by Fiona Lowe
‘It’s too hot for that sort of nonsense, buddy,’ she said, leaning down to rub his ears before she pressed the brass door bell. While she waited for the sound of footsteps, she admired the beautiful red and blue painted glass panels around the door.
‘Dr Fuller? Lauren. Goodness, this is a surprise.’ Anna Ainsworth, still regal at eighty-one, peered at her through her glasses. ‘Do come in, dear.’
‘Thank you.’ Lauren crossed the threshold and found herself standing in a wide hall with deep skirting boards. ‘I was concerned when you didn’t come to your appointment, especially when Mum...’ She smiled and corrected herself. ‘The district nurse was worried about you.’
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered to the base of her throat. ‘I’m so sorry to have worried you. It’s just with everything that’s happened today, the appointment completely slipped my mind.’
Lauren followed Anna into a spacious living room complete with an open fireplace and a mantelpiece filled with silver framed family photos. ‘Is this the best place to examine you?’
‘Why not?’ Anna’s blue eyes, pale with age, sparkled with mischief. ‘It’s a room with a view that’s far more interesting than my leg.’
Lauren laughed and flicked open her bag. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I get excited when I see healthy skin where an ulcer is healing. I’ll start by testing your blood sugar. How’s it been?’
Anna grimaced. ‘Up and down, like my blood pressure. I had the sniffles last week and at my age it seems to put everything out of whack. I find it utterly frustrating,’ she said imperiously, as if the virus was very rude indeed to be causing her problems.
The glucometer beeped. ‘Eleven point two. That’s high.’
‘Oh, that’s just because of the tiny glass of champagne I drank.’
‘Champagne?’ Lauren tried not to sigh and unwrapped the blood-pressure cuff.
Anna leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There are special occasions in life when celebrations are more far important than a spike in blood sugar.’
‘Like what?’ Lauren asked as she pumped up the sphygmomanometer, deciding it was best to find out exactly what the circumstances were before reading the Riot Act.
‘Like my grandson arriving unexpectedly.’
In her stunned surprise, Lauren only just caught the diastolic blood pressure reading as her heart did an odd skip in her chest. She immediately told herself not be ridiculous. Anna Ainsworth probably had many grandsons and even if this one was Charlie, he probably now came with a wife and two point five kids.
‘I haven’t seen him in over two years,’ Anna continued, ‘so I’m sure you’ll agree that’s very worthy of a few sips of champagne.’
‘Lauren agrees, but Dr Fuller is a little torn,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Now, let’s look at this leg.’ She slid a bluey under Anna’s calf to protect the couch’s beautiful Australian wildflower print, before slipping on some gloves and carefully removing the dressing. The skin around the small ulcer was angry and two tiny black dots worried her. She carefully debrided them and reapplied the occlusive dressing. ‘That’s to stay in place for a week, Mrs Ainsworth, and I need you to promise me two things.’
‘Oh, dear,’ the woman said, her eyes twinkling again. ‘I’m not very good at keeping promises if they’re dull and boring.’
‘Oh, these are totally exciting, I promise,’ Lauren said. ‘The first is, when you’re sitting down, put your leg up every time. The second is, call me if your blood sugar is higher than eight.’
‘Lauren, dear, I think we have definition disparity about what constitutes exciting.’
‘Not really. If you don’t do those two things, you risk requiring a skin graft and spending a couple of weeks in hospital...’ While she’d been talking, she’d gathered up the dressing waste, rolled it up in the bluey and shoved the contents into a bag. Now she tied it with a flourish. ‘Now, that would be boring.’
‘You doctors,’ Anna grumbled good-naturedly. ‘You do like to win. And I should know, I’m surrounded by them.’
Lauren was about to give in to overwhelming temptation and ask how many Ainsworths were doctors when a tall, gaunt man with a mop of sandy hair and a slightly darker beard appeared in the doorway. Her stomach knotted half in disappointment and half in relief—this grandson wasn’t Charlie.
His entire demeanour—from the tilt of his head, past the slight sag of broad shoulders and all the way down to his wide, bare feet—emanated ingrained and longstanding fatigue. His blue eyes—so like Anna’s and yet disturbingly less vibrant—were glassy and bloodshot. Lauren couldn’t tell if he’d just woken up, was depressed, or if he’d consumed the bulk of the champagne and was, in fact, very drunk.
‘Gran, where do you keep the—? Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you had a visitor.’
Lauren tensed as the rumbling voice with a raspy edge raised her skin in goosebumps. Stop letting your imagination run wild. You know it’s not Charlie. You’d recognise him instantly if it was. Yet she’d swear there was something about his deep voice that held the vestiges of velvet that had stroked her all those years ago.
He was staring intently at her now—probably because she was staring just as intensely at him. His gaze narrowed as if he was closing out all distractions and zeroing in on her and her alone. Suddenly, the sapphire blue of his eyes, which a moment ago had been pale and insipid, lit up like refracted sunshine on water.
It’s him. Flashes of fire and ice raced through her—hot, cold, hot, cold—until she tingled all over. She didn’t know if she was shivering or sweating, only that her body was alive in a way it hadn’t been in twelve long years. That alone scared her rigid. No, damn it. Just no. Despite not wanting to, her gaze automatically sought his left hand. No wedding ring. So what? I really don’t care.
Anna, seemingly immune to the locked and loaded glance crackling with electricity that currently ran between her GP and her grandson, said, ‘Charles, darling, this is my doctor, Lauren Fuller. Lauren, I’d like you to meet another doctor who is also my grandson, Charles Ainsworth.’
‘Lauren.’ His voice rolled over her name, the tone as warm and as addictive as hot caramel sauce. Then his deeply lined face creased in a smile—an older and wearier version of the smile she’d never been able to completely forget. With a quickness that belied his previous lethargy, he pushed off the architrave and strode across the room, his long legs eating up the distance in four fast strides.
Lauren barely had enough time to stick her hand out in greeting, but he ignored the gesture and was instead dipping his head down towards her as if he was about to kiss her. The bolt on the box she’d labelled ‘Charlie’ and buried deep all those years ago blew wide open. All the hurt and betrayal rose in a spurt of bile, scalding the back of her throat. How dare he think he could just swoop in and kiss her after all this time after what he’d done to her heart?
She instinctively—protectively—took a step back and ducked her head. All the while she kept her hand outstretched as much as a stop sign as in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Ainsworth,’ she said crisply and professionally, as if she was meeting him for the first time at a conference. She mentally dubbed him Charles as extra insurance.
Her brusque manner was a solid entity and it filled the space between them. He rocked back on his bare feet, his smile fading until his lips settled in a firm, flat line. A deep V was carved between his dark eyebrows—their ebony so at odds with the rest of his fair colouring—and then the light in his eyes dimmed and vanished completely. The previous stranger with the almost blank affect was back. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’
Of course it was. Their time together had been on the cusp of his medical career and Charlie—Charles—had mentioned a vague plan of one day working with his father in cardiology. Unexpectedly seething with an anger she’d assumed had faded and aged into acceptance a decade ago, she jerkily zipped up her m
edical bag. ‘It’s probably a long time since you’ve dealt with the less exciting aspects of medicine, Mr Ainsworth.’ She hit his title with emphasis. ‘But your grandmother’s blood glucose readings are currently all over the shop. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t offer her any more champagne or cake to celebrate your return.’
‘You’re planning on killing the fatted calf, aren’t you, Gran?’ Charles deadpanned. ‘It’s totally diabetic friendly, Dr Fuller, so we’re all good.’
Unbidden laughter bubbled up inside her, just like it always had when she’d been in his company. The memories of how easily he’d made her laugh and smile—how quickly he could talk her out of a bad mood—circled her, tempting her to follow a well-worn path. It’s an overgrown path filled with briars and weeds.
Lauren cut off the laughter. It morphed into a hard lump sitting uncomfortably in her chest and reminding her how easily he’d broken her heart. Her spine stiffened. She was no longer eighteen—hell, she wasn’t even twenty-four—and only a fool failed to learn twice from her mistakes. She was no fool.
‘Please ring the surgery in the morning, Mrs Ainsworth, and make an appointment to see me next Thursday.’
‘I promise,’ Anna said with a little nod to their previous conversation. ‘But don’t be too hard on Charles, dear. I was the one who suggested the champagne and he’s—’
‘I’ll see you out, Dr Fuller,’ Charles said abruptly.
Lauren had already slung her medical bag over her shoulder and moved to the door. ‘That’s not necessary.’ But his hand was on the small of her back and his heat was swirling through her, stealing both her words and her willpower. Without knowing exactly how it happened, she was standing by the front door and he was standing a foot away from her, studying her as if she were a fascinating scientific specimen.
His lips curved slightly—only this time it looked as if the effort to smile was almost too much. ‘We’ve met before, although the last time you saw me I was considerably younger and I didn’t look quite so...’
Worn out and faded? What on earth had happened to the energetic twenty-three-year-old she’d once loved? But she didn’t want to wonder and she had no intention of asking. Engaging with him would at best achieve nothing and at worst upset her. Desperate to get out of the house and away from the unwanted memories his presence was currently breathing life back into, she reached for the polished brass doorhandle.
‘I find it hard to believe you don’t remember me, Lauren.’
The mild thread of arrogance that underpinned his bemused words acted like a stiff breeze. The angry coals she had banked years ago flared into life. ‘Whereas I find it hard to believe that you do.’
‘Of course I remember you,’ he said softly.
She could almost see his memories in the words, but she couldn’t believe him—didn’t trust herself to believe him. Moving decisively, she was quickly out the door and jogging down the steps to her car, determined not to look back. Fortunately, he didn’t follow her. If she had anything to do with it, this was the first and last time she’d be in conversation with Mr Charles Ainsworth.
* * *
Charlie lacked the energy to run along the beach and was slightly aghast at the fact that Basil, his grandmother’s aged beagle, was walking faster than him. It was as if touching down on Australian soil had drained him of all his vitality. His body felt encased in mud and all movement was an effort. He wanted to blame jet-lag for the fact he woke at two each morning, unable to get back to sleep, but who was he kidding? Vanuatu time was only one hour ahead of Australian Eastern Standard Time, so that excuse didn’t cut it.
Apart from his first compulsory session with the counsellor and a quick visit to see his brother, he’d spent almost no time in Melbourne. Harry was much the same—thinner perhaps than the last time Charlie had seen him but just as quiet. Charlie had sat and told him about being on enforced leave. Harry had listened, his face impassive apart from a muscle twitch near his eye. He’d not offered an opinion, but that was par for the course. Charlie hadn’t expected one.
There was no point lingering in Melbourne so, after leaving Harry, he’d hired a car and driven straight down the coast to Bide-a-While. Now he stared out at the horizon, scanning the calm seas for fins—preferably those of dolphins—and breathed in deeply, willing the salt air to magically invigorate him. With not even the hint of a wave, the bay was empty of its usual cluster of wetsuit-clad surfers and their boards eagerly anticipating the perfect ride.
Charlie vaguely entertained the notion of stand-up paddle boarding, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. It seemed like a lot of effort to climb back up the stairs to Bide-a-While, get the key, open the shed, find the board, pour himself into a wetsuit and finally get out onto the water.
Last night, Gran had suggested he walk into town early and buy coffee and the paper. He knew it was a just ploy to get him out of the house and into the fresh air, because she had a state-of-the-art Italian coffeemaker in the kitchen, plus he thought she still had the paper delivered. Still, he had to admit that being out on the beach as the sun rose beat thrashing about in bed, seeking sleep that never came.
Good old Gran. She’d welcomed his unannounced visit with open arms and thankfully with a distinct lack of questions—for now. He’d caught her studying him every now and then, worry clear in her eyes, and he hated that. He’d tried to reassure her—‘just following the rules, taking some leave and satisfying the shrink that I came through the cyclone with my head intact’—but even he didn’t totally believe his own spin. Cyclone or no cyclone, being back in Australia and without work to keep him busy and his mind full meant the past had a horrible way of sneaking up on him.
It hadn’t taken long for the past to insert itself. Last night, the nightmare he’d thought he’d finally banished had visited, laughing at his naiveté. It turned out it had been languishing in the wings, just waiting for him to land on bright red, Aussie soil before making a grand entrance. During its dormancy, it hadn’t change in shape or form. It was still him and Harry trapped in caves, wells, mines, barrels—any sort of container, vessel or space. They’d fight their way to the entrance, the surface, freedom, and he’d break through and turn to grab Harry’s hand to tug him over the line, only to have his brother pulled away from him at the last moment and vanish in front of his eyes.
The nightmare had released him from its clutches in its age-old way—he’d woken with a start, drenched in sweat, his lungs tight, his chest heaving, and with the sheets tangled around his legs. He hadn’t been able to save Harry in real life so why did he expect to be able to do it in a dream?
Although Gran was yet to grill him on work, it was obvious she was on a mission to fatten him up. Since he’d arrived three days ago, every meal had featured at least one of his favourite foods. As yet, none of them had piqued his appetite. It was still MIA along with sleep. So far, the only event to spark his interest had been meeting Lauren Fuller again.
Never in a million years had he expected to find her still in Horseshoe Bay, let alone working as the GP. During that amazing summer twelve years ago, she’d been high on the excitement of starting her medical degree and he remembered her discussing plans to work in indigenous communities. Horseshoe Bay was the antithesis of a desert community or even an indigenous coastal one. Still, all that talk had been a long time ago and plans could change—his certainly had.
Seeing her again had given him a few rare moments of pleasure and it had pierced the numbness and fatigue he was struggling to throw off. He’d felt more alive in those few minutes than he had in weeks. Granted, the feeling had been tempered by her obvious displeasure at seeing him. It was a reaction that still confused him. Despite closely examining his memory in the early hours of the last two mornings, no matter which way he came at it, his recollections of their time together only ever generated a collage of fun, laughter and sex.
Love.
&nbs
p; He immediately shied away from the word. Love only brought pain and when he thought of Lauren that emotion was absent. No, he had a deep and abiding affection for her. She’d helped him get through a tough and difficult time and for that he’d never forget her. More than once over the years he’d regretted having to leave her behind. Back then, staying in Australia had been impossible—that hadn’t changed.
Despite knowing that, it hadn’t been enough to prevent him, in more disconsolate moments over the last ten years, from contemplating what his life might have been like if he’d stayed. Stayed with Lauren. But he knew those thoughts were flights of fancy. Even without the disaster that was his family and the fact they’d both been far too young and on the cusp of their adult lives to make a lifelong commitment, he was too difficult to love.
But all those details aside, the fact Lauren had intimated he’d forgotten her had thrown him. It hadn’t only been excitement at seeing her again that had propelled him across the room to her; it had also been lo—gratitude. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to lean in and kiss her on the cheek. After all, that’s what old friends did, right?
Apparently not. Her unanticipated frostiness had not only shocked him, it had spiked him, denting his enthusiasm and leaving him feeling foolish. He’d immediately fallen back into old Ainsworth habits. In a moment he still regretted, he’d gone for one-upmanship. He shuddered whenever he thought about his supercilious tone. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, half expecting a text from his grandmother asking him to pick up something for her in town.
Nice of you to let us know you’re back in the country. I didn’t appreciate being made to look a fool when Alison Petty said she’d seen you after visiting your brother and I told her she must be mistaken. Your mother would appreciate a visit.
His father, he noted wryly, didn’t waste text characters on greetings or sign-offs. Then again, it was no real surprise as he didn’t use them in telephone calls, emails or face-to-face conversations either. Randall Ainsworth, MBBS, FRCS, PhD had little time for pleasantries—after all, he was a very busy man. As for Charlie’s mother appreciating a visit? The jury was still out on that and had been for a long time.