Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?

by Marion Lennox

  He was staring at her like she was an alien from outer space. Maybe she was. She was his brother’s lover.

  His brother had been dead for years.

  ‘Go,’ she pleaded. ‘Dusty only needs me.’

  ‘I can help.’

  ‘You can help most by leaving.’

  The sun was blazing down on the sandy track. They should move into the shade.

  In a moment she’d get Dusty to move. In a minute. When Ben left.

  He knew it. She could see his hesitation, his impulse to do the right thing, carry Dusty into the shade, push help she didn’t want. For some reason she could read his expression.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she told him, as another shudder racked Dusty’s body. ‘We’re not here to make nuisances of ourselves. Dusty’s seen you. That’s all he wants. Please…just go.’

  His head was spinning. He strode down the track toward the resort and then broke into a run.

  Yes, it was hot, but they were out there in the sun. Regardless of Dusty’s need to be alone with his mother, he had to do something.

  His brother’s child.

  That meant Jess and Nate…

  He couldn’t go there. He felt ill.

  Why? Nate had had a string of lovers; he’d known that from the time he’d re-established contact. The combination of money, good looks and sheer, unashamed arrogance seemed to have been a powerful aphrodisiac. But as for permanent attachments… His brother had slept with Jess and he’d left her with a son?

  As far as he knew, his immediate family had ended with his father’s death.

  He had a nephew.

  He was doing mental arithmetic as he ran. Dusty was about ten. That’d mean Nate would have been in university. He’d ‘studied’ for years, on and off—mostly off—before he’d thrown it in as not his scene.

  That’s where he must have met Jess. London. University. Jess going on to be a doctor. Nate going on to do what Nate did best, which was nothing.

  Nate dead, because of a stupid, drunken crash.

  Leaving a child. Dusty. What sort of a name was that?

  A great name for the battered ten-year-old. A little boy with stoicism written all over him.

  Intelligence. Humour. Bravery.

  Qualities he saw in Jess.

  His fingers were clenched into fists as he ran. The old anger. Nate who’d wound his stupidly indulgent father around his indolent finger. Nate who’d hated him.

  Now this. Nate’s son.

  Had he looked after them? Certainly not when he’d died. There’d been no hint of a grandchild in the legal quagmire his father had left behind. Had Nate even told their father?

  A tight knot of anger coiled in his gut. He didn’t want anything to do with Nate’s disasters.

  But these weren’t disasters. The memory of Jess crouched on the track, hugging the sobbing little boy, was imprinted on his mind. These were Jess and Dusty.

  He was approaching the resort, and the concierge was bustling out to meet him. ‘We’ve just heard,’ he said before Ben could say what he needed. ‘Such dreadful news. Mind, they should expect it when the place is run by such elderly women but it’s made your morning dreadful. Can I help?’

  ‘Can you send a buggy back for Dr McPherson and her son?’ he said brusquely. ‘They’re on the track halfway home. They need a ride back here.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the concierge said. ‘I’ll send Doug at once. Would you like to go with him?’

  ‘I… No.’ Ben paused. Regrouped. Knew what Jess had asked.

  Please…

  She was as distressed as Dusty was, he thought, and he wasn’t doing anything to distress her. Nate’s woman.

  No. Jess. Simply Jess.

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘The little boy’s very upset but my presence won’t help anything.’

  Dusty was distraught. All the emotion of the last three months seemed to have been stored and had burst out today, released by the shock of Marge’s death, the proximity of Ben, sheer emotional overload. He sobbed until the resort buggy arrived to drive them home. He stayed limp during the ride, he sobbed again as they reached the privacy of their bungalow, and finally he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  He slept most of the afternoon while Jess thought of Marge and thought of her mother and thought grief could strike anywhere. How could she alleviate Dusty’s distress? She knew she couldn’t.

  You never ‘get over’ grief, she thought drearily, but you finally build scar tissue. Dusty was learning the hard way.

  When he woke she rang room service and asked for sandwiches.

  Ben arrived, the waiter behind him.

  He had his computer slung over his shoulder. He was carrying…Pokey?

  The little dog was huddled in Ben’s arms like she wanted to be somewhere else but she didn’t know where. Heavily pregnant. As miserable as all of them.

  ‘Can we come in?’ Ben said gently.

  Bemused, she stood aside. What else was a woman to do?

  Ben came in and so did the waiter. The man put the tray on the table, smiled at Ben, smiled at Pokey and left.

  Um…she had a dog in her room.

  There were signs all over the resort. No pets. No non-native animals on the island,

  Pokey didn’t qualify?

  Dusty was still a huddle of misery under his bedclothes. She thought he was awake, but he wasn’t reacting at all.

  ‘Can Pokey and I join you?’ Ben asked.

  What if she said no?

  She couldn’t. This man was Dusty’s uncle. It behoved her to be civil. Even though he was an Oaklander, he’d done nothing to deserve incivility, even though the thought of his presence was disconcerting. Frightening even.

  ‘You said you didn’t want anything of me,’ he said, still in that gentle voice that did something weird to her insides. ‘I don’t want anything of you either. If you want Pokey and I to leave then we will. But if you can, I’d like to talk.’

  She stared at him helplessly for a moment and then motioned to the chairs at the table.

  He sat. Pokey whined. He fondled the little pug behind her ears and she settled on his knee.

  ‘Why do you have Pokey?’ she managed. It seemed as good a place to start as any.

  ‘She’s Marge’s dog. I’ve been back over there; it’s full of distress and people not sure what they’re doing. Pokey’s presence is bound to be found out. Consensus is that Pokey might be better staying here for a few days.’

  ‘But can she stay here?’

  ‘I can be persuasive.’ He smiled at her, and she thought this wasn’t Nate’s smile. Nate’s smile had never been this gentle. ‘I’m keynote speaker to an international conference. I’ve explained I’m using Pokey as a prop.’

  ‘A prop…’

  His smile widened. Coaxing her to smile back. ‘How’s this for fast thinking? My talk’s on care for pregnant women in remote areas. I can hardly use a pregnant woman as my show-and-tell, so instead I’m using a pregnant dog. So I fronted at Reception and said she’d arrived on this afternoon’s ferry as arranged. I requested dog food, I acted as if there could be no objection in the world, and when they made a tentative protest. I said it had been a condition of my attendance, hadn’t they received my advance notice? I sounded haughty—like my attendance is predicated on Pokey being on stage with me. So they were faced with Losing Keynote Speaker. They were so dumbstruck they agreed. I figure when the conference is over she can be quietly slipped back to Sally and Dianne, who’ll quietly slip her to Marge’s daughter as soon as she returns from overseas. Job’s done.’

  He was looking like a child who’d just got away with stealing sweets. Mischief and triumph combined. Almost irresistible.

  It had to be irresistible. Back away from that smile…

  ‘So you’re going to look after her?’ she managed.

  ‘I’ll be busy at the conference,’ he said. ‘I do have plans to
incorporate her into my presentation—I need to justify this. The rest of the time she can stay in my room. But I did wonder…’

  He looked through into Dusty’s bedroom then, his smile fading. Addressed the small nose poking above the bedclothes. ‘I did wonder, Dusty, if you might look after her for me. Just during the sessions when I can’t be with her. What do you think?’

  Silence. More silence. Then…

  ‘Me?’ Dusty quavered, and the bedsheet was lowered by an inch.

  ‘There’s no one else,’ Ben said, apologetically. ‘She’s scared and lonely and she’s about to have pups. She needs gentle walks and lots of cuddles.’ He hesitated, like a man about to admit a failing. ‘I’m not all that good at cuddles,’ he conceded.

  Dusty’s sheet slipped so his face was in full view. The awful blankness had disappeared. ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

  Ben frowned. ‘Why not what?’

  ‘Why aren’t you good at cuddles? Didn’t your mum—?’

  ‘Dusty!’ Jess sent her son a warning glance. Shock and distress not withstanding, Dusty was one smart little boy. He was using the occasion for probing?

  But she wasn’t about to stop Ben replying.

  ‘My mum wasn’t good at cuddles either,’ Ben said, seemingly not fazed by the interruption. ‘She died of a pulmonary embolism eight years ago, just before your dad was killed. Her name was Fiona Smythe-Harris. She would have been your grandmother. Your other grandmother.’

  And just like that Ben was admitting to Dusty that they were related. She felt…winded.

  ‘Just like Marge,’ Dusty said.

  ‘She wasn’t a bit like Marge,’ Ben said. ‘She wore silk dresses and smart jackets and high-heeled shoes. She didn’t like dogs.’

  ‘So you never had a dog?’

  ‘No. I need help with this one.’

  It was the right appeal. Dusty pushed his bedclothes back with decision. ‘Are you cross that you’re my uncle?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m cross that I didn’t know about you but that’s not the same.’

  ‘You sounded cross with Mum.’ He was approaching Pokey with caution. Not, though, with the caution of a child who thought he might be bitten. It was the caution of a child who thought something wonderful might be snatched away.

  ‘I’m not cross with your mother either, even if I sounded like it,’ Ben said, and his voice was suddenly harsh again. ‘I’m cross with your dad for not telling me I had a nephew. I’m cross that for all these years I’ve had a nephew and I didn’t know. A nephew called Dusty.’

  ‘I’m really called Dustin,’ Dusty said, and he slid into the seat beside Ben and started stroking Pokey’s ears. Pokey dropped her head sideways to deepen the rub and Dusty obliged. ‘After my other grandpa. The nice one. He liked animals, a lot. I have his train set. It’s ace.’

  Ben’s eyes lit. ‘I had a train set when I was your age. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘How can I see it?’

  ‘My computer,’ he said, and he carefully slid Pokey into Dusty’s arms. Dusty looked at the little dog in awe. Pokey wriggled in his small-boy arms, and sighed.

  Dusty was used to handling his gran’s cat. He held Pokey with care and with firmness, and the little dog sighed again but then snuggled against him. Leaving Dusty free to gaze at Ben’s truly awesome laptop.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s about ten times better’n Mum’s. Do you have photos on it?’

  ‘Now I do,’ Ben said, and he smiled across the table at Jess—who was feeling gobsmacked. ‘My secretary back in London is used to some pretty strange requests. I waited until dawn her time to wake her up. She emailed them through. It’s taken them a while to download but I thought you might like them.’

  Photographs.

  Family photographs. He didn’t wait for permission; just flicked his laptop open and started a slide show.

  At some stage he must have scanned a lot of old photographs onto disk, because these pictures spanned a century.

  ‘That’s Oaklands when it was first built,’ he told Dusty, and Jess saw the house that had scared her witless seven years ago. ‘It was built by your great-grandfather. It’s a bit over the top. All those columns.’

  ‘Wow.’ Dusty stared at the house in wonder. ‘Was your family rich?’

  ‘Your family was rich,’ Ben said firmly. ‘These people are your family, Dustin.’

  And it was as if it was a legal decree. These people are your family…

  With these few words Dusty had been granted a right to his father’s life.

  A name.

  Her son was part Oaklander.

  Jess glanced at Ben’s impassive face. For the last ten years such a thought had made her shudder. Now…there was another side?

  Ben’s side.

  Once upon a time the Oaklander charm had made her lose her senses. Beware.

  She was bewaring as hard as she could beware.

  ‘So do you still own it?’ she managed.

  ‘Yes.’ He sounded strained, though, as if he didn’t like admitting it.

  ‘Do you live in it?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It has twenty bedrooms. How could a man choose which one to use? I loan it out to an overseas aid organisation. Meanwhile this one’s your grandfather and grandmother on their wedding day. I think you have your grandpa’s nose.’

  ‘Can you make it bigger?’ Dusty asked, entranced, so Ben did, magnifying it and magnifying it again so all they could see was pixilated nose.

  ‘See,’ Ben said. ‘Exactly the same.’

  Dusty felt his nose, looked at the pixilation—and giggled.

  It was a great sound.

  The day was being turned around.

  They watched more photographs. Various noses were compared. They ate.

  The room-service order had obviously been augmented by Ben, for there were twice as many sandwiches as she’d ordered, tiny chocolate éclairs, and strawberries and grapes. Also tall glasses, quarter filled with ice cream and what looked like lime syrup.

  ‘Watch this,’ Ben said, twisting the cap from lemonade and pouring it over, and suddenly they had green volcanoes that had to be drunk before they spilled over the sides.

  Dusty had eaten nothing since breakfast. He was a thin child at the best of times. He’d grown thinner since his gran had died. He needed encouragement to eat.

  She wasn’t needing to encourage him now. Ben was doing it for her, magically, incidentally, while he showed pictures of his parents, of their house, of Oaklander ancestors—and of Nate.

  The informal shots stopped when Nate was about eight, to be replaced by formal shots, media reports, formal portraits.

  The last shot was from a newspaper. Nate was at a society ball, his arm around the shoulders of a lovely, laughing girl. There were more lovely, laughing girls in the background.

  ‘He chose my mum, though,’ Dusty said, glancing at the women with disdain. ‘My mum’s prettier.’

  ‘She is,’ Ben agreed, and she flushed.

  She wasn’t.

  The face that looked back at her now from her mirror wasn’t the face that Nate had fallen for. Too many late nights delivering babies. Scrubbing her hands a hundred times a day. Studying when she should be sleeping. Worrying. But even then…what had he seen in her?

  The old refrain slammed home, said over and over in her head. How could I have been so stupid?

  If she hadn’t been stupid, she wouldn’t have Dusty. The thought steadied her, as it always did.

  Ben was looking at the screen again. Nate was still laughing. A tic moved at the corner of Ben’s mouth, imperceptible. Jess was good at seeing pain, though. Nate had hurt him?

  He was also good at disguising it. ‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said, before she could probe.

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘Not of you,’ he said. ‘Of Dusty. We have a conference, and now I have a dog. So, Dusty, I’m wondering…would you be able to c
are for Pokey while your mother and I are at the conference? Would you do that for us?’

  Dusty stared. He looked at Ben. Then he looked down at Pokey.

  Then he looked at his mother.

  This was the best gift, Jess thought, catching her breath.

  Dusty’s loss of his grandmother was still raw, made more painful by this morning’s shock, but right now, with his photographs, with his lime volcanoes, with Pokey, Ben was giving him time out. Scar tissue would finally form. Ben was administering pain relief while it happened.

  ‘I don’t think I can help Pokey have puppies by myself,’ Dusty quavered, but he sounded like he wouldn’t mind trying.

  ‘We’re not asking that of you,’ Ben assured him, rumpling his already rumpled hair. ‘Your mum already has the hotel kid-sitter lined up to stay with you. Your mum and I will keep our phones on vibrate, and if Pokey’s puppies start coming we’ll slink out of the conference and hot-foot it to help.’

  Dusty giggled. It was the best sound.

  Ben grinned back at him. He rolled Pokey over on Dusty’s knees, displaying her truly awesome tummy. ‘How many puppies?’ he asked Dusty as he stroked her. ‘Guess.’

  ‘One big one? It must be humungous.’

  Pokey liked having her tummy rubbed. Her tail started a tentative wag.

  ‘She needs an ultrasound,’ Jess said, joking, and Ben hesitated.

  ‘Maybe we can arrange it.’

  ‘What, take her to the mainland?’

  ‘Maybe we can do better than that. All sorts of displays are being set up, right here. Technology companies are spruiking their equipment, and some are already testing, wanting to make sure nothing goes wrong. I noticed one team this afternoon—they produce tiny portable scanners, state-of-the-art stuff. The team leader was telling me they’re getting close to as good a result as they are from much bigger units. If we were to head over there now…’ He looked at her, considering. Almost teasing. ‘Professor Oaklander, keynote speaker, and Dr. McPherson, senior obstetric physician at London Central…’

  ‘I’m not senior.’

  ‘If you take off your flip-flops,’ he said, grinning, ‘you might look senior.’

  ‘How did you know I worked at London Central?’

  ‘Professors have their ways. You want to try?’