She hadn’t been a mother for five years.

‘You know Mathieu’s father is dead?’ Rafael said gently, and her eyes jerked up to his.

‘Kass is dead?’ She stared wildly at him and then looked down at the little boy again. ‘Your papa?’

‘Papa died in a car crash,’ Mathieu said in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘Matty, I’m so sorry.’

Matty. The name Mathieu had been chosen by his father. It had seemed far too formal for such a scrap of a baby. Matty was what she’d called him for those few short weeks…

‘Aunt Laura calls me Matty,’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘Aunt Laura says the nurses told her my mama called me Matty.’

‘But…’ Her head was threatening to explode. She sank on to a chair because her legs wouldn’t hold her up any more. ‘But…’

‘Matty, why don’t you do the honours with the cake?’ Rafael suggested. With a sideways glance at Kelly-who was far too winded to think about answering-he opened the cutlery drawer, found a knife blunt enough for a child to handle, found three plates and set them on the side bench. ‘Three equal pieces, Matty,’ he said. ‘You cut and we’ll choose. As wide as your middle finger is long.’

Matty looked pleased. He crossed to the bench and held up his middle finger, carefully assessing. Clearly cake-cutting would take a while.

Rafael pulled out a chair and sat on the opposite side of the table to Kelly. He reached over, took her hands in his and held them. He had big hands. Callused. Work worn. They completely enclosed hers. Two strong, warm hands, where hers were freezing. She must be freezing, she thought. She couldn’t stop shivering.

She’d had the flu. She wasn’t over it yet. Maybe that was why she was shivering.

‘I should have phoned,’ he said ruefully. ‘This has been too much of a shock. But I was sure you’d have heard, and I didn’t understand why you didn’t contact us.’

‘It’s me who doesn’t understand,’ she whispered.

‘You don’t read the newspapers?’