by Robyn Grady
“Take as long as you like.”
He moved down the hall, feeling as if he were walking the corridor of a listing ship…as if he were traveling back, deeper and deeper through time. If he walked far enough, fast enough, maybe Kathy wouldn’t ask questions and the present, and its regurgitated disappointments, wouldn’t catch up…at least not today.
He ended up out on the eastern balcony. For what seemed like a lifetime, he absorbed the warm afternoon sun and soothing noise of the bush…the click of beetles, the far-off cry of a curlew. To his left, a couple of wallabies were perched on a monstrous black rock. They chewed rhythmically and occasionally scratched a soft gray ear. Their manner was lazy, instinctive, as it had been for many thousands of years. Bishop breathed in, and the strong scent of pine and eucalypt filled his lungs. As fervently as he’d wanted to leave here a year ago, he’d missed this place.
Hell, he’d missed this life.
But with Laura talking to that friend inside, he felt the cool edge of an axe resting at the back of his neck. Would it fall now? Tomorrow? Next week? How in God’s name would this end?
Laura’s footfalls sounded on the Brush Box timber floor behind him and the hairs on Bishop’s nape stood up. But he was ready for the attack. Like Willis had said, it couldn’t get any worse than the first time.
He angled around. Laura was striding out onto the porch but he couldn’t read her expression.
“Kathy was home,” she told him.
He folded down into a chair. “Uh-huh.”
“But her daughter and grandbabies were over. She said there was no meeting this week.”
The sick ache high in his stomach eased slightly and he sat straighter. “She did?”
That was it?
“She said she’d call back, but I said not to worry. We’d just got back from the city and had unpacking to do.”
We?
He threaded his hands and, elbows on armrests, steepled two fingers under his chin.
“What did Kathy say to that?”
“The baby started to cry so she had to go.”
Even more relieved, he exhaled slowly. One massive pothole avoided. Although, sure bet, there’d be more—and soon.
He’d tried being subtle as a brick with his prodding last night. The questions he’d asked about possible pregnancies hadn’t ignited any sparks. Rather than approaching this dilemma at ramming speed, perhaps he ought to take this opportunity to scratch around and sprinkle a few seeds—ask some casual questions—that would grow in her mind day-today.
He lowered his hands. “How old is Kathy’s grandbaby?”
Laura spotted the wallabies. A brisk mountain breeze combing her hair, she moved toward the railing for a better look. “Oh, three or four months, I suppose.”
“Kathy has more than one grandchild?”
“Just the one.”
And yet she’d said grandbabies, plural, earlier. An unconscious lapse to the present?
“What’s the baby’s name?”
Her gaze skated away from the bush and she lifted a wry brow. “I think it might be Twenty Questions.” Then her grip on the railing slackened off and she gave a quick laugh. “Since when did you get so interested in the local librarian’s grandchildren?”
“I’m interested in you.”
Thinking how the afternoon light glistened like threads of golden copper through her hair, he found his feet and joined her.
Her smile turned sultry as she traced a fingertip down his arm. “How interested?”
“Interested enough.”
“Enough to take another day off?”
He focused on her lips.
“Too easy.”
The brightest smile he’d ever seen graced her face. But a heartbeat later the joy slipped away and some other emotion flared in her eyes. A cagey, almost frightened look, and he wondered what he’d said. But she didn’t say a word, although he could tell from the questions in her eyes that she wanted to.
His hands found her shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Tell me what you’re thinking.
“I—I’m not sure. I guess I’m not used to you taking time off. Not that I don’t want you to. It’s just…”
He dug a little more. “What?”
Her gaze darted around his face. The color had drained from her cheeks and some of the trust in her eyes had fallen away.
“Bishop…I have to ask.” She stopped. Swallowed. Wet her lips. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She’d just had the strangest feeling. More than a feeling. That niggling again, which, rather than waning, had grown, and a lot. Still, she couldn’t put a precise finger on where, or what or who was behind it. She only knew it had been there in the way his assistant Willis had looked at her when he and Bishop had returned from their talk in the hotel lobby. There again when she’d examined their wedding picture after they’d arrived home and just now…some gesture, some word, had brought that awareness shooting like a cork to the surface of her consciousness. It was like a runaway thought she couldn’t quite catch…a dream she couldn’t quite remember. A moment ago Bishop had asked some everyday questions about a friend and yet, standing on this spot, with those wallabies on that rock and the sun at precisely this angle…
A hot pin had wedged under her ribs and, try as she might, she couldn’t remove it. What had happened—what had been said—to make her feel as if she’d crashed into a ten-foot high brick wall at warp speed?
She focused on his eyes. What aren’t you telling me?
“There is…something,” he said.
The hot pin slid out and, breathing again, she leaned back, letting the railing catch her weight. So it hadn’t been her imagination. For a second she’d thought she might be going mad! But whatever it was nagging, there was a reason and Bishop was about to tell her.
“I haven’t told you…” he began haltingly “…not enough anyway…how much you meant to me.”
Like a well filling, her relief rose higher, but then that niggling pricked again and she frowned. What he’d said didn’t quite make sense. The tense was wrong. I haven’t told you how much you meant to me?
“You mean, you haven’t told me how much I mean to you.”
“I want you to know it now.”
His tone was so grave and his expression… He looked almost sad.
Her heart melting, she found his hand and pressed it to her cheek as a lump of emotion fisted in her throat. Her husband loved her. Really loved her. She was so lucky. So much luckier than most.
“I know, darling,” she murmured. “I feel the same way.”
He seemed to consider his next words. She could almost see him lining them up in his mind.
“I was taken aback when I saw you lying in that hospital bed.”
She thought that through and came to a conclusion.
“You thought something was wrong with my heart?” Oh, no! She wanted to hug him so tight. Reassure him everything was all right. “I would’ve been in a cardio ward. Besides, that’s all under control.” She turned her head to kiss his palm. “Easy.”
That pin jabbed again, deeper and sharper this time and her heart missed a beat at the same instant her gaze trailed away and she tried to grasp on to and hold that elusive, annoying thought.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he was saying.
Drifting back, she found his gaze again. “That’s why you acted so strangely?”
He nodded. “I’d seen you in hospital before.”
She narrowed her eyes, thinking back. She’d been in hospital in her younger years, but…
Certain beyond doubt, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“No?”
The pin stabbed again, so deep it made her flinch. She held her chest and, a knee-jerk reaction, wound away from him. At the same time, a noise—a crunching kind of rattle—echoed to her left. Her gaze shot over. She expected to see—
She held her brow.
—
she couldn’t think what.
She concentrated to form a picture in her mind, but she only saw those wallabies bounding off; they must have pushed loose gravel over the side. Now their boomerang tails and strong hind legs were catapulting them away, farther into the brush.
Here one minute. Gone the next.
Gone for good.
Those words looped around in her mind. She shivered and hugged herself tight. Her mind was playing tricks. Tricks that were seriously doing her head in. But she had a remedy.
Shaky inside, she feigned a smile. She hated to sound fragile, but she needed to lie down.
“Bishop, do you mind if I take myself off to bed early? Our late night must be catching up.”
“You have another headache.”
“No. Just…tired.” Taking her elbow, he ushered her inside. “Wake me up when you come to bed?” she asked.
As if to confirm it, he dropped a kiss on her crown. As they moved down the hall, she felt compelled to ask him to promise. That’s what a newly married bride would do, no matter how tired, right?
But the words didn’t come. And as that pin pricked again—niggling, enflaming—she only wished she knew why.
Ten
The following day, Bishop accompanied Laura into the office of a local GP.
Colorful children’s drawings hung on a corkboard, but Bishop’s attention was drawn to the top of a filing cabinet and a Hamlet-type skull, only this skull exposed the complicated mass that made up the mysterious chambers of a human brain. A little creepy but, in this instance, rather fitting.
Dr. Chatwin, a woman in her thirties, gestured to a pair of chairs.
“Please take a seat, Mrs. Bishop. Mr. Bishop.” While they made themselves comfortable, the doctor swept aside her long brunette ponytail and pulled in her chair. “Your husband spoke with me briefly this morning, Mrs. Bishop.”
Dressed in a pale pink linen dress Bishop had always loved to see her in, Laura crossed her legs and held her knees. “Please, call me, Laura.”
Dr. Chatwin returned the smile. “You hit your head last week and are experiencing some difficulties, is that right?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Laura’s clasped hands moved from her knees to her lap. “Not…difficulties.”
The doctor’s brows lifted and she leaned back in her chair. “Some issues with memory?”
Laura froze before her slender shoulders hitched back. “Some things have seemed…a little foggy.”
Swinging back around, the doctor tapped a few words on her keyboard. “Any headaches, dizziness, sleeplessness, nausea?”
“One headache.”
“Irritability, confusion?”
“I suppose some.”
While Bishop stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, happy to let a professional take charge, the doctor performed the usual tests with her stethoscope then checked for uneven dilation of the pupils. She asked a few simple questions. What suburb they were in. Laura’s full name. The date. She gave no outward sign of surprise when Laura announced a year two years past.
After tapping in a few notes, the doctor addressed them both. “You’d like to be referred to a specialist, is that right?”
Bishop replied. “Thank you. Yes.”
Without argument, the doctor began writing the referral. “Dr. Stanza is considered the best neuro specialist in Sydney. This isn’t an urgent case, however, so expect a wait.”
Bishop straightened. “How long of a wait?”
“Call his practice,” the doctor said, finishing the note. “They’ll book you into his first available slot.” After sliding the letter into an envelope, she scribbled the specialist’s name on the front. “As you’re both no doubt aware, there are instances of memory impairment associated with head trauma due to a fall. The doctor last week would’ve told you recollections usually return over time, although it’s not unusual for the events leading up to the incident, the incident itself and directly after to be lost permanently.” The doctor pushed back her chair and stood. “You’re not presenting with any physical concerns, Laura.” Her warm brown eyes shining, she handed the envelope to Bishop and finished with a sincere smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, particularly with your husband taking such good care of you.”
Five minutes later, Laura slid into the car, feeling tense and knowing that it showed, while Bishop reclined behind the wheel, ignited the engine, then slipped her a curious look.
“Something wrong?”
Laura didn’t like to complain. Bishop was simply making certain she was cared for. As she’d told the doctor, she had felt irritable on occasion. Some things were a little confusing…clothes she couldn’t remember in the wardrobe, a new potted plant in the kitchen…that truly odd feeling she’d had yesterday on the eastern porch when those wallabies had bounded away. But the doctor hadn’t seemed concerned. She’d indicated that the missing bits and pieces would fall into place soon enough.
The broad ledge of Bishop’s shoulders angled toward her. “Laura, tell me.”
“I don’t need to go to a specialist,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “You heard Dr. Chatwin. No physical problems. Nothing urgent. I don’t want to waste a specialist’s time. It’ll probably cost a mortgage payment just to walk through the door.”
A corner of his mouth curved up. “We don’t have a mortgage.”
“That’s not the point. Dr. Chatwin said she was sure I’d be okay.”
“I’m sure you will be, too. But we’ll make an appointment with the specialist and if we don’t need it, we’ll cancel.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”
“If it is, then there’s no harm done.” His voice lowered and he shifted the car into Drive. “But you’re going.”
She stared, not pleased, out the window as they swerved onto the road that would take them home. She loved that Bishop was a leader, that he wanted to protect and care for her. But she didn’t need to be bossed around. She hated visiting doctors and hospitals. How many times did she have to say she was okay?
She stole a glance at his profile, the hawkish nose and proud jutting chin and her arms slowly unraveled.
And another thing…he hadn’t come to bed last night. When she’d woken, his side hadn’t been slept in. Seeing the covers still drawn, the pillow still plump, had put an unsettling feeling in her stomach, as if she’d already foreseen or had dreamed that he wouldn’t be there when she woke. Not that she’d tell Bishop that. He’d blow it way out of proportion. She didn’t need to be asked more questions.
But perhaps Bishop needed the green flag from this specialist before giving his consent to her falling pregnant. He liked to have all the pegs lined up before going forward with anything. And he took the whole becoming a father thing ultraseriously which, on a baser level, she was grateful for.
So she would grit her teeth, visit this specialist, get the all clear, and once she had a clean bill of health, there should be absolutely nothing to stand in their way.
Three days later, splitting wood for the fireplace, Bishop set another log on the chopping block and, running a hand up over the smooth handle, raised his axe. The blade came down with a whoosh and a thunk that echoed through the surrounding forest of trees.
He’d taken the rest of the week off, and every minute since that doctor’s visit, he’d waited, wondering if this would be the day when his metaphorical axe would fall. Every minute inhabiting that house, sharing that bed, he was conscious of living out the mother of all deceptions.
But, if he were being manipulative, it was with good reason. He was a man stuck in the middle of a particularly difficult set of circumstances…locked in a game of nerves where he could anticipate the moves and yet still had little control over how this rematch would end.
Grinding his teeth, Bishop set another log on the block. He was about to bring the axe down when Laura appeared, carrying his cell phone, traversing the half dozen back stairs and crossing the lawn to wher
e he waited near a yellow clump of melaleuca. With her, she brought the floral scent of her perfume as well as the aromas of the casserole and chocolate sponge dessert she was preparing. He’d missed her home-cooked meals more than he’d realized. Hell, he’d missed a lot of things.
“It’s Willis.” After handing over his phone, she dropped a kiss on his cheek then inspected the blemish-free sky. A frown creased her brow. “You should put a hat on.” She headed off with a skip. “I’ll bring you one.”
He was about to call out don’t bother, but he liked her looking after him. The meals, the smiles. The love.
His attention on the sexy bounce of her step, Bishop put the phone to his ear. On the other end of the line, Willis didn’t beat around the bush.
“I don’t know how much longer I can put them off,” Willis said, referring to the potential buyers of Bishop Scaffolds. “They want to speak with you, Sam.”
Having set the axe down, Bishop wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm. Laura was right. He should wear a hat.
He moved into the shade. “Not this week, Willis.”
“Early next week then.”
“I’ll let you know.” He tipped his nose in the direction of the kitchen and inhaled. “Laura’s doing beef Stroganoff. You should smell it.”
Willis stayed on track. “I’ve given them as much as I can with regard to figures and projections. But the guy keeps calling. You should at least give him ten minutes on the phone. It’s only good business.”
Bishop understood Willis’s point. He should phone, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind. He was anxious about when, or if, Laura’s memory would return, but on another level he was feeling, in a strange sense, settled; he worried he’d tell the buyers he was no longer interested and later regret that he hadn’t moved on the opportunity. So it was better, for now, to wait and see what transpired.
Bishop swapped the phone to the other ear. “I’ll call him next week.”
A long silence echoed down the line. Bishop dug a booted toe in the black soil while he waited for Willis to spit out whatever else was bothering him.
