Miracle In March (18 page)

Though it pained him, he held up the picture to Emma who came to his side, Jackson still crying and trying to get the paper back from his dad. ‘Jax, settle down please. Here. Draw on this.' He put a blank sheet in front of Jackson, but the boy grabbed it and ripped it with two clenched fists.

‘Oh God, I'm so sorry Emma.' He shook his head. Her drawing of a skyscape with clouds and some kind of magical town built on them now had coloured streaks and squiggles across it.

Emma looked at it. ‘It's okay, really. It doesn't matter.' She spoke loud above Jackson's noise.

‘But it does. You put time and effort into these. God, I should have been supervising him better.' He moved her drawings to the kitchen counter. Parenthood was so embarrassing sometimes.

‘No, I shouldn't have left them there. It's not your fault. And it's not Jackson's fault.' She touched his arm. ‘Besides, it's good that he was using the gift I gave him, don't you think?' She offered a lopsided smile.

‘Half of it, at least.'

‘And it's only one of my many drawings. I won't miss it, seriously. In fact, I quite like the burst of colour he's added.' She tilted her head as she held it up in front of her.

Then she sat on the couch in front of Jackson and took one of the pencils. She added another streak of colour to her drawing, as Jackson watched. He leaned forwards with his pencil and drew a sharp, frustrated line on it. Emma then added another, as though they were lightning strikes spearing through the clouds. Jackson's cries turned into sniffles as he and Emma shared the paper, adding squiggles and lines and shapes and creating a colourful, chaotic mess. Then Jackson smiled.

God, how does she do it?
She was like Mary Poppins meets SuperNanny. The woman could handle any childhood disaster.

James sat on the couch next to her, Jackson kneeling in front of them.

‘I really am sorry,' he whispered, touching her hand.

‘Shh,' she replied. ‘Can't you see I'm having fun here?' She looked at him briefly and winked.

He couldn't help it. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

She turned back to him. For a second he wished she'd turned her head just as he'd kissed her, so that his lips landed on hers instead of her cheek.

‘Some things aren't worth getting upset about,' she said calmly, then resumed drawing with Jackson.

When the drawing had no more room for further vandalism, she asked James if he had any Blu Tack (which he did, it was holding a toy giraffe's head onto its neck after Jackson had snapped it). She stuck the picture on the wall at Jackson's height. Jackson patted it then pressed the applause button and Emma clapped too. He hoped it didn't mean his son would think it okay to draw on anything he desired, but right now, it didn't matter. She had taken what he thought was a terrible situation and turned it completely around.

Emma took a blank piece of paper and drew a circle on it, added two eyes, a nose, and then pointed to where the mouth should be. Jackson added a line elsewhere, then Emma slowly and gently touched the boy's hand, guiding it towards the mouth area. Jackson pressed down on the page and a wiggly, though definite line appeared, forming a smiling mouth.

Emma clapped and Jackson pressed the button again. Emma drew another circle with eyes and a nose, then pointed to the mouth area and waited. Jackson put the pencil on the paper again, making an arc for the mouth. James' heart melted. His son was learning something new. And for once, he wasn't the one teaching it. He leaned over and drew a circle himself, adding two googly eyes and a fat nose, then allowed Jackson to draw the mouth. Next, he drew only the circle, hoping that his son would add all the facial features. Instead, Jackson grunted at the picture impatiently, and James gave in and drew the eyes and nose.

‘One step at a time,' Emma whispered, and he looked into her deep brown eyes with gratitude. Those words could apply to them as well.

‘That's good advice,' he whispered back.

Jackson took hold of the paper and lay on his stomach on the floor, drawing his own things. James took another piece of paper and wrote on it:
thank you
.

He handed it to Emma. She wrote back:
you're welcome
.

He smiled and put pencil to paper again, but this time he drew. A stick figure in a skirt, a circular head, and long hair. He added a halo above her head.

‘Guardian angel?' she asked.

He gave her the picture. ‘You.'

Her chest rose sharply with a breath. She licked her lips then drew another stick figure. With short hair, big biceps, and abs.

‘Hugh Jackman?' he asked with a grin.

Emma shook her head.

‘Your dream guy?'

She nodded, then wrote underneath the stick figure:
James.

* * *

Emma waited while James gave Jackson a bath, supervised his dental hygiene (from outside the bathroom, apparently Jackson didn't want an audience), and read him a story and settled him for sleep. She had turned on the TV and kept the volume low, but couldn't concentrate on it, her mind filling with a warm sense of belonging. It seemed natural, being here with James, even with Jackson around. She was surprised how unaffected she'd been about her drawing being defaced, and seeing Jackson's excitement at learning to draw a smiley face had brought back memories of the satisfaction of teaching. But this was different, because he wasn't a student; he was the flesh and blood of the man she loved.

Deciding to postpone any important decisions until the time came for James and his family to go back home, Emma sketched to keep her hands and mind busy. An abstract arrangement of contrasting shapes, swirls and patterns. Maybe it was representative of her state of mind? When she'd taken up drawing during her treatment, she'd used it both as an escape from reality and a representation of reality — a way of expressing what was going on inside so as to not keep things bottled up. It was amazing how something unseen — an emotion or a thought about a situation — could
become
seen, through art. She'd liked knowing that she'd created something new. Maybe it was a substitute for motherhood — giving birth to something beautiful, something that came from her.

Emma tilted her head side to side, appraising her drawing, and added a few finishing swirls around the edges, then signed it
EB
. She placed the pencil and paper on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch. A dull ache formed on one side of her neck and she brought her hand up and rubbed at it. She pressed on the muscle with a circular motion, trying to break up the tension, and made a mental note to book in for a massage appointment on one of her days off.

‘Do you need that icepack?'

Emma turned her head. James had come out of Jackson's room. He turned on the hallway light, probably in case Jackson needed to get up during the night, then turned off the living room light, adding a dim, cosy warmth to the room.

‘No, it'll be fine. And it probably needs warmth more than cold. It's just a bit tight.' She rubbed at it some more.

James rubbed his hands together.

Hang on, is he going to…

Warm hands came down on the curve between her neck and shoulders, as James stood behind the back of the couch. He gently but firmly squeezed the tender muscles, his thumbs pressing into her skin, his fingers kneading. She tensed a little at his touch. ‘Ooh, that
is
tight. Isn't yoga supposed to help sore muscles?'

‘Yes, but I've only done one class. It might take some getting used to. And anyway, I was leaning over this paper and doing a sketch which probably didn't help my posture.' She gestured to the drawing on the coffee table.

His hands paused as he peered over. ‘Nice. Does it have a special meaning?'

‘Nope. I just let the drawing draw itself.'

‘Well, tell the drawing it did a good job.'

‘I will.' She smiled, though her back was to him.

James massaged her shoulders, rubbing them in firm rotations. Her tension eased and she took a calming breath. He found a tight spot between her spine and her shoulder blade and pressed into it with his thumb. ‘Does that hurt?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘It actually feels good. Maybe you should become a massage therapist.'

‘Nah, I'd get bored.' His hands stopped for a moment. ‘I mean, not that I'm bored now! Far from it. I just mean that my mind would get, it would need…'

‘I know what you mean,' she said.

He chuckled. ‘Hang on, let me get into a better position before I pull a muscle from easing yours.' He came around the side of the couch and sat to the right of her. ‘Turn sideways a bit.' Emma swivelled and bent her left knee so that it rested on the couch, the other foot still on the floor as though she was side-saddle on a horse. James shuffled around too, his hands on her back, pressing deeper and slower.

Holy moly, that feels good
. Emma hoped she hadn't accidentally said that out loud.

‘Is this okay?' he enquired.

‘Um, yes. It's, ah, good.' She cleared her throat.

‘Then I'll have to do better.'

‘Huh?'

‘Well, we can't have just
good
. What sort of massage therapist am I if it doesn't feel amazing?'

Oh, but it does.

He altered his movements, his hands taking on their own rhythm, and like the ebb and flow of the ocean his hands danced across the shore of her back, cleansing, invigorating, caressing. A tingling warmth spread across her skin, even more so when his hands moved up to her shoulders and gently slid underneath the neckline of her top. His skin, her skin, together again.

While his thumbs massaged the back, his fingers massaged the front, circling the roundness of her shoulders. Her hair that she'd swiped in front of one shoulder fell onto his hands. He gently guided it back, and with his finger he traced the length of a stray wisp from behind her ear, across the nape of her neck, and over her shoulder. His hand lingered on her hair, tingles shooting from her skin to her head as her hair shifted subtly like leaves in a breeze. He moved his other hand to her hair too, swiping it across to the side repeatedly, his fingers tangling gently in the strands and sending bursts of pleasure across her scalp.

Emma sighed. There was something so incredibly beautiful, erotic even, about someone playing with your hair. All tension evaporated and only a soft, sweet sensation remained, like she was floating among the clouds with tiny stars raining gently on her like a thousand magical sprinkles.

Then she felt something new. Warm breath,
his
breath, on the back of her neck. And then…his lips. She closed her eyes as his soft kiss from behind took her senses to another dimension. His lips trailed across her skin, an alternating treat of breaths and kisses, up the side of her neck, behind her ear. When he kissed the concavity between her earlobe and neck she practically melted. That was it. She couldn't keep her back to him any longer. As his lips continued their journey and moved to her cheek, she moved her head slowly to the side, seeking them out. Soon her chin was near her shoulder, her lips only a breath away from his. Caught in the transition of anticipation, she looked up into his eyes and saw confirmation of her own emotions mirrored back: he still loved her too.

His lips lightly brushed hers with the softness of a feather, as though each and every cell wanted to savour the moment before passion took control and overwhelmed them with its intensity. She breathed in, ready to exhale and surrender to her desire, aching to have his lips pressed passionately against hers.

As their lips touched again, a tapping at the door pulled her back. She flipped her head towards the door, and James stiffened, standing and clearing his throat. ‘Huh?' he said, his voice heavy with unfulfilled need and confusion. He went to the door and Emma rearranged her hair back to normal position as he opened it.

‘Hi,' Marie Gallagher whispered. ‘Jackson asleep?'

Oh God, perfect bloody timing.

‘Of course, it's getting late. What are you two doing here?' He opened the door wider and let his parents in.

‘Gosh, it's a bit too dark in here.' Marie turned the light switch on and Emma blinked at the bright light. ‘Oh, Emma. I didn't know you were here.' Marie's eyebrows rose as she noticed her in the living room.

‘Evening, Emma,' Martin said with a nod.

‘Good evening.' Emma stood and smoothed down her top. She felt like they were teenagers getting sprung making out.

‘Sorry to drop in unannounced, but we were so excited.' Marie grinned.

‘Well,
you
were so excited, I was simply…moderately pleased,' said Martin.

Marie held out her phone to James. ‘Look. We got to meet Drew Williams!' She jiggled on the spot.

‘Seriously, you'd think my wife was a starstruck teenager,' Martin said to Emma as he shook his head with a hint of a smile.

Emma moved towards the visitors and peered at the phone. ‘Really?'

‘Yes, he was a surprise guest at Café Lagoon, sang a few songs. No wonder the young chap — oh. What was his name again?'

‘Jonah,' said Martin.

‘
Jonah
had said we should come for dinner on Friday night!'

Emma smiled at the photo of Marie and Martin, a smile as wide as the Sydney Harbour Bridge plastered on Marie's face, and a…moderately pleased one on Martin's. Wedged between them was the good-looking, confident, smiling face of Tarrin's Bay born and bred international superstar, Drew Williams. ‘Wow, lucky you! Is he still there now?'

‘No, he loved us and left us after a few songs I'm afraid. But oh, what a treat!'

‘He does have quite the singing voice,' Martin added.

‘
And
he's incredibly handsome.' Marie fanned her face.

‘Marie, he's practically the same age as your son, act appropriately.'