The Reunion Of A Lifetime. Fiona Lowe
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remember me, Lauren.’
The mild thread of arrogance that underpinned his bemused words acted like a stiff breeze. The angry coals she had banked years ago flared into life. ‘Whereas I find it hard to believe that you do.’
‘Of course I remember you,’ he said softly.
She could almost see his memories in the words, but she couldn’t believe him—didn’t trust herself to believe him. Moving decisively, she was quickly out the door and jogging down the steps to her car, determined not to look back. Fortunately, he didn’t follow her. If she had anything to do with it, this was the first and last time she’d be in conversation with Mr Charles Ainsworth.
* * *
Charlie lacked the energy to run along the beach and was slightly aghast at the fact that Basil, his grandmother’s aged beagle, was walking faster than him. It was as if touching down on Australian soil had drained him of all his vitality. His body felt encased in mud and all movement was an effort. He wanted to blame jet-lag for the fact he woke at two each morning, unable to get back to sleep, but who was he kidding? Vanuatu time was only one hour ahead of Australian Eastern Standard Time, so that excuse didn’t cut it.
Apart from his first compulsory session with the counsellor and a quick visit to see his brother, he’d spent almost no time in Melbourne. Harry was much the same—thinner perhaps than the last time Charlie had seen him but just as quiet. Charlie had sat and told him about being on enforced leave. Harry had listened, his face impassive apart from a muscle twitch near his eye. He’d not offered an opinion, but that was par for the course. Charlie hadn’t expected one.
There was no point lingering in Melbourne so, after leaving Harry, he’d hired a car and driven straight down the coast to Bide-a-While. Now he stared out at the horizon, scanning the calm seas for fins—preferably those of dolphins—and breathed in deeply, willing the salt air to magically invigorate him. With not even the hint of a wave, the bay was empty of its usual cluster of wetsuit-clad surfers and their boards eagerly anticipating the perfect ride.
Charlie vaguely entertained the notion of stand-up paddle boarding, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. It seemed like a lot of effort to climb back up the stairs to Bide-a-While, get the key, open the shed, find the board, pour himself into a wetsuit and finally get out onto the water.
Last night, Gran had suggested he walk into town early and buy coffee and the paper. He knew it was a just ploy to get him out of the house and into the fresh air, because she had a state-of-the-art Italian coffeemaker in the kitchen, plus he thought she still had the paper delivered. Still, he had to admit that being out on the beach as the sun rose beat thrashing about in bed, seeking sleep that never came.
Good old Gran. She’d welcomed his unannounced visit with open arms and thankfully with a distinct lack of questions—for now. He’d caught her studying him every now and then, worry clear in her eyes, and he hated that. He’d tried to reassure her—‘just following the rules, taking some leave and satisfying the shrink that I came through the cyclone with my head intact’—but even he didn’t totally believe his own spin. Cyclone or no cyclone, being back in Australia and without work to keep him busy and his mind full meant the past had a horrible way of sneaking up on him.
It hadn’t taken long for the past to insert itself. Last night, the nightmare he’d thought he’d finally banished had visited, laughing at his naiveté. It turned out it had been languishing in the wings, just waiting for him to land on bright red, Aussie soil before making a grand entrance. During its dormancy, it hadn’t change in shape or form. It was still him and Harry trapped in caves, wells, mines, barrels—any sort of container, vessel or space. They’d fight their way to the entrance, the surface, freedom, and he’d break through and turn to grab Harry’s hand to tug him over the line, only to have his brother pulled away from him at the last moment and vanish in front of his eyes.
The nightmare had released him from its clutches in its age-old way—he’d woken with a start, drenched in sweat, his lungs tight, his chest heaving, and with the sheets tangled around his legs. He hadn’t been able to save Harry in real life so why did he expect to be able to do it in a dream?
Although Gran was yet to grill him on work, it was obvious she was on a mission to fatten him up. Since he’d arrived three days ago, every meal had featured at least one of his favourite foods. As yet, none of them had piqued his appetite. It was still MIA along with sleep. So far, the only event to spark his interest had been meeting Lauren Fuller again.
Never in a million years had he expected to find her still in Horseshoe Bay, let alone working as the GP. During that amazing summer twelve years ago, she’d been high on the excitement of starting her medical degree and he remembered her discussing plans to work in indigenous communities. Horseshoe Bay was the antithesis of a desert community or even an indigenous coastal one. Still, all that talk had been a long time ago and plans could change—his certainly had.
Seeing her again had given him a few rare moments of pleasure and it had pierced the numbness and fatigue he was struggling to throw off. He’d felt more alive in those few minutes than he had in weeks. Granted, the feeling had been tempered by her obvious displeasure at seeing him. It was a reaction that still confused him. Despite closely examining his memory in the early hours of the last two mornings, no matter which way he came at it, his recollections of their time together only ever generated a collage of fun, laughter and sex.
Love.
He immediately shied away from the word. Love only brought pain and when he thought of Lauren that emotion was absent. No, he had a deep and abiding affection for her. She’d helped him get through a tough and difficult time and for that he’d never forget her. More than once over the years he’d regretted having to leave her behind. Back then, staying in Australia had been impossible—that hadn’t changed.
Despite knowing that, it hadn’t been enough to prevent him, in more disconsolate moments over the last ten years, from contemplating what his life might have been like if he’d stayed. Stayed with Lauren. But he knew those thoughts were flights of fancy. Even without the disaster that was his family and the fact they’d both been far too young and on the cusp of their adult lives to make a lifelong commitment, he was too difficult to love.
But all those details aside, the fact Lauren had intimated he’d forgotten her had thrown him. It hadn’t only been excitement at seeing her again that had propelled him across the room to her; it had also been lo—gratitude. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to lean in and kiss her on the cheek. After all, that’s what old friends did, right?
Apparently not. Her unanticipated frostiness had not only shocked him, it had spiked him, denting his enthusiasm and leaving him feeling foolish. He’d immediately fallen back into old Ainsworth habits. In a moment he still regretted, he’d gone for one-upmanship. He shuddered whenever he thought about his supercilious tone. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, half expecting a text from his grandmother asking him to pick up something for her in town.
Nice of you to let us know you’re back in the country. I didn’t appreciate being made to look a fool when Alison Petty said she’d seen you after visiting your brother and I told her she must be mistaken. Your mother would appreciate a visit.
His father, he noted wryly, didn’t waste text characters on greetings or sign-offs. Then again, it was no real surprise as he didn’t use them in telephone calls, emails or face-to-face conversations either. Randall Ainsworth, MBBS, FRCS, PhD had little time for pleasantries—after all, he was a very busy man. As for Charlie’s mother appreciating a visit? The jury was still out on that and had been for a long time.
He slid the phone back into his pocket, trying to ignore the unwanted and sticky tug of the complicated web that was his family ties. Visiting either of his parents and pretending that the accusations and angry words had faded into the past was pointless. They still hung in the air as fresh and raw as the day they’d been spoken in the ICU ward by Harry’s bed. He was intelligent enough to know that time would