About Three Authors

by Patti Roberts

  Climbing down out of the ambulance, the two new ambulance officers quickly swung open the rear doors and pulled a gurney out, its legs and wheels unfolding smoothly onto the muddy ground. They wheeled the gurney over to the two men silhouetted by the floodlights. The body on the ground was lifted carefully onto the stretcher, then wheeled back to the ambulance.

  Something swung back and forth from beneath the sheet covering the man’s body. Mallory squinted, then tried frantically to push herself up on her elbows for a closer look. The floral lei Sky had given Philip fell from the gurney and onto the wet, cold ground. A second later, a man’s boot came crashing down, crushing the petals into the dirty snow. In that moment, Mallory felt an excruciating pain rip through her heart, like a piece of fabric being torn into a million tiny strips. “No, no, no, no, no. Philip? No. Please. Not Philip,” Mallory cried in wretched gasps. “It can’t be Philip. It’s not possible. Philip was just here… He was just here, talking to me… You must have seen him. You saw him too, didn’t you?” She asked, searching the man’s face for an answer. Waiting for him to say, “Yes, I saw him. I didn’t realize he was your husband.” But the man remained silent. He just looked at her with a sad look on his face, then slowly turned his head from side to side.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman was saying now, trying to comfort her. “But your husband never regained consciousness. His injuries were just too-”

  “You’re wrong…” Mallory shook her head fervently. “You’re both wrong. You’ve got the wrong person. Philip was here just a moment ago… here. Right here, talking to me. I made him a promise,” she said weakly, stark reality beginning to infiltrate her self-imposed delusion.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said again. “But that is just not possible.”

  “But he can’t die… The baby…”

  “There’s a baby? We never found a baby…” The woman began to stand, scanning the area frantically for a baby. Mallory shook her head. “Not an actual baby… I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”

  “How far along are you?” the woman asked, squatting back down beside Mallory, as her voice faded to an almost inaudible whisper.

  “I have to tell him,” she sobbed, her left hand still entwined in the floral lei, pushing the blanket away then resting her hand protectively over her stomach. “It’s a surprise. He’s going to be so happy when I tell him… Oh God, this can’t be happening.” Her body trembled from the cold. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision further still, then ran down her face.

  “Mallory, how far along are you?”

  “About six weeks,” she sobbed.

  “Okay, Mallory. I’m going to give you something to make you and the baby more comfortable…”

  Mallory moaned, then she screamed, her left hand clenching the damp clothing covering her abdomen. It was a searing, cramping pain, the likes of which she had never experienced before. “Please… Not the baby. Please don’t take my baby, too. Save my baby,” she pleaded, grabbing the woman’s arm.

  “You need to calm down,” the woman said. “I’ll give you something to help, but you need to calm down.”

  Mallory tried shaking her head. “Just save my baby, please,” she whispered, but in her heart she knew it was already too late. She had lost Philip and their baby. Never again would she feel the security of Philip’s strong arms around her, telling her that everything would be alright. The truth of it was unbearable to think about. She tried to think about something else… something good, something happy. The last time Philip laughed… He had his arms around her and she was singing along to “Surfin’ Safari”.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, the frigid arms of darkness stealing her out of Philip’s warm arms. She needed to sleep, and if there truly was a God, she would never ever wake up from this horrifying night. “Surfin’ Safari”. “Surfin’ Safari”. “Surfin’ Safari”… Damn. Now she couldn’t get that bloody song out of her head. Her mind was racing, shutting her off from the reality and chaos of what was happening around her. All she knew was that the life she’d known, cherished, was about to change forever, and not for the better. Definitely not for the better. She wanted to die. Just go to sleep and never wake up. Please, just let me die.

  She heard Philip’s voice from somewhere far away. “Stop thinking like that. That’s not my Mallory. My Mallory wants to live.”

  Philip was right. She needed to live for all the things she hadn’t yet done, for all the things he hadn’t yet done, and now never would.

  “What are the odds, Mal?” she heard him say.

  A loud sob broke free from her lips. “One in a million,” she whispered.

  “That’s right, Mal, my one in a million girl.”

  Mallory blinked her tears away, trying to focus on Philip’s face. “I can’t do it.”

  A gentle hand smoothed hair from her forehead. “Yes you can, Mal. You do it for me, okay?”

  “Okay, but please, please don’t leave me. Not yet. Philip?” Her voice was a frozen whisper, quickly swept away by the new falling snow.

  And Mallory did. Against all the odds stacked up against her, Mallory did it for Philip. She lived. She kept her promise and lived for the only man she would ever truly love.

  Two months later - Heathrow Airport.

  “You don’t have to go back to Canada, Mal. You can stay here, with me. Move into my flat, there’s plenty of room. We can be flatmates,” Sky said, reaching across the table in the departure lounge to hold Mallory’s hands. “We’re your family. It’s what Philip would have wanted.” She looked pleadingly at Mallory, then reached out and brushed a tear from Mallory’s cheek. “You don’t have to do this alone, Mal.”

  Mallory took a deep breath, quelling her sadness. She shook her head. “I can’t, Sky. Staying here is just too painful. Everywhere I go reminds me of Philip. I see him in a crowd of people, and only when I go to call out to him do I remember that he’s dead, and the realization that I will never see him again crushes me all over again. Just sitting here talking to you hurts. You and Philip have the exact same eyes. It’s torture just looking at you, Sky.” She pulled her hands away and stood up as an announcement told passengers flying to Nova Scotia, Canada, to board their flight.

  Sky stood up, tears pooling in her eyes. “What’s left for you in Canada, Mal? Both your parents are gone; you have no family there anymore. Here, at least you have us.”

  “That’s why I have to go. I can start afresh, maybe catch up with old friends that didn’t know Philip. No one is there to look at me, tell me how sorry they are for me. I might even dig out a book that I started writing a million years ago. Philip always told me I should do that, so maybe I will. I don’t know. I just know that I can’t stay in London anymore.” Mallory pulled Sky into a tight embrace. “I love you, Sky. I love your family, but without Philip, they’re not my family, not anymore.” She pulled away. “I have to go.”

  And with that, Mallory turned away and never looked back, because if she did, she would see Philip’s eyes pleading with her to stay, and she might never leave. Every day would be a constant reminder of her immeasurable loss, that of her husband and the unborn child that died along with him.

  Chapter 10

  Sound Advice.

  BECKY JENSEN’S FACEBOOK STATUS: I’m going to get fat - Can’t stop eating all this incredible food.

  Polly flicked on the indicator, then pulled over to the side of the road. “This is our little grocery store,” she said, pointing to the red and white SPAR sign plastered across the store, telling you that it was open seven days a week. “They’ll have all the bits and pieces you’re after. And over there,” Polly indicated across the street, “is The Closet Hippy. It’s a nice little clothing store if you need to grab a couple of sarongs to wear over your bathers. You’ll find it the best way to stay cool, this time of the year. And just down the road is the Malanda Dairy Centre. They serve really nice meals, cool drinks and coffee, so we’ll meet up there for lunch in about an ho
ur or so, give or take. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a phone. “Take this, just in case there is a change of plan and I need to contact you. You may as well hang onto it while you’re here. It’s a spare we have hanging around.”

  “Oh, great. Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Becky squeezed the phone in her hand as though Polly had handed her a lifeline. She would call Uncle Steve, and ask him to give Clive her new number so she could speak with him, and apologize for her awful behaviour. It wasn’t as though he had done anything wrong.

  “Make whatever calls you like. It’s all tax deductible.”

  “Thanks,” Becky said, sliding the phone into the side pocket of her shoulder bag.

  Malanda, with a population of just over two thousand, was like stepping back into a simpler era. Grandeur was not called-for here, in Malanda, nor was it sought-after. The quaint little shop fronts were faded by sunshine and weathered by age, giving them a well-worn feel, like an old pair of dependable boots. There was no pomp or ceremony here, but rather a laid back, no nonsense casualness about the place, which made you feel strangely welcome. Of course there were no horse-drawn carriages laden with timber or urns full of fresh milk from recently milked cows anymore; however, had one appeared ambling down the street, it would not have been surprising in the least.

  Becky unclipped her seat belt, opened the door of the four-wheel drive and stepped down onto the grassed sidewalk. She glanced at the time on her watch. She would have plenty of time to buy a few things at the supermarket, then casually browse the nearby stores before meeting up with Polly at the Malanda Dairy Centre. “Okay, I’ll see you soon,” Becky said, closing the door and waving.

  Polly pressed a button and wound down the passenger window. “If I’m running late, I’ll give you a call.”

  Becky nodded and waved again as Polly pulled the car out into the street and drove away.

  On one side of the double open door of the supermarket sat an old man on a wicker chair, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. On the other, a little boy rocked side to side in a little red car. Becky nodded at the old man and smiled. In turn, he dipped his head in acknowledgement

  “Don’t eat lollies,” the little boy said sternly, warning her. “They make your teeth go black and drop out onto the ground, and the tooth fairy won’t visit you and leave money if your teeth go black and fall out.”

  “I see,” said Becky, feigning seriousness. “I’ll be sure to not let my teeth go black and fall out.”

  The little boy stopped rocking. “You talk funny,” he said, staring at her.

  “That’s because I come from England,” she explained.

  He thought about that for a moment, then scratched his thick mop of wayward blond curls.

  “Where the Queen lives in her palace,” Becky offered.

  A shrug. He obviously was not impressed by the Queen, or her castle.

  “Harry Potter?”

  He let out a long sigh, then nodded his head.

  “You’re a lovely little boy, aren’t you?” she said. “What’s your name?”

  He frowned at her wearily, rolled his eyes, and then let out another long sigh. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he said assertively, as though this was something that she really ought to have known.

  “Oh, you are right. Very sound advice.” She took a step closer to the open door of the supermarket.

  “Do you have any money?” he asked quickly, drawing her back into his web.

  “I do,” Becky said, turning around to face the little boy again.

  “Can I have some? This money guzzling piece of shit car won’t go unless you put some juice in it.” He tapped a pole with his finger. “You put the money in here, see?” he instructed her.

  Becky raised her eyebrows and laughed. Maybe not so lovely after all. She shook her head and reached into the side pocket of her handbag, extracted a coin, then fed it into the money slot. The little red car lurched, and then rattled into life.

  “Thanks, lady,” the little boy said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, as he drove down his imaginary street.

  Twenty minutes later, with her groceries paid for, the little boy and the old man long gone, Becky ambled across the road. Stopping outside The Closet Hippy, she looked at the clothes hanging in the front window, then stepping up the two timber steps, she pushed open the door and went inside. Immediately, the sweet smell of coffee, incense and scented candles greeted her. The walls of the long, thin shop were decorated with dream catchers, pictures, paintings, and posters of varying sizes, along with brightly coloured sarongs, and other assorted pieces of clothing. Cloth-covered benches displayed CDs, greeting cards, candles, incense and trinkets.

  “Hello. My name is Kristina,” a pretty, twenty-something girl said, greeting Becky. “May I help you find something, or are you just happy to browse?” Kristina wore a long, flowing blue silk dress that swam loosely around her slim figure. Around her neck was a necklace of shiny, colourful beads and polished stones, identical to the ones displayed in the store.

  “Hi,” Becky replied, readjusting her shoulder bag. “I need to buy a couple of sarongs. Something lightweight and cool. This heat is near killing me.”

  Nodding, Kristina smiled. “You’re not from around here.”

  “No. Is it that obvious?”

  “Your accent is kind of a giveaway.”

  “Oh, right. I keep forgetting about that. I keep thinking it’s everyone else that sounds strange. But I guess I’m the stranger.”

  Kristina walked over to a long table and sorted through a pile of sarongs. “You’ll find that any of these will do the job perfectly.”

  Becky chose four sarongs and a string of turquoise coloured beads. At the counter, she pushed the beads aside. “I don’t need these after all,” she said. She had been thinking about Mandy, and how much Mandy would have loved them, the bitch. “On second thoughts, I will have them. They’ll go lovely with these sarongs. I’ll have those purple ones as well. Do you take credit card?”

  Kristina wrapped Becky’s necklaces in tissue paper and added them to her shopping bag and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” Becky said.

  “Enjoy the rest of your stay. Perhaps you’ll get the opportunity to pop in another time, before you leave.”

  Outside the store, Becky looked left and right, then just started walking, ambling along the sidewalk and stopping to peer into the occasional shop window. Ten minutes later, she found herself standing in front of a blue faced store that said, MALANDA HARDWARE. MITRE 10.

  It was a sign, she decided, walking inside. At first glance, the store appeared to be empty except for a stocky looking man wearing a perpetual frown and a blue Mitre 10 button-up shirt. He was talking on the phone, listening mostly. He tapped a pen on the counter in rapid fire. He stopped tapping, looked at Becky, and then gave her a quick nod.

  “Leon should be down the back of the store,” he said before returning to his phone conversation and the pen tapping. Becky nodded back, then made her way casually down an isle towards the back of the compact store that smelled like a mixture of paint thinner, oil and dust. Lots of dust.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a blue shirt was inspecting tool bags on the far wall. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was deep in thought. He wore brown, steel-capped boots and a pair of khaki, tradesmen’s shorts that showed off a pair of muscular legs.

  Becky put her shopping bag down and picked up a tool bag that looked similar to the one she’d thrown up in, in Gary’s car. She turned it over in her hands, then glanced across at the tool bag in the hands of the man standing beside her. He was tall and his cologne smelled like the earth, sunshine and paint. Oh well, two out of three wasn’t so bad. His good looks well and truly made up for the smell of paint. Nice hands, too, she noted, sneaking another glance. Strong hands, rough hands, hands that were not afraid of getting dirty – builder’s hands. Hands that were used to a hard
day’s work. Nothing like Roger’s hands. Roger’s hands were soft, his nails manicured. The heaviest thing Roger had to carry around all day was his iPad, and his enormous ego. She decided she liked the look of these rough, strong, dependable hands.

  Maybe a hot, sexy holiday fling, she thought. That would fix her right up. That would really make her forget about bloody Roger and his freakishly soft hands. She wondered what those strong hands would feel like on her bare flesh… Suddenly she felt the owner of those said hands looking at her, and she quickly returned her attention to the tool bag in her own hands, a red burn rising on her cheeks.

  She cleared her throat. “Hi, I was just wondering which one of these bags you would recommend,” she asked. She wondered what he would look like wearing nothing but the tool bag. For Christ’s sake, snap out of it.

  He tilted his head and looked at her, a broad smile reaching across his chiselled face. “I like your accent. You’re not from around here, are you?” His blue eyes sparkled with… Mischief, Becky decided. Trying hard not to stare, she dropped her eyes until they rested on his lips. Big mistake. She shook her head, trying to focus on the task of replacing Gary’s tool bag, and not swooning over sexy Hardware Guy. What in God’s name had Mallory put in her cup of tea this morning? She didn’t usually go all gaga over good-looking guys. Not since she’d left high school, anyway.

  She straightened up, squaring her shoulders. “No. I’m just here on holiday. So, which one of these would you recommend?” she asked again, trying to sound business like.

  “You’re from England,” he replied.

  Becky nodded. “Yes. England.” She held up the bag. “So, what do you think about this one? Is it any good?”

  “You don’t look like a builder.” The playful grin was still on his face.

  Was he flirting with her, or just trying to piss her off?”