The Surgeon's Second Chance Read online

  The two women were still talking—about children now. Rebecca was complaining about the language kids picked up at school.

  ‘You know the bloke I said was coming in?’ she added, switching conversation with the rapidity only a woman could manage. ‘Well, that’s him—the chap you know. The one you called Harry. He’s the bloke Muriel mentioned in her note.’

  Harry tried to imagine Steph’s reaction and failed, but now they were talking about him, he’d better make his continued presence known, in case they didn’t realise how thin the wall between them was.

  ‘Harry’s the bloke?’ he heard Steph say as he rose from behind the desk. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s here to see how the clinic runs.’ Rebecca expanded on her explanation.

  ‘At three in the morning? You’ve got to be kidding!’

  ‘Jet lag!’ Rebecca explained, as Harry opened the door and stepped out.

  ‘Good morning, Steph,’ he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. ‘How’s everything with you?’

  She gave him a look that would have made a lesser man turn tail and run, but he’d been on the receiving end of Steph’s black looks before, and was able to ignore it. But he couldn’t ignore the alarm he felt, seeing her so pale and tired looking, and far too thin—yet, strangely, more beautiful than she’d ever been.

  ‘What, exactly, are you doing here?’ she demanded, ignoring his question and going on the attack instead.

  ‘Checking out the place for the new owner.’ Now Bob Quayle’s request to keep his identity a secret seemed odder than ever. But wouldn’t Steph know her father-in-law was the new owner? ‘Apparently the clinic was in financial difficulties when the current owners bought it and the directors of the company would like to know why.’ Damn the woman—he was becoming more and more confused.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  ‘Oh, yes! I can just see the headlines!’ she sniped. ‘“Eminent cosmetic surgeon takes on investigation into dead-broke, run-down medical centre”.’ She used her long slim fingers to provide the quotation marks. ‘You’ve certainly got the qualifications! Not!’

  ‘It’s a favour for a friend,’ Harry said, remaining calm though the urge to shake her was becoming stronger by the second. ‘And you know I’ve worked in places like this before.’

  He was explaining too much, he realised, so he added a curt, ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ just to put her in her place.

  But Steph had never known her place—which, in days gone by, Harry had felt had been in his bed rather than Martin’s—and she stepped towards him, suspicion now radiating from her in almost visible waves.

  ‘What friend?’ she demanded, but before he could reply—or duck a reply—the doors opened again and three obviously inebriated youths came in, two of them supporting the third who was bleeding profusely from a head wound.

  ‘He fell over,’ one explained, as the threesome lurched and staggered closer to the desk.

  Steph responded first, stepping forward and taking hold of the injured man, telling Rebecca to get details and call Joanne to the treatment room.

  The first thing I tell Bob Quayle, Harry thought as he swept around the desk in time to support the other side of the injured youth, is that women shouldn’t be working night shifts in a place like this.

  ‘It’s ridiculous!’ he growled, only realising he’d spoken aloud when Steph turned and raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  ‘There being only women here.’ He put his thoughts into words, while he steered their patient towards a table set up in the middle of the room. ‘Look at you—so thin a decent puff of wind would blow you over! How are you expected to manage drunks like this?’

  The youth had lurched across the table and was going a peculiar green shade, but Steph had clearly been here before because she grabbed a basin and held it while the youngster threw up a great deal of the evening’s alcohol intake.

  The nurse, slightly better built than Steph but still no Amazon, now appeared and bustled about, emptying the dish, cleaning up the man’s face with a towel, producing a tray with antiseptic solution on it so Steph, who now had her patient sitting on the table, could clean the head wound.

  Fuming inwardly at the absurdity of the situation, Harry remained on the far side, one hand resting on the patient’s arm in case restraint was necessary.

  Steph was talking, asking the lad his name—Jerry—and what they’d been celebrating to be out so late on a week-night.

  Jerry launched into a somewhat disjointed explanation that was still logical enough to assure Harry—and no doubt Steph as well—that he wasn’t suffering concussion as a result of the head wound.

  ‘How did it happen, do you remember?’ Steph asked.

  ‘Fell off the railing,’ Jerry told her.

  ‘Railing?’

  Jerry grinned.

  ‘The one around the fountain in the mall. We were going to take a swim and Todd said first we’d better walk around the railing to see if we were sober enough.’

  ‘Of course,’ Steph said, as if such outrageous behaviour was perfectly logical to her. Then she glanced at Harry and grinned. ‘It’s a good test but not everyone passes it.’

  And Harry remembered.

  They’d been in first year Med—or maybe it had been second—a long time ago anyway. Holidaying at Martin’s family home after the exams, celebrating the end of semester, and Martin saying they had to walk around the railing to prove sobriety before they could swim in the fountain.

  Steph had been the only one who’d made it all the way round…

  Steph, with her long, lean limbs and lissom grace…

  She was suturing the cut and talking soothingly to Jerry as she stitched, establishing he was a local, not a tourist, explaining he should see his own GP in a week to have the stitches removed.

  ‘I’d rather come here for you to do it,’ Jerry said, making a grab for Steph’s hand.

  ‘I know you would,’ she agreed pleasantly, while easily avoiding his grasping hand. ‘But I might not be on duty and you’d get a big, rough, bearded first-year doctor who’d rip them out without caring whether it hurts or not. Best go to your own GP.’

  She cut a waterproof dressing and put it over the top.

  ‘Don’t take that off,’ she warned, then she helped him off the table.

  He went pale again, and the nurse produced the basin, but the lad steadied, and even had the grace to apologise for throwing up earlier.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Steph told him. ‘But you go straight home now.’

  He nodded, felt the injured place on his head with careful fingers, then let Steph lead him to the door. Though Harry wanted to follow, he restrained himself and instead introduced himself to the nurse.

  ‘Are you always on night duty?’ he asked, conscious of the fact he was supposed to be doing a job.

  Joanne shook her head.

  ‘Twice a week,’ she explained. ‘That’s all I need to do because the pay is higher for night duty and I make as much on two nights as I would on three and a half day shifts. I’m a student and when it’s not busy I study. Steph’s very good—she only calls me in if she needs something.’

  I’m sure she does, Harry thought—thinking of everyone but herself.

  He talked to Joanne for a while longer, discovering she was studying for a higher degree in nursing and hoping to go into teaching eventually.

  ‘Teaching has better hours for when I have a family,’ she explained, and Harry shook his head, seeing once again the problem of shuffling work and family.

  He walked out of the treatment room, still thinking about it—though his thinking ability was declining as his jet-lag phase switched from full alert to heavy-eyed exhaustion.

  He’d have to think about it later.

  Think about Bob Quayle and the job later as well.

  But not Steph—he’d talk to her now.

  She was nowhere in sight, and behind the reception desk Rebecca was c
hatting to an alert-looking woman in a vivid red suit. She was of medium height, and very pretty, with sleek blonde hair pulled back into a neat pleat at the back of her head.

  ‘This is Linda—she’s the early-shift receptionist this week,’ Rebecca said, waving him towards the desk. ‘She’ll introduce you to the other day staff. That’s if you’re still in hyperactive mode and want to stay.’

  She turned to Linda.

  ‘He’s Harry Pritchard—working for the new owners—checking to see we all do our jobs and don’t pinch money from the till.’

  ‘Some hope of that,’ Linda said, ‘when most of our patients are on Medicare.’

  But she smiled at Harry and gave him an assessing look—then another, much warmer smile as she added, ‘But if I can help you in any way, just let me know.’

  Harry smiled politely and excused himself. She’d put too much emphasis on the ‘any’ for him to miss the meaning, but he wasn’t interested in pretty blondes—not right now.

  Right now—as the night shift had apparently ended—he wanted to catch a certain redhead before she left work, and demand answers to at least some of the questions jostling for attention in his head.

  He’d explored the place earlier and found the tearoom, which appeared to double as a staff cloakroom, but though Joanne was there, chatting to a young man about the night they’d had, there was no sign of Steph.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Rebecca told him, when he emerged and was looking down the corridor towards the back entrance to the clinic.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Harry snapped, sure he hadn’t been so obvious in his quest.

  ‘Steph! She’s gone. She likes to get home before Fanny wakes up and her old car’s so unreliable she shoots out the moment the relieving doctor arrives. That way, if it doesn’t start, she can walk home and still be there for Fanny.’

  Disappointment blurred with anger that she’d taken off without so much as a good-bye—but, then, she’d hardly been welcoming, had she?

  Harry nodded curtly to Rebecca and strode back to the administration office. He’d flicked idly through the main bank of filing cabinets in the early hours of the morning, now he’d take a closer look. Personnel files would have employees’ addresses. Though he’d always assumed she still lived with the Quayles—he’d been sending Fanny’s presents to that address.

  But if she lived with Bob and Doreen, then she’d know Bob owned the clinic. Wouldn’t she?

  Damn her, dashing off like that—he really needed to talk to her.

  Forget it! common sense said. You’re far too tired to think, let alone carry on a sensible conversation—especially with a woman who hates your guts.

  But as he made his way back up to the apartment—Bob Quayle’s apartment—his mind continued to question what he’d seen and heard and learnt.

  Nothing made sense—least of all Bob Quayle asking him to check out the clinic.

  And not mentioning Steph worked there…

  Not mentioning Steph at all!

  It was still raining—it already seemed like forty days and forty nights—as Steph drove home. The not unpleasant weariness she usually felt after a night on duty had deserted her and in its place a high-strung tension sang and shimmied along her nerves.

  For a start, there was Harry.

  No, Harry wasn’t so much a start as a huge, gigantic, enormous and probably insurmountable obstacle the misaligned planets had dropped into her life. Like a meteorite so dense she could see no way through or around or over it.

  A meteorite with a distinct whiff of fish.

  She wasn’t naїve enough to believe Harry had just happened into her workplace. Fate wasn’t that cute.

  And a cosmetic surgeon appointed to check the running of a twenty-four-hour clinic? The fish smell was becoming stronger.

  She drove slowly through the deserted streets—not even the most dedicated of joggers were out this morning—while her mind tossed up possible explanations.

  Harry’s second cousin’s wife had bought the business and he was doing her a favour?

  He was here for a quick visit and this filled in the time?

  His parents had left their property in the west and retired to Summerland? Maybe they had bought the clinic as an investment, and he was checking it out for them? Ah, now that was feasible, wasn’t it?

  If you believed in fairy stories…

  She pulled into her drive, thoughts of Harry set aside for a moment as she did the mental arithmetic she usually did on mornings like this. If she bought absolutely nothing but essentials for the next six months, she’d have enough money saved to build the garage she badly needed for the car—then, three months after that, enough for a covered walkway from the garage to the house.

  Nine months—that wasn’t long. Like being pregnant. That had passed.

  Bad comparison.

  She slumped forward in the seat and rested her head on the steering-wheel. She considered thumping it there once or twice to empty out the thoughts she didn’t want to have, then, realising Fanny could be waking any minute, she straightened up, found her umbrella, eased open the car door and made the dash across her muddy back yard to the door.

  Her house was warm, and silent in the comforting way that told her all within were sleeping soundly. She checked Fanny anyway, smiling to herself as she looked at the little body splayed across the bed, rosy cheeked from sleep, gold curls tousled around her small head.

  Making her way back to the kitchen, Steph poked her head around Tracy’s door as well, flinching at the mess then remembering she’d been a messy teenager herself. There’d been so much to see, and do, and learn, there’d never been time to put things away.

  Satisfied all was well in this, the most important corner of her small world, Steph put on the kettle, popped bread into the toaster and wondered how long it would be before her budget would stretch to a home-delivered daily paper.

  ‘It would have been wet this morning, anyway,’ she comforted herself, turning on the radio instead, so at least she’d learn something of what was happening in the world from the morning news.

  Fanny erupted into the kitchen as Steph finished her toast.

  ‘I forgot,’ she told her mother, casting herself into Steph’s arms for a good-morning kiss and hug. ‘Today we have to take our favourite toy to kindy for a toys’ teaparty.’

  ‘Well, that’s OK,’ Steph said, smoothing hair back from her daughter’s forehead. ‘You’ve plenty to choose from.’

  ‘But that’s the problem,’ Fanny said with a dramatic sigh.

  Steph smiled to herself, knowing she used the same phrase to Tracy all the time—usually when discussing either their individual timetables or budgeting considerations.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked the little drama queen now snuggled on her lap.

  ‘I don’t know what’s my favourite.’

  Another huge sigh.

  ‘You’re taking Bear to bed these days, maybe you could take him.’

  ‘But then Adeline will get cross,’ Fanny told her.

  Steph, knowing this conversation could go on for two days, opted out.

  ‘Well, you run back to your bedroom and have a look at all of them while I fix your breakfast. You can get dressed while you’re thinking and call me when you’re ready for me to do your hair.’

  Fanny accepted this suggestion with good grace, and in the end decided Bear should share the kindy treat.

  Steph tied a red ribbon around his neck, finishing it with a big bow so he looked properly festive, then, with Fanny and the bear both wrapped in her raincoat, she carried the pair out to the car and drove down the road to the kindergarten.

  ‘Don’t forget Tracy’s picking you up this afternoon,’ she reminded her daughter.

  ‘Because it’s Friday!’ Fanny said, showing off her knowledge of their routine.

  Steph kissed her goodbye, checked that the kindergarten staff knew Tracy would collect Fanny, then departed. If she went straight home, she could get in
five hours’ straight sleep.

  If she didn’t let thoughts of Harry’s unexpected re-emergence in her life intrude, she might get five hours’ straight sleep.

  But how could she not think about it…?

  Not think about Harry with his dark, all-seeing eyes, and his long, lanky bushman’s body…

  She must have slept eventually, for she woke at one, unrefreshed—in fact, so fuzzy and disoriented she knew she needed a whole lot more.

  She could doze for another hour, or do a quick house-clean and wash. With the wet weather, everything felt damp.

  Opting for housework, she clambered out of bed, made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, then put on a wash and whipped through the housework. When she had a garage she could hang washing in it when it rained, she reminded herself as she spread the wet clothes over drying frames on the front veranda.

  Or maybe, after the garage but before the covered walkway, she could buy a dryer.

  ‘Dream on, Prince!’ she muttered to herself, late now and needing to hurry to get to the local medical centre by three.

  Fifteen women, in various stages of pregnancy, greeted her enthusiastically. Although the public hospital offered antenatal classes for pregnant women, it was a long way to travel for a half-hour session, so Steph, in conjunction with a local medical practice, did an hour a week, combining their regular health checks with information on nutrition and the process of childbirth, followed by breathing and exercise classes. It was a nice little supplement to her income and she enjoyed the interaction with the women, sharing their excitement as they approached the birth.

  But this afternoon the usual joy was missing, and she made her way home afterwards, eager to see Fanny, but unable to blot from her mind thoughts of Harry Pritchard and his sudden reappearance in her life.

  ‘Forget him,’ she told herself, as she swung into the drive, nearly hitting the car already parked there.

  She frowned at the intruder, a dark green sedan, its shape suggesting it was a fairly recent model.

  Had one of the kindy mothers given Tracy and Fanny a lift home, and been invited in for coffee?

  Or perhaps someone had driven Tracy home from lectures then stayed on so she could collect Fanny in a car, rather than walking her home through the rain.