Bride at Bay Hospital

He glanced up at Meg.

‘Get him straight onto a twelve-lead ECG. I’ll take blood for testing. Does the hospital have its own path lab?’

‘We can do basic stuff. In Ben’s case cardiac enzymes, white-cell count, ESR, U and E, glucose, lipids and a clotting screen.’

Sam frowned at her.

‘Are you sure you’re not a doctor in disguise?’

Simple enough question, one would have thought, but once again he watched as Meg’s face lost colour. Anguished green eyes were raised to his—anguished green eyes that caused pain in the part of his chest where he didn’t have a heart.

‘Quite sure,’ she said quietly, walking beside the trolley as Ben was wheeled into the trauma room.

She was all efficiency—this woman he hadn’t expected to see and certainly hadn’t expected to feel anything for. Working with swift, sure movements, she changed Ben’s oxygen feed from the bottle on the ambulance trolley to the hospital supply, attached the leads to Ben’s chest, added more leads for a heart monitor then moved the monitor screen so Sam could see it.

And as she worked she talked to Ben—nothing kind of talk, explaining what she was doing, teasing him gently in a way, Sam realised, that boosted Ben’s spirits far more readily than sympathy would have done.

She passed Sam a catheter to insert into Ben’s arm, first to take blood for testing, then so drugs could be administered into his veins. Her fingers accidentally brushed his when the exchange took place, and she glanced up at him, bewilderment showing on her face, as if whatever she had felt puzzled her.

What he’d felt puzzled him as well…

‘It’s bad? Is that what you think?’

Ben’s anxious query told Sam he must be frowning.

‘No way, mate!’ he assured the man. ‘In fact, the exact opposite. There are no visible signs from the ECG that your heart’s playing up.’

‘But the pain!’ Ben protested. ‘It was like an elephant sat on my chest.’

‘I’ve heard it described more elegantly,’ Meg told him.

‘And I’ve heard it described exactly like that,’ Sam put in. ‘The pain is definitely a symptom that something’s not right, which is why we’ve got you hooked up to monitors that are telling us how your heart and lungs are working, and the level of oxygen in your blood. We’ll know more when we get the results of the blood tests back from the lab.’

He glanced enquiringly at Meg who assured him the blood had been sent.

‘What can happen,’ Sam continued, ‘is that the arteries that feed your heart muscle become clogged with plaque, and if they’re not getting enough blood to the heart and the heart muscle isn’t getting enough oxygen from the blood, you’ll feel pain. I’m giving you nitroglycerin to open up those blood vessels so more blood gets through, and the monitors will tell us how the drug is working. We’ll let you rest for a while but eventually you’ll be having a whole battery of tests. Have you been referred to a cardiologist before this?’

Ben shook his head, then grinned at Sam. ‘Only been in hospital once before,’ he said, ‘and you know why that was!’

Sam stopped still, an image flashed before him. A big group of them had been in the street outside the cinema complex, having celebrated the last day of the school year at the movies. He’d been thinking about Meg, who had been due to arrive the following day, when one of the girls—had it been Coralie West?—had come up and slipped her arm through his, suggesting they nip away for a kiss and cuddle at the beach.

He’d backed off, trying to find a way to say no without hurting her feelings, then suddenly Ben, who’d probably been sneaking rum into his Coke, had raised his voice.

Made an unbelievable accusation…

Sam’s head and fist had exploded simultaneously, sending the much taller Ben flying backwards. A mate had grabbed Sam, but he’d shaken him off, while Ben had clambered back to his feet and surged towards his adversary. Ben had been tough, farm-hardened and cunning in his choice of punches, but in the end, it had been rage that had won the fight for Sam.

Although it hadn’t been a win—it had been a loss.

A loss of innocence…

Of joy…

Of love…

CHAPTER TWO

‘FIRST lot of test results, Doctor.’

Something in the nurse’s voice made Sam look more closely at her.

‘I should know you, shouldn’t I?’ he said and the pert blonde smiled.

‘Thirteen years is a long time, Sam,’ she said. ‘I’m Kelly Warren, Eddie’s younger sister.’

‘The pest!’ Sam remembered, grinning at the woman. ‘You look great. How’s Eddie?’

‘He’s still in town. He took over Dad’s pharmacy. Boy, did he miss you when you left.’

Sam nodded. Eddie had been a good friend—Sam’s one true friend, apart from Meg—yet he’d never bothered to keep in touch. But that was how his friendships had been—surface things—because he’d never been good at letting people get too close—letting people in.

Except for Meg…

He smiled at Kelly.

‘I’ll be sure to look him up,’ he promised her, taking the test results and studying them, nodding to himself as he walked back into Ben’s cubicle.

Meg was holding Ben’s hand and talking quietly to him.

Comforting him, Sam told himself, though he couldn’t have said why he needed to find an excuse for Meg’s presence.

Or the hand-holding.

Get over it!

‘OK!’ he said, edging near enough to the bed for Meg to have to move. ‘Your blood has an increase in something we call CPK. That’s a cardiac enzyme—creatine phosphokinase, if you want the whole story. An increase in CPK usually indicates a heart attack even when the monitors don’t show it, and the level of CPK indicates how severe or otherwise the attack was. You’ve been lucky, Ben. It was very mild. Next we’ll do an echocardiogram to see if we can see any damage to the heart muscle and there’ll be further tests once you see a cardiologist.’

‘We have a visiting cardiologist who comes twice a week—Tuesday and Thursday,’ Meg offered. ‘He’ll be in town tomorrow and we can make arrangements for him to see Ben here.’

‘Here? I can’t stay here,’ Ben protested, trying to sit up. ‘I’ve got to get home to Jenny and the kids. Benjie’s due for more chemo tomorrow.’ He broke down again, tears pooling in his eyes as he added, ‘We both come in with him every time.’

Sam felt Ben’s anguish but before he could explain why he couldn’t be released, Meg was talking.

‘Benjie’s tough,’ she reminded their patient. ‘He’ll be OK just with Jenny, although, as he has it right here in the hospital, if you’re OK, there’s no reason why you can’t be with them. But right now the best thing you can do for Jenny and all your family is to rest and get better.’

Sam nodded, adding, ‘And you’ve no option but to stay here. We’re giving you drugs to keep your arteries open and to dissolve any clots that might be lurking in them. We need you on the monitors so we can see how the drugs are working.’

And to make sure you don’t have another heart attack. As he left the cubicle, Sam couldn’t help thinking of the number of times he’d seen a second more severe heart attack occur in patients while they’d been in A and E. Chest pain caused anxiety, anxiety caused blood pressure and heart rate to increase, and the higher the blood pressure and heart rate, the harder the heart had to work. Unfortunately, a heart already battling to work properly didn’t take kindly to an extra workload.

‘Are you going to move him to a ward?’

Meg joined him outside the curtains, seeing his worry for Ben in Sam’s narrowed eyes and furrowed forehead.

Sam hesitated for a moment before shaking his head.

‘If the hospital had a coronary care unit I would, but right now the best monitoring he can get is right there, for a few hours at least. We’ll move him later. His wife’s coming in?’

‘As soon as her mother gets out to the farm to mind the kids.’

‘How many kids do they have?’ Sam asked, concern warming his voice, surprising Meg because he’d always remained detached from other people’s problems. Except for hers… ‘I know about Benjie! Talk about rotten luck—the little fellow getting leukaemia. I guess the only good part is you’re able to give him chemo here so there’s less disruption to the family.’

‘Not without a fight,’ Meg told him. ‘The powers that be insisted at first he go to Brisbane, but Ben’s a farmer—he can’t get away for any length of time, and there are three older girls as well, so it wasn’t exactly easy for Jenny to go either.’

Sam’s smile twined around Meg’s heart.

‘You did the fighting?’

‘The whole town fought,’ she told him, not wanting him to think her special—more especially not wanting smiles that affected her heart. ‘The mayor wrote directly to the premier, every doctor in town wrote to the Health Department, and ordinary, everyday citizens bullied their local MPs until an agreement was reached. The Bay hasn’t changed much in that everyone pulls together in a crisis, and Benjie’s leukaemia is just one of many uniting forces I’ve seen since I came to live here permanently.’

‘Why did you come back, Meg?’

It was the last question she’d expected and she hesitated, uncertain how to answer. She couldn’t lie to save herself, her tendency to go fiery red a dead give-away. In the end she settled on part truth.

‘Cheap accommodation.’

It was a flippant reply and Sam obviously read the warning she’d hoped to convey.

‘None of my business, huh?’ he said, then he changed the subject. ‘Ben’s wife—Jenny, is it? Do I know her?’

Meg heard a hint of apprehension in his voice and frowned at him.

‘Are you surprised people remember you?’

‘I’ve been gone thirteen years, Meg. Of course I’m surprised.’

‘Then you didn’t think through this “back to the Bay” decision too well. Why wouldn’t people remember you? You were into everything—the swimming champ, the football captain. Jenny was Jenny Wilson—her parents still have the bakery in town. Mrs Wilson used to give us finger buns whenever we went in there. Mind you, she probably gave finger buns to every kid in town.’

‘Of course. Jenny Wilson was in my year at school.’ Sam spoke slowly, as if he was only just beginning to consider the implications of his return to the Bay. And for a moment Meg almost felt sorry for him.

‘Exactly,’ she said, quelling the feeling before it had time to take hold. Then curiosity got the better of her. She asked the same question he’d asked earlier. ‘Why did you come back?’

Sam’s face closed. Someone else, standing in front of him, might not have noticed the wiping of all expression from a face that didn’t give away much in the first place. But Meg had seen it happen before—often enough to recognise that whatever minor truce might have existed between them for a few minutes was now over.

Not that she should be worried about it—Sam Agostini was none of her business.

Though not yet late—just after seven—it was dark by the time Sam drove back up to the Point and along the road to his house.

His house?

In his mind it was still the Anstey house.

He glanced towards cottage but there were no lights on. No doubt Meg was still performing one of her seemingly limitless roles at the hospital. Family counselling it had been when he’d called in to check on Ben Richards late that afternoon and had found Meg there with Jenny and various other family members who all remembered him—and registered their surprise he wasn’t in jail—but were strangers as far as he was concerned.

He parked his car and walked up the front steps—hoping the removal men had successfully completed the unpacking for him. I don’t care what goes where, he’d told them, sure they’d be better able to place furniture and stack cupboards than he would be.

He wondered what they’d made of the drawer full of feminine underwear in the main bedroom.

On the front veranda, he stopped and turned towards the view, seeing the sweep of the bay and far out a faint twinkle of light from the island. A fisherman on the beach? Someone camping in the sand dunes?

His chest began to ache again and a savage anger swept over him as he realised Meg had been right.

He hadn’t thought through his return to the Bay.

Oh, he’d considered all the practical aspects of it—the business side of things, the opportunities it presented—the reasons he’d had to come. But if he’d considered any emotional impact, it had merely been to remind himself he was older now—a mature adult—and in spite of what an interfering, psychiatrist ex-girlfriend had once said about him carrying emotional baggage, he’d been totally convinced that all the past was right where it belonged—safely in the past.

A movement down on the beach caught his eye, and though the moon had not yet risen, there was enough light reflecting off the water for him to see it was a woman. A woman with a longish stick in her hand—writing in the sand.

He moved without thought, back down the steps, across the road, easily finding the grassy track that led downwards through the tall gum trees to the park, across it to the beach.

But once there he hesitated. Megan—and he’d known with an inner certainty it was her—had moved on so she was almost at the point. If he waited just a minute, she’d be out of sight.

As would he be of her…

He paused in the shadows until he could no longer see her then walked towards the water, which splashed with tiny, sloshing waves against the gritty sand. The tide must be going out, for the words she’d written hadn’t been washed away.

Megan Anstey, in beautiful curly cursive script. Meg’s hair might have darkened to a rich auburn, and her gangly figure filled out with womanhood, but her writing hadn’t changed.

He followed the big letters to the end and found that after them she’d written ‘Megan Scott’.

Megan Scott?

Sam frowned at the surname.

‘Megan Anstey’, written on the beach, used to be followed by ‘Megan Agostini’.

But that had been thirteen years ago!

Didn’t stop him frowning.

Was Megan married to this Scott, or just in love with him?

Engaged?

He didn’t need to know.

It was none of his business.

So why was he still following the writing?

‘Megan Anstey’ again.

Without knowing why, Sam felt immeasurably better, though the next name jolted him.

Not so much a name as the word ‘Megan’ then a question mark. Was there someone in Meg’s life she was thinking of marrying?

Why wouldn’t there be? She was young, attractive, vibrant, sexy—

Sexy?

Had he ever considered that word and Meg in the same breath?

‘Reading other people’s mail?’

He looked up to see her barely ten feet away, the sand having dulled any sound of her return.

‘Sand writing’s like postcards—fair game,’ he reminded her, staring at her shadowed figure and wondering if perhaps his ex-girlfriend had been right and he did have an excessively large load of baggage from the past.

He certainly felt as if he was carrying something heavy right now. Heavy enough to make his chest feel tight and his muscles bunch with tension.

‘Were you looking for me?’

For the last thirteen years, a voice inside his head responded, but he knew this wasn’t true. He’d thought of Meg from time to time, but—

‘No. I just wandered down for a breath of fresh air before going into the house to see what kind of a fist of unpacking the removal men have made. I paid for the whole job—packing and unpacking.’

This is a ridiculous conversation, his inner voice mocked, but Sam was surprised he’d managed an almost rational reply.

‘Money no object, then?’ Meg asked, in a voice he didn’t recognise as her’s. Meg had never been snide or catty but, then, that Meg had been a girl. Thirteen years was plenty of time to find a bit of snide and catty!

‘It was more a matter of time. I wasn’t due to start up here for another month, then I had an SOS from an old friend who was coming up as the medical super at the hospital. She couldn’t leave Brisbane and, knowing I was heading this way, asked if I’d step in for her.’

It was still a ridiculous conversation to be having with Meg, but at least it was keeping his mind away from thoughts of Meg the girl.

And the sand writing.

From Megan Question Mark?

Almost keeping his thoughts away…

‘You were coming anyway? When Bill said acting super I thought maybe you’d bought the house as a holiday home and were just here for however long you were acting.’

Meg knew she must sound strained, but she’d come to the beach in an attempt to regain her inner peace and composure—to try to get rid of all the turbulent emotions that seeing Sam—and knowing she’d be seeing more of him—had stirred inside her. Now, just when it had seemed to be working, here he was!

She studied him. Tall and strong-looking. He’d naturally enough filled out over the intervening years so his broad shoulders looked well muscled and his body solid—manly!

‘You were coming anyway?’ she said again, thinking she’d be better getting her mind off the subject of Sam’s body.

‘I was coming anyway,’ he echoed, but there was such sadness in the words Meg stepped towards him, responding to some inexplicable need within her—or within him.

‘Sam?’ she murmured, and he leaned towards her.

The waves whispered softly on the sand, the early stars shed soft silver light about them, and Sam’s head bent towards hers, slowly, slowly, as if willed by something beyond his control—something that went against his wishes and judgement and common sense.

A barely heard ‘Meg…’

The kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing—and the taste of Sam was both new and yet familiar. Too new and too familiar for Meg not to respond—tentatively testing for herself. It was a kiss that both sought and gave her comfort, though comfort was far from the other reactions it was generating.

Need, desire, heat—all the reactions Sam’s kisses had generated in the adolescent Megan long ago—not diminished by time, but heightened and strengthened by the maturity of her body and the very obvious maturity of his.

Or was it his skill as a kisser that was changing her response? Skill and mastery that seemed to be drawing the very soul from her body and sweeping away any will to resist.

This was the kiss of her dreams but with a real Sam, not a fantasy, yet fantasy was there as well and she was sixteen again, kissing the teenage Sam who was soon to become her lover…

‘Meg,’ he repeated softly, and though his voice seemed to be coming from a far distant planet, enough of her name reached her to make her draw away.

As she moved, the spell was broken. She stared at him in disbelief—disbelief levelled at herself, not him.

Then very deliberately she wiped her hand across her lips and said, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’

Would he remember? she wondered as, with tears puddling in her eyes and agony tugging at her heart, she walked away from him.

‘Megan, wait! Meg, I can explain!’

His voice followed her, but she wasn’t going to stop. Wasn’t going to risk being caught in that web of sensuality he wove so effortlessly around her—not again.

Would he remember his own gesture—his own words—from all those years ago?

She doubted it, and somehow that thought made her blink back the tears and straighten her shoulders as she crossed the park, determined not to show Sam Agostini her pain.

Sam watched her go, remembering back to when he’d given Meg good reason to write ‘Megan Agostini’ in the sand.

Meg at sixteen, arriving for the Christmas holidays thirteen years ago, flying from her house to the cottage, in through the side door and into his bedroom, casting herself into his arms and kissing him full on the mouth.

Over the previous three holidays—Easter, June and September—their relationship had changed. Somewhere along the line Meg had grown breasts and put a little padding around her hips so they swelled gently out below her tiny waist. While looking at her legs, he’d seen not their paleness but their sexy length. Hormones and libido had done the rest and two childhood best friends had become not lovers but girlfriend and boyfriend, together exploring their developing sexuality. The sheer delight of moonlight walks on the beach and stolen kisses had been all they’d wanted from each other during the shorter holidays, although by October they were sure enough of how they felt to discuss taking their relationship further.

How innocent we were! Sam thought, grimacing at the memories.

Christmas holidays, they’d decided, would be the perfect time for both of them to lose their virginity. They’d have seven weeks together—or as together as they could be. Seven weeks! It would be like a honeymoon—only before marriage, not after it.

But when the day had come, when she’d come bursting into his room, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, he’d wiped her kiss off his lips, told her never to do it again, and broken her heart.

Lost his own at the same time, Sam suspected, for he’d felt nothing for the pain he’d caused his mother over those particular holidays or for the girls he’d kissed and left without a second thought, or for the trail of chaos he’d blazed through the Bay until Meg’s father had stepped in, offering to pay his tuition at a private school in Sydney for his final year at school—finding his mother a job down there so they could be together.

Now, when it was too late to say thank you because Meg’s father was dead, he understood Dr Anstey had done what he had out of kindness, but back then, poisoned by words Ben Richards probably didn’t remember saying, it had served to prove to Sam that Ben’s jibe was true.

He had to explain…

He caught up with her as, breathless from her rush up the steep path, she rested a moment, leaning against the big eucalypt at the top of the track.

‘Meg! I thought you were my sister!’

Were the words breathless because he’d run to catch her, or because of their ridiculous nature?

Meg spun to face him.

‘You thought I was your sister?’ An echo of utter disbelief. ‘How could I possibly have been your sister?’

The answer, though slow coming, was obvious. Her disbelief deepened but with it came uncertainty.

And then pain.

‘You thought my father—My father?’

And now the demon doubt arrived, cutting into her so deeply she had to bend to ease the pain. Was that why her mother had been so anxious to sell the holiday house after her father’s death?

It was all too much for Meg.

‘How could you think that? How could you?’ she yelled, swiping the stick she still carried towards Sam, catching him across the cheek, before turning and racing towards the cottage.

Sam wanted to follow—to explain he no longer thought it—but that wasn’t the point and he knew it. Meg had adored her father, and he her. They’d shared the same hair colouring, quick temper, utter loyalty and soft heart. The careless words—Sam’s urgent need to explain the past—had made things worse, not better.

Though wasn’t he always making things worse?

Wasn’t that his forte in relationships?

Wreaking havoc in the lives of the women he courted, leaving a trail of destruction in his path?

He muttered angrily to himself as he made his way home.

Home! That was a laugh! How could the Anstey house ever be his home—with Meg living in the cottage next door, a constant reminder of how things had once been?

He changed his mind and went back down the track to the beach. Maybe a run would make him feel better. And maybe the huge full moon, rising in orange-gold glory above the waters of the bay, was made of cheese!

He should have followed her—explained it better. He’d have to try again.

Have to hope she’d understand.

Now, why would he hope that? he wondered as he pounded along the beach.

Because one kiss had told him so. One kiss had proved that the fire he’d found lacking in every relationship he’d ever had since that momentous day was still there between himself and Meg.