a dog’s head appeared on his knee. It was a great, boofy, curly brown head, attached to a body that was disproportionally small. It woofed again but its tail wagged like a flag in a gale.
‘This is Fuzzy,’ Em said, still smiling at him. His presence here didn’t seem to be disconcerting her. It was as if he was simply an old friend, dropping by. To be welcomed and then given a farewell? ‘Mike gave us Fuzzy to act as a watchdog. He sort of does, but he’s always a bit late on the scene.’
‘Oliver!’ And here was the last part of the tableau. Adrianna was standing in the door through to the lounge and her eyes weren’t welcoming at all. ‘What are you doing here?’
Here was the welcome he’d expected. Coldness and accusation …
‘Mum …’ Em said warningly, but Adrianna was never one who could be put off with a mere warning.
‘You hit Em’s car.’
‘Mum, I told you. I hit his.’
‘Then he shouldn’t have been parked where you could hit him. What are you doing here?’
‘Offering to pay for the damage.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Mum, it was my fault,’ Em protested, but Adrianna shook her head.
‘It’s your no-claim bonus that’s at risk. Oliver’s a specialist obstetric surgeon, and I’m betting he has no mortgage and no kids. He can afford it.’
‘Mum, it’s my debt.’
‘You take on the world,’ her mother muttered. ‘Oliver owes you, big time. My advice is to take his money and run. Or rather take his money and say goodbye. Oliver, you broke my daughter’s heart. I won’t have you upsetting her all over again. Raking up old wounds …’
‘He’s not,’ Em said, still gently, and Oliver was aware that her biggest priority was not Em or the emotions his presence must be causing, but rather on not upsetting the little girl in her arms. ‘Mum, he’s welcome. He’s a friend and a colleague and he’s here to do the honourable thing. Even if I won’t let him. I can afford to pay, Oliver.’
‘I won’t let you,’ he told her.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, then,’ Adrianna said, slightly mollified. She humphed across to the kettle, made tea—and, yep, she remembered how he liked it. She plonked two mugs on the table, one for Em, one for him. Then she hoisted Fuzzy into one arm, took her own mug in the other hand and headed back to the sitting room. ‘Semi-final of Boss of My Kitchen,’ she said briefly over her shoulder. ‘Shall the croquembouche disintegrate into a puddle? The tension’s a killer. Nice to see you, Oliver—sort of—but don’t you dare upset Em. Goodbye.’
And she disappeared, using a foot to shove the door closed behind her.
Her message couldn’t be clearer. My daughter wants me to be polite so I will be, but not one inch more than I must.
He was left with Em, and the little girl in her arms. Sitting in Adrianna’s kitchen.
It was a great kitchen.
He’d always loved this house, he thought, inconsequentially. Kevin and Adrianna had built it forty years ago, hoping for a huge family. They’d had four boys, and then the tail-ender, Emily. Adrianna’s parents had moved in, as well, into a bungalow out the back. Em had said her childhood had been filled with her brothers and their mates, visiting relations, cousins, friends, anyone Adrianna’s famous hospitality could drag in.
Oliver and Em had built a house closer to the hospital they both worked in. They’d built four bedrooms, as well, furnishing them with hope.
Hope hadn’t happened. The IVF procedures had worn them down and Josh’s death had been the final nail in the coffin of their marriage. He’d walked out and left it to her.
‘You’re not living in our house?’ He’d signed it over to her before going overseas, asking their lawyer to let her know.
‘It’s better here,’ she said simply. ‘My brothers are all overseas or interstate now, but I have Mum, and Mike and Katy nearby. The kids are happy here. I’ve leased our house out. When I emailed you, you said I could do what I like. I use half the rent to help with expenses here. The other half is in an interest-bearing deposit for you. I told you that in the email. You didn’t answer.’
He hadn’t. He’d blocked it out. The idea of strangers living in the gorgeous house he and Em had had built with such hopes …
‘I couldn’t live there,’ Em said, conversationally. ‘It doesn’t have heart. Not like here. Not like home.’
Yeah, well, that was another kick in the guts, but he was over it by now. Or almost over it. He concentrated on his tea for a bit, while Em juggled Gretta and cannula and her mug of tea. He could offer to help but he knew he’d be knocked back.
She no longer needed him. This was her life now.
Gretta was watching him, her great brown eyes carefully assessing. Judging? Who knew? The IQs of kids with Down’s syndrome covered an amazingly broad spectrum.
He touched the cannula lightly. ‘Hey, Gretta,’ he said softly. ‘Why do you need this?’
‘For breeving,’ she lisped, but it was as if even saying the words was too much for her. She sank back against Em and her eyes half closed.
‘Gretta has an atrioventricular septal defect,’ Em said matter-of-factly, as if it was a perfectly normal thing for a kid to have. No problem at all.
But those three words told Oliver all he needed to know about the little girl’s condition.
An atrioventricular septal defect … Common term—hole in the heart.
A large percentage of babies with Down’s syndrome were born with congenital heart defects. The most common problem was atrioventricular septal defects, or holes in the heart. That this little one was at home with oxygen, with a cannula helping her breathe, told Oliver there was more than one hole. It must be inoperable.
And he had to ask.
‘Em, is she yours?’
The words echoed around the kitchen, and as soon as they came out he knew it was the wrong thing to ask. The arms holding Gretta tightened, and so did the look on Em’s face.
‘Of course she’s mine,’ she whispered, but the friendliness was gone. ‘Gretta’s my daughter. Oliver, I think you should leave.’
‘I meant—’
‘You meant is she adopted?’ Her face was still bleak. ‘No, she’s not adopted. I’m Gretta’s foster-mum, but her birth mother has given all responsibility to me. That means I can love her as much as I want, and that’s what I do. I love her and love her and love her. Gretta’s my daughter, Oliver, in every sense of the word.’
‘You have another … son?’
‘You’ll
