Читать книгу Four Weddings - Fiona Lowe - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTOM’S BREATH SHUDDERED out of his lungs as an image of Bec, sprawled on the ground in pain, thundered through him.
Of all the scenarios he’d run through his head, that had not been one of them. The aura of fragility he’d occasionally glimpsed swirled around her, then vanished with a stiffening of her shoulders.
It was as if she was rising through her pain. Her courage awed him.
She lightened her grim expression with a wry smile. ‘Bet you weren’t expecting that explanation.’
He should have anticipated this ironic reaction from her—facing the facts head on, deflecting any sympathy. He had a sudden urge to hold her close, wanting to hug her, but every ounce of her petite frame screamed, Do not touch.
So he stuck with the facts. ‘You’re right, I was thinking more along the lines of a car accident or being thrown off a horse. How old were you?’
She took in a deep breath. ‘Sixteen and sassy. Sixteen, naïve and stupid.’
He hated the way she implied that part of what had happened had been her fault. ‘All of us are naïve at sixteen, Bec.’
She shook her head. ‘I should have known better. Anger had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. My father’s rages were legendary. My mother protected me, taking the brunt of his fists to keep me safe, but eventually he wore her down and wore her out. She committed suicide when I was thirteen.’ Her flat voice delivered the words, devoid of any emotion. Only her white knuckles betrayed her pain.
The image of his father’s weather-beaten face, creased with a laconic grin, flooded Tom’s mind. He’d only ever known love from his adoptive father. The only father he could remember.
White rage burned inside him, hot yet impotent, uselessly directed at a faceless man who had caused so much pain. ‘So you lost your mother and your buffer?’
She nodded. ‘But I quickly worked out that if I studied hard at school, agreed with most of what he said and retreated into the background of his life, I could get away with being screamed at rather than hit.’
Deep inside him an aching pain twisted. ‘Until you grew into a woman.’
Her violet eyes darkened to indigo as her brow creased in surprise. ‘Is that what changed?’
He sighed. ‘I met men like your father during my psychiatric rotation. They have a pathological hatred of women. Once their daughter grows up they see that normal development as a betrayal of their love.’ He hated how trite the theory sounded against Bec’s reality.
She shrugged. ‘Whatever. All I know is that things got pretty bad and I had to leave home for my own safety. Only I mistimed my departure and he arrived home to find me with my bags packed.’ A flinching shudder vibrated through her body.
The same shudder he’d seen when his hand had accidentally brushed hers at the clinic. The same flinch as earlier that day at the market, moments after she’d playfully elbowed him. Hell, all this time she’d been on alert, ready to dodge and duck, thinking he might hurt her.
Nausea rolled in his stomach. He wanted to flatten the lowlife who’d created this fear within her. He wanted to make things better but rationally he knew he couldn’t. Yet he had to try. ‘You don’t have to relive this if you don’t want to.’
Her mouth firmed and her chin jutted. ‘A half-told story is as bad as a suppressed one. Surely you learned that in your psych rotation?’ Her eyes flashed with pain and resentment.
His heart took a direct hit with her jibe. ‘I apologise. I ignored your signals that you didn’t want to talk, I asked you a question and I’ve pushed for an answer. You’re right, now I need to listen.’
She blinked. Twice. A look of incredulity raced across her face as if she didn’t believe what she’d just heard. She cleared her throat. ‘To cut a long story short, after I refused to return to my room he threw my bags down the stairs. Then he threw me. In a way it got me out of his life for good. Child Protection stepped in and court orders prevented him from making any contact.’
His gut ached for her but he knew she didn’t want sympathy. ‘At sixteen, though, you were still a kid. Where did you live?’
For the first time in a long time she smiled at a memory. ‘With my aunt—my mother’s sister. He’d not allowed contact with any family so at least that gave me the chance to get to know my real family.’
My real family. He chased away the thoughts her words generated in him. His real family, the one he hadn’t been able to find. Yet.
‘Hey, don’t look so pensive on my account. I got out. Some kids don’t.’ Her pretty face took on a hard edge.
He recognised that expression. He’d seen it cross her face once before. The time she’d talked about the money she had for the clinic. I won’t have anything to do with that money.
‘That two hundred and fifty thousand dollars you want to use for children—it’s your father’s money, isn’t it?’
She bit her lip and nodded slightly. ‘He left it to me in his will. It was the only paternal thing he ever did. You don’t miss much, do you?’ She stared at him, the look long and intense.
A look that saw through him, carving deeply, all the way down to the essence of his soul. His gut, which had ached in pain for her, suddenly lurched. Unexpected longing poured through him. What would it be like to have those eyes gaze at him without their shadows?
The thought shocked him. He fought to clear his mind, stay fixed on her story. ‘I guess putting the pieces of a puzzle together are part of my job. After all, that’s what diagnosis is.’
‘I guess it is.’ She trailed some fine gravel through her hand.
He spoke to her bowed head. ‘I understand now why you don’t want to use any of that money for yourself.’
Her eyes glittered hard and sharp for a moment. ‘He will not buy me from the grave.’ A softer expression wafted across her face. ‘But I will use his money to work for the greater good.’
Everything fell into place. ‘And that’s why you want to use the money to improve children’s lives?’ He stood up and stretched his hands out, pulling her to her feet.
She rose up toward him, nodding so vehemently that her hair slipped out of its band. ‘Every child deserves a childhood. Without a childhood how can they grow to adulthood and take on a productive place in society?
‘They need a guarantee of their basic human rights, to live without fear, to have access to food and clean water, health care and education.’ She looked up at him, her sparkling eyes a stunning shade of iris blue. Her lithe body pulsed with the passionate conviction of her beliefs.
His blood heated, surging through his body and pooling in his groin. Her passion and fervour set off a chain reaction, bringing alive every nerve ending in his body, sensation stacking on sensation, driving down to the tips of his toes.
He knew he should let go of her hands but he wanted to soak up her enthusiasm, her innate goodness. His thumbs stroked the backs of her hands, the gentle circular motion absorbing her heat, sucking in her energy, trying to claim a part of her for himself.
Her eyes widened, two translucent discs unfettered by shutters, barriers and guards.
He thought he glimpsed a woman’s naked need, a flare of desire.
For an infinitesimal moment she swayed toward him.
He recognised the precise moment she stopped herself.
Regret surged through him. His arms ached to hold her, to feel her body moulded against his own, just like on the ride up the mountain. He wanted to feel her face snuggled against his shoulder, wanted to let his head drop down against her silky hair and lose himself in her distinctively fresh scent of cinnamon apples. Wanted to taste her, feel her soft lips yielding against his own.
It scared the hell out of him.
He specialised in detachment. He didn’t get involved with anyone. Never had. He couldn’t offer a woman anything until he’d found the missing piece of himself. And Bec didn’t want his touch.
So why did the thought of changing the rules even enter his head?
* * *
‘Leprosy?’ Bec couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘There’s leprosy in this country?’
She and Tom were pulling medical kits out of the back of a truck. They’d left the far northwest of the country yesterday after three weeks in the village. She hadn’t wanted to leave.
She’d never worked so hard in her life as she had during the cholera outbreak. Amidst the hard work and heartache she’d fallen in love with the tenacity of the villagers and the glorious mountains that isolated them.
She’d learnt more in three weeks than in all her years at university.
Now they were on the coast. Wide sandy beaches edged with tall coconut trees extended both north and south as far as the eye could see.
‘There’s still some leprosy, although we’re winning and the rates have dropped dramatically. According to the World Health Organization we’re pretty close to eliminating the disease. But the stigma causes social problems and the health of the lepers needs constant monitoring.’ He handed her a medical kit backpack and smiled. A restrained smile.
She swallowed a sigh. She missed the wide, cheeky grin he used to give her and still gave everyone else. She hadn’t been the recipient of that smile since their trip to the Sunday market.
When he’d stood so close to her at the lookout, holding her hands and caressing her skin with his thumbs, coils of yearning had unravelled inside her like silk streaming in the wind. Glorious sensations had spread through her, making her knees buckle. She’d desperately wanted to lean into him. Wanted to rest her body against him and snuggle into the shelter of his arms.
But stepping into his arms would have been a huge mistake. Way too big a risk.
So she’d pulled back and a dull pain had started to throb under her ribs. It had never completely left her.
When he’d released her hands his eyes had flickered with an emotion she hadn’t quite been able to pin down. Probably relief. The last thing he needed was an emotional nurse throwing herself into his arms. Now he seemed almost wary around her. She missed the laid-back doctor she’d first met.
She straightened her shoulders. None of that mattered. What mattered was the time she had left to learn all she could from him about Vietnam. Then she could decide the best way she could help the children of this wonderful country.
‘Follow me down to the boat.’ Tom turned and walked across the sand.
Bec scanned the water, looking for a boat, but she could only see gentle waves and the horizon. Five fishermen sat on the beach mending nets, leaning up against enormous round bamboo baskets.
As they approached, one of the men rose and greeted Tom. He turned over the large basket and floated it in the water.
‘Put your pack in the middle and then hop in.’ Tom gently placed his pack on the floor of the eight-foot-diameter basket.
Bec shrugged her pack off her shoulders. ‘Where’s the boat?’
Tom laughed, his eyes dancing. ‘This is it.’
Her shriek of surprise caused a great deal of mirth amongst the fishermen. ‘This is a boat?’
‘It’s a Vietnamese dinghy, a basket boat. It’s made from woven bamboo and covered in a waterproof tar-like substance, which is actually sap from a tree. It gets me safely to the island every time I visit.’
He caught her gaze, his eyes suddenly intense and earnest. ‘Trust me, Bec.’ He held out his hand.
Trust me. She tamped down the streak of panic those words generated. She could do many things, but the men she’d known had destroyed her faith in trust.
‘Hold onto me, step in and sit down while I steady it with my foot. It won’t sink, promise.’ His lips curved into a reassuring smile that raced to his eyes as he coaxed her into the boat.
But it wasn’t the boat trip that worried her. It was holding his hand. She could act all independent, avoid touching him and scramble into the boat on her own. She calculated that against the risk of upending the medical supplies into the salt water.
The medical supplies won. She reached out and caught his hand with her own, her fingers dwarfed in his wide palm. His heat fused with hers, racing through her, reigniting all the places that had glowed at his touch once before.
‘Nothing like an adventure, right?’ His solid, dependable tone encased her.
He was worried she was freaking out over the boat. If only it was that simple. ‘I’m always up for an adventure.’ She plastered a fake smile on her face and lowered herself into the round boat, ignoring the vague sense of loss that speared her when she let go of his hand.
Tom and the fisherman took their places in the basket boat, and the fisherman started to propel it forward using a single wooden paddle.
‘We act as counterweights so lean back and enjoy the view.’ Tom slid on sunglasses against the glare of the sun.
Sparkling turquoise water surrounded them as they headed toward an island dotted with coconut palms and golden sands. A conical mountain rose in the middle, dominating the landscape with its jungle green canopy. ‘If this was in Far North Queensland, this place would be an exclusive tourist resort. I’m guessing it became a leper colony a long time ago.’
Tom nodded. ‘The Catholic Church started this colony in the early 1900s, back in the days when the isolation of lepers from the general community was thought to be the way to stop the disease from spreading.’
‘But the world knows now that leprosy is not transmitted by touch.’
His shoulders rose and fell in a resigned shrug. ‘But in some local communities in Africa and Asia attitudes are slow to change. Lepers are still shunned. We’re working on change and some will take place in our lifetime, but it’s a long, slow process.’
She glanced up at the mountains that seemed almost to join the colony to the mainland. ‘Is the only way to get here by boat?’
‘Boat or a rugged jungle trek. Technically it’s not an island but for all intents and purposes it may as well be. It’s hard to walk when you’re missing parts of your legs. The bigger boat left earlier with Hin, the supplies and the rice that Health For Life organized.’
As gentle waves washed the boat up onto the sand, children appeared from behind the trees, waving and running up and down the beach. Tom clambered out of the boat and started unloading the packs.
‘We always get a big welcome when we visit. The kids really suffer from the isolation of the island. If one member of their family has leprosy then the whole family has to move to the village. As their parents are not welcomed in the towns they are stuck here until they’re older. Even then they can experience prejudice when looking for work or trying to attend high school on the mainland.’
The fisherman handed Bec out of the boat and she and Tom walked up the beach, toward some low-roofed buildings.
Bec mulled over how such a beautiful natural setting had become a prison. ‘So this false paradise is both a home and a hospital?’
‘It’s like any other village, except the two hundred people here can’t leave to work. Those that can grow rice and fish but the poverty here is dire. When you’re missing an arm or a leg, the physical work of farming is pretty much impossible.’
Tom grimaced. ‘There isn’t a hospital here. They have a medical clinic with health aides. If they need surgery they have to go to a provincial hospital. That creates its own set of problems. We don’t run a clinic here but we provide bandages, gauze and dressing supplies, which are always needed.’
‘What about crutches and artificial limbs?’
‘We work with some charities to source those when we have patients who need them. Today we’re going to do some skin checks and help the health workers.’ He slowed his pace. ‘Bec.’
The tone of his voice made her pause. ‘Yes?’
‘It can be pretty confronting if you’ve never seen the ravages of leprosy before.’ Again his eyes shone with concern.
The feeling of being cared for welled inside her, warming her.
Scaring her.
‘Thanks for the heads up.’ With a monumental effort she dragged her eyes away from his, away from the feeling of wanting to fall into their softness and be cared for. But she cared for herself, that was how it had to be. You’re here to work.
The clinic was L-shaped. Concrete walls were painted a bright cheery yellow and blue shutters lined the windows. The low thatched roof sloped downward and was rimmed by wide gutters to cope with the monsoon rains. Bec gave a wave to Hin, their interpreter. He stood chatting to people in an attractive courtyard dotted with flowering plants, and swept to within an inch of its life. Patients waited for their turn to see the health worker.
The peace and tranquillity of the tropical paradise setting clashed dramatically with the physical disfigurement of leprosy. Some people sat in wheelchairs—empty spaces below them where their legs should have been. Others had both legs but muscle contractures had left them bent and disfigured. One man was missing a hand, another an earlobe. Scarred eyes peered out of ulcerated faces, the cloudy whiteness of the pupils obscuring all vision.
Yet their calm smiles radiated a spirit of survival.
An elderly woman greeted her warmly, her gnarled, two-fingered hand gripping Bec’s five-fingered one. ‘Xin chào.’
Bec repeated the oft-said greeting, which came out sounding like Sin jòw. She knew immediately the task she would be working on for the day, and why a pallet of bandages had been delivered to the island.
She quickly got to work, setting up dressing packs.
‘Even with the Multi-Drug Therapy, leprosy can never be totally removed from the body. But the damage can be limited to pale-coloured skin patches.’ Tom spoke quietly while they worked together, debriding wounds. ‘Many of the villages didn’t have access to the antibiotic therapy that is offered today so by the time they got help, the bacterium that causes the lesions had led to a lot of skin thickening and nerve damage.’
‘So they get peripheral neuropathy, which adds to the problems, right?’ Bec’s mind clawed back to find any memories of leprosy from nursing lectures. ‘When part of the body is numb, the patient can’t feel properly, which puts them at risk of injury and ulceration.’
She carefully snipped away the blackened skin around the edges of the wound on the old woman’s leg, biting her lip in concentration.
Her patient gave her a toothy smile and patted her hand as if to say Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt, keep going.
Tom’s large hands belied the way his fingers could delicately debride a wound and carefully bind it with bandages. ‘The extremities of the fingers and feet are hardest hit but the eyes can be involved and blindness is common.’
Tom spoke in Vietnamese to his patient as he taped the bandage in place.
The woman put her hands over his as her words floated out into the hot, humid air.
Tom smiled at her, shaking his head, his cheeks unusually bright for a man who seemed to take the heat in his stride.
Hin added a few words and then laughed a big belly-shaking laugh. Turning to Bec, he wiped his eyes. ‘She says he has the touch of an angel but he should also use his hands to get himself a wife.’
The old woman nodded her head vigorously toward Bec.
Hin continued, ‘She says you would be wise to choose a man with hands of delight.’
Bec forced out a polite laugh against a tight chest. It didn’t seem to matter which side of the world she was on, patients always wanted to matchmake. It seemed to be an international hobby.
She caught Tom’s gaze, wanting to share the ridiculous joke with him. His eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, held laughter and mirth, which confirmed that the old woman’s idea was a preposterous notion.
His gaze flickered, a small flare of … what? She couldn’t pin it down. Amusement quickly rolled in as his trade-mark grin streaked across his face at the ridiculous idea.
She laughed again, this time a true laugh, sharing the joke with someone who truly understood.
A sudden feeling of emptiness thudded through her. Crossly, she shrugged it away. People might want to matchmake but love didn’t work for her. If she’d ever believed it could, she’d had the idea knocked out of her at twenty, proving how wrong she could be.
‘What about the children, Tom? Do you skin-check them when you visit?’ She asked the question, needing to fill the silence between them.
‘If their families are concerned, I check them out for lesions but all of them have had the preventative immunisation using the BCG vaccine.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘BCG—I thought that was for tuberculosis?’
He nodded. ‘It is but it has a small protective effect against leprosy. As long as people don’t come into repeated direct contact with the lesions, they’re unlikely to get the disease.’
They worked consistently through to the end of the day.
Bec lost count of how many different wounds she bandaged but she had a long list of items the villagers needed filed in her head. A Rotary Club at home might ‘adopt’ the village and source used crutches and wheelchairs. She’d write a few letters as soon as she had a chance.
‘The village wants to give us a fish barbeque dinner at the beach.’ Tom stowed away the last of the supplies. ‘I’ll race you there.’
She plonked her hat on her head. ‘You’re on!’ She shot out the door ahead of him, racing along the neatly maintained gravel paths, dodging overhanging palm fronds and brilliant purple bougainvillea.
As her foot hit the sand, Tom dashed past her, straight into the middle of a children’s soccer game. He ran backwards, dribbling their ball, his face alive with the joy of life. ‘Come on, join in.’
As she watched him, a companionable and easy warmth spiralled inside her, relaxing her. This was exactly the sort of uncomplicated situation with Tom that she could handle.
She paused to catch her breath then jogged over to one end, taking her place next to the diminutive goalie.
‘Stop ball,’ instructed the boy, who looked about ten.
A line in the sand marked the goal. Bec smiled at his determined expression and nodded. ‘Stop ball.’
With yells and squeals the children charged up and down the beach, dribbling, kicking and bouncing the ball off their heads. Bec was struck by the similarities between Australian and Vietnamese kids—they all loved soccer.
Tom enjoyed keeping possession of the ball and his height gave him a great advantage. Undeterred, the children’s legs powered through the sand, their arms pulling at his shirt, trying to take him down.
She tried to imagine what he would have looked like as a kid playing sport, although he would have played Aussie backyard cricket.
He turned to find her, his eyes seeking hers.
Almond-shaped eyes.
Eyes the identical shape of the kids’ he was playing against.
Realisation thudded into place. She consciously had to breathe. Some Vietnamese blood ran in his veins. Somewhere in Tom’s past he had a Vietnamese relation. How had she missed it before?
She’d spent three weeks with the man. You’ve been too busy admiring his other assets.
She shushed the voice in her head. Anyone could have missed the connection. His height, his Western nose and quintessential Australian manner gave scant clues. So why had he not mentioned it to her?
The game swirled around them but the ball didn’t come near Bec or her buddy as most of the action was down the other end of the makeshift field.
The young goalie shuffled his feet in the sand.
Bec understood. Not only was being goalie a big responsibility, it was often downright boring.
Suddenly the ball hurtled towards them, high in the sky.
The young boy jumped valiantly and missed.
Bec threw herself sideways, arms outstretched. The skin on her palms burned as the ball hurtled into her hands. She rolled on the sand, clutching the precious trophy.
Cheers surrounded her. Small hands touched her back as she sat up. This was what she believed in. Children having a childhood, being able to play even when other things in their life were tough.
Larger hands hauled her to her feet as smaller hands continued to pat her. Golden arms hooked around her waist and suddenly she was airborne.
‘Now, that’s what I call a spectacular save.’
She looked down into dancing eyes, alive with exhilaration and the wonder of life. Happiness rushed through her. ‘It was pretty special, wasn’t it?’
He laughed as he set her feet back on the ground, his arm still holding her body against his. ‘We can’t have you getting too puffed up about it. I’ll get the next one past you.’ He ducked his head, his lips sweeping across hers with a feather-light touch. Almost imperceptible.
Battering every protective defence.
Desire thudded through her, sucking the breath from her lungs, stripping the strength from her legs.
And then he was running back down the beach.
Bec stood immobilised, her body tingling from head to toe, catapulted into sensory overload from the lightest touch she’d ever known. Her tongue darted out, tracing her lips. Tasting him. Tasting Tom.
Heat mingled with salt and spice and she savoured it, needing to memorise his scent and flavour. Keeping it with her, making it part of her.
She’d never been kissed like that before.
Kisses had always been demanding or threatening—taking, never giving. This had been neither of those things. This had been … Wonderful. Amazing. Terrifying.
She didn’t want to feel like this.
She refused to feel like this. Feelings like this meant danger. She knew that. It was why she didn’t get involved with anyone.
That was hardly a kiss, Bec. It was a dare.
She glanced over a sea of black-haired boys to the tall black-haired man, whose face was streaked with wiliness and who was aiming a ball straight at her.
It had just been a dare. Of course it had. Everything was the same as it had ever been between them. Colleagues who respected each other and got along well.
Then he grinned at her.
Part of her protective wall melted.
The ball shot straight past her, into the goal.
