‘You’re doing a fantastic job, Chantelle.’ She spoke in English now, switching languages effortlessly. ‘I really like your cutting out.’
‘I need more colours.’
‘I’ll find some more old magazines. Did you find the glue?’
‘Here. See?’
The jar of paste tipped and Amy hastily righted it. ‘They’ll be the best streamers any Christmas tree ever had. Weren’t the others going to help you? Or are they doing their homework?’
‘They’re watching telly.’
‘They’ll have to get busy after dinner, then. Could you tell them it’ll be ready soon?’
There was a somewhat battered old couch in the corner of this kitchen. It was covered with a mound of soft pillows at the end and lots of warm blankets, although the range did a wonderful job of heating this part of the old house. A small radiant heater was also on because the stone floor had an amazing ability to suck in heat.
An oxygen cylinder was tucked safely between the end of the couch and the wall. Tubing snaked towards nose prongs and the pale plastic accessory was made more obvious by how black the little face beneath it was.
Amy loved the feel of Summer’s fuzzy hair. She stroked it again as she dropped to a crouch. ‘How are you doing, sweetheart? Are you hungry?’
The small girl shook her head.
‘Could you eat something? Some eggy soldiers, maybe?’
Another head shake but Summer was smiling her gorgeous smile. Enjoying the attention. Saving her limited breath for something worth saying.
‘Soup? If I help you?’
The smile widened and Summer nodded.
‘Chicken or tomato?’
‘Chicken.’ The word was a whisper. It was an effort to speak. An effort just to stay alive, really.
‘Good girl.’ Amy’s fingers sought a pulse in the matchstick wrist as she kissed Summer’s forehead. It was thready and too fast. As it always was. A quick glance at the regulator on the oxygen cylinder was a relief. The tank was still more than half-full and there was a new one in the bedroom upstairs. One less task to find time for. She gave her another kiss, this time concentrating on how the child’s skin felt under her lips. Was it a little too warm? She took off one of the blankets.
‘Zietta Amy!’ Angelo called. ‘Nonna wants to talk to you.’
Amy took the phone, greeted her mother and then listened to a garbled version of how her grandmother was doing, how tiresome the journey had been with so many people traveling to be home for Christmas and how worried she was about all ‘her’ children.
‘We’re fine,’ Amy said when she could get a word in edgeways.
‘What are you feeding my bambinos?’
‘Tonight it’s spaghetti and meatballs.’
‘And vegetables?’
‘Yes.’ Tomatoes counted as vegetables, didn’t they?
‘How’s Summer?’ There was a new note in her mother’s voice that went beyond the expected anxiety. Summer was their special one. Every day had to be treasured.
Amy cast a glance back at the couch. Summer lay quietly, just watching. As she had been all day.
‘She’s happy. She wants chicken soup for dinner.’
‘Give her an egg. There’s more goodness in an egg. It’s her favourite. Mash up the egg and cut the crusts off the bread and—’
‘Chicken soup is good, too, Mamma. That’s what she wants tonight.’ Amy walked towards the pantry as she spoke, to get the can of soup while she thought of it. The pantry was vast. A relic from the days when this old house had had kitchen staff with scullery maids who would have used the old tubs in here to scour pans. Many of the shelves had nothing more than dust on them. Amy needed to find time to get to a supermarket. She had to get to work so she could pay for the groceries.
‘She’s too tired to eat? Is that it?’
Amy’s hesitation said too much. Marcella Phillips clicked her tongue in distress. ‘Dio, but I hate being away from her.’
‘I know, Mamma.’
‘She’s my little angel. How long is she being lent to us? This Christmas has to be the best. She’s in my prayers every day but—’
‘She’s on the list for a heart transplant. That would be the best Christmas present.’
Amy put the can of soup on the bench and opened a drawer to search for a can opener. The bolognese sauce was bubbling enthusiastically. Bright spots of sauce were landing some considerable distance from the pot. The large pan of water beside it was finally coming to the boil. Amy dribbled some olive oil into the water, taking an anxious glance at her watch as she added a handful of salt.
‘I need to go, Mamma. It’s dinner time and I have to get ready for—’ Amy bit her lip but it was too late.
‘Ready for what, Amy Elisabetta? You’re not going to work tonight?’
‘I have to, Mamma.’ There was no point alarming her mother by telling her how empty their household account was. She would discuss it endlessly with Rosa and that would only make things worse. Rosa’s husband had left her penniless and this was the only home she had for now. The boys needed their mother at home for a little longer, not out working because she felt compelled to help support the family.
‘You said you would get time off until Rosa and I got back. It’s only a few days. Maybe tomorrow, even.’
‘Zoe is coming to stay with the children.’
‘Zoe? Zoe? She’s a child herself!’ The fact that her mother had switched from English to Italian was a sure sign that stress levels were zooming up.
‘She’s sixteen, Mamma. Responsible.’ It was quite difficult to hold the phone and open a can of soup at the same time.
‘Pfff!’ The sound was eloquent. ‘Responsible people do not keep putting holes in themselves.’
‘You get Zoe to babysit yourself. You love Zoe.’
‘Not at night. Never all night.’
‘Lizzie’s is only five minutes’ walk away. Three if I run. I’ve talked to my charge nurse. If there’s an emergency at home, they’ll let me come back.’
If they were quiet, that was.
‘It won’t do. We’ll have to come home.’
‘But what about Nonna?’
‘She’s going to be allowed out of hospital. Maybe even tomorrow. We’re going to bring her home with us.’
Amy’s heart sank. Nonna was the absolute stereotype of an old Italian woman from a small village. Tiny, wrinkled and always shrouded in voluminous black clothing, she spoke not a word of English. She would hate London.
‘Are you sure about this, Mamma?’ she asked carefully.
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘But—’
‘But what? You have a problem with your nonna coming to live with us?’ Amy recognised that tone of admonition. It was dangerous. ‘You don’t love your Nonna?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘She can have Vanni’s room.’
Amy was silent. This was just getting worse. Uncle Vanni’s room might not be available for very much longer. Something had to be said. But what?
Again, Marcella interpreted the silence. ‘You think we’ll lose the house? No, no, no! That isn’t going to happen, cara. I know Vanni made a will. It’s in the house somewhere. We just have to find it.’
‘We’ve looked everywhere. His desk, the bank, every single box in the attic…’
‘He was disorganised, my cousin. It will be somewhere we don’t expect.’
The water was boiling now. Ready for the pasta. Chantelle was climbing down from her chair at the table, trailing a string of coloured paper loops for admiration. Angelo and Marco had vanished and happy shrieks were coming from the lounge where the television was.
‘I have to go, Mamma,’ Amy said firmly. ‘Give Nonna a kiss for me. Call me tomorrow.’
‘You keep looking. Try the dresser.’
‘What dresser?’
‘The one in the kitchen. With the recipe books and the old…What are they?’ It was a sure sign of overwhelming stre
ss when words failed Marcella. ‘The letters to say the bills are paid?’
‘Receipts.’
‘Sì. There’s a lot of receipts in there. Other papers, too, maybe.’
It was getting late by the time Luke Harrington had finished his ward round. Very late.
‘What are you still doing here, Luke?’
‘I could ask you the same thing, Margaret.’
The charge nurse laughed. ‘I’m legit. I’m doing a long day so I don’t finish till 9:00 p.m., after handover for the night shift. What’s your excuse?’
‘Johnny Smythe got admitted. Heart failure.’
‘I heard that. He’s having a bad run, isn’t he? Even for a Down’s syndrome child, he’s getting more than his fair share.’
‘They can’t put off the surgery any longer. I’ll have to try and fit him in in the next couple of days. Tomorrow, possibly.’
‘Isn’t wee Liam going to Theatre tomorrow?’
Luke slotted the case notes he’d been writing in back into the trolley. ‘It’s certainly shaping up to be a long day.’ Another one. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why he felt more drained than usual. Ah…yes…
‘Do you know a nurse called Amy Phillips?’ he asked Margaret.
‘Of course.’ Margaret gave him a puzzled glance. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Someone mentioned her name today, that’s all. I couldn’t place it.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘Honestly, Luke. Sometimes I think you operate on a different planet. She was a theatre nurse for ages before she came onto the ward here.’ Her look was resigned. ‘It’s no wonder you’re still single if you don’t even notice women as gorgeous as our Amy.’
Luke didn’t discuss his personal life. So far, the hospital grapevine had been denied any juicy titbits regarding his background.
‘Someone else clearly thought the same way,’ he said dismissively. ‘It sounded to me as though she has more children than she can manage.’
Margaret laughed. ‘She has, at that. Her mother has, at any rate. She’s a foster-parent. They’re lucky children that end up in the Phillipses’ house.’
Luke frowned. The squatters were fostering children? It didn’t make sense. It was also disturbing. He had ordered the demolition of a house full of disadvantaged children?
‘The latest addition was Summer Bell. Do you remember her? That dear little Somalian girl who was here a few months ago?’ She gave Luke a wry smile. ‘You’re better at remembering patient names than staff members.’
‘I operated on her twice. Of course I remember.’ Luke was feeling faintly dizzy. He needed to sit down. Or escape. And it was high time he had something to eat. ‘She’s terminal,’ he said quietly. ‘Unless a transplant becomes available in time, and we both know how unlikely that is. She was…sadly…sent home to die.’ A case that was not one of the success stories. Never a good idea to dwell on those.
‘She had no home to go to,’ Margaret said softly. ‘Her foster-family couldn’t face looking after a terminally ill child. Amy had fallen in love with her. So did Marcella.’
‘Marcella?’ The Italian name sent a chill down Luke’s spine.
‘Amy’s mother.’
‘She’s…’ Luke swallowed. ‘She’s Italian?’
‘Marcella is. Amy is half-Italian. Marcella married an English policeman, of all things. He brought his family to London when Amy was about five.’ Margaret was smiling. ‘You wouldn’t know she was half-English to look at her, mind you. She’s dark and gorgeous and more than a bit fiery.’
Passionate.
It felt as if the walls were closing in. ‘I have to go,’ Luke decided aloud. His sudden movement clearly startled Margaret enough to need an explanation. ‘Early start tomorrow.’
He needed some time alone. To say he was shaken would be an accurate description, except that Luke Harrington did not get shaken. The physical movement of striding through the familiar corridors of St Elizabeth’s should have been enough to centre himself, but it wasn’t.
Something had changed.
Tentacles were pulling at him. Threads of a connection he hadn’t expected and most definitely didn’t want. More than one of them, too. It felt like some kind of portal had opened and it was following him.
All thanks to an inheritance he wanted nothing to do with. A house he’d probably driven past a thousand times until he’d learned the significance of the address and had gone out of his way not to pass it on his way to and from the apartment.
He slid into the driver’s seat of his sleek car and drove smoothly to the car-park exit. He had a lot to do tonight. He wanted to plan the major surgery on tiny Liam. He needed to think about the best way to tackle Johnny’s oversized septal defect, as well.
He was not going to allow himself to be distracted. To feel guilty that he might be scattering a foster-family right before Christmas. They would be better off somewhere else. They were living in a substandard house, for heaven’s sake. Practically derelict according to the independent surveyor’s report on the dwelling he had received via Mr Battersby.
Missing slates on the roof, a chimney that had a dangerous lean, broken windows that hadn’t been repaired properly. He could probably see how inappropriate it was from the outside if he took the time to drive past now that he knew the precise address he was looking for.
No. He didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to go near the place.
Not in this lifetime.
There were a lot of papers in that hutch dresser. Amy was sitting in a sea of them. She’d only meant to have a quick look but somehow the table hadn’t been cleared, the children were not in bed as they should have been and she was running out of time to shower and change into her uniform.
And now someone was pounding on her door.
It couldn’t be Zoe, who knew to come in the back. In fact, why wasn’t Zoe here yet?
‘There’s someone at the door, Amy.’
‘I know, Chantelle. Oh, you’re in your pyjamas. Good girl.’
‘Shall I see who it is?’
‘No.’ It was dark and there shouldn’t be anyone knocking at this time of the evening. Amy’s heart rate picked up as she went into the shadowy space of the wide hallway. She had a nasty feeling it was going to be that elderly solicitor who’d been here earlier. Or worse. Maybe it was the police coming to evict them.
Standing on tiptoe, Amy peered through the spy hole. She rubbed at the tiny piece of glass, not believing what she was seeing. She peered harder. And then she opened the door, without putting the safety chain on first.
She knew she was probably gaping like a stranded fish but this was so weird!
‘Mr Harrington,’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’
CHAPTER TWO
HE WAS still angry with her!
Gorgeous looking, unapproachable, important men did not turn up on Amy’s doorstep. Luke Harrington was so far out of her league that this was as disconcerting as it would have been to find a member of the royal family knocking on her door.
However unprofessional and unprecedented it might be, the only explanation Amy could come up with was that Mr Harrington had found out where she lived and had come to yell at her. On top of the worry about her family and yet another fruitless search for a document that represented safety for all of them, this was too much.
Amy almost burst into tears.
Like she had last week, when she had utterly failed to come up to the standards this surgeon expected from his staff.
Had he come to tell her not to bother showing up for work tonight? That he’d persuaded the principal nursing officer that Amy needed to be let go without even serving any notice?
It could be the final straw. Her family might soon have no income, as well as nowhere to live.
But why wasn’t he saying anything?
He was staring at her. As though she had just walked into his operating theatre stark naked or something. As though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and it w
as so far from being acceptable he couldn’t decide what to do about it.
He hadn’t expected her to be terrified of him!
Luke recognised her, of course. Sort of. Not that he’d ever seen her out of a uniform that usually included a surgical mask and hat, but those eyes were unique. Dark pools of the variety Luke instinctively avoided ever letting his gaze do more than rake past.
The kind of pools men with lesser control had difficulty not falling into.
He couldn’t drag his gaze away this time, however. Because of the fear he could see there. Real fear. The kind he often saw in the eyes of children when they were facing a necessary but painful procedure.
The kind of expression that made you want to protect them. To comfort them and tell them everything was going to be all right. And what good would that do? Someone had to do the hard yards. To distance themselves enough to be able to do what had to be done to actually make everything all right.
Precisely what he’d come here to do. He had gone against his better judgement, having parked across the road just to confirm the opinion of that surveyor’s report, by deciding to front up in person. To tell this Amy Phillips that this situation was not the end of the world. That he’d make sure that she—and the children—would find new accommodation in time for Christmas.
Better accommodation, dammit!
Luke drew in a deep breath. She’d asked him, quite reasonably, what he was doing there. With an effort, he dragged his gaze away from her eyes. Away from the tumble of dark hair with enough curl in it to make it shine from the dim light of the hallway behind her.
Like a halo.
Away from the way her soft woollen jumper and tight jeans clung to curves that a scrub suit or nurses’ uniform had never revealed. Away from an apron that was smeared with red stains and had what looked like…Good grief, tomato skins glued to it? It was filthy!
Luke let his breath out with a rush that gave his words more force than he might have intended. The words themselves were not what he’d planned to say, either, but a wave of something like outrage was building. Were these disadvantaged children in a not simply substandard but dirty house?
The Italian Surgeon's Christmas Miracle Page 2
