Page 41 of Special Delivery
‘Oh, er, I thought you and our neighbour were … um, you know.’ She pulled at her shirt to make doubly sure it wasn’t still tucked into her bra.
‘Oh!’ James sounded shocked. ‘No, no, not at all. Happily single, I am.’ He coughed and glanced at her quickly. ‘Sorry, weird thing to say.’
Poppy’s brow tensed slightly. Was that embarrassment she’d witnessed? From the robot? She turned to the lemon slice. ‘You’re lucky your grandma is such a great baker,’ she said, handing over the container.
‘I know.’ James nodded. ‘We don’t need it at all—we’ve got mountains of food—but it wouldn’t be Easter without Mary’s slice.’
Poppy glanced at her own measly pile of soggy food on the bench. ‘I bet.’
James tilted his head towards the wet baguette poking out of the esky. ‘What happened there?’
‘Yoghurt explosion.’
‘Right.’
‘I may be on a liquid diet this Easter.’
James glanced between her and the food. ‘I guess, er, you could join us? For Easter lunch tomorrow?’ He hesitated. ‘Only if you want to, of course.’ He held up the Tupperware container. ‘We’ll have slice.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy felt her cheeks redden. ‘I wasn’t angling for an invite.’ Her conversations with this man always seemed to veer off course. It was his damn eyes. They were so distracting.
‘Not at all. It would be my—I mean,ourpleasure.’
Poppy grimaced. There was no way out from all this politeness. She was trapped. ‘Oh, um, okay then,’ she stammered. ‘Thank you, um … James.’ His name sounded so formal on her tongue.
‘Right.’ He nodded as if concluding a business meeting. ‘I’ll pop by tomorrow morning and let you know the plans. You would think lunch would be at lunchtime, but you can never be sure when my family is concerned, so it pays to check. I guess, I’ll … I’ll see you soon.’
He turned and walked down the stairs. Poppy squinted into the sunlight, watching him go. In the distance, a kookaburra laughed until its cackle was absorbed into the hot, dry air. She turned back to the kitchen and leaned her elbows on the bench then dropped her head into her hands. The Tupperware of jam drops sat next to her, as duplicitous as a poisoned chalice. Poppy straightened up and rubbed her eyes. Mary had alotof explaining to do.
CHAPTER 19
Poppy’s fingers hovered over her phone. Would it be positive parenting or soul-sucking suicide to send an Easter message to Patrick?
‘Happy Easter!’ called a familiar silhouette from the doorway.
Argh!Poppy’s phone clattered onto the table and Maeve looked up from her play mat.
‘I thought you might need sustenance,’ said James, opening the door and waving a box of Cornflakes and a three-litre bottle of milk. ‘I can’t leave these with you—you have no idea how much my nephews eat—but if you’re hungry you could make a bowl now and I’ll take the rest back.’
‘Oh, er, thanks,’ said Poppy, wishing she wasn’t still in her pyjamas. ‘I’ll just change. Can you watch Maeve?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just raced into the bedroom, grabbing a t-shirt from the floor and pulling a hairbrush from her suitcase to smooth her bed hair. It was only eight thirty, for god’s sake.Being in your pyjamas at this hour was completely acceptable on a public holiday, especially when you had a newborn. It wasn’t her fault James always looked so fresh.
When she came out, James was cradling Maeve in the crook of his arm as he rummaged in the cupboards. ‘She started grumbling so I picked her up,’ he explained, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. His forearm was so big that Maeve lay on it like a bed.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked, pulling two bowls from the cabinet. ‘It’s chaos back at our cabin.’
‘Um, okay,’ said Poppy. ‘Can’t refuse a man who brings me food.’
‘Good to know.’ James grinned and, inexplicably, she felt her stomach drop. Hunger pangs, obviously.
James filled the bowls with Cornflakes and poured the milk all with Maeve on his forearm. It was sodexterous.
‘I haven’t had Cornflakes in years,’ remarked Poppy to distract herself as she took Maeve back. ‘Not since I was backpacking. Cornflakes always remind me of hostels.’
James pulled out two spoons from a drawer under the sink—Poppy would have never found them there—and put them in the bowls.
‘They remind me of camping,’ he said, making his way towards the verandah with the bowls. Poppy followed. ‘When I ate them overseas, they always tasted different from the ones back home.’
‘I seem to remember they were saltier in Europe,’ said Poppy grabbing the play mat with her spare hand.
