A Daddy For Baby Zoe?. Fiona Lowe
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but she’d been waiting until she could cope with talking to her utterly bereft mother-in-law. It often took more strength than she had. ‘Sometimes the reception’s a little dodgy down at the beach.’
‘When are you coming back, dear?’
I don’t know. ‘I’m just taking it one day at a time.’
Linda’s sigh sounded ominous, like the squalling wind that was chopping at the waves. ‘Derek and I don’t think you should be down there alone, especially not in the off season. Remember last year when they arrested that horrible man who’d been stealing underwear from clotheslines? And what if you went into labour and there’s no one around to help. We thought we’d drive down on the weekend.’
Oh, God, please, no. After the emotional maelstrom of the funeral and the following days when a parade of well-meaning friends and Richard’s grieving family had refused to let her be on her own, she’d almost gone crazy. She’d appreciated their concern but at the same time it had been suffocating her. Coming to the island was all about gaining some much-needed time so she could hear her own thoughts.
She saw a little dog suddenly shoot out of the dunes and race towards Raf, dancing around his running feet. Raf dodged and weaved and eventually bent down, scooping the dog up with one hand and tucking it under one very solid arm. She smiled. A man who tolerated little yappy dogs was probably not a stalker. Or a horrible man.
If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.
‘That’s very kind, Linda, but I’m not alone,’ she said, her voice more firm and resolved than it had sounded in days. ‘I have a neighbour and I can call over the fence if I need anything so I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, promise.’
She cut the call, turned off her phone and returned it to the pocket of her coat, suddenly reminded of the many times she’d been the one to telephone Linda.
Can you call Mum for me?
Richard, she wants to hear from you, not me.
Please, Merry. I’ve got back-to-back surgeries.
‘Richard,’ she screamed into the wind. ‘You bloody went and left me with your mother.’
The baby kicked and she pressed her hand against the busy foot. ‘I know. She cares for us in her own way but right now, if I’m going to survive this, I have to do it my way.’
She wished she had a map to guide her.
RAF SURVEYED THE GARDEN, which was strewn with debris courtesy of last night’s storm. The wind had raged, rattling the windows, snapping limbs off trees and redistributing the garden furniture all around the yard.
Mario stood at the front door, his expression glum as he gazed at a tree that had been sheared in half. ‘Your mother planted that bottlebrush. The lorikeets love it.’
Raf had always hated how sad his father got whenever he talked about his mother. Hated that after all these years his memory of his wife was still clouded in throat-choking grief as if he was the only person to have suffered when she’d died.
‘It’s survived this long in the salt and the wind, I’m sure it’s still got a lot of life left.’
Mario grunted. ‘Get the chainsaw and cut it down,’ he said authoritatively, as if Raf was still fifteen and under his instructions. Orders issued, he turned and shuffled back inside.
‘Yeah, so not doing that,’ Raf muttered, as he made his way down the drive and into the workshop.
Lifting the bush saw from its hook, he placed it in the wheelbarrow along with the shovel and returned to the front garden, and on the way he automatically glanced next door. He immediately cringed, remembering his conversation two days ago with Meredith on the beach. It hadn’t been the first time he’d seen her in the dunes, standing and staring out to sea. Wan and drawn, and with misery and a quiet desperation rolling off her in great hulking waves, she’d made the dismal weather look positively cheery in comparison.
The sight of her had activated his first-aid training and experience—he really didn’t want her walking fully clothed into the water. Before he’d even been conscious of making the decision, he’d found himself asking her if she was okay. That question had been the professional talking. There was something else about Meredith, though, that had kicked his three-year rule of not getting involved with women to the kerb, and a moment later he’d totally stuffed things up by mentioning he knew where she lived.
The look she’d given him had been a cross between horror that they’d been alone on the beach and her calculating how close she was to the road for a quick getaway. He hadn’t meant to scare her and he’d overcompensated by rabbiting on about his grandfather and the Camilleri mob, before suggesting she yell out if she ever needed anything.
Oh, yeah, like she’d ever do that. Even if she’d sustained some house damage last night he doubted she’d have reached out. It was far more likely she’d call her husband ahead of him, even though chances were he was two hundred and fifty kilometres away in Melbourne.
And there was the thing. Since she’d arrived, no one had visited her. Now it was Sunday so if there had been weekend guests making the trek from Melbourne, surely they would have arrived on Friday night or Saturday lunchtime at the latest. A pregnant woman alone and staring out to sea bothered him more than it should. Although there was no rule to say a woman couldn’t be on her own, being alone, pregnant and down on the island out of season seemed all wrong.
Not your problem, mate. If you want a problem to solve, you’ve always got Mario. He shook off the thought. Some things couldn’t be solved. The tree, however, was something he could rescue. Picking up the bush saw, he started work, welcoming the push and the pull as his arm and leg muscles tensed and relaxed.
Half an hour later he was covered in the fine red filaments that gave the tree its common name and he was sneezing from pollen overload. On the flip side, he did have a growing pile of wood in the wheelbarrow. Studying his handiwork, he decided he’d take two more branches off the left side and then the job would be done. Pulling back on the saw with one hand and steadying the large branch with the other, he set to work. The weight of the wood bore down on the saw, impeding the slide of the blade, so he moved his left hand closer to apply counter-pressure.
He heard the sound of a door closing and he glanced up to see Meredith getting out of her car. Unlike at the beach where she’d been huddled in a bulky coat that hid her body from neck to knees, today she wore a long-sleeved grey-and-white jumper that fell to the tops of her thighs. Her legs, which were longer than he’d realised, were clad in black leggings that hid nothing and did everything to emphasise their toned shape. The knee-high riding boots helped as well.
She held a carton of milk in one hand while her other tried to prevent her hair from blowing around her face like a golden scarf. Despite the Melbourne Black clothing, which made her pale face and distinct lack of pregnancy glow more obvious, there was still something about her—something that called out to him—and it kept his gaze fixed firmly on her.
Jagged pain ripped through him.
He swore loudly, the expletive carrying on the wind as the blade of the bush saw became embedded deep in his hand. Bright red blood bubbled up like a geyser and he dropped the saw, ripped off his shirt and wound it tightly around his hand to staunch the flow. His green T-shirt turned purple.
‘Are you hurt?’
He spun around to see Meredith’s baby-blue eyes—eyes with unexpected variations of light and dark, like the sea on a cloudy day—fixed on him and filled with consternation. I couldn’t stop staring at you. He felt ridiculously foolish. ‘I cut myself.’
She