A Very Special Need. Caroline Anderson
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yet round the corner the next street was altogether grander, the houses imposing Victorian double fronted status symbols, very des-res and so far out of her reach that she hardly even dared to imagine what they were like inside.
At the entrance to one of them she hesitated, looking up at the impressive red-brick façade, at the large bay windows and ornate stone lintels and the immaculate garden with shrubs and perennials creeping onto the tarmacked drive in carefully orchestrated profusion.
It was gorgeous—and intimidating. It was also the home and workplace of the man she wanted to talk to. Mentally girding her loins, she walked up the driveway, past the cars parked at the front, and found the outer door propped open. Beyond the glass door into the hall she saw a reception desk ahead of her, a beautiful walnut desk with the glorious patina of age. It was probably worth more than her entire flat contents.
Her heart sank. This man was weathly and successful. Why should he help her? She was about to turn tail and run when the receptionist, a woman of about Judith’s own age, looked up and smiled through the glass, and beckoned her in.
She went. It would have been impossibly rude not to have done so, and she dredged up an answering smile.
‘Good morning,’ the receptionist said as she approached. ‘Can I help you?’
Where to start? How about the obvious? she thought. ‘My name’s Judith Wright. I wonder if it would be possible for me to have a word with Mr Barber about my son.’
‘Is he a new patient?’ the woman asked, turning to a card index on the desk. Judith noticed that she was very pregnant. His wife?
‘No. Well, that is, he isn’t a patient—not yet. That was what I wanted to discuss,’ she lied boldly.
The woman smiled. ‘I see. If you’d like to take a seat, Mrs Wright, I’ll have a word with him in a few minutes in between patients.’
She didn’t bother to correct the mistake. She was so used to being called Mrs Wright that she ignored it now. Returning the smile, Judith went through the door indicated and found herself in a waiting room overlooking the front. It was light, airy and welcoming—and most of the chairs were upright, wooden armchairs, ideal for people with bad backs, she thought with a slight smile. She armed herself with a magazine and sat in one of the chairs. There were two other people in there, a man and a woman sitting on opposite sides of the room, their noses buried in magazines.
She looked round the elegant, high-ceilinged room with the ornate plaster cornice and beautiful marble fireplace with a lovely iron and tiled centre. It was a wonderful room, she thought. The decor was subdued but effective, soft smoky green colour-washing below the dado rail and a very traditional stripe above, with the green echoed on the ceiling and the plasterwork picked out in off-white. The muted brick tones of the carpet warmed the scheme and gave it colour, reflected in the curtain fabric and the tiles of the fireplace. Very clever. Very effective. Very restful. She wondered who had chosen the scheme. His wife? The receptionist?
No. Probably a fancy interior designer who had been paid a fortune. She glanced at her watch and wondered how long she would have to wait. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Perhaps until both of these patients had been treated—if he would even see her then—
‘Mrs Wright?’
She looked up—straight into a pair of the most startlingly blue eyes she had ever seen—and felt a jolt of something that rocked her to the core.
Lightning? If she hadn’t felt so shaken by it, she might have laughed. She didn’t laugh, though. She couldn’t. She stood up, pulled to her feet by the power of those astonishing eyes, and crossed the room, dropping the magazine absently on the table as she passed it.
‘Hugh Barber,’ he said by way of introduction, and held out his hand. She took it, her own engulfed by the powerful fingers in a firm and yet gentle handshake. Their palms met briefly, and she dropped his hand at once, shocked by the searing heat. No, not heat. Warmth, and something else—something big and strong and comforting that made her want to bury her head against that solid chest just in front of her eyes and give in to all the anguish and worry and torment of the past fourteen years.
She didn’t, though. By a miracle she managed to avoid hurling herself into his unsuspecting arms and went through the door he indicated. The room was the mirror image of the one she had just been in, the colours a similar soft, muted green and cream, designed for relaxing in.
Judith didn’t feel relaxed. She was about to do something she hated doing, and she could feel the tension coiled in her like a watchspring. He waved her to a chair beside the desk, perched on the treatment couch with one leg dangling and smiled encouragingly at her.
‘I gather you wanted to talk to me about your son,’ he said, and his voice swirled through her like dark chocolate.
She looked down at her hands to avoid those searching, stunning eyes. ‘Yes. He’s had a fall—he says he tripped. He’s got mild cerebral palsy—he is a little clumsy at times, but I think this was deliberate. Whatever, his back’s injured in some way—jarred. I wondered if you could tell me what I should do to help him.’
Of course. I’ll have to see him, obviously. I have a children’s clinic on the other side of town on Tuesdays. Is that any good to you?’
She grimaced slightly. ‘Transport’s difiicult,’ she told him, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.
‘I’ll see him here, then, if it’s easier. Have a word with my receptionist and she’ll make you an appointment. I take it you are able to get here?’
‘We only live round the corner, but just at the moment I don’t know that he could walk that far. I’ll have to see,’ she flannelled. ‘If you could just give me some advice initially…’
‘I really should see him to be on the safe side. Have you taken him to the hospital for an X-ray?’
‘Um—no. I’m sure he’s just jarred it. There’s nothing broken.’
‘Then if you could manage to get him in to me—perhaps a taxi?’
Damn. He wasn’t going to just give her advice, that was clear. She swallowed. A taxi was totally out of the question. Al’s mother, Belle, might be able to give them a lift if she wasn’t working, but she was a community midwife and worked strange hours—as well as juggling Al and Flora as a single parent.
No. She couldn’t ask Belle. ‘We’ll manage. We’ve got a wheelchair we can use.’ Judith drew in a steadying breath, lifted her head and met the man’s searching eyes. He seemed to be waiting, as if he knew there was something to follow—something difficult and awkward and embarrassing. She hated what she was going to have to do, but she’d do it for Woody.
‘I haven’t got any money,’ she told him with quiet dignity. ‘I’m hoping to get a job soon for the term. I wondered…’ she swallowed ‘… if you would be able to bill me for the treatment and let me pay you back as I earn the money.’
There. It was said. She held his eyes, resisting the urge to run away, and brazened it out.
Hugh looked deep into the challenging eyes of this gutsy little woman daring him to turn her down, and wondered at the hurdles she’d had to overcome and the struggles she’d had to face.
There was such determination in the jut of her chin and the tilt of her head, such uncertainty deep in those lovely, soft grey eyes. What had she had to cope with? She hadn’t said how old her son was, but he guessed around ten, probably. She looked as if she was in her early thirties—maybe not that old if life had been cruel.
He was sure it had. Life was. His own had been cruel, leaving the indelible marks of grief etched on his face. It didn’t hurt so much now, but it had and the scars showed.
Mrs Wright had scars, too—worry and strain engraved on such soft, fine skin that it seemed a travesty. His fingers ached to soothe away the worry.
That wasn’t all that ached. For the first time in what