From New York With Love. Кэрол Мортимер
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he said. If he felt any anger at her subterfuge, or any triumph at her forced confession—or any relief—he wasn’t showing it, his tone coolly impassive.
She drew in another fractured breath. At least he hadn’t said, All babies look alike. But then Simon wouldn’t. Not after having a baby daughter of his own. Losing a much loved baby of his own. Emotion welled up inside her, and she grabbed at the menu like a life-line.
Even with her nose buried in the menu, she could feel Simon’s probing gaze on her. Finally, risking a glance up, ready to defy any condemnation she saw in his eyes, she was surprised to see a glimmer of concern in the piercing blue, when he had good reason to be gloating at catching her out. She felt a shivery tremor run through her.
“Well, what are we going to have to eat?” Tom asked cheerily, and the awkward moment passed.
Over their meal, Tom kept the conversational ball rolling with tales of knee operations and amputated legs, and how he’d met Tessa while she was working as a physiotherapist and how he’d proposed to her within weeks. By the time their dessert arrived, the wine had loosened Tom’s tongue enough for him to risk getting personal again and quizzing Simon about his life.
“Enough about us…tell us about your brilliant career, Simon. I don’t doubt it has been brilliant. You were always so determined to be the best in your field one day. You must be a top neurosurgeon by now.”
“Actually, I gave up neurosurgery eighteen months ago,” came the cool response. As Annabel’s head snapped back in shock, Simon, in the same impassive tone, explained. “I damaged my hand and couldn’t operate. I worked as a neurologist while I was having treatment, then took a year off to sail around the world.”
The room spun. Annabel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Simon, the dedicated, hardworking neurosurgeon, unable to operate? Being forced to give up neurosurgery? Her heart went out to him. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do. He’d devoted his life to it.
She’d once asked him why he’d decided on neurosurgery, wondering what had motivated such a demanding choice of career. Knowing little about him at the time, she’d assumed it must have been the money, or the prestige, or even a secret passion for fancy cars and the good life. But his answer, when it eventually came, had shown he hadn’t done it for himself at all.
“My mother died of a brain tumor. The doctors couldn’t save her, even though it was operable.” He’d shown no emotion, no anger, no resentment, clearly well-practiced at hiding his feelings. “We couldn’t afford the best neurosurgeon…we had to make do with the specialist chosen for us. He was…inexperienced and inadequate. I swore the day my mother died that I was going to study medicine when I finished school, then specialize in neurosurgery and become the top brain surgeon in the country. It was too late for my mother,” he’d added heavily, “but hopefully I could help others with a similar need for the best skills and care.”
And he’d succeeded brilliantly, despite the fact that he’d had to do it entirely on his own. His father had walked out on his family when Simon was only seven, and he’d had no brothers or sisters or other family support. He’d never given her a reason for his father leaving home, always withdrawing and closing up when she asked about that obviously painful time in his life.
Simon had always found it hard to open up, even to her, she mused with a tug of regret. He’d kept his emotions and past hurts locked away somewhere deep inside him. Even when Lily died, at a time when she’d most needed his support, and he’d most needed hers, he’d shut himself off from her. She’d known he was silently condemning her for what had happened to Lily, for letting the accident happen—just as she’d blamed herself, and still did. He’d thrown himself even deeper into his demanding surgical work, the one thing left that meant something to him. That meant everything.
And now, apparently, he’d lost that, too
She ran sympathetic eyes over his right hand as it curled round his wine glass, then over his other hand resting on the table—the hands she’d once longed to feel on her body—noting the long, sensitive surgeon’s fingers that had healed so many. Both hands looked fine to her. As they must be by now if he’d been able to sail around the world for the past year.
Sail! She’d never known Simon to sail a boat before.
She had so much she wanted to ask him! But she could sense him retreating again, could read the signs she’d come to know so well. And perhaps it was just as well. She didn’t want to ask him personal questions in front of Tom and Tessa, two people she barely knew. Yet she did want to ask him…sometime. Which meant she would have to see him again.
But would he want to see her?
“So…what have you all seen of Venice so far?” Leaning back in his chair, Simon deftly changed the subject, shifting the focus away from himself. As he’d been doing from the day she’d first met him, she thought wistfully, seldom opening up fully, never telling her more than he thought she needed to know. Or more than he wanted her to know.
She had a feeling there was something in his past— long before she’d met him—that was secretly tormenting him, and she suspected it might have something to do with his father, who’d walked out on his family when Simon was barely seven years old. She remembered asking him once if he’d ever tried to seek out his father, a man he hadn’t seen or heard of in all the years since, and his answer had been harsh and unequivocal. “No, and I never will. My father is dead as far as I’m concerned.”
Simon, when badly hurt by something, or somebody, could be a closed, hard, unforgiving man, she’d concluded sadly when he’d shut her out as well after Lily died.
Tom and Tessa, sensing Simon’s reluctance to talk about his changed circumstances and loath to probe any deeper, leapt at the chance to talk about Venice’s many attractions. Soon they were all talking at once, swapping notes and suggesting places the others simply must see.
The magic of Venice had come to the rescue. Just as Simon, diving into the Grand Canal like a wildly romantic, heroic Italian Romeo, had come to her rescue once, Annabel mused, a pensive smile curving her lips.
Simon saw Annabel’s smile and wondered if she was thinking back, too, remembering the day they’d first met, when she’d fallen overboard and he’d jumped into the Grand Canal to save her, sweeping her into his arms and pulling her out of the water…a flowing-haired, dripping water-nymph with the most wondrous green eyes he’d ever seen.
A touch of cynicism quirked his lip. It was more likely she was wondering why he was here now and how she could avoid seeing any more of him. She’d already tried her best to get rid of him by letting him believe she’d had another man’s child. Thank God, it hadn’t been true. If he hadn’t reacted so violently to seeing her with a strange baby, hadn’t hurled those bitter accusations at her, maybe she would have told him the truth from the start.
Now that they’d both had time to cool down a bit and at least had that complication out of the way, he’d be wise to curb his impatience and give her time to adjust to having him back in her life. Or if not in her life, at least to seeing more of him.
He had to stop her turning away from him again, running off again without even making an effort to resolve what had gone wrong between them. If it meant avoiding any rash confrontations or sore points for the time being and just enjoying each other again, the way they’d managed to do four years ago, he’d damned well do his best to curb his impatience. Gaining her trust again, her confidence, was top priority and he mustn’t rush things and risk wrecking everything.
And regaining her love? Would that be possible as well? Or was it too late for that?
He recalled the shocked concern in her eyes when he’d announced that he’d injured his hand and given up neurosurgery. It gave him a flare of hope. Maybe she still felt something for him. She’d always encouraged him in his career, as he’d supported hers. The thought that she could feel some concern for him now, after what his so-called surgical skills had done to their lives, to their precious daughter, was like a glimmer of sunlight through dark