The Surgeon's Second Chance

by Meredith Webber

  But tonight, with Harry in the house, she’d forgotten.

  She was searching through the cupboards, hoping to find a leftover biscuit, when the delicious smell of fresh coffee alerted her to another presence in the room.

  ‘Ready for a snack?’

  Harry was standing just inside the doorway, a box with four coffees held in one hand and a white plastic bag dangling from his fingers.

  ‘I spent long enough in the US to learn the benefits of doughnuts as a quick carbohydrate boost,’ he said, setting the coffee on the table and opening the plastic bag to reveal a box of garishly decorated doughnuts.

  He must have seen Steph’s dubious look, for he added, ‘Actually, it was the only place open in this complex that sold both coffee and food. I figured the closer I was to the clinic the hotter the coffee would be. Help yourself—I’ll take two cups out to reception. Rebecca and tonight’s nurse—Peter, I think is his name—are playing some on-going card game.’

  Steph selected one of the remaining cups of coffee, added a couple of straws of sugar which Harry had brought along and stirred it, then studied the doughnuts he’d left behind.

  The least lurid was one with jam and cream so she picked it up, eased a little of the filling into the bin, then bit in.

  It was absolutely delicious, the sweetness flooding her mouth.

  ‘Ooh!’ She all but whimpered out her delight, then looked at the remaining bite of the doughnut.

  It couldn’t possibly have been that good. She must have been starving to have even considered eating it. She popped the last piece into her mouth and was revelling in its sugary sweetness when Harry returned.

  ‘Good?’ he said, smiling at her then reaching forward and touching her cheek with his forefinger. As she leaned back—too late to avoid that gentle caress—he held out the finger to show her the dollop of cream he’d rescued from her cheek.

  ‘Oh!’

  But as he licked the cream from his finger an internal ‘oh’ happened—an ‘oh’ as if someone had touched an old, forgotten bruise deep inside her and she wasn’t certain if what she felt was pain or pleasure.

  ‘Have another,’ Harry said, pushing the box towards her so casually she knew she shouldn’t have been affected by him licking her cream off his finger. It meant nothing.

  ‘Did you like America?’

  It was a desperation question—an attempt on Steph’s part to regain a little bit of stability in a life that had tilted off its axis since Harry’s arrival in the clinic the previous night.

  ‘Loved it,’ he said. ‘It’s so big and beautiful, a bit brash in some ways, but so varied it’s like travelling through a lot of different countries.’

  He spoke of Boston, where he’d spent most time, and the mountains in Colorado where he’d walked in the summer break. Spoke of friends, the lack of names suggesting they might be women, but of course Harry would have had women friends.

  And lovers…

  Hadn’t he always?

  ‘And Europe? You went back there after your stay in the States.’

  She saw the shadows cross his face.

  ‘Yes, I went back there,’ he said, then, as the bell rang to tell them a patient had arrived, he changed the subject with an almost abrupt, ‘I’ll go. You take a decent break. Have another doughnut.’

  It didn’t take a genius to know he’d been pleased by the interruption, which made Steph wonder what had happened to Harry in Europe. A disastrous love affair?

  It hurt the bruised part inside Steph to think of Harry hurting, especially as she’d hurt him once herself.

  Hurt him more than once…

  Another ring summoned her back to work and she drained her coffee, then chose a doughnut with chocolate icing, taking a quick bite of it to keep her going until the next break.

  It was the last bite of the night. She was seeing out the patient she’d been summoned for—a twenty-year-old with an acute asthma attack who’d been put on a nebuliser until the attack eased—when the screech of tearing metal brought all the staff to the door of the clinic. Almost immediately outside, a car had mounted the kerb, dislodging a parking meter then slamming into the window of the opal shop next door.

  ‘Don’t go rushing out there!’ Harry said, grabbing Steph’s arm as she was running towards the car. ‘It could be a ram raid. They could be armed.’

  ‘They could also be injured.’ Steph wrenched her arm free and continued on her way.

  Peter was already at the car, trying to open the passenger side door while the opal shop alarms were making so much noise it was a wonder they weren’t all deafened.

  Perhaps realising no one was about to leap from the car and grab jewellery from the shop window, Harry had followed Steph to the driver’s side, but the engine had concertinaed the car’s interior and it was impossible to open the door.

  Peter had his side open and was kneeling beside the unconscious woman passenger, while Rebecca appeared in the clinic doorway to let them know she’d phoned for an ambulance.

  ‘There’s no obvious bleeding but I guess we shouldn’t move her.’ Peter made way for Harry, and at that moment the police arrived, their flashing red lights turning the street into a macabre movie set.

  Two tow trucks beat the ambulance to the scene, but not by much, and with so many people now milling around, Steph sent Peter back to the clinic but remained close by in case she was needed.

  With infinite care, the paramedics from the ambulance first braced the woman’s neck and back, then lifted her onto a waiting trolley. Her airway and breathing were checked, then her body scanned for any external bleeding before her blood pressure was taken and fluid lines were inserted.

  Meanwhile, the police were assisting another attendant who was using cutting tools to free the driver. Harry stood behind them, watching carefully, and Steph could see that the man must have been thrown forward into the windscreen by the impact, for his face was a mask of blood.

  ‘No damned seat belt—when will people learn?’

  Harry had left the experts to their job and joined her on the sidelines.

  ‘If his face hit the windscreen, his chest hit the steering-wheel with equal force. He could have internal bleeding, lung damage, even a ruptured aorta.’

  Harry looked so fierce for a moment Steph thought he might say ‘Serve him right’, but all he did was nod acknowledgement of her recital of the injuries A and E doctors would check first.

  Although the action had seemed to be taking place in slow motion, it was only fifteen minutes later that the ambulance with its two comatose patients departed. The police photographed the scene, more flashes of bright light, then a tow truck hooked up to the back of the vehicle and, unable to lift it beneath the shop awnings, towed it off the footpath. As it bumped over the kerb, the back door, released as the car body stretched under tow, flew open and Steph saw the crumpled figure on the floor behind the seats, the long blonde hair pink in the turning light, but so familiar a scream of utter despair erupted from her throat.

  All motion ceased, then she was flying towards the car, Harry’s footsteps thudding behind her.

  ‘It’s not Fanny,’ he said, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders, while a policeman moved in front of her to peer into the car.

  It wasn’t Fanny, but the little girl was dead, though she and Harry refused to acknowledge it, performing CPR on the small body until another ambulance arrived.

  As it drove away, Harry put his arm around Steph’s shoulders and led her back into the clinic.

  ‘We should have looked,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘If we’d seen her earlier we might have been able to save her.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have seen her,’ he reminded her. ‘The front seat was jammed right back there. She was thrown forward by the impact and I think her neck was probably broken when she hit the seat. Poor wee mite—killed by the carelessness of parents who didn’t strap her in.’

  Inside the clinic, the various members of the day staff had arrived and were
all now clustered in the waiting room, hearing about the early morning excitement.

  Harry steered Steph past them, into the tearoom, where her half-eaten doughnut mocked her from the table.

  ‘Get your bag, I’m taking you home,’ he said, and she nodded, her mind and body so numb she was pleased to have someone else making decisions for her.

  But her limbs had forgotten how to move, and she stood there, her body tight with remembered fear, until Harry took her in his arms, tucked her in close to his warmth, massaging life back into the muscles of her neck and shoulders, softening the tension that had paralysed her.

  Her body relaxed—and with the relaxation came tentative flutters of awareness, like the tiny tendrils of a delicate new vine reaching out in search of support.

  And finding support in Harry’s strong but loose-limbed body.

  Surely not…

  ‘OK?’ Harry murmured, and she was so startled by his voice she lifted her head from where it had nestled itself on his shoulder and looked into his concerned brown eyes.

  ‘I think so,’ she managed to say, though the words stumbled from her lips and she knew she must be frowning as she tried to make sense of her reaction to being held by Harry.

  ‘Maybe this will help,’ he murmured, his gaze holding hers as he bent his head a little closer and kissed her firmly on the lips.

  Steph was stunned by both the kiss and the effect it had on her, so much so that she couldn’t respond immediately. Then, by the time she’d realised how pleasant being kissed by Harry was, and was considering kissing him back, it was too late. He’d not only lifted his head, but he’d stepped away from her, and her body no longer had his support or warmth.

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you home,’ he said, his voice so devoid of emotion she knew he hadn’t felt a darned thing—either from holding her in his arms, or from the kiss.

  He escorted her, close but not touching, out to his car, but instead of turning towards her place, Harry drove in a different direction. She wanted to ask why, but she was still shaken by the accident, not to mention the tendrils and the kiss, and didn’t want to make a fool of herself by stumbling over the question.

  ‘I drove down here the other morning, and noticed Albert’s is still in business,’ he said, calmly explaining what she needed to know. ‘You’re in no fit state to face Fanny if she wakes early. We’ll stop there, have a big greasy breakfast and talk about it. You know it’s the only way to get the images out of your head.’

  Steph knew he was right, even though images of the accident were no longer in the forefront of her mind. But she didn’t want someone else—even Harry—being responsible for her well-being. It was the kind of thing she might come to rely on, and once that happened, hurt followed.

  ‘I’ll probably throw up after a big greasy breakfast,’ she told him, attempting to negate the ‘being looked after’ feeling.

  ‘I’ll take the risk,’ Harry said. ‘I’d go so far as to hold your head if you like.’

  ‘Yuck!’ Steph retorted, but she had to admit that even an asinine conversation like this had diminished the effect of the kiss—which had, itself, lessened the impact of the accident.

  Of course, walking into Albert’s brought on a whole new set of problems. She, Martin and Harry had often breakfasted there, usually when they’d been staying at the Quayles’ for study week, and a night of study had been rewarded with breakfast at Albert’s.

  But they’d eaten there at other times—at the end of a night of celebration, often with the people they’d been seeing at the time—and because Albert’s hadn’t changed at all, the memories came crowding back.

  ‘Bad choice?’ Harry asked, picking up on her ambivalence.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Admittedly I haven’t been here for years, but we had good times here, Harry, and I’m entitled to remember those.’

  Albert himself was nowhere in sight, and the young man behind the long counter was a stranger. So, with his arm once again around her shoulder, Harry led Steph to a booth at one side of the café, waited until she’d slid into the seat, then crossed the room to order two breakfast specials.

  By concentrating on the mundane he could—almost—forget the kiss. How could he have been so stupid as to kiss her when she was so prickly and antagonistic towards him? It had been odds on she’d respond the way she had.

  With no response at all!

  Hell, slapping his face would have been better—at least it would have shown she felt something!

  He took the pot of coffee the young man offered, and two mugs, and returned to the table, back in his role of supportive friend, even if it was a friend she treated with suspicion.

  ‘You’re off duty till Monday, so will you risk another coffee?’

  He waved the pot in Steph’s direction and she nodded.

  ‘I think I need it. I’m sorry I made such a spectacle of myself,’ she said, pouring sugar into the mug, speaking of the accident not the kiss—she hoped he hadn’t picked up on her reaction to the kiss. ‘But I thought of Fanny.’

  Harry covered her hand with his.

  ‘Of course you did, and you didn’t make a spectacle of yourself. You reacted as any parent would. I had a terrible wrenching feeling myself when I saw her.’

  Steph smiled at him, because she believed him, and her hand felt good in his, and it was so nice to be with Harry again—to have a friend when she really needed one.

  But beneath this very thin veneer of comfort lurked so many black holes of doubt she knew it wasn’t wise to relax.

  Perhaps she could risk it for a short time—just while they had breakfast together…

  Not when you reacted to him the way you did back there! Talk about lurking danger…

  Harry watched her thoughts reflected in her eyes and knew she was debating how far she could allow this truce to continue. He longed to reassure her—to tell her he would never let her down. But memories of what she’d seen as the ultimate betrayal of their friendship had been reawakened by the invidious position in which he now found himself.

  And once again it was a member of the Quayle family tying him in knots.

  He was about to make a declaration—‘I won’t let you down again’ were the exact words he had in mind—when the youth from behind the counter arrived with their meals. Crisp bacon curled around fat sausages, eggs nestled on thick slices of toast, and grilled tomato slices added decorative colour to the plates.

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t realised how hungry I was,’ Steph exclaimed, looking up at him with genuine delight shining in her eyes, so he wondered if he’d imagined the doubts earlier.

  He watched her attack the food with such gusto he found himself smiling, for this was the Steph he’d first known—the girl to whom everything in life was fun, exciting or a challenge to be met and overcome.

  To find that girl still existed within the too-thin, tired-looking woman was immensely encouraging, and with a sense of wonder, mixed with a leavening of almost fearful despair, he realised he still loved her.

  Shocked almost numb by this revelation, he picked up his knife and fork and tried to concentrate on his meal. Something must have worked, for as Steph’s fork flashed across the table to stab at one of his pieces of bacon, he automatically pinned it to the plate with his knife.

  ‘Ask nicely,’ he said, looking up and seeing a glimpse of laughter in her eyes, soon washed away by a sadness so deep it caught at his guts and cramped his lungs.

  ‘We can’t go back to those days, can we, Harry?’ she said softly, then she pushed her plate away and picked up her coffee, cupping her hands around it as if she needed its warmth and studying him over the rim.

  ‘No, Steph,’ he said, carefully placing the bacon on a piece of toast before passing it across to her. ‘But there’s no reason why the days ahead can’t be just as good—or even better.’

  She took the toast, studied him for a moment, then said, ‘Isn’t there?’

  He had no answer, but he knew she was ready to
go—no doubt anxious to see Fanny and reassure herself her daughter was all right.

  He ate a little more while she toyed with the toast and bacon, finally taking a bite before putting it back on the plate as if it were somehow tainted.

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you home,’ he said, when it was obvious she’d finished eating and he’d realised the fat overload was making him feel ill.

  They drove to her house in silence, surprised to find the rain had suddenly eased. By the time he pulled up outside her front gate, a shaft of sunlight had broken through the clouds, illuminating the cottage and its straggly, waterlogged garden.

  Harry waited, willing Steph to invite him in, but at the same time knowing the less he saw of her the better—at least until he’d sorted out what was happening with Bob Quayle and found out a little more about why Steph was living as she was.

  ‘Thanks, Harry, for being there for me this morning,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm. ‘I really appreciated it.’

  So there was no invitation for him to resist, but the hand on his arm presented a new temptation. He closed his own around it, then remembered there were too many things he didn’t know, so he bit back the ‘Anytime!’ he’d been going to say. He’d talk to Bob Quayle first, find out what was going on, then come to Steph with no secrets between them.

  ‘Give my love to Fanny and tell her I’ll see her soon,’ he said. He leant across and kissed Steph on the cheek, feeling the coolness of her skin, smelling coffee and bacon and the faint essence of woman beneath them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BY THE time Harry woke, it was midafternoon, and Bob Quayle wasn’t at home or answering his mobile. Restless and ill at ease because what he wanted to do was visit Steph—something he also didn’t want to do until he’d spoken to Bob—he walked down to the beach, then back through the tourist shops to the apartment block.

  As he reached the doors of the clinic, he realised that another answer to his dilemma would be to get Bob’s job done as quickly as possible then get out of the place. Once he was no longer connected with the clinic he’d lose the feeling that he was spying on Steph and could start again with her.