Caroline Anderson - Practice Makes Perfect

He shifted on to his back, propped his legs on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. She still should have been here! She should have realised that he was ill and needed her. Damn it, day after day the old man had asked for her! If Sam had only realised that she hadn’t known he would have sent for her sooner.

The moon broke through a hole in the clouds and tracked steadily across the sky, and Sam lay and watched it, and wondered why old Dr Moore hadn’t told Lydia that he was dying.

He woke suddenly when the room was still in darkness, and lay for a moment wondering what had disturbed him.

Then he heard it again, a thin, high moan, an animal keening that cut through him to the bone.

Untangling the blankets, he stumbled off the sofa and into the bedroom, but it was empty. The sound came again, and he followed it downstairs and into the surgery.

He found her, curled into a ball on the old leather armchair at the desk, with her arms wrapped tightly round a cushion, rocking gently back and forth while the terrible sound of grief was torn from her throat.

Her eyes were dry and sightless, and she ignored him as he lifted her from the chair and sat down with her cradled against the broad expanse of his chest. She was wearing his dressing-gown but still she was shivering, and he hadn’t taken the time to pull on any clothes, so he stretched out and turned on the electric heater. It could be a long night.

Then, holding her close, he rocked her, brushing the hair from her eyes and pressing his lips to her crown as if he could take away the pain.

He could feel the tension building in her, and then suddenly the dam burst and the tears came, accompanied by huge, racking sobs that gradually died away to leave her spent and weak against his shoulder. She slept then, relaxed into the curve of his arms, and he stayed where he was, holding her quietly, until the dawn lightened the sky.

Then she stirred and sat up, embarrassed and bewildered, and he smiled slightly and let her go.

‘I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I couldn’t sleep. I just felt…’ Her hands fluttered helplessly for a moment before she clamped them together, ‘I wanted to be near him.’

‘I know. Don’t apologise, I often feel the same. Would you like a cup of tea?’

She nodded. ‘Please. I think I’ll just wash my face—perhaps I’ll feel better then.’

He led the way upstairs, and while she cleaned up he put the kettle on and pulled on his jeans and a jumper, suddenly conscious of his scanty attire.

When she emerged from the bathroom, her face pink and scrubbed, her hair brushed and tied back in a pony-tail, and looking about seventeen, he was shocked to feel himself respond to her.

Technically speaking, she was a scrawny little thing for all her height, weighing next to nothing, her face too small for those ridiculously large eyes, her mouth full and soft and vulnerable, and yet he wanted her. His dressing-gown was wrapped tightly round her slim frame, the belt accentuating her tiny waist. He was sure he could span it with his fingers, and his palms tingled with the need to cup the soft jut of her breasts in his hands. She should have looked ridiculous, but there was something about her, her quiet dignity, the graceful way she moved those absurdly long legs as she walked towards him, that lifted her above criticism and made her beautiful. Sam felt the unbidden surge of desire, mingled dangerously with the urge to protect and nurture, and when their eyes met it was as if she saw right through him, and he felt ashamed.

Tea,’ he said economically, and thrust a mug into her hand, taking his and standing by the window.

She sat down among the tangled blankets and sighed.

‘I’m sorry you had to sleep on this; it can’t have been comfortable,’ she offered, and he shrugged.

‘I’ve known worse. Don’t think about it. You needed the bed more. I’ll put the heating on in the house today and get it aired for you. You can sleep in your own bed from tonight.’ He turned to face her, and found himself trapped again in the clear grey pools of her eyes.

‘I’m sorry about your grandfather,’ he apologised, dragging his eyes away from hers with difficulty. I didn’t realise you hadn’t got the letters. I suppose the post is a little primitive?’

Her mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile. ‘Something like that. And the clinic is mobile, so that makes us even harder to find. We only got the Christmas cards last week!’

Sam’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry, I—I would never have told you like that.’

She lifted her hand. ‘Please, don’t worry. It really doesn’t matter. The end result would have been the same.’ She fiddled with the belt of his dressing-gown for a moment, then looked up. ‘Is his car still in the garage? I’d like to go——Is he buried——? Oh, hell!’

She fumbled in the pockets, and Sam thrust a handful of tissues into her hands and waited while she pulled herself together.

‘He was buried in the churchyard. If you can hang on until after surgery I’ll take you later, but first I have to go down to the village shop and get some food in before I can offer you breakfast.’

She nodded, and drained her tea. ‘Do you mind if I have a shower?’ she asked.

He glanced at his watch. ‘No, do it now. The water’s hot. I’ll go and sort out the heating in the house.’

He disappeared through the door on the landing, and Lydia stayed where she was for a moment, nursing the still-warm cup and trying to sort out her feelings.

He had been so foul to her last night—understandably, really, if he had thought that she had come back just to claim her inheritance. And yet today he was patient, kind, understanding … She could see now why Gramps had spoken of him in such warm words, almost as if he were the son her father had failed to be.

Which brought her to the next problem.

Sam came back into the room, and she voiced her thoughts almost unconsciously.

‘How long do you think it will take you to find another practice?’

As AN opening gambit, it was not an unqualified success.

Sam froze in his tracks, turned slowly to Lydia and glared at her with hostile disbelief.

‘Let me get one thing perfectly straight,’ he said coldly. This is my practice. Understand? Mine. Officially, legally, all signed and sealed and recognised by the relevant authorities. It is not up for grabs, I am not going anywhere, and it is not open to discussion. If you want a job I suggest you pick up a professional journal and find out what’s available—because this one isn’t.’

He ran down the stairs, and she yelled after him, ‘How dare you speak to me like that in my own house?’

He stopped halfway and ran back up, pointing at the connecting door. ‘That’s your house, Miss Moore. The heating’s on, so’s the electricity. I’m going to the village shop. I suggest you get your things moved off my property by the time I get back.’

He turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs, and a few seconds later Lydia heard the surgery door bang and then the revving of a car engine.

He shot off the drive with a spray of gravel, and the sound seemed to release her from her trance. She leapt to her feet and ran into the bedroom, wrenching off his dressing-gown as if she could distance herself further from him by doing so. Then she snatched up her things, dashing away the tears that would keep gathering on her lashes and clogging up her view.

Damn him! How dared he speak to her like that? How dared he throw her out? First thing on Monday morning she was going to see her solicitor to find out about the will, because one thing was certain—living next to him was going to be insufferable!