by Annie O'Neil
She should have stayed. Been true to her heart and his. Then she wouldn’t be in this ludicrous position. Unmarried. Pregnant. Facing the future alone.
She nodded, letting the tears fall fat and unceremoniously down her cheeks, along and off her chin, darkening the light blue of her linen blouse. They were coming so thick and fast she didn’t bother wiping them away.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. If I’d stayed with you—”
“If you’d stayed with me, what?” Jamie challenged. “What would have happened if you’d stayed with me? We would’ve got married? Perhaps had a child by now? Not be here in this—” He swept an arm out along the vista when his anger collapsed. “Well...this is pretty beautiful. I don’t regret this.”
Beatrice spread her hands across her face and wiped at the tears, laughing despite herself. “You always could see the best in everything.”
“You brought that out in me.”
“No.” She shook his words away. “I don’t deserve that. You were good at that before I met you. It’s one of the things that made me fall in love with you.”
Jamie gave her a sidelong glance. “And what was it exactly that changed how you felt? Did you see something you didn’t like? Or something you liked more in him? Even though you weren’t ‘in love’ with him.”
He hadn’t needed to put up air quotes as he spoke. His voice had said it all. The glint of opportunities lost sparked in his green eyes, which flared to show her time hadn’t healed the wounds she knew she’d inflicted in the way she’d hoped it might.
“Oh, Jamie.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her heart was doing its very best to leap out of her throat.
He could have said a lot of things. Accused her of leaving for the money. For the opulent palazzos she would have lived in. The parties, the traveling, the haute couture she would have been pictured wearing in all the glossy magazines, at all the parties where people cared about those sorts of things. Palaces and pistes. Beaches and ballrooms. The list went on and on, but none of those would have been the answer.
“Why did you do it?” he asked again, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“A little girl trying to please her mother, I suppose,” Bea whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke.
She didn’t suppose. She knew it. She’d hashed and rehashed it on an endless loop these past few weeks. And the answers she had come up with were sobering. It wasn’t entirely her mother’s fault. Her family’s fault. Even tradition wasn’t to blame.
At the end of the day, all the blame lay solidly at her own feet. She was the one who had left the man she loved. Put on that white dress. All that ridiculous lace!
The waste.
The heartache.
Heartache she couldn’t admit to because, as Jamie had so bluntly put it, their relationship was “water under the bridge.” Even if all she wanted to do right now was drop to her knees and beg his forgiveness. Plead with him to believe that she’d never stopped loving him. That she would do anything to make things right again. But it was impossible.
When her ex-fiancé had made it more than clear that she’d be raising her child on her own she had vowed never to enter into a relationship again. Too painful. Too many pitfalls.
And now that the one man she would have made an exception for was in front of her it was like stabbing a dagger into her own heart. But her choice was made. She had to continue alone. Live with the pain. With what she’d done.
There was no way in the world she could ask Jamie to love her child. Raise it. Love it as his own. Not after what she’d done.
She cleared her throat and forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I guess you could say I fell in line. Our families—the di Jesolos and the Rodolfos—have known each other forever. Generations. It’s what our people do.”
She sought Jamie’s eyes for some sort of understanding. Anything to make her feel the tiniest bit better... Nothing. Just a blank expression as if she’d been listing cement prices. His lack of response was chilling.
When he finally spoke his voice bore the toneless disappointment of a judge on the brink of laying down a guilty verdict.
“Do you really believe this was entirely your family’s doing? That you didn’t play any role in it?”
Bea’s hands flew to cover her chest, as if protecting her heart from his words.
“Well, not entirely, no—but surely you can understand how—”
“No. I can’t.” He held up his hand, putting an end to her appeal. “Maybe it’s culture. Maybe it’s class. But my family has done nothing but make sacrifices to ensure my life was better.”
“And is that your guilt for their sacrifices talking? Or righteous indignation because I made my own sacrifice at the di Jesolo altar? A sacrifice for the greater good of my family!”
Bea hated herself for the cruel words. Jamie was the last person she should be lashing out at. The last person whose forgiveness she should expect.
She’d been a fool to think he might be the one to go to for compassion. For one of those unchecked, bear hugs he used to give. The hugs that had assured her everything would be all right.
She steeled herself and looked him in the eye again. Nothing. The shutters had dropped.
This summer was going to be a test.
Penance for the mistakes she’d made along the way.
And, in the end, perhaps proof that she’d be able to put up with anything once her baby was born.
If she could survive the arctic gaze shredding her nerves right now she could survive anything. Raise a baby on her own. Teach him or her right from wrong...ensure they lived the life they wanted to live.
Steeling herself against that remote gaze of his, she turned to Jamie, matching his tone with a level of cool that took her by surprise. “Like you said, Jamie. People change.”
* * *
Beatrice might as well have reached in and ripped his heart straight out of his chest.
Of course he’d bloody well changed!
Jamie set off with determined, long-legged strides after Beatrice, who had marched away, with quick, tight steps to start and then, when she hit the end of the promenade, stretched her legs into a run.
What did she expect? She’d left him. Yanked the world out from under his feet. Smashed his heart into bits. He’d been utterly dumbfounded when she’d left, had made it through each and every day since then through sheer force of will.
Eyes glued on that platinum blond head of hers, he pushed himself harder, even though he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say when he reached her.
Tell her to leave.
Beg her to stay.
Either way, this wasn’t how they were going to leave things. With her storming off in a huff because he wasn’t rolling over and placating her ego. She’d left him once and he’d be damned if he was going to see the back of her again unless it was by mutual agreement.
Furious that he’d let things degenerate between them so quickly, Jamie reached out and grabbed Beatrice’s elbow. The move threw her off balance, so he quickly stabilized her with both hands, holding her square in his arms. The two of them were breathing heavily, eyeing each other in anticipation of who would make the first move.
Before he could think better of it he cupped her chin in his hand, tipped her lips toward his and kissed her as if his life depended upon it. At this very moment, tasting her, feeling her respond to him as passionately as she was, sure as hell felt as if it did.
As suddenly as the moment began it was over. He wasn’t sure who had pulled back first or if they’d simply needed to come up for air. Either way, he was sure of one thing. Beatrice was right. She hadn’t left him because she didn’t love him. It was still there. The spark. The fire.
Knowing that made the whole scenario worse.
&nbs
p; If he couldn’t count on her to stick with him through thick and thin there was little point in asking her to try again. No way would he be able to pick up the pieces a second time.
He stepped back and away from her, his hands scrubbing at the back of his head as if his fingers could reach in and reestablish the order he’d only just put into place.
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
Beatrice didn’t say anything, pressing her fingers into her kiss-stung lips. Her eyes were wide, red rimmed with the tears she’d already shed.
“Let me walk you home.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to stop himself from pulling her into a hug, stroking her hair, whispering to her all those things a man told a woman when he knew she was hurting and wanted it to stop.
“Don’t worry.” She shook her head, took a quick scan of the piazza as if to regain her bearings. “It’s been a long day. I’d like to walk home alone, if you don’t mind.”
It came out as almost a question. Just the merest hint of her genuinely caring if he did, in fact, mind.
“Do you want to make this work?” he asked instead. “The working-together thing?” he continued when she looked up at him, eyes as wide as saucers.
“I do.” She nodded, her voice more solid than he’d heard it all day.
“Well, then... Looks like we’d both better get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
And without a second glance he turned and walked away.
CHAPTER FOUR
“AM I ALLOWED to take showers with this on?”
Bea smiled. Since when were thirteen-year-old boys worried about showers?
“He means go swimming,” his mother interjected, rubbing a hand through her son’s sandy blond hair. “Il est mon fils. He’s my son and he’s like me,” she translated, though they had been speaking French for most of the time Bea had been circling the colored fiberglass wrap onto the boy’s arm. “He’s addicted to the lake. My little minnow.”
Guillaume squirmed and muttered something about not being so little anymore. Probably a teenage growth spurt and a lack of awareness of his new gangly limbs were the reason behind his fall. It also explained why rock climbing might not have been the best choice of activity.
Bea finished off the task with a smile, smoothing the last bit of blue wrap onto his arm. “Good thing you were wearing a helmet.”
They all turned to look at the multicolored helmet, which had received an almighty dent in the boy’s fall.
“You know, your cast is made out of the same thing as your helmet. It should keep your arm safe until you heal, but unfortunately it’s not one hundred percent waterproof. I’ve put a waterproof liner in there, and I can get you a waterproof sheath—but it’s not a perfect guarantee it will stay dry.”
“I can pretty much guarantee, now that you’ve said that, Guillaume is going to be in that lake straightaway.”
Bea laughed. “If you can bear it, hold off until tomorrow. You want it to dry properly and make sure everything’s set. After that—” she looked at the mother “—the main goal is to make sure his skin stays clear of rashes or any other irritation. If you have a hair dryer, use the cool setting to dry inside the cast if it does get wet.”
The mother and son looked at each other and laughed. “Marie is never going to let me borrow her hair dryer!”
“Perhaps if you asked nicely, instead of teasing her all the time.” His mother gave him an elbow in the ribs.
“Older sister?”
Mother and son nodded as one.
Bea busied herself with tidying away the packaging from the wrap, wondering if she and her child would share moments like that. The relaxed camaraderie. So different from what she’d grown up with.
Clearing her throat, she banished the thought. She had to get through the pregnancy first.
“A vacuum cleaner works just as well.”
“Ah!” Guillaume’s mother laughed again. “If only my son weren’t allergic to cleaning! I doubt he even knows there’s a vacuum cleaner in our cottage.”
Guillaume pretended not to hear, tapping away at his cast, examining the multiple colors his fingers were already turning in the wake of the break.
“I can’t wait to show Marie my X-rays. She’ll have to take back everything she said about me crying for nothing.”
Bea pushed back on her wheeled stool as the boy’s mother put her arm around her son’s shoulder and pulled him in for a gentle hug. “It’s all right to cry, mon amour. Strong men should show their feelings.”
He wriggled in embarrassment, but didn’t pull away.
Bea looked away again, fastidiously training her eyes on the paperwork.
It seemed every single thing in the universe was a little lesson, guiding her toward impending motherhood.
Moments like these would soon be in the pipeline for her. Trips to A&E. The frantic worry that her son or daughter would be all right. The relief, flooding through her when she was assured her child would be just fine. The love shining through it all.
“Let’s get back to your papa, shall we, Guillaume? Show him your latest achievement.”
The smile stayed on Bea’s lips as she handed over the release papers, but inside, her heart had cinched tight.
That was the missing ingredient in her life. A father for her tiny little child.
Her fingers instinctively moved up to her lips, reliving that kiss. Even though it was a week ago now, in those few precious moments she’d thought maybe...just maybe...
“Is there anything else, Dr. Jesolo?”
Bea shook her head, unwilling to allow the wobble she knew she’d hear in her voice if she spoke.
Pointing the pair in the right direction, she curled her fingers around the cubicle curtain and tugged it shut, needing just a few seconds to compose herself. Another rush of tears. Another case of embedding the emotions of each of her patients straight into the fabric of her soul, of not being entirely able to retain her professional distance.
Hormones, no doubt.
All of a sudden Beatrice’s eyes snapped wide-open. Was that really what she’d thought it was? Just the tiniest of flutters and yet...
Her hands slid instinctively across her belly... Oh! Yes. There it was again. Like having a butterfly inside her, but so much better.
Years of medical training told her it couldn’t be what she thought it was. That precious little life letting her know that he or she was in there. It was far too soon to feel anything. There were all sorts of other possibilities. Medical explanations.
A need to pee. Again. An increase of blood flow to her womb, drawing her attention to the area. The fact that the low waistline of her skirt was becoming the tiniest bit more snug, despite weeks of morning sickness.
Either way, she believed the sensation was her tiny, precious baby letting her know he or she was alive in there.
“Can I get a hand here?”
Bea pulled her stethoscope around her neck and ran, not even bothering to take a swipe at the tears she didn’t seem to be able to control. Happy or sad, they appeared on tap these days. Allergies, she told everyone.
Jamie.
Her focus was so complete as she ran to the triage area she hardly noticed that he had moved in alongside her as two gurneys were wheeled in by paramedics.
“Here.” He handed her a disposable surgical gown. “Better put this on. Things might get messy.”
“What’s happened?” She saw Jamie’s double take as she swept away the remnants of emotion before turning her full attention to the patients and the paramedic rattling off their status.
“Two women presenting with second-and third-degree burns.”
“Where’s my wife?” A man pushed through the swing doors, his eyes frantic with worry.
“She�
��s here with us. Exactly where she needs to be.” Jamie’s solid voice assured the man.
“I told her not to use that kerosene stove. It didn’t look safe. I told her it didn’t look safe!”
Bea threw her attention to the woman on the gurney closest to her as she heard Jamie continuing to placate the man, convincing him to go back to the waiting room to be with his other children.
“Why are her clothes all wet?” she asked.
“When the stove exploded she jumped into the lake!” the woman’s husband shouted over Jamie’s shoulder.
“Second-and third-degree burns.” Dr. Brandisi appeared on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands at the back of his neck as he tied on his disposable gown. It was critical the wounds were kept as hygienic as possible. Infection was a burn victim’s worst enemy. “We need to start cutting these clothes off.”
Bea did her best to soothe the woman, although she was unable to run a hand across her brow as the flames had hit her forehead.
“What’s your name, amore?”
“My sister!” The woman struggled to push herself up. “Is my sister here?”
“She’s blistering. Only remove what isn’t anywhere near the burns.” Jamie’s voice came through loud and clear as he took control of the team. “We need Brandisi and Bates with the sister. Her name’s Jessica. Dr. Jesolo?” Jamie’s eyes hit Bea’s as she tied on a face mask. “This is Monica Tibbs. You’re with me.”
Bea nodded, not questioning his assignment for an instant. To do so would waste precious time. Just a rough glance told her that somewhere around thirty percent of Monica’s body had taken a hit from the explosion. The damage was significant.
The calm with which Jamie approached the chaotic situation infused everyone with much needed focus. Collectively, they went to work. Instructions, low and urgent, flew from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse.
Bea didn’t have time or any need to worry about the fact that Jamie was now by her side, carefully cutting along the length of the woman’s trouser leg. Pieces of cloth stuck to her skin. It was hard to look at. Essential to treat.