Rescued by the Single Dad Doc

by Marion Lennox

  The cake’s enough, she told herself savagely, and at three o’clock even carrying her cake across to the house next door felt too much.

  The party was in full swing. Twelve children, Tom had told her, though from the noise it could have been a hundred.

  Tom was in the centre of the back yard, holding a donkey—a huge stuffed toy she recognised as Henry’s preferred pillow. They were playing what was obviously a version of pin-the-tail. Every child was blindfolded and armed with strips of fabric. She looked more closely and saw Velcro glued at the end of each ‘tail’.

  This was obviously pin-the-tail with a difference. The kids were a tribe with a common goal, to reach Tom and his donkey and get a tail—any tail—where it should be.

  Working alone, they had no hope. As each child groped and stumbled and managed to touch the donkey, Tom chuckled and lifted the donkey higher, then slipped away.

  There were shouts and laughter and tumbles across the lawn. Tuffy was barking hysterically. Tom was laughing and scooting and lowering the donkey so the next kid could just touch—and then whooping and raising it before scooting again.

  Over the heads of the kids Tom’s gaze met hers. His grin was wide and welcoming and the next kid grabbing for his donkey almost had it. Tom ducked this time, dropping to all fours with the donkey tucked under his chest. The kids disintegrated into confusion and Rachel found herself grinning.

  He was an idiot, she thought. A laughing, loving kid himself.

  Tom.

  ‘Hey, guys, this isn’t working.’ It was Marcus, ever the thoughtful one, yelling from the centre of the melee. ‘We need a trap.’

  And while Rachel watched, bemused, Marcus organised all the kids to one side, their hands linked. A sweep started across the yard.

  Tom had nowhere to go. The line moved inexorably. Henry reached him first, grabbed and yelled. Tom was almost instantly enclosed by seven small boys and five small girls. The donkey was stuck with random tails and an exhausted, laughing Tom declared the game over.

  Blindfolds were removed. The multi-tailed donkey was paraded around the yard with more whoops but somehow Tom was still looking at Rachel. And she was looking at him.

  A great, goofy kid.

  A skilled surgeon.

  A stepfather.

  It was a word she hated but somehow Tom had changed the word for her.

  Tom.

  ‘Here’s the birthday cake, people,’ Tom called, still smiling, and the mob descended on her.

  ‘It’s a meerkat,’ Kit yelled, skidding to a halt in front and staring in stupefaction at his cake.

  It was indeed a meerkat. She’d wanted, quite badly, to make it stand tall, gazing in the inquisitive way that made meerkats attract kids the world over. Making an upright meerkat out of chocolate cake, however, had proved beyond her. Instead she’d made him squat, so his back curved in an arch. She’d got his face as she wanted though, peering upward, as if he’d just been disturbed as he foraged in the chocolate/dust at his feet.

  ‘You’ll need to beware bones,’ she warned. ‘Meerkats have bones.’

  ‘Bones,’ Tom said faintly, sounding puffed. Being pursued as ‘donkey’ by twelve kids must be something akin to running a marathon.

  ‘Otherwise known as satay sticks,’ she told him. ‘Every meerkat needs a skeleton.’

  ‘He’s awesome,’ Kit breathed, and Rachel smiled. It felt okay. More, it felt great to have her splinter skill appreciated. She’d put her all into this meerkat, struggling with satay sticks and chocolate cake and piping bags until the small hours. She reckoned she’d made him pretty realistic—apart from the line of candles along his curved back.

  ‘Too good to eat,’ Tom said but the kids looked at him as if he were dumb.

  But Kit was looking at the package she had tucked under her arm. A gift. Priorities.

  It had arrived two days ago from the States. A T-shirt. A grinning meerkat in Lycra and cape. Personalised.

  Across the meerkat’s muscled superhero chest was blazoned Kit Meerkat—Superhero.

  ‘Kit Meerkat,’ Kit stammered and gazed at Tom in awe. ‘Can I put it on now?’

  ‘Sure,’ Tom said and grinned at Rachel as Kit did the world’s fastest quick change.

  ‘There’s another gift at the front door,’ she told Tom. ‘Maybe after cake?’

  ‘You’ll stay?’

  She hadn’t meant to. She’d thought she’d just drop things off and make an excuse.

  But Tom was smiling at her and Kit was beaming as if all his Christmases had come at once and two little girls were inspecting her meerkat cake, trying to figure why the head didn’t fall off...and suddenly the scene was like a siren song.

  It was all the things she avoided. Noise. Chaos. Family?

  ‘Just until after we cut the cake,’ she heard herself say. ‘Just...to make sure there’s no drama with the bones.’

  And with that it was decreed it was time to stop for food. Tom hadn’t needed her to help him, she realised as they headed into the kitchen. This was a guy’s version of a party—piles of bought ‘party pies’, bowls of cocktail frankfurters, mounds of popcorn and crisps, soda and a huge bowl of watermelon as a nod to being healthy.

  Within minutes the table looked as if wolves had descended. Candles were lit. ‘Happy Birthday’ was sung. Her meerkat was dismembered and devoured—and then Tom reminded them there was something else outside and the pack whooped out into the front garden, leaving chaos behind.

  ‘Go out and I’ll clear,’ Rachel told Tom, looking at the mess in dismay, but Tom grasped her hand and tugged her out with him.

  ‘Not on your life. We’re in this together, Rachel Tilding. If this gift is water pistols, you’re in the front line.’

  ‘I’d never do water pistols,’ she told him and swallowed a sudden memory of a children’s home between foster placements and someone arriving with water pistols and the bullying that followed...

  ‘Rachel?’ He was watching her face.

  ‘N-nothing,’ she managed. ‘Just...ghosts, maybe.’

  ‘Then let’s face them together,’ he told her. ‘Twelve kids hyped on too much excitement and too much sugar, and Rachel Tilding’s ghosts. We need to be a team to face this.’

  And before she could object he’d tugged her outside.

  To where she’d left her birthday gift.

  Kit’s T-shirt would have been enough of a gift, she conceded, but she hadn’t been sure it would arrive in time. She’d ordered this online as well, but from an Australian source. She’d spent an hour wrangling the dodgy pump which came with it. She’d then had to kick it in front of her as she came from next door while carrying the cake, but now the kids were circling what must be the world’s biggest beach ball. Almost as high as Henry, all the colours of the rainbow, it bounced and flew whenever it was touched.

  And she had plans for it. Once upon a time a foster dad, coping with a tribe of disparate kids, had fashioned this game, and she’d remembered. Now she headed over to the hedge where she’d parked four poles she’d painted the night before. She’d found them in the back shed—tomato stakes. She’d painted two green and two red and attached matching flags. Okay, they were dishcloths, but close enough.

  Tom watched, bemused, as she planted green poles at one end of the garden and red poles at the other. ‘Right,’ she called. ‘Two teams. Everyone on this side is on Marcus’s team and everyone else is on Kit’s. This is Maxi Soccer. Go for it.’

  And two minutes later the ball was flying. Kids were flying. The ball was too big and too slippery to grasp. It bounced against kids, against the house, against Rachel and Tom—sometimes even between the posts. Rachel stood on the sidelines and grinned.

  ‘Hey, Dr Smug,’ Tom said, his voice full of laughter, and suddenly his hand was holding hers again. ‘This is amazing. Well done, you. It’s even
too light to smash your windows.’ He smiled down at her. ‘So...no ghosts?’

  ‘They’ve taken a step back for the duration,’ she admitted.

  ‘Kids and family can make that happen,’ he told her. They stood side by side, watching the game. Rachel was enjoying the kids’ fun. She was also, she conceded, enjoying the sensation of Tom standing right next to her.

  She just had to ignore the hormones.

  ‘In a different life I’d ask you out on a date,’ he said. They were still watching the game. A bystander would say they were engrossed in what the kids were doing.

  They weren’t.

  ‘I guess I’d refuse,’ she managed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t do relationships.’ Flat. Definite. She had the hormones where they needed to be.

  ‘Which is a crazy waste. Rachel, right now you’re lonely and isolated and your ghosts are holding sway, but underneath you’re a vibrant, loving woman who doesn’t deserve to be stuck in a cottage on the other side of the hedge from...life.’

  ‘So you’re planning on rescuing me? Like you’ve rescued three kids and a dog already? Thanks, but I stopped needing rescuing a long time ago.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true. But as for rescuing...’ He hesitated. ‘Okay, I haven’t figured it out yet and I always was one for leaping and then looking afterwards. But what I see in you... It makes me realise that rescuing could work both ways.’

  ‘You want me to help rescue you from the kids?’

  ‘I don’t need rescuing from the kids,’ he told her. ‘I love the kids.’

  And as if on cue the ball sailed towards him and hit him on the chest with a massive whump. The kids launched themselves after it, and it was all Tom could do to keep standing.

  He managed. The ball sailed off to the other side of the garden and they were left alone again.

  ‘Okay, I might need rescuing a bit,’ he conceded.

  She smiled but she couldn’t get the smile to reach her eyes. ‘Tom, don’t,’ she told him. ‘Rescue or not... You and me...it’s never going to happen. You’re missing your career, your life in Sydney, your freedom, the whole life you had before you were lumbered with three kids. I can’t help you there.’

  ‘I wasn’t lumbered,’ he told her. ‘I was blessed.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. And me... How is rescuing someone else going to help?’

  ‘I won’t be rescuing.’ His smile deepened. ‘Rachel, I’d be loving.’

  ‘Stop! No. What have I ever said to make you think...?’

  ‘You’ve kissed me,’ he said, his smile still lurking. ‘Twice so far.’

  ‘Kissing is a huge way from...anything serious.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it,’ he said, suddenly rueful. ‘Rachel, I’m scaring you and that’s the last thing I want. Okay. Maybe we should go on a little longer. Maybe not dating because that’s hard. Shallow Bay has a limited number of dating options, to say the least. The Shallow Bay Chippy is hardly dating heaven. But maybe we could add to our occasional kissing total? Seven’s a lucky number. When we get to seven...’

  ‘We won’t get to seven.’

  And then the ball bounced back at them and she saw her chance. Instead of kicking it away, she grabbed it and ran. A muddle of kids surged towards her as she dived towards the goalposts. And scored.

  And landed flat on her face.

  She lay, winded and stunned. The team she’d scored for roared its approval and the game took off again. Tuffy, though, sat down beside her and licked her face.

  The grass was soft. There was no need for Tom to come to her aid. He didn’t, for which she was grateful. He stayed watchful, but his smile had gone.

  ‘He looks as stunned as I am,’ she told Tuffy, and then she thought, Why wouldn’t he be?

  ‘Because propositioning me is ridiculous,’ she told Tuffy. ‘He’s been drinking too much red lemonade.’

  The ball was heading her way again. She had to move. Fast. But not towards Tom.

  She got up, shook herself off and headed inside. Someone had to clear the mess. Someone had to be practical.

  Someone had to keep her armour intact, and that person had to be her.

  * * *

  He’d stuffed it. She’d retreated and he’d had to let her go. He was pushing too hard, for something he hardly understood himself.

  At least she’d retreated to his house and not hers, he decided, as parents started arriving to collect their offspring. He handed out party bags and watched the boys wave farewell to their guests and he thought maybe the boys might crash early tonight. Maybe he could take a bottle of wine...

  Or not. She had to feel safe in her own house, and heading over after dark with wine...

  Back off, he told himself and put a lolly bag into Sophia Lombridge’s sticky hand and got a gap-toothed grin in return. Sophia departed, and that was the last of the guests.

  Except someone else was coming. A sedan—large, gleaming, black. A model he recognised as being way out of his price range, even when he’d been a surgeon. And as it got closer...

  That’s all we need, he thought bleakly, for here were Claire’s parents. The kids’ grandparents. Charles and Marjorie.

  He might have known this would happen. He’d endured months of phone calls, increasingly threatening. He’d said they could call the kids whenever they wanted—even though he’d have had to coerce the kids into accepting such calls. He’d suggested he could bring them to Sydney to visit. They were the kids’ grandparents and the last thing he wanted was to cut them off completely. But the only thing that would satisfy this pair was custody, and the calls had become threatening.

  And then there’d been calls from lawyers. ‘It’s going to cost you a mint, going down this path, Dr Lavery, and you won’t win. Back off now and we can talk about access. If you don’t back off you’ll end up broke and with no rights at all.’

  He’d consulted his own lawyers. He’d dug in. Claire’s will had been unequivocal, but the sight of the approaching car made his stomach clench.

  The kids saw it too. They left their ball game and came and stood behind him, silent. Scared?

  Rachel appeared at the doorway, tea towel in hand. ‘Tom, are these glasses yours or do they go back in the boxes?’

  But then she saw the approaching car and she froze. Maybe it was the stillness of the kids. Maybe it was his own stillness.

  Rachel had been tossed about as a kid as well. She’d have a nose for threats, he thought, and what was coming was definitely a threat.

  Marjorie and Charles were a power couple, a pairing of financial giants. In their sixties, they were lean, gym-fit, immaculately groomed. They exuded power. Tom had lost count of the number of boards they were on, of the financial projects they controlled. Together, this couple seemed to run half of corporate Australia.

  And here they were, emerging from their crazy-expensive limousine, every inch of them saying, We’re here on business.

  ‘Marjorie. Charles.’ He made his voice deliberately light as he opened the gate to greet them. ‘You’ve come for Kit’s party? I’m sorry but everyone’s just left. You’ve missed the cake.’

  ‘You can still have little red sausages.’ Henry spoke up from behind Tom, sounding worried but prepared to be hospitable. ‘They’re not hot any more but they’re yummy.’

  ‘We didn’t come for the party,’ Charles said, eyeing his grandsons with dislike. ‘Although, of course, we knew about it.’ That was down to Tom. Every week he insisted the boys write to their grandparents. ‘Our lawyers tell us there’s been an accident. Weeks ago, and we weren’t informed. Christopher’s hand. Why did we have to gain access to medical records to find that out?’

  ‘It’s better,’ Kit whispered.

  ‘It’s good as new now,’ Henry agreed. ‘He cut it while Christine was watching th
e telly, but Rachel took him to hospital.’

  ‘You weren’t with them when it happened?’ Marjorie snapped at Tom.

  ‘I was at the hospital. I employed a childminder.’

  ‘Not a satisfactory one,’ she threw back at him. ‘We’ve made enquiries. The childminders you’re using are unqualified. They’ve not even undergone the working-with-children security checks. They’re totally unsuitable.’

  ‘Rose isn’t unsuitable,’ Kit said defiantly. ‘She’s cuddly.’

  ‘According to our sources, she’s in her seventies.’

  ‘Could we go inside and discuss this?’ Tom broke in. The boys were looking more and more distressed. He needed to get this out of their hearing. ‘The boys are playing ball. We’ll be better discussing this in private.’

  ‘There’s no discussion. We’re here to take the boys home,’ Charles decreed. ‘According to legal advice, our challenge will be successful. Learning of Christopher’s cut hand was the last straw. Your care is marginal, to say the least. We’re the boys’ grandparents. We’re in a position to give them professional after-school care, as well as sending them to the best educational institutions. The idea of them attending a hick elementary school here, with heaven knows what sort of teaching, is unthinkable. You’re not married. You employ unqualified childminders. You obviously can’t keep them safe. You need to allow us to take them now, and if you deny us we’ll make sure you have no access. Plus,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘we’ll ruin you.’

  ‘But we don’t want to go with you,’ Marcus muttered, brave words but with a tremble beneath them. ‘You’re mean. Mum said Tom would always look after us.’

  ‘She didn’t mean live with him,’ Marjorie snapped. ‘You’ll have your own bedrooms in our wonderful home. You’ll have a nanny to take care of you. You will need to keep up with your studies but that’s no problem. You know we hired a suitable tutor for Christopher...’

  ‘He didn’t like his tutor,’ Marcus quavered. ‘He hit him on the fingers with his pen when he got his spelling wrong. And once when he got them wrong twice he hit him really hard.’