Chapter 34 - Max
Max
The light has gone from the sky, and this beautiful room is lit just by the flames in the wood-burner, the dainty white lights on the tree and a smattering of candles.
I reach forward and pop one final chocolate in my mouth. I hope my poor, swollen stomach can make room for it, somehow.
This afternoon is proving to be exactly what we needed.
What I hoped for when I booked it. We’ve just polished off a massive spread from the comfort of the large white sofa.
The remnants of our food-fest adorn the huge coffee table: chicken and leek pie, mashed potato, wilted greens, and several puddings, none of which were necessary and all of which were delicious.
I’m biased—Molly’s team made most of them—but fuck me, the perfectly moist apple cake and ice cream hit the spot particularly well.
Sex.
Sleep.
Food.
We’re hitting that bathtub next, and we won’t emerge till we’re basically prune-like.
But despite the above, the single most important thing we’ve done this afternoon is talk.
Really talk.
Talk about the most important issues there are, like how we feel about each other, and what we want for our futures, and whether she’ll trust me enough to let me step up and be there for her and Toby and Daisy.
I’ve had some serious explaining to do, because what I’m proposing goes so far against everything I’ve ever told Mol.
From where she’s standing, I’ve done a complete one-eighty, and it’s come out of nowhere.
And of course, a large part of my shift comes from Toby and Daisy being a reality in her life. They are her family, and I’m not.
I gave that privilege up, long ago.
But seeing her with them, these past few weeks, has been a homecoming of sorts for me.
To the UK.
To the woman who holds pride of place in my heart.
To a family unit I didn’t know I wanted until it was served up to me on a fucking silver platter.
I could kick myself. I have been kicking myself multiple times these past weeks.
It’s as if she was right all along, as if she knew how good it could be, how right.
She painted me a picture, a million times over, of how our lives could be if we created a family together, and I couldn’t fucking see it. I didn’t have her vision.
She was right all along.
What a vision it is.
So, what’s evolved for me since I’ve inflicted myself on Molly and Daisy and Toby really has been an epiphany of the heart, not of the brain.
I’ve fallen in love with Molly’s vision for her life made reality, and if I walk away from the three of them, I know I’ll leave a piece of my heart, of myself, with them.
Fuck, that sounds so naff. But it’s true.
It’s also true that she’s done the hard work to date, and I can’t help but feel like I’m waltzing in and enjoying the fruits of her labour. But that stops here.
If she gives me a chance to prove myself, I’ll do it a thousand times over.
I want this challenge. Need it. I want to be the man in their lives when Daisy gets dumped—I will go fucking nuclear when she dates, but that’s not the point.
Or when Toby needs a role model who doesn’t advocate fucking off and abandoning the most important people in his life.
As far as I can tell, we’ve reached a cautiously optimistic agreement. While we won’t be saying anything to the kids yet about our relationship status, I’m essentially on probation.
Stepfather probation.
Wow. Those are two scary motherfucking words strung together.
But they’re necessary. Because it’s not that Molly doesn’t think I’m up to the job. She’s just not allowing herself to fully believe yet that I really want the job.
She wants to believe it, I can tell. Really wants to. But where her children are concerned, she wants the best. As she should. So it’s up to me to prove my commitment. To prove I’m not just insinuating myself into their lives so I can lock their mother down, but because I love them.
This is the most important test I’ve ever faced, and I’m going to nail it.
My plan is pretty simple, really.
Show those kids that the day they let me take the place of their good-for-nothing father was the best thing that ever happened to them.
Slide a ring on their mother’s finger, and never let her go.
Molly’s still yawning post-bath. I bring the duvet over to the sofa and tuck us up so we can watch The Holiday on the large TV. I wouldn’t be surprised if she crashed out halfway through the movie. I’ve just made a pot of tea, which may help.
‘You’re exhausted,’ I tell her as I hand her a mug and get under the duvet beside her. ‘Is it the time of year, do you think?’
‘It definitely doesn’t help,’ she says, running her free hand over her tired eyes, ‘but I think it’s mainly the job taking its toll. I’m not sure how long I can keep going.’
‘Seriously?’ I twist to look at her in surprise. ‘I thought this was your dream gig.’
‘Don’t get me wrong; the job itself is. But getting up in the dark for most of the year is really killing me. And I hate not seeing the kids in the morning—that’s not normal.’
‘You’re not missing much,’ I say drily. ‘It’s not exactly high quality time.’
She laughs. ‘I don’t doubt that. But it’s still shitty, and it’s not really fair on them. And I’m so tired all the time, even on the weekends. I feel like I’m always playing catch-up.’
‘Do you have any thoughts on how you can make it better? Can you speak to Zoe about shorter shifts, maybe?’
She sighs. ‘The problem is that the job, by its very nature, is always front-end loaded. Maybe I could finish earlier, but I’d still have those hideous mornings.’
‘You know, when Angus first got together with Evelyn, he was getting up at ridiculous o’clock every morning to do the early rounds. The first thing she did when she put that huge cash injection into the farm was make him hire an underling to take over.’
She smiles at that. ‘That’s very sensible, and I’d love to do that, but I really need to be there to supervise. I’ve been having a few thoughts about striking out on my own, though.’
This is news to me. ‘Really? Doing what?’
She pauses, and I suspect she’s self-conscious of putting voice to whatever seed of an idea is germinating in her head. I sip my tea while I wait.
‘Cakes,’ she says. ‘I make most of the cakes for the farm’s weddings, unless the couple opts to bring one in from an outside vendor, and they’re getting a lot of interest since Miles and Saoirse Montague got married.
Sadie’s done a great job of getting me featured in the wedding press.
And I’ve come to realise those one-off creative projects are my favourite part of the job.
‘I had so much fun doing the gingerbread village, even if it was a burden doing it on top of the day job. And this morning, when I was decorating four seasonal cakes for a feature Brides magazine is doing for us, I realised how happy it made me to do stuff like that. I much prefer working on those kinds of creations than I do overseeing the heavy lifting every single day—that side of the job is beginning to feel like a grind.’
‘A grind, and possibly not the best use of your talents,’ I prompt, my calm voice giving nothing away. But really, I’m excited, because I instinctively know Molly could nail this idea if she wanted to, especially with the powerhouse that is the Sorrel Farm brand behind her.
‘Probably not,’ she agrees.
‘Do you know if the farm would continue to use your cakes for weddings and other occasions, even if you were technically an outside vendor?’
‘I don’t see why not. The cake is a distinct line item on the quote we give anyone who’s holding an event here. I imagine the farm would just pass the cost on with a mark-up.’
‘And what would you need in terms of set-up?’
‘Not much. A small industrial kitchen and some kit. There would be some set-up costs, yes. Especially rent, I suppose. And possibly some staff costs. The main financial stretch would obviously be me giving up my salary to strike out on my own.’
I’m silent for a moment. I know, from the few conversations we’ve had on the topic and what Angus has told me, that the deal she got in the divorce didn’t grant her much in the way of a nest-egg.
The only real chance she has of freeing up capital is to sell that painting, and that’s her kids’ inheritance, right there.
She’d be crazy to sell it, even if she wasn’t as emotionally attached to it as she is.
I wouldn’t let her sell it, anyway. My Molly, immortalised in oils? I probably love it even more than she does.
‘You know, my trust fund’s just gathering dust,’ I tell her, my tone deceptively casual. ‘The cost of living in Malawi hasn’t exactly crippled me.’
She jerks her head towards me. ‘Max. No. No way am I letting you play white knight and throw your money at me.’
I lean over so I can plant a soft kiss on the part of her temple where her adorable blonde baby hairs begin.
‘Once I’ve put a gun to your head and marched you down that aisle, which I will do, sweetheart, it won’t be my trust fund.
It’ll be ours. Anyway, I’m not talking about being a white knight.
I’m talking about being a canny investor who knows when to back a sound business opportunity when he sees it. ’
She turns her face to me, her lips soft and pliable and perfect as they meet mine.
‘The only word I heard in that speech was aisle.’
I kiss her back. ‘Good. Now, let’s watch this movie. But the offer’s there, you know. Like Evelyn, I have an ulterior motive. I want you in my bed when I wake up.’
She entangles her tongue sweetly with mine before pulling back. ‘I want that, too.’
‘So think about it. Maybe it’s a project for the new year. When you’ve promoted me from being just the manny.’
I can feel her lips curve up into a smile against mine. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, buster.’
‘Watch, wench.’ I pull her in tightly against me. ‘As long as I don’t need to be jealous of Jude Law?’
‘You’re much hotter,’ she tells me. ‘Manlier. But he’s a widower, so he gets points for that.’
‘Hey. If you wanted a guy with two kids, you could have gone for Paul Lancaster. Though I think it’s time you stop with the tradition of choosing men whose surnames are British cities.’
She frowns.
‘Stafford? Lancaster? Seriously? I think Molly Rutherford sounds much better, don’t you?’
‘Oh my God,’ she says with a giggle. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘Lucky escape,’ I say drily.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘right before you showed up and turned everything upside-down, I was whining at the girls that my life didn’t look more like a Nancy Meyers movie.’
I frown. ‘Who’s Nancy Meyers?’
She points at the screen, where the movie is ready to play. ‘She directed The Holiday. And It’s Complicated. And Something’s Gotta Give. And loads more.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say vaguely. Some of those others ring a bell. ‘And how’s your life looking now?’
She glances around the room. ‘Well, Nancy Meyers would definitely approve of this suite. And I have a deliciously sexy new leading man. And a pipe-dream of a possible cake business. So yeah. I’d say my life is looking a lot more Nancy Meyers-esque than it was a month ago.’
I kiss her, hard, just because I can. And because the sight of her face shining with contentment, and with the hope she’s finally allowing to bloom, makes me deliriously happy.
‘I should fucking well hope so,’ I tell her.