Caspar?
‘And Casparina for a girl?’ he teased, and saw colour rise in her cheeks.
‘I know it’s stupid, but pregnancy brain is a very strange phenomenon, and once something is lodged there, nothing will shift it.’
She studied the infant she’d continued to stroke.
‘The problem is, you think once they pop out—now, that’s an euphemism—you’ll find a name that really suits them—that they’ll look like a Bill, or Joe, or Sam, or whatever. But, in fact, they just look like babies.’
‘Joe’s probably out, because you’d have two of them in the house. But I like short, no-nonsense names if you want my opinion.’
‘Tom? Sam? What about Elliot?’
‘Elliot? You don’t like short, no-nonsense names, then.’
It was easy banter, but underneath Max felt a thread of something—something that felt very like the careful, tiptoed steps of the early stages of a relationship. It only happened between a man and a woman when some intangible link was triggered between them, then conversations and even silences all had some other meaning—like a dance where you had to get the steps right before you could twirl and whirl in each other’s arms.
It had started in the waiting room—this connection that couldn’t be explained—then had strengthened as he’d held her, talking and encouraging her, breathing with her, through her labour.
‘Harry’s nice,’ she said, and Max forgot his fantasies about relationships and looked down at his son.
‘He does look like a Harry. It’s good when he’s little and a strong name for a man.’
He slipped off the chair and knelt closer to the crib, close to Joey’s legs, and studied the baby.
‘You’d like to be a Harry?’ he asked, touching the soft cheek. Then he turned to look up at Joey. ‘It’s Harry, then?’ he asked, as Bob appeared, leading a white-coated man behind him.
‘Bit late to be proposing to her, isn’t it?’ Bob said, as Max clambered to his feet.
‘You’ll keep,’ he said to Bob, and turned to introduce himself to the stranger.
The surgeon greeted Joey with a kiss on her cheek and a quick squeeze of her shoulder.
‘Sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances, my dear,’ he said, ‘but you know the little fellow will be fine, don’t you?’
He took them into an office off the outer corridor, sat them down, and quickly sketched what he would be doing on a whiteboard.
‘All this will be familiar to you, Joey, but I like to run through it anyway. I’ll also give you a link to a video of it you can watch if you want to,’ he said. ‘My secretary will get all the permission papers to you for signatures.’ He looked at Max then back at Joey, adding, a little hesitantly, ‘I understand just yours is needed, Joey.’
He’d made it a question, and Joey nodded, but as she was clinging tightly to his, Max’s, hand, he didn’t mind at all.
‘I’ll probably wait a full day, two if I have to,’ the surgeon continued. ‘I need to check his cardiac and pulmonary function and make sure his fluid and electrolyte balances are good. Because it’s a laparoscopic repair, he should be out of hospital in about a fortnight. You can stay here with him, Joey, although they might take your bed in a day or so, and you’d be camping in the chair. Hospitals! There’s good accommodation in a hotel across the road if that happens. It might also suit your partner if he wants to be close.’
‘It all seems so—so ordinary,’ Joey said, when Bob was showing the surgeon out, and they sat on in the small room.
‘I suppose, to him, it is,’ Max told her. ‘Something to remember, I guess, with all our patients. While we might see a dozen cases of atypical TB in a month, for our patient, he’s the only one who has it.’
Joey smiled, and he felt a little tug of pleasure that he could make her smile.
‘Actually, I’ve never seen one case of atypical TB,’ she said, ‘let alone a dozen in a month, but I get the gist of what you’re saying. The problem is far more special to the patient than it is to the professional.’
Bob returned at that moment and repeated most of what the surgeon had said.
‘If the baby is up to it, he’ll do the op tomorrow,’ Bob added. ‘He has to check if he can get a theatre and what else he has on. The sooner the better as the orogastric tube the little fellow has in can irritate the membranes of the oesophagus and stomach. Someone will let you know.’
‘The sooner the better for me too,’ Joey said as they left the room. ‘I know the man is a genius with neonates, and all will be well—’
‘But you want it over with,’ Max finished for her. ‘Me too.’
He walked her back to the nursery then knew he had to go back to his apartment and clean up, pack his toiletries and some spare clothes and find a room in this nearby hotel. His apartment might be within walking distance but he didn’t want to be that far away from the baby.
Or Joey.
Joey felt his departure like a physical loss. She’d met the man less than twenty-four hours ago, yet already she felt as if he was part of her.
Because they’d shared her hours of labour?
Because he’d been there for her through it all, and helped her with his chat, and jokes and determined practicality?
Or because she’d seen the tears in his eyes as he’d held his newborn son?
Was there something very special about this man, or was it just her out-of-balance hormones making her think such a thing?
She sighed and prodded gently at Harry’s free foot, touching each toe in turn.
‘I think he’s a very nice man, your dad,’ she told the sleeping child.
‘And you’ve just discovered this?’ a nurse asked, as she came from behind to do her regular check on Harry.
‘Well, yes,’ Joey replied, and she smiled to herself, because there was something a bit special about this whole thing, a feeling she had that her life was going to change, and not just because of Harry.
She brought up an image of Max in her head and studied his tall, rangy form, the red-brown hair, the clear green eyes, the lines on his face, fanning out from his eyes, curving on his cheeks to show he smiled and laughed a lot. Fond of his family from the way he spoke. Adventurous—was that good?
She sighed and, as the nurse was gone, told Harry that she thought he’d like him. ‘I think he’ll make a super dad,’ she assured her son, then the logistics of it all struck her.
There was something about Max that suggested he wouldn’t be content to be a part-time parent, but from what he’d told her of his lifestyle, how could he be anything else?
Yet he’d suggested marriage, or had she dreamed that during her labour?
Would it work?
Could it work?
The apartment had three bedrooms—
What on earth was she thinking? No way he could have been serious! And if he had been, then he was crazy. Not husband material, as two fiancées had already discovered.
He could be off to Africa anyway—she was sure she remembered that. He’d mentioned a job in Australia, but she’d heard the lack of enthusiasm. So he’d be gone. And wouldn’t a part-time father for Harry be worse than no father at all?
What’s more, given that even thinking of the man could produce in her body little physical niggles that obviously weren’t contractions as she was no longer pregnant, the idea of him in a bedroom close to hers was—
Disquieting?
Or exciting?
And why was the bedroom idea lingering?
Get over it, she told herself. Just because he was kind enough to suffer through your labour with you it doesn’t mean he wants to go to bed with you.
But then he returned!
She’d been dozing in the chair, sensed a presence, opened her eyes and there h
e was.
Her heart gave a little skip as she took in the smiling, freshly shaven face, the dull green T-shirt that read ‘Dads-R-Us’, and his long, lean legs encased in jeans that would almost certainly show a very tidy butt.
‘Where did you get it?’ she demanded, pointing at the T-shirt.
‘Got one for you too,’ he said. ‘There was a market at Southbank with a stall that printed them right there, so I ordered one for each of us and picked them up on the walk back.’
He handed her a package wrapped in tissue, and she pulled out the T-shirt—a pretty dark blue-green colour, ‘Mums-R-Us’ printed in a very dark blue.
‘And this,’ he added, dropping another package in her lap.
The tiny T-shirt read, ‘I belong to Joey and Max’, and for some reason the wording, or perhaps the size of the garment, or possibly just hormones, brought tears to Joey’s eyes.
‘They’re wonderful,’ she told him.
Then, probably because he’d seen the tears, he leaned down and kissed her.
A soft and gentle kiss—a ‘don’t cry’ kiss most probably, although it felt like a real kiss from what she could remember of real kisses.
And because it felt like a real kiss, it sneaked into hidden places in her body and warmed some of the bits of her she’d thought had died with David, and pulsed into her heart so it beat a little faster and sent blood to colour her cheeks.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and hoped he’d take it as a thank-you for the T-shirts when it was really a thank-you for making her feel alive again, making her feel like a woman.
* * *
He really shouldn’t be kissing her. He knew it was just a surfeit of emotion clanging away inside him that had prompted him to do it. That, and the slight sheen of tears in the wide blue eyes...
And it was all very well wearing silly T-shirts and walking around with his chest puffed out because he had a child, but, really, what did it mean?
Joey was right.
Harry was her baby, for all he, Max, had been the first to hold him.
And, realistically, how could he fit a child into his life?
The shock of finding out, first about the pregnancy mistake then being catapulted into participation in the birth, had stopped the rational functioning of his brain.
But Harry was his child.
How could he not be involved in his life?
The same arguments rattled back and forth in his head, anchored by some conviction that this child deserved two parents, and for all his doubts he might just have to step up to the plate and be the dad Harry deserved.
‘Are you okay?’
Joey was beside him in the wide passage outside the nursery, frowning slightly as she studied him slumped against the wall.
‘Tired,’ he said, and knew it was true. He might be showered and shaven but he’d had very little sleep. Of course he couldn’t think straight.
‘Go back to wherever you’re staying and sleep,’ Joey told him, chiming in with his own thoughts. ‘Take the car.’
She rested her hand on his forearm and looked into his eyes.
‘I couldn’t have got through all this without you,’ she said quietly, ‘but I’m okay now. Don’t feel you have to hang around for my sake. We’ll be fine, Harry and me.’
He studied the face turned up towards him, and knew she spoke the truth, but the twist in his gut told him there was more to this than getting her through the birth of the child—
Their child!
It was the ‘their’ bit that was the problem.
Or would be if he let it.
‘I will go back to the apartment and have a sleep,’ he told her, and stopped himself before he said another word, before he made commitments, or hurt her by not making commitments.
He’d sleep and think about it all later.
Much later.
He put his hand over the smaller one that still rested on his arm and offered what he knew full well would be a very strained smile.
‘Good night,’ he murmured, holding himself back from the kiss that seemed to hover in the air between them.
Joey watched him stride down the corridor, in long, swift steps—like a man escaping.
She made her way back to her room, trying to remember the snippets of information about his life that he’d shared with her during her labour. Travel, always travel, as far as she could recall, although he’d probably only told her the interesting bits to keep her mind off what was going on with her body.
One thing she did recall was a commitment he had to a project in Zambia—education and research into ways to protect healthy men and women—something that might slow the scourge that was decimating populations in developing countries.
And that, if she remembered rightly, was coming up fairly soon.
She plumped down on her bed.
‘And why should that matter?’ she asked herself, just as a nurse appeared in the doorway.
‘Talking to yourself?’ the cheery young man enquired.
Joey grinned at him.
‘If I had the baby here, I could have pretended I was talking to him,’ she said.
‘Ah, but you don’t,’ he said. ‘But not to worry, I do it all the time.’
He ran the checks he had to do, chatting all the time, asking about the baby, approving Harry as a name, assuring her Dr Prentice was the best neonatal surgeon in the city—easy, uncomplicated company for a few minutes.
Company!
She dug in the bag she’d packed so hurriedly the night before and found her mobile, turned it on to a welter of messages. All the friends who’d been keeping an eye on her through her pregnancy seemed to have phoned, most of them more than once, but it was Meryl’s number that caught her attention.
Meryl, who’d last seen her going off with a total stranger.
Only he didn’t feel like a stranger.
Cursing herself for even thinking such a thing, she called Meryl, who had already phoned the hospital and heard the news of Harry’s early arrival.
‘I thought I’d try them before the police,’ Meryl joked. ‘You never know what shock might do.’
She was so calm and sensible Joey talked to her for nearly an hour, telling her about Harry’s problem, the surgery he’d need, keeping Max Winthrop’s presence throughout her labour not exactly secret but unmentioned.
‘I’ll come up and see you both this evening,’ Meryl said. ‘Can I bring you anything? Do you want me to collect anything from your place?’
Joey assured her she had everything she needed, but thinking of the phone messages that needed to be dealt with she added, ‘But if you wouldn’t mind letting a few people know I’m here and fine. You have the list of people to contact. If you could just call Kirstie and Lissa, the word will soon spread.’
‘And do I mention Max Winthrop?’ Meryl asked.
‘No. It’s too complicated right now, isn’t it?’
But Meryl didn’t answer the question—not beyond a rather dubious ‘Hmm’ noise.
‘Hmm doesn’t help,’ Joey muttered to herself when she’d cut the connection, although she realised now exactly why she’d asked Meryl to call her friends. That way, she wouldn’t get caught into conversation about the actual labour and have to tell lies—or at least avoid the truth.
But how could she talk about Max’s eruption into her life when she didn’t know how she felt about it herself?
Perhaps she should stop thinking of the man and think of Harry. He would definitely benefit from having a dad.
She looked at the T-shirt she’d dropped on the bed and smiled.
A dad with a sense of humour...
His face popped up in her head and she felt a curl of excitement deep inside.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no! She ha
d to stop thinking this way. She had to be cool, calm and sensible—had to think the thing through.
How could she, though, not knowing what Max was thinking about the future? About his involvement?
The getting-married thing had just been silly, a reaction to all that was going on. Words spoken out of the confusion of shock.
She blinked away some sudden moisture from her eyes and told herself it was hormonal, this wistful feeling that had sneaked up on her.
You couldn’t go marrying a total stranger just because you’d had his child!
Could you?
To divert her mind from unanswerable thoughts, she went back through her messages, found one from the IVF clinic telling her they’d been unable to contact her and had sent her an email.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the email. It was stupid but she suspected the trembling was more to do with the thought of finding out—at this stage—that Max wasn’t the father!
How stupid! It would be good news!
But all the email did was confirm what Max had told her. It was full of apologies and excuses, and they were devastated for her and could she call at her earliest convenience.
So!
Well, if you thought about it, the father of her baby wasn’t really a stranger.
A marriage of convenience?
Could it work?
Are you nuts?
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAX WOKE AT midnight, confused at first about where he was, until the tumultuous events of the previous twenty-four hours came flooding back to him.
Midnight!
Was Joey sleeping, or would be she sitting by Harry’s crib, talking to him, touching his skin, worrying?
Maybe she was asleep, and he could roll over and go back to sleep himself.
But if she was sitting there—if she was too anxious and concerned to leave the baby—then shouldn’t he, as Harry’s father, do his bit?
Which brought him back to the father thing again.
He slid out of bed, showered and dressed, not in the new T-shirt but in a sober, check, buttons-up-the-front shirt that made him look responsible and trustworthy. A good kind of father for a kid to have.
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