Rescued By The Single Dad Doc / The Midwife's Secret Child. Fiona McArthur
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you stepped in.’
‘It couldn’t continue,’ he said heavily. ‘They were determined to keep control, but I had the authority and I had them out of the house almost before they realised what I was doing. That night we sat up and watched dumb movies and ate junk food and didn’t talk about report cards once. I had a one-bedroom hospital apartment. They slept on the floor and I didn’t hear a complaint. I was then hit by a battalion of lawyers, plus Charles and Marjorie practically hounding the boys. Losing control was unthinkable. They were at the school gates, demanding the boys come home with them. They were calling me everything under the sun…’
He broke off. It was too much to recall—his struggle to explain that if they’d just back off, give the boys a bit of space, let them be kids, then things could work. His realisation that it wasn’t going to happen. The acceptance that his life had to change.
‘In the end I knew it’d never work,’ he said. ‘I started looking for another apartment, but when the old man hired a couple of thugs to collect the kids from school, thugs who were prepared to see me off with force, I just…’ He stopped, closed his eyes, then forced himself to go on. ‘I quit at the hospital. I knew this place was here. My grandparents built this house and it still belonged to me. I knew Shallow Bay could use any doctor they could get, so here we are.’
‘Safe,’ she said softly, almost a whisper.
‘Not quite safe,’ he told her. ‘Charles and Marjorie have applied for custody. Claire’s death might have left them a little unhinged, but as blood relatives they have a case and they’re powerful. They say their daughter was mentally unfit when she signed the adoption papers. I’m single, I work long hours, I need to use childminders. Regardless, my lawyers tell me they have little chance unless they can prove I’m an unfit parent. Which is why it’s important they don’t find out about Kit’s hand.’
‘That was hardly your fault.’
‘They won’t see it like that.’ He was confronting his worries now. There was something about this place, this woman…
No. It was simply that there’d been no one to talk to for so long. With Rachel… She seemed dispassionate, almost like a psychoanalyst, letting him go where he willed with no judgement. It was a weird sensation and he wasn’t sure why he was reacting to it, but the need to talk was almost overpowering.
‘Marcus is too serious,’ he told her. ‘He blames himself for Kit’s hand. He blames himself for everything. When his grandfather looked like he was about to hit Kit, Marcus shoved himself in between. ‘Hit me instead,’ he was yelling. ‘My report’s worse.’ Only of course it wasn’t, and afterwards he even asked me if he should try and fail a few tests at school to make Kit feel better.
‘Henry’s littler, less complicated, but he has nightmares. I carry a radio in my pocket. If I’m called out at night Rose listens in and so do I. It’s not great, not even totally safe, but it’s the best I can do when I’ve been on call twenty-four-seven. So Rose and I hear the minute he wakes and it’s a race to see who can get there first. Because of what I do, it’s usually Rose but he holds himself rigid, sweating, until I get there.’
He paused. Was he waiting for her to comment? She didn’t, just watched him, waiting for him to continue.
He wasn’t even sure if she was interested but… What was it with this woman?
‘And then Kit,’ he said. ‘Left alone… Well, his cut hand is the least of it. Sometimes he wants me to be there for him, but not often. Tonight he hugged me, but that’s unusual. There’s a part of him that actively tries to drive me away. It’s like he’s testing me, expecting me to leave like his parents, thinking the sooner it happens the sooner he’ll get it over with. So how do I break through that?’
Once again she didn’t answer. He finished his beer and stared at the empty bottle. Rachel gazed out over the ocean, watching the water turn a soft tangerine with the reflections of the setting sun. Somehow she seemed to be melting into herself, folding, tucking herself neatly away—to where no one could touch her? To where personal stories didn’t hurt?
‘Your parents?’ she said, almost absently, and why should he answer that? But he did.
‘Loving but absent,’ he told her. ‘Overseas. Caught up in their careers. These kids have nothing to do with them.’ And for the life of him he couldn’t keep his voice from sounding bleak.
He heard it and he flinched. He sounded needy. Him. He didn’t need anyone.
Except he did need help for the boys, and he didn’t know where to begin to ask.
The silence stretched. It seemed they were both staring into the future. Or the past?
What was her story? She wasn’t saying.
‘Kids are resilient,’ she said at last, breaking the spell. She stood up and brushed the sand from her legs. ‘You’re doing the best you can. They’ll survive.’
‘Like you survived?’
She froze at that. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Cigarette burns,’ he said neutrally. ‘Unmistakable once you’ve treated them.’
‘And none of your business.’
‘So I spill my all to you…’
‘And I don’t spill back.’ She shrugged. ‘You’ve been generous but one low-alcohol beer does not a contract make. I need to go home. I’m hungry.’
‘We have hamburgers at my place.’
A glimmer of humour returned and her lips twitched. ‘So you’re asking…what? You’ll give me a hamburger in return for me being third man in Dragon Doom or whatever?’
‘Hey, I never said…’
‘You didn’t need to. I guessed. So, no, thank you.’ The smile was still there. ‘I have home-made lasagne, which will heat while I’m in the shower. Then I have a date with a movie. So while Dragons are tempting, sorry. Bye.’
Home-made lasagne. A movie. Maybe a bottle of wine. It was like a siren’s song and it was so far out of his list of possibilities that he couldn’t even think about it.
He rose as well, aware of emptiness. Of leaving without her.
And then his phone vibrated.
He closed his eyes for a second, but this was almost inevitable, a call on Friday night. Why not?
He snagged his phone from his pocket. Unknown number. Local.
Work.
‘Dr Lavery.’
‘Doc? It’s Col Hunter here.’
His phone was set on loudspeaker—he set it every night as he left work because of the times he had to listen over the racket the kids were making. Col’s voice was deep and booming, disturbing the silence of the beach, but Tom left it on loud. After all, Rachel was a colleague.
‘How can I help you?’ Already he knew there was trouble. Underlying Col’s booming voice he could hear pain.
‘I fell over the pig,’ Col managed. ‘Got her in, got her fed, thought she had her snout in the trough and then suddenly she’s shoving her way between me and the gate, trying to get out again. It’s me ’taters she wants, Doc. Spent all bloody summer trying to get a decent crop. She’s been watching me water ’em, fertilise ’em and now she wants ’em. Dutch Creams—the best ’taters you can get—and Mavis isn’t bloody having ’em.’
‘You’ve hurt yourself.’ Cut to the chase, Col.
‘It’s me hip,’ Col said. ‘Had to crawl inside. Managed to get the sty gate shut though, so I won. Bloody pig.’
Tom almost grinned but didn’t. Col was in his eighties and had suffered osteoarthritis for years. A fall,