‘The smoke’s cleared so finally we can evacuate her,’ she told him. ‘Things look like they’re settling but I still don’t like it and I don’t want a thirty-two-weeker delivered here. I’ve had it happen before when the family wouldn’t accept advice.’ She hesitated and he saw trauma, tightly held. Then she gave one of her characteristic nods and moved on. ‘Well, my advice is stronger now, or maybe it’s not even advice. Erica’s out of here. The plane’s due at three. That’s what I needed to tell you. They’ll take you too, if you want to go.’
And that took him aback. He could leave. He’d be back in Sydney tonight.
To what?
His mates were in St Moritz, or scattered for the Christmas holidays—either that or they’d be on duty, working their butts off. If he was evacuated he could be admitted into the hospital where he worked. There he’d suffer teasing by the staff, plus—heaven forbid—jovial visits by the elderly consultant who always played Santa. Or he could sit at home with his leg immobile and feel sorry for himself.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, what was he thinking? He was involved in an immense international research project. There was always work to do.
But he still might feel sorry for himself, he conceded, and he glanced up and saw Elsa watching him with what looked like understanding.
‘Conflicted, eh?’ she asked. ‘If you go home you’ll realise how much you’re missing St Moritz, and you still need bed rest. You know you’re welcome to stay here. We can keep you as an inpatient for a couple more days and then you can take the regular flight home. Oh, and you needn’t worry about being bored. If you finish these I have a hundred paper napkins I need folding into the shape of little bells. Origami at its finest.’
‘Bells...’ he said faintly.
‘It’s only fair to warn you,’ she told him cheerfully, ‘before you make a decision. So your choice is a nice quiet flight back to Sydney, with well-trained medics to keep you safe, or a hundred paper bells followed by total chaos on Christmas Day. Maybe I didn’t mention that as a hospital patient you get to be first on the guest list at our Christmas dinner. We can organise you a wheelchair if you’d like to go.’
‘A wheelchair?’ he said, revolted.
‘A wheelchair it is until that swelling goes down and we can replace that back slab,’ she said, in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘So, Dr Pierce, what shall it be? You want to share our island Christmas, or do you want to make a run for it? Make up your mind because the evac team needs to know.’
She was smiling down at him, her head cocked slightly to one side like an impertinent sparrow. He found himself smiling back.
Christmas here—or Christmas in Sydney.
Christmas alone—or Christmas with Elsa.
It wouldn’t be Christmas with Elsa, he told himself. He was simply one of her many patients.
Still...
‘I will help you with the napkin bells if you decide to stay,’ she told him generously and he thought of her sitting beside him, that glorious head of fiery curls bent over origami bells. He thought of her smile.
The decision seemed to be made for him.
Christmas with Elsa it would be.
What was he thinking? He was shocked at the direction his errant thoughts were taking. Was this some type of Stockholm Syndrome, where the captive fell for the captor?
Um, that might possibly be overplaying a broken leg and a hospital bed, he conceded, and actually Elsa had freed him, not captured him.
So was it gratitude he was feeling?
Of course it was gratitude, he told himself with a certain amount of relief. It had nothing to do with the way Elsa was smiling at him now, with that inquisitive, intelligent sparrow look. The look that said whatever he decided would be okay by her.
The look that said that, regardless, if he got on that plane she’d fold all hundred napkins herself, and then see patients and take care of her grandpa and get up on Christmas morning and do a ward round and lug these crazily wrapped gifts across to the footy hall and have fun.
Fun. There was the hub of the matter. He looked down at his pile of weird gifts and thought he wanted to be there when they were all opened.
‘So what’s your decision?’ she asked gently, as if she guessed he was torn.
‘I’ll stay.’
‘Wow, that’s good of you.’
He grinned ruefully. ‘Sorry. If it’s okay with you, if you don’t need my bed for someone else, if it’s okay for me to join in your Christmas festivities...’
‘Then you’re very welcome. Now, about this geranium...’
‘It’s too...’
‘Too big.’ She smiled, a lovely, uncomplicated smile that said all was right with her world. ‘The lady gave me a three-inch cutting and I had to carry it home in wet tissue and hope. And here it is, knee high and covered with flowers. When it started growing I had visions of it taking over the whole island—I had to check with our quarantine officer that it was okay to keep it. If we join two sheets together...you plonk it on the wrapping paper and hold it steady and I’ll gather the paper together with a big ribbon at the top. What colour do you reckon? Red? Gold? How about rainbow?’
‘Rainbow,’ he said, slightly shocked as she hauled gaudy bows out of a box and laid them on his bed for his consideration. Memories stirred of elegant gifts in the past, mostly wrapped by the expensive stores they were purchased from. He didn’t think he’d ever had a gift that looked so...so...
‘How about that for Christmassy?’ Elsa demanded as she finished attaching her bow and stood back to inspect their handwork. Scarlet Santa paper and a vast rainbow bow. The whole thing looked more like a scrunched ball of waste paper than elegant gift wrapping. ‘Haven’t we done well?’
‘Very well,’ he agreed faintly, and she grinned and touched his shoulder—a fleeting touch—doctor reassuring patient?
‘You’re doing good, Dr Pierce,’ she told him. ‘Grandpa will help me sneak these out later. Meanwhile you need to take a nap and gather strength for the bells.’
‘Did you say a hundred?’
‘Yep,’ she said cheerfully, and then added, ‘Nope, make that a hundred and one because we just added you to the guest list.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christmas Day
SHE REMEMBERED CHRISTMAS as a kid. There had been those first appalling ones with her dysfunctional mother—thankfully mostly a blur now. She did remember the last of those, waking to find her mother surfacing after yet another binge, with nothing planned, nothing to eat, nothing at all.
Her mother had simply forgotten it was Christmas—or hadn’t thought of it in the first place.
And then somehow her mother had disappeared, and when her grandfather had swooped in to claim her Christmas had suddenly been magical. Yes, Grandpa had often been called out, but if she wasn’t called on to ‘help’ in the hospital kitchen—she’d been chief taster—or if she didn’t need to ride her brand-new scooter or play with her brand-new science kit, she’d go with him. And it seemed every single islander would be celebrating, welcoming her with hugs and mince pies and more sweets than one small kid could possibly consume.
Her island. Her people.
She did love this place, she conceded. Yes, sometimes she resented its demands, but she still remembered that first Christmas on the island, the feeling of being loved unconditionally, of being protected. Of belonging.
And today...
For a few indulgent moments after she woke she let herself stay where she was and just wallowed in the surge of excitement that was Christmas. The restlessness that had been with her for months seemed to have receded. Life was okay. It was Christmas and she was with the people she loved.
And Marc was here.
‘But that has nothing to do with it,’ she told herself out loud—or if it did it had no business doing so. This was Christmas excitement
only. Marc would be gone tomorrow or the day after and she’d be left with...
Tony?
No, not Tony. She’d cleared that up—she hoped. One unwise date...
And that was the problem. The whole island seemed to be watching her, waiting for her to date. Plus all the rest. The islanders would like her to be even more wedded to the island than she was now. When eligible tourists rocked in—the male, single variety—she could almost see their collective nervousness. No one was to take away their Dr McCrae.
Which was fine with her, she conceded, because she had no intention of leaving. She owed the island too much. She loved the island too much.
However...
However, the pool of available islanders as life partners was limited, to say the least. Most of the young ones departed as soon as they could. There were maybe ten unmarried guys around her age on the whole island, and compared to most of them Tony looked good.
Wow, where were her thoughts going? There was a despondent thought to wake up to on Christmas morning. Did she need a reason to get up?
Of course she didn’t. She struggled to retain the surge of excitement she’d woken with. She had a good life. A great life. She was the island doc. She didn’t need to be anything more.
Except here was this gorgeous guy called Marcus, who’d fallen down a hole, who’d helped her wrap gifts and who’d smiled at her.
Get a grip, she told herself. She was indulging in a teenage fantasy, and she had no time for fantasies today. Grandpa would be heating panforte in the fire stove oven, waiting with a gift for her. Sherlock would be demanding a fast walk before she started work for the day. She needed to do a ward round. She needed to make sure of the final touches to the Christmas dinner.
And her fantasy?
‘Marc’s as real as Santa Claus,’ she said out loud. ‘Okay, he’s flesh and blood and he’ll be staying longer than a quick flit down the chimney, but not much longer. Put your sensible boots on, Dr McCrae, and get to work.’
* * *
Marc was accustomed to the extravagant Christmas décor of St Moritz at its glitziest, but the simple Gannet Island hall was a sight to take a man’s breath away.
A giant gumtree stood behind the building, laced right to its tip with the island’s delicate mistletoe. Who needed bought decorations with such crimson beauty at hand? Massive swathes of the brilliant clusters had been brought inside, creating an effect much more gorgeous than any commercial effort. The hall looked lovely and over a hundred people were set to enjoy themselves.
It seemed that what had begun years before as a Christmas party for hospital patients and for islanders who had no one to share with had grown. Elsa had told him that most island families organised their own Christmas dinner, but still almost all put their names in the ballot to attend this one. The ballot was for entire families, and if the family succeeded in the ballot then this party seemed to be the preferred option.
It meant the party wasn’t just for the ill and the lonely. It was a true celebration.
The footy ground was right by the hospital. A couple of beefy footballers were in charge of patient transport, for anyone well enough to enjoy the day. Despite Marc’s protests, they’d brought him in a wheelchair—‘If you think I’m letting you use crutches before your shoulder’s settled you can think again,’ Elsa had told him sternly, so now he was seated at one of six vast trestle tables surrounded by...fun.
As everyone walked in they were presented with a hat. These weren’t your typical novelty Christmas hats bought in bulk from a cheap supplier. These were knitted or crocheted beanies. Crazy beanies.
‘They’re an island project,’ the guy sitting beside Marc told him. ‘We no sooner finish one year’s lot than we start another. It’s called the Crazy Cap Club. We meet at the school hall every Thursday night and egg each other on to see who can crochet the craziest one.’
‘You do it too?’ Marc asked, fascinated. The guy he was talking to was an ex-fisherman who’d introduced himself as Wally, in a wheelchair that matched Marc’s, in his eighties, a hospital patient with oxygen-dependent emphysema. Weathered from a life at sea, gruff, matter-of-fact, the thought of him with a crochet hook had Marc hornswoggled.
‘Doc bullied me into it,’ he told Marc. ‘I was that tired of sitting on me bum all day, so she gave me a challenge. “Do one with a fish on it,” she told me. So I did. First one was a bit wobbly but Martin Crosby got it and still wears it out on his boat. That was three years back. This year my one’s over on Hazel Mitchell’s head. See...the octopus with the tentacles made into braids that hang down her back looking like hair.’
Marc looked and looked again. He’d met Hazel—she was the prim hospital administrator who’d helped him fill in admission forms. She was wearing a very proper skirt and matching jacket—in prim pink. Sensible court shoes and stockings.
And an octopus hat with braids.
And then Elsa came swooping over to their table. He’d been watching her—of course he had. She seemed to be everywhere, hauling people into conversations, rearranging seating. He’d seen her take one old lady who was shrinking at the end of a noisy table and almost literally sweep her up and deposit her in the midst of another table, which seemed just as noisy but the people there seemed to know her. They shoved along to accommodate her and were currently in the midst of swapping hats to figure which hat best suited who. She was giggling and sipping champagne and Elsa had moved on.
‘I think your hat’s the best,’ she told Wally now, stooping to give him a hug, careful, Marc noted, not to bump the oxygen tube that obviously kept the old man alive. ‘An octopus with dreadlocks...where will you go from there?’
‘I’m thinking of a fisherman with fishhooks and fish dangling,’ Wally told her, grinning. ‘I got the pattern just about worked out. It’ll take me all year to make but it’s worth it. You know Muriel Cuthbert got last year’s mermaid and she’s using it as a tea cosy. Pride of place on the kitchen table, she tells me, and everyone admires it.’
‘And why wouldn’t they?’ Elsa demanded, looking at the hats on both their heads. Wally was wearing a Santa with seven elves stitched into the side. Marc was wearing a particularly mean-looking barracuda. ‘Very fetching,’ she said, grinning.
Elsa was wearing a pink confection, a crocheted merry-go-round, complete with little horses. It looked complex, weird, adorable.
Marc looked at Elsa’s flushed, laughing face and thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
It must be the champagne, he thought. He imagined his friends, many of whom would be sipping their hugely expensive Christmas eggnogs in front of a roaring fire at the resort in St Moritz. They’d all be wearing après-ski wear, very chic.
Elsa was wearing a flouncy red skirt that looked as if it could well be homemade and a crisp, sleeveless blouse. She’d accessorised with a necklace of red tinsel and Santa Claus earrings. Plus her crazy hat. She’d braided her flaming curls and the two braids hung over her shoulders, tied at the ends with red and gold Christmas ribbon.
This was more Christmas cliché than he’d dreamed possible on one woman. Who knew it could look so great?
She was chuckling as she reached over and grabbed Wally’s bon-bon. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t pulled it yet!’ Inside was a corny joke. She read it aloud to the table, and there was a roar of laughter.
‘You guys take care of Marc,’ she told everyone. ‘He’s had a very hard time so it’s your responsibility to make him feel better.’ And then she grinned. ‘And don’t be mean,’ she added. ‘Not one person is to mention hikers and satellite trackers and letting people know where you’re going. Not one of you. It’s Christmas. Cut the guy some slack.’
There was more laughter, all of it friendly, and Marc was seamlessly pulled into the general conversation.
Elsa hugged Wally and she moved on.
Marc wouldn’t have
minded a hug himself, he thought.
He was her patient. The way he was feeling was totally inappropriate.
Maybe it is Stockholm Syndrome, he thought.
But he didn’t feel like a victim.
It was time to turn his attention to eating, and the food was magnificent. The turkeys had arrived—somehow they’d been organised to be delivered on the evacuation flight. That must have been down to Elsa, he thought. How many medics had to juggle the needs of patients with the need for turkeys?
He watched Elsa and thought that this wasn’t about her patients or, if it was, her patients were the whole island.
Between main course and pudding there was entertainment. Christmas carols were sung in three-part harmony, led by the local choir, with everyone joining in. A weathered fisherman with a hat and a rabbit made corny magician jokes. A group of elderly ladies in twenties gear danced the Charleston with gusto. At the end of the dance each of the ladies grabbed an unsuspecting diner and dragged them up to join them. Elsa was one of the first to be grabbed, and she Charlestoned with the best of them. Of course she would, he thought, dazed. She was magnificent.
And then there were the gifts. He watched Sandra Carter gasp and flush with pleasure as she removed his dodgy wrapping from around her geranium. He watched the hall roar with laughter as little May Trent opened her ‘Beware, Vicious Dog’ sign. May giggled and showed the sign to the little dog under her chair, and he thought her Christmas had been made. It seemed the same for every gift recipient.
Thanks to Elsa.
She had him enthralled. When the meal was done and his footballer escorts decreed it was his turn to be wheeled back to the hospital, he looked for Elsa and saw she was already helping clear, chuckling with the locals as she worked. She looked busy and happy. And he thought that he really wanted to stay. Here. Now.
To do what? Help with the dishes? Ha.
He was a patient, an outsider, a visitor who’d already caused everyone massive inconvenience. He submitted meekly to being wheeled back to his ward, to his bed.
Mistletoe Kiss with the Heart Doctor Page 9