In the end she gave up, delighting instead in the smell of the eucalypts in the salt air and the bright path of moonlight stretching across the calm waters of the bay.
Lights like Chinese lanterns illuminated the gardens of Lumiere, although tonight, with the moon’s effort and the moonlight reflected off the bay, they were more decoration than necessity. Sam gave his name to the youngster who met them at the door, and together they followed him to a table by the beach. Later on, when the tide rose, they would have water there at the edge of the grass. Water and moonlight—she’d been right about it being too romantic.
Romantic was confusing…
‘Champagne for madam, too?’
Meg turned from the young waiter to Sam, then back to the waiter. She must have missed Sam’s order.
‘Definitely champagne,’ Sam answered for her, and though she wanted to tell him that champagne would give her a sinus headache in the morning, she was unsure enough about the situation not to argue, although she did ask for water as well and a glass of ice, so she could drop cubes into the champagne to water it down.
‘This is lovely,’ she said, looking around the garden that surrounded them, ‘but a bit of overkill, surely. I know we have to talk, but we could have ordered pizzas and talked on your veranda.’
She’d been trying to kill the romance that was sneaking all around her, and from the frown on Sam’s face she’d succeeded.
‘Well, I know what I want to say is more practical than romantic, but I thought the setting might be…well, special.’
Special to soften the practicality? Meg wondered as the waiter returned and went through the procedure of opening the champagne without popping the cork too loudly. What practicality?
What happened happened, so let’s forget about it and get on with our lives?
Or maybe, The sex was great, so why not keep doing it? Any reason why not? That kind of practicality.
The waiter poured a little champagne for Sam to taste, hovered while it was appreciated, then poured them each a glass.
Getting more nervous by the moment, Meg barely waited until his back had disappeared into the shadows before asking, ‘And what did you want to say, Sam?’
‘Let’s order first,’ he suggested, passing her a menu.
Did she want to have an affair with him, if that’s what he suggested? She was thinking about that rather than mussels in a chilli sauce.
He was only at the hospital for a month—rack of lamb was always a good choice—and once he left it would be less awkward than having an affair with a colleague.
‘Do you want oysters first?’
Aphrodisiacs—or so people said. The pair of them hadn’t needed them that afternoon.
She shook her head and when he said, ‘Some other appetiser perhaps?’ she realised he’d taken her head-shake as an answer.
Concentrate on the menu, order a meal, then ask the question again.
‘I’ll have the stuffed mushrooms and the Thai beef salad.’
There, that was done. The waiter reappeared, Sam gave the order—for him the oysters and rare steak. They’d be making love all night! Meg’s stomach gave a little flip of excitement at the thought and parts of her that had already registered extreme pleasure that day warmed with anticipation.
She really had to stop thinking about sex.
‘So, what did you want to say?’
‘Heavens, all we’re doing is having dinner together—do you have to keep nagging about what I wanted to say?’
‘I’ve only asked twice, and you did say you wanted to say something, but you keep putting it off with drink orders, and oysters, and dinner orders.’
‘We’re here to eat and drink,’ he reminded her, lifting his glass and holding it out in front of him, waiting for her to raise hers and touch it—waiting for a toast.
But for what?
Meg slid an icecube into her champagne, then raised the glass and touched his.
‘Welcome back to the Bay, Sam,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he said formally, and they both sipped, Meg taking enough so she could add another icecube.
If Sam had any objections to what she was doing to his hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne he didn’t mention it, although she was sure the waiter, who was walking past at the time, flinched.
Meg took another sip, mainly so she wouldn’t ask him what he wanted to talk about a third time, but this dithering wasn’t like the Sam she’d known as a child. That Sam had usually come right out with things. Oh, he’d thought them through first, but once he’d made a decision about something, that had been it.
‘I think we should get married.’
OK, it wasn’t any of the things she’d thought he might have decided, but at least now it was out in the open.
Was she thinking that because the content of the sentence was so unbelievable she didn’t know how to think about it?
‘You think we should get married?’
Suddenly a whole lot of stuff came bubbling up.
‘Just because we had sex on the beach, you think we should get married? Are you mad, Sam? We hardly know each other. We might have been childhood friends, but thirteen years is a long time—it’s our whole lives as grownups so far. We mightn’t even like the people we’ve become. Anyway, I don’t want to get married.’
Fortunately, before she could enlarge on that or release all the other reasons his suggestion was impossible, the waiter appeared with their first courses.
Meg waited until he disappeared again then grinned at the dozen oysters nestling in their shells on Sam’s plate.
‘That doesn’t mean to say those will be wasted,’ she told him. ‘I’m perfectly willing to have an affair with you.’
‘And what if I don’t want an affair?’ he growled, poking at the oysters as if they were the last things he wanted to eat.
Meg hid her disappointment.
‘Well, that’s OK as well. It would have been kind of awkward while we’re both working at the hospital anyway. Quick cuddles in the storeroom—that kind of thing.’
‘I have never resorted to quick cuddles in a storeroom,’ he said stiffly, finally raising an oyster to his lips.
‘Never wanted someone so badly you couldn’t wait?’ Meg teased, slipping one foot out of its sandal and lifting it to rub her toes along his leg—up and up until it raked along his thigh. ‘Never needed just a kiss?’
He was staring at her as if she were a total stranger, but he hadn’t stopped her foot’s exploration of his thigh and she knew he was feeling the physical electricity sparking between them again, as strong as the power from high-voltage wires.
‘Never,’ he managed, but the words were choked out. She relented and moved her foot back into its proper position under the table—but not into its sandal in case it was needed again.
‘Poor you!’ she murmured sympathetically, not sure why she was teasing Sam this way but enjoying every minute of it. For one thing, it took her mind off his stupid declaration.
Which was stupid, although her heart had all but stopped beating when he’d made it.
The waiter appeared to take their dishes away, realised Meg hadn’t begun hers and Sam hadn’t got further than his first oyster, and backed off.
They ate in silence, but their conversation left a bitter taste in her mouth and the mushrooms, which Meg was certain were delicious, now tasted like sawdust.
Sam finished his last oyster and pushed his plate away.
‘Why don’t you want to get married?’
Meg hesitated, then went for an easy way out.
‘There’s a lot I want to do.’
‘And marriage would stop that?’
She frowned at him, unable to believe they could be talking this way.
Or he could be talking this way! She was too flabbergasted to say anything much.
‘I wouldn’t stop you doing anything you want, Meg. You know that. But look at it from a practical point of view. The physical attraction between us is still strong and
we like and respect each other and we have our shared past. Surely when you add it together, it makes an excellent basis for marriage.’
Meg stared at him, and although in a way it sounded exactly like Sam—planning their lives as he’d always planned the activities during their holidays—to leap from one sexual encounter straight to marriage was just too much!
‘Have you gone mad? You’re talking nonsense. What do we have between us—apart from today by the lake?’
‘You said yes last time I asked you to marry me!’ he growled. At least now he was showing some emotion. ‘You used to write “Megan Agostini” in the sand.’
‘That was thirteen years ago, Sam!’ she reminded him.
‘And you’re saying we’ve changed fundamentally since then? That if what happened hadn’t happened—if we had married young—we’d be divorced by now?’
Megan flung down her napkin and stood up.
‘I’m too hungry to walk out on you,’ she told him, ‘and too angry to sit and listen to your nonsense. I’m going for a short walk on the beach. I’ll be back in time for the main course.’
She kicked off her other sandal and strode away from him, trying to make sense of his behaviour. It had to be the sex that had prompted this marriage thing. Although maybe it was to do with his mother? Was he aware of whatever she’d had to live through as a single woman raising a child? Possibly! But he was thirty years old—and an incredibly sexy man—so he must have had affairs with other women without insisting on marriage.
She hooked her hair behind her ears and looked up at the moon, then turned and walked more slowly back again.
‘Why marriage, Sam?’ she asked as she approached the table, but right on cue the waiter appeared again, bearing their main courses. He fussed around, filling their glasses, shifting cutlery, flicking at non-existent crumbs with a napkin.
Had he heard enough of the conversation to be interested in what happened next, or was he just another aggravation in her life?
Sam didn’t seem concerned, cutting into his steak and sighing in satisfaction as the blood oozed out of it.
‘Eat your dinner!’
Sam back in bossy mode.
Taking control…
Meg ate, and enjoyed the meal, but she was waiting for an answer and intended to get one before they parted back at the cottage.
The beef salad was delicious, hot and spicy yet cool as well—a bit like Sam, really.
‘Something funny?’ he asked, and she tried to remove the smile that had escaped.
‘More ridiculous than funny,’ she assured him, certain he wouldn’t like being compared to a beef salad.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,’ he muttered, then he turned his attention from his almost empty plate to her, his eyes, shadowed by the light behind him, looking intently at her but giving nothing away.
And though she’d managed to get through the evening so far with levity and smart remarks, Meg felt unease increase inside her. She reached for another icecube for her drink, though in reality it was her skin that needed cooling.
Sam caught her hand and held it, his fingers slipped into her palm, stroking and kneading.
‘Did he hurt you so much, your first husband, that you don’t want to marry again?’
It was the last question she’d expected him to ask—so much so she had to think for a moment before answering.
‘Charles? No, he didn’t hurt me. Or I him, as far as I could see. Getting married was the bad idea and when we had the baby he was far more sensible than I was about it. I called her Lucy.’
Sam could see her heart beating in her chest and feel her pulse rate rise in the wrist he now held when she talked about the baby, and knew she still felt pain too deep to measure.
But how to help her heal? How to make Meg whole again? In her mind marriage and babies must be linked—for surely that must be the reason she’d laughed off his proposal.
But she’d given him a gift, her baby’s name—Lucy…
‘So, you see, although eventually I’d like to marry and have more children, right now marriage really doesn’t come into my plans.’
She gave a satisfied kind of nod and removed her hand from under his, but he’d obviously missed a huge part of the conversation.
‘Because of babies?’ he hazarded, going with what was uppermost in his mind.
‘Babies? We weren’t talking about babies—we were talking about why I wouldn’t marry you.’
‘And it’s not because of babies?’
‘Just how much of the champagne have you had to drink? Or do you just not listen to anything you don’t want to hear?’
She wasn’t angry, but stirred up enough to have brought colour to her usually pale cheeks, and she was so beautiful he could only stare at her.
And remember…
Not the distant past this time but the recent past—that afternoon…
And she’d not been averse to an affair.
In fact, she’d suggested it…
‘Let’s talk about it later,’ he said, shoving back his chair and standing up. ‘I’ll fix up the bill on the way out.’
‘No coffee with a little chocolate on the saucer?’ Meg raised her eyebrows but she was standing, too, and bending to pick up her sandals.
He remembered the way her foot had teased and his control wavered, but he took the delicate straps from her hand to carry them, and put his free hand on her bare back to guide her towards the exit.
‘Later,’ he whispered in her ear, bending forward to brush a kiss on her white shoulder. ‘Chocolate, coffee, anything madam desires, but much later…’
They walked home, arms linked behind each other’s backs, not daring to stop and kiss because the tension sizzling between them was enough to know that one kiss would ignite too much heat to control and making love on the Esplanade wasn’t much accepted in the Bay.
They dithered only momentarily outside the cottage, and Sam’s ‘My bed’s a kingsize’ won. But once inside his bedroom, he took his time, undoing the slip of a dress—finding not sky-hooks but inbuilt cups inside the top—looking at Meg’s body as the black silk pooled around her feet, drinking in its beauty.
But eyes were not enough and soon his hands skimmed her shape, shoulders, breasts, waist, hips and down her thighs—learning Meg again.
‘Your turn,’ she whispered huskily, and reached out to undo the buttons on his shirt, her fingers shaking so much they fumbled. A small part of his brain wished he’d listened to why she wouldn’t marry him, for surely this was heaven—Meg naked but for a tiny thong, undressing him with shaking hands.
‘I might need help.’
She was fumbling with his belt buckle—having trouble because he was shaking, too. Could such restraint be good? He didn’t know but couldn’t hurry, needing this coming together to be special, but he helped her fingers with the belt and guided them next to the zip, where surely she could feel his erection straining to be free.
Was that a blowfly in the room?
Meg’s hands stilled, his trousers now at hip level, but she was fumbling in his pocket now.
‘Your pager—is it in your pocket or on your belt?’
No blowfly!
Sam grabbed his trousers and hauled them up, found his pager in the other pocket and dragged it out.
‘Hospital,’ he said, and moved towards the phone.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Meg’s reaction was instantaneous. She was pulling up her dress, holding it across her breasts.
‘Not in that dress, you won’t!’ Sam told her, and she flashed a smile towards him as she hurried out of the room.
‘Pick me up outside.’
She was back in jeans and T-shirt by the time he got the car out. No bra—he’d have to talk to her about that. Bad enough that other men might see her peaking nipples, but worse was that they stirred his body in a manner most inappropriate for a man at work.
‘We’re not going to the hospital?’ she queried as he continued
along the Esplanade.
‘Wharf area,’ he said briefly. ‘One of those big trimarans on a dinner cruise has hit something in the bay. Reports are garbled but presumably it was a smaller craft so there could be any number of people in the water.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Coastguard are on site. They’ve got some volunteer vessels—probably fishermen who were in the area—bringing people back to the wharf, where the ambulances and some hospital staff are waiting. A trawler’s standing by to take us and a couple of experienced divers out. It’s carrying extra lights to illuminate the area.’
‘Divers? The boat’s gone down? Both boats?’
‘It sounds that way,’ Sam said, but they were already turning into the marine precinct and bright lights shone on a scene of chaos. Light glinted off paramedic overalls and washed across gurneys on which wet, pale patients lay. Meg picked out three nurses she knew, a handful of SES volunteers and Pete and Kristianne as well.
‘Don’t even look at what’s happening there,’ Sam warned her as he stopped the car well out of anyone’s way and got out, hustling her away from the lights to where a trawler, engine growling impatiently, was waiting by the dock further along.
The smell of fish and salt-encrusted nets wrapped around Meg as she boarded the vessel, feeling a change in the throb of the engines the moment she was on board. They were off.
‘We’ve lights rigged up on our mast,’ the deckhand was explaining to Sam as he showed them where to sit, explaining the accident had happened in the widest part of the bay, fifteen minutes out from shore.
Inside the cabin Meg could see two divers pulling on their wetsuits, zipping up so all in black they looked less like men and more like travellers from a distant planet. The boat’s radio was crackling with directions, the skipper’s replies inaudible over the thump and grumble of the engines, then as they drew close they saw the lights—and the flotilla of small boats now gathered around the coastguard vessel.
‘The Stingray and the big cruiser VMO 260 can both stay—you’ll be useful to carry people back to shore—but the rest of you boats clear the area.’
The order came clearly across the water—someone on the coastguard boat using a megaphone.
Nothing happened and the loud, mechanical sounding voice spoke again.
Bride at Bay Hospital Page 11