The Single Dad's Marriage Wish (Bachelor Dads)

by Carol Marinelli

How she’d reeled Trevor in—insisting she’d manage yet getting his help all the same…

  What was that line she’d fed the vet about Scottie being a disabled kids’ pony to get out of paying the bill? The line she’d fed him too about being broke, stopping him in his tracks just as he was about to send her away.

  What an idiot! Raking his hand through his hair, Hamish actually felt sick, barely able to keep the disgust from his face as she came down again and refilled her glass.

  ‘There’s a tap in the bathroom!’ Hamish said nastily. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I am trying to get him to sleep.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Vague and distracted, she barely looked up as she headed for the cupboard. ‘Maybe I will have a headache tablet after all—I think I must be coming down with something.’

  ‘Help yourself!’ Hamish said, sitting grim-faced on the sofa as she headed back upstairs. He promised himself that she’d never look after Bailey again—that when she came back from her trip on Friday he’d give her the weekend to find somewhere else. ‘Help yourself,’ Hamish said again as he heard her close the door of her bedroom. ‘You usually do!’

  ‘Come on now, Charlotte, snap to it!’ Helen barked. ‘You know, I would like to get to my bed sometime before lunchtime.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Shaking her head as if to clear it, Charlotte re-counted the ampoules of morphine and verified the number—the normally rapid task of checking the drugs at handover was taking for ever this morning, and Hamish rolled his eyes as he sat at the nurses’ station, trying to get a basic patient history out of a very untogether Cameron.

  ‘Did you bother to speak the patient at all?’ Hamish snapped. ‘Or are you just going by what was written on her referral letter?’

  ‘She’s got expressive dysphasia,’ Cameron said for the third time. ‘I can’t make out what it is she’s trying to tell me.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Helen came over and attempted to soothe troubled waters—expressive dysphasia was frustrating for the patient and the staff, the patient having an inability to say the words that they were trying to, confusion layering on exasperation at the recipient’s inability to understand. ‘I’ve been in with her, Hamish, and she really is difficult to make head nor tail of, the poor lamb.’

  ‘But you’re supposed to be going off duty,’ Hamish pointed out. ‘You shouldn’t have to stay behind just because my resident can’t get his act together.’

  ‘Young Cameron stayed behind for me last night.’ Helen was used to dealing with fractious doctors and was more than a match for Hamish. ‘In fact, he should have been off duty at six, but ended up staying here till well past midnight—so, instead of scolding him for us all to hear, why don’t you send him to the canteen for some breakfast and a couple of shots of coffee?’

  ‘You were here last night?’ Hamish’s eyes jerked to Charlotte, then away. What the hell did it matter who she had been with last night? It was no longer his concern. ‘Why didn’t you say? Because I didn’t give you a chance…’ Hamish answered his own question with a sigh. ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘Nothing. I was waiting for the orthos to come down and reduce a dislocated shoulder. I wanted to watch and the place got busy and I ended up getting caught up…you know how it is.’

  Hamish didn’t get a chance to either answer or apologise. The phone trilled loudly and from her grim expression as she dropped the receiver into the cradle and ran for Resus Hamish knew that this conversation would have to resume later.

  ‘Paediatric arrest!’ Helen was snapping red dots onto the cardiac monitor as she spoke. ‘A two-year-old boy. He’ll be here any second—they only live a few minutes away so the paramedics did a scoop and run….’

  And seeing Hamish’s face, Charlotte knew what must be flashing through his mind, saw him let out a breath as his brain must surely remind him that Bailey was safely in crèche. But Hamish wasn’t about to relax. The two-year-old on his way in was someone else’s son who was clearly in dire straits. A scoop and run was literally that—the paramedics making the decision that, rather than initiating treatment at the scene, hospital was urgently needed. Sirens were already screaming outside, blue lights flashing as Charlotte raced to the ambulance bay and opened the ambulance door before it had even halted. The paramedic threw down the paediatric-sized ambubag and jumped out with his little mottled bundle, one hand working the tiny chest as, still running fast but with an increasingly heavy heart, Charlotte followed him into Resus, knowing, knowing, knowing from that one tiny glimpse and the paramedic’s face they were already way too late.

  ‘He’s gone…’ Hamish stared at the monitor and then flicked his torch into the babe’s eyes as Charlotte resumed compressions, the anaesthetist racing in and taking over the airway, but Hamish shook his head.

  ‘But he’s still warm!’ Charlotte urged, knowing he was right but wanting so badly for him to be wrong.

  ‘He is,’ the breathless paramedic agreed, because it was a vital detail—the temperature of the boy was a good indication as to how long he had been down, and despite his appalling appearance this little one was still warm.

  Still warm! Charlotte wanted to scream, but she didn’t, just kept pushing on his chest until Hamish put out a hand to stop her.

  ‘He was febrile,’ Hamish said grimly. ‘That’s why he feels warm—but he’s been dead a little while.’

  ‘Poor pet!’ Four decades into emergency nursing, Helen’s voice was thick with emotion as Hamish, his face set but his hands supremely gentle, examined him, turning the little body over looking for a rash, looking for any signs of the thief that had come in and robbed this little boy of his life. ‘He might have had a convulsion with the fever, there’s vomit in his airway. Did you give him mouth to mouth?’

  The paramedic nodded. ‘On the way from the ambulance to here.’

  ‘Then we’d better cover you with antibiotics. Don’t go just yet. Where are the parents?’

  ‘On their way. He’s a twin, they’re just getting the neighbour in to look after the other one.’

  ‘He’s a twin?’ Charlotte’s voice was aghast.

  ‘Identical…’ the paramedic started, but the receptionist came over then, averting her eyes from the bed, trying to talk in her normal efficient voice and no doubt just wanting to run.

  ‘The parents just arrived.’

  ‘If he’s a twin then the other one needs to be seen and admitted,’ Charlotte interrupted, but Hamish didn’t need to be told, he just carried on talking in a calm voice to the receptionist.

  ‘I’ll come and speak to them now. Could you take them into the interview room? And could you also ring the switchboard for me? Tell them to hold off paging me till further notice unless it’s extremely urgent.’

  ‘We need to get the other one in…’ Charlotte’s voice was rising with each word and Hamish frowned at her to be quiet. ‘We need the other little boy—were they sharing a cot?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to the parents.’

  ‘Hamish!’ She grabbed his shirtsleeve as he went to walk out. ‘You have to get the other one in. He could have—’

  ‘I do know what I’m doing, thank you, Charlotte!’ Hamish barked, angry not at her now but at the vile job that lay ahead. ‘First I have to tell the parents their son’s dead and then I tell them that their other child may be at risk. Now, will you, please, let go of my arm so that I can get on with this bastard of a job?’

  ‘It’s okay, pet!’ Exhausted, Helen was frowning in concern as Charlotte gulped down a glass of water in the staffroom kitchen, her hand shaking so much she was spilling most of it. ‘It gets to us all. I’ve been doing this job forty years but I can picture every little face—’

  ‘I’m going home.’ Charlotte interrupted her attempts at comfort. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘You’re upset. Don’t go dashing off. You need to stay and—’

  ‘It’s not about the baby.’ Charlotte shook her head firmly. ‘I didn’t feel well when I came on duty—I think I must
be coming down with something. I’ve got a couple of days off coming up.’

  ‘Charlotte, you know we’re short of staff this morning. Can you at least stay till we can arrange some cover?’

  ‘Sorry…’ Brushing past her boss, Charlotte didn’t even offer an excuse. ‘I really can’t, Helen. I’m going home.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’ His face was grey but Hamish offered his colleague a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Oh, I won’t be going there for while.’ Helen touched his arm, differences long forgotten, concern etched on her kind face. ‘Are you okay, Hamish? That must have been awful for you, especially with little Bailey being the same age.’

  ‘Not really,’ he admitted, then sighed.

  ‘How were the parents?’ Helen started, but she already knew the answer, nodding as Hamish shook his head and declined to answer that question yet, just offering the usual one.

  ‘Why do we do it, Helen?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Helen answered. ‘I ask myself the same question every blessed day.’

  ‘I guess we all do…’ Peering down at his pager, which was bleeping, Hamish gave a sigh and turned it off.

  ‘Do you want me to bring you a drink to the nurses’ station? I’ve got an instant soup in my bag.’

  ‘What flavour?’

  ‘One of those fancy ones—with croutons and noodles and everything. I’ll even shake in a pepper sachet for you.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Hamish gave a wan smile. ‘Oh, and I was just on my way to find Charlotte—she seemed a bit upset. Could you tell her that the other twin’s being bought in now? The paramedics have gone to get him.’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yep.’ Shrewd eyes stared back at Hamish. ‘She says that she doesn’t feel well. I have to be honest here—I don’t know if she was telling the truth.’

  ‘Well, she was out partying last night…’

  ‘She was having one of her salsa dancing lessons,’ Helen corrected him.

  Hamish frowned. ‘Salsa? Charlotte’s taking salsa lessons?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the noticeboard? Every Tuesday at the community centre, then they hold a dance there on a Friday or Saturday to strut their stuff. She’s recruited half the unit…’ Helen’s voice was suddenly serious. ‘I’m worried about her, Hamish.’

  ‘About Charlotte?’ He gave a slightly incredulous laugh. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about her, Helen, or she’ll end up sleeping in your spare room.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Hamish sighed, angry with himself for being taken in but disappointed that he’d let some of it out. Whatever he privately thought of her, he had no right to bring her private life to work. No right at all. Charlotte was hardly the first or last to take a sick day when she didn’t need it and Hamish did his best on her behalf to make up for his indiscretion.

  ‘Now that I think of it, she was a bit peaky-looking this morning,’ he offered rather unconvincingly, ‘Maybe she’s coming down with something—’

  ‘I’m not worried that she’s sick, Hamish.’ Helen interrupted. ‘This morning really upset her.’

  ‘A two-year-old just died, Helen. Everyone’s upset.’

  ‘Yes—but we’re not all running out the door. In fact, when I’ve sorted out some cover and grabbed a few hours’ sleep, I might head over and see her. You don’t mind if I go to your home?’

  ‘Feel free.’ Hamish shrugged and Helen went to bustle off but then changed her mind.

  ‘You know, she never moans, you never hear that girl moaning about a single thing, which is great, of course, but it got me thinking.’ Worried eyes met Hamish’s and all of a sudden he was worried, too, all the little questions he had asked himself joining up into one big one. ‘Is anyone really that happy with their lot in life?’

  Hamish wasn’t known for hiding in his office, yet, if the department had allowed it, he would have. Thoughts about Charlotte blew in like a blizzard all through the day, but they never got a chance to settle—his time consumed with grief-stricken relatives on top of his usual workload and a staff that was, thanks to Charlotte’s rapid departure and the failure to find a replacement, struggling to keep up with the load. But by two o’clock he couldn’t stand it any longer. He handed over his pager to his registrar and for the first time in memory took a lunch-break at home, his stomach gnawing not with hunger but with something he couldn’t identify—scolding himself the whole drive home for being unable just to blitz her from his mind.

  ‘Seems you were right!’ Helen gave a tight smile as he pulled up in the driveway. ‘She’s gone out for the day.’

  ‘She could be at the doctor’s.’

  ‘For five hours?’ Helen’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. ‘I stopped by on my way home this morning. I think I’ll stop worrying about Charlotte and get some well-earned rest—I’m back in that godforsaken place tonight. I really believed that little minx when she told me that she was going home.’

  He barely even said goodbye to Helen, just let himself into the house, appalled at how empty it felt, even with her fat cat running up the hallway and her happy spaniel following suit to jump up to greet him.

  For once he didn’t notice or care as the pair, sensing weakness, followed him up the stairs. Pushing open her bedroom door, seeing the neatly made bed, inhaling her delicious scent, he then closed the door and went downstairs. The cups, the plates were all as they’d been this morning and a sense of foreboding filling him as he realised she hadn’t been…

  Home.

  Yes, she was, he realized. She was at her mum’s.

  Relaxing a touch, Hamish filled the kettle. She’d just headed up there early, that was all.

  Making a sandwich, he settled on the couch for his lunch, but still he couldn’t switch off. He took one bite of it then put it down—that horrible knot in his stomach gnawing away at him as his eyes came to rest on her pile of boxes.

  It was the least noble thing he’d ever done—a complete invasion of privacy, Hamish told himself. Only he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was opening a lid and feeling sick to the stomach, somehow sensing before he even saw it what he was about to find.

  There she was…He held the picture in his hand for a second and stared at the pretty, familiar face, turning it over and reading the handwriting on the back, before reaching in and pulling out a few more photos, screwing his eyes closed when his shuffling pulled up an ace, his eyes closing in regret for a second before opening again.

  And there was Charlotte.

  His heart contracted with love at the angry, pinched face that glared in the vague direction of the camera, at a little girl who was sure she wasn’t beautiful hating having her photo taken. Working his way through, peering at her life, each photo lacerated him further, if that were possible, he could see her struggling to keep up with the sister that looked so much like her, but who had developed so much earlier into a beauty, watching her trying so hard to fit in. There she was again, hugging a much younger Scottie, actually smiling this time—utterly unaware that her photo was being taken.

  ‘Poor Charlotte.’ His voice halted, his heart stilling as he realised all she must have been through that morning, hearing again the urgency in her voice as she’d begged him to get in the other twin.

  When she’d spoken to Andy she’d been telling the truth.

  ‘Bastards!’

  He said it again, sneered it at the unknowns who had made this little girl’s life hell—but it was more directed at himself.

  He’d shrugged her off, snapped at her when she’d begged him to bring in the other twin, had accused her, in his own mind, of not caring, not understanding. Only now did he realise that she’d understood more than most. And if the past few days had been awkward, for the first time he truly regretted their one night of love. Wished for different reasons that he’d held her just a little bit longer before kissing her, wished he’d spent just a bit more time trying to get inside that beautiful co
mplicated mind.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Hamish moaned to the photo as the phone trilled beside him.

  ‘Work said you were home…’ It was Belinda, checking up on him. ‘I haven’t heard from you for a few days—I just wanted to check that things were okay.’

  ‘Things are fine,’ Hamish answered, staring at a picture of Charlotte and her sister. ‘I just wanted an hour away from the place.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t blame you.’ Belinda gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘I heard about the two-year-old when I was doing clinic this morning—it must have been awful.’

  ‘He was a twin.’

  ‘Poor little thing, just taken like that…’ Belinda answered, and for the first time, and completely without malice, she said entirely the wrong thing, Hamish’s hand gripping the phone as she forgot about the person who would possibly miss that little boy most. ‘And those poor, poor parents…makes you wonder how they’ll cope. Hey, Hamish…’ He closed his eyes as she changed the subject. ‘I’m thinking of starting those salsa lessons Charlotte’s organised.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yep, me.’ Belinda laughed. ‘Rick’s delighted—he wasn’t at first, but when I showed him the new outfit I’d bought and Charlotte says that I have to get shoes…’

  How did she cope?

  Hanging up the phone, Hamish pondered the question that had so riled him when others had asked him.

  Only he actually tried to answer it.

  She coped by smiling…by keeping on going when her horse died or her mother upped and moved interstate. She coped by pushing her feelings right down.

  Charlotte coped because she had to, because she had no choice, he told himself. She coped however she could—just as he had in the past eighteen months, and if she wasn’t ready for a relationship then that was her right…

  If she didn’t want to take on him and his son, Hamish could more than understand. God, he was a miserable bastard, Hamish thought with a dry smile. Most guys would kill to have her doing a salsa step and shimmying in front of them—any man worth his salt would kill for a night of no-strings sex with a woman like Charlotte. Try taking that tale of woe down the pub and expect an ounce of sympathy—they’d laugh him all the way out of there!