Annie O'Neil - A Return, A Reunion, A Wedding

His mum’s death earlier in the year had really kicked him in the teeth. Cancer wasn’t kind to anyone, and the only blessing that had come from it was that his mother was no longer suffering.

‘So who’s this friend, then? Why don’t you tell me about her? It is a she, right?’

‘Yup. Yes.’ Maggie suddenly refused to meet his eye. ‘She’s female all right. Um...’

A quiet tapping sounded at his door. Maggie sat as bolt upright as a woman pregnant with twins could.

‘That might be her now.’

Sam crossed the office, opened the door—and there, looking every bit as perfect as she had the day she’d handed him back his diamond solitaire, stood Jayne Sinclair.

She gave a shy little waist-height wave and then, as if they’d rehearsed it, she and Maggie said in tandem, ‘Surprise!’

IF ONE OF Sam’s patients had called in with the same physiological responses to a surprise he would have rung an ambulance. Immediately.

Heart slamming against his ribcage. Pulse hitting the red zone. Blood pumping to all the wrong places.

Great. In a little less than the blink of an eye Sam’s well-worked theory that the next time he saw Jayne Sinclair it wouldn’t so much as register on his heart monitor was blowing up in his face.

He slammed on a mental emergency brake and pulled a sharp U-turn.

Jayne had caught him unawares, that was all. The collapse of their relationship wasn’t the only hurdle he’d overcome. He had a marriage, a divorce and his mother’s death under his belt now. Making peace with his mountains of emotional baggage had been tough, but he’d done it. Maybe he had a few more grey hairs than he would have thought average for a thirty-one-year-old, but, that which does not kill us ...

Jayne had had to tackle her own set of emotional hurdles, but time hadn’t touched her Snow White aesthetic. Glossy black hair. Bright blue eyes. An English rose complexion that was looking slightly pale considering it was early summer. The Jayne he’d known would have had the kiss of the sun and a smattering of freckles appearing on her nose about this time of year. Twenty-three at the last count.

He forced himself to update his memory banks.

She wasn’t the woman he knew any more. That Jayne had all but disappeared the day her sister had been killed.

The ‘new’ Jayne only came at Christmas. She spent an hour at the pub. No more, often less. Years back they had chatted. Awkwardly. How else could a man exchange Yuletide greetings with the girl he’d thought he’d marry? It wasn’t as if he’d asked for the ring back.

At the time—over seven years ago now—he’d actually suggested she keep it. Think about it. Consider the consequences of giving up everything they’d dreamed of. He knew she’d been grieving. Trying to wrap her head round her sister’s senseless death. But in the end he’d run out of suggestions. Realised with a cold, numbing clarity that she’d chosen a new path. One that didn’t involve him.

As the years had passed their strangulated chit-chat had become a wave. Then a nod. Three years ago, when he’d met and married Marie, it had dissolved into nothing at all. Last Christmas he’d stayed at home because his mum had been so ill. He hadn’t let himself consider the option that seeing Jayne so soon after his divorce might reopen wounds he wasn’t ready to examine.

Jayne’s smile was as unnatural as his own felt. ‘Hey, Sam. I hope it’s all right that Maggie invited me along?’

As Jayne and Maggie exchanged a quick glance he flexed his hands, willing them not to curl into themselves. He wasn’t this guy. Tense. Edgy. Protectively defending his decision to live the life he’d— they’d —always dreamed of having.

The life his wife had left behind.

The last three years of his life flashed past in an instant. He’d thought he and Marie were happy. They’d enjoyed a year-long courtship when he’d finished med school. A classic country wedding. A solid year of marriage. The next year hadn’t been quite as rosy, but he’d thought he’d made it clear to her that he’d be busy. Extremely busy. The house to build... The medical practice to haul into the twenty-first century... His mother’s cancer in full attack mode.

Sure, he’d been vaguely aware of hairline fissures in their relationship, but when Marie had told him she wanted out it had shocked him. She’d said getting married so soon had been a mistake. She’d laid out the truth as she’d seen it.

Sam’s priorities were the surgery, refurbishing the old barn and his family. She didn’t feel she factored anywhere on that list, and for that reason she wanted to cut her losses before the wounds ran too deep. She’d told him this as she’d served him with divorce papers.

He’d had a card from her after his mother had died, and from the sounds of things she’d already found her special someone.

The fact that he was genuinely happy for her spoke volumes. Nothing like an ounce of truth landing like a ton of bricks in your gut. Which all circled back to the here and now, and the fact that Jayne Sinclair was still registering on his personal Richter scale just like she shouldn’t.

He scrubbed the back of his neck and pasted on what he hoped was a passable smile. His focus should be on Maggie, not his debacle of a love-life.

‘Come on in.’

He ushered Jayne in, showed her to a chair, accidentally inhaling as that all too familiar scent of sweet peas and nutmeg swept round his heart and squeezed a beat out of it. The way it always had.

The Jayne Sinclair Effect.

How could he have forgotten about that?

You didn’t. You put it in a box and hoped it would never get opened again.

‘Ta-da!’ Maggie waggled jazz hands. ‘Here’s my friend!’

Jayne put out her hands and heaved her friend up for a hug. Maggie’s head just about reached Jayne’s chin. Jayne’s eyes met and locked with Sam’s. A familiar energy that he hadn’t felt in years shunted through him. The type of energy that came from being with the person who made him feel whole again.

‘You look good,’ she muttered above Maggie’s pile of auburn curls.

She did too. Different. But good. She was all woman now. As if she’d finally grown in to all five feet nine inches of herself. Still slender. Still with a quirky dress sense that spoke of a woman whose life revolved around a children’s hospital. She wore an A-line skirt embroidered with polka dots. A well-worn T-shirt with a unicorn on it. Flip-flops with red satin roses stitched across the straps.

Her black hair was still long. She had a chunky fringe now. The rest of her hair was pulled back into the requisite ‘doctor’s ponytail’. A brush or two of mascara framed those kaleidoscope blue eyes of hers. Ocean-blue one minute. Dark as the midnight sky the next. Nothing on her lips apart from a swoosh of gloss. They didn’t need anything else.

Except, perhaps, for him to find out if her gloss still tasted of vanilla and mint.

He smashed the thought into submission.

That type of impulse was meant to have died a long time ago. Right about the moment she’d handed his ring back to him.

Jayne blinked and hitched her nose against an obvious sting of emotion. When she opened her eyes again they held tight with his.

Oh, hell.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to read all the secrets she held in those jewel-like eyes of hers.

They’d used to light up when they were planning their wedding. Dreaming of finally refurbishing the old barn. Talking about Jayne’s plan to specialise in paediatrics. Sam in geriatrics. They’d used to light up when she saw him come round a corner.

Her sister’s death had knocked the light out of her eyes. Even so, he’d refused to believe her when she’d said she didn’t love him any more. She’d been through a trauma. She was bound to be different for a while.