Second Chance With Her Island Doc. Marion Lennox
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Leo thought grimly. The extent of economic activity on the island was to grow olives and tomatoes, fish and pay exorbitant rents to the Castlavaran landlords.
There’d never been a king, a president, even an official ruler. The island was simply owned by the Castlavarans. For generation after generation they had ruled with a grasping hand and nothing had disturbed that rule. There was little on this rocky island to invite invasion. Its inhabitants were peaceful, ultra-conservative, accepting the status quo because that’s what their parents had, and their parents before them.
Right now, though, the status quo had changed. The last male heir, Yanni, had left no descendants. The inheritance had thus fallen to a woman the country didn’t know, a woman who’d been born abroad, a woman who—as far as Leo could tell—knew little about her ancestors’ homeland.
Was it time for the population to rise up and say, ‘Enough’? The land should be owned by the people who’d worked it for generations.
It wasn’t happening. Any kid with any ambition had one thought and that was to emigrate, and the remaining islanders accepted apathy as the norm. That meant that Anna’s inheritance was being met with stoic acceptance.
Maybe he should lead a revolution himself, but he was far too busy to think of political insurrection. Work was always waiting.
Like Anna’s split head.
‘Please let it not be fractured,’ he muttered as he left her. Not only for her sake either. He needed to get her out of his hospital and then get on with his life.
His next patient was a child brought in by his grandparents ‘because he won’t eat’, which probably meant he’d been given so many sweets he didn’t need anything else. But they’d been waiting for over three hours. The toddler’s parents were off the island, visiting the little boy’s ill maternal grandmother, and he didn’t want them worried, so he took the time to reassure the grandparents. He gave them a chart where every single thing that went into the small boy’s mouth had to be recorded, no matter what, and sent them away dubious. But if they stuck to the chart they’d have forty fits when they saw how much they were sneaking—behind each other’s backs—into one small mouth.
At any other time that might have made him smile, but he wasn’t smiling when he returned to check Anna’s X-rays.
All okay. Excellent.
He still had to keep her in overnight. There remained a risk of internal bleeding.
But first stitching.
Carla was still caught up with a tricky birth. He checked in, hopeful, but there was no joy there.
‘She may need a Caesarean,’ Carla told him. Carla was in her sixties, tough and practical and kind. ‘We’re doing the best we can. First sign of foetal distress, though, and I’ll need you. Don’t go anywhere, Leo.’
‘I was wondering if you could do a stitching,’ he told her, glancing behind her to the woman in labour. ‘Swap places?’
‘I’ve been with Greta all the way,’ Carla said. ‘It’s not kind to swap now.’ And then she grinned. ‘Besides, Maria tells me she’s the Castlavara. I understand why you want to swap. Just treat her like anyone else and then multiply the costs by a hundred. Hey, if you’re nice to her maybe we could persuade her to fund us a new ambulance. Put on your charm, Dr Aretino, and go charm yourself our future.’
* * *
To say she was miserable was an understatement. She was tucked into a cubicle with curtains around her, cut off from the outside world. The painkiller Leo had prescribed had taken effect but was causing even more fuzziness, and there was still a dull ache. She was in a foreign country, in the hands of a man who’d made it clear ten years ago that he was rejecting her.
She wanted to go home so badly she could taste it, to her lovely little cottage in her English village, to people who treated her as a friend as well as a doctor, to her two happy, bouncy dogs.
It was mid-afternoon. Rhonda, her next-door neighbour, would be walking her dogs, letting them roam in the woods behind her cottage. The dogs would be going nuts, exploring the springtime smells, chasing rabbits, chasing each other, free...
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she was close to tears again and she never cried. She was an independent, strong career woman and tears were dumb. How she was feeling was dumb.
She should have asked someone to come with her. Her ex-boyfriend? Martin was a lawyer. They’d had what could only be called a tepid relationship before he’d fallen madly, deeply for her best friend, Jennifer. But they’d stayed friends and when the news of her inheritance had come through both he and Jennifer had been fascinated.
‘Summary,’ Martin had announced after considerable research. ‘The estate’s tied up in such a way you can’t offload it and the country’s in a mess. That mess is not of your making, though, and the Trust doesn’t give you much option to do anything about it. My advice? Leave it in the hands of this Victoir guy, who knows the layout. It’s pulling in an incredible income. Yes, the settlement decrees most of the income stays with the castle, but as overall owner you’re entitled to living expenses and those living expenses can be more than generous. You’ll be set for life. Sign the papers and forget about the rest.’
But it seemed too big, too huge, to simply sign and forget. Her colleagues were intrigued and helpful. Rhonda was happy to take care of the dogs.
There was the long-ago memory of a boy called Leo, but Tovahna was surely not so small she’d bump into him in the street.
So she’d bumped into a twelfth-century stone ceiling and she’d found Leo all by herself.
Oh, her head hurt.
And then Leo was back, brisk, formal, hurried. ‘Okay, Anna, let’s get these stitches sorted. Your X-rays are clear. No fractures. We’ll need to keep you in overnight for obs—you know that—but there should be no problem. Maria’s bringing what we need now.’
She hadn’t heard footsteps. She hadn’t heard the curtain draw back. Leo was just...here.
Her head felt like it might explode.
If she’d had a few seconds’ warning, if she’d heard him approach, then maybe she could have kept control, but she hadn’t and she didn’t. She made a desperate grab for the tissue box on the side table and buried her face in a sea of white.
Heroines in movies cried beautifully, glistening droplets slipping silently down beautifully made-up faces, lips quivering as brave heroines fought back overwhelming sadness. Then they’d blink back remaining tears and gaze adoringly at their hero with eyes still misty, and...most infuriating of all...not a hint of puffiness in sight. Then there’d be a kiss, with the heroine not even needing to sniff.
But that was in movie land, not on an examination trolley in a sterile, strange emergency room. Anna had to sniff. More, she had to blow her nose and even when she blew it, it kept running. And blinking was useless with this flood. Her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs and she couldn’t stop them.
This was crazy.
But maybe she should cut herself some slack.
She’d hardly slept since she’d received the news last week. The journey here had been arduous—where were decent connections when you needed them? Victoir had bombarded her with information she’d had no hope of getting her head around but she knew she had to. And then the dark, the bang, the shock and the loss of blood. She was overtired, overwrought, drugged and still in pain. And finally here was Leo, looking at her like she was something the cat had dragged in.
Leo, whom she’d once loved with all her heart.
She was buried under a wad of tissues but she needed more. She made a desperate swipe for the box but she didn’t connect.
And then a wad of dry tissues was tucked into her hand. The sodden ones were removed.
She could hardly thank him.