A Daddy For Baby Zoe?

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.

She saw a little dog suddenly shoot out of the dunes and race towards Raf, dancing around his running feet. Raf dodged and weaved and eventually bent down, scooping the dog up with one hand and tucking it under one very solid arm. She smiled. A man who tolerated little yappy dogs was probably not a stalker. Or a horrible man.

If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.

‘That’s very kind, Linda, but I’m not alone,’ she said, her voice more firm and resolved than it had sounded in days. ‘I have a neighbour and I can call over the fence if I need anything so I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, promise.’

She cut the call, turned off her phone and returned it to the pocket of her coat, suddenly reminded of the many times she’d been the one to telephone Linda.

Can you call Mum for me?

Richard, she wants to hear from you, not me.

Please, Merry. I’ve got back-to-back surgeries.

‘Richard,’ she screamed into the wind. ‘You bloody went and left me with your mother.’

The baby kicked and she pressed her hand against the busy foot. ‘I know. She cares for us in her own way but right now, if I’m going to survive this, I have to do it my way.’

She wished she had a map to guide her.

CHAPTER THREE

RAF SURVEYED THE GARDEN, which was strewn with debris courtesy of last night’s storm. The wind had raged, rattling the windows, snapping limbs off trees and redistributing the garden furniture all around the yard.

Mario stood at the front door, his expression glum as he gazed at a tree that had been sheared in half. ‘Your mother planted that bottlebrush. The lorikeets love it.’

Raf had always hated how sad his father got whenever he talked about his mother. Hated that after all these years his memory of his wife was still clouded in throat-choking grief as if he was the only person to have suffered when she’d died.

‘It’s survived this long in the salt and the wind, I’m sure it’s still got a lot of life left.’

Mario grunted. ‘Get the chainsaw and cut it down,’ he said authoritatively, as if Raf was still fifteen and under his instructions. Orders issued, he turned and shuffled back inside.

‘Yeah, so not doing that,’ Raf muttered, as he made his way down the drive and into the workshop.

Lifting the bush saw from its hook, he placed it in the wheelbarrow along with the shovel and returned to the front garden, and on the way he automatically glanced next door. He immediately cringed, remembering his conversation two days ago with Meredith on the beach. It hadn’t been the first time he’d seen her in the dunes, standing and staring out to sea. Wan and drawn, and with misery and a quiet desperation rolling off her in great hulking waves, she’d made the dismal weather look positively cheery in comparison.

The sight of her had activated his first-aid training and experience—he really didn’t want her walking fully clothed into the water. Before he’d even been conscious of making the decision, he’d found himself asking her if she was okay. That question had been the professional talking. There was something else about Meredith, though, that had kicked his three-year rule of not getting involved with women to the kerb, and a moment later he’d totally stuffed things up by mentioning he knew where she lived.

The look she’d given him had been a cross between horror that they’d been alone on the beach and her calculating how close she was to the road for a quick getaway. He hadn’t meant to scare her and he’d overcompensated by rabbiting on about his grandfather and the Camilleri mob, before suggesting she yell out if she ever needed anything.

Oh, yeah, like she’d ever do that. Even if she’d sustained some house damage last night he doubted she’d have reached out. It was far more likely she’d call her husband ahead of him, even though chances were he was two hundred and fifty kilometres away in Melbourne.

And there was the thing. Since she’d arrived, no one had visited her. Now it was Sunday so if there had been weekend guests making the trek from Melbourne, surely they would have arrived on Friday night or Saturday lunchtime at the latest. A pregnant woman alone and staring out to sea bothered him more than it should. Although there was no rule to say a woman couldn’t be on her own, being alone, pregnant and down on the island out of season seemed all wrong.

Not your problem, mate. If you want a problem to solve, you’ve always got Mario. He shook off the thought. Some things couldn’t be solved. The tree, however, was something he could rescue. Picking up the bush saw, he started work, welcoming the push and the pull as his arm and leg muscles tensed and relaxed.

Half an hour later he was covered in the fine red filaments that gave the tree its common name and he was sneezing from pollen overload. On the flip side, he did have a growing pile of wood in the wheelbarrow. Studying his handiwork, he decided he’d take two more branches off the left side and then the job would be done. Pulling back on the saw with one hand and steadying the large branch with the other, he set to work. The weight of the wood bore down on the saw, impeding the slide of the blade, so he moved his left hand closer to apply counter-pressure.

He heard the sound of a door closing and he glanced up to see Meredith getting out of her car. Unlike at the beach where she’d been huddled in a bulky coat that hid her body from neck to knees, today she wore a long-sleeved grey-and-white jumper that fell to the tops of her thighs. Her legs, which were longer than he’d realised, were clad in black leggings that hid nothing and did everything to emphasise their toned shape. The knee-high riding boots helped as well.

She held a carton of milk in one hand while her other tried to prevent her hair from blowing around her face like a golden scarf. Despite the Melbourne Black clothing, which made her pale face and distinct lack of pregnancy glow more obvious, there was still something about her—something that called out to him—and it kept his gaze fixed firmly on her.

Jagged pain ripped through him.

He swore loudly, the expletive carrying on the wind as the blade of the bush saw became embedded deep in his hand. Bright red blood bubbled up like a geyser and he dropped the saw, ripped off his shirt and wound it tightly around his hand to staunch the flow. His green T-shirt turned purple.

‘Are you hurt?’

He spun around to see Meredith’s baby-blue eyes—eyes with unexpected variations of light and dark, like the sea on a cloudy day—fixed on him and filled with consternation. I couldn’t stop staring at you. He felt ridiculously foolish. ‘I cut myself.’

She glanced at the saw that now lay on the thick and bouncy couch grass. ‘With that tetanus-waiting-to-happen blade?’

He nodded, suddenly feeling light-headed from the throbbing pain in his hand.

She pressed her hand on his shoulder, the pressure firm. ‘You’ve gone a bit green. Sit down before you fall down. I’ll just go grab my bag.’

Bag? He really was dizzy because that made no sense at all. He wanted to say he was fine but his legs felt decidedly wobbly so he sat and automatically dropped his head between his knees in the way he’d told so many of his patients to do in his role as a volunteer ambulance officer.

A minute later, Meredith’s black leather boots appeared in his line of vision and a blanket slid across his shoulders. ‘Pull that around you. I don’t want you getting cold.’

‘Thanks.’ He raised his head to see her drop a backpack from her shoulder and he instantly recognised the medical logo. ‘You’re a doctor?’

‘GP.’ She moved as if she was going to kneel down next to him on the wet grass.

‘Stop.’

‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was both bemused and commanding at the same time, as if she wasn’t used to taking instructions.

‘The grass is sopping. I’ll stand up and we’ll go inside.’

Her light brown brows pulled down. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’ He wasn’t sure at all but, he wasn’t about to let a heavily pregnant woman kneel in wet grass.

She gave him a scrutinising look and her lips pursed into a perfect bow like those painted on dolls. ‘Pull up on my hand.’

‘I don’t need—’

‘Just do it.’ Her hand hovered in front of him. ‘I’m not going to break and, believe me, you don’t want concussion from falling over.’

With her baby-blue eyes, dark brown lashes, pale complexion and that mouth, she looked like a fragile china doll but her firm tone said otherwise. He extended his hand. ‘I think I’m too scared to say no.’