A Daddy For Baby Zoe?
He thought he heard her mutter something about men taking stupid risks and then her fingers were digging into his forearm and stalling his progress. ‘This isn’t a race walk, okay?’
With one hand holding her bag and the other on his arm, they made their way slowly through the front doorway and into the house. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’
Right now it seemed a million miles away. ‘Down the hall and to the left.’
A minute later Raf gratefully slid into the chrome and vinyl kitchen chair and rested his arms on the green Laminex-topped table. Meredith blinked twice as if she was clearing her vision and then she pulled up a chair and opened her medical bag.
He gave a wry smile. ‘Yes, you have stepped back in time to 1975.’
She didn’t say anything, just pumped hand sanitiser onto her hand before deftly rubbing it into her skin. After she’d snapped on gloves, she finally spoke. ‘Let’s see how much damage you’ve inflicted on yourself.’ She gingerly unwrapped the blood-soaked shirt and more oozed from a deep and uneven cut. ‘You did a good job.’
‘I only ever do my best,’ he joked feebly as he forced himself to look at his hand. His gut flipped as a wave of nausea washed through him. Being objective about a cut was much easier when it wasn’t his hand that was bleeding.
‘Wriggle your fingers for me,’ she said, not taking her gaze off his hand.’
‘One, two, three, four, five,’ he said as he moved each one individually. ‘No tendon damage.’
Surprise crossed her face as she pressed a wad of gauze against the wound and then she picked up his other hand and placed it over the top to apply pressure. ‘That’s right. Are you in the medical profession too?’
‘Not exactly, but I’ve been a volunteer ambo for years. I work the big events in Melbourne like the tennis and the footy grand final.’
He heard the combined noises of shuffle and thump echoing down the hall—the new sound of his father’s gait that had replaced his previously brisk and determined thwack of work boots.
A few seconds later, Mario appeared in the doorway. ‘Rafael.’ His voice was coolly censorious. ‘You didn’t mention we have a visitor.’ He turned his attention to Meredith with a smile. ‘Hello, I’m Mario Camilleri.’
‘I’m Meredith,’ she said crisply in a doctor’s voice. ‘I’m your neighbour but I’m not here on a social call.’
Before Raf could open his mouth she added, ‘I’m a doctor and Raf’s injured himself with the saw.’
Mario’s gaze moved to the blood-soaked shirt and gauze and then flicked to Raf’s face, his expression critical. ‘I taught you better than that. Just as well you didn’t use the chainsaw.’
‘Meredith,’ Raf said, trying to stay calm, ‘meet my father.’
Meredith thought she saw Raf’s jaw clench and had the almost palpable tension that ran between father and son been an object, it would have been a big, solid brick wall. Mario’s hand gripped the handle of his cane and despite the fact his face hadn’t blanched at the sight of the blood, she really didn’t need two men down. ‘I’m going to stitch Raf’s hand so if that makes you feel queasy …’
‘I’ve been a professional fisherman all my life,’ Mario said. ‘It takes more than some blood to upset me.’ He flicked a disapproving glance at Raf. ‘My wife had a rule about wearing a shirt in the house. I’ll get Raf a clean one.’ He turned and walked away, his left leg dragging every few steps.
As a doctor, Meredith had seen a lot of bodies in her day and she could understand how some men’s torsos—especially lily-white-skinned ones with flabby abdomens—could be off-putting and a definite appetite suppressant in a kitchen. Raf’s, on the other hand, was olive skinned, muscular with a hint of a six pack and not at all unappealing.
Eye candy for you, Merry. Richard’s teasing voice sliced into her.
She quickly snapped open an ampoule of local anaesthetic and concentrated on drawing the clear liquid into the syringe, desperate not to think about Richard. Whenever she thought about his unnecessary death, she never knew if she was going to start screaming at him, start sobbing, or both. She’d learned in the last weeks that there was a minute distance between anger and despair.
She shot the clear anaesthetic liquid out of the needle until it measured the correct amount. ‘Let’s get this hand stitched up.’
Raf grimaced. ‘That stuff stings.’
‘Sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘There are worse things.’
‘Yes,’ she said savagely. ‘There are.’
‘That was heartfelt.’ His large, kind chestnut eyes—the same deep, rich colour as the eyes of the Jersey cows she’d grown up surrounded by—studied her intently, as if he was searching for something.
She dropped his gaze. ‘This might hurt.’ She jabbed the needle into the back of his hand and injected the local.
He flinched. ‘You’re not wrong.’
‘We just have to give it a minute to work.’ She laid out her scissors and the suture thread on the sterile paper towel from the dressing pack before swabbing the wound with antiseptic.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Okay, Meredith, you need to talk to me to take my mind off this burning pain.’
She opened her mouth to mention the weather when Raf asked, ‘When’s the baby due?’
‘Three weeks.’ She pressed the tip of a needle onto his hand, testing if the local had taken effect. ‘Can you feel that?’
He shook his head. ‘So really the baby could arrive any day now.’
‘No,’ she said emphatically, and started stitching, pushing the curved needle into the skin layers and twirling the thread around the forceps before tying the knot. ‘Three weeks is the minimum and I could have up to five.’
Raf laughed. ‘You’ve told the baby that, have you? It’s my experience they come when they’re ready.’
‘You have kids?’ she asked, wanting to turn the attention away from herself.
For a brief moment his nostrils flared and she felt sure she saw a flash of emotion. Whether it was regret or relief, it was impossible to tell.
‘No. My sister has twins and they came early.’
‘Multiple pregnancies always do but I’ve only got one baby on board.’ A baby I’m not ready to have on my own.
A thread of panic scuttled through her and she heard herself saying, ‘He or she is not allowed to come early.’ He looked at her with astonishment clear on his face and she didn’t blame him because she knew she sounded crazy, and, in a way, she was probably slowly going mad. Having a husband die weeks before the birth of their first child could do that to a woman. She immediately braced herself for the expected, ‘Do you think you should talk to a professional?’ She already had.
‘You have to be the only pregnant woman I’ve met in the last three years who doesn’t know the baby’s sex. It seems to be the thing to do these days,’ he said in a tone that hinted at disapproval. ‘Goes along with the designer nursery and matching stroller.’
Come on, Merry, of course we need to know if it’s a boy or a girl so we can plan. She kept her eyes down on the stitching as the memory of her and Richard arguing over her refusal to find out the baby’s sex came back to her. ‘Call me old-fashioned,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t want to know ahead of time.’
‘I guess you’re going to be doing a lot of hard work during labour so you deserve a surprise at the end.’
The unexpected words made her glance up from his hand. ‘Thank you.’
He frowned. ‘What for?’
‘You’re the only person who gets that. My husband, Richard …’ The words slipped out as naturally as breathing. The bolt of pain that followed almost winded her. She cleared her throat. ‘My in-laws really wanted to know so they could fill out school enrolment forms.’
His brows rose. ‘That’s a new one. I thought grandmothers wanted to know so they could knit pink or blue.’ His tone was light but his eyes were doing that searching thing again as if he knew she was hiding something from him.
Talk about the stitches. ‘This is the fifth and final stitch,’ she said, snipping the excess thread and then picking up a low-adherent dressing and taping it in place. ‘You need to keep this clean and dry for a week. Are you up to date with your tetanus shots?’
He nodded, his curls bouncing and brushing his intelligent forehead. ‘Yes and I know the drill. I’ll see my doctor to have the stitches removed.’
She stripped off her gloves. ‘I can do it for you.’
‘Won’t you be back in Melbourne by then? You are from Melbourne, right?’
‘Yes, I’m from Melbourne,’ she said briskly as she bundled up the rubbish. ‘And I’ll still be here.’
‘But that’s only two weeks before the baby’s due.’ Deep concentration lines carved into the skin between his eyes as he took a quick look at her wedding band before saying gently, ‘You and your husband do know that the nearest hospital is on the mainland at Wongarri. That’s seventy kilometres away.’
‘We do.’ It was both the truth and, in a way, a lie. Richard had known the distance to the hospital but he wasn’t here to drive her.
‘So your husband’s planning on coming to the island very soon to be with you, right?’
The question froze the breath in her lungs.
Raf Camilleri’s concern for her pulsed between them, reflected in the creases in his high forehead, in the depths of his rich, warm eyes and in the deep brackets around his mouth. She knew she should tell him that Richard wasn’t coming but she also knew that the moment she did, everything would change.
People’s reactions to death were never uniform but as she and Raf barely knew each other, she was pretty certain he’d feel embarrassed and that could play out in one of two ways—mortified and choking silence or prattling pity. Men usually went silent.
Thankfully, Mario chose that moment to return to the kitchen holding one of Raf’s shirts in his hand. He draped it over a chair. ‘Meredith, can I make you an espresso, latte, cappuccino?’
‘Dad,’ Raf said with resignation ringing in his tone, ‘pregnant women shouldn’t drink coffee.’
Mario muttered something that sounded both Italian and empathetic before saying, ‘Meredith, can I offer you tea or hot chocolate?’
‘Thank you, but there’s really no need,’ she said, zipping up her medical bag. The noise sliced through the frosty air that surrounded the two men.
‘I insist.’
Two male voices—both deep, one slightly accented—collided, tumbling over each other as Mario and Raf spoke simultaneously. Mario continued, ‘Indulge an old man and a foolish one.’
Raf shot his father a dark look. ‘I think Dad is trying to say we’re grateful for your help.’
‘As you can tell, Meredith,’ Mario said, ‘we’re sick of each other’s company and we’d welcome your delightful presence a little longer.’
‘You may also prevent me from committing patricide,’ Raf muttered under his breath.
Mario slapped the top of a very expensive, stainless-steel Italian espresso machine. ‘I can make you whatever you want and milk is good for the bambino.’
Meredith had a similar machine sitting on her kitchen bench next door and she’d been returning from the small corner shop with the milk to make herself a drink when she’d heard Raf’s pained and loud swearing.
During the first week after Richard’s death a lot of people had made her drinks, because they hadn’t known what else to do for her and it had made them feel better. But right now, with Mario’s coal-black eyes twinkling at her and Raf giving her a wry smile that held an element of save me from my father, this offer of a drink was completely different. Suddenly the idea of someone without pity or sympathy in their eyes making her a hot beverage was very tempting. ‘Hot chocolate would be great, thank you.’
‘And chocolate and hazelnut biscotti,’ Mario said firmly, opening the fridge and lifting out the bottle of milk.
‘I don’t need—’
‘Don’t even think about fighting Italian hospitality, Meredith,’ Raf said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll never win. Dad will feed you until you waddle.’
She grimaced. ‘I’m eight months pregnant so I already waddle.’
‘Do you?’ The words were laden with query and utterly devoid of sarcasm. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Raf stood at Meredith’s front door, holding a bright posy of spring thank-you flowers. Earlier in the day at Shearwater Flowers and Gifts, he’d been prevaricating between a traditional bunch of white roses and the posy. The florist had said that the riot of yellow daffodils, purple irises, pink gerberas and fragrant purple hyacinths all interspersed with blue gum leaves would make any woman smile. That offhand comment had sold the posy. He had a ridiculous urge to see Meredith truly smile.
He couldn’t shake the feeling she was going through the motions of living—enduring each day rather than revelling in it. For half an hour yesterday after Mario had badgered her to stay for hot chocolate, she’d relaxed a little and although he wouldn’t say she’d looked happy, she’d certainly seemed less miserable for a moment or two. But less miserable wasn’t enough to quieten his misgivings.
It made no sense that a doctor would say so emphatically that her baby wasn’t coming early. It was as if she really didn’t want it to come and that, coupled with the fact she didn’t know the sex, had him up at midnight and on the computer, researching antenatal depression. Apparently it existed.
He could understand a younger woman with less education and financial stability being very stressed and worried about impending motherhood. He knew he was only a stranger looking in from the outside but given the value of her house and the very expensive German car she drove, money didn’t seem to be an issue. Was it the absent husband that was causing her anguish? Was the marriage in trouble because of the baby?
Bitter experience had taught him all about that. Nothing could drive the final nail into the coffin of a failing marriage faster than the emotions surrounding a child. Whether a child was wanted or not, if both parties disagreed the marriage ended in divorce.
He gripped the flowers in his uninjured hand and rang the doorbell with the other.
He heard the even tread of her walk on the stairs and then the door opened. Today she was wearing a royal-blue cable jumper that seemed to make the multifaceted blues in her eyes sparkle like the crystals in a kaleidoscope. It did nothing, however, to lessen the black shadows that stained the delicate skin under her eyes.
Beautiful and haunted.
The thought struck him hard and he almost raised his hand, wanting to stroke her cheek with his thumb and wipe away the smudges. Stunned by his reaction, he covered it by abruptly thrusting the flowers forward. ‘Thank you for saving me a trip to the medical clinic yesterday.’
She stood still, staring at the posy as if it was on fire. ‘You really didn’t need to bring me flowers.’
This wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d expected or hoped for. Not only wasn’t she smiling, her pretty mouth had tightened into a thin line.
He brought the flowers back to his side, holding them with the heads facing down. ‘I could exchange them for chocolates if you prefer.’
The words seemed to bring her out of her trance. ‘I’m sorry. Come in.’ She turned and walked up the stairs, and he followed, losing the battle not to stare at her curvy behind. It wasn’t big but it wasn’t small either and the contours of the long jumper outlined its curves to perfection.
Married and pregnant, dude. So not available.
Under his feet the stunning jarrah floorboards gleamed red and when he hit the top stair he was standing in an enormous open living space filled with light. The view of the ocean was as spectacular as he’d imagined but it was the dozen vases of flowers—every possible shade of white, cream and green—that stopped him in his tracks. All of them had the trademark card of Shearwater Flowers and Gifts inserted into the middle of them.
‘I can see why you didn’t need my flowers,’ he said with an ironic laugh. ‘They don’t match your colour scheme.’
A muscle twitched in her cheek but she didn’t say anything.
‘Special occasion?’ he asked, hoping she’d tell him so it would break the ice and he could congratulate her.
Meredith continued to stare out to sea with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
She was giving him nothing so he pressed on. ‘Birthday? Conferment of your fellowship?’
She shook her head hard, sending her golden hair flying across her face. She quickly tugged it back behind her ears. ‘Condolences.’
The word came out softly but it barrelled into him with the impact of a rampaging bull. The white roses, the white stargazer lilies, the white daisies with the green discs and the white orchids all catapulted him back in time so fast he almost got whiplash. Memories of standing next to his mother’s casket, with the cloying scent of lilies clogging his throat, rushed back to him unbidden.
Suddenly it all made sense—her paleness, the black rings under her eyes and her all-encompassing sadness. She was grieving, but for whom? They were both of an age where parents might die. Hell, three months ago he and Bianca had been faced with the possibility that Mario might die. Raf wanted to offer his condolences but for whom? Was it her mother? Father? Was it crass to ask who had died?
Yes!
Meredith cleared her throat but her gaze didn’t leave the horizon. ‘Richard … my husband … was snowboarding with a group of back-country enthusiasts. They’d hiked to Mount Feathertop,’ she said in a flat tone, as if she’d told the story many times before. ‘He was caught in an avalanche and …’ She sucked in a deep breath, her whole body trembling. ‘He didn’t survive.’
Her pain tore through him, tightening his chest and making his gut heave. He’d seen the television news reports and read the articles in the paper a few weeks ago about the talented trauma surgeon whose life had been cut short so dramatically. ‘Bloody hell, Meredith. That’s … It’s …’ He swore softly. ‘So very wrong.’
She raised her gaze to his. At first he saw desolation and despair but then anger sparked bright like a flint. ‘Oh, yes, it’s wrong all right. I’m so furious with him for doing this to me.’ She rubbed her belly. ‘To us.’
Raf frowned and said quietly, ‘I doubt it was his intention to die.’
‘You think?’ Blue jets of fury flared in her eyes and she jabbed her finger at him. ‘It’s just the sort of selfish thing he’d go and do.’ She spun away from him and grabbed a vase of flowers, dumping them in the sink and snapping the stalks in half. ‘For years I’ve waited to have our baby. I fitted into his life. I moved cities and countries, leaving good jobs behind to support him and his career.’
She threw the broken blooms into the bin, her actions jerky. ‘Now it was supposed to be my turn. He should be here, supporting the baby and me. He owes me that. He promised.’ Her voice broke and she sagged against the sink like a deflating balloon, her shoulders shaking as the emotion of her outburst caught up with her.
Her agony tugged at Raf and guilt propelled him forward. Gently and silently, he put his hands on her shoulders. The last time he’d spoken, his words had been a match to her outrage and powerlessness over her husband’s death. This time he wasn’t saying a word. This time he was just offering comfort in the same way he offered it when he was on first-aid duty.
Her shoulders heaved under his hands and with a choking sob she turned into his chest. Without a second thought, he wrapped his arms around her, wishing he could absorb and dilute her distress.
Shuddering, she dropped her head onto his shoulder and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to bring his hand to the back of her head and stroke her hair. The silky strands caressed his palm and he breathed in deeply, enjoying her subtle fragrance of salt, spring flowers and a touch of apple far too much.
Her gulping sobs brought tears that soaked through his shirt and the dampness was cool on his skin. He didn’t care. It felt right to have her in his arms and he’d stay here for as long as she needed him.
Slowly, her ragged breathing calmed and they fell into a matching rhythm of long, slow, deep breaths.
The baby kicked him hard in the belly. Kicked a second time as if to say, You’re not my father so who the hell are you?
He tensed and immediately dropped his arms from Meredith, feeling the chill of the spring air move between them. The baby was right. He was no one’s father and he never would be.
Meredith splashed her face with water and groaned. Right now, Raf was in her living room, probably regretting that he’d rung her doorbell. After all, a virtual stranger having a monumental meltdown was the last thing any guy wanted to witness. She hoped the fact he had first-aid experience meant she wasn’t the first pregnant woman to have sobbed on his shoulder and that he’d take it in his stride.
After drying her face, she peered at her reflection and sighed. It would take way more than cold water to make any impact on the red blotches on her face and she didn’t have the energy or inclination to powder down. ‘Sprocket, stay in there. Meeting your mother face to face will terrify you.’
Leaving the bathroom, she walked down the short hall but Raf wasn’t standing by the windows where she’d left him. Neither was he sitting on one of the many couches.
‘Are you feeling a bit better? If that’s even really an option …’
She spun around towards the quiet sound of his voice—a sound that for some reason made her think of the slide of smooth, thick velvet against her skin. He stood in a now tidy kitchen devoid of all signs of the mess of macerated stalks and crushed flowers.
‘You’ll be relieved I’ve managed to stop crying, even if I don’t look like it.’
His mouth curved up into what she was coming to recognise as his trademark smile—warm, gentle, kind and with a hint of teasing. ‘I think the red splotches suit you. They add colour to your cheeks.’
She heard herself make a noise and was surprised to hear it was a laugh. ‘So there are some advantages to totally falling apart.’
‘Seems so.’
She pushed her hair behind her ears and said what she needed to say. ‘I’m so sorry you had to see that. I’ve been sort of holding it together since I came down here and—’
‘God, Meredith, don’t apologise,’ he said firmly. ‘If anyone should be saying sorry, it’s me. It was my damn flowers that started it. If I’d known, I would have bought something else.’
She noticed he’d put the posy in the bin. ‘I left Melbourne because I needed a break from flowers and condolences and death. Stupid, right? I can’t outrun this.’ She sighed and tugged her hair behind her ears again. ‘Richard wasn’t just mine to miss. His colleagues from around the world are grieving too and their hearts are in the right place, but if I get another bouquet of flowers …’
‘You’ll scream? Throw them off the balcony?’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t believe he understood. ‘And I feel so guilty. I mean they’re beautiful flowers. I had those lilies and roses in my wedding bouquet.’ The lump in her throat built again and she forced it down. ‘I’m not sure I ever want to see or smell another lily again.’
He rubbed his jaw slowly as if he was thinking. ‘What if you keep all the cards but I take the flowers to the Country Women’s Association? They’re fantastic. They’ll divide the flowers up, rearrange them and deliver them to the sick and the elderly shut-ins. They’ll get a real boost from the flowers and you’ll get a break.’
A rush of gratitude filled her. ‘Are you sure that’s not too much trouble for you?’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour. It will get Mario out of the house and those good women will insist we stay and then they’ll force me to eat the lightest scones ever made, served with island raspberry jam and island cream.’
She started plucking the cards from the flowers. One day she was going to have to find the strength to write to every single person and thank them but not today. ‘None of that food sounds very Italian.’