Free Never Too Late by Jay Howard Page A

prepared.
    She lay in bed, willing herself to go to sleep before he came up, but with each passing minute sleep seemed further outside her grasp. She heard him climb the stairs and come into their bedroom, heard him trying to be quiet in their bathroom.
    Hoping not to wake me, she thought miserably, no doubt hoping he can climb in beside me and not have me expecting anything of him. When was the last time we made love? So long ago I can’t recall it exactly. Why do I so desperately want him to take her me his arms and cherish me as he used to? It wouldn’t matter if he’s too tired for lovemaking. Just to be held and know I’m important to him, to give and receive the comfort of being together, a couple, a partnership in life for as many years as we have left together, that’s all I ask. Is it really too much?
    Iain knew she was awake as soon as he lay down. He’d listened to her breathing for enough years to know when she slept and when she was awake. He used to love hearing those little snuffling sounds she made in the first stages of sleep, just as he imagined a little dormouse would, safe in its nest, protected from the world, as he protected her.
    She was all he’d ever wanted in his life. Was it too much to want to be the main person in her life? Always, though, it was the children, what they wanted. And when the children were in bed there were all the other things she prepared for them while they slept. And then there were all the things she made for their home, and her gardening or reading or listening to her music, until she was so tired all she wanted was bed, and that just to sleep once she knew she couldn’t conceive again. Suddenly, somehow, too many years had passed to be able to change things. How could he change things when he bore the guilt of being a man with a normal man’s needs and passions? Passion he couldn’t find at home, but many other women had been willing to give and receive in full measure.
    Against all logical hope he reached sideways to touch her hand where it lay on the sheet between them. He felt her jump like a startled rabbit.
    Christ Almighty! Is even a touch too much now?
    He turned on his side away from her, his jaw clenched.
    It was a long time before sleep came to either of them.
     
    *
     
    The children in the school hall were very excited, all dressed in their best clothes and with the promise of chocolate to come – lots of it! The girls were rushing from group to group to show off their Easter bonnets to each other, bonnets that had taken them a couple of weeks to put together, to their own designs, in the after school club. The decorations on the basic bonnets that were used year after year looked very festive. There was a profusion of the inevitable chicks, bunnies and tissue paper flowers, attached rather precariously in some cases. One bonnet was almost entirely hidden with (almost) oval eggs made from egg box pieces covered in metallised wrapping paper in all the colours of the rainbow. That one had taken some rather tricking sewing to a net base, Maggie recalled ruefully.
    Not to be outdone, the boys had created their own headgear. No sissy bonnets for them, though! There were cowboy hats, a wonderful papier-mâché top hat, a Darth Vader mask, but the boy who caught Maggie’s attention was dressed as St George. His sword was suspiciously rigid and closer inspection revealed the silver sprayed card covered a poker. She had a fair idea who it was but lifted off the helmet to check.
    “Jules Riley,” she said as sternly as she could. Mischievous as he was, Ada Riley’s great grandson hadn’t a bad bone in his body and inspired laughter more often than the reprimand he deserved. “This,” she indicated the sword, “should be made of cardboard.”
    “It is, Miss,” he answered, all innocence.
    “Just cardboard!”
    “Well… “He looked down and twisted one foot into the floor. “It did start as just cardboard. But the cardboard was floppy and I don’t