Well, not enough to worry about it.
‘So she has her papers?’ he prompted, and Jo blinked and tried really hard to concentrate on the conversation—tried really hard to ignore twinges and ripples and whatever they might mean.
Jackie’s papers—that’s what they’d been talking about.
‘All of them, I hope. If she has no money she can apply for a crisis payment. Actually, Lauren will ask her how she might go about getting money—letting her take control right from the start.’
How much to explain?
‘One of the reasons women find it hard to leave their abusers is that they’ve become dependent on them, so as well as providing a safe place to live, the refuge staff take whatever steps they can to give the women confidence in managing their own affairs. Staff members provide forms and information and can help but the women have to first work out what they want, think about how it might be achieved and then at least begin to get it organised for themselves.’
‘With support,’ Cam said.
‘With whatever level of support they need, and that varies tremendously,’ Jo agreed. ‘It’s all about helping them take control of their lives and mostly they’ve lost so much control it’s very, very difficult for them.’
‘Which would make it easier to go back to someone who did all that stuff for them even though he batters them?’
‘Exactly!’
She knew she should have let it go at that, but the familiar frustration was building inside her.
‘It is so exasperating,’ she muttered. ‘We—well, not me but the support staff at the refuge—can get them so far along the road to independence then suddenly it all becomes too hard and back they go, assuring us all—and themselves—that he, whoever he is, is really, really sorry and he has promised faithfully never to do it again, etcetera, etcetera.’
Her anger was easy to read, sparking in her eyes, colouring her cheeks—the angry elf again but a very attractive angry elf—differently attractive …
Cam knew he should be thinking about the conversation, but he understood only too well what she was saying. He’d scoured the internet for information on battered women the previous evening and everything he’d heard from Jo fitted into what he’d read.
‘There are successes, too, of course,’ she was saying, pressing her hands to her cheeks as if she knew they’d grown pink. ‘And Jackie could be one. I suspect she’s made the move now because of the boys. Jared is going on ten, which is an age where he could intervene between his parents and get hurt, or he could begin to ape his father’s behaviour and start verbally, or even physically, abusing Aaron.’
‘I kind of gathered the second scenario might be happening—and that was just from a fifteen-minute car ride.’
Fine dark eyebrows rose above the green witch eyes.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I did wonder. The good thing is, Lauren will get them sorted. There is absolutely no violence allowed in the refuge—no smacking of kids, no kids hitting or punching each other, no verbal abuse or threatening behaviour full stop.’
Cam kind of heard the reply, but his mind had drifted—well, the new door he’d shut was open again and he was wondering what those eyes would look like fired with an emotion other than anger.
Desire perhaps …
He tried to shut the door—this was not the time to be fantasising about his boss. Fantasising about any woman, really. He was heading north along the coast, surfing to clear his head, working because that helped as well, trying to come to terms with the fact that the emotional baggage he’d picked up in his army life—the damage from makeshift bombs, the deaths of innocent bystanders, the broken, lost and orphaned children—would probably stay with him for ever, he just had to learn how to deal with it.
As Jackie had to learn to deal with the myriad annoyances of officialdom—
‘The fish for you?’
The surfing waiter had returned, sliding a bowl of steaming calamari in front of Jo, then placing Cam’s plate on the table in front of him.
‘Enjoy!’ the young man said, and he bounced away. Cam could feel the excitement the young surfer was trying to keep under control in his body as he looked forward to a future following his dream.
‘Was this always your dream?’
Given the way he’d been thinking, it had been a natural question to ask, but from the way Jo was frowning at him, it must have come out wrong.
‘Eating calamari in the surf club?’ she queried. ‘Well, I do enjoy it but it was hardly a lifelong ambition.’
He had to laugh.
‘Being a doctor, coming back to work in your home town, working with your father? Was it always your ambition in the way going on the pro tour has been our waiter’s ambition? Was it that ambition that kept you off the pro tour?’
She could lie and say yes, kill the conversation once and for all, but his laugh had been so natural, so heartfelt and open and full of fun, she found it difficult to lie to him.
‘Not always.’ She was going to make do with that when she realised he wasn’t going to be satisfied and would ask more questions. ‘Any more than surfing your way along the coast was probably yours. Things happen, people change, dreams are reshaped to fit.’
She put down her fork and looked directly at him, although she knew how dangerous that was. The intensity in his eyes, the quirky lips, a faint scar she’d discovered in his left eyebrow—things that combined to start ripples and flickers and twitches and such churning in her stomach she doubted she’d be able to finish her calamari.
‘I don’t think this is a bad thing. I’m happy with my reshaped life,’ she told him, ignoring all the turmoil going on inside her. ‘Very happy!’
That should stop him asking any more personal questions, she told herself as she picked up her fork and stirred the remaining strips of pale, translucent seafood.
Cam clamped his teeth together so the questions he wanted to ask wouldn’t escape. What had her dream been? What had happened for her to change direction—to reshape her life? Her sister’s death? More than that?
It was none of his business.
He was moving on.
Okay, so now he’d suggested the men’s programme, he could set it up, but someone else could run it.
He looked out at the ocean, black and mysterious, always moving, changing, reshaping itself and the land it slid onto or crashed against, and all at once he knew he didn’t want to move on—didn’t want to leave this place—and not entirely because of the good surf.
Or the fact that getting a programme set up and running would be a terrific challenge.
She’d argued, as he guessed she would, over the bill, but he’d insisted on paying, so she’d walked out of the restaurant in front of him, slowing on the steps, allowing him to catch up as she reached the ground.
‘Is there a good track up onto the headland?’ he asked, thinking a walk would be a pleasant way to end the day.
Actually, thinking he’d like to spend more time in this woman’s company, and what better than a walk in the moonlight?
‘Yes,’ she said, and something in the way she said it—hard, abrupt—stopped him making the suggestion. But before he could decide whether he wanted to argue, she sighed and turned towards the dark shape of the headland.
‘Come on, let’s do it,’ she said. ‘I’ve put it off long enough.’
Cam had no idea what she meant, but he was delighted she would walk with him no matter what her reasoning.
She set a brisk pace, but his strides were so much longer than hers, it made it easy for him to keep up. Low scrubby bushes, wind-bent, leaned across the path, the smell of salt and the moonlight, wrapping them in a secret world. The shushing of the surf onto the beach, occasional cries of night-hunting birds and the ever-present crashing of the waves against the rocks reminded Cam of all the reasons it was good to be alive.
Good to be alive with a pretty woman by his side?
‘The problem with loving people is … ‘ the pretty w
oman announced, in a voice that told him her mood might not have been as upbeat as his. They’d paused about halfway up the track at a fenced lookout that gave a fantastic view along the southern beach and were leaning on the railing.
‘The problem,’ she repeated, ‘is that you have to give yourself in love—bits of yourself—diminishing you and making you vulnerable so that when something happens to the person you love, it leaves a hole in your soul. You have to regrow those bits to make yourself whole again, but I don’t know whether you can ever refill that hole in your soul.’
He understood she wasn’t really talking to him, more giving voice to her thoughts so she could sort them out. Now she’d been silent so long, leaning on the railing, dark against the light of the ocean’s reflected moonlight, he wondered if he should prompt her, or maybe simply walk on and let her catch up.
No, he couldn’t do that.
He waited, looking at the beach but always with her silhouette at one side of his view, so he saw the moment when she shrugged off whatever melancholy had gripped her and turned towards him, a sad half-smile lingering on her face.
‘I’m sorry—I didn’t know that stuff was waiting to come out. Talk about needing a counsellor!’
She shrugged again.
‘My sister, my twin, was injured off this headland. It had been our playground all our lives, then suddenly I found I couldn’t come here. Even now, I don’t want to go on up to the top. I thought I could, after all this time, but I can’t. She didn’t die at once, brain-injured, though, a paraplegic for the ten years that she lived after the accident.’
‘Oh, Jo!’
Her name slipped from his lips as his arms folded her against him—a comforting embrace for a woman who was obviously still lost in her grief. He knew from the talk of the patients he’d seen that she would do anything for anyone, had seen her care and concern for Jackie, but who supported Jo? The patients’ questioning of him, and their not-so-subtle innuendoes had told him she didn’t have a man in her life.
Had she cut herself off from others because love had hurt so much?
Was her passion for the refuge a substitute for love?
He tightened his hold on her, aware that she was relaxing against him now, although when first he’d held her, her body had been stiff and awkward.
‘You do know a load is easier to carry when there’s someone to help you with it, don’t you?’ he murmured against her tangle of hair.
She stirred then looked up at him, her face lit by the bright moon, the slightest of smiles playing around her pink lips.
‘And just how much of your load are you sharing?’ she asked. ‘The load you’re trying to drown in the surf?’
Had he mentioned his baggage?
Surely not.
So she’d divined it somehow—guessed he’d carry some unresolved mental trauma from his army experience?
Or she was a witch!
He’d never kissed a witch.
The thought startled him so much he dropped his arms, and the moonlit face he’d almost kissed disappeared from view.
Jo eased herself out of his arms, bewildered by her reluctance to move. Surely she hadn’t mistaken a comforting hug for something more personal?
Although a glint, or maybe a gleam-in his eyes—just then at the end—had made her think he might—
No way! As if he’d been about to kiss her …
He must be feeling so uncomfortable, poor man, and wondering if his boss was some kind of lunatic.
Luna—moon—was it moon-madness that she’d blurted out her pain to him?
Made him feel obliged to give her a hug?
The problem was her memories of Jill had come slinking and creeping back into her mind from the moment she’d seen Cam in the flat—the stranger in amongst the roses. Then the talk of surfing and reshaped dreams at dinner, and to top it all off, Cam’s suggestion they walk up the headland.
Jo’s first instinct had been to say no, but she’d known she had to do it one day. She loved the headland and for one crazy moment she’d thought it might complete her rebuilding—make her whole again—ready to move on …
‘To lose a sibling is bad enough, but a twin … No wonder you felt you’d lost pieces of yourself.’
He’d slid an arm around her shoulders and was guiding her back down the path as if the little interlude—the hug and possibly the almost kiss—had never happened. His voice was deep, and gentle, and understanding, and it made her want to cry, which was stupid as she had finished her crying a long time ago.
‘Yes,’ she finally agreed, hoping he hadn’t heard her sniff or swallow the lump that had lodged in her throat, ‘but I’m obviously not as back together as I thought I was. I’m sorry to have dumped all that on you. It just came flooding out.’
‘Better out than in,’ her companion said, and although the remark was beyond trite, Jo knew in this case it was certainly true. She felt a whole lot better—apart from feeling slightly weepy.
They drove home in silence, but as the security lights came on in the carport and Jo knew he’d see the tears she’d been surreptitiously wiping away on the drive, she apologised once again.
‘Think nothing of it,’ Cam told her. ‘Feel free to vent any time. In fact, I should give you fair warning that one day some of my baggage might come tumbling out. You were right in thinking I had stuff to drown during my surf odyssey.’
To Cam’s surprise Jo reached over and touched his arm.
‘I’m sure that stuff, or baggage as you call it, is far more valid than mine,’ she said softly. ‘To have seen young men killed and injured in war—to have to mend their bodies and hopefully help heal their minds—I can’t imagine the strength it must have taken.’
Cam covered her small hand with his large one, and felt the fragility of her bones beneath the warm skin.
Bird bones.
‘I don’t think you can rate the baggage we carry around with us,’ he told her. ‘I think we all have it and we have to deal with it in our own way, day by day, week by week. Then one day it’s not as heavy—at least, that’s what I’m expecting-hoping—and as I said, maybe sharing it.’
Could he do that? Share the images that flashed before his eyes? Talk about the horror of his nightmares?
The thought startled him so much he gave her fingers a squeeze and climbed out of the vehicle, anxious now to get away, even if his temporary sanctuary was covered in roses and he’d guessed who had used it originally so he felt even more uneasy about staying in the bower.
But what bothered him most was that he’d mentioned his baggage. He hadn’t talked to anyone about it—not his parents or any of his sisters, not even, really, his ex-fiancée, who had first labelled the mess in his mind.
Yet here he was warning Jo that he might dump some of it on her.
Not that he could.
Could he?
Headlights probed the sky as a vehicle came up the steep hill. Jo was still standing beside the driver’s door, and some instinct to protect, perhaps not her specifically but any smaller, weaker person, made Cam pause as the big car topped the rise and turned towards the house.
A police vehicle, not flashing red and blue lights but its markings made it unmistakeable. Cam felt the sinews tighten in his chest—police, ambulance, fire vehicles, as far as he was concerned, none of them boded good.
Jo watched Mike Fletcher climb out of his big, official vehicle and felt her stomach clench with anxiety. She was vaguely aware that Cam had moved closer to her, and her body’s reaction was enough to make her straighten up and stride away from him, crossing the carport to meet Mike.
‘Trouble?’ she asked, looking at the chunky, handsome man who’d become a good friend in the two years he’d been at the Cove.
‘Richard Trent,’ he said, and Jo’s clench of anxiety tightened.
‘Jackie and the kids?’ Jo demanded, and Mike put his hand on her shoulder.
‘No, they’re fine. Sorry to give you a fright, but Richard calle
d in at the station to report them missing.’
‘Tonight? Just now?’
Mike nodded, then introduced himself to Cam, who’d closed in on her again.
Protective?
Jo concentrated on what Mike had come to tell her, about Richard Trent and his reaction in calling the police. Why would Richard have acted so swiftly—indoor cricket would have barely finished and surely calling the police would be a last resort?
‘Did he check with any friends or family first?’ she asked Mike. ‘Phone to see if they’d gone there? Not that they have, of course, they’re at the refuge—Lauren would have faxed you.’
Mike shook his head.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I read the fax and I still find it hard to believe. I mean, Richard’s the captain of our indoor cricket team and captain of one of the SES crews—that’s probably why he came to me, because he knows me—but Richard violent? Had he attacked her tonight?’
‘Abuse isn’t always violent, and though he might not have hit her before he left he’d waved his cricket bat at her and warned her he’d be home to deal with her later,’ Jo told him. ‘Something in his tone or maybe in whatever had transpired to anger him convinced Jackie that he meant it. She was terrified when we collected her.’
Realising that this conversation could more easily take place inside her house, she added, ‘Come on in,’ including Cam in the offer with a glance his way. She offered drinks that no one wanted and they settled down on the deck—the magical sheen of moonlight on the ocean making talk of violence seem unreal.
‘So, if he knows they’re in the refuge, why are you here, Mike?’
Cam asked the question and Mike frowned as if he was considering not answering—or maybe wondering what right Cam had to be asking it.
Jo stepped in, explaining Cam was coming to work for her and that he’d been with her when she’d driven Jackie to the refuge.
‘Staying here, is he?’ Mike asked.
‘In the flat,’ Jo explained, ‘but Cam’s right, are you worried about Richard’s reaction that you came up here? Was it to warn me he was angry about Jackie’s leaving? That I might be a target?’
New Doc in Town / Orphan Under the Christmas Tree Page 8
