Almost Mine
Authors: Lea Darragh
Lea Darragh
An emotional novel about not seeing what’s right in front of you
—
and not knowing what you’ve got until it’s gone.
Cate has always taken Nick for granted. Through a wild youth of mistakes, bad choices, and self-destructive behaviour, Nick has been the one thing that Cate could count on. She knows he loves her, but she can’t love him back. He’s too perfect, too strong, too caring. She has darkness in her that can’t handle that much light.
When an unexpected pregnancy forces them into a marriage of convenience, Cate hopes that Nick can love her enough for the both of them. But as time passes, Nick grows frustrated and finally decides to cut himself loose. Will his absence prove to Cate just how much she needs him?
Lea is a married mother of three who has lived in the Gippsland area her entire life, blessed with family and friends who during cold and stormy nights introduced her to the breathtaking world of fiction. She began to write…and hasn’t looked back.
Women often conceal a wealth of knowledge, so my deepest thanks goes to those of you who openly shared your thoughts about love, marriage and the choices that we make about motherhood. Enriching this story with such a strong woman in the lead would have been all the more difficult without such candour.
Of course this book is dedicated to my biggest fans: my husband, and my beautiful cherubs of children. Thank you for not expecting lunch on time or a conversation after dinner as I tapped away. Without you, this book would still be a story waiting to be told.
Chapter 1
Present day
—
June eighteenth
I woke alone this morning. Unfortunately this was how my life was playing out at the moment. You would think that I would have adjusted to it by now, but I would never become accustomed to the solitude.
As my sleeping brain caught up with my waking body, I remembered what today meant, and slowly I stretched my body under the cosy covers in my bedroom, not unlike a feline coaxing a rub from her adoring owner. A Cheshire-esque smile pulled on the corners of my mouth, because I knew that this was the last morning that the other side of my king-sized bed would lie cold and bare beside me.
The plot that I’d spent months concocting, the finely tuned plan that I required to win back the man that I loved, was finally going to be executed today, and I had a renewed spring in my step, or at least I would once the anticipatory nausea in the pit of my stomach subsided and I could force myself to actually
get
out of bed.
An hour later, and feeling all the calmer after a long, vanilla scented bath, I made my way down stairs. I stood, with a cup of chamomile tea rolling between my palms, at my kitchen window that amply gave view to the expansive livelihood we had built together, and as if on cue, the inky June clouds parted, allowing a short burst of unseasonal sun, equally providing an exquisite glisten to the dew drops that blanketed the property as it warmed my face like a long awaited kiss.
I gazed out at our vineyard, at our five star restaurant that my exhaustless husband had built on our estate with his own two hands. Off to my left I eyed the small — only by comparison to the vast surrounds of the building — sandstone office that had day by day become his sleeping, eating and, basically, escaping-from-his-wife, quarters. I wondered, if not in there, or disturbing the shadowy surroundings of our property with his morning run, was my husband once again creating unnecessary work for himself in order to avoid coming up to the homestead, to his wife who loved him no matter what?
God, I missed him.
It had been three months since I had last been naked with him, and the time before that, I’d have to consult a calendar to calculate his abstinence. Three months since I’d felt his skin pressed against mine, since I’d felt his murmuring breath on my neck as he sent rippling shivers over my entire body, enticing pleas of mercy as he teased my orgasm from me…
I took another sip of tea and attempted to refocus. Though my neglected body ached for his touch, today was not about making love. It was not at all about renewing our delicious physical relationship, although that would be utterly splendid. What today was about, though, was breaking down the wall that he had built up to shut me out. Years ago he began constructing it, and though he’d fortified it with stubbornness along with unparalleled control that he’d convinced himself was an act of nobility rather than of frustrating foolishness, I had no other option than to believe that it was not impenetrable. I had to believe that I had it within me to put an end to his forced detachment from me.
I was about to step away from the window and initiate this plan of mine when something out of the window and to the left caught my eye. The office door opened and I watched as my husband rolled his head to stretch out his aching neck before pulling the cords on the hood of his jumper tighter around his face. My heart skipped a beat when at first I thought that he had looked up at me, but then I realised he was taking in the wide view of the depressing sky. The sun had been once again been stolen by gloom. Ignoring the cold sprinkling of rain he set off running toward the national park, and away from me.
I’d had enough of this. I loved him. He loved me, I knew he did. Even if he crushed my heart with his singular intention to reject me until I broke, I could never just shrug and walk away from what we once had.
With determination that matched his detachment I rinsed my unfinished tea down the sink and reached for my recipe books that stood like soldiers above the fridge. And in my classically designed kitchen that was built all of those years ago with the sole purpose of making me happy, I began obsessing over the perfect, celebratory dinner that would save us.
It took me the whole of the day of fussing and prepping, and at six thirty when my husband finally entered the house, I was carefully placing the finishing dollops of sour cream onto our entrée; roasted pumpkin and garlic soup was one of his absolute favourites.
I didn’t realise how tense my entire body had been until I looked at him as he stood at the wide threshold between the open planned dining room and kitchen, every muscle calming immeasurably at the sight of him; my husband, the most breathtaking man I’d ever seen.
Even though he should have had ample time to shower considering he’d left for his run over ten hours ago, he was still wearing his sweat pants and hoodie. His wavy, chocolate brown hair that framed his withdrawn expression was tousled and matted as if he’d run a marathon, and, given the timeframe, perhaps he had.
The relief that I felt at this first sight of him always led me to believe that nothing could ever be this unbearably wrong between us. My chest still burst exquisitely whenever he entered a room, even after a life-time of knowing him. Even if nothing else existed on his adorable face — that at times gone by had revealed a sexy, hungry grin whenever he looked at me — I would still have the same, deep tugging reaction to the way he beheld me; as if to him I was all that existed. He was the literal boy-next-door, and I loved him more than I ever thought that I would be capable of.
I stood motionless, awkward even, in a home that had long since ceased to feel like one, as we stared at each other, and in that split second, within the very first moments of being in the same room with him, I felt a rush of hope that I would be blessed with requited love. Of course, after that initial glimpse of him lingered on, my stomach fell heavily as it had for the past few years when I’d hoped for an open smile but instead was confronted by a desolate frown. Just as inevitability dictated that my perfect dinner was always going to be nothing but a figment of my cruel imagination, so was a kiss or a wink or an implicating squeeze of my bottom to replace his perpetual impassive expression.
But I wasn’t giving up. I could
not
give up.
I did note something unusual about him, something that threw me a little as I eyed him with curiosity. He looked as he always did but there was something new, something out of place that he’d brought in with him. A smell, no, a
scent
; one that was I was familiar with but which was too indistinct to immediately place.
I forced a smile that only reached my mouth in an attempt to push the undercurrent of apprehension deeper, and with a match I began lighting the candles that I’d arranged around the kitchen and dining room. He eyed the cooling pie on the granite counter.
‘It’s apple,’ I brightly answered his unspoken question.
‘Looks like you’ve had a busy day,’ he muttered despondently as he finally came into the kitchen.
‘I’m never too busy to please you.’ I managed a flirty tone though my insides were sickeningly flipping on each other.
He leaned back on the counter and crossed his arms, closing himself off; the gesture representing the figurative wall between us. Oh, how I loathed his crossed arms. ‘What are you trying to do, Cate?’
‘Surprise you.’ His eyes carried to the bubbling pot on the cook top and I followed his gaze. ‘It’s linguini.’
‘For chicken and asparagus?’
I reached for the grater because I figured if I kept my hands busy he may not notice my trembling fingers. ‘Do you even need to ask? I’m about to start with the parmesan.’
‘Finely?’
‘Everything will be just how you like it.’
With what seemed like tempered patience, he stepped up and took the grater from me. My body instinctively reacted with giddy flip-flopping to his closeness, though I recognised the expression seeping across his face. He replaced the grater back on the counter, soundlessly telling me not to waste my time with him. He was not staying. ‘You shouldn’t have done this.’
If breaking your wife’s heart was an Olympic sport, Nick would be the proud owner of a trophy cabinet bursting with gold medals.
I smiled briefly at him, lingering on his ashen expression for a moment. He was a big man; a footballer would envy his strong, wide shoulders and height. But standing hunched, wilting under the weight of our life together, he was the epitome of weak misery.
He held my gaze and then expelled a breath that he seemed to be holding for an eternity, the sound of it representing the last fraying thread of our marriage letting go. I ignored the truth, along with the faint scent that still mockingly lingered within our rare close proximity, instead breaking his hold on me as I busied myself with the
al dente
pasta.
‘Here,’ he said as he stepped closer to me, taking the steaming pot from me before I scalded myself with it. Knowing that I couldn’t concentrate on a single thing other than my husband slipping away, I let him help me.
Ambiguously I muttered, ‘I didn’t think that I’d make such a terrible mess of this.’
I instinctively pursed my lips, probably in an attempt to prevent my mouth from suddenly blurting my secret out. Though Nick had an unwavering ability to remain calm and quiet, coaxing me, waiting for me to tell him anything, I’d been rehearsing indifference and now it was time to discover whether it would pay off.
I swallowed hard. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked in what I congratulated myself was a strained but passable air of nonchalance.
He nodded towards the breakfast bar. ‘Will you come and sit with me?’
I wanted to scream, ‘No!’ I wanted to beg him not to go through with this. But this conversation had to start somewhere. I would just need to revise the direction that I had scripted in my head.
I could barely sit still as I picked at my sensibly short finger nails. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair two seats away from me, both of us quiet, measuring up the situation. I dragged in another deep breath and calmed my nerves as much as my freight train of a heart would allow me. I lifted my eyes to his and thought
forget the romantic dinner and just tell him now!!!
I opened my mouth in an attempt to tell him what I’d been hiding…
Before a sound had the chance to leave my mouth, Lucy swung the side door open, and oozing from her body was the scent that I could now unequivocally pinpoint.