Vicki breezed in. ‘Hi, everyone.’
‘Hi, Vic,’ was the chorused reply.
Vicki made her way across to the bench and with no attempt at subtlety elbowed Tom out of way. ‘I hope you’re intending to clean up after yourself, young Dr Yardley?’
Tom stuffed a corner of toast into his mouth. ‘I thought you might, Vic…’
‘In your dreams, sunshine. I’ve my own work to do. Brady.’ She dimpled a smile back over her shoulder. ‘Ready for your first day?’
‘Just about.’ Brady took another mouthful of his coffee. ‘Can anyone tell me why people assume that doctors in general survive on casseroles?’
‘Come again?’ Angelo’s dark head came up and he blinked.
Brady gave a twitch of his shoulders. ‘I’ve already had three given to me, one from my elderly neighbour and two from a nice lady who called yesterday and said she was from the church.’
‘No one gave me casseroles when I moved into my place,’ Tom grumbled.
‘You only eat pizzas,’ Vicki scolded. ‘You’d have chucked them out.’
‘Would not. I’d have given them to the poor of the parish.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, children!’ Angelo shook his head and got to his feet. He scooped up the rest of his mail. ‘Folk here are friendly, Brady. News of your arrival will have travelled fast. And the fact you have a baby, well…’
Brady’s mouth turned up in a wry grin. ‘You mean I can expect gifts of nappies and formula as well?’
That remark brought laughter. Then a general exodus began.
Jo had been conscious of Brady from the second he’d walked into the staffroom. She just hoped things worked out for him in Mt Pryde and he’d want to stay.
She didn’t ask herself why she wanted that. Didn’t dare. Instead, she realised she’d have to keep reminding herself she had to work with him, had to treat him as a colleague and not allow her senses to zoom to full alert every time he came within her orbit.
She hung back purposely, waiting for everyone to clear the room. But Brady was still there, washing his mug at the sink. She glanced at her watch. She had to get on. Slipping off the high stool where she’d been perched, she asked, ‘How was Andrew this morning?’
Brady upended his mug on the drainer and began to dry his hands on a paper towel. ‘Good. Thea has great plans for them today.’
‘You could slip home at lunchtime and make sure he’s all right.’
Brady’s mouth twitched briefly. ‘I’m tempted—but, no, I don’t want to start being distracted from my job. That’s not fair to the rest of the team.’
‘Just till you and AJ settle in.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s kind of you to suggest it, Jo, but let me do this my way—OK?’
Jo’s mouth flattened in an apologetic smile. ‘It was just a thought.’
‘I know.’ His own smile was teasing and very direct. ‘It’s probably your mothering instincts at play.’
Jo felt her face warm. Now, there was a thought. ‘Uh, has Ralph handed over to you yet?’
‘Mmm. I spent the entire day here with him yesterday.’
Sunday? Jo frowned. ‘That was a bit above the call of duty, wasn’t it?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mind. Especially in the circumstances.’
So Ralph had obviously told him about his grandson. ‘It’s a real blow for the family.’
‘I’d be completely gutted if anything like that happened to AJ,’ Brady replied soberly. Then in a beat his mood lightened and he moved to the door and held it open for her. ‘Come on, Dr Rutherford, or Vicki will be after our hides.’
Jo made a face. ‘Mondays are always nuts, aren’t they?’
‘Yep. But I’m really looking forward to meeting my patients and getting stuck in.’
‘Just yell if you need to consult about anything,’ Jo offered.
‘Thanks, Jo—for everything.’ For what seemed like aeons they held each other’s gaze and Brady felt his throat constrict. Her eyes were like emerald-green pools, inviting him to dive in.
Oh, damn. If only he dared.
He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, probably see you at lunchtime, then.’
She nodded and they turned, each heading in opposite directions to their consulting rooms.
* * *
With a feeling of optimism Brady picked up the card for his first patient from Vicki, then stuck his head into the waiting room and called, ‘Samara? Come through, please.’
A young woman in jeans and skinny-rib top rose to her feet. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ she said, click-clacking along in her sandals behind him and then taking the chair beside his desk.
‘Brady McNeal. I’m taking over Dr Mitchell’s patients.’
Samara, who was nineteen, pressed her hands together prayer-like, locking them between her jeans-clad knees. ‘I’ve had some tests done. Dr Mitchell said he’d have the results if I came back today.’
‘That’s right.’ Brady had gone carefully over the young woman’s notes with Ralph.
Originally, she’d presented with chronic fatigue and lethargy, and after several attempts to get at the cause of her problems with no worthwhile results, Ralph had sent her for a small bowel gastroscopy—a biopsy of the small intestine. The results were back and, bingo!
Brady brought up her file on the computer. ‘The results of your biopsy are pretty conclusive, Samara,’ he told his patient gently. ‘It appears you have what is known as coeliac disease.’ He spelled it out for her and said, ‘It’s pronounced, seal-e-ack.’
Samara shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. What does it mean exactly?’
‘In simple terms,’ Brady said, ‘it means you have an intolerance to gluten.’
‘That’s wheat and stuff, isn’t it?’
Brady nodded. ‘Especially wheat, but we can’t dismiss other grains like rye, barley and possibly oats.’
Samara chewed her bottom lip, digesting the information. ‘So what will I eat, then? I mean, there are additives in everything these days. Will I have to start reading every label on every bit of food I buy? That’ll be a real pain. I live away from home,’ she expanded, ‘so it’s not like I can get my mum to prepare my food.’
‘It will be a bit of a minefield,’ Brady agreed. ‘But don’t lose heart before you start. Just think that if it’s going to make the difference between you feeling well or not well, it’ll be worth doing, won’t it?’
‘I guess…’
He smiled reassuringly and pulled a couple of pamphlets from his drawer. ‘You won’t have to do it all on your own. There’s quite an active support group in the town. But read these for a start and I’ll give you a letter of referral to the dietitian at the hospital. Make an appointment as soon as you can. She’ll have a fund of information you’ll be able to tap into.’
Samara took the pamphlets and looked down at them. ‘Looks like I’ll have to be really picky about what I eat,’ she said glumly.
‘If it’s to be of benefit to you, the diet has to be strict,’ Brady pointed out practically. ‘But don’t imagine you’ll have to go on army rations. There will be a vast range of foods you’ll be