Meredith Webber - Fairytale on the Children's Ward

She sneaked another glance at the man causing such havoc in her mind, and this time felt her heart turn over. Silver threads had infiltrated his sandy hair at both temples, lending him an air of distinction, but Oliver had always been a distinguished-looking man—tall, lean, tanned, with dark brows above those startling pale green eyes. In profile slightly hawkish, the long thin nose tipped down just slightly at the end.

Pointing to his lips?

That had been a stupid fantasy of hers in her youth, for Oliver Rankin had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen, on a man or woman.

Oliver!

Huge inward sigh!

She tried to concentrate on Alex’s words, but her mind was way back in the past.

With Oliver…

How had things gone so disastrously wrong between them? How had she been stupid enough to walk out on him?

Because he didn’t want the child you yearned for, she reminded herself. Didn’t want a child at all and definitely not right then for all it would have been an ideal time as far as you were concerned. But part of the stupidity had been thinking he’d come after you, and that somehow the two of you could have patched things up.

That hadn’t happened!

She’d spent a miserable Christmas at home on the farm with her family, then the realisation had dawned that, wanted or not, she was going to have a baby.

Tentative delight…

Quickly quelled at the thought of Oliver’s reaction.

Which hadn’t come!

Unable to contact him by phone or email, she’d finally written, but when he hadn’t answered her letters—had ignored her unexpected news—she’d decided she’d have to forget all about him, which, she’d admitted to herself even then, was easier said than done. Until the diagnosis of her father’s illness had turned her family’s life upside down and concern and grief for him had swamped the pain of losing Oliver. Then, within weeks of Em’s birth, life had changed so irrevocably Oliver had been the last person she’d been thinking of.

No, that was wrong. She’d longed for him—for his presence, his support, to have him there to share her dread and fear.…

And not having him, she’d turned to the man who was there—

She shuddered as she shook the memory away, and concentrated on what Alex Attwood, the team leader, was saying.

‘Oliver, Kate and Clare, you’ll all be working with Angus tomorrow. Clare, I know you’ve settled into your flat, so maybe you could show Oliver where his is. Did I tell you he’s taking the other flat in Rod’s house?’

Of course Alex hadn’t told her! Excited as she’d been at coming back to Australia and getting a job in such an elite unit, she’d still have remembered if someone had said, Oh, and a chap called Oliver Rankin will be living next door! Not only remembered, but packed up and left.

No, she didn’t run from men any more, but she’d have had time to at least think about this situation, to prepare herself.

To prepare Emily?

Oh, sweet reason, what was she going to do about Emily? For one crazy moment she thought of phoning the school and asking if they could take her as a full boarder rather than a weekly one, but it was hard enough on both of them to be separated five days a week.

Alex had turned to Oliver, and was explaining. ‘The flat I arranged for you is in my father-in-law’s house just down the road from the hospital. Rod Talbot, my father-in-law, is in a wheelchair so he has the ground-floor apartment and has turned upstairs into two small but comfortable flats. Of course, you don’t have to stay there. Once you get to know the area, you might find somewhere that suits you better. Because of the proximity to the hospital, the flats are easy to let—not that Rod needs the money.’

‘Rod Talbot?’ Oliver repeated, his voice stirring so many memories in Clare’s body she found herself shivering. ‘Is he the writer?’

Alex nodded, and while Oliver talked about how much he enjoyed Rod Talbot’s books—Oliver having time to read?—Clare muddled over the other information she’d received. The bit about Oliver being in the other flat in Rod Talbot’s house—the flat with the door right opposite her door. Oliver living so close, sleeping so close…

A tremor of memory ran through her body before she brought her mind firmly back to the major problem.

Oliver spending his weekends next door to her and Emily!

Once again her reaction was flight. They’d go back to the States; she’d always find work there. But she steeled herself against such weakness—flight wasn’t an option. She wasn’t an emotional young woman any longer; she was a grown-up, mature—a qualified and respected career woman with an important position in a team that saved children’s lives.

Even if she did feel like a teenager right now, with all the confusion and angst and dreadful insecurity that came with the transition from child to adult.

The meeting was breaking up, the anaesthetist from the second team taking the new surgeon off to the child-care centre. Dear heaven, had Oliver married again? Would he have children?

No, he’d been adamant about that, about never having children. That was why they’d split up. To a certain extent Clare had understood, because it had been soon after he’d found out a little about his own past, found out his life had been built upon a lie.

Thinking about that time—how hurt Oliver had been—diverted her thoughts from Oliver’s marital arrangements, although if there was a wife, what would she think about Em?

It was all Clare could do not to wail out loud. How could this be happening to her? And now, when both she and Em were so excited to be back in Australia?

She pulled herself together with an effort.

Best not to think about Em! Not here, not now…

And it was useless to be speculating about Oliver’s marital state, let alone whether he had children or not, although Rod had told Clare hers was the larger of the two flats, so a wife and children could hardly fit into the other one.

This realisation made her feel a little easier for all of five seconds, until it occurred to her he could have left his wife and kids—if he’d weakened on the children stand—in Melbourne while he settled in.

‘Clare.’

Her name in his voice, a sound she’d never thought to hear again. No-one said her name as Oliver did! And no-one else, with just that one word, could send those stupid shivers down her spine.

After ten years?

It was unbelievable.

She’d heard of muscle memory—sportspeople talked about it. Was there such a thing as nerve memory, that every nerve in her body remembered…?

He was close now, waiting for her. The composure he wore like a well-cut suit to hide the emotional Italian inside him was so familiar she wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel the warmth of the man beneath that cool facade.

Was she mad?

Touching Oliver would be disastrous—had always been disastrous!—because one touch had never been enough.

She dug through her memory for an image of that last morning, not long before Christmas, when, all composure gone, fury and resentment had flared from his body and burnt in his eyes. That was the Oliver she needed to keep in mind.

Which was okay as far as resisting his appeal went, but what about the rest? What about Emily?

Clare felt physically sick, nausea spreading through her body. How could this have happened? She pulled herself together with a mammoth effort, hoping outwardly at least she might look composed.

‘So we’re to be neighbours,’ she said, offering a polite smile, while her bewildered heart beat a wild tattoo inside her chest, and her thoughts ran this way and that like mice in a maze.