Page 47 of Lela's Choice

“After I lost Mama and Mari, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my brothers. Even at my lowest point, when I was furious at Papa. He’d issue edicts or impose authoritarian mandates without listening to my opinion. I fantasised about leaving but knew I’d die inside if I was separated from them—from Papa.

“It was harder after Sophie. She followed me like one of those ducks following flags on sticks in Balinese paddy fields, but she adored Papa as well. She didn’t recognise his barriers. Just climbed all over him and coaxed affection from him that he was unable or unwilling to show my brothers or me. I can’t walk away from any of them. I need them as much as they need me. You must understand. From what you’ve told me, you come from a close family.”

“My wife died.” Words Hamish hadn’t planned to say were pulled out of him. Unfair, after all the secrets she’d shared, not to tell her what haunted the core of him. Knowing, fearing she’d understand what many others couldn’t comprehend.

“Oh, Hamish.” She slipped her hand into his.

“Olivia was pregnant when she died.”

He heard the whimper, quickly swallowed as her grip tightened on his. “I’m so very sorry, Hamish.”

Hamish studied their joined hands. Insight slapped him hard. Her father’s rejection of her sister still haunted her, the threat he might also reject Lela. “If my child had lived, I wouldn’t have locked him or her out because of my grief about Olivia.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” She lifted their joined hands and pressed the back of his hand against her cheek.

“I’ll get us some drinks.” He crossed to the bar before he did something he’d regret: bundle her into his arms and race back to the hotel. When he’d been served, he returned to their table. She had her back to him, surveying the room. The trio in the corner pumped out jazz at a volume that allowed conversation, but created an intimate atmosphere of bohemian charm. “What will you say to Sophie?” he whispered against her ear.

She swung to face him. “I’ve got as far ashelloin my mind.”

“And then?”

“It depends if she’s happy. On her reason for running. On what happens when these tight bands of fear clamped around my chest finally release.” She sighed.

“What’s your usual form of discipline?”

“Discipline!” She bobbled her drink. “She was a sunny-natured child, cooperative.”

“Didn’t inherit your temperament, then.” He grinned at her over his drink.

“Very funny.” She studied the bubbles rising to the surface in her glass. “She’s more like Mari. My sister was beautiful, inside and out. Gentle, caring. I can’t remember her ever giving my parents—Papa—a moment’s concern until Dean.”

“Did Sophie give you a moment’s trouble before Peter?”

“Not since that first year of high school, although in the last few years Sophie’s pushed to expand her boundaries,” she said slowly, staring over his shoulder. “I think I mentioned she resented the time I gave to the foundation,” she corrected herself, “the time it took away from her.”

“Shades of your father.” He let the comparison sink in. “Whereas you’re intense, believe passionately in justice, and before you taught yourself that remarkable self-discipline, probably exploded like a firecracker.” What would it take for her to lose her temper?

“It still happens,” she admitted. “I’m not sure whether to be furious or pathetically grateful that she’s safe.”

“A little anger is in order. The picture I’m getting now is of a well-off young woman with lots of options and support who’s disappeared without a word.”

“Just as well, I’ve got my fifteen minutes first.” Her dimple peeped out.

“Have you considered she might want to stay?” Hamish got his answer when her head turned, a jerky staccato movement matching the shake in her hand holding the champagne. Liquid sloshed over the rim before she placed the flute carefully on the bench and grabbed a serviette to dry her fingers.

“She’s enrolled at university, her family, friends, everything she knows, and”—she sucked in air—"I’m snatching at reasons that might no longer be relevant.”

“Would you stay at home, if Sophie wasn’t there?” He asked the question, rather than offer false reassurance when she’d landed on a truth.

“I’ve rented an apartment. Planned to leave when Sophie turned eighteen.”

Leaving was a courageous decision when she’d just confessed she needed her family around her. “Why?”

“It’s time.” She rolled her shoulders. He had the sense of her releasing enormous tension. “I’ve tried to model good behaviour. Independence is the next step. For me, for her.”

“A halfway house for her?”

“You’re too smart for your own good. She’s been clashing more with Papa, with me, as she tests out adulthood. I figured I could model an orderly exit.”

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