had stopped her.
These were Tom’s stepsons—what on earth was a man doing with three kids who weren’t his own?
Hadn’t he heard of boundaries?
THREE DAYS LATER the medevac chopper deposited Tom and a recuperating Kit back home, on the landing pad three hundred metres from Shallow Bay Hospital.
They’d arrived earlier than Tom had expected. Air transfer was available only in emergencies. Transfer home to Shallow Bay wasn’t classified as an emergency. That meant Tom had been trying to decide whether to hire a car or wait for road ambulance transfer. However, on Monday morning a scuba diver had come up too fast after a dive south of Shallow Bay. Worse, he’d gone diving alone. He was in extremis when his friends found him and he’d died before they’d found somewhere with enough mobile coverage to ring emergency services.
The coroner needed the body and the coroner was in Sydney. Thus the chopper was on its way, but there was no rush. The crew who’d taken Tom and Kit to Sydney had kept tabs on where Kit’s treatment was up to. Kit’s hand was stable, with no more need for specialist intervention. They’d been offered a ride back.
Thus they rode back in style, arriving at Shallow Bay mid-morning. Tom emerged from the chopper and lifted Kit down after him. A still shaky Kit stood by his side until Roscoe drove up to meet them.
‘Hey!’ he boomed in greeting, and Tom was aware of a wash of relief at the sight of his friend’s broad smile, at the hug Roscoe was giving Kit. ‘It’s great to see you, mate,’ he told Kit and then he straightened and grinned at Tom. ‘And you too.’ Tom’s hand was enveloped; the hold was tantamount to a hug, and Tom felt better for it. ‘It’s great to have you back.’
‘The place hasn’t fallen apart without us?’ Tom took Kit’s good hand and held on because the little boy was still shaky. His arm was a swathe of white under his sling but it wasn’t only the shock and the injury that was making him shaky, Tom thought. These kids had had their foundations shaken by their mother’s death.
‘All good,’ Roscoe was saying. ‘You’ve hardly been missed. Our Dr Rachel is a beauty.’
‘Really?’
‘Efficiency R Us,’ Roscoe said. ‘You have no idea how a ward round should be conducted until you see Our Rachel at work. She can get a full history in less than three minutes. The patients don’t know what’s hit them.’
‘You’re saying she cuts corners?’
‘I didn’t imply that at all,’ Roscoe said, swinging Kit up into his arms, giving Tom the illusion—at least for a moment—that responsibility was shared. ‘No corner dares to be cut on Dr Rachel’s watch. Now, mate,’ he said to Kit, ‘where are you up to?’
‘We’ll be keeping Kit in hospital for the next few days,’ Tom told him. ‘Until his stitches are out.’ The job the plastic surgeons had done on Kit’s hand was stunning but broken stitches could see him being sent back to Sydney. There was no way he was letting Kit near his rough-and-tumble brothers until they were out.
He’d need to spend time with him, running through the exercises the hand therapist had set. At least with Rachel here he’d have the time. To have an efficient colleague was a blessing.
But what Roscoe was saying had sown doubts. He thought of the frail, elderly patients in his hospital, their need for human contact, for reassurance, and he thought, Three minutes for a history?
‘Where’s Rachel now?’ he asked.
‘On a house call,’ Roscoe said. ‘Herbert Daly. District nurse asked if she’ll check his legs. He has three ulcers now, but the old coot won’t take care of them, nor will he come in. But Rachel’s on to it. Expect to see him in Ward One by lunchtime.’
‘She’s bossy?’
‘Just organised,’ Roscoe said. ‘You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Now, Kit, I’m betting your dad would like to take your gear home and catch up with Rose. Your brothers are both at school. How lucky are you to get this time off? Let’s get you settled into the kids’ ward. We have the best video games, plus Xavier Trentham’s in there with a broken leg. He fell out of a tree on Saturday. He’s in your class, isn’t he? Dr Rachel’s fixed his leg but she’s keeping him in hospital until the swelling goes down and she can put a proper cast on. Meanwhile, he’s aching for company. Come in and help him fight it out with Battle-Axe Warriors or whatever you kids play when we leave you alone with those game consoles. Tom will be back to see you within an hour, right, Tom?’
‘Why do I feel like I’m being organised?’ Tom said faintly and Roscoe chuckled.
‘It’s rubbing off,’ he said. ‘The Rachel effect. She’s here for two years—I can’t begin to imagine how we’ll be by the end of it.’
‘Assembly line medicine?’
‘She’s not that bad,’ Roscoe said. ‘She’s good.’
But underneath Tom thought he heard doubt.
‘Go see Rose and she’ll tell you the same,’ Roscoe said and lifted Kit into the car.
‘I’ll walk,’ Tom said, grabbing his gear. ‘It’s only five minutes. It’ll give me space to get my head organised.’
‘See, what did I tell you?’ Roscoe said and chuckled again. ‘Organisation. The Rachel effect already.’
The lovely, dependable Rose was settled on the living room window seat overlooking the bay when he arrived. He paused at the door, taking in the scene before she realised he’d returned.
This place had been his grandparents’ home, where he’d come for holidays as a kid. He’d loved it. He’d had freedom to wander. He’d learned to surf here. The locals had always made him welcome, had always treated him as a local.
But then his career had taken off and life had become frenetic, fun, city-centric. With his grandparents dead, his parents overseas, there’d been little reason to come back to Shallow Bay. It was only when he’d been landed with three grieving kids that he’d thought the only place they could be happy was here.
There’d been no other way. Decision made, he’d moved them here and tried to be content with the messy, kid-filled space his life had become.
But it wasn’t messy now. Rose was sitting with her feet up, placidly knitting. That part felt normal. The rest of it, though, wasn’t normal in the least. His usually messy house looked as if some sort of whirling dervish had swept through, but instead of creating chaos it had transformed it into… Home Beautiful?
Occasionally, during his bachelor existence, after the cleaner had been in, his city apartment had looked this tidy, but this was different. Not only was his house tidy, it seemed to have been transformed.
The furniture was arranged differently, invitingly, not wherever the kids had hauled it to get it out of the way when they were playing. Rugs were neat, vacuumed, not a wrinkle in sight. The pictures on the walls, seascapes painted by his grandmother, pictures he hadn’t even realised were out of line, were now in straight lines. A couple that had descended to be propped on the floor had been rehung.
There was more. The jumble of seashells—generations of family beachcombing left in dusty piles wherever—was now arranged on a side table, with a couple of pieces of driftwood supporting them. Instead of a jumble, the shells now looked like an eye-catching art installation. The kids’ books and puzzles were tidy but, more than that, they’d been arranged in enticing stacks. There was a jar of native bottlebrush on the sideboard, crimson, gorgeous.
Tuffy,