‘And since when did I need looking after?’ she finished, but Jo just grinned a totally unrepentant grin and departed, heading for the hospital, although as she crossed the yard she turned back to Lauren.
‘I’ll do any shifts you were taking at the refuge while you’ve got Bobby. I’ll phone you later.’
Jo was telling Lauren, not asking—evidence of their close friendship—but though Tom was pleased Jo would pick up any slack at the refuge for Lauren, it was the other phrase—to look after Lauren—that still lingered in his head.
It meant nothing, he told himself. In fact, having Lauren in the house was going to interfere with his life no end—he could hardly bring women here while she was here.
Not that his love life was important right now—definitely not with, well, not only Lauren but with Bobby in the house.
He’d promised Bobby.
Could a man have any kind of social life with a kid around?
Was he really so shallow that he was thinking this way?
And had he been wrong about Lauren all these years?
Did she need looking after?
He leant forward and rested his head in his hands and heard himself groan.
‘Migraine?’ Lauren teased.
He looked up and glowered at her.
‘I don’t know what’s come over me. Here I am, a normal, easygoing male, doing my job, minding my own business, generally enjoying life and suddenly I’m making promises to a kid I barely know, and obviously losing my marbles altogether.’
‘You’re worried about Bobby,’ Lauren told him. ‘And worrying about him has not only brought back a lot of unwanted memories of your own but it’s got you thinking far too far ahead. You’re probably already worrying about how you can entertain your women friends when you’ve got a houseful of unwanted guests.’
He gaped at her. Was his head made of glass that she’d read through the knotted thoughts inside it so easily?
Then he glowered, because it was very uncomfortable having someone around who could do that, especially the bit about the women.
Although she’d missed the bit where he was worried about her as well.
She ignored the glower, held up the coffee pot and he nodded, and to top off the wild emotional swings he was experiencing, he found himself smiling because suddenly it was very pleasant to be sitting on his veranda with Lauren pouring coffee for him.
CHAPTER FOUR
TAKING care of Bobby consumed the rest of the day. He woke hungry and belligerent, and nothing changed throughout the programme Lauren and Tom devised to keep him busy.
They started with a surf, choosing the long southern beach so he wouldn’t have to see the scene of the previous night’s disaster, but the boogie board Tom lent him was too old, the surf too rough, the sand too sandy, and when, in desperation to find something to give him pleasure, Lauren suggested they go to a fast-food outlet for dinner, of course the one she suggested was the wrong one.
Back at Tom’s house, an exhausted Lauren supervised a reluctant Bobby’s bath, got him into pyjamas and was intending to send him to bed when she realised he’d slept until early afternoon and while she and Tom might be exhausted after a drama-packed night and long, exhausting day, Bobby was still running on a full tank.
‘Can I watch some of the DVDs from over at the hospital?’ he asked, and Lauren glanced at Tom who mimed a despairing ‘Anything!’ at her, so she took Bobby’s hand and led him across to the hospital to choose a DVD he’d enjoy.
She’d been relatively surprised when he’d let her hold his hand, so it wasn’t totally unexpected that he shook her off before they walked up onto the veranda where there might be people who would see them. But the fact that he’d let her hold it even for a short time heartened her, as he’d avoided physical approaches all afternoon.
‘It isn’t us he hates, just his situation,’ Lauren said to Tom a little later. They were sitting on the veranda just outside the French doors from the living room, so Bobby could see them if he looked out.
‘I wish he’d talk about it, even ask something,’ Tom replied, speaking quietly, although the sound was so loud on the DVD Lauren doubted Bobby could hear them.
‘He’s blocking it from his mind. If he doesn’t talk about it he doesn’t have to think about it and he’s very aware that thinking about it causes pain and grief.’ Lauren sighed, then added, ‘He’ll work his way up to it. Well, I hope he will.’
She was expecting an objection when the DVD finished and she told Bobby it was bedtime, but he went willingly enough, cleaning his teeth first, then leading the way into ‘his’ room.
His little face was set, his lips tight, the tension in his body so obvious Lauren wondered how she might help him release some of it.
Giving him a hug and a goodnight kiss would probably result in another punch.
‘You don’t have to go to school this week if you don’t want to,’ she said, desperate for an opening that might encourage him to talk—if, of course, he wanted to. ‘It’s the last three days of term and nothing’s happening so you can miss them.’
‘Why wouldn’t I go to school? It’s the only time school’s fun, this last week. We muck around, throw water bombs, so course I’ll go.’
Oh, dear, the belligerence was still there—in force! Could she mention what had happened?
Gently?
‘You do know the other kids will talk about the accident and it might upset you?’
His face tightened and for a moment she thought he might cry. At least that would give her a chance to comfort him.
‘It wasn’t an accident.’ The words burst from his lips. ‘Greg did something. Have the police got him? Do they know he did it? Do they know he killed my mum?’
Tom had moved into the doorway of the room, no doubt intending to say goodnight to Bobby. Lauren glanced at him, aware the despair she was feeling would be written on her face.
To her relief Tom came closer, sitting down on the other side of Bobby’s bed.
‘The police know Greg was there and they are looking for him,’ he said to Bobby. ‘They’ll find him.’
‘Will they bang him up?’ The little boy—and he appeared very little and very alone right now—looked from Tom to Lauren then back to Tom. ‘’Cos if they don’t I won’t go and live with him. He’s not my dad, and if anyone makes me I’ll run away and keep on running away.’
It wasn’t that Tom was closer, he just moved faster, reaching out to take Bobby in his arms.
‘We’ve promised you we’ll look after you,’ he reminded Bobby, ‘and we will. We will not let you go anywhere you don’t want to go, or anywhere you might be unhappy.’
The terrible tension was released. Bobby’s tears this time were quiet and when they’d ended, Lauren and Tom shared the task of tucking him into bed, assuring him again and again he was safe with them. Then they kissed him, one on each cheek, Lauren telling him she’d be beside him if he woke up in the night.
‘You want a story?’ Tom asked, surprising Lauren, who’d brought in a book from the refuge but had forgotten about it in the emotional conversations.
‘You’ll read it?’ Bobby asked, and Tom agreed he was up to the task.
Lauren left them to it, the little boy lying on his side, his hands clasped under his head, listening to Tom read a story about a boy who sucked his pet bird into the vacuum cleaner by accident.
Apparently it was weird enough for Bobby to enjoy it, although when she peeked in a little later, the child was asleep, Tom pulling the sheet up over him in case the night grew cool.
‘Can we make promises like that to him—telling him we won’t let him go anywhere he doesn’t want to go?’ Lauren asked Tom when he joined her in the living room where she was tidying up the mess Bobby had created while watching the DVD.
One crisp packet, one empty milk glass, one plate with one chocolate biscuit—melted and sticky—still on it, and various bits of torn-up paper he’d got from somewhere.
To
m watched in silence as she tried to piece the paper together, and when he didn’t answer, she pushed a little further.
‘Being Bobby, any relative they find could be the kindest, most loving and generous person in the world and he’d find fault with him or her.’
‘I know.’
Okay, so Tom had finally replied, but ‘I know’ wasn’t much help.
‘And?’ Lauren prompted.
Tom sighed and came into the room, slumping down in what Lauren thought of now as his chair. And that’s what the torn paper was—the newspaper folded at the crossword that had been on the arm of that chair earlier in this tumultuous day.
‘I think what he needs right now is reassurance,’ Tom said, weighing each word as he tried to speak the random thoughts that fluttered like the bird in the vacuum cleaner through his head. ‘If we can give him that now, while he comes to terms to some extent with his mother’s death, then we’ll deal with the next stage when it happens. Eventually, if a relative is found who is willing to take care of him, we will have to not only suss that person out but persuade Bobby to at least give him or her a go, but until Mike finds a relative, let’s not worry.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Lauren muttered, standing in the middle of the room with the tray of dirty dishes and debris in her hands.
Tom looked up at her and smiled.
‘Isn’t it always? We, doctors in particular, say don’t worry to people knowing full well they’re going to go on worrying. “Don’t worry” must be the most ineffectual phrase in the English language. Now, do you want some real food? My stomach doesn’t seem to think that a chicken burger and chips, most of which Bobby pinched from my packet, will get me through the night.’
‘You can’t go on feeding me,’ Lauren protested. ‘If I’m staying here a while, I should throw in for food.’
‘We don’t know how long you’re staying,’ Tom pointed out, getting out of his chair and coming across to take the tray she was still holding in her hands—close, so close she realised there were dark rims around the grey of his irises, not to mention dark shadows of tiredness beneath his eyes.
‘Let’s get a pizza delivered, my shout, or Chinese or whatever,’ she suggested. ‘What would you like?’
Had she rushed into food conversation because a sudden sense of intimacy had crept over her as they’d stood—so close …
‘Pizza for me, from the wood-fired oven place. You like pepperoni?’ Had Tom felt the same intimacy that he’d backed up a pace before he’d answered?
‘Love it, and plenty of olives and feta cheese and prosciutto as well, please, but I’m paying.’
‘You’re a guest,’ he repeated. ‘Guests don’t pay.’
He moved away now, taking the tray through to the kitchen. Should she follow—wash and dry the plate and glass? This was the problem with staying in someone else’s house—you never knew just what you should or shouldn’t be doing. And standing with him in the kitchen—washing up or drying—they’d be close again. That probably wasn’t such a good idea when an image of his eyes lingered in her head, and an uneasy reaction to his closeness rippled in her body.
She was still dithering when she heard him on the side veranda, phoning the pizza place, and then, from the snippets of conversation she could hear, calling the hospital as well. She knew he’d been over there for a while before they’d gone to the beach, and all but three of the patients admitted the previous night had been discharged. As far as she knew, none of the remaining accident victims were in a bad way, but checking again and again, she knew, was part of Tom’s make-up. He was thorough in all he did, probably the most effective member of the co-ordinating team for the refuge, always coming up with suggestions and ideas.
The refuge! She hadn’t given the problems there a thought—and what had happened to the cheque she’d been supposed to accept last night?
Better to think about the refuge than to think about Tom.
It was only the enforced cohabitation—what a word!—that was stirring up the attraction she’d always felt for the man, attraction she’d been able to hide behind what she considered a relaxed but true friendship, only too aware it couldn’t be anything else.
‘Pizza on the way. Would you like a cold drink?’ She was still dithering outside the living room, lost in tangled strands of thought, so when he suggested they sit outside again and offered a selection of cold drinks, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair and said yes to a glass of the new low-alcohol wine a local vineyard was producing.
It would be interesting to try the wine but, more importantly, it was unlikely the low percentage of alcohol would weaken her determination that Tom should stay a friend and nothing more.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the low-alcohol wine that weakened her, it was the sense of well-being that crept over her as she sat on the shadowed veranda, looking out over the town towards the ocean, hearing the soft splash of the surf on the beach, seeing the lights on the Christmas tree, secured, fully upright, without fanfare some time during the day.
Not only well-being but belonging, which was stupid as Crystal Cove was where she did belong, having grown up in the hills behind the town. But this belonging was something different—an ease within herself, even though she wasn’t alone.
And, no, it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Tom …
‘What would make a man do what Greg Carter apparently did?’
So Tom wasn’t thinking of well-being or ease—of course he wasn’t.
Glad to have a new focus for her thoughts, Lauren considered the question.
‘Perhaps Joan had told him she wasn’t going back to him, no matter what he promised,’ she said quietly. ‘Joan’s been a regular at the refuge since it opened and every time she’s gone back to whoever was abusing her. Greg is the second man she’s been with since I met her. It’s a cyclical thing, abuse, but with Greg the intervals between incidents have been becoming shorter, which has pushed her to think more clearly about the future. She’d taken a part-time job at the local supermarket, and was determined to learn to stand on her own two feet.’
A sudden wave of grief for the woman washed through Lauren and she added, ‘Sad, isn’t it, that we’ve talked of Bobby and the future but not of Joan herself—not of a young woman killed when her life had barely begun and when a new and hopefully better future seemed to be beckoning.’
Tom shifted his chair a little closer, and reached out to take Lauren’s hand, offering comfort as she mourned a woman she’d been supporting for years.
‘I think that’s something Bobby will be pleased to know later on—to know his mother was trying to make a new life for herself—although if it triggered the action that led to her death it probably isn’t something we need to talk to him about right now.’
Tom heard Lauren sigh and wished he could do more, wished he could take her in his arms and promise her everything would be all right, but that was another of those empty promises—nothing more than words like ‘don’t worry’, because who could guarantee ‘forever’ happiness? Life didn’t work that way.
Fortunately the pizzas arrived before he could get too lost in the kind of introspection he usually avoided, finding his life was simpler and easier if he lived it on the surface and didn’t delve too deep. That was how he’d survived as a child in care, never asking why him, or trying to work out how he felt about things, simply plunging into whatever life happened to have on offer at the time.
‘Shallow, I suppose.’
He was pulling slices of pizzas, fighting with the cheese on top, onto his plate as he spoke.
‘Do you prefer thick crust?’ Lauren’s question jerked him out of the rarely explored region of his mind.
‘Prefer thick crust? Why would you think that?’
‘You muttered something about it being shallow—I thought you meant thin.’
She was peering at him, a slight frown on her face, worry in her lovely eyes.
‘No, you’re hearing things
, why on earth would I call a pizza shallow?’
At least the silly conversation made her smile.
‘Okay, I’m hearing things,’ she said, still smiling, and Tom decided that having Lauren on his veranda, smiling and eating pizza with strings of cheese hanging from it, was even better than having Lauren on his veranda pouring coffee for him.
Which, all things considered, was a very unsettling idea, given that even in his student days he’d hated having to share his living space with anyone. He’d worked all the hours he’d had available from lectures or study to pay rent on a tiny bedsitter so he didn’t have to share.
Another legacy of a childhood in care when he’d rarely had his own room, and had been made to share his few possessions?
He didn’t know, and wasn’t going to think about it, in case thinking about it confused him more than he already was confused. He’d just accept it, and it was only a temporary situation anyway, although …
‘What if Mike can’t find a relative who would be kind to Bobby?’
Lauren looked up so suddenly a string of cheese got stuck to her chin.
‘I honestly don’t know, Tom,’ she said, frowning again, but maybe because she was having trouble unsticking the cheese. ‘I realise your own experiences make you dubious about him being placed in foster-care, but we keep reading stories in the paper about really wonderful foster-parents, who’ve had dozens of kids through their doors, all of them turning out happy and well adjusted.’
Tom found himself sighing.
‘I know,’ he said, gloom descending to cloud out the happiness he’d felt earlier. ‘Probably most of the foster-parents who cared for me were wonderful as well, but maybe I see myself in Bobby—the perennial misfit, resentful of kindness, suspicious of it, not understanding simple fun and laughter, always seeming to be on the outside, looking in.’
‘Do you still feel that way?’
The question startled him.
‘Me?’
Lauren smiled as she said, ‘Yes, you. I think you do—I think you stay detached. We’ve been friends for, what, eighteen months? We’ve been on committees together, shared concerns over patients, been to parties at the homes of mutual acquaintances, yet I don’t really know you at all.’
New Doc in Town / Orphan Under the Christmas Tree Page 22
