Change of Heart
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,603 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.
N.B.: I'm pretty sure there are no typos or missed words but if there are, they are entirely my own fault.
Chapter 10: Against the Gathering Storm
Mark had no illusions of the drive being anything like those in the past. With the news of the morning Bridget was very quiet; since she was usually the talkative one, not a whole lot was said, and what he said was of a fairly trivial nature. The words he wanted to offer, the apology long overdue to Bridget, were not at all forthcoming.
"For his birthday Aidan wants to go out for pizza and a film with Marilyn and his friends," Mark said at one point; her response was a murmuring acquiescence. At another, he verified that the vehicle they'd agreed upon was secured, and that as far as he knew Aidan's road safety instruction was going well.
"That's good," she said in a small voice.
He drove directly to her place, parking at the kerb. As they emerged from the vehicle, Mark took a look around; he saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that might be press photographers, but in his experience that did not necessarily mean there weren't any lurking around. When he followed her up the steps and to the door of her house, he placed his hand gently and reassuringly on her shoulder. She turned and gave him an odd look before apparently realising he probably wanted to see Aidan too.
Aidan must have witnessed their approach, because he was waiting for them near the front door. "Mum, Dad," he said, then gratefully accepted her embrace. "This is all so weird. Never would have thought anything like this would happen. I wasn't trying to make a political statement or anything."
"I know," she said. "It's just too bad it didn't come out at the start." Bridget looked pointedly at Mark, just as Lizzie and Marilyn came in the room. "Girls," she said with a wan smile. "Everything all right with you?"
"We're good," said Lizzie with a smile. "It's all kind of exciting, actually."
"It is exciting," said Marilyn in a less-than-convinced tone, her arms crossing her waist. "More exciting than I sort of wanted."
Mark gave her an understanding smile.
"Well, now the truth's out, that can't be a bad thing, can it?" asked Lizzie. "Everyone can see what a jerk that kid was and how right Aidan was to sock him in the face."
"It wasn't really 'right'," said Aidan, "though I'm glad they'll finally get what's coming to them."
Listening to this exchange humiliated Mark, not only for failing to make amends with Bridget over this whole situation, but for failing to come up with the right words with which to do it. If not for driving the car, if not for the presence of the children, he thought he might have just allowed the words to spill out without regard for eloquence, but knew he was probably fooling himself. He was just making excuses.
He needed to go back to the house and regroup.
"Glad to see you're holding up all right," Mark said at last, offering his son a smile. "I think I'll head home, but if you need anything… just ask."
Bridget looked stunned. Aidan smiled in return. "I will."
Mark turned his gaze to Marilyn. "Do you want a ride home?"
"Me? No, I'm good," she said with a shy grin. "I'd like to stay a bit longer if that's okay with Bridget."
"That's just fine with me," Bridget said in a strangely disconnected voice.
He cleared his throat, thoughts swirling regarding his need to apologise, but oddly focused on the mundane. "Walk with me to the car?"
They walked back outside together. "Bridget," he said. She turned with an expectant expression on her face. "I just wanted to say I've been giving this a lot of thought and… well, that I will carry the cost of the car myself."
"What?"
"It's a big expense," he said. "I know this house can't be cheap to rent, and with the children living here primarily…. The car can still be from both of us, though."
She stood there with glassy, wide eyes, until Lizzie poked her head through the front door and told Bridget she had a call. "We'll speak later," she said softly. He hoped in his heart that his gesture was truly as well-received as her reaction had indicated.
When Mark got home, he found his copy of the day's newspaper upon the stoop. He took it to the kitchen, made himself some tea, intending to read through all of the details of what had transpired. In waiting for the kettle to boil, he found a few messages on the home line not unexpectedly related to the big news of the day: Alice Remington; his mother; a representative of the newspaper he was about to read. As he settled in with a calming cup of Darjeeling, he read intently; there were parts with which he was of course already familiar, but the extent to which Victor Hawthorne's influence invaded like ivy through the very foundation of his beloved alma mater both disgusted and angered him. Arthur Remington had also not been the first boy subjected to Ethan's bullying ways; every incident had not only resulted in no punishment for Ethan Hawthorne, but usually resulted in the bullied boy hastily transferring away, as was the case for Arthur. Mark suspected more would begin to come forward as the story gained momentum. It was also intimated that the apple did not fall far from the tree, that Ethan, feeling weak before an overbearing, intimidating father, exerted his own power by taking it out on those weaker than he, in order to attempt to draw his father's attention away from his obvious top priority of politics.
As Mark closed the newspaper, he sighed; he felt a sense of pity for Ethan, anger towards Victor (a man he had supported politically), and devastating remorse for everything he'd done wrong during this nightmare time.
Snapping him from his thoughts was the sound of a door slamming shut up on the main floor. Instantly on alert, he threw down the paper, mind racing, wondering if he'd forgotten to latch the door, and ran to the stairs. If it were an intruder, there was no tactical advantage to giving away his position, so he did not call out anything in advance of ascending.
When he got to the top of the stairs and rounded the turn, he stopped short. With all the wild fire in her eyes as any banshee of legend, Bridget was standing there, hands defiantly on her hips.
"How dare you!" she fumed.
Bridget's sounding off with such an aggressive opening salvo did not predispose him to calm, rational discussion. His own temper shot through the ceiling, and he retorted with more defensiveness than he ordinarily would have. "Why are you attacking me this time?"
"I need to tell you?" she cried. "I can do perfectly well paying for my part of Aidan's gift, and I really resent that you think I can't! You continue to undermine my independence, and it makes me—"
He interrupted: "A bit of a disproportionate response, Bridget, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, that's just the tip of the iceberg," she said, her voice trembling, "the final straw on the camel's back. I thought you might actually be decent enough today, but—well, I suppose it was too much to expect to think you cared enough to admit you were wrong."
His guilt on the subject was matched only by the urge to swing back, and hard. "I tried to on the day Arthur's mother called but as I interrupted what sounded like a particularly vigorous round of sex—"
"Sex?" she said, agape. She furrowed her brow, evidently thinking back to that night, then recalling: "Sebastian and I were playing on the Wii with Lizzie, some bloody dance game! How typical of you to assume the worst of me!"
"I could well say the same, Bridget," he said. "Assuming every late night working must have been some kind of secret assignation with a co-worker—"
"One you are currently regularly shagging!" she shouted back. "And, I might remind you, one your son interrupted doing… God-knows-what to you."
He took in a breath, let it out in a frustrated rush. "She could have been doing my bloody colours for all I know, Bridget. I don't remember. Anything I might have done that night was a horrible aberration."
Bridget scoffed at this. "Convenient, Mark. I don't know why you won't just admit that you continue with this ridiculous story, that you haven't apologised to me, because it was all a pretext to be with her! How stupid do you think I am?"
"Pretty stupid to believe I'd risk everything—"
He stopped when she swung her hand up in order to slap his face; he caught her wrist, and his arm trembled with the force of holding her back. He looked down into her eyes, studied her features; despite the fury—or perhaps because of it, so passionate and full of life—he thought she looked absolutely ravishing. His anger was quickly dissolving. After all, he would not want her any other way.
"You're behaving in a childish and irrational manner," he said. "As usual."
"I'll show you childish and irrational," she seethed, then writhed in order to try to knee him in the groin. He bent his knees and launched her forward to avoid the blow, then quickly pulled her flush against him and clamped his free arm around her waist. She struggled against him, tried to push herself away in an effort to break his grip. "Let me go," she demanded.
In response he leaned back slightly, lifting her up off of the ground.
"Mark!" she shrieked. "Put me down!"
"Settle down first," he said.
She turned to meet his gaze with her piercing one. "I'll kick you in the shin," she threatened.
"You can't reach my shin," he said, chuckling under his breath.
"You b—"
Without conscious thought, with no reason or rationale, he found himself taking her mouth with his own. How he had missed having her in his arms, holding her closely… but it rapidly became clear he had acted in error, particularly as she was not returning the kiss or responding at all favourably. He pulled away.
"I'm sorry," he said in a deep tone; she was standing on her own feet again and he had no memory of lowering her. He was afraid to meet her eyes, but knew he must, and when he did, the sight that greeted him was a surprise; her angry expression was tempered by a softness he had not seen in some time.
"Bastard," she finished, her voice rough.
With that she lurched forward, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him with all of the fierceness with which he had kissed her. He took her in his arms, pulled her up against him; the contact of their bodies, so familiar yet so long denied, was having an immediate effect on him and, he suspected, on her. Before he knew it she was plucking at the buttons on his shirt; he was running his hands down over her backside, pressing his fingers firmly into her; as he searched and lifted up the edge of her skirt, she nipped at his lower lip and fumbled with the fly on his trousers. Moving towards the wall in their frenzy, they bumped up against the Queen Anne table in the foyer; Mark heard a clatter as the objects arranged there (a small picture frame, a lamp, a decorative candlestick) shook in their place. He leaned her arse back against it, then on it; he tugged down hard on her pants then threw them to the floor.
Gruffly she panted his name as they joined; he worried fleetingly for the objects that now clattered to the floor, for the prominent location in the house in which this lust had overtaken them, for the structural integrity of the furniture, but only in the smallest recesses of his brain that weren't completely overtaken with his passion for her. This was evidenced by how quickly he reached satisfaction, how loudly he'd done so, and how eager he was to bring her to her own vocal climax.
"Bridget," he whispered as he panted into the curve of her neck. "I'm—"
"Don't say you're sorry," she said quietly.
"No, I have to," he said. "But right now—" He stood up straight, lifted her up into his arms, hands cradling her arse; she wrapped her legs around his waist in reflex. "—I don't want to."
He scaled the stairs and headed straight back for the master bedroom, which he still thought of as theirs; he had of course continued to have the housekeeper keep the room tidy and he had gone in for items of clothing as needed, but he had not lived in the room since she'd gone. As he set her on the edge of the bed, he noticed her looking around herself, her expression a mixture of perplexed and touched. He sat beside her, reached to cup her face in his hand, then leaned and kissed her.
Their intimacy once again escalated quickly, and before he knew it they were each divested of their clothes and writhing around beneath the sheets, soft linen that still smelled faintly of lavender. There was still a definite urgency to their lovemaking, though the tenderness, the comfort of familiarity, was unmistakeably present, too.
Mark was well on his way to culmination again, thought they both were, when, in the heat of everything, Bridget gasped, pushed him away and clutched the duvet up to her chin. Hurt, he looked to her… and only then realised another voice was sounding out in the room, wailing in a high-pitched scream.
"—back to town to find her pants in the foyer, find you in here with that woman, cheating on me!"
It was Portia; Mark had no idea how long she had been standing there. Rather than looking upset, sad or emotionally devastated, she was red-faced and seething. Her usual mask of composure, of gentility and civility, was gone. For emphasis she held up then threw down the pants in a rage. He had forgotten that he had given her a key, not for any sentimental reason, but simply so she could arrive first for a late work-related meeting at the house.
"Though I suppose I should have known," she raged on, "once a cheater, always a cheater!"
"Well, actually… no."
Another voice, calm, masculine, familiar and slightly distant; a quick "Oh my God" issued from the bed beside Mark confirmed it was Sebastian's. A few more steps and Sebastian was on the floor and in the room. He seemed unperturbed; indeed, unsurprised.
"Just back to town, brought Portia over, and saw your car on the street, Bridget; hello."
"Hello," she replied in a weird voice.
"Thought I'd come in to see if you were all right, door was open, mess in the foyer—then I heard shouting up here. Anyway," Sebastian said, waving his hand. "I think it's time to clear things up. Fix things."
"What do you mean?" asked Mark.
"From what I've been able to piece together from observations and conversations over the past few months, as well as over the last two hours, I'm now morally certain that Mark did no such thing. Cheat on you, Bridget, I mean."
"What?" gasped Bridget.
The way that the colour drained from Portia's face actually startled Mark.
"When I met Bridget," Sebastian said, "I admit I was charmed beyond reason." He then smiled tenderly towards Bridget. "But she told me in detail about what had happened in her marriage, and hearing those details—long marriage, working long hours, nice wife to keep the home fires burning, nice family life, such that maybe you needed a little spice with an affair or two—I was fully prepared to dislike you, Mark; not to mention you vote Tory, whom I'm typically predisposed to dislike from the start." His tone was joking, even jovial; Mark was too gobsmacked to retort. "She also told me she wasn't ready at all for anything serious, and I was all right with that. I was happy to let things develop as they would."
"Sebastian, I'm sorry—" began Bridget.
"Let me finish," Sebastian said, holding up his hand. "Then I met Mark that January day, and I was very, very surprised. He was not acting like a man who was glad to be rid of his wife for another woman, glad to get out of the situation with so little difficulty or financial responsibility. He was acting possessive. Jealous. My curiosity was definitely piqued." Sebastian turned to Mark. "I've seen you with Portia, Mark. You have never acted overly affectionate, were never physically demonstrative. You never seemed in love with her."
"I never said that I was," Mark said defensively.
"I'm not saying you did. I'm just saying this to contrast every meeting I've witnessed between you and Bridget, where… well, sparks still flew, even I could see that. Plus, you know, you seemed like a decent man to boot, and your children are wonderful, bright, and well-adjusted."
"Are you actually defending the fact that they betrayed us both?" Portia shrilled; clearly she had recovered her composure and wanted the spotlight back on her drama.
"I'm getting to my point," said Sebastian; he rather reminded Mark of a lawyer during summation. "Before Aidan and Mark had their moment of reconciliation, Aidan confided in me about that night. Bridget, he was too embarrassed to say anything too detailed to you, not that I necessarily think he knew precisely what it was he saw. Something he said to me really struck me, though. He said something along the lines of… 'My father just laid there, didn't move a muscle, barely seemed conscious of my presence even though he was looking straight at me, made no attempt at all to justify or defend himself, and worst of all, didn't even come after me.'"
"Ohh," said Bridget sorrowfully; Mark's heart sunk at this reminder of how Aidan must have felt that night, in such turmoil.
Sebastian continued: "I couldn't help but wonder how a man who was supposedly actively making love to a woman could be not only in such a comatose state, but not run concerned after his only son who was clearly distraught, alone that late at night halfway across the city. I think even old Victor Hawthorne wouldn't leave Ethan dangling that way."
"You tricked me," said Portia with an angry frown.
"I didn't trick you," he said. "I only tried to be polite and make you understand it was important for them to be united for their son—which, I believe, made you think I was on your side, and consequently, you gave yourself away, Portia. You said you were glad Bridget and I had found each other because it helped Mark to realise his marriage was over so you could finally start sleeping together."
The emphasis Sebastian put on these words was not lost on Mark, and it was his turn to be utterly stunned. Mark in turn stared at Portia so intently she became instantly fidgety. It was true that he and Portia had not begun seeing one another in earnest until after he had learned Bridget had started dating Sebastian, but Mark had utterly believed they'd slept together that drunken night—and Portia had let him believe it. "Did you really say that?"
"I would never use such crass language," Portia said haughtily.
"But is it true?" Mark asked with anger tinting his voice.
Portia bit down on her lower lip, trembling with frustration at the corner into which she had painted herself. She then exhaled. "I suppose I can't deny it, can I?" she said, her voice high, irritated and obviously strained. "You were drunk, I decided to make a move, but you were too far gone to respond, so far gone all you could do was moan and whine about the fight with your darling little wife." The poison in her tone was hard to miss. "It felt like heaven was shining down on me when your son showed up. I'd just get the wheels in motion and grab the chance when I could."
Mark felt the cool, calm, collected barrister persona slide into place and take control of his emotions. "We didn't sleep together, do anything, that night in November."
"No," Portia admitted.
"Nor at any time prior to that night?" Mark asked; his courtroom instincts demanded full disclosure.
Portia looked to Bridget with resentment. "No."
"Not until well after that night?" Mark asked.
"Not for a lack of trying," Portia said with a scoff.
"One more thing," he said. "That key I loaned you? Please leave it when you go."
"Go?"
"I don't want to see you again."
"But we work—"
"Yes, we work together," said Mark. "I'm sure it will be awkward. You'll have to get over it."
After a moment of giving him a hard stare, she looked murderously at Sebastian before digging into her pocket, taking out the key and slapping it down on the bureau. She then turned in a huff and left.
At last Mark glanced towards Bridget; she looked ashen and was trembling. "Sebastian," she said feebly. "You know I care a lot about you."
"I know you do, and I care about you too," he said, sitting beside her, patting the duvet over her knee where she sat cross-legged. "A lot. But I know you're really only going to truly be happy with this man—" He jerked his thumb in Mark's direction. "—and I couldn't with a clear conscience sit back and not clear his reputation when I had the power to do so."
Mark was filled with a whole new level of respect for the man, and watched them regarding one another for many long moments before Sebastian leaned forward and pressed a light kiss into her cheek. "I hope we can still be friends," Sebastian said, the tone of his voice betraying for the first time any sense of loss he might be feeling.
Bridget nodded as Sebastian stood up again. "Goodbye, Sebastian," she said quietly.
"Goodbye, Bridget," he said, then gave a little nod to Mark before rising and heading for the door; Mark nodded too. In all sincerity he hoped he might become friends with the man after all the dust had settled.
"Sebastian?" asked Bridget in that same meek tone; this was enough to stop him in his tracks and turn to look at her again. "How come you aren't angry?"
"Because I was sort of expecting this might happen," Sebastian said frankly. He smiled one last time, then left the room, closing the door behind himself.
When Mark heard the faint sound of what he presumed to be the front door slamming, he turned his gaze to Bridget again. No time like the present to apologise. "Bridget," he said quietly but emphatically. "I'm sorry for everything, but especially for the fight that night and for doubting your instinct when it came to our son. I should have known him as well as you did."
"You do now," she replied.
He had to concede that was true, and he did so with a little nod. "I know I said and did a lot of things that hurt you. For that I don't think I can ever fully make it up to you, but if you give me a chance I'd like to try." From the way her eyes shone, he knew she was emotionally affected; if she were unmoved, if she had completely ruled out reconciliation, she would not be on the verge of tears. With the benefit of this momentum he continued to speak. "I'm not asking for an answer this very moment. Think about it. But I do want you back if you'll have me."
She nodded, but not to say she would take him back; rather, the way she glanced down, covered her mouth with her hand, told him that she wanted time to consider it. She sniffled, inhaling deeply, then wiped dampness from under her eyes before she looked at him. "I should go."
Mark had hoped in the deepest recesses of his heart that she might stay longer, but he understood. He held out his arm to offer her an embrace, which she accepted; he folded her against him, pressed a kiss into her hair.
"I'm sorry too," she said in a voice so soft he almost didn't hear her. "I should have trusted you more than to think—"
"Shh," he said, stopping her. "What matters is that you know the truth now. We both do."
She lifted her chin to look up at him, then raised her lips to his for a sweet, quick kiss; as she drew back again, she burst out in tears and started sobbing in earnest. With her still in his arms he laid back against the pillows, dragging the bed sheets over the both of them lest they get chilled. He reached over to what would always to him be Bridget's side of the bed for the box of tissues she'd always kept; she laughed at the sight of it then cried a little harder. He was patient, felt as emotional as he ever had, and held her as long as she needed to be held. After her tears subsided she still made no move to leave despite her insistence she should. In fact, they laid in the dim room for so long he thought for sure she'd gone to sleep.
"Mark?" she asked, cutting the silence.
"Yes, darling?"
A pause. "You didn't change anything in here."
"No," he said. "I haven't slept in here a single night since… then."
"Not once?"
"This was our room," he said. "I couldn't."
"Not even with—"
"Especially not with," he said, cutting her off. "I suppose eventually I would have started living in here again. Maybe… ten, fifteen years from now."
Bridget unexpectedly laughed, which delighted him to hear. "I have to admit," she said, "I've missed you."
"Mm," he murmured. "I couldn't tell."
She chuckled again. "And you?"
Mark thought it had been quite plain he had, so he teased, "Not a bit."
She pushed herself up to look into his eyes. "If I give you that chance," she said, somewhat more serious than a moment ago, "we're not going to be able to just snap into the way things used to be, you know."
"I know," he said gravely.
"Just so we're clear," she said.
"Crystal."
Just then the house line began to ring, and in a rush Mark suddenly returned to the reality of the day: Aidan, Arthur, Ethan and Eton. He pushed himself up and reached for the handset on the side of the bed.
"Mark Darcy speaking."
"Dad?" It was Lizzie; she sounded really worried. "Is Mum there? She left really upset hours ago, and I couldn't get hold of her and—"
"Yes, love, she's here," he said. "Don't worry."
Lizzie sighed. "Oh good."
"Want to speak with her?"
"Sure," Lizzie said.
He handed the phone, and immediately Bridget said, "Hi darling, I'm fine." There was a pause, during which she listened intently. "Yes, I know, and I'm very, very sorry." Another pause. "No, don't order delivery. I'll come back to fix dinner." She went quiet again, and as Lizzie spoke, her eyes darted up to look at Mark. "No… I'm afraid he won't be coming. He, um, had something else to do tonight." At that moment Mark knew she meant Sebastian, and felt unexpectedly relieved. "Sure, I'll ask him if he's free." She covered her hand over the mouthpiece. "Want to come have supper with us?" she asked with a small, crooked smile.
"I would love to."
She spoke into the phone again. "Yes, he'll come. All right. See you soon. Bye." She pressed the button to disconnect, then handed the phone back to him. "Well. It's a date."
It was his turn to chuckle, and spontaneously he leaned forward to kiss her. One kiss became a second, then blended into a long, slow, languorous kiss; with this they were swept up in their reclaimed passion, but rather than the rushed frenzy of earlier, this time there was tenderness and reverence. How much he had missed her indeed.
"Mark," Bridget breathed afterwards as she ran her fingers over the fine mat of hair on his chest.
"Yes, darling?"
"So were you never in love with Portia then?" she asked, her voice shaking.
He looked down to her, saw tears in the corners of her eyes as she looked up to him. "Not even a little bit, Bridget. She was a friend to me, or at least I thought she was. Of course in light of this new information everything she did had an ulterior motive." He smiled a little. "It was impossible to be in love with her," he said, "because I was and always will be in love with you."
A tear escaped down her cheek, but she smiled, even laughed a little. "Bastard," she teased, then leaned forward and kissed him again, then snuggled into his arms.
They laid together for some time before either of them spoke again. "You know what?" asked Bridget.
"What?"
"We're really going to have to do takeaway now," she said. He laughed. "Plus you know, I'm going to get another earful from Lizzie."
"Another?"
"Mm," she said. "Yes. Told me off for not calling sooner to let her know where I'd gone. She's more like you every day, you know."
He chuckled again, then, pecking her quickly, he sat up. "Well. I haven't had pizza in months."
They dressed—Mark stifled a smile as she slipped into her pants, thinking back on Portia's dramatic entry and feeling quite thankful to have slipped the yoke of that relationship—then went downstairs and to her car.
When they turned up to Bridget's house with a couple of boxes of pizza in hand, Lizzie was primed and ready to tell them off. Hands on her hips, she demanded, "What took so long? I was getting worried."
"I know, we're sorry," said Bridget. "We got… side-tracked."
Marilyn, Mark noted, was there again, probably still there from earlier. "Pepperoni pizza," Mark explained. "You don't object to pepperoni, do you?"
"Not in the least," Marilyn said with a grin.
The evening with the children and Marilyn filled Mark's heart with happiness; it was a small glimpse of what they once had as a family, and, with any luck, would have again. As Aidan, Marilyn and Lizzie settled in to watch a film, Mark helped Bridget in the kitchen tidying up after their dinner.
"Have a question," Mark said.
"Oh?"
"Wanted to know… are you free for dinner tomorrow?"
She looked to him and laughed. "Are you asking me out?"
"Might be," he said. "I figure if we're going to do this, we should do it properly."
"Ah," she said with a smirk. "Years of marriage, then sex, then dating. That seems proper."
He chuckled, went to her and embraced her, then kissed her. "I will take it in any order it comes."
A quiet throat-clearing subtly announced the presence of a third person. Mark turned, and saw Aidan standing there with a tender smile. "Just wanted some more Coke," he said.
"Of course," said Bridget. Mark wanted to laugh at her slightly sheepish demeanour as she busied herself with getting another can from the fridge; it reminded Mark oddly of her mother.
Aidan leaned forward. "Does that mean Portia's out of the picture?" he asked quietly.
Mark nodded. "She was never really in it. I'll explain more later."
"Okay," Aidan said with a smile. "Though I rather liked Sebastian."
"I don't think you'll never see him again. Don't worry."
Aidan furrowed his brows.
"He helped bring this about," explained Mark.
Bridget presented Aidan with his Coke. "Here you are, sweetheart."
"Will explain more later," said Mark again quietly. Aidan nodded then left the kitchen; Mark turned around to see she had gone quite pink. "Oh, Bridget," he said, allowing a light laugh at last. "You don't have to be embarrassed that our son caught us in a clutch."
"I'm not, really," she said, then smiled. "Well. No more so than I ever was." He smiled too.
Mark stepped forward again, leaned and kissed her. "Thank you for the wonderful evening," he said, "but I suppose I should leave."
She seemed surprised for a moment, but then she nodded. "Until dinner tomorrow."
"I'll pick you up after work."
He took her into his arms then kissed her again… and again. And again. Now that he could have her back in his arms, he wanted to keep her there as much as possible.
"Mark," she gasped, breaking away as his hands slid down over her backside. "Sod it. Stay over."
It seemed she felt the same, and for that he was grateful. "What will the children think?" he teased; she laughed too.
"That their dad is back," she said. "Mm. To stay."
At this they heard a shriek. It was Lizzie and she ran and hugged them both at once. "It's true!" she exclaimed, her voice muffled into her father's arm.
Mark laughed, tightening his embrace. He noticed Bridget's face turning bright red once more, and he laughed a little harder.