Chapter Twenty-Five
Bart leapt away from Eloise, banging his shoulder painfully on a shelf as he whirled around, his heart in his mouth and his pulse hammering.
“Grandpa, why are you all white? Are you pretending to be a ghost?” Dylan asked.
“Er…” Bart stuttered, his startled gaze shooting first to Ross, then to Amy and the children, then back to Ross. “It’s icing sugar,” he replied weakly, rubbing his shoulder.
He couldn’t meet Eloise’s eye, but he could still feel her in his arms and still taste her.
“Why are you covered in icing sugar? Is it a game?” asked Kelly, her head cocked to the side as she studied him.
“An accident.” He glanced at the mess on the floor.
“I’ll fetch a dustpan and brush,” Eloise murmured.
“You get yourself cleaned up,” Bart told her. “I’ll sort this lot out.”
Amy drew the children back to allow Eloise to sidle past. “You’d better hop in the shower, Bart,” Amy said. “I’ll clean up.”
“It’s okay, I’ll—”
“Dad, just do as Amy says. Kids, go put something on the TV while your mother cleans this mess up. Dad, give me your shirt.”
“I’m not taking my shirt off down here. I’ll do it upstairs.”
“Your guest,” Ross emphasised the word, “has already left a trail of sugar through the kitchen, and up the stairs as well, I don’t doubt. There’s no point making it worse.” He held out a hand.
Bart ignored it. “I’ll just get changed; then I’ll be back to help.”
His daughter-in-law ushered the kids into the sitting room, where he could hear them bickering over the remote, and she already had a dustpan in one hand and a brush in the other.
She said, “Ross is right. You need a shower. It’s all in your hair and over your face.”
“I’ll come up with you,” Ross said.
“No need.” Bart stepped around Amy. His hand hovered over her shoulder, with the intention of patting his thanks, but he changed his mind and let it fall to his side. He’d thank her properly later, when he didn’t look like a sticky clown.
Breathing hard, he ascended the staircase, his tread heavy, his nerves shredded. He was having difficulty assimilating what had just happened, and he paused on the last step and briefly closed his eyes.
He had kissed Eloise.
It had been wonderful—she’d been wonderful—and for several blissful, passionate seconds nothing else and no one else had mattered.
He’d been lost in the glorious excitement of having her in his arms, of the warm softness of her mouth, of his tumultuous racing heart—sensations he never thought he would experience again—and he realised he was in love with her.
Bart drew in a shaky breath, willing his pulse to slow as a tornado of thoughts and emotions tore through his mind: guilt and remorse that he’d betrayed Penny; incredulity that he could feel this way about another woman; but mostly what he felt was despair.
Because he’d seen the look on Eloise’s face.
She’d been horrified, and not because they’d been caught.
Eloise had been horrified that the kiss had happened in the first place.
Eloise scurried up the stairs and bolted for her room. Too het up to think about what had happened, instead she concentrated on ridding herself of the fine dusting of white powder clinging to her like ash from a fire.
She felt sticky, and the sweet smell made her nauseous. Or was that a result of what she’d done?
She’d kissed Bart.
She had no idea how it had happened. One moment she’d been laughing her socks off at the sight of his white face and startled eyes, and the next she’d been sampling the icing sugar on his lips and pressing herself against him.
Hurrying into the en suite, she hastily shed her clothes and turned the dial on the shower. The sugar was on her hands, her face, her neck, in her hair…But even when she’d washed herself and was towelling her hair dry, she could still smell the sugary scent and still taste it. Taste him.
She’d been swept away in an instant, so caught up in the moment and the intense feelings surging through her, that she suspected if they hadn’t been intercepted, the kiss might have become more passionate until…
Being in his arms had felt so right. The surge of love she’d felt had stripped her bare, and she’d wanted the moment to go on forever.
Bart hadn’t felt the same. His expression when his son had caught them had been one of shock, shame, and dismay. It was an expression she wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
It had cut her to the core, a sharp, agonising thrust to the heart.
The man she loved didn’t love her. And why would he, since he was still in love with his wife.
How could Eloise return to the others after what had just happened? How could she look Bart in the face?
She took her time dressing, but eventually she was done and didn’t have an excuse to linger.
Tempted to say she was unwell and hide in her room, Eloise realised it would dampen the mood, and she didn’t want to spoil the rest of the day for everyone, so she went downstairs, hoping that Bart and his family would stay in his private quarters and not venture into the guest lounge.
Slowly, hesitantly, she walked towards the lounge door, straining to hear Bart’s voice, but all she could hear was the TV and Toby’s chatter.
Sarah looked up as she entered. She and Mitch were on the sofa, Toby between them. They looked like a proper couple, and Eloise’s heart gave a squeeze. Bart was nowhere in sight.
Looking at her expectantly, Toby asked, “Where’s the mint pie, Weez?”
“Mince pie,” Sarah corrected as Eloise sank into an armchair. “Bart is busy at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll bring them in soon.”
Eloise tried to focus on the animated film on the screen, but she wasn’t watching it. She was thinking of how Bart had swept her away on a sea of emotions, and the desire had caught her unawares.
Desire was one thing, but her feelings for this man ran deeper than anything she’d experienced before. She was in love. Totally and utterly in love.
But how could she compete with a dead woman? Bart wasn’t over his wife, no matter how passionately he’d kissed Eloise.
If today hadn’t been Christmas Day and if the light hadn’t already faded from the sky, she might have been tempted to flee, to return to the safety of her Victorian terraced house in Northampton, with its empty rooms and not the slightest hint of Christmas. Or Bart.
But the idea of not seeing him again filled her with such despair that it made her want to weep.
What had she done?
“What’s going on, Dad?” Ross followed Bart into the bedroom.
He looked as bewildered and as shocked as Bart felt.
“Is that woman the reason you didn’t want to spend Christmas with me, Amy, and the kids?
How long has this been going on?” Ross fired questions at him, each one piercing his chest like a dart.
“No, she isn’t. And about a week,” he replied, peeling off his shirt. Holding it, he met his son’s gaze. “Are you going to watch me shower?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then do you mind giving me some privacy?”
“We need to talk about this.”
“Do we? Is it really any of your business?” Bart asked wearily.
“It is my business if she’s taking you for a ride,” Ross replied.
Bart was stunned. “A ride? What are you talking about?”
“You’re a lonely widower with a big house. Read the room, Dad.”
“Read the room?” he repeated incredulously.
“Yeah, it means—”
“I know what it means,” Bart interrupted sharply. Here he was, worried he’d betrayed his wife’s memory, appalled by Eloise’s reaction, and heartbroken that he’d fallen in love with a woman who didn’t love him, and all his son was concerned with was that Eloise might be a gold digger?
Words failed him. So he whirled around, marched into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it for good measure. Trembling, he leant against it and inhaled deeply, trying to slow his racing heart.
How dare Ross believe that! Eloise was one of the kindest, most generous people he’d met, and Bart was furious that the first thing to spring into Ross’s head was money. His son didn’t give a hoot about his happiness—
What happiness?
Bart sagged, the fight leaching out of him. This wasn’t happiness. This was heartbreaking.
When Bart returned to his bedroom, Ross was nowhere in sight, so he quickly dressed in clean clothes, bundled up his icing-coated ones, and went downstairs to shove them in the washing machine.
It briefly occurred to him to offer to pop Eloise’s clothes in there as well, but he couldn’t face her just yet.
He wasn’t entirely sure he could face her ever again. How could they act normally? They could pretend it hadn’t happened, but the knowledge would hang in the air between them, just as the sweet smell continued to linger despite Amy’s sterling job of cleaning up the spilled sugar.
Both Ross and Amy were in the kitchen, speaking in hushed whispers that ceased abruptly when Bart appeared.
Ross, who’d been leaning against a worktop, straightened as though preparing to do battle, but he relented when Amy glared at him.
“Thank you, Amy,” Bart said, his voice stilted and formal. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was thanking her for keeping Ross in check, or for her cleaning prowess.
“You’re welcome. It only took a few minutes. I’m assuming you were going to dust the mince pies?”
The four pies were still sitting on a plate, the teapot beside it. He guessed the tea would have gone cold by now.
“Would you like one?” he offered.
“Not for me, thanks. Ross?”
Ross snorted and rolled his eyes, earning himself another wifely glare. She said, by way of an excuse for his rudeness, “We’re still full from lunch. How was your Christmas dinner?”
“Nice,” Bart replied stiffly.
“Got plenty of leftovers for bubble and squeak? Penny used to say that was her favourite meal over the holiday, because all the hard work cooking it had already been done. She just had to fry it up.”
Bart’s eyes narrowed at Amy’s mention of Penny’s name.
Was she trying to remind him of her? Was it a roundabout way of alluding to the pantry icing sugar incident?
Or was she simply making small talk and trying to lighten the Venus-dense atmosphere?
It was so heavy that it was a wonder they hadn’t all been crushed flat, like a stamped-on soda can.
“Shall I make us a fresh pot?” she asked, her hand on the teapot. “I think we could all do with a cuppa.”
Bart pursed his lips and nodded.
She refilled the kettle and emptied the pot, rinsing it out under the hot-water tap. Ross looked on, expressionless.
Amy said, “How about your guests? Would they like some tea?”
“Not right now,” Bart replied. To be truthful, he couldn’t stomach asking them. No doubt by now Mitch and Sarah knew that his family was here. Had Eloise joined them in the guest lounge? he wondered. Oh heck, what was he going to say to her?
Ross cleared his throat and shuffled. He was gearing up to say something, and Bart had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.
“Don’t,” he warned quietly.
“But—”
“I’m not going to discuss it.” Bart was adamant.
Amy, bless her, took the bull by the proverbial horns. “I’m sorry we dropped in unannounced, but it seemed wrong not to see you on Christmas Day. We won’t stay long. You’ve clearly got your hands full.”
“We know what with,” Ross snapped. “Or should I say with whom.”
“Ross, stop it. Your father is an adult. If he wants to…”
“Have a bit of nookie in the pantry?” Ross finished sarcastically.
She rounded on him. “So what if he did?”
Bart intervened. “Thanks, Amy, but I can fight my own battles. And I don’t see why I need to explain myself to Ross.”
Father and son glared at each other for several seconds; then Ross looked away. He also had the grace to look slightly chastened.
Not much, but enough to mollify Bart somewhat. He had enough to be going on with without Ross’s obvious disapproval.
Amy busied herself with making the tea, so Bart went into the sitting room to see his grandchildren.
“What did Father Christmas bring you two, eh?” he asked, and was regaled with an impressive list as they reeled off their gifts with enthusiasm.
He could also tell they were itching to go back home to play with them, despite Dylan having brought some Legos with him, and Kelly concentrating on an electronic device that made lots of beeping noises.
“You looked funny, Grandpa,” Dylan giggled. “Like a clown.”
He’d felt like a proper clown, too, and this entire afternoon was turning into a right royal circus.
After several awkward minutes spent drinking tea and trying to make small talk which was centred around the relatively safe subjects of the children, their presents, and the party at the Amblesideses’ last night, Amy suggested it was time to make a move.
Ross appeared as relieved as Bart that this excruciating visit was drawing to a close, and he made for the front door with alacrity.
Bart was in the middle of seeing them out and delaying joining his guests (delaying seeing Eloise) for as long as possible when a car pulled up in front of the guest house just as Ross’s car drove off.
Bart assumed the driver was lost and would turn around once they realised this was a dead end, but the vehicle came to a halt and a man emerged.
“Is this Sea View Guest House?” he called, his hand on the top of the open car door.
“Yes?” Bart replied cautiously, wondering what he wanted.
“I’ve heard that Sarah and her little boy are staying here. Is that true?”
“It is. Who are you?”
“Brill. Can I come in? I’m Toby’s dad.”