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After tapping in a few notes, the doctor addressed them both. “You’d like to be referred to a specialist, is that right?”
Bishop replied. “Thank you. Yes.”
Without argument, the doctor began writing the referral. “Dr. Stanza is considered the best neuro specialist in Sydney. This isn’t an urgent case, however, so expect a wait.”
Bishop straightened. “How long of a wait?”
“Call his practice,” the doctor said, finishing the note. “They’ll book you into his first available slot.” After sliding the letter into an envelope, she scribbled the specialist’s name on the front. “As you’re both no doubt aware, there are instances of memory impairment associated with head trauma due to a fall. The doctor last week would’ve told you recollections usually return over time, although it’s not unusual for the events leading up to the incident, the incident itself and directly after to be lost permanently.” The doctor pushed back her chair and stood. “You’re not presenting with any physical concerns, Laura.” Her warm brown eyes shining, she handed the envelope to Bishop and finished with a sincere smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, particularly with your husband taking such good care of you.”
Five minutes later, Laura slid into the car, feeling tense and knowing that it showed, while Bishop reclined behind the wheel, ignited the engine, then slipped her a curious look.
“Something wrong?”
Laura didn’t like to complain. Bishop was simply making certain she was cared for. As she’d told the doctor, she had felt irritable on occasion. Some things were a little confusing … clothes she couldn’t remember in the wardrobe, a new potted plant in the kitchen … that truly odd feeling she’d had yesterday on the eastern porch when those wallabies had bounded away. But the doctor hadn’t seemed concerned. She’d indicated that the missing bits and pieces would fall into place soon enough.
The broad ledge of Bishop’s shoulders angled toward her. “Laura, tell me.”
“I don’t need to go to a specialist,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “You heard Dr. Chatwin. No physical problems. Nothing urgent. I don’t want to waste a specialist’s time. It’ll probably cost a mortgage payment just to walk through the door.”
A corner of his mouth curved up. “We don’t have a mortgage.”
“That’s not the point. Dr. Chatwin said she was sure I’d be okay.”
“I’m sure you will be, too. But we’ll make an appointment with the specialist and if we don’t need it, we’ll cancel.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”
“If it is, then there’s no harm done.” His voice lowered and he shifted the car into Drive. “But you’re going.”
She stared, not pleased, out the window as they swerved onto the road that would take them home. She loved that Bishop was a leader, that he wanted to protect and care for her. But she didn’t need to be bossed around. She hated visiting doctors and hospitals. How many times did she have to say she was okay?
She stole a glance at his profile, the hawkish nose and proud jutting chin and her arms slowly unraveled.
And another thing … he hadn’t come to bed last night. When she’d woken, his side hadn’t been slept in. Seeing the covers still drawn, the pillow still plump, had put an unsettling feeling in her stomach, as if she’d already foreseen or had dreamed that he wouldn’t be there when she woke. Not that she’d tell Bishop that. He’d blow it way out of proportion. She didn’t need to be asked more questions.
But perhaps Bishop needed the green flag from this specialist before giving his consent to her falling pregnant. He liked to have all the pegs lined up before going forward with anything. And he took the whole becoming a father thing ultraseriously which, on a baser level, she was grateful for.
So she would grit her teeth, visit this specialist, get the all clear, and once she had a clean bill of health, there should be absolutely nothing to stand in their way.
Three days later, splitting wood for the fireplace, Bishop set another log on the chopping block and, running a hand up over the smooth handle, raised his axe. The blade came down with a whoosh and a thunk that echoed through the surrounding forest of trees.
He’d taken the rest of the week off, and every minute since that doctor’s visit, he’d waited, wondering if this would be the day when his metaphorical axe would fall. Every minute inhabiting that house, sharing that bed, he was conscious of living out the mother of all deceptions.
But, if he were being manipulative, it was with good reason. He was a man stuck in the middle of a particularly difficult set of circumstances … locked in a game of nerves where he could anticipate the moves and yet still had little control over how this rematch would end.
Grinding his teeth, Bishop set another log on the block. He was about to bring the axe down when Laura appeared, carrying his cell phone, traversing the half dozen back stairs and crossing the lawn to where he waited near a yellow clump of melaleuca. With her, she brought the floral scent of her perfume as well as the aromas of the casserole and chocolate sponge dessert she was preparing. He’d missed her home-cooked meals more than he’d realized. Hell, he’d missed a lot of things.
“It’s Willis.” After handing over his phone, she dropped a kiss on his cheek then inspected the blemish-free sky. A frown creased her brow. “You should put a hat on.” She headed off with a skip. “I’ll bring you one.”
He was about to call out don’t bother, but he liked her looking after him. The meals, the smiles. The love.
His attention on the sexy bounce of her step, Bishop put the phone to his ear. On the other end of the line, Willis didn’t beat around the bush.
“I don’t know how much longer I can put them off,” Willis said, referring to the potential buyers of Bishop Scaffolds. “They want to speak with you, Sam.”
Having set the axe down, Bishop wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm. Laura was right. He should wear a hat.
He moved into the shade. “Not this week, Willis.”
“Early next week then.”
“I’ll let you know.” He tipped his nose in the direction of the kitchen and inhaled. “Laura’s doing beef Stroganoff. You should smell it.”
Willis stayed on track. “I’ve given them as much as I can with regard to figures and projections. But the guy keeps calling. You should at least give him ten minutes on the phone. It’s only good business.”
Bishop understood Willis’s point. He should phone, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind. He was anxious about when, or if, Laura’s memory would return, but on another level he was feeling, in a strange sense, settled; he worried he’d tell the buyers he was no longer interested and later regret that he hadn’t moved on the opportunity. So it was better, for now, to wait and see what transpired.
Bishop swapped the phone to the other ear. “I’ll call him next week.”
A long silence echoed down the line. Bishop dug a booted toe in the black soil while he waited for Willis to spit out whatever else was bothering him.
“You want me to be frank, Sam?”
“That’s what I pay you for.”
“Laura still hasn’t got her memory back?”
“Correct.”
“I know you want to help, but there’s a good chance the past will all come back and you’ll be in the doghouse again. Even if those memories don’t return, you’re still going to have to tell her the truth.” When Bishop only stared into the sun, scrubbing his jaw, Willis prodded. “You know that, right?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I don’t imagine it is. That’s why you need to be doubly cautious.”
Hell, cautious was his middle name.
But Willis was right. He was getting carried away. Getting tangled up between past, present and possible future. One of them needed to keep their feet firmly planted on the ground.
Willis changed the subject. “Are you coming tomorrow night?”
To his birthday bash? Bishop moved back to the axe he’d left leaning beside the block. There’d be people there from work. People who knew about his divorce. He doubted anyone would have the guts to ask either him or Laura directly about that, or the fact that they looked to be together again. If anyone did …
With his free hand, he swung up the axe and inspected the blade. The sharp edge gleamed in the sunlight.
Bottom line, he wanted to help her remember, right? If things got interesting tomorrow evening and she started to come around too quickly, he’d whisk her away and begin explaining. Not a moment he looked forward to.
But Willis had hit the proverbial nail. He and Laura couldn’t live in the past. Not indefinitely, anyway.
“We’ll be there,” Bishop said. “Laura’s excited about it.”
“Great. We’ll find a few minutes to talk then.”
Bishop was signing off when Laura strolled out again, Akubra in hand. She stuck it on his head and told him to leave it there.
Grinning, he tipped the rim. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Is everything okay at the office?”
“Everything’s good.”
“It’s been wonderful having you home this week, but if you need to go in, don’t stay because you’re worried about me.” When he only looked at her, she set her hands on her hips. “I feel great, Bishop.” Then, shading her eyes from the sun, she asked, “What will we give Willis for his birthday? Is he interested in chess?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You’ve never asked?”
“It’s never come up.”
“But you have a chessboard in your office. The one I gave you as a wedding gift.”
Twenty-four karat gold and pewter pieces. It was the most exquisite set he’d ever seen. But something in her tone set his antenna quivering. These past days they’d spent so much time together, taking walks, enjoying picnics, at other times staying indoors to ponder over the chessboard. Laura had been testy when they’d left Dr. Chatwin’s office on Tuesday; she didn’t want to see a specialist. And she’d seemed so off balance that evening on the porch—Monday. But since that time she hadn’t shown any obvious signs of feeling foggy, as she called it, or agitated. Quite the opposite. She’d seemed particularly breezy.
And yet subtle things she’d say or do let him know that some connections, or at least curiosities, were still clicking. The thing that struck him most was that, despite whatever connections she might secretly be making, Laura didn’t seem any the less in love with him. In fact, her love seemed to grow every day.
As for him …
Laura’s next question took him by surprise.
“Have you heard from your parents lately?”
He gave the obvious reply. “They live in Perth.”
“I know that, silly. But there is such a thing as a phone.”
Some years ago, his parents had moved to Western Australia, a six-hour flight from Sydney. They’d flown back for his wedding and had approved of Laura in every way. He only wished his mother hadn’t cried so much during the ceremony. Without asking he knew she was wishing that his brother had been there; she’d made sure to tell him later. Bishop understood the emotion—he felt it, too. But on that one day, Lord knows he hadn’t needed it.
He’d vowed if anything so tragic ever happened to him—if, God forbid, he lost a child—he’d keep the memories, the pain and regrets—to himself. But in hindsight, he should have been more open about his feelings after Laura’s miscarriage rather than building that wall … pretending it hadn’t hurt as much as it had. As Laura stood here now, the mountains a dramatic backdrop and the sun lighting her hair, he knew he ought to have shared more of himself, particularly when she’d stayed shut down.
She’d needed comfort then, not steel.
“Maybe we should invite them out for a couple of weeks,”
Laura went on. “Your mother seems so sweet. It’d be nice to get to know her more.”
“I’m sure she’d like that, too.”
“You could call your folks tonight after dinner.”
“I could do that.” But he wouldn’t.
“I should probably start getting the guest wing ready.”
“Laura, my parents travel a lot. They might not even be home.”
And as they walked arm in arm back to the house, she leaning her head against his shoulder and a palm folded over the hand he had resting on her waist, Bishop decided that was the excuse he’d give after pretending to call.
The following evening, he and Laura arrived in Sydney for Willis’s birthday bash forty minutes late. For a present, they decided on a dinner voucher at one of Sydney’s most exclusive restaurants. As Bishop slid out from the car now, the lights and sound coming from the party venue descended upon him. He’d tried to stay optimistic, but he couldn’t see tonight working out well. Someone was bound to say something that would trip a switch and Laura would naturally want to know more. Most likely she’d grow suspicious. Agitated. There could be a highly embarrassing scene.
It wasn’t too late to back out.
Instead, Bishop sucked it up, swung around the back of the car and opened Laura’s door.
“Willis knows a lot of people,” Laura said, surveying the elite restaurant as she slid out. Through the generous bank of streetfront windows, a throng of people could be seen milling, talking and generally having a good time. Wringing her pocketbook under her chin, Laura hesitated.
Bishop’s palm settled on her back. “We don’t have to go in if you’d rather not.”
The pocketbook lowered, her shoulders squared, and she pinned on a smile. He guessed that at some deeper hidden level where memories waited to be restored, she was as worried about this evening as he was.
“I want to go in,” she told him, but then rolled her teeth over her bottom lip. “I’m just a little anxious. I don’t know many of the people you work with.”
Bishop straightened his tie. She’d know fewer of them tonight.
They climbed the stairs, entering through tall timber paneled doors decorated with colorful leadlight, and a DJ’s music, underlined with general chatter, grew louder. There must’ve been a hundred people talking, drinking, laughing at anecdotes and discussing politics or the latest Hollywood gossip. Bishop’s gaze swept over the group. No Willis in sight. In fact, he couldn’t see anyone he knew. But then a familiar, animated face emerged from the crowd.
Ava Prynne worked in Bishop Scaffolds’s administrative section. Tonight she wore her platinum-blond hair in cascading ringlets that bobbed past the shoulders of a snug-fitting aqua-blue dress that barely covered her thighs. When she saw him, Ava, champagne glass in manicured hand, sashayed over.
“Mr. Bishop! I was hoping you’d come.”
“I’ve said before, Ava, call me Sam.”
He didn’t agree with those formalities in the office.
Ava’s gray eyes sparkled beneath the chandelier light and she breathed out his name. “Sam.”
Bishop cleared his throat. He hadn’t been aware that Miss Prynne had a crush on him until this moment.
Laura leaned across and introduced herself. “Do you work at my husband’s company, Ava?”
The blonde’s gaze slid across. Her smile disappeared at the same time Bishop’s stomach kicked and he bit his inside cheek. Already it begins.
Ava looked Laura up and down. “Husband?”
Bishop waited for the answer, then the next question, then the next. He might feel sick to his gut, but what else could he do?
But before Laura could speak and confirm that the man to whom this woman was so obviously attracted had been married three months, a uniformed waiter with a tray appeared.
“Drink, sir, madam?”
