Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?

by Marion Lennox

  She took a deep breath, trying hard not to cry. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We know we need to stay. But it seems wrong. Marge’s been part of our lives for the last twenty years. To not be able to say goodbye…’

  She sniffed. A tear ran down one weathered cheek.

  Jess swallowed. Uh-oh.

  No choice. No choice at all.

  ‘Then there’s only one thing to do,’ she said, before she could stop herself, before she gave herself time to think because time to think made for complications and what Sally didn’t want right now was complications. ‘I don’t promise miracles,’ she said. ‘But I’ll do what I can. You teach me what to do and Dusty and I will take care of your animals for Christmas.’

  ‘You’ll take care…’

  ‘We’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘But we have almost forty animals. To feed them all…’

  ‘Dusty will help.’

  ‘Neither of you are experienced,’ Sally said. ‘It’d take you all day and you’d never get around them.’

  ‘Then I guess you’d best count me in, too,’ Ben said dryly. ‘I was wondering how I was going to spend Christmas. I think I’ve just found my answer.’

  He’d just agreed to spend Christmas with forty rehabilitating animals, one pregnant pug, one small boy and one woman.

  A woman called Jess.

  No women. He’d said it to Ellen less than a week ago and he’d meant it.

  This was no woman. This was Jess.

  They walked silently home along the track—keeping a decent lookout for snakes—and he kept right on thinking… Really convoluted thoughts.

  Jess.

  She was walking beside him, still in her tiny red bikini, her now slightly battered hat, his shirt, one sleeve missing.

  She had blood on her shirt. His shirt. She had dirt on her face.

  She looked…happy.

  ‘Wasn’t that wonderful?’ she said, and suddenly she spun around on the sandy track, her arms outstretched like a grubby, bedraggled angel. ‘We’ve saved a snake.’

  ‘Slash lives to bite another day,’ he said dryly, and she chuckled and spun some more.

  ‘Yes, he does. I can’t wait to tell Dusty. Hooray for us.’

  ‘Do you get this excited when you deliver a baby?’ he asked, and she considered. But not for long.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  He had a sudden vision of her in a birthing suite, wearing drab theatre gear, baby safely delivered, professional needs passed, spinning with the sheer happiness of the moment.

  Nate had walked away from this woman?

  ‘Dusty and I will stay over here,’ she said, growing serious. ‘At the sanctuary, I mean. There’s only a couple of babies needing night feeds. I can handle that. If you walk over during the day and help with anything heavy…’

  ‘I’m staying, too,’ he growled before he was even aware he was going to say it.

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said, astonished.

  ‘What if…I don’t know…Slash gets a fever.’

  ‘How would you know if a cold-blooded snake has a fever?’ She frowned. When she frowned her forehead got this cute little dimple. ‘Fevers in snakes. Maybe I need to do some fast research.’

  ‘Maybe we need to do some fast research.’

  And his hand brushed hers. Just…brushed. Nothing more.

  She stopped. Turned to face him. Searched his expression.

  ‘I can do this alone,’ she said, and suddenly it was about much more than a snake. ‘I don’t need help.’

  ‘I’d like to give it.’

  His hand was still touching hers. It seemed…important that it was.

  She stared down at the link—and then she drew back. ‘If you weren’t Nate’s brother,’ she said. ‘Maybe…’

  And suddenly it was about much more than a snake.

  If you weren’t Nate’s brother.

  She was thinking exactly what he was thinking. Like there was some indiscernible bond, some link, something that caught and held.

  Something he’d never felt before, and maybe she hadn’t either. For there was wariness in her expression.

  Fear?

  The feather touch of his hand on hers. It was touch only, but it had been much, much more, and both of them knew it.

  No involvement. No commitment. It had been his mantra.

  His mantra until he’d met Jess.

  ‘I’m not Nate,’ he said.

  ‘You’re an Oaklander.’

  ‘You’re holding that against me?’

  ‘I’m not holding anything against anyone. I’m not in the market for a relationship.’

  ‘Are we talking relationships?’

  ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘We’re not. So I hope I read this wrong. Please, please accept my apologies for being presumptuous. It’s been a long time since…’ She broke off. ‘No. Sorry. This is a dumb conversation. No one wants to take it further. You’re Dusty’s uncle and that’s great. I’ll stay at the sanctuary over Christmas because it’ll help Sally and Dianne, and Dusty and I will love it. If you’d like to come over during the day and help, you’re very welcome. Dusty will love getting to know his uncle a bit more.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I already know you,’ she said softly. ‘I know you as much as I want to know you. Any more would be just plain scary.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE SHOULDN’T want her.

  The more he thought about her…the more he knew he had no choice in whether he wanted her or not. It was just…there.

  He didn’t want anything to do with any woman who looked like needing a long-term relationship. The appalling example of his parents’ marriage, their bitter vitriol, the shock of losing Nate, had all combined to give him a deep-seated knowledge that commitment wasn’t for him.

  It still wasn’t for him. But Jess saying, ‘I already know you as much as I want to know you…’ It was like a challenge and it wouldn’t go away.

  Jess wouldn’t go away.

  The conference was huge, but Jess seemed to be everywhere. At every session he seemed to sense where she was in the room. He’d glance up and she’d be speaking to someone, smiling, laughing, and he wanted to edge whoever it was away and take right over.

  He’d go into one of the smaller workshops and she’d be asking questions that showed the depth of her intelligence.

  He watched her, intent, in a workshop on the increasing gaps between mothers with money and resources at their disposal and mothers without.

  He watched her care.

  He watched her give her total attention to what was happening in the conference sessions—and then he saw her assess the programme, decide a session wasn’t necessary, escape.

  Sometimes he just happened to escape as well. He’d head down the beach and find her transformed. She had two bikinis, the crimson one she’d worn on snake-day and a sea-green one with silver stars.

  He couldn’t decide which he liked most.

  As soon as she was out of the confines of the auditorium her hair escaped as well.

  Professional chignon or flowing curls? No choice. He definitely knew which he liked.

  But he wasn’t permitted close.

  Oh, she wasn’t stopping him seeing Dusty. As soon as he approached she’d greet him with pleasure, tug him into whatever game she was playing with Dusty—and two minutes later she’d excuse herself.

  ‘I’d like to catch up on a text for the next session. With you and Kathy here, there’s no need for me to stay.’

  He was brother to someone who’d treated her appallingly. How could she ever get over that?

  Did he want her to?

  Yes. The response rang clearer and clearer.

  Was it just because she was unattainable that he wanted her?

  Was it just that she was mother to a child who looked like Nate?

  But the more he saw her… The more he listened, watched, got to know her from the sidelines… The more he thought no.

 
And then…the final conference dinner. Black tie.

  The last paper had been presented. The conference had been brilliant—it was common consensus. Holding a conference on remote birthing in such a remote place had been inspired. The attendees would go away with so much more than they’d come with. The mood of the delegates was benign, happy, in the mood to celebrate.

  And it was two days until Christmas. The hotel was a blaze of Christmas decorations. The staff were all wearing Santa hats. ‘Wear red if you can,’ the conference flyer had said, so almost all the men were in dinner suits with red bow-ties.

  And the women…

  The woman.

  Jess.

  She walked into the room and she took his breath away.

  Specialist obstetricians were not usually known for their lack of money, and money hadn’t been an issue for most of the women in the room tonight. Most of the women’s gowns were amazing. But Jess…

  Jessie’s gown was so simple it stood out in its understated elegance. Bright, clear crimson, shot with some sort of silver thread that shimmered as she moved. Tiny shoe-string straps. The dress itself, the bodice cupping her lovely breasts, accentuating their soft swell, then curving into her waist like a second skin. Hugging her hips. Falling to mid calf, still clinging, but slit at one side to mid-thigh, revealing bare, sun-kissed legs.

  Simple crimson heels, stilettos, making her legs look as if they went on for ever.

  A tiny blush of make-up. Her curls floating free around her shoulders.

  Two tiny Santa Clauses, one in each ear, blinking through the mass of curls. On someone else they might look twee. On Jess they looked perfect.

  The guy Ben had been speaking to stopped in mid-sentence and stared. ‘Whoa. Where’s this lady been? Four days of conference and I only see her now? Excuse me.’

  He was gone.

  He wasn’t without competition. The dinner tables were preplanned, with name-tags on each place. Ben saw at least three name-tag changes take place for the seat beside Jess before it was time to sit down.

  He noted the last.

  Ben was expected to be at the top table. Abe Hildenbrand, the professor he was due to sit beside, was Professor of Obstetrics at one of the world’s most prestigious medical schools. He was also a personal friend. Ben outlined his plan with a few well-chosen words. The professor followed Ben’s gaze and grinned.

  ‘If I was forty years younger and my dear wife wasn’t sitting beside me I’d cut you out, but if not me… Go right ahead, my boy, and I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  It was time to sit. An up-and-coming young gynaecologist from Auckland slid into the seat beside Jess with a satisfied smirk.

  Thirty seconds later Ben tapped him politely on the shoulder. He lifted his name-tag from the seat beside Jess and motioned to the head table.

  ‘Dr Ross, Professor Hildenbrand has specifically asked for your company tonight. Apparently there’s a research proposal he’s interested in sharing. He’s asked if I’ll forfeit my place at the top table so he can discuss it with you.’

  The young doctor stared up at Ben with suspicion. Well-deserved suspicion. He glanced at Jess, who was looking surprised. He looked towards the head table.

  Professor Abe Hildenbrand, world expert, was beaming at him. Crooking one finger. Beckoning.

  The man knew when he was beaten.

  Ben handed him his name-tag, put his own in its place and slid into the chair beside Jess.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jess muttered.

  ‘Being ruthless. It’s what Oaklanders are principally famous for.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘There’s no more places,’ he said, and picked up the menu. ‘I hate this. Chicken or beef, alternate placings. If you get beef, can we swap?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re a hard woman.’

  ‘I do what I must to protect myself.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He sighed. ‘Okay, I can handle this. If I need to eat chicken to make you happy, so be it.’

  She hesitated. Looked confused. Then said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do you want to make me happy?’

  Time to drop the levity? His smile faded. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last. ‘But it seems I do.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘This isn’t about owing, Jess. This is about the way I’m feeling. Do you know how beautiful you are?’

  ‘Nate told me,’ she said, blankly, and went back to menu-studying.

  This was armour, he thought. He refused to be diverted. Armour must be too heavy to wear for ever.

  ‘Soup or pâté?’ he said. ‘Chicken or beef? Chocolate mousse or lemon tart? I’ll swap any or all.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘You’d hold the sins of my brother against me?’

  ‘I’m not in the market for any kind of relationship,’ she said. ‘With you or with anyone else. So, no, I’m not holding Nate’s sins against you. I’m holding nothing against you and I’m holding nothing for you. I’m simply not interested.’

  ‘Jess…’

  ‘I need to study this menu.’

  ‘It’s simple.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s very complicated, and I’m not about to take any course without very careful consideration.’

  For all his contrivance, he passed a boring dinner. He and Jess were seated side by side in the middle of a rectangular table of eight. The four at Jessie’s end were discussing the latest pain-relief methods for post-Caesarean patients. Jessie was riveted.

  The four at Ben’s end were discussing the setting up of a maternal welfare online service, so women could use Skype and find someone to talk to about their concerns with their newborns at any time of the day. It was a topic Ben was passionate about. The two doctors at the end of the table were delighted he was with them as they were as enthusiastic as he was, and the woman opposite him had drug-company clout.

  He’d get what he wanted from this dinner—medically speaking.

  But he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on what he wanted. Or maybe what he wanted had changed.

  Jess.

  She laughed at something, and her chuckle ran through him like a physical tug. He’d known this woman for, what, five days?

  He was falling…

  ‘We’d need trained psychologists on call,’ the doctor beside him was saying. ‘Postnatal depression’s a huge problem for isolated women. It’s no use setting up maternal and child health services online if we don’t cater for psychological problems. That’s going to mean getting Psych Services involved. My brother’s the Member for Southern Hinterland. His wife’s on the board for South Psychiatric Services. If you’re prepared to put your name to it…’

  He needed to concentrate. He did concentrate.

  Soup or pâté. Beef or chicken. Mousse or tart. Jess ate what was put in front of her and didn’t refer to him. The way she held her shoulder…

  A barrier.

  ‘You didn’t like your mousse,’ he said reproachfully as the plates were cleared. Half her mousse was cleared with the plates.

  ‘I’m more a lemon person.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t swap.’

  ‘I like my independence.’

  ‘Chicken!’

  ‘No, beef.’

  He chuckled. She looked at him. Her lips twitched. She tried desperately not to respond. Failed.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. That was petty.’

  ‘Then you owe me,’ he said gently. ‘One dance.’

  The staff had cleared the dance floor. A band had started to play, quietly, while the food was being served but more loudly now. Enticing them to dance.

  ‘I need to go back to Dusty,’ she muttered. ‘Kathy will be tired.’

  ‘If you let Kathy go now, she’ll have to come back to Reception and work until her official knock-off time.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Shouldn’t care abut Kathy,’
he said softly. ‘But you do. It’s yet another thing I’m starting to love about you.’

  ‘Ben…’

  ‘Like,’ he corrected himself hastily, watching the flare of panic. ‘I meant like. And I’d like to dance. Would you?’

  She would. He’d watched her as the music had started, watched her body relax, watched her toe move ever so slightly under the table.

  She could dance, he guessed. He guessed she didn’t often have the chance.

  He stood and held out his hand. Met her gaze, surely and steadily.

  ‘What harm a dance with the uncle of your son?’ he said. ‘We’re practically family. One dance with Uncle Ben.’

  ‘If only you felt like Uncle Ben…’

  ‘You’d like it better if I had a pot belly and whisky on my breath? That’s been my experience of uncles.’

  ‘At least then I’d know how to handle you.’

  ‘You do know how to handle me,’ he said softly. ‘I’m guessing you can dance. I’m guessing I’ll be like putty in your hands. All you need to do is trust me.’

  ‘That’s not exactly a small ask.’

  ‘Not small, but easy. Take my hand, Dr McPherson, and let me take you to the floor.’

  She should never have agreed. The moment they reached the centre of the dance floor the music softened into a waltz. A waltz! What sort of stupid, old-fashioned dance band was this? She’d expected dancing as in two people three feet apart gyrating. She could do gyrating. She did jazz ballet in the hospital gym to keep fit.

  Once upon a time she’d also done ballroom dancing. Her parents had loved it. She remembered magical nights of her childhood, music under the stars, her parents teaching her, her father dancing with his little girl as if she was the most important woman in the world.

  After her father died, back in London, when the dreariness had become too much, her mother had suggested they might try again. Jess had been astonished, but game, so once a week they’d gone to a seedy, run-down dance hall where Gloria Baker had taught Dance and Deportment—and they’d had fun.

  The nights had been as cheaps as chips, the dancers a cross-section of all incomes, of all abilities, singles and couples, old and young, people there simply to enjoy themselves. Her mother had been damaged by arthritis even then. She’d only danced the slow ones. The rest of the time she’d watched and smiled and loved what she was seeing.