“Can I help?”
Oh dear, what did she do with that?
She just stopped herself from biting her lip before saying, “I don’t think so, sweetheart. It mostly involves the stove and oven and that’s probably not safe.”
Sally’s face fell.
Instantly, Isabella felt like a screaming bitch.
“Maybe you can scoop out the ice cream for dessert,” she offered.
“We’re having pudding?”Sally screeched and her effervescence so surprised and charmed Isabella that she couldn’t stop herself from laughing.
“Yes, honey, you’re having pudding,” Isabella replied and stopped, glanced apprehensively at Prentice then back at Sally. “If it’s okay with your Dad.”
Sally whirled to her father. “Can we have pudding? Can we, can we, can we?”
“Books in your room,” Prentice answered. “We’ll talk about pudding later.”
Sally beamed then leaned toward Isabella and confided in a (very) loud whisper, “Daddy’d have said no right away if we weren’t having pudding.”
Isabella chuckled and then, all of a sudden, Sally threw her arms around Isabella’s legs.
She froze.
It had been a long time since anyone had touched her with spontaneous affection and she didn’t know if she’d ever, in her life, been hugged by a child.
It felt good.
Really good.
Lost in Sally, Isabella’s hand lifted and she lightly stroked the girl’s soft, beautiful hair.
Sally threw her head back, gave Isabella a sunny smile then dashed from the room.
Isabella watched her then her eyes moved to Prentice.
He looked ready to commit murder.
Oh dear again.
Before he could blow, Isabella spoke, “I need a word. Can you close the door?”
Prentice didn’t hesitate; by all appearances he needed a word too.
Or maybe several of them.
When the door clicked and he turned, Isabella quickly launched in, “The sundaes are Annie’s idea. So is all the food in your kitchen. She went shopping with me and got a little carried away.”
Prentice just stared at her but she was pleased to see he didn’t look like he wanted to strangle her anymore.
“She’s prone to doing that,” Isabella went on.
Prentice continued staring at her then he said on a sigh, “Aye, she is.”
Isabella couldn’t help it, it looked like she was getting away with it and she allowed herself a small smile.
Prentice’s eyes narrowed on her mouth.
She stopped smiling.
Then she started talking. “I’ll make dinner and then come up here. I’ll tell the kids I have jetlag or something. The hot fudge is already made, in the covered pot on the stove, you just have to heat it up and pour it over the ice cream. There’s whipped cream and cherries and I chopped up some nuts…” She hesitated when his face changed in a way she couldn’t read but she valiantly forged ahead mostly in order to get this over with, “If they like that kind of thing.” She paused again and he remained silent. “Nuts, that is.” More silence. “Kind of the All-American sundae.”
“When are you going to eat?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“You said you’d make dinner and come up here. When are you going to eat?”
“I’ll bring something up with me.” Then she wondered if he wouldn’t like that, these were nice rooms, clean and tidy, maybe he didn’t want food up there. “If that’s okay.”
Then he said something completely bizarre.
“So it’s the martyr.”
She was so stunned, she couldn’t control her reaction and she blinked.
“Pardon?” she repeated.
“Your game this time. The martyr.”
It felt like he slapped her and reflexively her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“I’m not playing the martyr,” Isabella denied softly.
“You had no dinner last night, no breakfast this morning, unless you had something at Fergus’s. You’re behaving like you’re chained to these rooms.”
“You told me you wanted me to spend my time in your house…” she lifted her hand and flicked it out, “in here.”
“I believe I said ‘as often as possible’, not every f**king minute.”
“Isn’t ‘as often as possible’ pretty much the same as ‘every f**king minute’?” Isabella asked, genuinely perplexed.
“Don’t play word games with me, Isabella. I have a university degree. I own a business, a home. I know the f**king English language.”
There it was again, the non-physical slap.
There was one thing Isabella Austin Evangelista knew how to do. She knew how to retreat from anger.
Therefore, she whispered, “All right, Prentice.”
His brows drew together over angry eyes and he stared at her. She calmly held his stare and her breath.
Then Prentice murmured, “Christ, it’s like I’ve never met you.”
She wasn’t surprised at his reaction. Twenty years ago their relationship hadn’t been totally perfect.
What it had been was passionate.
They’d fought and they’d been good at it.
Back then, she would never have backed down. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her with his anger. How she knew this, she didn’t understand, in the beginning.
Later, she would realize it was love.
Therefore, she felt safe fighting with him.
Isabella wanted to tell him that he hadn’t ever met her. She wanted to tell him that the girl he knew never really existed.
He’d created her.
Well, Annie did by asking her to spend that first summer in Scotland.
But Prentice had breathed life in her.
This was the real Isabella.
Instead, she remained silent.
They continued to stare at each other.
Then he looked away, opening the door, muttering, “Eat dinner downstairs, up here, I don’t give a f**k.”
She watched him walk down the stairs and turn on the landing, out of sight.
Then she started breathing again.
Then she wondered if maybe her doctor had been right and she really shouldn’t have stopped taking her medication.
Then she turned, picked up her yoga mat and blew out the candle.
Chapter Four
Chicken Bits
Isabella
Isabella waited half an hour (exactly) before she went downstairs.
In that time she decided to keep her hair up in the messy knot because it wasn’t that attractive, with bits sticking out everywhere, and it might look like she was trying to be all girlie-perfect in order to cook a simple dinner if she did something with it. She also decided to stay in her yoga clothes because she’d look like an idiot if she changed clothes; she wasn’t going to make dinner for the queen, just a family.