Bride at Bay Hospital

by Meredith Webber

  A movement down on the beach caught his eye, and though the moon had not yet risen, there was enough light reflecting off the water for him to see it was a woman. A woman with a longish stick in her hand—writing in the sand.

  He moved without thought, back down the steps, across the road, easily finding the grassy track that led downwards through the tall gum trees to the park, across it to the beach.

  But once there he hesitated. Megan—and he’d known with an inner certainty it was her—had moved on so she was almost at the point. If he waited just a minute, she’d be out of sight.

  As would he be of her…

  He paused in the shadows until he could no longer see her then walked towards the water, which splashed with tiny, sloshing waves against the gritty sand. The tide must be going out, for the words she’d written hadn’t been washed away.

  Megan Anstey, in beautiful curly cursive script. Meg’s hair might have darkened to a rich auburn, and her gangly figure filled out with womanhood, but her writing hadn’t changed.

  He followed the big letters to the end and found that after them she’d written ‘Megan Scott’.

  Megan Scott?

  Sam frowned at the surname.

  ‘Megan Anstey’, written on the beach, used to be followed by ‘Megan Agostini’.

  But that had been thirteen years ago!

  Didn’t stop him frowning.

  Was Megan married to this Scott, or just in love with him?

  Engaged?

  He didn’t need to know.

  It was none of his business.

  So why was he still following the writing?

  ‘Megan Anstey’ again.

  Without knowing why, Sam felt immeasurably better, though the next name jolted him.

  Not so much a name as the word ‘Megan’ then a question mark. Was there someone in Meg’s life she was thinking of marrying?

  Why wouldn’t there be? She was young, attractive, vibrant, sexy—

  Sexy?

  Had he ever considered that word and Meg in the same breath?

  ‘Reading other people’s mail?’

  He looked up to see her barely ten feet away, the sand having dulled any sound of her return.

  ‘Sand writing’s like postcards—fair game,’ he reminded her, staring at her shadowed figure and wondering if perhaps his ex-girlfriend had been right and he did have an excessively large load of baggage from the past.

  He certainly felt as if he was carrying something heavy right now. Heavy enough to make his chest feel tight and his muscles bunch with tension.

  ‘Were you looking for me?’

  For the last thirteen years, a voice inside his head responded, but he knew this wasn’t true. He’d thought of Meg from time to time, but—

  ‘No. I just wandered down for a breath of fresh air before going into the house to see what kind of a fist of unpacking the removal men have made. I paid for the whole job—packing and unpacking.’

  This is a ridiculous conversation, his inner voice mocked, but Sam was surprised he’d managed an almost rational reply.

  ‘Money no object, then?’ Meg asked, in a voice he didn’t recognise as her’s. Meg had never been snide or catty but, then, that Meg had been a girl. Thirteen years was plenty of time to find a bit of snide and catty!

  ‘It was more a matter of time. I wasn’t due to start up here for another month, then I had an SOS from an old friend who was coming up as the medical super at the hospital. She couldn’t leave Brisbane and, knowing I was heading this way, asked if I’d step in for her.’

  It was still a ridiculous conversation to be having with Meg, but at least it was keeping his mind away from thoughts of Meg the girl.

  And the sand writing.

  From Megan Question Mark?

  Almost keeping his thoughts away…

  ‘You were coming anyway? When Bill said acting super I thought maybe you’d bought the house as a holiday home and were just here for however long you were acting.’

  Meg knew she must sound strained, but she’d come to the beach in an attempt to regain her inner peace and composure—to try to get rid of all the turbulent emotions that seeing Sam—and knowing she’d be seeing more of him—had stirred inside her. Now, just when it had seemed to be working, here he was!

  She studied him. Tall and strong-looking. He’d naturally enough filled out over the intervening years so his broad shoulders looked well muscled and his body solid—manly!

  ‘You were coming anyway?’ she said again, thinking she’d be better getting her mind off the subject of Sam’s body.

  ‘I was coming anyway,’ he echoed, but there was such sadness in the words Meg stepped towards him, responding to some inexplicable need within her—or within him.

  ‘Sam?’ she murmured, and he leaned towards her.

  The waves whispered softly on the sand, the early stars shed soft silver light about them, and Sam’s head bent towards hers, slowly, slowly, as if willed by something beyond his control—something that went against his wishes and judgement and common sense.

  A barely heard ‘Meg…’

  The kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing—and the taste of Sam was both new and yet familiar. Too new and too familiar for Meg not to respond—tentatively testing for herself. It was a kiss that both sought and gave her comfort, though comfort was far from the other reactions it was generating.

  Need, desire, heat—all the reactions Sam’s kisses had generated in the adolescent Megan long ago—not diminished by time, but heightened and strengthened by the maturity of her body and the very obvious maturity of his.

  Or was it his skill as a kisser that was changing her response? Skill and mastery that seemed to be drawing the very soul from her body and sweeping away any will to resist.

  This was the kiss of her dreams but with a real Sam, not a fantasy, yet fantasy was there as well and she was sixteen again, kissing the teenage Sam who was soon to become her lover…

  ‘Meg,’ he repeated softly, and though his voice seemed to be coming from a far distant planet, enough of her name reached her to make her draw away.

  As she moved, the spell was broken. She stared at him in disbelief—disbelief levelled at herself, not him.

  Then very deliberately she wiped her hand across her lips and said, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’

  Would he remember? she wondered as, with tears puddling in her eyes and agony tugging at her heart, she walked away from him.

  ‘Megan, wait! Meg, I can explain!’

  His voice followed her, but she wasn’t going to stop. Wasn’t going to risk being caught in that web of sensuality he wove so effortlessly around her—not again.

  Would he remember his own gesture—his own words—from all those years ago?

  She doubted it, and somehow that thought made her blink back the tears and straighten her shoulders as she crossed the park, determined not to show Sam Agostini her pain.

  Sam watched her go, remembering back to when he’d given Meg good reason to write ‘Megan Agostini’ in the sand.

  Meg at sixteen, arriving for the Christmas holidays thirteen years ago, flying from her house to the cottage, in through the side door and into his bedroom, casting herself into his arms and kissing him full on the mouth.

  Over the previous three holidays—Easter, June and September—their relationship had changed. Somewhere along the line Meg had grown breasts and put a little padding around her hips so they swelled gently out below her tiny waist. While looking at her legs, he’d seen not their paleness but their sexy length. Hormones and libido had done the rest and two childhood best friends had become not lovers but girlfriend and boyfriend, together exploring their developing sexuality. The sheer delight of moonlight walks on the beach and stolen kisses had been all they’d wanted from each other during the shorter holidays, although by October they were sure enough of how they felt to discuss taking their relationship further.

  How innocent we were! Sam thought, grimac
ing at the memories.

  Christmas holidays, they’d decided, would be the perfect time for both of them to lose their virginity. They’d have seven weeks together—or as together as they could be. Seven weeks! It would be like a honeymoon—only before marriage, not after it.

  But when the day had come, when she’d come bursting into his room, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, he’d wiped her kiss off his lips, told her never to do it again, and broken her heart.

  Lost his own at the same time, Sam suspected, for he’d felt nothing for the pain he’d caused his mother over those particular holidays or for the girls he’d kissed and left without a second thought, or for the trail of chaos he’d blazed through the Bay until Meg’s father had stepped in, offering to pay his tuition at a private school in Sydney for his final year at school—finding his mother a job down there so they could be together.

  Now, when it was too late to say thank you because Meg’s father was dead, he understood Dr Anstey had done what he had out of kindness, but back then, poisoned by words Ben Richards probably didn’t remember saying, it had served to prove to Sam that Ben’s jibe was true.

  He had to explain…

  He caught up with her as, breathless from her rush up the steep path, she rested a moment, leaning against the big eucalypt at the top of the track.

  ‘Meg! I thought you were my sister!’

  Were the words breathless because he’d run to catch her, or because of their ridiculous nature?

  Meg spun to face him.

  ‘You thought I was your sister?’ An echo of utter disbelief. ‘How could I possibly have been your sister?’

  The answer, though slow coming, was obvious. Her disbelief deepened but with it came uncertainty.

  And then pain.

  ‘You thought my father—My father?’

  And now the demon doubt arrived, cutting into her so deeply she had to bend to ease the pain. Was that why her mother had been so anxious to sell the holiday house after her father’s death?

  It was all too much for Meg.

  ‘How could you think that? How could you?’ she yelled, swiping the stick she still carried towards Sam, catching him across the cheek, before turning and racing towards the cottage.

  Sam wanted to follow—to explain he no longer thought it—but that wasn’t the point and he knew it. Meg had adored her father, and he her. They’d shared the same hair colouring, quick temper, utter loyalty and soft heart. The careless words—Sam’s urgent need to explain the past—had made things worse, not better.

  Though wasn’t he always making things worse?

  Wasn’t that his forte in relationships?

  Wreaking havoc in the lives of the women he courted, leaving a trail of destruction in his path?

  He muttered angrily to himself as he made his way home.

  Home! That was a laugh! How could the Anstey house ever be his home—with Meg living in the cottage next door, a constant reminder of how things had once been?

  He changed his mind and went back down the track to the beach. Maybe a run would make him feel better. And maybe the huge full moon, rising in orange-gold glory above the waters of the bay, was made of cheese!

  He should have followed her—explained it better. He’d have to try again.

  Have to hope she’d understand.

  Now, why would he hope that? he wondered as he pounded along the beach.

  Because one kiss had told him so. One kiss had proved that the fire he’d found lacking in every relationship he’d ever had since that momentous day was still there between himself and Meg.

  He sighed again and turned to run back, accidentally obliterating the question mark after ‘Megan’ as he did so.

  Accidentally?

  He climbed back up the steep slope for the second time that evening, feeling slightly better for the exercise.

  Then he saw the ambulance outside Meg’s cottage and his heart didn’t need exercise to accelerate.

  Pulse pounding, he ran towards it, then felt foolish as he saw her emerge from the cottage in the fluorescent-taped garments of a paramedic.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re an ambo in your spare time,’ he said, hoping she’d not hear the anger he was feeling—anger born of relief that she was OK.

  She gave him a frigid glare and he knew she was considering not answering him at all, but she could hardly keep up a ‘not speaking’ effort when they had to work together.

  ‘SES paramedic,’ she said briefly. ‘State Emergency Service.’

  She was climbing into the ambulance as she spoke.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She frowned before answering.

  ‘It’s practice night. Phil picked me up in the ambulance because tonight we’re explaining to some new volunteers exactly what equipment an ambulance carries and how we use it all.’

  ‘I’ll come, too. I’ll follow you in my car—that way I can give you a lift home.’

  Was he out of his head? She was barely speaking to him and here he was offering her a lift home?

  He had to explain…

  ‘Phil will give me a lift home.’ And you can go to hell! The words rang unspoken in the air between them.

  ‘Do I know Phil?’

  Sam knew, even before Meg made an exasperated noise, that it was a stupid question, but his head was demanding to know if Phil might be the admirer she’d been thinking about on the beach.

  Not, of course, that it was any of his business.

  Meg had made that more than clear, even before he’d delivered his killer blow!

  But just so there could be absolutely no mistake in his mind, she replied, ‘No, Phil’s new to town. So chances are you never knew his sisters either!’

  Ouch!

  Feeling foolish, and angry, and frustrated that he couldn’t immediately explain what he’d said earlier, Sam peered at the bewildered Phil. He was relieved to find the young man was barely old enough to shave, then felt even angrier with himself that he was pleased.

  But it was stubbornness more than anger that forced him to add, ‘I’ll still come. A local doctor should know about the working of the SES.’

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ Meg said coolly. ‘Because that’s not my pager beeping, and Phil doesn’t have one, so I assume it’s yours.’

  Foolish didn’t come into it! She’d annihilated him. He walked swiftly back to his house, phoned the hospital in response to the page—Benjie Richards had been admitted with breathing difficulties—and Ben was insisting he be discharged.

  He arrived at the hospital to find Ben stripping off his monitor leads.

  ‘Just how do you think Jenny will cope if you have a second attack?’ Sam said to him, and the big man slumped back on the bed.

  ‘I can’t just lie here like a lump of useless meat while Benjie might be dying in another room.’

  ‘Benjie’s not dying,’ Sam said firmly, although he hadn’t yet met the little boy or received a report on his progress. ‘Jenny’s with him and she’ll come back and report to you as soon as she knows he’s settled down. And I’ll go and see him and report back to you as well.’

  Ben’s anxiety lessened.

  ‘Would you really?’

  He sounded pathetic but Sam knew the greatest concern with heart patients was the level of stress they felt.

  ‘Of course I will, you chump. Right after I’ve checked your drip and reattached those leads. Chances are Benjie’s been given something to sedate him and he’ll be asleep by the time I get there, so you might see Jenny back here before you see me.’

  Sam settled his patient back in bed, and made sure he was as comfortable as possible with all the leads running from his body.

  ‘Sedation works,’ Ben told him. ‘Benjie’s got a bit of asthma but he gets upset when he gets an attack.’ He gave Sam a slightly shame faced grin. ‘Guess I could do with a bit as well,’ he said, then added in a more serious voice, ‘But not just yet, Sam. I need to know the boy’s all right.’


  Sam heard the love in Ben’s voice and felt a momentary pang of jealousy. For all the suffering he might have been through, Ben still had a loving wife and four children to hold to his heart.

  He, Sam, had nothing.

  Not even a heart, he sometimes suspected.

  He shook his head. He’d been so upbeat about coming back to the Bay so why the maudlin mood swings?

  ‘Sam! Oh, Sam, it’s good to have you back.’

  Jenny cast herself into Sam’s arms and gave him a huge hug as he walked into the children’s ward.

  ‘When Ben told me, I could hardly believe it!’ She’d stepped back and now she looked up into his face. ‘So you made it through medical school—you became a doctor! It’s what you always wanted to do, isn’t it?’

  Sam grinned at her.

  ‘You’re the first person who’s remembered that ambition. Everyone else I’ve seen has wondered that I’m still out of jail.’

  ‘That’s only because you went crazy that last summer, Sam. But I knew you for a lot longer than one summer holiday.’

  ‘And believed in me,’ Sam said softly.

  Jenny smiled and tucked her arm through his, leading him towards a cot where her little boy lay sleeping, an oxygen mask strapped across his pale face.

  ‘First Ben, now this little fellow,’ Sam said gently, and Jenny squeezed his arm.

  ‘We’ll cope,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got good at coping—the Richards family.’

  ‘Good on you,’ Sam said, easing away so he could bend over the cot and look at the tiny child.

  In spite of the slight malformation in the facial features caused by the errant gene in Benjie’s make-up, Sam smiled to see the resemblance of the little boy to his dad.

  ‘He’s Ben all over again,’ he said to Jenny, reaching out to tuck the little starfish hand beneath the sheet.

  ‘Spitting image,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Everyone talks about it.’