’s tea when the abandoned door handle, still dangling by one partly driven screw, gave up the unequal struggle with gravity and fell noisily to the floor.

Clover, finishing off her baked beans, glanced at it. Then she said, ‘What this house needs is a capable man.’ Stacey took her plate and replaced it with the ice cream. ‘Or one with plenty of money.’

‘Clover!’

‘It’s true,’ Rosie added, helpfully. ‘Aunt Dee said so.’

Dee was undoubtedly right, but she wished her sister would keep her thoughts to herself. Or at least not voice them in front of the girls.

Fat chance. Her sister was hell-bent on fixing her up with a new husband, someone who fitted Dee’s idea of what was suitable for a little sister who couldn’t be trusted to choose someone for herself. Someone steady. Someone who wouldn’t, under any circumstances, ride a motorcycle.

An accountant, perhaps. Or, even better, an actuary, like her own husband. A man genetically programmed not to take unacceptable risks.

Unfortunately, much as she liked her brother-in-law, Stacey just couldn’t get terribly excited at the thought of being married to his clone. Her thoughts strayed to the stranger camping on the far side of her garden and she found herself smiling. There were some things that money couldn’t ever compensate for.

But as Stacey handed her younger daughter her ice cream, she promised herself she would have that door repainted, with its furniture in place and working when her sister came to lunch on Saturday. If it killed her.

Actually, though, her encounter with Nash Gallagher had given her an idea. Well, more than one, but she was a realist. Sex among the strawberries was fine when you were young and fancy-free but mothers had responsibilities. Mothers had to be sensible.

She let the tempting thought slip away and concentrated on the sensible one. Her house might not be fit for a feature in one of those ‘beautiful homes’ magazines, and it might not appeal to fussy buyers with a world of houses to choose from, but it was habitable. And she had a spare bedroom. Two, if she included the attic. Nash might be happy to sleep in a tent, but there were plenty of other people who would rather have hot water and clean sheets. Maybe she could let the rooms to a couple of students.

At her present rate of progress it would be a while before she could lick the house into shape and two students would make quite a difference when it came to paying the bills. And if they were a couple of willing lads, or girls, the kind who knew one end of a screwdriver from the other, it would be even better. In return for a little home cooking, they might achieve the same purpose as a capable man without all the disadvantages that went with the kind of husband a widow approaching thirty, with two little girls to bring up, could hope to attract.

Nash found himself grinning as he cleared away the broken glass, smiling as he remembered the way Stacey had coloured up when he’d caught her with her hand in the strawberry patch. He’d have sworn modern women had forgotten how to blush.

He should be feeling guilty for embarrassing her like that: a young widow with two little girls. Thoroughly ashamed of himself. Hell, he was ashamed, but that blush had been worth it.

Then the smile faded as he looked about him.

Industrial units.

Landscaped, low-rise industrial units. On paper it hadn’t sounded so bad. Standing here with the gentle slope of the wheatfield rising to a spinney that broke up the smooth line of the earth against the sky and with the peach trees basking against the centuries-old wall, it wasn’t quite so easy to be dismissive of the destruction.

On paper the choice had looked simple. Putting down roots had no appeal to him. He wasn’t sentimental about the past. His childhood hadn’t been the kind to get sentimental over.

But standing there, surrounded by the few good memories, it wasn’t quite so easy to dismiss.

‘You’re not getting any younger and children are a high-cost luxury.’

‘Make a record, Dee; it’ll save the wear and tear on your vocal cords,’ Stacey said, without rancour. She knew her sister meant well.

‘I would if I thought you’d listen to it. You need a husband and the girls need a father.’

‘I don’t need a husband, I need an odd-job man. And the girls have a father. No one can replace Mike.’

‘No.’ Dee, apparently about to make an unflattering comment about his parenting skills, hesitated, and went for tact instead. ‘Mike’s not here, Stacey,’ she said, kindly. Tact? Kindly? This was more than her usual ‘it’s-time-you-moved-on’ speech. She was up to something, Stacey thought. ‘You owe it to them to find them a father…a father-figure,’ she amended, quickly. ‘Someone who could give them all the advantages they deserve.’ Stacey began clearing the table in an attempt to avoid what was coming next. Dee was not to be distracted. ‘Lawrence Fordham for instance.’

So, this wasn’t just a general buck-yourself-up-and-get-out-there pep-talk. This was altogether more serious.

‘Lawrence?’ she repeated. ‘You want me to marry your boss?’

‘Why not? He’s a nice man. Steady, reliable, mature.’ Adjectives that could, by no stretch of the imagination, have been applied to Mike. But then, at eighteen, Stacey hadn’t been looking for those qualities in a man. Which was just as well, since she hadn’t got them. ‘He’s just a bit shy, that’s all.’

‘Just a bit,’ she agreed. She’d been put next to him at a recent lunch party at her sister’s house... Ah. So that was it. She wouldn’t make an effort, so her sister was making it for her. It should have been funny. But once Dee got an idea in her head she was harder to shake off than a shadow. ‘Small talk drips from his lips the way blood drips from a stone.’

‘That’s not fair. Once you get to know him—’

‘I do know him and you’re right, he’s a nice man.’ If you enjoyed talking about cheese production, or yoghurt culture. ‘I just wasn’t planning on anything more intimate—’

‘Okay, he’s not pin-up material, but let’s face it, sweetie, how many men-to-die-for do you know who are lining up, panting for a date?’

‘He’s panting?’ Stacey enquired, wickedly. ‘Lawrence?’

‘Of course not,’ Dee snapped. ‘You know what I mean!’ Stacey knew. She’d had her man-to-die-for and there was only one of those per lifetime. Which was probably just as well. Now she had to be sensible, but the prospect of dating men like Lawrence for the rest of her life, or worse, settling down with someone like him, was just so depressing.

‘He’s solid, Stacey. He wouldn’t let you down.’

Meaning that if he was inconsiderate enough to die on her, he wouldn’t leave her with a house that swallowed money, two children to bring up single-handed and no visible means of support, Stacey supposed.

‘He couldn’t let me down, Dee. We are acquaintances. Nothing more,’ she added, just to make her position quite clear.

‘Well, that’s about to change,’ Dee replied, ignoring her sister’s position. ‘I told him that you’d be his date for the firm’s dinner next Saturday.’

‘You did what!’ Stacey didn’t wait for her sister for repeat herself. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘Why? He’s personable. He’s got all his own hair and teeth and no bad habits.’ Stacey wondered if her sister was prepared to guarantee that in writing, but didn’t want to prolong the conversation. ‘He’ll make someone a wonderful husband and you need one more than most.’

‘Husband? I thought we were just talking about a date.’

‘We are. But you’re mature people. You’d be good for Lawrence, bring him out of himself. And he’d be very good for you. He wouldn’t even mind if you turned his garden into a weed patch.’ Because he wouldn’t notice. ‘You do the best you can, but don’t pretend it isn’t a struggle.’ Stacey wasn’t about to. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference if she did, because Dee knew better. ‘You will come on Saturday, won’t you?’

‘Oh, Dee…’

‘Please.’ Please? She was that desperate? ‘I’ll promise not to mention the subject again for a whole month if you do,’ she promised.

‘Good grief, I’m almost tempted. But I haven’t got a thing to wear,’ Stacey said, falling back on the age-old excuse.

‘You can wear my black dress.’

‘Your black dress?’ She should have known that her sister had a fall-back plan to cover her fall-back plan... Then her jaw dropped. ‘You don’t mean the black dress?’

‘Of course I mean the black dress,’ Dee said, calmly, and Stacey finally managed a laugh.

‘Now I’m really worried. Tell me, have you got some enormous bonus riding on your ability to fix Lawrence up with a date for this dinner?’

Dee’s brows quirked invitingly. ‘Would you go out with him if I had?’

‘Would you split it with me?’ Then, quickly, ‘Don’t answer that. I don’t want to be that tempted.’

‘Oh, come on, Stacey. It’s a night out. Gorgeous restaurant, lovely food, rich bloke. How many offers like that do you get these days?’ Not many. Actually, none. ‘He’s completely house-trained, I promise you.’ Dee meant to reassure her, but Stacey didn’t want a house-trained man. What she wanted was someone like Nash Gallagher. All right, not like Nash Gallagher. She wanted him. In person. ‘You’ll be safe enough,’ she promised. ‘Tim and I will be there.’

That’d be fun. An evening with Mr Nice, Mrs Bossy and Mr Deadly-Dull-but-Totally-Dependable...

But Stacey caught a tantalising glimpse of a way out. ‘If you’re going to the dinner, I won’t have anyone to babysit.’ There were many times when she wished her parents hadn’t sold up their business and moved to Spain to grow old disgracefully in the sun. This was not one of them. And Vera, her next-door neighbour and best friend, who looked after the girls on her occasional—very occasional—evening out, worked on Saturday nights at the local petrol station.

‘Clover and Rosie can stay over at our house,’ Dee replied, with all the firmness of a woman who’d made it in business and wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Even from her tiresome little sister. ‘Ingrid is looking forward to having them.’ The firmness of a woman who’d made it to the top in business and the smugness of one who’d got a ‘treasure’ for an au pair. ‘And I’m going to take you for a facial and a manicure, too.’

‘Now that is tempting,’ Stacey said. She glanced at her hands and surreptitiously scraped away the rim of blue paint that was stubbornly clinging to her thumb-nail. Her sister had bought her some horrendously expensive gardener’s handcream a while back; maybe she should start using it. And maybe Dee was right. After all her hard work, she deserved a treat.

A meal she hadn’t had to cook herself, a manicure and a chance to wear a designer label frock certainly came under that heading.

‘Can I really borrow your black dress?’

‘I’ll bring it round tomorrow.’

‘Heavens, Dee, the dinner isn’t until next Saturday…’

She grinned. ‘I know. More than enough time for you to come up with a dozen excuses, but once that dress is in your wardrobe you won’t be able to resist the chance to wear it.’

‘That’s sneaky.’ But maybe she could put it on, do the whole mascara bit and get Clover to kick her ball over the wall... Dee’s voice dragged her back from dreamland.

‘If sneaky is what it takes to get you out of the house, I’ll go as low as it takes.’ And she grinned. ‘Can you spare some more of those strawberries, or are you saving them for the girls?’ She glanced out to where Clover and Rosie were sitting in the long grass, picking daisies and decorating their young cousin, Harry, with daisy chains.

‘Finish them off. They’ve had more than enough.’

Dee scooped the fruit into her bowl. ‘They’re the best I’ve tasted this year. Where did you get them?’

‘Um…from a neighbour.’ And Stacey felt herself blush. She hadn’t seen Nash since the afternoon she’d climbed the wall and been caught with her fingers in the strawberry patch. Only the glow of a camp fire late at night when she’d been going to bed.

And she’d been congratulating herself on resolutely sticking to her guns and refusing to ask Nash to look for the ball when Clover kicked it over the wall just before bedtime, no matter how much her daughter had pleaded. Of course, she hadn’t had the promise of an Armani dress, then.

No, she was determined. She wasn’t looking for Mr Right. And she had had enough experience of Mr Wrong to last a lifetime. The girls would have to wait until he noticed it. And if he took his time about it, maybe Clover would learn to be more careful.

He didn’t, of course.

Clover had found the football in a carrier hooked over a branch of the apple tree first thing that morning. And resting on top of the football had been a large chip punnet full of strawberries.

Dee’s eyes narrowed. ‘A neighbour? What neighbour?’ Her sister’s scrutiny only made things worse. ‘I thought you were the one who handed out all the garden goodies around here.’ Then, ‘Are you blushing?’

Stacey covered her cheeks with her hands. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s just the heat,’ she said, quickly. ‘And I’ve been thinking…’

‘Thinking?’ Dee raised her brows.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Stacey repeated, ignoring her sister’s sarcastic response, ‘about letting out one of my rooms to a student. What do you think?’

Stacey knew exactly what her sister would think, but she needed to change the subject, fast.

‘I think you should put the house on the market and sell it for whatever you can get while the sun’s shining. With luck prospective buyers will be so busy reminiscing about the last time they saw a dog rose, they won’t notice that the paintwork’s peeling and the gutters are falling apart.’ She paused. ‘Cutting the grass might help.’

‘If I took in a couple of students,’ Stacey said, ignoring the sarcasm, ‘my financial circumstances would improve, I would be able to get the house into shape and then, if I decide to sell…when,’ she amended, quickly, before Dee could launch forth on the subject, ‘when I sell, I’ll get a better price.’

‘You’ve been saying that since Mike died.’

‘I know. But there’s a lot to do.’

‘I won’t argue with that.’ Then she shrugged. ‘All right, I’m through nagging for today.’ She stood up. ‘I think you’re mad, but we might as well have a look at what you’ve got to offer.’

Dee was shaking her head over the lack of tiling in the bathroom when Stacey saw Nash on the far side of the wall. He was shifting a heavy wheelbarrow full of rubbish in the direction of a faint curl of smoke; the sun glinting off his sweat-slicked skin, the hard curve of well-developed biceps. As if he’d felt her gaze on him he turned, looked up and their eyes seemed to lock...

‘Actually, you’ve got a point,’ she said, quickly, easing her sister out of the bathroom. She knew exactly what Dee would have to say about Nash Gallagher. He was temptation on legs and she’d fallen once before. ‘I always take care about splashing, but I can’t expect anyone else to bother.’ She threw one last, lingering glance out of the window. ‘I’ll see to it. Will you put a card on the notice board at the university for me on the way home?’

‘If you insist. Maybe you should put a card up in the village shop, too. Or even an ad in the paper. Or…’ Dee remembered that she had other plans for Stacey.

‘Or marry Lawrence and never worry about money again?’ Dee didn’t deny it. ‘What makes you think he’d want to marry me? I’m hardly a prize catch for a man in his position. Even supposing I’d consider marrying a man for his money.’ Her sister, infuriatingly, just smiled, and it occurred to Stacey that she wasn’t the only one being set up. She might actually have felt some sympathy with Lawrence as a fellow victim of her sister’s matchmaking plans, but he was safe enough from her. Besides, she had problems of her own.

Such as what Nash Gallagher would make of the tin of home-made shortbread that Clover had taken it upon herself to leave on top of the wall as a thank-you present for returning her football. The shortbread she’d made for Archie.

By the time she’d discovered it was missing and Clover had admitted what she’d done, it was too late to do anything about it. It had gone.

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