by Fiona Lowe
Kirby tilted her head, as her eyebrows rose. ‘And his younger brother is severely autistic. I saw him in full flight the day Cameron arrived and it was pretty distressing for everyone.’
He let her words hang on the salt-tinged breeze, not wanting to acknowledge that he understood some of the stuff Cam was facing. Not wanting to risk getting close to the guilt that hovered around his heart whenever he thought of Sarah and how he’d lost her just when he’d been old enough to really understand.
Her free hand touched his shoulder. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you can help each other.’
Her words rained down on him, exacerbating the already swirling emotions that pulled at his gut, but it was anger that emerged from the melee. Hell, he didn’t need any help! ‘It’s a surfing lesson, Kirby, that’s all. It’s a way of spending time before I return to Melbourne Central.’ He shrugged off her hand, shrugged off her inference and waded out a bit further, shouting to Cameron. ‘You can do this. Hands forward, knees in the middle of the board, paddle, paddle, now up!’
The boy planted his left leg forward and with a very wobbly stance rose up with his arms outstretched. The board nudged forward on the crest of the wave and scooted down the curve with Cam standing tall and proud.
Thirty seconds later the wave collapsed completely and Cam fell off, victorious. ‘I did it, Nick, I did it!’
Nick slapped his palm against the boy’s, an overwhelming sense of triumph fizzing in his veins. ‘That was awesome. I’m really proud of you.’
Cam flicked water from his eyes, his achievement suddenly dimming on his face. ‘I wish Dad could have seen me.’
The wistful words kicked Nick hard in the gut. He remembered those moments when his own father had been caught up with the care of Sarah and had missed out on seeing his successes. As an adult he knew his father must have hated the choices he’d had to make but as a kid Nick had never understood. It was yet another reason why he was never going to be a father.
He clapped his hand onto Cam’s shoulder. ‘I know, mate, but by Parents’ Day next week you’ll be a pro and you can show your dad then.’ He hoped the weather co-operated and that Cam’s dad could actually make it.
‘Can you lift it a bit higher?’ Kirby called to Nick, who stood high on a ladder.
‘Like this?’ His strong arms swung the large rope around one of KC’s imposing brick gateposts.
Kirby clapped her approval, childlike excitement flicking through her. ‘Perfect.’
Leaning sideways, his tanned legs locked in a solid stance and his muscular back taut with tension, he tied the KC banner in place so it hung high over the entrance.
With his back to her, Kirby took the chance to openly stare at him. It didn’t matter that she knew every part of his body in intimate detail, she never tired of gazing at him, watching and loving the way his work-hardened body moved—poetry in motion.
The light morning sea breeze fluttered the red, blue and white bunting as a flock of fifteen pelicans flew overhead, their enormous wings slicing through the air with stately grace, as if giving their approval to the events below. Nick moved quickly down the ladder and walked over to Kirby, his face creased in a wide and mischievous grin. ‘I now declare the annual Kids’ Cottage fete open.’
She laughed. ‘I think perhaps the celebrity patron does that in a couple of hours.’
‘That’d be right. I do all the hard work and that other bloke gets the glory.’ His grumbling tone was at odds with his twinkling eyes.
She stepped up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. ‘Are you feeling under-appreciated?’
He dropped his forehead down to touch hers. ‘Well, I did risk life and limb at the top of that ladder.’
‘So you did.’ She brushed away a curl of his hair that had fallen across his eyes, loving that it was now long enough that she could do that. Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his, her mouth so familiar against his that it zeroed straight to the place that always made him shudder against her. She looked up and grinned. ‘Feeling more valued?’
His eyes, sparkling in myriad hues of green, glinted back at her. ‘Almost, but I’m sure I can take some more thanking tonight after this shindig is over.’
She loved teasing him. ‘It’s going to be a huge day and I’m sure you’ll be way too exhausted.’
‘Never.’
The word rolled out low and guttural, loaded with energy that swirled around her, pulling her in.
‘Well, I might be. By the time I’ve done my time on the face-painting stall, read two books in the story-time tent and staffed the first-aid tent, I’ll be ready for a long soak in the spa and a foot rub.’
A long, lazy smile moved into his cheeks, carving out swirling dimples. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. But meanwhile to keep your strength up and to make sure you actually stop for lunch, how about we meet at twelve o’clock at the barbeque tent? We’ll both be ready for a hamburger by then.’
Warmth flowed through her at the suggestion. ‘I’ll be there. But what are you up to for the next few hours?’
He winked at her. ‘It’s a top-secret mission and I’d have to kill you if I told you so don’t ask.’ He then kissed her on the bridge of her nose and with a backwards wave walked off with his ladder.
She stood watching his retreating back, unable to keep a huge smile from her face despite the fact she was completely confounded by his caginess about what he was doing with his morning. He had moments of being deliberately vague and she suddenly realised it always happened when it involved the kids.
Just like with Cam and the surfing. He’d been great with Cam but whenever she tried to talk to him about it he sent up a towering brick wall between them and clammed up completely or changed the subject. She didn’t get it. He obviously enjoyed the things he was doing at KC and was becoming increasingly involved with the children—he’d even arranged for someone else to man his Saturday market stall today and offered his help to Judy to be part of the biggest fundraising event on the KC calendar.
The annual fete was huge. All the favourite drawcards were in place—the giant jumpy castle and a calliope playing carousel for the pre-schoolers, the stomach-churning Rota and dodgem cars for the teenagers, the enormously high and long slide and a petting zoo for kids of all ages. Then there were the rows of white marquees, starting with the white elephant stall where one person’s trash was immediately converted to another person’s treasure. The handicraft stall was the domain of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, where a year’s worth of production was on display from lovingly knitted football teddies to layers of brightly coloured tulle used to create dolls, the ardent wish of every little girl’s heart.
Kirby was never certain which stall was her favourite—the cake stall, with its fluffy cream-filled sponge cakes with passionfruit icing, home-made buttery shortbread in clear cellophane bags tied with gold curling ribbon, and deep-red raspberry preserves, or the quiet retreat of the Devonshire Tea tent, with hot tea, hot scones and lashings of Port Bathurst cream straight from the farm.
She quickly walked past a clown who was surrounded by a circle of fascinated children intently watching his hands quickly sculpt long thin balloons into animal shapes, and she took her place at the face-painting table. The crowd was building as every good fete attendee knew the tip was to get in early to get top pick of all the stock and be back at the beach by the time the sun got really hot.
Kirby angled the large market umbrella so it cast a large circle of shade over her and her customers, tied an apron over herself to protect her clothes from the paint and displayed her designs.
‘I’d like to be a tiger, please.’ An eight-year old girl with a helium balloon tied to her wrist held out her coin.
‘One tiger coming up.’ Kirby dipped her brush into the yellow and set to work, loving the delight on the kids’ faces when she showed them their new look in the mirror.
The morning streaked past in a blur of faces, conversations and storytelling and by eleven-thirty Ki
rby had finished her morning’s duties and was starving. With half an hour before she had to meet Nick she jammed her sunhat onto her head, bought a fruit smoothie and took the chance of exploring the fete before her afternoon duty in the first-aid centre started. Teenagers congregated around the stage, enjoying the Battle of the Bands, which was in full swing, and further over children cuddled in their parents’ laps, squealing with delight as they raced down the bumpy slides.
That should have been me. Kirby sipped her drink against the lump that formed in her throat, trying to push the hollow feeling that pervaded her every time she saw families together. Looking for distraction, she headed toward the noisiest queue of shrieking and laughing children and as she got closer she realised most of the kids were KC campers who got to enjoy the fete too.
A form of scaffolding with a swing seat had been erected in the centre of a pool of water with a large painted target fixed behind it. The banner above declared, ‘Dunk the Doctor’ and Nick, wearing boardies, a rash top and a lifesaving cap, sat high in the chair.
Kirby blinked, unable to believe her eyes. The doctor who’d been so adamant a few weeks ago that he was not working with children had put himself up as a sideshow attraction. By the look on his face, he was loving every minute of it.
First there had been his work with Cameron and now this. Her heart soared. They were having the best summer and he no longer held himself back from children. Perhaps what they both wanted had drawn closer together. Suddenly a daydream floated through her mind of Nick and herself surrounded by children. Adopted children.
Be careful, no plans—remember.
But she ignored the voice. Nick was nothing like Anthony. She and Nick shared a million things in common, including great sex and laughter.
She returned Nick’s big wave to her and the huge teasing smile on his face, watching him as he leaned forward and called to the kid at the front of the line. ‘I’m getting hot up here.’
‘Do your best, Cameron,’ Kirby called out. ‘Take him out.’
Cameron grinned, straightened his shoulders and hefted the basketball he was holding above his head, aiming for the big black circle.
The crowd chanted, ‘One, two, three.’
Cam threw the ball, putting his entire twelve-year-old effort behind it. It hit the target with accuracy, the chair tipped backwards and Nick somersaulted into the water with a satisfying splash.
The crowd roared, Cameron stood taller and Kirby laughed so hard her ribs ached.
A sopping wet Nick surfaced, water streaming off his handsome face, and he climbed out of the pool, immediately clapping Cam on the shoulder. ‘Great throw, mate. Now go and get yourself a prize from Mrs Dalton.’
A glow of success emanated from the boy. ‘Thanks, Doc. That was awesome!’
Cameron ran off and Kirby handed Nick a towel. ‘I wish I’d known. I would have been here earlier with my camera.’
He slung the towel around his neck and gave her a wicked grin loaded with mischief. ‘The local paper beat you to it. I’m next week’s centrefold.’
Kirby shook her head in smiling bemusement. ‘Is there any room next to that giant ego for me to walk beside you?’
‘For you—’ he put on a fake Italian accent ‘—always. But so you can walk close I’ll just get changed out of this wet gear.’
‘Meet me in the food line.’ Kirby followed the aroma of barbecued onions and joined the meandering line, enjoying chatting to Jake, Gaz and Meryl while she waited, still stunned that Nick had got so involved in the fete. He’s got involved with the children.
She’d just paid for the burgers when he arrived by her side, all tousled hair and glowing good health. She held out the ubiquitous white bag with the two twisted ears. ‘Yours has the lot, including pineapple and beetroot.’
‘Sweet.’ He ripped open the bag and took a big bite from the burger.
‘Hungry, are you?’ Smiling, Kirby pulled some stray onion out of her bun and nibbled on it.
He pretended to be affronted. ‘You try being knocked into the water fifteen times. It generates an appetite.’
They sat at a table in the shade of a grove of gnarled tea trees and Kirby neatly pulled open her white bag, dividing it down the seam line to make a mat for her hamburger. Nick had almost finished his and was eyeing hers when the music on the loudspeaker stopped and Judy’s voice came on instead.
‘Could Dr Atherton or Dr Dennison please come to the sick bay now.’
‘Must be something more than a cold pack or a plaster can fix or Phillipa would have dealt with it.’ Kirby stood up and started walking.
Nick picked up her burger and handed it to her. ‘Eat and run. We don’t need you getting sick too.’
They jogged to the sick bay. Jordan, one of the unit C boys, sat in the chair, his face alabaster white underneath a large trickling bloodstain. Phillipa had a gauze-covered ice pack on his head and looked up with relief as they walked in.
Kirby stepped up to the boy who looked so little and immediately felt for him, knowing he probably wanted his mother. ‘Jordan, you poor—’
But he looked past her, straight to Nick.
‘Mate, what have you done to yourself?’ Nick immediately pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted up the ice pack.
‘I ran into a pole.’
‘Jumped out at you, did it?’ Kirby opened up some saline, feeling slightly ignored. ‘I think unit C is going to win the camp award for most admissions to the sick bay.’
‘You wouldn’t have let Ben run off with your prize, would you, Dr Nick?’ Jordan shot Nick a conspiratorial look that clearly said, A girl wouldn’t understand.
‘No way. I would have chased him down as well.’ He bobbed down in front of the boy and shone a torch into Jordan’s black hair. ‘But you hit that pole so hard you’ve split the skin.’
‘Skin glue?’ Phillipa opened the medical kit, her fingers hovering over the tray.
Nick shook his head. ‘It starts on his forehead but extends into his hairline so it’s going to have to be stitches.’
‘No way.’ Jordan’s eyes welled up.
Nick squeezed his shoulder. ‘You’ll have a manly scar and a good story to match it. I’ve got a few of those.’
‘Have you?’ Watery curiosity shone in Jordan’s eyes.
‘Yep. See this one?’ He pointed to a faint line on his forearm. ‘I fell off the top of the brick fence when I was trying to be Superman. I also broke my leg.’
‘Did you have crutches and a cast?’
‘I did.’
‘Cool!’ Admiration shone in the boy’s eyes before dimming slightly. ‘But I won’t need crutches.’
‘No, but you’ll have a bit of a pirate scar, which is mysterious.’
Needing something to do now she’d finished her hamburger, Kirby drew up the local anaesthetic and handed it to Nick, who chatted away to Jordan about the current test cricket match, as if they were walking down to the beach for a surf instead of injecting lignocaine into his scalp in preparation for suturing. She watched him bring the skin edges together with tiny stitches, his brow furrowed in serious concentration, yet all the time trading sporting statistics to keep Jordan relaxed.
Deep inside her something ached—this was the man who so unalterably believed he didn’t want to be a father. Couldn’t he see he’d be great?
He snipped the black nylon, separating it from the final stitch, and dropped the needle into the suture tray. ‘Phillipa will put a dressing on that and you won’t be able to wash your hair for five days, which probably won’t be too much of a hardship given your allergy to shower water.’ Humour played through his words while the sound of latex snapped sharply as he stripped off his gloves and dropped them in the bin. ‘You have to stay in sick bay for the rest of the day due to the bump on your head.’
Jordan slumped. ‘But I’ll miss the rest of the fete.’
‘Yes, but you’ll get ice cream and jelly and a personal visit from the celebrity patron.’ Nick helped
Jordan up onto the bed. ‘He’s a pretty famous runner and he might just autograph your camp book if you ask him politely.’
The boy settled back into the pillows slightly more happy. ‘That would be great but can you come see me again later?’
Kirby caught the longing in the boy’s voice. First Cameron and now Jordan. Nick had an easy way with these boys that generated respect and admiration.
Nick nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll drop by before I go home and I’ll ring your mum and tell her what happened and that you’re OK. Catch you later.’ He gave the lad a playful punch before crossing the room.
‘Here you go, Jordan.’ Phillipa bustled about with gauze and tape.
Nick caught Kirby’s arm and propelled her through the door. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you some tea and scones, I know they’re your favourite.’
‘Bye, Jordan.’ She gave the boy a wave, before savouring the warm touch of Nick’s arm through hers, and stepped out through the external doors. ‘I felt a bit superfluous in there.’
‘It was a simple suturing job and either one of us could have done it.’
‘True, but I wasn’t thinking about medical skills. You wanted to do the stitching and Jordan obviously wanted you to treat him.’
‘Did he?’ Nick looked surprised. ‘I guess I’ve done a bit with that unit and he knows me.’
A bit? ‘That would be the understatement of the day. You’ve done heaps with those boys in the last couple of weeks.’
The surprise on his face rolled into pleasure. ‘I suppose I have but it’s been fun and…’ He shrugged his shoulders as if he couldn’t find the right words.
‘Gratifying?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess it has been.’
She gave him a sideways glance, stunned that he hadn’t made the connection between how he felt and the work he’d been doing at KC. ‘You’re really great with the boys. The way you talk to them and respect their growing independence, you’re a natural.’
