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The policewoman shook her head slowly. ‘We’re not here about a security system, Dr Dennison.’
‘Oh?’ She stared at the officers in their distinctive blue uniforms with all the necessary accoutrements from holstered guns to radios. Her brain snagged on the motto, Tenez le droit. Why French? With a shake of her head she marshalled her thoughts. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Please, may we come in?’
Had she forgotten to pay her speeding fine last month? Did they send the police to your door for that sort of thing? She automatically stood back from the doorway to allow the officers access and they crossed the threshold before standing uneasily in her living room. She was struck by how their black heavy-duty work boots seemed glued to her polished Baltic pine floorboards.
‘Is this going to take long because if it is I really should call my in-laws and let them know I’ll be even later for dinner than I already am.’
The officers sat down. ‘Can you please sit down?’
For the first time, confusion gave way to something akin to fear and like an obedient child she sat. ‘What’s going on?’
The policewoman set her cap on the coffee table. ‘Dr Dennison, is Richard Nichols your husband?’
‘He is.’ Merry’s breath hitched in her throat as her hand gripped the arm of the couch. ‘Why?’
The policewoman swallowed and her tongue moistened her lips. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident and your husband—’
‘What sort of an accident?’ She heard her voice loud and strident bouncing off the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, only it didn’t sound like hers. ‘What hospital is he in?’ Her head spun with the logistics of getting Richard transferred out of a small country hospital and into Melbourne City where they were assured of the best medical care in the country.
The male officer moved his head back and forth very slowly. ‘This year there was a lot more snow than there’s been for many years.’
The policewoman leaned forward, her official expression now full of compassion and empathy. ‘According to your husband’s friends, they’d hiked to Mount Feathertop and enjoyed two days of back-country activities. It snowed heavily last night and Mr Nichols went out early this morning for a last snowboard before he returned home this evening.’
Meredith nodded. ‘He lives for fresh powder.’
The officer didn’t respond to her comment but continued talking. ‘Your husband was caught by an avalanche.’
‘No.’ Merry shook her head so hard her brain hurt. ‘No, that’s not possible. Avalanches don’t happen in Australia, they happen in places with real mountains, like Switzerland.’
Sympathy glowed in the policewoman’s eyes. ‘By the time his friends found him it was too late and there was nothing they could do to revive him.’
Nooooooooo! Merry stared at the two of them as a slow and insidious shake started at her feet, vibrating up her legs until it consumed her entire body. ‘No! He can’t be dead. I won’t let him be dead.’ Her pitch rose sharply as hysteria took hold of her with a tenacious grip. Her throat narrowed and her eyes burned. ‘We’re having a baby in six weeks. We’ve got a nursery to paint.’
‘We’re so very sorry, Dr Dennison.’ The male police officer proffered a box of tissues. ‘Is there someone we can call for you? You shouldn’t be alone.’
The baby chose that moment to kick and a ragged sound left her mouth. Her dream of a family—of her and Richard as parents—shattered into tiny, jagged pieces. She was going to have a baby but now she’d be facing parenthood alone.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bf0c5034-b34d-5f1c-ba47-c88c8f141c40)
Three weeks later
AFTERNOON SPRING SUNSHINE poured through the window, setting up a glare on Raf’s laptop screen and making it hard to see. He was working on his current project—designing an app for cardiologists to use to explain conditions and procedures to patients. So much had changed in health care since his mother’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart attack it made that time look like the Dark Ages.
After an overcast and drizzly morning, he took the warm rays as a sign and closed the computer. His father was dozing in his recliner—weary after his hydrotherapy session earlier—and his ageing schnauzer and extremely elderly cat were both curled up on his lap, snoring louder than their master.
The brightness of the light cast Raf’s childhood home in an unforgiving glow. What had once been one of Shearwater Island’s state-of-the-art homes was now looking very tired and dated with its 1970’s arches, the faded and worn Berber carpet, and the wood-panelled feature wall with its geometric clock. The only things that had stood the test of time were the beautiful, clean lines of the Scandinavian furniture. His mother had decorated the house as a bride and twenty years later, when she probably would have redecorated, she’d died. That had been nineteen years ago and apart from the addition of a big-screen TV, his father hadn’t changed a thing.
The pounding surf combined with the warbling and happy song of the magpies and the sounds slipped under the open window, calling to Raf. He stood, stretched and walked over to the glass, leaning his hands against the sill and fingering the bubbled paint. He didn’t know why he often stared out this window—it wasn’t like he could see the sea. All he got was a view of the modern house next door. Perhaps that was the reason. Something about it reminded him of his new home in Melbourne—a house he’d designed and spent all of two nights in before his sister had telephoned with what he’d assumed was the daily Mario poststroke update.
‘The rehabilitation centre wants to discharge Dad,’ Bianca had said briskly.
‘I guess he’ll be happier at home,’ he’d replied, wondering if he’d really notice a change in his father’s mood. Happiness and Mario were two mutually exclusive things.
‘They won’t send him home alone.’
‘Can’t he live with you for a while?’ he’d suggested, as he’d ripped open another moving box.
Bianca’s sharp intake of breath hissed down the line. ‘I’ve got a business, Raf, a husband and two teenagers, all of whom are driving me crazy. I can’t add Dad into the mix or I’ll go under.’
He ran his hand through his hair, running options through his mind. ‘What about live-in help?’
She snorted. ‘He can’t afford that.’
He unwrapped a beautiful piece of glass art he’d bought from the Wathaurong in Geelong. ‘I can.’
‘It wouldn’t work. You know how difficult he can be and, besides, down here on the island in winter we’re not exactly overflowing with candidates for the job.’ He heard her click her tongue. ‘You’ve been a volunteer with St John Ambulance since Mum died.’
‘That’s first aid and emergency work. It doesn’t qualify me as a carer.’
‘Well, I’ve never done first aid but I’ve been looking out for Dad for years and now, little brother, it’s time for you to step up. Besides, it will give you something to do now you’ve sold your company.’
‘I’m designing an app and I’ve got plenty of things to do.’ Things that didn’t involve living on Shearwater Island with Mario.
‘I’m sure you do but for now you’re going to be the good Italian son you haven’t been in years and come home.’
Anger meshed with guilt and then, reluctantly, resignation followed. When Bianca got an idea in her head she didn’t let it go until it was a done deal, and he grudgingly conceded that she did have a point. He’d stayed away a very long time. ‘Exactly how long do I need to be there?’
‘For as long as it takes.’ Her snappish tone immediately softened. ‘His rehab coordinator said they’d review his independence in three months. Look at it this way, winter’s on the run and spring on the island is always pretty. Bring your computer and think of it as a working holiday.’
The thought of him and his father sharing a house was so far removed from his idea of a holiday that it made his gut churn. ‘Exactly when did you add being a stand-up comedian to your many skills?’
She gave a hoarse laugh. ‘You never know, Raf, Dad might surprise you.’
Over the last six weeks, Mario hadn’t surprised Raf in the least.
As he gazed at the house next door, he admired the soaring timber beams and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every inch of it had been built to maximise the view of the Southern Ocean. It was a view his father had seen from his fishing boat all his life right up until four months ago. Now the only time Mario saw the sea was when he left the property—an event he was dependent on Raf and others to provide. He probably missed the glorious vista that on a sunny day promised the world. No wonder the old bastard was grumpy a lot of the time.
His father cleared his throat—his sign that he was now awake. ‘What are you doing?’
Raf turned from the window, an idea suddenly taking hold of him with a zip of excitement. ‘I’m thinking you should extend this house upwards and get the same view as your neighbours.’
His father jerked the lever on his easy chair, snapping the leg rest back with a bang. The animals scattered. ‘And I can climb stairs so easily now, Rafael.’
His father’s sarcasm swirled around him. ‘There’s a thing called a lift, Dad.’
‘And there’s that thing called money.’ Mario thumped his cane to emphasise his point that he could no longer work.
Raf closed his eyes and counted to five before opening them again. ‘I’d be happy to finance it.’
‘Why would you want to do that? You hate living on the island.’
He sighed. ‘I don’t hate it.’
His father’s mouth flattened into a hard line. ‘Could have fooled me. You stayed away long enough.’
And just like that, they were back to the circular argument that had dogged them for eighteen years. He could have said, I’m here now, but that would only remind his father of the reason why, which was like throwing a lit match onto a petrol spill. He changed the subject to something neutral. ‘Who lives next door?’
Mario grunted, the sound derogatory. ‘Weekenders.’
The locals had a love/hate relationship with the holidaymakers who flooded the island each year from December until Easter. There was no doubt the money the tourists poured into the economy helped keep the island’s businesses alive but that money came with city attitudes, which frequently scraped up against country sensibilities. A community needed more than money to thrive and apart from the surf lifesaving club, the holiday home owners didn’t usually get involved.
‘They’re not doing a very good job at being weekenders, then,’ Raf said wryly. ‘I’ve been here a few weeks and I haven’t seen them once.’
‘Probably too busy working to pay for that house. You know your cousin Rocco made a pile of cash building and selling it.’
His father rose laboriously and Raf held himself back from rushing forward to help. The staff at the rehabilitation centre had been firm that he should wait for Mario to ask if he needed assistance. It was logical on paper but in reality it meant by the time Mario asked for help he was furious at himself for failing and, by default, furious at Raf for being the one there to help. The role of a carer was a catch-22 situation, no matter which angle he viewed it from.
His father walked slowly to the kitchen. Although Mario no longer skippered his boat, the habits of a lifetime were hard to shake. At three o’clock each afternoon he made coffee and listened to the detailed coastal weather report as if he still had to make the decision about whether or not to navigate across the treacherous bar and enter Bass Strait.
With Mario occupied, Raf usually took this time to go for a run and as he turned away from the window the soft drone of an engine snagged his attention. He looked back. A silver BMW four-wheel drive was pulling into the neighbours’ driveway. The tinted windows made it impossible to see how many occupants were in the vehicle but given the style and make of the car he thought it a pretty safe bet there’d be two adults and at least two children. The perfect nuclear family to match the beautiful house.
A ripple of sadness and disappointment rolled through him and he immediately threw it off. He had more than enough money to live his life as he pleased. He had nothing to be sad about.
He glimpsed a flash of blond hair as the driver’s door opened. ‘Yes!’ His prediction was on the money—make that a blond-haired, blue-eyed family.
‘What?’ Mario yelled from the kitchen.
‘Your neighbours have arrived.’
Mario didn’t bother to reply—the weather report took precedence over weekenders—but Raf stayed at the window to see if the rest of his conjectures would be accurate.
The driver stepped out from around the door and surprise shot through him. It wasn’t a blond man but a woman. A very pregnant woman wearing large, dark sunglasses that hid half her face. She arched her back as if she’d been driving for a long time without a break and the clingy top she wore stretched over her full, round breasts and fecund belly.
Lush. So lush, so beautiful. The words pinged unbidden into Raf’s mind and he gave himself a shake. Hell, what was wrong with him? It was one thing for a bloke to think a woman pregnant with his own child was sexy. He was certain that thinking that about a pregnant stranger was totally wrong.
No one else had alighted from the car. Had she just come with the kids? He waited for her to open the rear passenger doors but instead she turned so her back faced him. With her left arm akimbo, he assumed she was stroking her pregnant belly. Her head tilted back and her hair swung against her shoulders as she stared up at the house, looking at it as if it was a tall mountain she had to climb.
Why would you think that? More to the point, why are you even watching her? You’re not that creepy guy who stares out of windows at people.
He rubbed his face with his hands. Exactly how small had his world become over the last few weeks if he was looking out a window and imagining things about a pregnant woman he’d never met. He really needed to get out of the house and talk to someone other than his father.
He dropped his hands from his face and saw she was still standing and staring at the door. Suddenly her shoulders rolled back, forming a rigid, determined line, and she marched up to the door and inserted the key. The door swung open and a moment later it closed behind her.
Raf had the ridiculous urge to follow her inside.
‘Hello.’
The deep, male voice pulled Meredith’s attention away from the horizon. She had no clue how long she’d been standing in the dunes, staring out to sea, but it had probably been a while.
In the three weeks since Richard’s death she’d lurched from focused, rapid decision-making to being lost in a miasma of grief. Four days ago she’d escaped Melbourne, coming to the island for a much-needed change of scenery. Each day she walked along the beach early in the morning and again in the afternoon, welcoming the whip and sting of the salt-laden wind. The exercise was supposed to help her sleep but the baby and her grief had other ideas.
She turned her head towards the source of the voice. A tall, dark-haired man with tight, curly hair peppered with grey stood jogging on the spot on the beach just below her. She’d seen him from a distance every afternoon. Like her, he seemed to come to the beach at this time every day, no matter the weather. She felt her cheeks stretch minutely as she tried to muster a smile. ‘Hello.’
In contrast, his wide, full mouth curved upwards into a friendly grin, sending dimples swirling into his dark stubble-covered cheeks. ‘Everything okay?’
Not even close. But she wasn’t going there. She’d spent days contacting everyone from the internet service provider to the bank, requesting that Richard’s name be removed from the account. There were still organisations that needed to be told but she wanted a whole day off from saying, My husband died. She was worn out with having to deal with the sympathy of the person on the other end of the line or, in one situation, counselling the call-centre woman who was also recently bereaved.
‘There’s something hypnotic about the waves,’ she said. ‘I lose hours, watching them.’
He nodded as if he understood and ran his hand across his forehead, preventing a trickle of sweat from running into his chestnut-brown eyes. ‘You could do it from the windfree comfort of your home.’
A spike of unease washed through her. How did he know where she lived?
‘We’re neighbours,’ he said quickly, as if realising he needed to reassure her that he hadn’t been stalking her. ‘I’m Raf Camilleri.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her sluggish brain trying to make connections. ‘Is the street named after you?’
‘No. It’s named after my nonno, who paid for the road to be sealed. He was very proud that it was the first sealed road on the island.’ His smile became wry. ‘I think he took it as a tangible sign that he’d made good in his adopted country after the war.’
She extended her arm out behind her to encompass the row of houses further along the beach. ‘So the Camilleris own a lot of this land?’
‘Once, but not any more. Over the years it’s been sold or gifted to family. Today it’s prime real estate and my cousins are busy selling lots to holidaymakers so they can build their dream holiday homes.’
She remembered exactly when she and Richard had driven past number six Camilleri Drive and had recognised it as their dream home. Sadly, Richard had barely used it.
Raf’s kind eyes continued to gaze at her and she realised she hadn’t introduced herself. ‘I’m Meredith Dennison.’
‘Good to meet you, Meredith.’
His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her again. She braced herself for the obvious and inevitable questions the Shearwater Island locals always asked her—when was the baby due and when was her husband joining her or how long did she plan to visit.
‘If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.’
Before she could reply he’d pushed the ear buds into his ears, waved, turned and run off along the beach.
Meredith stood watching him run—his athleticism obvious as his long, strong legs strode out, quickly eating up the distance. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she fished it out, checking the caller ID. She sighed before pressing accept call. ‘Hi, Linda.’
‘Meredith, thank goodness.’ Her mother-in-law’s voice combined worry with reproof. ‘I’ve left three messages.’ She’d received each message but she’d been waiting until she could cope with talking to her utterly bereft mother-in-law. It often took more strength than she had. ‘Sometimes the reception’s a little dodgy down at the beach.’
‘When are you coming back, dear?’
I don’t know. ‘I’m just taking it one day at a time.’
Linda’s sigh sounded ominous, like the squalling wind that was chopping at the waves. ‘Derek and I don’t think you should be down there alone, especially not in the off season. Remember last year when they arrested that horrible man who’d been stealing underwear from clotheslines? And what if you went into labour and there’s no one around to help. We thought we’d drive down on the weekend.’
Oh, God, please, no. After the emotional maelstrom of the funeral and the following days when a parade of well-meaning friends and Richard’s grieving family had refused to let her be on her own, she’d almost gone crazy. She’d appreciated their concern but at the same time it had been suffocating her. Coming to the island was all about gaining some much-needed time so she could hear her own thoughts.
