All They Need

chapter EIGHT



FLYNN WAS SNOWED UNDER for the next few days, working to beat the deadline for a tender on a government housing project. He was still shoveling his way through his in-tray on Wednesday when his assistant stuck her head in the door.

“Flynn. I’ve got Mel Porter on the phone. She’s delivering your car and wondered where you’d like it parked. Shall I direct her to your spot or tell her to leave it in guest parking?”

He’d been hunched over his desk going over a specification chart but he straightened immediately. “Mel?” he repeated stupidly.

“That’s what she said.”

He was unprepared for the flood of pleasure and anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing her again. “Put her through.”

She returned to her desk and a few seconds later his phone rang.

“Mel.”

“Hi. Sorry to disturb you. I only wanted to know where you would like the car parked but your secretary insisted on putting me through to you.”

“Why are you delivering my car? I thought some guy named Jimmy was going to do it?” He’d spoken to Mike the previous afternoon to make the arrangements.



“Jimmy has the flu and Dad didn’t want to hand your $300,000 car over to a pimply-faced eighteen-year-old who’s seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off one too many times.”

He grinned and sat back in his chair. “I can only applaud your father’s excellent judgment. How far away are you?”

“About ten minutes. Your secretary mentioned something about guest parking.”

“Turn into the entrance to the underground garage. The guest parking is immediately on your right. Reception’s on the ground floor. Let them know when you arrive and I’ll come down.”

“You don’t need to do that,” she said hastily. “You’re busy. I can drop the keys at Reception and leave you to it.”

“Or you could have lunch with me.”

“You don’t need to buy me lunch.”

“I want to.”

She was silent for a long moment. Probably trying to come up with an excuse.

“You must be busy,” she said lamely. “I don’t want to mess up your day.”

“I’ll see you in ten minutes, Mel.”

He thought for a minute after he’d hung up, then buzzed his secretary. “Mary, what’s the name of that new Spanish place everyone’s talking about in St. Kilda?”

“The Lexington Hotel?”

“That’s the one. Can you get me a table for two for twenty minutes from now?”

“What about your one o’clock?”

“I’ll move it.”



He sent an email to reschedule his one o’clock, then grabbed his jacket and wallet and headed for the door.

“I’ll see you later, Mary,” he said as he breezed past her desk.

She looked astonished. Probably because he almost never had lunch, unless it was a business meeting. He took the lift to the underground garage and walked up the ramp to where the guest parking was located. He’d been waiting barely a minute when Mel pulled in. She saw him and gave him a confused little wave before driving into a parking spot and turning off the engine.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked as she unfolded her tall body from the car. She was wearing dark jeans and a black turtleneck beneath a short red woolen coat, her hair loose over her shoulders.

She looked great.

“Waiting for you in case you tried to bail on my lunch offer.”

She frowned and he pointed a finger at her.

“Tell me it didn’t cross your mind.”

Her expression became a little sheepish.

“Busted,” he said.

“You don’t have to take me out to lunch just because I’m dropping off your car.”

“I know I don’t. Come on, we’re having Spanish in St. Kilda.”

He plucked the keys from her hand. She hesitated a moment before circling the car to the passenger door.

“Nothing fancy,” she said. “I’m not dressed for fancy.”

“It’s lunch and it’s Spanish. Jeans are fine.”

She slid into the car and reached for her seat belt.

“How did Gertie behave?” he asked as he reversed out of the parking spot.



“Like a dream. It’s a beautiful car. Some people might say too beautiful to have such an ugly nickname.”

“She’s earned that nickname, don’t you worry,” he said as they shot up the ramp and out into the street. “The number of times she’s broken down on me…”

She gave him a curious look. “Maybe you should get something more reliable then.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean admitting defeat. Besides, we all have our flaws, right?”

He could feel her watching him and he took his eyes off the road to glance at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shifted her gaze to the front.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said. “This place is supposed to be good.”

“I could eat.”

They talked about her garden for the remainder of the short drive. Flynn found a parking spot close to their destination and ushered Mel into what looked like an old-school pub. Inside, however, the building had been gutted. The traditional wood bar and sticky carpet had been ripped out and replaced with concrete everything. The floor was polished concrete, while huge feature concrete arches marched down one side of the room, and on the other side a vast concrete bar dominated the space. The seating was equally modern—white Saarinen tulip chairs with alternating acid-yellow and hot-pink cushions—and the art on the walls was edgy and abstract, with big slashes of black with dripping red and more acid-yellow.

It was incredibly noisy and filled with a laughing, well-dressed crowd—trust-fund kids who didn’t have to work, minor celebrities and businesspeople who still had time for long lunches. Not exactly the venue he would have chosen for what he hoped would be an intimate lunch with Mel.

A thin, austere-looking woman approached, arching an eyebrow. “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone implying she would prefer to do anything but.

Flynn had been eating in places like this since he was in short pants and he ignored her attitude. “Table for two. Under the name of Randall.”

She perked up predictably at the mention of the R word and they were soon being whisked to a small side table. It was only when he was seated opposite her that he saw how tense Mel was. Her gaze bounced around the room uneasily, and when the waitress returned with their menus she ducked her head and murmured her thanks.

He frowned, watching her rather than the waitress as the other woman launched into a lengthy rundown of the day’s specials and the wine list. Mel made a show of listening, but he could tell she’d tuned out.

“Thank God,” he said the moment the waitress left. “That was like listening to the begat part of the Bible. Corn-fed spatchcock begat braised witloof begat roasted baby beets begat brandied goat’s cheese—”

She choked on the mouthful of water she was swallowing.

“Are you all right? Should I come around and Heimlich you?” he offered.

“I don’t think you can Heimlich for fluids.” She coughed.

“Good point.” He watched sympathetically as she finally got a grip.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”



Her daze darted around the restaurant again, almost as though she was checking to see if anyone was watching. Her fingers pleated the edge of her linen napkin, folding it back and forth, back and forth.

“Do you have any idea what you’d like?” he asked.

“I’m not sure…?.”

He asked if she wanted wine but it was very loud thanks to all the concrete and she had to ask him to repeat himself twice. Over at the bar, a woman laughed, the sound not unlike an excited hyena.

He looked at Mel. She had her best game face on, but his gut told him she was deeply uncomfortable. Hell, he was uncomfortable. He’d wanted to treat her, to give her a nice experience and, yes, to show off a little. Instead, he’d landed them in the middle of the sort of trendy, pretentious eatery he usually avoided like the plague.

He made eye contact with her across the table and decided to take a gamble.

“Okay, I’m just going to put it out there,” he said, leaning forward so he could be heard over the din. “There’s this really great burger joint around the corner from the office. They make their own relish and instead of buns they use—”

“Let’s go,” Mel said, already reaching for her coat.

He laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“I really like burgers.”

She was being diplomatic, he knew. They stood and he helped her into her jacket. The waitress approached and he told her that they’d changed their minds. His hand on the small of Mel’s back, he guided her toward the door.

They were almost home free when he felt her muscles tense beneath his hand. He glanced at her face and saw that her eyes had gone blank. For a moment he didn’t understand. Then he felt someone staring at him and glanced toward the bar.

Owen Hunter stood amongst a group of suits, a glass of wine in hand, his gaze pinned to them. He looked shocked. And, unless Flynn was wildly mistaken, angry.

Mel lengthened her stride, reaching the door and exiting into the cool winter air ahead of him. He gave her a moment to compose herself before touching her arm.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Of course,” she said, but her voice sounded hoarse, strained.

Flynn’s hand found the small of her back again and he guided her toward the car. He waited until she was busy fastening her seat belt before he spoke again.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“More than a year ago. We pretty much did everything through the lawyers.”

There was a question in his mind, one that had been bugging him for a long time. He hesitated to ask it. Then he shrugged. If this attraction between him and Mel was going to go anywhere, there needed to be a certain level of honesty and understanding between them.

“Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but how did you guys ever get together? I keep trying to picture him not being a complete ass-hat and failing miserably.”

Her lips bent into a parody of a smile. “We were both backpacking through Europe. I went for a year when I was twenty-one and stayed for four I loved it so much. I met Owen at the beginning of my last year at a bar in Portugal. I beat him in the limbo competition, and that was pretty much it.”

“Again, I can’t picture Hunter backpacking, either.”

The other man always seemed so aware of his own status, his own importance. Backpacking seemed to be the very antithesis of everything that Hunter appeared to crave and value.

“He loved it. I think he saw it as a challenge. He could make a euro go further than anyone I’ve ever traveled with.” She gave a sharp little laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“I was just remembering how shocked I was when I learned he had money. We got married a week before we were due home, on the beach in Thailand, and he told me that night about his parents and their money and his trust fund. He said he hadn’t wanted to tell me before because he wanted to make sure I was marrying him because I loved him and not because of what he could do for me.”

Flynn tried to think of something to say that didn’t have the word ass-hat in it again.

“Must have been a bit of a shock,” he finally said.

Another grim smile from her. “I thought I was in my own version of Pretty Woman. I mean, it doesn’t get much better, right? Working-class girl goes overseas, meets incredible guy, falls in love, and it turns out he’s rich as well. Cinderella, eat your heart out.”

He started the car and pulled out into traffic.

“The bit they don’t tell you in the fairy tale is all the stuff that happens after the happily ever after,” Mel continued after a short silence. “Like when Richard Gere’s friends won’t accept Julia Roberts because she doesn’t know all the rules, and how Cinderella wasn’t the type of girl King and Queen Charming wanted their son to marry.”

He flicked a look at her. She was gazing out the window, an infinitely sad expression on her face. “I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “For what?”

“For asking the question.”

She shrugged. “It’s not your fault that the answer is so sucky.”

They were both silent for the remainder of the drive to the burger place. He turned to face her once he’d pulled into a parking spot.

“Just so you know, this place has no ambience, unless you count graffiti gouged into the tabletops and a few old Coke posters. On the plus side, there’s no concrete and not a single waiter with an attitude. Plus the burgers are awe-inspiring. I recommend the burger with the works, but I’m a pig like that.”

Mel smiled faintly. “Are we talking egg and beet-root?”

“And pickles, and caramelized onions.”

“I’m in.”

He ordered while she slid into a booth toward the rear of the restaurant. He slid in opposite her and they immediately bumped knees. She shuffled along the seat and he did the same, and still they bumped knees.

“Okay, these booths were clearly made for midgets. I think we need some strategy here,” he suggested. “Staggered knees. It’s the only way this is going to work.”

“Staggered knees?”

He reached under the table and found her knee. He guided her left knee to the right of his, then did the same with her right knee so that they were effectively interwoven.

“Oh, staggered knees. Why didn’t you say so?” she said. Then she started laughing.

He watched her, a smile playing about his mouth, aware that she needed the tension release.

“Sorry. That just tickled my funny bone.”

“You have a great laugh,” he said.

Her gaze slid away from his and she reached for the straw dispenser. She pulled a straw free and fiddled with it, and he could almost see her casting about, looking for a safe topic of conversation.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you—my sister has organized a working bee at my place this Saturday,” she said after a few seconds. “I showed her your plans and she got all gung ho. So, we’re going to build my cascading garden beds sooner rather than later.”

“It’s a pity it’s this Saturday, I could have helped.”

“Busy washing the cat, are we? Having a violin lesson?” she joked. “My brother tried all of those excuses before my sister nailed him.”

A part of him that he hadn’t even known was tense relaxed. She was back in form, the bleak look gone from her eyes.

“Your sister sounds scary. And my alibi is water tight—we’re having a family meeting to discuss Dad’s care.”

She immediately sobered. “Because of what happened on the weekend?”

“In part. The thing is, if we don’t take the chance to talk to him now, we may lose it forever. This way, we’ll at least know we’re doing what he wants. Small comfort at the end of the day, but it’s something.” He realized he was going on about his parents again and sat up a little straighter. “So, have you thought about what you want to grow in your veggie patch yet?”

She eyed him sympathetically. “I don’t mind talking about your parents, Flynn. You don’t have to change the subject.”

Their meals arrived before he had a chance to respond. Mel gave an appreciative whistle as she inspected hers.

“Not bad. And I’m a bit of a burger connoisseur.”

“Wait till you taste it.”

She took a big bite. “Oh. Wow. I may need a moment alone with my burger. And a cigarette for afterward.”

“Please, don’t let me stop you.”

She closed her eyes as she took another bite. “This is so good. This has to be Melbourne’s best-kept secret.”

They compared best-burger-ever stories for the next few minutes. As usual, Mel made him laugh. When she wasn’t on her guard, she had a wicked sense of humor and a very quick wit. There was a wild energy in her—an impishness—that appealed to him enormously.

On impulse, driven by an imp of his own, he gestured toward her left cheek. “You have something on your face.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She grabbed the napkin and gave her cheek a good wipe. She looked at him expectantly. “All gone?”

“Almost, but not quite. Here, let me.”

He leaned across the table, hand extended. He was about to touch her cheek when her hand snapped up and caught his wrist. She turned her head to stare at the gob of mayonnaise on his index finger. She shook her head, her eyes dancing with laughter.



“Oldest trick in the book, buddy. The old double-fake face smear. Strictly amateur hour.”

“Nearly got you,” he said, utterly shameless in defeat.

“Close, but no cigar, my friend.”

He grinned, reaching for a napkin to wipe his hands. “I like you, Mel Porter.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Mel’s smile flickered for a moment, then she sat back in her seat and gave him a dry look.

“Second oldest trick in the book—distraction. Don’t go thinking you’ve gotten away with anything, Randall. There will be reprisals, mark my word. So sleep with one eye open.”

He thought about pushing it, about declaring himself more openly, but everything in Mel’s posture told him it was too soon. He settled back in his chair and smiled at her. He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she. There was no need to rush this—whatever it turned out to be.



MEL STARED OUT the train window on the way home from the city. Around her, schoolkids played, the boys shoving each other around and checking out the girls, the girls gossiping and texting and checking out the boys.

Mel’s thoughts were preoccupied with the man she’d left behind.

I like you, Mel Porter.

The words still gave her a thrill, even though it had been a couple of hours since he’d uttered them.

She liked him, too. More so every day.

She felt the now-familiar dart of anxiety as she acknowledged her own feelings. When she was with Flynn, it all seemed incredibly easy. He was so charming and funny and sweet and sexy. Why wouldn’t she want to spend time with him? Why wouldn’t she let instinct take over?

Yet when she wasn’t with him, reality crowded in. She had no business even thinking about being with someone at the moment. Her head was still way too full with the detritus from her marriage—witness what had happened when they’d run in to Owen in that hideous excuse for a restaurant.

She had literally flushed hot, then cold when she’d glanced across the dining room and found herself looking into her ex-husband’s eyes. The angry, outraged expression on his face had propelled her back in time, back to the days when that look had meant either a lecture or cold silence in the car on the way home, punishment for whatever transgression she’d committed. Laughing too loudly, telling a bawdy joke, drinking too much—she’d been raked over the coals for all of them at one time or another.

Then the insistent weight of Flynn’s warm hand on the small of her back had registered and she’d remembered that she was free and that Owen’s disapproval and anger meant nothing to her now.

Less than nothing.

Of course, she knew what he’d been unhappy about. He’d done backflips trying to become Flynn’s friend, trying to inveigle his way into the Randalls’ inner circle. To see Mel there so easily, so effortlessly… He’d be brooding over it for hours, no doubt. Wondering what had been said between her and Flynn, what had been done.

God, she was glad she was free of it. All of it. The pretentious restaurants, the constant low-level anxiety about looking the right way and saying the right thing… It had been exhausting. Six long years of trying to live up to her husband’s expectations.

If only she’d thought to ask him to live up to hers.

She’d expected him to love her. She’d expected him to be her friend. She’d expected him to be on her side, to support her. He’d failed to deliver on almost every score.

The train pulled into a station and Mel shook herself. She didn’t want to waste more time thinking about Owen. He’d consumed enough of her life.

As for Flynn…

She didn’t want to think about him, either, but for very different reasons.

It was too late, however. Her mouth was already curving into a smile as she remembered that stunt he’d tried to pull with the mayonnaise.

Flynn Randall was a goof. She never would have guessed in a million years, but he was. He was naughty and he was cheeky and he was fun.

I like you, Mel Porter.

She gazed out at the passing cityscape as the train left the station.

The feeling is mutual, Mr. Randall. Extremely mutual.



FLYNN SPENT A LONG TIME in the shower on Saturday morning. Head bowed, he let the water wash over him and tried to steel himself for the day ahead.

It didn’t matter that his father had agreed to this meeting. It didn’t matter that they were all going in with their eyes open, determined to listen and be patient. He didn’t want to sit at a table and discuss options for his father’s care once he was beyond caring for himself. Flynn didn’t want to be rational about something that made him want to bang his head against a brick wall with anguish.

But he would. As would his father and his mother, because the only other option was to bury their heads in the sand, which really wasn’t an option at all.

When the hot water finally ran out, he toweled off and dressed. He thought about breakfast but decided he couldn’t eat. Feeling heavier than lead, he drove to his parents’ place.

His father answered the door, his hair damp from the shower. His gaze was sharp, his demeanor familiar and affectionate.

“Dad.”

They exchanged hugs.

“Come in. Rosina’s making waffles. Anyone would think it was a special occasion.”

He gave Flynn a small, self-deprecating smile as Flynn walked past him and into the house. Then his gaze dropped to the folder in Flynn’s hands and his smile flattened. He didn’t ask, but Flynn knew he’d guessed what was in the folder: information on in-home nursing care and other support organizations for late-stage Alzheimer’s patients and their caregivers.

“I don’t suppose it’s too late to cancel and suggest a day trip somewhere instead?” his father said.

“Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“Oh, nice answer. Leaves me with bugger all room to maneuver.”

“I learned from the best,” Flynn said as they entered the dining room.

“What did you learn, and from whom?” his mother asked, looking up from arranging a large bunch of camellias in a vase on the cherry-wood sideboard against the wall.

“How to get his own way, and from me,” his father said.

“Oh. That. I’d like to think I had a hand in that, too. I’m no slouch at getting my own way, either,” his mother said.

“True. Although logic would dictate that it’s impossible for two people to both always get what they want all the time,” his father said. “Someone has to miss out.”

“Agreed—unless they both want the same things.” His mother angled her cheek for Flynn’s kiss. “There you go, darling—the secret to thirty-odd years of happy marriage, in a nutshell. Find a woman who wants the same things as you.”

Flynn was very aware that beneath the banter and lightheartedness there was an edgy undercurrent. He pressed his molars together, wishing he could fast-forward through the next few hours and cut to the part where the hard decisions had been hammered out.

He crossed to the window and his thoughts drifted to Mel, as they were wont to do these days. He wondered if she was up and about yet, and what time her working bee was scheduled to start. Then he thought about the way she’d giggled like an idiot when he’d arranged her knees under the table at the burger place and smiled faintly.

“Would you like a coffee or a tea before we get started?” his mother asked from behind him.

Flynn turned to face his parents. “Tea, thanks.”

“How many waffles would you like?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry right now. Maybe later.” His gut was too tight to welcome food.



“Okay, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” his father said decisively, taking a seat at the head of the table. He’d set himself up with a notepad and pen, along with a sheet of printed notes. His reading glasses sat on the end of his nose and he surveyed Flynn and his wife over the top of them, every inch the former CEO of Randall Developments.

Painfully aware that his father’s dignity depended on the illusion that he was in control of at least some aspects of his life, Flynn took a seat to his father’s left, while his mother sat opposite.

“So, where do we start?” his father asked.

Flynn rolled his shoulders. Then he opened the folder in front of him. “I think we should take this step by step. What needs to be done now, medium term and long term.”

His father nodded. “Agreed. You okay with that, Pat?”

“It makes sense.”

“So what are our short-term issues?” His father sounded utterly professional, as though this were any other meeting, yet his hands trembled as he shuffled his papers.

A sudden, white-hot surge of anger hit Flynn.

His father was a good man. He deserved far better than the fate that awaited him. He deserved some peace and pleasure, the chance to enjoy everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.

Instead, he was going to fall apart, cell by cell, memory by memory, until he was completely unravelled, his sense of self destroyed.

The urge to smash something, primitive and fierce, gripped Flynn. His hands curled around the chair’s armrests, tightening until his knuckles ached.



For long seconds he simply hung on, riding the wave of his rage. Then the moment passed and he registered that his mother was speaking, talking about ways of making the house safer without his father feeling under lock and key.

He let his breath out slowly and reached for his pen and started taking notes.