Melting the Argentine Doctor's Heart / Small Town Marriage Miracle

by Meredith Webber / Jennifer Taylor

  Did she mean it?

  Jorge sat on the stool in his own kitchen, his back aching so badly that even sitting was an effort. He watched the woman busy with the omelette, not as he’d have made it but doing not too bad a job, and wondered if she spoke the truth.

  To a certain extent he accepted what she’d said, but for too long he’d hidden the pain he’d suffered as a result of the broken bones and torn muscles and ligaments, refusing to talk about it to anyone, fearing the only way it could be borne was to keep it hidden, even, at times, from himself. He was aware that didn’t make much sense but he’d devised ways of distracting himself from it when it was bad, and some instinct told him that if someone else knew of it—perhaps could see it or divine it in some way—then he’d no longer be able to escape it.

  ‘I don’t take strong drugs—some mild ones from time to time.’

  She’d found plates and had flipped the omelette so it was folded in half. Now she slid it onto one of the plates, divided it in two with the spatula, served it out and handed him one of the plates. She settled on a stool across from him and pushed a fork towards him, saying nothing as she tasted her dinner.

  He looked across the table at her—intent, it seemed, on the food in front of her. Would it help to share his pain?

  The thought was startling—he, who’d shared so little of the whole episode of his accident even with his father, thinking such a thing. It must be because tonight the pain was bad, although when he’d danced.

  ‘You must have medical reports, X-rays and things.’

  She’d put down her fork and was leaning on the table, close enough for him to see the slight flecks of gold in her blue eyes, mesmerising him.

  ‘So if you don’t want to talk about it, maybe I could take a look at them and figure out the ongoing damage for myself.’

  Mesmerising him was bad—probing into his pain, which was very personal to him, was even worse.

  ‘It was four years ago,’ he said, looking away from her eyes, turning his thoughts away from her probing. ‘They are long gone.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re a doctor. You’ve permanent injuries so you must have regular—yearly or two-yearly—checks and X-rays and, being you, you’d want to compare them to the originals, if only to see if there’s been degeneration.’

  She lifted her fork and began eating again, but the questions hovered in her eyes every time she glanced up at him, curiosity, not pity, in that steadfast blue gaze.

  ‘I don’t talk about it.’

  Would that stop her?

  Knowing Caroline, probably not, but it might bring him enough respite to get his omelette—which was delicious—eaten. She’d finished hers and had stood up to rinse her plate then bring two glasses and the water jug to the table. She poured the water and pushed one glass across to him, lifting hers and saying, ‘Cheers,’ before drinking from it.

  So much for a respite. He put down his fork and just looked at her, the desire that had shaken him to his core as they’d danced now flooding back.

  Dios mio, why now? They were at odds, barely civil with each other, yet watching her raise that glass and draw water into her mouth had set fire to his groin so now new pain rattled his body and set alarm bells clanging in his mind.

  Eat.

  Had she said it or was it his bewildered brain giving the order? The word echoed in his head for a moment, and finally lodged where it needed to, telling his hand to pick up his fork, his lips to open and close, his throat to swallow.

  ‘Thank you,’ he managed as he finished the meal and in turn stood up to rinse his plate. She’d moved away and stood near the door, looking out at the moonlit area beyond his hut, so he busied himself boiling water and washing the dishes properly, the silence growing heavier and heavier in the air between them.

  Should he tell her about his injuries, share things with her he’d not shared before?

  He could understand where she was coming from. She was asking out of concern for Ella, not for herself, and that, though he hated to admit it, cut into him more than it should, if he really was all the things she’d called him—self-reliant, self-contained, self-confident.

  Once he might have been all of these, back when she’d known him he’d have to say he had been, but now, he knew, they were largely pretence—a costume of self he wore for the world, hiding the wounded, broken man within.

  ‘There was a time I thought I’d never walk again—never work again.’

  He said the words very quietly, testing them out, talking to her back. She was turning towards him when a cry from the bedroom brought Caroline back through the kitchen, heading for the bedroom, and something he had to call fatherly instinct had him following close on her heels.

  Ella was sitting up in bed, obviously distressed, although when Caroline lifted her, her crying ceased.

  ‘Bad dreams?’ he asked quietly, and Caroline nodded. She was rocking back and forth, the movement obviously soothing as Ella’s eyes were closing again.

  ‘She has them sometimes when she’s overtired,’ Caroline explained, speaking quietly. ‘I suppose I should have expected it. The good thing is she goes right back to sleep after a cuddle and they don’t seem to recur.’

  Was it hearing her mother’s voice that made Ella open her eyes?

  Probably, but for whatever reason, to Jorge’s delight, she looked right at him when she did and murmured a sleepy ‘Hor-hay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said gently, moving closer and holding out his arms. To his delight, without a qualm, Ella slid from her mother’s arms to his.

  Jorge felt the little body settle confidently against his and something he’d never felt before surged through him. This was his child, his flesh and blood, and just like that he recognised the surge as love, a love so deep and profound he knew he’d do anything in his power to stay in her life.

  And not as a bystander—a weekend father. Oh, he knew full well that could and did work in many families, but it was not for him. Somehow he and Caroline had to come to some arrangement where they could live together and share one hundred per cent in Ella’s upbringing.

  ‘Te quiero, mi hija.’ He whispered the words of love—words she wouldn’t understand—into the soft curls and rocked her in his arms until she grew heavy with sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY drove south to Buenos Aires ten days later, Caroline more nervous than she’d been in the taxi on the way to the clinic to face Jorge in the first place. How he felt was anybody’s guess, for he’d shut himself away from her again over their remaining days at the clinic, keeping busy anywhere but where she was. In return, she’d busied herself, helping nurse the man who’d lost his foot, accompanying the nurse when she visited people deep into the warren of lanes, seeing more of the settlement beyond the clinic and learning more of the people it served.

  ‘Does your father know you are bringing us?’ she asked Jorge as they eased off the freeway and onto more congested city streets—Buenos Aires streets.

  ‘He knows I bring guests,’ Jorge told her, then resumed his concentration on the road, weaving through the traffic as if their lives depended on reaching their destination in the shortest possible time.

  Realising he must be as nervous as she was, perhaps more so—Hi, Dad, here’s my old lover who turned up with a daughter for me!—she turned her attention to the scenery. She knew from the guide book she’d read on the first long flight that Buenos Aires was laid out in a grid pattern in very even squares, with plenty of green spaces marked.

  ‘This is one of our biggest big plazas.’

  Was he starting to read her mind?

  Huge trees provided shade throughout the area, statues presiding beneath them, spray from fountains catching the sunlight, people parading, many with mate gourds, ornately decorated in silver, people sipping as they walked.

  ‘I want some mate,’ Ella announced, and Caroline, who’d thought her daughter was dozing, looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Do you l
ike it?’ she asked, turning again to see Ella nod.

  ‘Hor-hay makes it nice for me.’

  Caroline knew Jorge had been spending a lot of time with Ella, and she, Caroline, had deliberately kept out of the way so the pair of them could begin to bond, but sharing mate—he never did that with her, not after that first day.

  She gave an inward groan and assured herself she couldn’t possibly be jealous of her daughter, but the niggle she felt could hardly be anything else.

  Except perhaps longing, for that was what she felt every time she looked at Jorge, a longing she knew would remain just that—the ache of yearning, unspoken and unrequited.

  ‘You will have some when we reach the house.’

  Jorge answered Ella, turning briefly towards his daughter. The little girl nodded again, obviously content with the reply.

  But the simple phrase ‘when we reach the house’ had restarted the butterflies that were cavorting in Caroline’s stomach. She knew Jorge was apprehensive about introducing them to his father, but as he hadn’t explained why, she kept imagining the worst possible scenarios.

  His father might hate foreigners.

  He might hate children. No, it couldn’t be that. From things Jorge had said, Carlos would adore a grandchild. Was Jorge worried his father might make too much of a fuss of Ella?

  Or maybe he had someone picked out for Jorge to marry and the sudden arrival of a three-year-old daughter would spoil his plans.

  Marriages were still arranged in many countries, mostly for business reasons. As Caroline’s turbulent imagination raced ahead, she saw the man’s business ruined, his life in tatters.

  ‘We are here.’

  Jorge had driven in through the wrought-iron gates held open by urns containing cascades of vibrant petunias. A longish drive, poplar lined, then a wide, rambling house of creamy stucco, carved wooden railings on the sandstone patio that stretched along the front, huge timber doors with ornate metal hinges and clasps, heavy timber beams holding up the red-tiled roof that overhung the patio, which was lined with neatly clipped trees in pots.

  Olive trees? Something with fine, silvery leaves at any rate.

  Her worries were forgotten—or, if not forgotten, shelved for the moment.

  ‘What a magic place,’ Caroline breathed. ‘The building looks as if it grew here among the plants and bushes.’

  ‘It is a popular style of architecture, old Spanish. There is another patio along the back, hidden from the street.’

  He stopped the car, and turned towards her.

  ‘But I told you that four years ago, no? Back when I promised to bring you to my home.’

  There was no joy in his voice. In fact, he spoke as if the memory hurt him, while what lay ahead—the actual introduction to his father—was something to be faced with the strongest apprehension.

  She reached out to touch him, but only very lightly, and only on the shoulder.

  ‘Lighten up,’ she ordered. ‘It’s not as if you’re going to the gallows. I can’t believe your father won’t be pleased to know he has a granddaughter, so surely this should be a happy occasion.’

  ‘You don’t know my father,’ Jorge responded, still obviously sunk in gloom.

  ‘You think he won’t be pleased?’ Caroline demanded.

  Jorge shook his head.

  Her panic returned but before she could question the headshake he was out of the car and striding up the steps.

  Caroline unstrapped Ella from her car seat and followed, though more slowly. Jorge had reached the landing at the top, and, as if someone had been spying from inside, the front doors opened as he reached them. A tall, imperious-looking woman in a black dress was holding one of the big doors, but the bulky man behind her soon pushed forward, enveloping Jorge in his arms, tears in his voice as he welcomed his son home.

  Caroline walked more slowly—tentatively—up the steps, Ella in her arms. Jorge was talking now, his words too fast for Caroline to follow, although she heard enough to know he was explaining his visitors.

  Then the cry ‘Mi nieta?’—the words loud with disbelief—the Spanish phrase for ‘My granddaughter', repeated more huskily as the man came towards Caroline, but with eyes only for Ella.

  Jorge was there before him, taking Ella from Caroline, talking quietly to her.

  ‘This is your abuelo, your grandfather, Ella. Abuelito is a good name to call him—can you say that?’

  ‘Ablito,’ Ella, ever game to try a word, repeated.

  ‘That will do, my princess,’ the old man said, reaching out and cupping his hand to Ella’s cheek. ‘We will take time to get to know each other. You can call me Ablito and I will call you Princesa, okay?’

  ‘I’m not a princess,’ Ella told him. ‘I’m just a little girl.’

  ‘You will be my princess,’ her grandfather told her, and Caroline, although things could not have gone better, felt a sense of doom descend upon her.

  Somehow they all got through the afternoon and early evening, being shown to rooms, exploring the house, trying new foods—eating ice cream to die for—and finally, when Ella was tucked into bed, Caroline sat with Carlos and Jorge on the patio behind the house, admiring the soft lights in the formally laid-out garden, sipping a local white wine.

  But not relaxing. The tension she’d been feeling had intensified when she’d seen Carlos’s delight in his granddaughter. Now it was so strong it was a wonder she could swallow.

  ‘You must marry, of course.’

  Carlos’s remark was so unexpected—mind-boggling might be a better word—Caroline couldn’t reply.

  ‘Not a man to beat around a bush, my father.’ Jorge’s words dropped into the sudden silence, and from the dry tone of his voice Caroline knew that this was what he had feared—this, not rejection, had been on his mind.

  ‘You do not want my granddaughter growing up a bastard,’ Carlos continued, as if this was a perfectly normal and logical conversation.

  ‘Nobody cares about that kind of thing any more, Papá,’ Jorge protested.

  ‘I care about it,’ Carlos retorted, and although he didn’t raise his voice Caroline read not only truth but determination in the words.

  ‘We will work it out between us, Caroline and I. After all, it is our business,’ Jorge told him.

  ‘And the child’s,’ Carlos pointed out, and the sinking feeling in Caroline’s stomach told her she knew she’d lost.

  But lost what?

  She’d admitted to herself that she still loved Jorge so surely marriage to him wouldn’t be a problem?

  Except it would be if he didn’t love her and so far she’d had no indication that he did.

  The physical attraction was still there—she knew that—felt it in every nerve in her body whenever he was near. And she knew from his reaction to her presence that he wasn’t immune to it either. Several times they’d nearly kissed—or so she’d thought—but.

  What must she be thinking, sitting there so quietly, listening to my father’s outrageous suggestion, to his reasoning that marriage was the only answer? Jorge tried to read Caroline’s face, but it revealed nothing.

  Neither did she show any signs of arguing with his father, although she must have been equally shocked by the old man’s abrupt suggestion.

  ‘I would never hurt Ella, but I must do what’s right for Caroline as well,’ Jorge told his father. ‘And it is for she and I to decide what is best.’

  ‘You know what is best, my son,’ Carlos said. ‘Now, I wish to speak to Antoinette about dinner and look in my princess. Why don’t you take Caroline for a promenade in the plaza until it is time for us to sit down?’

  He stood up and walked away, leaving Jorge wondering what to say to the woman who’d been on the receiving end of his father’s proclamation.

  Caroline solved that problem by speaking first.

  ‘Does it put Antoinette out to have more people in the house, more people for dinner?’ she asked, and the words stabbed into him, shocking him into speech far mo
re effectively than his father’s words had done.

  ‘Is that where we have come to, you and I, mundane conversation about Antoinette and dinner when my father has demanded we marry?’

  To his surprise, Caroline laughed.

  ‘What did you expect me to say? Something along the lines of how dare your father interfere in our lives? He has said what he said out of love, Jorge, love for a child he’s met only once. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t suspect he’d react like this because you’ve been teetering on a tightrope since you first considered introducing Ella to him. I thought you were thinking, Will I, or won’t I? tossing up about telling him at all, but now I realise you knew him well enough to have guessed how he’d react.’

  Jorge stared at her, her usual attire of dark trousers and top making her all but invisible in the shadows, except for her face with its silvery halo of hair, luminous in the lamplight.

  She smiled again, and stood up.

  ‘Well, come on, you’re under orders to take me for a promenade around the plaza.’

  Dumbfounded again—it was a good thing he’d learned that descriptive English word—he joined her, following her through the wide hall to the front door, opening it for her, then taking her elbow as they walked down the steps.

  ‘It’s this way,’ he said, but Caroline had halted at the front gate, and was looking around her in amazement.

  ‘Earlier,’ she said, nodding in a friendly fashion at people walking past, ‘I held Ella up to the window to show her the moon and stars. She likes to see them before she goes to sleep. And from up there, in her bedroom.’ Caroline turned to look up at the upper storey of the house ‘.the streets were deserted. I thought it odd because I’ve grown used to the custom of having dinner late in the evening and I wondered where everyone was, but now the streets are full of people strolling.’ she grinned at Jorge ‘.or promenading along the pavement.’