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Meant-To-Be Family
Marion Lennox


Meant-to-be a daddy?When obstetrician Oliver Evans walked away from his wife, Emily, he hoped it would allow her the chance to be a mum – something he just couldn’t give her. But when Emily crashes back into his life, Oliver knows that this time he can never let her go!Midwife Emily has pieced together her own little family, now Oliver’s return changes everything. It’s clear what they once had isn’t over, but if Oliver wants her back, he’ll have to believe that being a dad can finally heal his heart…Midwives On-CallMidwives, mothers and babies—lives changing for ever…!












Meant-To-Be Family

Marion Lennox







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Dear Reader (#ulink_489f13cf-e441-5076-a28a-a8556578d5ad),


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


Cover (#u80a02f4f-4745-591e-ad12-70be8f5fa6dd)

Title Page (#ue7af1e28-a436-5cd9-92cf-3e92561c0d9b)

Dear Reader (#ulink_22cdba9e-deb3-5fce-bbee-c7a9fbafbf8c)

Dedication (#ua0ffe824-aff2-5f02-a503-060401a9588c)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_593919ad-afbc-5254-85c0-192574252212)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f7e2808f-6490-55b6-9539-743c80b19d3a)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8db0929d-cc9c-5b02-9b76-4d1482d349ab)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_07088370-7e39-502a-9da0-e4616ddbb854)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_8cc89889-20e4-5922-9e0d-9c6c5dc29b8d)


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 a bike.

Instead of a seamless, silent transition to park, there was the appalling sound of metal on metal.

Her wagon had a bull bar on the front, designed to deflect stray bulls—or other cars during minor bingles. It meant her wagon was as tough as old boots. It’d withstand anything short of a road train.

The thing she’d hit wasn’t quite as tough.

She’d ripped the side off the sports car.

Oliver Evans, gynaecologist, obstetrician and in-utero surgeon, was gathering his briefcase and his suit jacket from the passenger seat. He’d be meeting the hospital bigwigs today so he needed to be formal. He was also taking a moment to glance through the notes he had on who he had to meet, who he needed to see.

He vaguely heard the sound of a car behind him. He heard it turning from the ramp …

The next moment the passenger side of his car was practically ripped from the rest.

It was a measure of Em’s fiercely practised calm that she didn’t scream. She didn’t burst into tears. She didn’t even swear.

She simply stared straight ahead. Count to ten, she told herself. When that didn’t work, she tried twenty.

She figured it out, quite quickly. Her parking spot was supposed to be wider but that was because she shared the two parking bays with Harry the obstetrician’s bike and Harry had left. Of course. She’d even dropped in on his farewell party last Friday night, even though it had only been for five minutes because the kids had been waiting.

So Harry had left. This car, then, would belong to the doctor who’d taken his place.

She’d just welcomed him by trashing his car.

‘I have insurance. I have insurance. I have insurance.’ It was supposed to be her mantra. Saying things three times helped, only it didn’t help enough. She put her head on the steering wheel and felt a wash of exhaustion so profound she felt like she was about to melt.

His car was trashed.

He climbed from the driver’s seat and stared at his beloved Morgan in disbelief. The Morgan was low slung, gorgeous—and fragile. He’d parked her right in the centre of the bay to avoid the normal perils of parking lots—people opening doors and scratching his paintwork.

But the offending wagon had a bull bar attached and it hadn’t just scratched his paintwork. While the wagon looked to be almost unscathed, the passenger-side panels of the Morgan had been sheared off completely.

He loved this baby. He’d bought her five years ago, a post-marriage toy to make him feel better about the world. He’d cherished her, spent a small fortune on her and then put her into very expensive storage while he’d been overseas.

His qualms about returning to Australia had been tempered by his joy on being reunited with Betsy. But now … some idiot with a huge lump of a wagon—and a bull bar …

‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ He couldn’t see the driver of the wagon yet, but he was venting his spleen on the wagon itself. Of all the ugly, lumbering excuses for a car …

And it was intact. Yeah, it’d have a few extra scratches but there were scratches all over it already. It was a battered, dilapidated brute and the driver’d be able to keep driving like the crash had never happened.

He wanted to kick it. Of all the stupid, careless …

Um … why hadn’t the driver moved?

And suddenly medical mode kicked in, overriding rage. Maybe the driver had had a heart attack. A faint. Maybe this was a medical incident rather than sheer stupidity. He took a deep breath, switching roles in an instant. Infuriated driver became doctor. The wagon’s driver’s door was jammed hard against where his passenger door used to be, so he headed for its passenger side.

The wagon’s engine died. Someone was alive in there, then. Good. Or sort of good.

He hauled the door open and he hadn’t quite managed the transition. Rage was still paramount.

‘You’d better be having a heart attack.’ It was impossible to keep the fury from his voice. ‘You’d better have a really good excuse as to why you ploughed this heap of scrap metal into my car! You want to get out and explain?’

No!

Things were already appalling—but things just got a whole lot worse.

This was a voice she knew. A voice from her past.

Surely not.

She had to be imagining it, she decided, but she wasn’t opening her eyes. If it really was …

It couldn’t be. She was tired, she was frantically worried about Gretta, she was late and she’d just crashed her car. No wonder she was hearing things.

‘You’re going to have to open your eyes and face things.’ She said it to herself, under her breath. Then she repeated it in her head twice more but her three-times mantra still didn’t seem to be working.

The silence outside the car was ominous. Toe-tappingly threatening.

Maybe it’d go away if she just stayed …

‘Hey, are you okay?’ The gravelly voice, angry at first, was now concerned.

But it was the same voice and this wasn’t her imagination. This was horrendously, appallingly real.

Voices could be the same, she told herself, feeling herself veering towards hysteria. There had to be more than one voice in the world that sounded like his.

She’d stay just one moment longer with her eyes closed.

Her passenger door opened and someone slid inside. Large. Male.

Him.

His hand landed on hers on the steering wheel. ‘Miss? Are you hurt? Can I help?’ And as the anger in his voice gave way to caring she knew, unmistakably, who this was.

Oliver. The man she’d loved with all her heart. The man who’d walked away five years ago to give her the chance of a new life.

So many emotions were slamming through her head … anger, bewilderment, grief … She’d had five years to move on but, crazy or not, this man still felt a part of her.

She’d crashed his car. He was right here.

There was no help for it. She took a deep, deep breath. She braced herself.

She raised her head, and she turned to face her husband.

Emily.

He was seeing her but his mind wasn’t taking her in. Emily!

For one wild moment he thought he must be mistaken. This was a different woman, older, a bit … worn round the edges. Weary? Faded jeans and stained windcheater. Unkempt curls.

But still Emily.

His wife? She still was, he thought stupidly. His Em.

But she wasn’t his Em. He’d walked away five years ago. He’d left her to her new life, and she had nothing to do with him.

Except she was here. She was staring up at him, her eyes reflecting his disbelief. Horror?

Shock held him rigid.

She’d wrecked his car. He loved this car. He should be feeling …

No. There was no should, or if there was he hadn’t read that particular handbook.

Should he feel grief? Should he feel guilt?

He felt neither. All he felt was numb.

She’d had a minute’s warning. He’d had none.

‘Em?’ He looked … incredulous. He looked more shocked than she was—bewildered beyond words.

What were you supposed to say to a husband you hadn’t seen or spoken to for five years? There was no handbook for this.

‘H-hi?’ she managed.

‘You’ve just crashed my car,’ he said, stupidly.

‘You were supposed to be a bike.’ Okay, maybe that was just as stupid. This conversation was going exactly nowhere. They’d established, what, that he wasn’t a bike?

He was her husband—and he was right beside her. Looking completely dumbfounded.

‘You have a milk stain on your shoulder.’

That would be the first thing he’d notice, she thought. Her uniform was in her bag. She never put it on at home—her chances of getting out of the house clean were about zero—so she was still wearing jeans and the baggy windcheater she’d worn at breakfast.

Gretta had had a milky drink before being ill. Em had picked her up and cuddled her before she’d left.

Strangely, the stain left her feeling exposed. She didn’t want this man to see … her.

‘There are child seats in your wagon.’

He still sounded incredulous. Milk stains? Family wagon? He’d be seeing a very different woman from the one he’d seen five years ago.

But he looked … just the same. Same tall, lean, gorgeous. Same deep brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, and Oliver smiled a lot. Same wide mouth and strong bone structure. Same dark, wavy hair, close cropped to try and get rid of the curl, only that never worked. It was so thick. She remembered running her fingers through that hair …

Um, no. Not appropriate. Regardless of formalities, this was her husband. Or ex-husband? They hadn’t bothered with divorce yet but she’d moved on.

She’d just crashed his car.

‘You’re using Harry’s car park,’ she said, pointing accusingly at … um … one slightly bent sports car. It was beautiful—at least some of it still was. An open sports car. Vintage. It wasn’t the sort of car that you might be able to pop down to the car parts place in your lunch hour and buy a new panel.

He’d always loved cars. She remembered the day they’d sold his last sports car.

His last? No. Who knew how many cars he’d been through since? Anyway, she remembered the day they’d sold the sleek little roadster both of them had loved, trading it in for a family wagon. Smaller than this but just as sensible. They’d gone straight from the car showroom to the nursery suppliers, and had had the baby seat fitted there and then.

She’d been six months pregnant. They’d driven home with identical smug looks on their faces.

He’d wanted a family as much as she had. Or she’d thought he did. What had happened then had proved she hadn’t known him at all.

‘I’ve been allocated this car park,’ he was saying, and she had to force herself back to here, to now. ‘Level Five, Bay Eleven. That’s mine.’

‘You’re visiting?’

‘I’m employed here, as of today.’

‘You can’t be.’

He didn’t reply. He climbed out of the wagon, dug his hands deep in his pockets, glanced back at his wreck of a car and looked at her again.

‘Why can’t I, Em?’ The wreck of the car faded to secondary importance. This was suddenly all about them.

‘Because I work here.’

‘It’s the most specialised neonatal service in Melbourne. You know that’s what I do.’

‘You went to the States.’ She felt numb. Stupid. Out of control. She’d been sure her ex-husband had been on the other side of world. She didn’t want him to be here.

‘I did specialist training in in-utero surgery in the States.’ This was a dumb conversation. He was out of the car, leaning back on one of the concrete columns, watching her as she clung to the steering wheel like she was drowning. ‘I’ve accepted a job back here. And before you say anything, no, I didn’t know you were working here. I thought you were still at Hemmingway Private. I knew when I came back that there was a chance we might meet, but Melbourne’s a big place. I’m not stalking you.’

‘I never meant …’

‘No?’

‘No,’ she managed. ‘And I’m sorry I crashed into your car.’

Finally things were starting to return to normal. Like her heart rate. Her pulse had gone through the roof when the cars had hit. She’d been subconsciously trying to get it down, practising the deep-breathing techniques she used when she was pacing the floor with Gretta, frightened for herself, frightened for the future. The techniques came to her aid instinctively now when she was frightened. Or discombobulated.

Discombobulated was how she felt, she conceded. Stalking? That sounded as if he thought she might be frightened of him, and she’d never been frightened of Oliver.

‘Can we exchange details?’ she managed, trying desperately to sound normal. Like this was a chance meeting of old acquaintances, but they needed to talk about car insurance. ‘Oliver, it’s really nice to see you again …’ Was it? Um, no, but it sounded the right thing to say. ‘But I’m late as it is.’

‘Which was why you crashed.’

‘Okay, it was my fault,’ she snapped. ‘But, believe it or not, there are extenuating circumstances. That’s not your business.’ She clambered out of the car and dug for her licence in her shabby holdall. She pulled out two disposable diapers and a packet of baby wipes before she found her purse, and she was so flustered she dropped them. Oliver gathered them without a word, and handed them back. She flushed and handed him her licence instead.

He took it wordlessly, and studied it.

‘You still call yourself Emily Evans?’

‘You know we haven’t divorced. That’s irrelevant. You’re supposed to take down my address.’

‘You’re living at your mother’s house?’

‘I am.’ She grabbed her licence back. ‘Finished?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to take mine?’

‘You can sue me. I can’t sue you. We both know the fault was mine. If you’re working here then I’ll send you my insurance details via interdepartmental memo. I don’t carry them with me.’

‘You seem to carry everything else.’ Once more he was looking into the car, taking in the jumble of kids’ paraphernalia that filled it.

‘I do, don’t I?’ she said, as cordially as she could manage. ‘Oliver, it’s good to see you again. I’m sorry I wrecked your car but I’m running really, really late.’

‘You never run late.’ He was right: punctuality used to be her god.

‘I’m not the Emily you used to know,’ she managed. ‘I’m a whole lot different but this isn’t the time or the place to discuss it.’ She looked again at his car and winced. She really had made an appalling mess. ‘You want me to organise some sort of tow?’

‘Your car’s hardly dented. I’ll handle mine.’

‘I’m … sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Oliver, I really am sorry but I really do need to go. If there’s nothing I can do …’

He was peering into her wagon. ‘I doubt your lock’s still working,’ he told her. ‘Once my car’s towed free …’

‘Locks are the least of my worries.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder, knowing she had to move. She knew Isla was short-staffed this morning and the night staff would be aching to leave. ‘Look at the stains,’ she told him. ‘No villain in their right mind would steal my wagon and, right now, I don’t have time to care. I’m sorry to leave you with this mess, Oliver, but I need to go. Welcome to Victoria Hospital. See you around.’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_7c05ae9a-8457-5c75-ab1b-0b49ba27635b)


RUBY DOWELL WAS seventeen years old, twenty-two weeks pregnant and terrified. She was Oliver’s first patient at the Victoria.

She was also the reason he’d started so soon. He’d been recruited to replace Harry Eichmann, an obstetrician with an interest in in-utero procedures. Oliver had started the same way, but for him in-utero surgery was more than a side interest. For the last five years he’d been based in the States but he’d travelled the world learning the latest techniques.

The phone call he’d had from Charles Delamere, Victoria’s CEO, had been persuasive, to say the least. ‘Harry’s following a girlfriend to Europe. There’s no one here with your expertise and there’s more and more demand.

‘It’s time you came home. Oliver, right now we have a kid here with a twenty-one-week foetus, and her scans are showing spina bifida. Heinz Zigler, our paediatric neurologist, says the operation has to be done now. He can do the spinal stuff but he doesn’t have the skills to stop the foetus aborting. Oliver, there are more and more of these cases, and we’re offering you a full-time job. If you get here fast, we might save this kid shunts, possible brain damage, a life with limited movement below the waist. Short term, I want you to fight to give this kid a happy ending. Long term we’re happy to fund your research. We’ll cover the costs of whatever extra training you want, any staff you need. We want the best, Oliver, and we’re prepared to pay, but we want you now.’

The offer had been great, but he’d had serious reservations about returning to Melbourne. He’d walked away from his marriage five years ago, and he’d thought he’d stay away. Em had deserved a new life, a chance to start again with someone who’d give her what she needed.

And it seemed his decision had been justified. Seeing her this morning, driving a family wagon, with milk stains on her shoulder, with every sign of being a frazzled young working mum, he’d thought …

Actually, he hadn’t thought. The sight had knocked him sideways and he was still knocked sideways. But he needed to focus on something other than his marriage. After a brief introduction with Charles, he was in the examination room with Ruby Dowell. Teenage mother, pregnant with a baby with spina bifida.

‘At twenty-two weeks we need to get on with this fast,’ Charles had told him. ‘There’s such a short window for meaningful intervention.’

Ruby was lying on the examination couch in a cubicle in the antenatal clinic and, as with all his patients, he took a moment at the start to assess the whole package. Her notes said she was seventeen. She’d been attending clinics in the Victoria’s Teenage Mums-To-Be programme. When the spina bifida had been detected on the scans she’d been offered termination but had declined, although the notes said she intended to give the baby up for adoption after birth. Right now she was dressed in shorts and an oversized T-shirt. Her mouse-blonde, shoulder-length hair was in need of a wash and a good cut. Apart from the bump of her pregnancy she was waif thin, and her eyes were red-rimmed and wide with fear.

She looked like a wild creature trapped in a cage, he thought. Hell, why was she alone? Her notes said she was a single mum, but she should have her mother with her, or a sister, or at least a friend.

It was unthinkable that such a kid was alone. Charles had said that Isla, his daughter and also the Victoria’s head midwife, was in charge of the Teenage Mums-To-Be programme. Why hadn’t she organised to be here, or at least sent a midwife in her place?

But now wasn’t the time to head to the nurses’ station and blast the powers that be for leaving her like this. Now was the time for reassurance.

‘Hey,’ he said, walking into the cubicle but deliberately leaving the screens open. He didn’t need to do a physical examination yet, and he didn’t want that trapped look to stay a moment longer. ‘I’m the baby surgeon, Oliver Evans. I’m an obstetrician who’s specially trained in operating on babies when they’re still needing to stay inside their mums. And you’re Ruby Dowell?’

He hauled a chair up to the bedside and summoned his best reassuring manner. ‘Ruby, I’m here to get to know you, that’s all. Nothing’s happening right now. I’m just here to talk.’

But the terrified look stayed. She actually cringed back on the bed, fear radiating off her in waves. ‘I’m … I’m scared of operations,’ she stuttered. ‘I don’t want to be here.’

But then the screen was pulled back still further. A woman in nursing uniform, baggy tunic over loose pants, was fastening the screen so Ruby could see the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor.

Emily. His wife.

His ex-wife? She’d never asked for a divorce but it had been simply a matter of signing the papers, any time these last five years.

‘I’m scared of operations, too,’ Em said, matter-of-factly, as if she’d been involved in the conversation from the start. ‘I think everyone is. But Dr Evans here is the best baby surgeon in the known universe, I promise. I’ve known him for ever. If it was my baby there’d be no one else I’d want. Dr Evans is great, Ruby. He’s kind, he’s skilled and he’ll give your baby the best chance of survival she can possibly have.’

‘But I told you … I don’t want her.’ Ruby was sobbing now, swiping away tears with the back of her hand. ‘My mum said I should have had an abortion. She would have paid. I don’t know why I didn’t. And now you’re operating on a baby I don’t even want. I just want you all to go away.’

In-utero surgery was fraught at the best of times. It was full of potential dangers for both mother and baby. To operate on a mother who didn’t want her baby to survive …

He didn’t know where to start—but he didn’t need to, because Em simply walked forward, tugged the girl into her arms and held her.

Ruby stiffened. She held herself rigid, but Em’s fingers stroked her hair.

‘Hey, it’s okay, Ruby. We all know how hard this is. Pregnancy’s the pits. You feel so on your own, and you’re especially on your own. You decided not to go ahead with an abortion, going against what your family wanted you to do. That took courage, but there’s only so much courage a girl can be expected to show. That’s why Isla’s been helping you and it’s why I’m here now. I’m your midwife, Ruby. I’ll be with you every step of the way. All the decisions will be yours but I’m right with you. Right now, if you want Dr Evans to go away and come back later, he will. Just say the word.’

She met Oliver’s gaze over Ruby’s shoulder and her message was unmistakable. Back me up.

So Em was this girl’s midwife? Then where the hell had she been when he’d walked in?

Coping with her crashed car, that’s where, and then changing out of her mum clothes into nursing gear. Still, surely she could have made it earlier.

‘We’ve had a drama with a prem birth I had to help with,’ she said, as if he’d voiced his question out loud. She was still holding, still hugging, as Ruby’s sobs went on. ‘That’s why I’m late, Ruby, and I’m sorry. I wanted to be here when you arrived. But I’m here now, and if you decide to proceed with this operation then you’re my number one priority. Do you need some tissues? Dr Evans, hand me some tissues.’

‘You helped with an earlier birth?’ he asked, before he could help himself, and she had the temerity to glare at him.

‘Yep. I had to step in and help the moment I hit the wards. Plus I crashed my car this morning. I crashed my wagon, Ruby, and guess whose gorgeous car I drove into? None other than Dr Evans. It’s his first day on the job and I hit him. It’s a wonder he hasn’t tossed me out of the room already.’

And Ruby’s sobs hiccupped to a halt. She pulled back and looked at Em, then turned and stared at Oliver.

‘She hit your car?’

‘Yes,’ he said. He wouldn’t normally impart personal information to a patient but he guessed what Em was doing, and he could only agree. What Ruby needed was space to settle. He could help with that—even though he had to get personal to give it to her.

‘I have a sixty-four Morgan Plus-4 sports car,’ he said, mournfully, like the end of the world was nigh, which was about how he’d felt when he’d seen the damage—before he’d realised the driver of the other car had been Em. ‘It’s two-tone burgundy with black interior, a gorgeous two-seater. It’s fitted with super sports upgrades, including twin Weber carbs, a Derrington header and a bonnet scoop. It also has chrome wire wheels, a badge bar with twin Lucas fog lamps and a tonneau cover. Oh, and it’s retrofitted with overdrive transmission. Now it’s also fitted with one smashed side—courtesy of your midwife.’

‘Yikes,’ Em said, but she didn’t sound in the least subdued. ‘Twin Weber carbs and a Derrington header, hey? Did I damage all that?’

‘And if you knew how long it took to get those fog lamps …’

‘Whoops. Sorry. But you scratched my car, too.’ But Em was talking at Ruby rather than at him and she still sounded cheerful. Chirpy even.

‘Scratched …’ he muttered, and she grinned.

‘That’s okay. I forgive you. And they’re cars. They’re just things. That’s what insurance is for. Whereas babies aren’t things at all,’ Em continued, leading seamlessly back to the reason they were all there. ‘Ruby, your little girl is a person, not a thing, and she’s far, far more precious. You made the decision to go ahead with this pregnancy. You made the decision early not to choose abortion and you chose it again when the scan showed spina bifida. But you’ve been telling me you think you might have her adopted when she’s born …’

‘I can’t … deal with it.’

‘You don’t have to deal with it,’ Em said soundly. ‘There are lots of parents out there who’ll give their eye teeth to have a baby like yours to love. That’s right, isn’t it, Dr Evans?’

‘I … Yes.’ But her words were like a punch in the gut. That last night … He’d tried to make her see one last time. ‘Em, I can’t. I know adoption’s the only way, but I can’t do it. I can’t guarantee to love a child who’s not our own.’

‘It will be our own.’

‘Em, no.’

It had been their last conversation. He’d turned and walked away from the only woman he’d ever loved and it had nearly killed him. But she’d deserved the family she’d wanted so much. He’d had to give her that chance, and from the evidence he’d seen today, she’d taken it.

But now wasn’t about him. It was all about Ruby. The kid’s terror had been put aside. He had to take advantage of it.

Which meant putting thoughts of Em aside. Putting aside the knowledge that his wife, his ex-wife, presumably—did you need to formally sign papers to accept a marriage was over?—was in the same room.

‘Ruby, you created this little girl,’ he said, as Em continued to hold her. ‘You can have her adopted at birth, but until then you need to look after her. And the staff here have already explained to you—to look after her means an operation now.’

‘But why?’ Ruby demanded, suddenly belligerent. ‘I don’t understand. The kid’s got spina bifida—Dr Zigler showed me on the scans. What difference does it make whether you operate now or operate when it’s born?’

There was fear behind the question. Oliver recognised it. He’d done many in-utero procedures by now, and sometimes one of the hardest things was having the mum understand that the tiny child inside her was an independent being already. Something totally separate from her. This was a child who could be shifted in her uterus, who even at twenty-two weeks could cope with complex surgery and then be resettled, because, no matter how amazing the technology, the womb was still the safest place for her to be.

‘Ruby, you know your baby has spina bifida,’ he said now, gently. Em still had her arm around the girl. He was talking to them both, as he’d normally talk to a woman and her partner, or a woman and her mum or support person. Em had slid naturally into that role. A good midwife sometimes had to, he thought, and Em had always been brilliant at her job. Efficient, kind, skilled and empathic. He’d worked with her once and he’d loved it.

It was totally disconcerting to be working with her again, but he needed to focus on Ruby.

‘You know we’ve picked up the spina bifida on the ultrasound,’ Oliver said matter-of-factly, trying to take the emotion out of the situation. ‘You’ve seen it?’

‘It just looked blurry. I couldn’t figure it out.’

So she didn’t understand. ‘Heinz Zigler’s a great paediatric neurologist,’ Charles had told him. ‘He’s technically brilliant, but communication’s not his strong suit. He’ll do the spinal surgery but everything else—including explanations to the mum—we’re leaving to you.’

So now he needed to explain from the ground up. ‘The scans do look blurry,’ he admitted. ‘I have trouble reading them myself. Fine detail like the nerve exposure around vertebrae needs incredibly specialised knowledge to see, but the radiologists here are superb. They’ve double-checked each other’s work, and Dr Zigler agrees. Everyone’s sure. But would you like me to explain what I think is happening? I don’t talk in fine detail, Ruby. I just see the overview. That’s actually what I do, total patient care, looking after you as well as your baby. I’m an obstetrician and a surgeon who specialises in looking after mums and bubs if bub needs an operation before it’s time for her to be born.’

Silence. Ruby cast him a scared look and subsided. He waited, while Ruby pulled herself together a bit more, while Em handed her a wad of tissues, while both women readied themselves to front what was coming.

‘Heinz says he told you the fine detail,’ he said at last, when he thought Ruby was as ready as she was going to be. ‘But here’s the broad outline. The bones of your baby’s spine—the vertebrae—haven’t formed properly to protect your baby’s spinal cord. The spinal cord holds the nerves that control your baby’s movements. Because those nerves run right through the body, if the cord gets damaged then long term, your baby might not be able to walk. She might not have control of her bladder and bowel. If she has a severe problem she can also end up with a build-up of fluid in her brain. Then she’ll need a shunt, all her life, to drain the excess fluid and relieve pressure.’

Ruby was crying again now, but not sobbing. Em’s arm was around her, holding her close, but Ruby’s attention was held. Her distress was taking second place to her need to know, and she seemed to be taking it in.

‘So,’ she whispered. ‘So?’

‘So the good thing is,’ he said, still gently, ‘that many problems of spina bifida aren’t directly caused by the spina bifida itself. Doctors cleverer than me, like Heinz—did you know he’s top in his field in research?—have worked out that the exposure of the spinal cord to the normal fluid in your womb, the amniotic fluid, is what progressively destroys the exposed nerves during pregnancy. If we can operate now, really early, and cover the exposed cord, then we prevent much of the damage. Your baby’s much more likely to be able to live a normal, happy life.’

‘But not with me,’ Ruby whispered.

That was another issue altogether. Adoption. This was a single mum, a teenager, facing a life apart from the baby she was carrying.

‘You haven’t decided definitely on adoption,’ Em murmured, and the girl shook her head.

‘I can’t think …’

‘And you don’t need to think.’ Em’s hold on her tightened. ‘There’s too much happening now for you to think past what you need to face right now. But, Ruby, regardless of what you decide to do when your baby’s born, regardless of whether you decide you can care for her yourself or if you want to give her to parents who need a baby to love, she’ll still be your daughter. You have the choice now to make a huge difference in your daughter’s life.’

‘You’re … sure she has to have this operation?’ Ruby whispered. ‘I mean … really sure?’

‘We’re sure,’ Oliver told her, suddenly immensely grateful for Em’s presence. Without Em he doubted whether he’d have been able to get past the fear. ‘But the operation’s not without risks.’ He had to say that. There was no way he could let this kid agree to surgery without warning her. ‘Ruby, there are risks to you and risks to your baby. I believe those risks are small but they’re still there.’

‘But … I will make a difference.’

‘Heinz tells me that because the spinal cord exposure is relatively high and very obvious on the ultrasound, then if we leave the operation undone, your daughter will probably spend her life in a wheelchair,’ he said bluntly. ‘And with the amount of exposure … there will be fluid build-up in the brain. She’ll need a shunt and there may even be brain damage.’

‘That’s why Dr Evans has arrived here so fast,’ Em went on smoothly. ‘We haven’t had a specialist in-utero surgeon on staff, but when we saw your ultrasound Dr Zigler knew we had to get the best obstetrician here as fast as we could. That’s who Dr Evans is. The best. So now it’s up to you, Ruby, love. Will you let us operate on your baby?’

‘Heinz and I can close the gap over the cord,’ Oliver told her. ‘There’s probably already a little damage done, but it’s so early that damage should be minimal. What we’ll do is put you to sleep, cut the smallest incision in your tummy as possible—you’ll be left with a scar but I’m very neat.’ He grinned at the girl, knowing a bit of pseudo modesty often worked, and he got a shaky smile in return. ‘Then we’ll gently turn your baby over where she’s lying—with luck we won’t have to take her out. Once her back is exposed Heinz will check everything, tweak things to where they should be, then we’ll close the gap over her spinal cord. We’ll settle her back down again and tuck her in, stitch you up and leave you both to get on with your pregnancy. You’ll need to stay in hospital for about a week, maybe a bit longer, until we’re sure we haven’t pressured bub into coming early, but then everything should proceed as normal.’

‘And she won’t have to be in a wheelchair?’

‘Ruby, we can’t make any promises.’ He caught her hand and held it. Em was still hugging her, and Oliver thought, not for the first time, Em was a wonderful midwife. She knew when to intervene and she knew when to shut up. She also exuded a quiet calm that was a tranquilliser all by itself.

He’d met her ten years ago. He’d been a barely qualified doctor, she’d been a student nurse, but already the confidence she’d engendered in the patients he’d worked with had been impressive. He’d seen her with some terrified teenage mums.

There was no nurse he’d rather have by his side and by the time they’d dated twice he’d known there was no woman he’d rather have with him for ever. Their attraction had been instant, their marriage inevitable.

It was only babies … or lack of babies … that had driven them apart.

The night their son had been stillborn had been the worst night of his life. He’d watched Em’s face contort with an anguish so deep it had seemed endless, and there had been nothing he could do to stop it. He’d been unable to help her. He’d been unable to reach her.

But it was hardly the time to be thinking of that now. It was hardly the time to be thinking of it ever. After five years, they’d moved on.

‘I can’t make any promises,’ he repeated, hauling himself back to the here and now, to the needs of the teenage kid in front of him. ‘The procedure Heinz and I are trained to perform usually has an excellent outcome but there are exceptions. I won’t hide that from you, Ruby. There are risks. There’s a chance of infection, for you as well as your baby. We’ll take every care in the world …’

‘But no guarantees.’

‘No guarantees,’ he agreed. ‘So it’s up to you. This is your daughter, Ruby. It’s up to you to make the choice.’

‘I’m too young to have a daughter.’ It was a wail and Em’s arm tightened around her.

‘That’s where I come in,’ she said solidly, a blanket of comfort and reassurance. ‘You want advice, I’m full of advice. You want a hug, that’s what I’m here for, too.’

‘You can’t be here with me all the time.’

‘I can’t,’ Em agreed. ‘I have my own son and daughter to look after. But I’m here every day during the week, and if I’m needed, I can come in at other times. My mum lives with me so I can usually drop everything and come. I don’t do that for all my mums, but I’ll try for you.’

‘Why?’ Ruby demanded, suspicious.

‘Because you’re special,’ she said soundly. ‘Isn’t that right, Dr Evans? You’re one special woman, and you’re about to have one special daughter.’

But Oliver was hardly listening. Somehow he managed to make a grunt of acquiescence but his mind felt like it was exploding.

I have my own son and daughter to look after.

Somehow … a part of his brain had hoped—assumed?—that she’d stayed … as Em. The Em he’d left five years ago.

She hadn’t. She’d moved on. She was a different woman.

I have my own son and daughter to look after …

‘What do you think, Ruby?’ Em was saying gently. ‘Do you want to go ahead with the operation? Do you want time to think about it?’

‘I don’t have a choice,’ Ruby whispered. ‘My baby … It’s the best thing …’

It was. Oliver watched Ruby’s hand drop to cover the faint bulge of her tummy, the instinctive gesture of protection that was as old as time itself.

And the gesture brought back the wedge that had been driven so deep within his marriage that it had finished it. Em had wanted to adopt, and he’d known he couldn’t love like parents were supposed to love. He was right, he thought bleakly. He’d always been right. What was between Ruby and her baby was what her baby needed. Ruby was this baby’s mum. Adoption was great if there was no choice, but how could an adoptive parent ever love a child as much as this?

He knew he couldn’t and that knowledge had torn his marriage apart.

But Em was watching him now, with those eyes he’d once thought he could drown in. He’d loved her so much, and yet he’d walked away.

And she’d walked, as well.

I have my own son and daughter to look after.

It was nothing to do with him. He’d made his choice five years ago, and Em had obviously made choices, too.

He needed to know what those choices had been.

But now wasn’t the time or the place to ask. All he could do was turn his attention back to Ruby, reassure her as much as possible and then set about working out times and details of the forthcoming surgery.

As they finished, a woman who introduced herself as one of the hospital social workers arrived. It seemed Ruby needed help with housing—as well as everything else, she’d been kicked out of her parents’ house. She was staying in a boarding house near the hospital but she wouldn’t be able to stay there when the baby was born.

There’d be more talk of adoption. More talk of options.

Ruby’s surgery was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, but for now he was redundant. He was free to head to the next mum Charles had asked him to see.

He left, but his head was spinning.

Em was still sitting on the bed, still hugging Ruby. I have my own son and daughter to look after.

Whatever she’d done, it had been her choice. He’d walked away so she’d have that choice.

Why did it hurt so much that she’d taken it?




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_60a5afc7-8917-55a7-933e-c17c39a82b75)


EM GOT ON with her day, too.

One of the wonderful things about being a midwife was that it took all her care, all her attention. She had little head-space for anything else. What was the saying? Find a job you love and you’ll never have to work again? She’d felt that the first time she’d helped deliver a baby and she’d never looked back.

She sometimes … okay, she often … felt guilty about working when her mum was home with the kids, but the decision to foster had been a shared one. Her mum loved Gretta and Toby as much as she did. They had the big old house, but they needed Em’s salary to keep them going.

Sometimes when Em got home her mother was more tired than she was, but whenever she protested she was cut off at the pass.

‘So which baby are we giving back? Don’t be ridiculous, Em. We can do this.’

They could, and knowing the kids were at home, waiting … it felt great, Em thought as she hauled off her uniform at the end of her shift and tugged on her civvies. Right, supermarket, pharmacy—Gretta’s medications were running low—then home. She’d rung her mum at lunchtime and Adrianna had been reassuring. ‘She’s looking much better.’ But, still, there was no way she was risking running out of Gretta’s drugs.

‘Big day?’ Sophia Toulson, one of the more recent arrivals to the Victoria’s midwifery staff, was hauling her uniform off, too, but instead of pulling on sensible clothes like Em’s—yikes, where had that milk stain come from?—she was putting on clothes that said she was heading out clubbing or to a bar—to a life Em had left behind years ago.

Not that she missed it—much. Though there were times …

‘It has been a big day,’ she agreed, thinking of the night to come. Em had had three sleepless nights in a row. Gretta needed to be checked all the time. What she’d give for a solid eight-hour sleep …

‘But have you met the new obstetrician? You must have—he’s been fast-tracked here to operate on your Ruby. Em, he’s gorgeous. No wedding ring, either. Not that that tells you anything with surgeons—they hardly ever wear them. It’s not fair. Just because rings can hold infection it gives them carte blanche to disguise their marital state. But he’s come from the States and fast, so that hints at single status. Em, you’ll be working with him. How about giving it a shot?’

Yeah, right. Propositioning Oliver? If Sophia only knew … But somehow she managed to grimace as if this conversation were completely normal, an anonymous, gorgeous obstetrician arriving in the midst of midwives whose first love was their job, and whose second love was dissecting the love lives of those around them.

She turned to face the full-length mirror at the end of the change room. What she saw there made her grimace. Faded jeans, with a rip at the knee. Trainers with odd shoelaces. A windcheater with a milk stain running down the shoulder—why hadn’t she noticed that before she’d left the house?

Her hair needed a cut. Oliver had loved her hair. She’d had it longer then and the dull brown had been shiny. It had bounced—she’d spent time with decent shampoo and conditioner, and she’d used a curling wand to give it body.

Now she bought her shampoo and conditioner in bulk at the discount store and her curling wand was rusting under the sink.

Oliver had never seen her like this—until today.

Sophia was suggesting she make a play for him?

‘Can you see Oliver Evans with someone like me?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Sophia, get real.’

‘You could try,’ Sophia said, coming up behind her friend and staring over her shoulder at the reflection. ‘Em, you’re really pretty. With a bit of effort …’

‘All my effort goes into the kids.’

‘You’re burying yourself.’

‘I’m giving them a chance.’ She glanced at her watch and grimaced again. ‘Ouch. I need to go. Have a great time tonight.’

‘I wish I could say the same for you. Home with your mum and two kids …’ She bit her lip and Em knew why. Sophia had the same problem she did—she’d barely worked with her for a month before she’d winkled out of her the reason for the gravity behind what somehow seemed a forced gaity.

Did all women who couldn’t have children feel like this? Maybe they did, but Em’s solution horrified Sophia.

‘I love it,’ she said soundly, even defiantly, because she did. Of course she did. ‘And you have fun at … Where are you going?’

‘The Rooftop Bar. Madeleine just happened to mention to your Dr Evans that we might be there.’ She grinned and started searching her bag for her lipstick. ‘If you’re not interested …’

‘He’s all yours,’ Em said tightly. ‘Best of luck. The supermarket’s waiting for me. Whoo-hoo, a fabulous night for both of us.’

‘Right,’ Sophia said dryly. ‘Em, I wish …’

‘Well, don’t wish,’ Em said, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Don’t even think about it. This is the life I chose for myself, and I’m happy. Dr Oliver Evans might be at the bar and I guess that’s the life he’s chosen, too. We’re all where we want to be, and we can’t ask for more than that.’

Oliver’s day wasn’t supposed to be frantic. Weren’t new staff supposed to have an orientation day, a shift where they spent the time acquainting themselves with ward and theatre staff, meeting everyone in the canteen, arranging stuff in their office? Not so much. Harry, it seemed, had left in a hurry. His lady had been enticing; he’d left without giving proper notice and the work had backed up.

Apart from that, Harry hadn’t had specialist in-utero surgical training. It seemed that word of Oliver’s arrival had flown around Melbourne before he arrived. He had three consultations lined up for the afternoon and more for the next day.

Ruby’s case was probably the most complex. No, it was the most complex, he thought, mostly because the scans showing the extent of the problem had made him wince.

Plus she was alone. His next mum, Lucy, arrived with a support cast, husband, parents, an entourage of six. Her baby had a congenital heart malfunction. The little boy in utero was a twenty-four-weeker. He needed an aortic valvuloplasty—opening the aortic foetal heart valves to allow blood flow. It was one of the most common reasons for in-utero surgery, the one that Oliver was most comfortable with—as long as he had the backup of decent cardiac surgeons.

Oliver had already met Tristan Hamilton, the Victoria’s neonatal cardiothoracic surgeon—in fact, they’d gone to university together. Tristan had backed up Charles’s calls, pressuring him to come, and he had been one of the inducements. Tristan was incredibly skilled, and if he could work side by side with him, for this mum, things were likely to be fine.

But what seemed wrong was that Lucy and her little boy had huge family backup—and Ruby had no one.

But Ruby had Em.

That had to be compensation. Em would be terrific.

If indeed she was with her. She’d been running late that morning. She’d looked harassed, like she had one too many balls in the air.

She’d come flying into Ruby’s room half an hour after she’d hit his car, burbling about an early delivery. Really? Or had she spent the half hour on the phone to her insurance people?

It was none of his business.

Still, it was a niggle …

Isla Delamere was the Victoria’s head midwife—plus she was the daughter of the CEO. Apparently she’d also just become engaged to the hospital’s neonatal intensive care specialist. Isla was not a person to mess with, he’d decided. He’d been introduced to her by Charles, and as he was about to leave he saw her again.

‘You have how many in-utero procedures lined up for me?’ he said, half joking. ‘You guys believe in throwing me in at the deep end.’

‘You just do the surgery,’ she said, smiling. ‘My midwives will keep everything running smoothly. I have the best team …’

‘My midwife this morning was running late.’ He shouldn’t have said it. He knew it the moment he’d opened his mouth. The last thing he wanted was to get Em into trouble and this woman had power at her fingertips, but Isla didn’t seem bothered.

‘I’m sorry about that. We had three births within fifteen minutes of each other just as Em came on duty. I know her care of Ruby’s a priority, but one of the births was prem, the mum was out of her tree, and there’s no one better at calming a frantic mum than Em. I only used her for the final fifteen minutes but it made a difference. You did cope by yourself until then?’

She raised her beautifully formed eyebrows quizzically … head midwife wondering if surgeon could cope without a little assistance …

Right. He’d got his answer but now Isla thought he was a wimp. Great start.

‘Some of the staff are going to the Rooftop Bar after work,’ Isla told him. ‘Have you been invited? You’re welcome to join us.’

‘Thanks but I have a problem to sort.’

‘Your car?’ She was still smiling and, he thought, that was just the sort of thing that hospital staff the world over enjoyed. Specialist’s car being trashed, especially since most staff here could never afford to run a car like Betsy.

He loved that car and now she was a mess. But …

‘Em’s promised to sort it,’ Isla told him. ‘She’s not the sort of woman to let her insurance lapse.’

‘It’s not the insurance …’

‘And she’s really sorry. She was stricken when she first came in this morning. She’s been so busy all day I suspect she hadn’t had time to apologise but—’

‘Will she be at the bar now?’

‘Em? Heavens, no. She has two kids waiting for her at home.’

‘Two?’

‘Gretta’s four and Toby’s two. They’re special kids but, wow, they’re demanding.’

‘I guess …’ And then he asked because he couldn’t help himself. Had a miracle happened? Gretta’s four … She must have moved like the wind. ‘Her partner …’ He knew there couldn’t have been a marriage because there’d never been a divorce but … there must be someone. ‘Is he a medic? Does she have help?’

But Isla’s eyebrows hit her hairline. Her face closed, midwife protecting her own. ‘I guess that’s for you to ask Em if it’s important for you to know,’ she said shortly, clearing her desk, making signals she was out of there. Off to the Rooftop Bar to join her colleagues? ‘She doesn’t talk about her private life. Is there anything else you need?’

More information, he thought, and he’d bet Isla knew everything he wanted to know. But he couldn’t push without opening a can of worms. Evans was a common name. Em had clearly not told anyone there was a connection.

Better to leave it that way, maybe.

‘Thanks, no.’

‘Goodnight, then. And good luck with the car. You might let Em know when you have it sorted. She’s beating herself up over it. She’s a great midwife and I don’t like my midwives stressed. I’d appreciate it if you could fix it.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said, but it was too late. Isla had gone.

He headed down to the car park. He hadn’t been back to assess the damage during the day—he hadn’t had time.

The park next to his was empty. Em was gone.

Her wagon had still been drivable. Her doors had been bent, but the wheels were still okay, whereas his … One of the wheels was far from okay and he wasn’t driving anywhere. He stooped and examined it and thought of the hassle it had been to find the right parts for his little beauty. Where was he going to find another wheel rim? And the panels were a mess.

Strangely, it didn’t upset him as much as he’d thought it might. He checked the damage elsewhere and knew he’d have to get her towed—actually, carried, as there was no way she could be towed like this. And then he’d go searching for the parts he needed.

He kind of liked searching the internet for car parts. It was something to do at three in the morning when he couldn’t sleep.

Which was often.

He rounded the front of the car and there he saw a note in his windshield. Em?

Oliver, I really am sorry about this. I’ve put my hand up, it was all my fault, and I’ve told my insurance company to pay without arguing. I photocopied my driver’s licence and my insurance company details—they’re attached. One of the girls on the ward knows of a great repair place that specialises in vintage cars—the details are here, too. See you when you next see Ruby.

Em

It was all about the car. There was nothing personal at all.

Well, what did he expect? A mea culpa with extras? This was more than generous, admitting total culpability. Her insurance company would hate her. As well as that, she’d probably have to pay the first few hundred dollars, plus she’d lose her no-claim bonus.

He could afford it. Could she?

He re-read the note. What was he hoping for? Personal details?

Her driver’s licence told him all he was going to get. Emily Louise Evans. She was still using his name, then. So … single mother? How? Had she gone ahead and adopted by herself? He checked again, making sure he was right—she was living at her mother’s address.

He liked Adrianna. Or he had liked her. He hadn’t seen his mother-in-law for years.

He could drop in …

Why?

‘Because she shouldn’t accept full responsibility,’ he said out loud. ‘If she’s supporting kids …’

She’d said she’d already phoned her insurance company and confessed, but maybe he could reverse it. Maybe he could take some of the load.

The independent Em of five years ago would tell him to shove it.

Yeah? He thought back to the Em of five years ago, shattered, gutted, looking towards the future with a bleakness that broke his heart.

‘If you won’t do it with me then I’ll do it alone. If you think I can go back to the life we led …I’m over nightclubs, Oliver. I’m over living just for me.’

‘Isn’t there an us in there?’

‘I thought there was, but I thought we wanted a family. I hadn’t realised it came with conditions.’

‘Em, I can’t.’

‘So you’re leaving?’

‘You’re not giving me any choice.’

‘I guess I’m not. I’m sorry, Oliver.’

Five years …

Okay, their marriage was long over but somehow she still seemed … partly his responsibility. And the cost of this repair would make her insurance company’s eyes water.

It behoved him …

‘Just to see,’ he told himself. He’d thought he’d drop in to visit Adrianna when he’d come to Melbourne anyway, to see how she was.

And talk to Adrianna about Em?

Yeah, but he was over it. He’d had a couple of relationships in the last five years, even if they had been fleeting. He’d moved on.

‘So let’s be practical,’ he told himself, and hit his phone and organised a tow truck, and a hire car, and half an hour later he was on the freeway, heading to the suburb where his ex-mother-in-law lived. With his wife and her two children, and her new life without him.

‘You hit who?’

‘Oliver.’ Em was feeding Toby, which was a messy joy. Toby was two years old and loved his dinner. Adrianna had made his favourite animal noodles in a tomato sauce. Toby was torn between inspecting every animal on his spoon and hoovering in the next three spoonfuls as if there was no tomorrow.

Adrianna was sitting by the big old fire stove, cuddling Gretta. The little girl’s breathing was very laboured.

Soon …

No. It hurt like hot knives to have to think about it. Much better to concentrate on distractions, and Oliver was surely a distraction.

‘He’s working at the Victoria?’

‘Yep. Starting today.’

‘Oh, Em … Can you stay there?’

‘I can’t walk away. We need the money. Besides, it’s the best midwifery job in Melbourne. I love working with Isla and her team.’

‘So tell him to leave. You were there first.’

‘I don’t think you can tell a man like Oliver Evans to leave. Besides, the hospital needs him. I read his CV on the internet during lunch break. His credentials are even more awesome than when I knew him. He’s operating on Ruby’s baby and there’s no one better to do it.’

And that had Adrianna distracted. ‘How is Ruby?’

Em wasn’t supposed to bring work home. She wasn’t supposed to talk about patients outside work, but Adrianna spent her days minding the kids so Em could work. Adrianna had to feel like she was a part of it, and in a way she was. If it wasn’t for her mum, she’d never be able to do this.

This. Chaos. Animal noodles. Mess on the kitchen floor. Fuzzy, a dopey half-poodle, half something no one could guess at, was currently lurking under Toby’s highchair on the off-chance the odd giraffe or elephant would drop from on high.

‘Hey, it’s all done.’ There was a triumphant bang from the laundry and Mike appeared in the doorway, waving his spanner. ‘That’s that mother fixed. I’d defy any drop to leak anywhere now. Anything else I can do for you ladies?’

‘Oh, Mike, that’s fabulous. But I wish you’d let us pay—’

‘You’ve got free plumbing for life,’ Mike said fiercely. Mike was their big, burly, almost scary-looking next-door neighbour. His ginger hair was cropped to almost nothing. He wore his jeans a bit too low, he routinely ripped the sleeves out of his T-shirts because sleeves annoyed him, and in his spare time he built his body. If you met Mike on a dark night you might turn the other way. Fast.

Em had met Mike on a dark night. He’d crashed into their kitchen, banging the back door so hard it had broken.

‘Em, the wife … My Katy … The baby … There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood … You’re a midwife. Please …’

Katy had had a fast, fierce delivery of their third child, and she’d haemorrhaged. Mike had got home to find her in the laundry, her baby safely delivered, but she’d been bleeding out.

She’d stopped breathing twice before the ambulance had arrived. Em had got her back.

Mike and Katy were now the parents of three boys who promised to grow up looking just like their dad, and Mike was Em’s slave for ever. He’d taken Em and her household under his wing, and a powerful wing it was. There were usually motorbikes parked outside Mike and Katy’s place—multiple bikes—but no matter what the pressure of his family, his job or his biker mates, Mike dropped in every night—just to check.

Now, as Toby finished the last mouthful of his noodles, Mike hefted him out of his highchair and whirled him round and hugged him in a manner that made Em worry the noodles might come back up again. But Toby crowed in glee.

‘Can I take him next door for a few minutes?’ he asked. ‘We’ve got a new swing, a double-seater. My boys’ll be outside and Henry and Tobes’ll look a treat on it. Give you a bit of peace with Gretta, like.’

He glanced at Gretta but he didn’t say any more. What was happening was obvious. Gretta was more and more dependent on oxygen, but more and more it wasn’t enough.

If Mike took Toby, Em could sit by the fire and cuddle Gretta while Adrianna put her feet up and watched the telly. Toby was already lighting up with excitement.

‘That’d be great, Mike, thank you,’ Em told him. ‘I’ll pop over and pick him up in an hour.’

‘Bring Gretta with you,’ Mike said. ‘Give her a go on the swing. If she’s up for it.’

But she wasn’t up for it. They all knew it, and that knowledge hung over the house, a shadow edging closer.

Today Oliver’s presence had pushed that shadow back a little, made Em’s thoughts fly sideways, but, Oliver or not, the shadows were there to stay.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_80bcf17d-c3d0-543d-a33b-901ae00b306a)


THE LAST TIME Oliver had visited his ex-mother-in-law, her house had looked immaculate. Adrianna was devoted to her garden. At this time of year her roses had always looked glorious, her herbaceous borders had been clipped to perfect symmetry and her lawns had always been lush and green, courtesy of the tanks she’d installed specifically so she could be proud of her garden the year round.

Not now.

The grass on the lawn was a bit long and there were bare patches, spots where things had been left for a while. Where once an elegant table setting had stood under the shade of a Manchurian pear, there was now a sandpit and a paddling pool.

A beach ball lay on the front path. He had to push it aside to reach the front door.

It took him less than a minute to reach the door but by the time he had, the last conversation he’d had with Em had played itself out more than a dozen times in his head.

‘Em, I can’t adopt. I’m sorry, but I can’t guarantee I can love kids who aren’t my own.’

‘They would be your own,’ she’d said. She’d been emotional, distraught, but underneath she’d been sure. ‘I want kids, Oliver. I want a family. There are children out there who need us. If we can’t have our own … to not take them is selfish.’

‘To take them when we can’t love them is selfish.’

‘I can love them. I will.’

‘But I can’t.’ He’d said it gently but inexorably, a truth he’d learned by fire.

‘You’re saying I need to do it alone?’

‘Em, think about it,’ he’d said fiercely. ‘We love each other. We’ve gone through so much …’

‘I want a family.’

‘Then I can’t give it to you. If this is the route you’re determined to take, then you’ll need to find someone who can.’

He’d walked away, sure that when she’d settled she’d agree with him. After all, their love was absolute. But she’d never contacted him. She hadn’t answered his calls.

Adrianna had spoken to him. ‘Oliver, she’s gutted. She knows your position. Please, leave her be to work things out for herself.’

It had gutted him, too, that she’d walked away from their marriage without a backward glance. And here was evidence that she’d moved on. She’d found herself the life she wanted—without him.

He reached the door, lifted his hand to the bell but as he did the door swung inwards.

The guy opening the door was about the same age as Oliver. Oliver was tall, but this guy was taller and he was big in every sense of the word. He was wearing jeans, a ripped T-shirt and big working boots. His hands were clean but there was grease on his forearms. And on his tatts.

He was holding a child, a little boy of about two. The child was African, Oliver guessed, Somalian maybe, as dark as night, with huge eyes. One side of his face was badly scarred. He was cradled in the guy’s arms, but he was looking outwards, brightly interested in this new arrival into his world.

Another kid came flying through the gate behind Oliver, hurtling up the path towards them. Another little boy. Four? Ginger-haired. He looked like the guy in front of him.

‘Daddy, Daddy, it’s my turn on the swing,’ he yelled. ‘Come and make them give me a turn.’

The guy scooped him up, as well, then stood, a kid tucked under each arm. He looked Oliver up and down, like a pit bull, bristling, assessing whether to attack.

‘Life insurance?’ he drawled. ‘Funeral-home plans? Not interested, mate.’

‘I’m here to see Emily.’

‘She’s not interested, either.’

He was still wearing his suit. Maybe he should have changed. Maybe a tatt or two was necessary to get into this new version of his mother-in-law’s home.

‘I’m a friend of Em’s from the hospital.’ Who was this guy? ‘Can you tell her I’m here, please?’

‘She’s stuffed. She doesn’t need visitors.’ He was blocking the doorway, a great, belligerent bull of a man.

‘Can you ask her?’

‘She only has an hour at most with Gretta before the kid goes to sleep. You want to intrude on that?’

Who was Gretta? Who was this guy?

‘Mike?’ Thankfully it was Em, calling from inside the house. ‘Who is it?’

‘Guy who says he’s a friend of yours.’ Mike didn’t take his eyes off Oliver. His meaning was clear—he didn’t trust him an inch. ‘Says he’s from the hospital. Looks like an undertaker.’

‘Mike?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’ll be Oliver,’ she called, and Mike might be right about the ‘stuffed’ adjective, Oliver conceded. Her voice sounded past weariness.

‘Oliver?’

‘He’s the guy I was married to.’ Was?

‘Your ex is an undertaker? Sheesh, Em …’

‘He’s not an undertaker. He’s a surgeon.’

‘That’s one step before the undertaker.’

‘Mike?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Let him in.’

Why didn’t Em come to the door? But Mike gave him a last long stare and stepped aside.

‘Right,’ he called back to Em. ‘But we’re on the swings. One yell and I’ll be here in seconds. Watch it, mate,’ he growled at Oliver, as he pushed past him and headed down the veranda with his load of kids. ‘You upset Em and you upset me—and you wouldn’t want to do that. You upset Em and you’ll be very, very sorry.’

He knew this house. He’d been here often with Em. He’d stayed here for weeks on end when, just after they were married, Em’s dad had been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer.

It had taken the combined skill of all of them—his medical input, Em’s nursing skill and Adrianna’s unfailing devotion—to keep Kev comfortable until the end, but at the funeral, as well as sadness there had also been a feeling that it had been the best death Kev could have asked for. Surrounded by his family, no pain, knowing he was loved …

‘This is how I want us to go out when we have to,’ Em had whispered to him at the graveside. ‘Thank you for being here.’




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