Home to Turtle Bay

by Marion Lennox

‘With our housekeeper and me. Carrie’s sixty years old and she loves Bridge almost as much as I do. Any concerns you may have about Bridget’s welfare you can put to rest. Now if you don’t mind …’

  ‘You’re driving yourself into the ground.’ I was squatting back on my heels, staring up at him.

  But he’d shut down, closing himself off into some place that was intensely private. ‘I need to go.’

  And I couldn’t help myself. I said it. ‘Let me help.’

  ‘How the hell can you help?’ It was said so savagely that it was like an explosion. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘That was uncalled for. You’re helping by pulling weeds.’

  ‘No, really.’ I straightened and faced him. ‘Muriel doesn’t want me to visit more than once a day. Even when she gets home she won’t want me dancing attendance. Steve and Heather and I finish the cows in under an hour and I’m not even needed there. I’m wandering around like flotsam.’

  ‘Flotsam?’ The smile returned—just a glimmer but a smile nonetheless.

  ‘Flotsam,’ I said firmly. ‘Or jetsam. Take your pick. And as I’m a piece of flotsam with full medical qualifications, I don’t see why you shouldn’t put me to work. How about letting me practise medicine?’

  He was staring at me as if I’d zoomed in from another planet.

  ‘What?’ I demanded. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not registered,’ he said finally—blankly.

  ‘That didn’t stop you asking for help when Mary was dying.’

  ‘I was desperate.’

  ‘So desperate has a few levels. I don’t know what’s going on in your private life—’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss—’

  ‘And I don’t need to know. But you’re exhausted. It seems you’ve taken the weight of the world on your shoulders, or at least the weight of Nautilus Island, and if your parents didn’t teach you to share, then they should have.’

  He was still staring at me like I was out of my mind. ‘I blackmailed you to stay.’

  ‘I’m willing to overlook it,’ I said graciously. ‘Just this once.’

  ‘You’re only here for a few weeks.’

  ‘So use me for a few weeks.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know what to do.’

  Hands on hips, I fixed him with a glare—pyjama-clad colleague defending her qualifications. ‘Medical training in the US is a bit more advanced than you might think,’ I retorted. ‘Believe it or not, Jack McLachlan, we’ve progressed from using a blunt knife and a tot of rum.’

  His laughter returned. I missed it when it wasn’t there, I decided. Jack and his twinkle … the two should never be apart.

  ‘I didn’t mean you were unskilled. You know I think you’re a decent doctor.’

  ‘Wow, thanks. So why can’t I help?’

  ‘Jenny …’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘You’re inferring I’m unbalanced as well as untrained?’

  He paused, obviously confused. We must make a real pair. Me in my crazy pyjamas and stupid, spiralling red curls, liberally smeared with dirt, and Jack in his tattered jeans and torn shirt, tired past the point of reason.

  ‘If I could just get a couple of hours free a day,’ he said finally, reluctantly, ‘I could spend more time with Bridget.’

  ‘How about letting me do your routine consulting? Can you get me temporary registration?’

  ‘With US qualifications … If you’re prepared to work in a place as remote as this, I could get you provisionally registered by yesterday.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  We were closer now, close enough to touch, and suddenly his hand moved to mine. It was a momentary contact but it was contact for all that—still an admission of need. But strangely, it was a gesture that shocked us both and we drew apart as if the touch burned.

  Still he stared. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘I mean it.’ But my mind had somehow shifted gears. The feel of his hand on mine … It had changed things. Altered course.

  ‘I mean it,’ I said again, but I could no longer make my voice sound assured. I stepped back, like I was expecting to be stung.

  That was a crazy thought. There was no insect life in this warm salt air. No threats.

  Yet there was a threat. We both knew it.

  ‘Are your consulting rooms at the hospital?’ I managed.

  ‘Yes.’ He was staring down at his hand as if he couldn’t explain what it had just done. ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’ I tried for exasperation, anything to cover the tremor caused by I didn’t know what. ‘But nothing. Trust me. Use me. It’s only for a few weeks.’

  ‘A few weeks is better than nothing,’ he said, so forcibly that I stepped back in surprise. ‘If you knew how frustrated I’ve been. There’s just no time.’

  ‘Yet you find time for my vegetables. And your surfing. And my cows.’

  ‘Gardening is for after dark, when Bridget’s asleep. It saves my sanity. Surfing does the same for me at dawn. I sometimes think if I couldn’t surf I’d go nuts. Your grandfather had the right idea when he said surf—and broccoli—could heal the ills of the world. But only if you can get enough of it. I can’t. What’s more I don’t like broccoli. Milking your cows was a one-off when Clive was desperate, but that’s the problem with being the only doctor in a place like this. There’s always someone desperate.’

  ‘I don’t like broccoli, either,’ I said—stupidly—and he blinked.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. And I can’t surf. So something else has to cure my boredom. But if not me … You sound like you need a partner.’

  ‘A partner?’

  ‘Another doctor. Why don’t you advertise?’

  He smiled but it didn’t even begin to light his eyes. ‘It’d be easier to persuade you to like broccoli. Do you have any idea how hard it is to attract doctors to remote places like this? Developers are planning on building this resort as soon as they can buy enough land, but even if they succeed they’re not even thinking how hard it’ll be to employ doctors. What they’ll end up with is a series of short-term locums who’ll treat it as a holiday. That still leaves me without help and no way I can attract it. There’s no specialist backup. No private schools or universities for doctors’ kids. No boutique shopping or restaurants. Would you want to live here? I had to blackmail you to stay just for six weeks.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘It’s true. As soon as your grandmother’s well, you’ll be glad to be gone.’

  Of course I would, but right now it didn’t matter. All I knew was that surfing and broccoli weren’t going to solve this man’s problems.

  ‘So worry about that in five weeks,’ I snapped. I was no longer even trying to keep my voice steady. Some things were impossible. ‘Meanwhile, let me work. I’ll be at the hospital at nine tomorrow unless you tell me you don’t want me.’

  And then—and this is the bit I still don’t understand—maybe it was because he looked far from sure, or because standing there in the dim light he looked younger, more vulnerable and somehow exposed, or because I couldn’t think of what else to do to break through a barrier I sensed rather than saw—or maybe it was some kind of moonlight madness—for whatever reason I could never afterwards fathom, I leaned forward.

  ‘Worry about tomorrow tomorrow,’ I told him.

  And then I kissed him.

  It was a feather kiss, a brush of lips on cheek, meant as a reassurance of sincerity.

  Wasn’t it?

  But no sooner had I kissed him, no sooner had I spoken my stupid little platitude, than I regretted it. It suddenly made things seem much, much more complicated.

  I backed away, fast. ‘I … I’m sorry.’ My voice came out a strangled squeak. ‘I didn’t mean … I need to … I need to go inside.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’ But somehow I was no longer sure of anything. The way he was looking at me was changing.
/>   All sorts of things were changing. There were silent questions being asked. We were staring at each other in the moonlight, but not one question was being answered.

  ‘Jenny …’

  What was I thinking? I’d interfered in this man’s life and he had nothing to do with me. I had to get things back to formal.

  ‘I’m sorry I kissed you and I need to go to bed.’ But the squeakiness was still there, augmented by desperation.

  ‘I’m not sorry you kissed me,’ he told me. In contrast to mine, his voice had gained strength, and, amazingly, his laughter was back again. ‘Was that a kiss to apologise for? Hell, Dr Kelly, we’re not talking about sexual congress.’

  ‘Of course we’re not.’

  More silence.

  The laughter died.

  Suddenly he was right in my space. His hands had taken mine. He was holding me, and his eyes gleamed in the moonlight. His eyes still held laughter—and something more.

  ‘No,’ he said strongly. ‘You’re right. A kiss like that … How on earth could that be construed as sexual? For a kiss to lead to sex, it needs passion. As an obstetrician, surely you know that.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed, sage and benevolent—and with lurking laughter that was downright dangerous. ‘I’m just a surgeon. But Dr Kelly, even I know that passion was nothing like the kiss you gave me. For passion we’d be needing something like this.’

  And his mouth met mine.

  And the night shut down.

  Years of dating, years of Richard’s friendship that had slowly turned into more, had taught me the conventions of kissing. I knew how to kiss. Dammit, I prided myself on it.

  But this was different.

  Jack was holding me. I couldn’t move.

  Of course I could move. I could wrench away right now. But did I want to?

  Suddenly I was no longer sure. It was like my legs were made of jelly, and the only things keeping me upright were the muscled arms, tugging me towards their owner by my low-down, cheating, affianced waist.

  For I’d been replaced by a woman I didn’t recognise, by reactions I didn’t recognise, and this woman had more important things to think about than who was in control. This woman didn’t examine anything. Because all she could think of was Jack.

  He was kissing with something akin to anger. I realised that in the tiny part of my brain that could think at all, and I didn’t understand it. He was kissing for a reason I couldn’t fathom. But I’d never felt like this. Never.

  His body was hard and compelling, and he was reaching a core of me that ached to respond. I felt myself melt into his urgency. My lips seemed suddenly on fire and the heat in my body seemed to come from him.

  His mouth was hard, urgent, pressing me to react, and my body was answering with a need I’d never realised I had.

  My hands were suddenly in his hair. His hair was rough with salt …

  I had to think. I had to … What?

  I couldn’t remember.

  I was returning his kiss but it wasn’t enough. His hold became more urgent and I felt myself shudder with delicious, aching recognition. My lips were opening … surrendering control.

  No. I was surrendering no control. I was taking control. This was a fabulous experiment, the best, the most wonderful …

  Oh, the taste of him. The feel. The arrant hardness, the demanding pressure.

  And somehow, behind his teasing, behind his kiss, I could sense an overriding tenderness. It was as though he sought more than my body. It might be teasing, or even anger, driving him, but somehow he was searching for a core that seemed never to have been touched. The sensation was unbearably erotic. His slow, delicious plundering was waking a response that I’d never dreamed I was capable of.

  This was wrong on so many levels. This was really, really dumb but sense was nowhere. My entire body was alive with sensation, from my toes to my fingertips to my lips. All of me. I was wanting him. Aching for him. Surrendering to him. There was no way I could break from this intriguing, extraordinary sensation.

  For part of me was being abandoned right there. It was my disciplined self. It was the part of me that had held me in control for all these years, and it was dissolving into the night air as if it had never existed.

  Forever?

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t care. If he wanted to take me, right here in this garden, on the lovely damp grass …

  Yes.

  No.

  For it was Jack who finally found control. Somehow he pulled back, just a little, ignoring my involuntary protest, the way my body surged forward, desperate to keep contact.

  His eyes held shock. And with that, my sanity returned.

  Realisation was like a cold shower. What was I thinking? What was I doing in this garden, in this place, with this man?

  ‘Take … take your hands off me,’ I whispered, and his smile returned, albeit a shaky one.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ But his hands were no longer holding me.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  The laughter was back but there was tenderness behind it.

  ‘You started it.’

  ‘I did not.’ I was finding breathing really hard. I was finding standing up really hard.

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed equitably, and his eyes narrowed. Maybe the laughter was directed at himself. Mocking himself? ‘The likes of you would surely not be looking at the likes of me,’ he said softly. ‘We’re two sides of the coin, after all. Mutineer and Captain.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  He paused at that. His smile died. ‘This Richard of yours—he has money, I’d imagine.’

  It was like a slap.

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Come on,’ he goaded. It was as if he was now intent on putting more and more distance between us. ‘Tell me money’s not your driving force. Money and position.’

  I managed a deep breath. ‘You’re unspeakable.’

  ‘But I’m right.’

  ‘Get out of my garden.’

  ‘You don’t want me to kiss you again?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Leave. Or I’ll call the cops.’

  He grinned. ‘Make that cop, singular. Cameron will be tucked up in his bed now, but of course you can call him.’ But he backed away a little more and nodded. ‘But you’re right. I’d best be leaving. We wouldn’t want things to get out of hand, would we?’

  ‘As if they would.’

  ‘You’re saying you didn’t enjoy that?’

  ‘It’s late,’ I snapped. ‘I’m tired and you caught me unawares. Don’t think I meant anything by it because I didn’t. And don’t even think of touching me again. Ever!’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Get lost!’

  Then, before he could respond, before I could think of anything else intelligent to say like my last extraordinarily original remark, I turned and fled into the house.

  I didn’t look back, and when I reached the safety of the tiny entrance hall I slammed the door behind me so hard the little cottage shook on its foundations.

  I was being ridiculous, I decided, with my last ragged vestiges of sense. He was being ridiculous. The kiss meant nothing. It had been an interesting anthropological experiment and that was all.

  Which was why I leaned against the closed door and stared into the darkness until I heard him climb into his van and start the engine. Then I watched through the window as the tail-lights disappeared into the distance.

  When I could no longer see his van, still I looked.

  For a very long time.

  10

  noogie n. you’re cruising, you have it all together, and then you wipe out.

  It was a really long night and I couldn’t sleep. Why had I kissed him? Why had he kissed me back?

  And worse. Why had the whole experience made me feel so …

  Vulnerable? Confused?

  Exhilarated? />
  Surely not.

  Exposed was the word, I decided at last. Exposed in more ways than one. It was as if every nerve was raw and I didn’t know why.

  Richard never made me feel like this.

  My thighs were aching. Uh-oh.

  ‘So he turns me on,’ I muttered into the pillow. ‘So what? Just because he looks like a pirate …’

  But it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was his voice—the little bit of Scotland that kept breaking through when I least expected it. It was his smile. It was that weird, intense crease above the bridge of his nose when he was operating …

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. I, Jennifer Kelly, was far too sensible to allow animal attraction to make any difference to the important decisions I made in life. Plus I was supposed to be sleeping. Somehow I’d volunteered to start work tomorrow. I should be asleep.

  But though I closed my eyes, there was no way my mind was following. The memory of Jack’s mouth on mine stayed with me. His hands. The feel of him. His smell. His taste. His lopsided smile …

  What did I think I was doing? Just because the man knew how to kiss …

  My fingers touched my lips. They felt bruised.

  Why didn’t Richard kiss like that?

  Oh, leave it. I wouldn’t want Richard to kiss like that. Desire wasn’t everything. Lust could lead to disaster.

  ‘Cathy didn’t end up with Heathcliff,’ I told myself sharply. ‘Cathy ended up dead. And Elizabeth Bennet probably finished up with fourteen kids, wonky legs and a prolapse.’

  Romantic endings were for novels. Real life was for sense.

  And sense was something I was losing. I’d been railroaded into staying on this weird little island. This tiny farmhouse was full of memories of a man I didn’t know, with letters that freaked me out. The surfing school was the echo of a tired, fanciful dream, and the cows were making their way steadily and surely to a salami factory.

  My future was in New York, with my career and with my sweet Richard. My place was in his family, joining generations of Nurhymers, with nary a stain on the family escutcheon. Richard had already pencilled ‘Jennifer’ into his mammoth family Bible.

  So why had I kissed Jack? Why had he kissed me?

  ‘Well, it won’t happen again,’ I told my inarticulate pillow, but the thought wasn’t reassuring. I felt … forlorn. Empty. Like I’d lost something I valued.