The Surgeon's Second Chance

by Meredith Webber

  ‘Exactly! But the clinic didn’t close when he raised the rent, so he bought it, knowing he could close it himself. I was just a convenience, really. Someone who bobbed up at the right time whom he could send into the place so it looked as if he’d done the right thing by getting someone from the outside to make a recommendation.’

  ‘I guess if I hadn’t talked to you, no one in the clinic would have known your true recommendations,’ she said, speaking slowly as if weighing each word.

  ‘And knowing Bob, you must admit that killing off any competition to his new venture would fit with the way he works.’

  Steph nodded.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she admitted. ‘But though my suspicions about the clinic might have been wrong, my distrust of the Quayles isn’t. You haven’t been where I’ve been the last few years, Harry. You haven’t had trust stolen from you, not once but many times.’

  A hint of tears now sparkled in her eyes, and his heart ached with the love he felt for her.

  ‘Many times?’ he echoed quietly, wanting to know more—to understand at least part of her antagonism towards the Quayles. ‘Is Disneyland included in this catalogue of betrayal?’

  ‘Disneyland!’ Steph gave a wry gurgle of laughter. ‘For a long time I couldn’t even say the word without a red tide of rage rushing over me. But, yes, that’s part of it.’

  ‘So, tell me. Explain. Fanny went for an overnight visit and they took her to Disneyland?’

  The incredulity he’d felt earlier coloured the words.

  ‘What about a passport?’

  Steph shrugged, then a little smile flickered around her lips.

  ‘I guess, looking back at it, it’s kind of funny,’ she admitted. ‘But, believe me, it’s taken me two years to even smile about it.’

  This time she sighed, then shrugged again, before settling herself more deeply into the armchair.

  ‘You know Martin and I had been living with the Quayles here in Summerland for the last few months of my pregnancy. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, while he finished work in Brisbane, then we’d find a house of our own down here.’

  Her voice was stripped of all emotion, and Harry guessed she’d come to terms with the fact that leaving her with his parents had made it easier for Martin to cheat on her.

  ‘After he died, I couldn’t go back there, so I went home to Brisbane—to Mum’s place. Once a month I’d drive down here so the Quayles could see Fanny, and I’d get into an argument over not returning to live with them.’

  She looked across the room at Harry.

  ‘I couldn’t do it, Harry. I just couldn’t return to where I’d lived with Martin, or risk their spoiling Fanny the way they’d spoiled him. But it didn’t stop them asking—pleading, plotting. When Fanny was about two and a half, they started a new campaign. Could they see more of her? Could she stay overnight? My mother had her company all the time, why should they see so little of her? In the end I gave in, and she stayed a few times.’

  She brushed a hand across her face, as if the memories were cobwebs she couldn’t escape.

  ‘I used to worry she’d get sick and need me, so I stayed overnight here myself, in a cheap motel. Then one weekend I went to collect her on the Sunday, and the housekeeper told me they’d gone away. She handed me a laptop computer and a letter telling me it was connected to the internet and all I had to do was log on, and they’d send pictures and messages every day.’

  Harry found the story so extraordinary he simply stared at Steph.

  ‘From Disneyland?’

  ‘I realised that’s where they were when I saw the pictures they sent.’

  ‘And the passport?’

  ‘That was my own stupidity,’ Steph admitted. ‘Some time before, they’d talked about settling Martin’s estate.’

  She gave a huff of cynical laughter.

  ‘That was a joke! Martin, of course, had nothing, but had conveniently left a will passing everything he didn’t have to his then unborn child. The Quayles saw that as his last wish, so told me very early on they’d keep me, and give me an allowance, but that Fanny would eventually inherit their wealth.’

  She looked up at Harry, and he saw the hurt in her eyes.

  ‘It was as if they thought I’d married Martin for his money, or their money, and needed to make it clear I wouldn’t get it.’

  He stood up, wanting to go to her, to hold her and comfort her, but she held up her hand to stop him.

  ‘I got over it, of course, but at the time it hurt—not to mention making me so mad I could barely breathe—and it was then they asked me to sign a lot of papers. It was my own fault for not reading all of them, for signing without checking. The passport application was among them—I signed, giving permission for Fanny to be included on Doreen’s passport.’

  Harry shook his head. The story was too bizarre to not be true.

  ‘This was two years ago?’

  ‘About that,’ Steph agreed. ‘She was too young, of course, to even realise where she was, and at an age where people dressed up in costumes rather frightened her. Anyway, after they came back, I stopped visiting. Eventually, they took me to court, wanting full custody of Fanny, citing my work hours among the list of many reasons I wasn’t coping with motherhood. They had a top-class lawyer and the battle was horrible, but the judge saw my side of things in the end, though they got permission for weekly visits. Mum had met Bill by then, and really needed a bit of space. Tracy got into the hospitality course at the uni college down here and was looking for somewhere to live, so I bought the house and shifted to Summerland to make the access visits easier. I kept thinking things would get better between us, but they don’t. Doreen keeps nagging about us returning to live with them, and Bob—well, Bob’s a man who’s used to getting his own way.’

  Harry shook his head. It seemed unbelievable, all except the last bit. Bob was definitely a man used to getting his own way.

  And right now what he wanted was not only more access to his granddaughter—though that had been the reason for the message on the answering machine—but also for Fanny to cut the ribbon at the opening of the hospital—the Martin Quayle Memorial Hospital.

  He’d only sprung that little bombshell on Harry late this afternoon. Followed, of course, by the inevitable request for Harry to sort it out with Steph!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘SO, WHAT do you think about the job?’ Harry said, and Steph, who was still struggling out of the misery of the past, frowned at him.

  ‘Assisting me at ops,’ he added.

  She knew her frown had deepened—maybe working with Harry she’d get free treatment for her frown lines.

  ‘I’d love to do it,’ she said, hoping her inner muddle of delight and apprehension wasn’t apparent in her tone. ‘But I wonder if I’m qualified—if I’ve the skills you’ll need.’

  Harry grinned at her.

  ‘Didn’t you qualify as an MBBS? Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery? I certainly did and we went through together.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No buts,’ he said, standing up and moving across to where she’d practically burrowed into the chair. ‘Just think about it. You won’t be required to do much in the beginning, and all your surgical skills will come back to you in no time.’

  Steph peered suspiciously up at him.

  ‘Why are you doing this? I don’t want charity, you know.’

  He sighed and shook his head, his dark eyes troubled as he studied her.

  ‘Why do you think, Steph?’ he growled. ‘Because Bob asked me to as part of some bigger plot? I can understand, because of what you’ve been through, that you’ve lost a lot of trust, but you can’t continue to let the past colour all your thoughts. I’m asking you because I know you can do the job—and know that whatever you do, you do well.’

  He hesitated, as if there was another reason, but maybe she’d just imagined that because now he’d turned away and was patting his pockets, no doubt searching for hi
s car keys.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, and though she knew she had to stand up and walk to the door—see him out properly—she was reluctant to leave the security of the armchair. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  That got her up, and she followed him to the door, the job forgotten as she studied his back—remembered how it had felt under her questing fingers, remembered the heat that had flared between them only hours earlier…

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He’d reached the front door and half turned to utter the politeness. Her body was heavy with longing, and her arm ached with a need to reach out and touch him.

  But touching Harry brought nothing but trouble.

  She clasped her hands behind her back and echoed his farewell.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Then she stood in the doorway until the red glow of his taillights had vanished into the darkness.

  The heaviness accompanied her to bed, damping down the excitement the job offer had generated. It made her toss and turn, unable to get comfortable—to remember how she usually lay to go to sleep.

  ‘Damn you, Harry Pritchard,’ she muttered in the darkness. ‘I promised myself this would never happen again. That I’d never let a man sneak under my defences.’

  And if she felt this level of frustration from just talking to him this evening, how would she cope if she continued to work with him?

  But alongside the knowledge of her physical attraction to Harry came the doubts. There was something Harry hadn’t told her, and she couldn’t help thinking it was linked to Bob Quayle…

  Guilt accompanied Harry back to the apartment. Steph certainly had reason to be distrustful of men—of him in particular, come to that. Yet, even knowing this, he still hadn’t been entirely truthful with her—hadn’t told her he’d offered her the job because he wanted her to stay in Summerland. Because he wanted her near him—wanted to be able to see her, touch her, eventually, perhaps, make love to her.

  Adding to the unease was the fact he hadn’t mentioned Bob’s latest bombshell—mainly because he’d rather Steph considered the idea of working with him without any hang-ups over the name of the hospital. Once committed to the job, surely the name of the hospital would be irrelevant…

  He went to bed, but not to sleep, lying on his back staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was being irrational in thinking things might eventually come right between himself and Steph.

  Right to the extent they’d become lovers?

  Hardly—the way things were at the moment. It was a case of one step forward and two steps back as far as any relationship between them was concerned.

  Yet she’d responded to his kisses.

  Had almost committed…

  He hoped things would sort themselves out soon, because he wasn’t going to be much use in an operating theatre if these sleepless nights continued!

  Maybe once he’d talked about Bob’s latest request, things would get back to normal.

  ‘And just when were you going to tell me about the grand opening ceremony? And faithless Martin Quayle being immortalised in the name of a hospital?’

  Steph, with anger redder than her hair flaring out of her like a halo of flame, met him at the door of his suite of rooms the following morning.

  Harry straightened his shoulders and let his own anger, honed by the sleepless night, rip.

  ‘When you’d considered the job offer in a cool and rational manner, that’s when. Look at you—if I’d told you about the name of the hospital, you’d have gone off into a rage and not even thought about the work or whether you’d enjoy it. And if you imagine I’m part of the plots against you, you’re wrong. I only heard about the opening ceremony—and the name of the hospital—as I was leaving last night.’

  ‘When Bob asked you to talk to me about it!’

  She shot the words at him, almost stumbling over them in her fury.

  ‘Exactly—because you’re so damn irrational no one else seems to be able to get through to you. Heaven knows why Bob imagined I could.’

  ‘Maybe because up to now you’ve jumped to do his bidding,’ Steph said, aware she’d gone beyond bitchy to downright nasty, but so shaken by what she’d learnt that morning she was probably as irrational as Harry said she was. ‘The mighty Bob’s yes-man!’

  She slammed away, taking refuge behind the reception desk, though it was no sanctuary as she could still see Harry, stiff with anger, frowning at her from the waiting room.

  She could move behind the filing shelves but that might look as if she was hiding…

  A sharp trill from the phone saved her, and she snatched up the receiver, seeing it as a lifeline back to sanity.

  ‘Hi. This is Frank Collins, president of Summerland Combined Services Clubs. I don’t suppose Harry’s in.’

  The outer door had just closed behind his back and, knowing he’d be as unwilling to return as she was to have him back right now, she didn’t go after him.

  ‘Sorry! He’s in the hospital but not here right now. Can I take a message?’

  ‘You surely can,’ the cheery Frank told her. ‘Could you tell him we’ve organised a free flight for his first island patient? He’ll be arriving Tuesday of next week. We’ve accommodation arranged but we’ll have to liaise with Harry on details. Could you ask him to phone me when he’s got a minute?’

  Steph jotted down the gist of the message, asked Frank for a phone number and was given three—work, home and mobile—then hung up and puzzled over the strange conversation.

  The man had sounded excited—as if this patient was someone special.

  From an island?

  Steph was still thinking about it while she sorted through a ream of Health Department forms, filing them away in a bottom drawer in case they were ever needed.

  The slight sigh the door made as it closed suggested Harry had returned, so she stood up, startling him as he reached the desk.

  He was so close she could see the dark shadow beneath his newly shaven skin and the sheen of his hair where the light caught it. So close she could see unhappiness in his eyes and a grim set to the lips that were now featuring in all her dreams.

  She wanted, badly, to apologise, but Martin’s betrayal had bred distrust, which was strengthened by the fact that Martin’s father now had some hold over Harry.

  ‘There’s a message,’ she said, speaking quickly to break the tense silence. ‘Frank Collins called—first patient arriving Tuesday. I wrote it all down and the numbers where you can contact him. He’s at work at the moment.’

  She pushed the message slip across the desk, watching Harry’s face grow even grimmer as he read it.

  ‘Hell and damnation! I should have called Frank to tell him about the delay. What’s today?’

  ‘Thursday,’ Steph told him, as puzzled now by Harry’s reaction as she’d been by the message. ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘And when’s the official opening?’ he demanded, ignoring her question completely.

  ‘As if you didn’t know!’ Steph snapped. ‘Saturday week.’

  ‘Saturday week—we could operate the following Tuesday. We could do it, but it will be a rush—so much to organise.’

  He looked up at Steph and she realised the old Harry had returned. Enthusiastic over something—excited to the point where his eyes sparkled with whatever challenge it was that lay ahead of him.

  ‘It’ll take work, Steph. We’ll all have to pull together. You said something about Rebecca taking on the receptionist job here. When can you get her in? Today? Then see if you can get hold of a big whiteboard. Ideally, I’d like it in my consulting room, but that won’t do for privacy reasons, so find a wall where we can put it. Somewhere we can sit and look at it, so we know where we are at any given time.’

  He picked up the phone and started dialling, and when she hesitated he waved her away with an abrupt, ‘I’ll explain later. The number’s ringing—can you switch it through to my room?’

  Steph switched the call through, then
checked the number of the office supply company with whom she’d set up an account. She was bemused, and puzzled, by the change in Harry, but pleased to have things to do.

  Rebecca, she found, would be happy to start working for Harry, and could be in by lunchtime. The whiteboard was also installed by then, on the wall in the small tearoom—the only available space.

  ‘Good idea,’ Harry told her, when he returned from heaven knew where and came in to make himself a coffee. ‘With it there it hits us in the face whenever we come in, so we can see if there’s something we’re missing.’

  He slumped into a chair and stared at the blank whiteness.

  ‘When’s the official opening?’

  ‘Saturday week.’ He obviously wasn’t aware he’d asked the question earlier.

  ‘Ten days away. OK, write that in up the top so we remember it. Then, in a column down the side, we’ll list all the support services we’ll need. I’ve got two anaesthetists lined up and another two surgeons, but I’ve got to give them a definite date. The kid arrives Tuesday. We’ll put him on a strong course of antibiotics immediately—’

  ‘Wait!’ Steph held up her hand. ‘Stop right there. What kid? What operation are you doing that requires two anaesthetists and three surgeons?’

  ‘Four—you’ll assist as well,’ he told her, then he ran his hand over his face and offered her a hesitant smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. It came as such a shock to find the first patient arriving so soon—now I have to work out how I can get it all organised in time.’

  ‘Go on,’ Steph ordered.

  ‘When I was in Paris, I met a French surgeon who spent part of each year in the Pacific islands. Children were brought in to the larger cities from neighbouring islands and he operated on them. But he told me of the operations he couldn’t perform because of lack of facilities and expertise. Children, for instance, who’d had a broken jaw which went untreated, so the jaw healed but with the jawbones fused so the children were left unable to open their mouths.’

  ‘But they’d have died of starvation,’ Steph protested.

  Harry’s smile was better this time.