Four Weddings: A Woman To Belong To / A Wedding in Warragurra / The Surgeon's Chosen Wife / The Playboy Doctor's Marriage Proposal. Fiona Lowe
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the shade. ‘So what’s next on the tour schedule?’
Tom checked his watch. ‘I want to stop in at the Buddhist nunnery and do a check up on one of the elderly nuns.’
‘A Buddhist nunnery? I had no idea. I’ve heard of Buddhist monks but not nuns.’
‘They don’t wear saffron robes, often they’re brown or grey. But they’re the best vegetarian cooks I’ve ever come across and they’ll want to feed you.’
She rubbed her stomach. ‘Now you tell me. Why did you let me eat such a huge sundae?’
He grinned his bone-melting smile. ‘That’s why we shared.’ He left some notes and coins on the table and ushered her out the door, back to the waiting four-wheel-drive.
The vehicle wound up into the hills behind Hué, the lush greenery contrasting with the dusty road. ‘What’s that?’ Bec pointed to a roadside stall. Shaky wooden racks supported the most amazing display of vivid coloured sticks she’d ever seen. Red, green, purple and yellow sticks were tied together at their bases and fanned out in the shape of an ice cream cone.
‘It’s incense for the temples and it’s big business in this area. Cinnamon and sandalwood trees grow along the banks of the Perfume River and they harvest the scent from the wood shavings. Would you like to see it being made?’ Enthusiasm for the idea danced across his face.
She clapped her hands in delight. ‘I’d love to if we have time.’
Tom gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Sure, we can spare ten minutes.’ He asked the driver to stop and they stepped up to one of the tiny stalls. A woman sat under cover at a small table, holding about thirty thin bamboo sticks, which had been painted red along three quarters of their length. Her hands rapidly rolled the sticks across a pile of fine dust, while she used a trowel with her right hand to scoop more powder over them.
Bec watched, fascinated. ‘How does the scent stick to the bamboo?’
Tom pointed to a large glob of rolled up gooey-looking stuff. ‘That’s glue.’
The woman looked up from under her non la and smiled, pushing some sticks into Bec’s hands.
Confused, Bec accepted them.
Tom laughed at her expression. ‘Do you want to have a go at making some incense?’
Always up for anything new, she nodded. ‘Sure, why not?’
Gripping the sticks with her left hand, she tried to roll the glue on evenly before attempting to dust it in the cinnamon powder. Laughing, she held up a wonky-looking stick. ‘I can’t seem to co-ordinate my hands.’
‘Just as well you’re not a surgeon.’ Tom’s laugh rumbled around her. He moved in, standing behind her, putting his hands over hers. ‘You spin with your left and you push the trowel with your right, like this.’
She tried to concentrate on the motion of the bamboo and how his hands were moving hers. But every skerrick of attention evaporated the moment his body curved against hers. His breath caressed her neck, tickling and enticing, his chest moved up and down against her back, massaging her as he breathed, and his thighs were against her buttocks, fitting snugly.
Longing blazed through her, followed by delicious tingles sparking at every part of her body he touched. She wanted to drop the bamboo and turn in his arms, lay her head on his shoulder and just savour being held.
But that wasn’t on offer. Friendship didn’t cover that.
‘That’s it. Try again.’ Tom’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away, down a long, long tunnel.
With superhuman effort she pulled her concentration back to the incense.
He stepped back, breaking contact.
Her body ached. Every muscle, every fibre, every cell cried out at the loss of his touch.
She rolled the bamboo. She tossed the powder with the trowel and triumphantly held up an evenly coated stick.
‘Hey, you did it.’ He raised his hand above his head and gave her a high five and a wide grin. ‘We’ll buy some incense for the nuns and we better get going.’
They paid for five bunches of incense, each colour a different scent, bowed their thanks and drove the short distance to the nunnery.
Bec stepped out of the vehicle beside a wobbly bamboo fence, which circled a thriving vegetable garden. Somehow it kept out ambling pigs and long-legged chickens. In the distance she could see the quintessential Vietnamese image—an emerald rice paddy with a lone worker up to her waist in green, a conical hat on her head. ‘Why are there graves in the rice paddies?’
Tom slung his medical pack onto his shoulder and walked with her toward the whitewashed building. ‘They like to bury their dead on their property, keep them close. Then at Têt, the Vietnamese New Year, they call the dead back to visit, so it’s easier if they’re close.’
‘Just to visit?’ Bec wrinkled her nose, thinking about live relatives that often outstayed their welcome.
‘Very wisely, they send them back at the end of Têt.’ He gave a wry grin, understanding crossing his face. ‘The nuns here range from fourteen through to eighty. They usually have a few children living here as well and occasionally women who are seeking refuge. The temple is a popular place for couples to visit before they have a baby or if they want to conceive.’
He paused at a fork in the gravel path. ‘You go to the temple with the incense and meet some of the nuns. They’ll show you around while I do the check-up and make sure my stubborn nun has been taking her digoxin.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ She stood for a moment, watching him walk away. She treasured the moments she could watch him unobserved. Admiring how his hair tangled with his collar, the sway of his hips and the way the cotton of his shorts moved across taut buttocks.
She closed her eyes for a moment, forging the memory into her brain. She spun back, the gravel crunching under her sandals, and made her way to the entrance of the temple.
Slipping her feet out of her shoes and hanging her hat on a stand, she swung her leg over the high step into the dark interior of the temple. She bowed to the nun and placed the incense in a basket.
A young couple stood at the altar. They pushed a burning stick of incense into a sand pot which was nestled between a bowl of fruit and a vase of flowers. The woman rested one hand on her lower back and the other on her swollen belly. Her husband stood next to her, his arm across her shoulder, his gaze fixed on her face and a smile of adoration clinging to his lips.
Bec smiled. They would be making the offering for their unborn child and their future as a family—their dreams and hopes so clearly evident in their eyes.
Suddenly an empty feeling opened up inside her, spreading an icy chill through her like cold fingers reaching deep into places she thought she’d sealed off.
She tried to shrug off the feeling. What was wrong with her? ‘Happy families’ wasn’t something she connected with herself. Relationships and her made a toxic combination. She’d never experienced anything good in a relationship.
What about Tom?
She pushed the thought out of her mind. Tom was a friend. Friendship was completely different.
She quickly stepped back into the daylight, leaving the temple and the couple behind her, and followed the neatly raked path toward the main house.
She rounded the corner and found another couple. Except this time the heavily pregnant woman was leaning over a bench, moaning.
A blond-haired man clutched the woman’s arm. ‘Sweetheart, you have to walk to the car.’
The unexpected English words sounded completely out of place in the garden. Bec ran over. ‘Can I help? I’m a midwife.’
The Asian woman’s hand