were signed.
He had a holiday house at the very least and a home if he never moved back to his old life. Radical stuff for a single parent, escaped paediatrician, failed husband, and one who had been used to the conveniences of a large town.
The first part of the one big room he’d clumsily beautified was Piper’s corner and she didn’t mind the smudges here and there and the chaos of spackle and paint tins and drip sheets and brushes.
Finally, he’d stood back with his daughter in his arms and considered he might survive the next week and maybe even the one after that. The first truly positive achievement he’d accomplished since Clancy left.
Clancy left.
How many times had he tried to grasp that fact? His wife of less than a year had walked away. Run, really. Left him, left her day-old daughter, and disappeared. With another man, if the private investigator had been correct. But still a missing person. Someone who in almost twelve months had never turned up in a hospital, or a morgue, or on her credit card. He had even had the PI check if she was working somewhere but that answer had come back as a no. And his sister, who had introduced them, couldn’t find her either.
Because of the note she’d given the midwives, the police had only been mildly interested. Hence the PI.
Look after Piper. She’s yours. Don’t try to find me. I’m never coming back.
That was what the note had said. The gossip had been less direct. He suspected what the questions had been. Imagined what the midwives had thought. Why did his wife leave him? What did he do to her? It must have been bad if she left her baby behind...
The ones who knew him well shook their heads and said, She’d liked her freedom too much, that one.
At first he’d been in deep shock. Then denial. She’d come back. A moment’s madness. She’d done it before. Left for days. With the reality of a demanding newborn and his worry making it hard for him to sleep at all, his work had suffered. But his largest concern had been the spectre of Clancy with an undiagnosed postnatal depression. Or, worse, the peril of a postnatal psychosis. What other reason could she have for leaving so suddenly so soon after the birth?
Hence he’d paid the private investigator, because there were no forensic leads—the police were inundated with more important affairs than flighty wives. But still no word. All he could do was pray she was safe, at least.
So life had gone on. One painful questioning new morning after another. Day after day with no relief. He hadn’t been able to do his job as well as he should have and he’d needed a break from it all.
Buying the cottage had been a good move. Piper stood and cheered him on in her cot when he was doing something tricky, something that didn’t need to have a lively little octopus climb all over him while he did it, and she waved her fists and gurgled and encouraged him as he learnt to be a painter. Or a carpenter. Or a tiler.
Or a cook. Or a cleaner. Or a dad.
He was doing okay.
He threw a last look out over the beach towards the grey sea and turned for home. ‘That’s our walk done for this morning, chicken. Let’s go in and have breakfast. Then you can have a sleep and Daddy will grout those tiles in the shower so we can stop having bird baths in the sink.’
Piper loved the shower. Finn did too. When he held her soft, squirming satin baby skin against his chest, the water making her belly laugh as she ducked her head in and out of the stream always made him smile. Sometimes even made him laugh.
So he’d spent extra time on the shower. Adding tiles with animals, starfish, moon shapes and flowers, things they could talk about and keep it a happy place for Piper. And he’d made a square-tiled base with a plug. Soon she could have a little bath. One she could splash in even though it was only the size of the shower.
Doing things for Piper kept him sane. He didn’t need the psychologist his sister said he did, or the medication his brother-in-law recommended. Just until he’d climbed out of the hole he’d dug himself to hide in, he would stay here. In Lighthouse Bay. Where nobody pointed or pitied him and every corner didn’t hold a memory that scraped like fingernails on the chalkboard of his heavy heart.
Except that around the next corner his heart froze for a millisecond to see the morning midwife crouched on the path in front of him.
He quickened his pace. ‘Are you okay?’
She turned to look up at him, cradling something brightly coloured against her chest, and with the shift of her shoulders he saw the bird cupped in her hands. ‘She flew into that window and knocked herself out.’
The lorikeet, blue-headed with a red and yellow chest, lay limp with lime-green wings folded back in her hands. A most flaccid bird.
Still, the red beak and chest shuddered gently so it wasn’t dead. ‘How do you know it’s a girl?’ He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. But he’d actually thought it was her that had been hurt and relief had made him stupid.
She must have thought he was stupid too. ‘I didn’t actually lift her legs and look. Not really of major importance, is it?’
Just a little bit of impatience and, surprisingly, it was good to be at the receiving end of a bit of healthy sarcasm. So much better than unending sympathy.
He held up his hands in surrender and Piper’s voice floated over both of them from his back. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad!’
The girl sucked in her breath and he could see her swan-like neck was tinged with pink. ‘Sorry. Night duty ill temper.’
‘My bad. All mine. Stupid thing to say. Can you stand up? It’s tricky to crouch down with Piper on my back. Let’s have a look at her.’
The morning midwife rose fluidly, calves of steel obviously; even he was impressed with her grace—must be all those uphill walks she did. ‘She’s not fluttering her wings,’ she said, empathy lacing a voice that, had it not been agitated, would have soothed the bird. He shook himself. She was just being a typical midwife. That was how most of them had spoken to him when Clancy had disappeared.
‘Still breathing.’ He stroked the soft feathers as the bird lay in her small hands. ‘She’s limp, but I think if you put her in a box for a couple of hours in the dark, she’ll rouse when she’s had a sleep to get over the shock.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I do. She’s not bleeding. Just cover the box with a light cloth so she can let you know she can fly away when she’s ready.’
‘Do I have to put food or water in there?’
‘Not food. A little water as long as she doesn’t fall into it and drown.’ He grimaced at another stupid comment.
She grinned at him and suddenly the day was much brighter than it had been. ‘Are you a vet?’
‘No.’
‘Just a bird wrangler?’
She was a stunner. He stepped back. ‘One of my many talents. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Bye.’
She looked at him oddly. Not surprising. He was odd. He walked on up the hill.
Her voice followed him. ‘Bye, Piper.’ He heard Piper chuckle.
Trina
TRINA FINISHED HER night shift at seven a.m. on Friday and picked up her mini-tote to sling it on her shoulder. Her last night done, except for emergencies, and she did a little skip as she came out of the door. At first, she’d been reluctant to take the night shift to day shift change that Ellie had offered her because change could be scary, but it had started the whole paradigm inversion that