by Fiona Lowe
He slid the phone back into his pocket, trying to ignore the unwanted and sticky tug of the complicated web that was his family ties. Visiting either of his parents and pretending that the accusations and angry words had faded into the past was pointless. They still hung in the air as fresh and raw as the day they’d been spoken in the ICU ward by Harry’s bed. He was intelligent enough to know that time would not have improved the odds of a visit going well.
Basil barked, the sound thankfully breaking into his unhappy thoughts and diverting him. Charlie watched in surprise as the dog broke into a run. To be accurate, it was more of a brisk waddle but it was faster than the beagle’s usual snail pace. He glanced along the beach and noticed a woman running towards them. Dressed in bright fluoro, she was impossible to miss.
Charlie set off after Basil, knowing that not everyone loved dogs, even harmless arthritic ones. He didn’t have the energy to deal with an angry resident quoting beach by-laws at him. As he got closer, he noticed the runner’s figure—trim but soft and curvy in all the places that made him appreciate a woman’s body. He felt something shift inside and for the first time in months his libido sat up and took notice. Basil chose that moment to bark again and Charlie laughed, appreciating the dog’s good taste. The noise seemed to penetrate the woman’s concentration and, without breaking her stride, she turned her head towards the sound.
Lauren. Even with her face shadowed by the peak of her running cap, he’d recognise those rich brown eyes anywhere. He raised his hand in a wave and caught her momentary prevarication—she didn’t want to stop. Well, blow that. He wanted to talk to her and find out why she was being so prickly. ‘Morning, Lauren.’
If she wanted to ignore him, she was now stymied by Basil, who was waddling around her feet. She either stopped running or risked tripping over the rotund dog. Charlie decided right there and then that his unexpected wingman was getting a big, fat, juicy steak for dinner tonight. Lauren did an elegant sidestep and then stopped, bent and tousled Basil’s velvet ears. She didn’t look up.
‘Mr. Ainsworth.’
‘You used to call me Charlie.’
‘We’ve grown up, Charles.’
She rose gracefully, her full height bringing the top of her head level with his chin. A memory flashed of her curves resting neatly into his dips—the two of them interlocking like puzzle pieces—and how he’d always rested his chin gently on her hair, breathing in her scent. Apples. She’d always smelt of apples and he idly wondered if she still did.
A sensation akin to peace rolled through him at the memory. Those six precious weeks with Lauren had been a haven from nine months of hell. A temporary but welcome escape from his family life until he’d made the break permanent with a move overseas. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, despite the fact he thought her calling him Charles was unfair. ‘But don’t be surprised if I fail to respond when you call me that. My parents are the only people who use my full name and I rarely respond to them.’
‘Your grandmother introduced you as Charles the other night.’
‘Ingrained social etiquette. Generally, she calls me Charlie or Stupid, depending on what I’ve done.’
Lauren’s lips wriggled as if she was fighting a smile. ‘So, you get called stupid a lot, do you?’
‘Just enough to keep me grounded.’ He shot her a self-deprecating grin, hoping to be rewarded with a full smile. It didn’t happen and it struck him that his disappointment was out of proportion to the situation. Then again, all his reactions seemed to be out of kilter at the moment—they were either way too strong or not strong enough. For weeks he’d been unable to anticipate any of them and not working was making it worse. ‘I’m heading for coffee.’ He nodded towards the café. ‘Any good?’
‘As good as you get in Melbourne,’ she said, stretching out an arm before standing on her right leg and bending her left up behind her.
The action pulled her top tightly across her breasts and he couldn’t help but notice they were slightly fuller than he remembered, not that he was complaining. ‘I’m clueless on Melbourne’s coffee standards. I don’t think I’ve had a cup there in eighteen months.’
Surprise danced across her high cheekbones and her left foot hit the sand. ‘Really? I thought you lived there?’
He saw the curiosity bright in her in her eyes and he seized on it, hoping it was an opening. ‘Let me buy you coffee. We can fill each other in on the last twelve years.’
‘I don’t have all day.’
It was said without an accompanying smile and her resistance crashed into him, wave after wave. If he’d thought he might have imagined hostility when they’d met at Bide-a-While, he was under no illusions now. What confused him was why it existed at all. Although he remembered a lot of arguments that summer, all of them had been with his father and none of them with Lauren. ‘What about coffee and the potted version, then?’
She stood still for a second and then her gaze fell to the sports watch on her wrist. He crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, ‘but let’s go to another café.’
‘I thought you said this one was good, and look...’ he pointed to a bloke with sun-bleached hair who was setting up a sandwich board ‘...it’s open.’
‘The other one’s closer to work.’ In an abrupt action that mirrored her words, she broke into a jog.
‘Come on, Basil,’ Charlie said. ‘We’re going to have to run to catch up.’
* * *
Lauren sipped her latte at the small outside table and blamed running-induced hypoxia for agreeing to chat with Charlie. Charles, Charles, Charles. Who was she kidding? He’d always been Charlie and using the formal version of his name wasn’t enough to keep old memories—good and bad—at bay. Right now, she was banking on the fact that by agreeing to this ten-minute catch-up of the last twelve years she’d be off the hook. Afterwards, she could cheerfully decline any future invitations without appearing rude. To be honest, she was flummoxed as to why he even wanted to do this when he’d been the one to walk away without looking back.
‘So...married? Children?’ she asked, determined to control the conversation. It didn’t prevent her from steeling herself for the inevitable phone photos of blonde-haired, blue-eyed children in private school uniforms. Or a family shot taken at a resort in an exotic location somewhere. When she’d been younger and daydreaming the vision of her life, she’d never anticipated that she’d be the single, childless woman forced to make polite comments about other people’s children. Yet that was exactly what she’d become.
‘Let’s face it, Lauren. You fail at most things so why are you surprised you can’t get pregnant?’ Jeremy’s words wormed their way back despite her attempt to block them out.
‘No to marriage and children,’ Charles said in a tone that gave no hint as to how he felt about the situation. ‘I was engaged once for a bit, but...’ He shrugged. ‘It didn’t work out.’
Why? She was still processing the fact that he was one of a rare species—a single, good-looking, heterosexual male in his mid-thirties—when he added, ‘What about you? Married? Kids? Committed relationship?’
She swallowed as the shame she thought she’d banished came back to bite her. ‘Divorced,’ she said softly.
‘Ah. Sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ She sipped her coffee, not certain if she wanted his sympathy or not. ‘It’s not something I ever thought would happen to me but—’ Shut up. He’s not your friend. He doesn’t need to know.
‘Stuff happens that we can’t always control.’
Her head snapped up at his sombre tone. ‘That sounds like the voice of experience.’
His eyes suddenly widened into inky black discs. He shot to his feet, tossed the light café table sideways and grabbed her roughly, hauling her out of the chair. She slammed hard into his chest and her breath flew out of her lungs. Fear invaded her, stiffening her body and making h
er blood thunder through her veins. A scream rose to her throat but before it broke out she was slammed onto the ground and Charlie’s body was rolling hers over and over.
CHAPTER THREE
THE TERRIFYING SCREECH of brakes penetrated Lauren’s terror, followed by the high-pitched sound of shattering glass. Shards rained down on her. A car horn blared. The acrid smell of rubber burned her nostrils. Her body protectively stilled, every sense on alert, trying to decode the situation—ascertain safety. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight up into Charlie’s cornflower-blue eyes, still dominated by high-alert black. His gaze reflected everything she was feeling—shock, relief and an overwhelming sense of urgency.
‘Okay?’ he asked, his voice trembling.
‘I... Yes. I think so.’
‘Thank God.’ He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed her hand. She found her footing amongst the glass and vaguely noticed a rip in her pants.
People ran towards them. A man she didn’t recognise—his face white with shock—gasped, ‘I thought you two were dead for sure.’
‘We’re fine,’ Charlie said, his voice suddenly loud and commanding. ‘We’re doctors. You call the police and ambulance. We’ll check on the others.’
‘Go to the doctors’ clinic,’ Lauren called out, her voice not quite as steady as Charlie’s. She pointed down the street in the direction of the surgery. ‘Tell Lexie I need the AED and the emergency kits. All of them.’
‘Emergency kits. Got it.’ The man turned and ran.
Lauren quickly assessed the devastation in front of her. The rear of a small four-door sedan was protruding from the café and the jagged remains of the huge glass frontage hung over it like stalactites. Her thoughts took the obvious path—were the car’s occupants alive? Horrifying reality cramped her gut. What about the people inside the café? Had the car hit any of the staff or customers?
Charlie, who was already at the driver’s door, looked up as if reading her thoughts. ‘Triage inside.’
She nodded and ran. Fortunately, the door to the café hadn’t buckled and it opened. Steve, the young barista, and another man stood stunned and rooted to the spot, their horrified gazes fixed on the front of the car. Lauren saw a pair of female legs splayed at a rakish angle and protruding from under the car. As she dropped to her knees, she said firmly, ‘Steve. Find me a torch. You...’ she pointed to the second man ‘...do a head count. Tell me who else is hurt.’
Both snapped to attention. ‘On it.’
A phone with the torch app activated was thrust into Lauren’s hand and she crawled under the car. ‘It’s Lauren,’ she said to the woman, having no idea if she was a local or a tourist. Dead or alive. Conscious or unconscious. ‘I’m a doctor.’
The woman didn’t move or make a sound. Lauren’s hand reached for the patient’s neck, her fingers seeking a carotid pulse. It took her a moment but she finally detected a faint and thready beat. Moving forward on her belly, she gained a few centimetres and somehow managed to check the woman’s pupils. Sluggish response to light.
‘Lauren!’ Charlie’s voice called out to her. ‘What have you got?’
‘Head injury and probable internal bleeding. Her breathing’s shallow but I can’t move or see enough to examine her.’
‘We need to pull her out.’
‘What about spinal injuries? Can’t you move the car back?’
‘Too risky. The front of the building might collapse. Here.’ His hand shoved a neck brace at her and she gave thanks for Lexie’s fast arrival with the emergency packs. ‘Put this on her.’
‘I need light.’
‘Got it.’ Charlie’s face appeared and he directed two phones towards her.
Lying on her side, Lauren’s fingers felt thick and clumsy, and while she fitted the brace she agonised over the compromises that always came with triage—save a life but risk exacerbating an injury in the process. ‘Brace on.’
‘Her name’s Celine. Can you support her head while I pull her legs?’
‘I’ll have to come out and go back in at a different angle.’
‘Do it.’ Charlie said. ‘Fast.’
Feeling like a trainee soldier, she wriggled out on her belly before re-entering so her head and Celine’s were next to each other. ‘Okay, but slowly.’
‘Got it. On my count,’ Charlie commanded. ‘One, two, three.’ The distance Celine needed to be moved wasn’t huge but it felt like miles. Lauren concentrated on keeping the patient’s spine in alignment. ‘And we’re clear,’ Charlie yelled. ‘She’s not breathing.’
Lauren rolled out from under the car as sirens blared. Charlie was already doing CPR and she grabbed the automatic emergency defibrillator. Ripping open the woman’s blouse, she quickly applied the electrode pads. ‘Clear,’ she said loudly. Charlie’s hands moved off Celine’s sternum and he held them up as if a gun were being levelled at him. She pressed the shock button. Celine’s body shuddered. Charlie recommenced CPR, counting to thirty before giving the patient two breaths.
‘Stop CPR. Analysing,’ the electronic voice of the AED instructed.
Charlie lifted his hands ‘Look at her trachea. Grab a cannula.’
‘Tension pneumothorax?’ Lauren handed him a fourteen-gauge needle and swabbed Celine’s upper chest. The pressure would be preventing her heart filling with venous blood. With nothing to pump, the heart was a fibrillating mess.
‘I’m hoping.’ Charlie plunged the needle into the skin between the second rib space in the mid-clavicular line and a faint whoosh of air followed. ‘Now we might be able to get her back.’
‘Clear!’ Lauren said loudly again, before depressing the shock button. Her eyes were glued to the liquid display. Thank, God. ‘Sinus rhythm,’ she said, catching the relief on Charlie’s face. ‘Good call.’
He shrugged. ‘We’re not out of the woods yet. You got this? I’ll check on the others.’
‘Sure.’ She inserted an IV and did another set of observations. Although Celine was breathing and her heart was beating, she was still unconscious. Given the trauma she’d experienced, being out of it could be a good thing but the doctor in Lauren knew her sluggish pupil response was a serious concern.
‘Do you need the helicopter, Lauren?’
She looked up at the familiar voice and smiled at her father, who was standing above her in his blue paramedic’s uniform. ‘Yes. Probable head injury and post cardiac arrest. She needs to go direct to The Edward.’
Ian pulled out his phone and made the call while Lauren helped his partner load Celine into the ambulance for the short trip to the helipad. As the ambulance drove away Lauren returned inside. Charlie was splinting a young girl’s leg and Lexie was handing out blankets. Her mother was sticking bright pink sticky notes on people, describing symptoms and seating them in chairs. The young barista was making coffee.
‘Who’s first?’ Lauren asked, ignoring the dull ache all over her body that was probably soft tissue bruising from colliding with concrete.
‘Jake Lawrence. He’s got a nasty cut to his arm. Do you want to stitch it here or at the surgery?’ Sue asked.
‘Here might be better.’ Lauren saw two police officers talking to an elderly man wrapped in a blanket who she assumed was the driver of the car. ‘There’s coffee and people need to stay together and talk so they can start to process it all.’
The next ninety minutes passed in a blur. Her father and his partner returned and transported the two patients with fractures to the hospital in Surfside. The police interviewed people who felt up to telling their version of events and while Lauren stitched wounds, she listened to people’s outpourings of shock and grief.
‘It came out of nowhere. One minute I was paying for coffee and the next... Crash. I thought a bomb had gone off.’
But amidst their trauma the locals’ concerns were for the tourist who’d taken the b
runt of the accident. ‘No one expects to be injured when they’re drinking coffee on holiday. Will she be okay?’
‘I don’t know the full extent of her injuries,’ Lauren answered truthfully. ‘She’s got a struggle ahead.’
When there was no one else needing medical attention, Lauren finally came up for air and for the first time fully took in her surroundings. The line of chairs was now empty as people had either been taken to hospital or collected by family and friends. Police tape surrounded the car and blocked the entrance of the café—the blue and white checks declaring it an investigation scene. Steve was sitting with Sue and Lexie, drinking a well-earned coffee.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and glanced up into Charlie’s face. Today he was clean shaven and he looked both familiar and alien. She gave an internal sigh. The square jaw and bladed cheekbones she’d loved to run her fingers over all those years ago remained the same, but his skin was older, lined with whatever the last decade plus had thrown at him. The laughter lines that bracketed his mouth were still there but more defined, and on the few occasions he’d grinned, the dimples in his cheeks still showed. That had both reassured and hurt her.
What was new were the deep lines around his eyes. She got the impression that laughter was not responsible for all of them. His golden hair was darker than it had been at the age of twenty-three and, unlike the neat, short cut he’d sported back then, his current style was dishevelled but not in the fashionable ‘messy look’ way. Strands fell across his high, intelligent forehead, almost poking into his eyes in a jagged and motley manner. Despite that, the hair wasn’t long enough to hide the dark shadows under his eyes and the general air of dispiritedness that dogged him.
Her heart did an unwelcome flip of longing tinged with distress, although she was uncertain whether it was for him or herself. She stopped herself from reaching up and cupping his cheek, despite wanting his warmth to fill her palm and to tell her that his essence was still in there somewhere. But she didn’t have the right to touch him and, more importantly, she didn’t want to touch him.