Not, she was sure, Nick Clyde.
‘How about a nap, while I rustle up something for dinner?’ Duncan suggested, heading for the cases. ‘I’ll take these up, but we can unpack later.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Nick hefted the cases. ‘Not an entirely altruistic move. The sooner you get in that kitchen, the sooner my stomach will realise that no, it’s okay, my throat hasn’t been cut.’
‘What a lovely analogy.’ Duncan grinned, giving the boy another half hug as Nick went past him to the stairs.
This was where Kathleen had died. She’d fallen, the forensics folk had decided, from the landing onto the hard Victorian tiles and been killed instantly. Maggie couldn’t help looking down at those tiles and wondering where, exactly . . .
Poor Nick. Poor lad, having to walk here every day and remember what had happened, what he’d seen.
Maggie put the image out her mind and began the trek up the stairs. She’d only been upstairs in Sunnyside three or four times, most lately on a Saturday a couple of weeks before the wedding, when she and Duncan had redecorated the bedroom that was to be the nursery and arranged the new furniture in it.
She opened the nursery door and stepped inside.
‘Your room,’ she whispered, stroking her belly.
Leaf-green walls and a Winnie the Pooh frieze. A white cot and chest of drawers and changing table. An antique trunk for all the toys. Shelves already filling up with a collection of soft animals. A thick, firm-piled alphabet rug.
The familiar feelings of excitement and panic filled her.
She was going to be someone’s ma.
She’d never thought she would be. How could wee Maggie McPhee give a kid what they needed? How could she keep them safe?
Someone was there. Behind her. She swung round, her heart, for no reason, hammering. The baby moved, as if to go, Steady, Ma!
It was just Nick, standing in the doorway.
Poor wee bastard.
She wanted to tell him that she would never try to take his ma’s place, even if she could. But all she said was, ‘Hi, Nick.’
‘Dad’s room is next door. But maybe you know that.’
‘Yes, I remember. Thanks.’
She walked towards him, to the doorway, but he didn’t move to let her past.
Was there something he wanted to say to her? She smiled at him, and when he said nothing, tried, ‘Thank you for making me so welcome. I know it can’t be easy, having someone you hardly know living in your house.’
‘That’s okay. I’m used to it. We often have guests staying.’
And there it was. Oh aye, he resented her, right enough.
He moved back into the corridor, and went ahead of her to Duncan’s room, opening the door and walking in. ‘Aunt Yvonne has given it an airing – badly needed given the ability of Dad’s feet to stink up a room.’
The room was big and square, with windows on two sides, all open to let in a breeze that rippled the curtains. It was a right bonnie room, the walls painted dark pink, the woodwork white. There was a massive antique wardrobe made out of swirly, glowing wood, and tasteful paintings on the walls of cows in fields. The bed was a king-size oak one with a padded headboard in pale green, made up with crisp white sheets and pillows and duvet cover. All she wanted to do was kick off her shoes and crash on it.
‘Thanks, Nick.’ She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed with an ‘Oof!’
He just stood there looking at her.
Aye, what? she wanted to rap out. But: ‘I’ll try to keep away from the whole evil stepmother thing,’ she said, smiling up at him. He was tall, as tall as Duncan. ‘Although I can’t promise to always let you win at Scrabble.’ The three of them had played a couple of times, and Nick had won by miles. Maggie had joked about letting him win, and Nick had seemed to appreciate the attempt at humour.
And now, again, it raised a smile. ‘Oh, hasn’t Dad told you? I always win at everything. I’m insufferable that way.’
Maggie laughed. ‘So I’ve noticed.’
Nick’s smile turned into a grin as he left the room.
She always thought it must be like having to deal with a different species from his charming, perfect son, Duncan having to wrangle all those young offenders, all those losers, on the programme he ran out of The Phoenix Centre in Langholm for a charity that tried to rehabilitate yobs. It was how he and Maggie had first met. She’d been a nightmare of a twenty-year-old, assigned to the programme by her social worker in a last-ditch attempt to keep her out of adult prison. She’d been angry at the world, as Duncan put it. He used to call her Little Miss Prickles. On her twenty-first birthday he’d given her a card with a hedgehog in a party hat on it, but she hadn’t been able to work herself up to take offence, as she would normally.
Because it was Duncan.
She’d been in love with him by then. Oh aye, she’d fallen hard! But she’d known he was out of her league and nothing was ever going to happen between them. Duncan was fourteen years older than Maggie. A former Army officer. Posh. And she knew he didn’t think of her that way. All he saw was a troubled young woman who needed help. And anyway, starting something with someone on the programme would probably have got him the sack.