Meant-To-Be Family. Marion Lennox
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Meant-To-Be Family
Marion Lennox
For me, there’s no more powerful emotion than witnessing the miracle of birth. As a kid on a farm, birth never ceased to leave me amazed and awed, and that feeling’s stayed with me all my life. So when I was asked to contribute to the Midwives On-Call anthology I jumped at the chance.
But my heroine has fertility issues, and as I wrote, these questions drifted through my writing—what makes a parent? What makes love? Five years ago grief drove my hero and heroine apart. How much love does it take to bring them back together?
The midwives of Melbourne Victoria Hospital are a tight-knit team, facing the complexities of birth and love—and sometimes grief and loss—as part of their working day world. Life and death, love and joy—they’re what matters. In the Melbourne Maternity Unit we see those emotions every time our midwives walk through the door, so it’s only fitting that my lovers can finally find the power to love again.
Families take many forms. I hope you love the crazy, mixed-up bunch of loving that my Oliver and my Emily end up with.
Enjoy!
Marion
With thanks to my fellow authors who’ve helped make this Midwives On-Call series fabulous. A special thank-you to Alison Roberts, for her friendship, her knowledge and her generosity in sharing, and to Fiona McArthur, whose midwife skills leave me awed.
Table of Contents
LATE. LATE, LATE, LATE. This was the third morning this week. Her boss would have kittens.
Not that Isla was in the mood to be angry, Em thought, as she swiped her pass at the car-park entry. The head midwife for Melbourne’s Victoria Hospital had hardly stopped smiling since becoming engaged. She and her fiancé had been wafting around the hospital in a rosy glow that made Em wince.
Marriage. ‘Who needs it?’ she demanded out loud, as she swung her family wagon through the boom gates and headed for her parking spot on the fifth floor. She should apply for a lower spot—she always seemed to be running late—but her family wagon needed more space than the normal bays. One of the Victoria’s obstetricians rode a bike. He was happy to park his Harley to one side of his bay, so this was the perfect arrangement.
Except it was on the fifth floor—and she was late again.
The car in front of her was slow going up the ramp. Come on … She should have been on the wards fifteen minutes ago. But Gretta had been sick. Again.
Things were moving too fast. She needed to take the little girl back to the cardiologist, but the last time she’d taken her, he’d said …
No. Don’t go there. There was unthinkable. She raked her fingers through her unruly curls, trying for distraction. She’d need to pin her hair up before she got to the ward. Had she remembered pins?
It didn’t work. Her mind refused to be distracted, and the cardiologist’s warning was still ringing in her ears.
‘Emily, I’m sorry, but we’re running out of time.’
Was Gretta’s heart condition worsening, or was this just a tummy bug? The little girl had hugged her tight as she’d left, and it had been all she could do to leave her. If her mum hadn’t been there … But Adrianna adored being a gran. ‘Get into work, girl, and leave Gretta to me. Toby and I will watch Play School while Gretta has a nap. I’ll ring you if she’s not better by lunchtime. Meanwhile, go!’
She’d practically shoved her out the door.
But there was something wrong—and she knew what it was. The cardiologist had been blunt and she remembered his assessment word for word.
It was all very well, hearing it, she thought bleakly, but seeing it … At the weekend she’d taken both kids to their favourite place in the world, the children’s playground at the Botanic Gardens. There was a water rill there that Gretta adored. She’d crawled over it as soon as she could crawl, and then she’d toddled and walked.
Six months ago she’d stood upright on the rill and laughed with delight as the water had splashed over her toes. At the weekend she hadn’t even been able to crawl. Em had sat on the rill with her, trying to make her smile, but the little girl had sobbed. She knew what she was losing.
Don’t! Don’t think about it! Move on. Or she’d move on if she could.
‘Come on.’ She was inwardly yelling at the car in front. The car turned the corner ponderously then—praise be!—turned into a park on Level Four. Em sighed with relief, zoomed up the last ramp and hauled the steering wheel left, as she’d done hundreds of times in the past to turn into her parking space.
And … um … stopped.
There was a car where Harry’s bike should be. A vintage sports car, burgundy, gleaming with care and polish.
Wider than