braced herself for the expected, ‘Do you think you should talk to a professional?’ She already had.
‘You have to be the only pregnant woman I’ve met in the last three years who doesn’t know the baby’s sex. It seems to be the thing to do these days,’ he said in a tone that hinted at disapproval. ‘Goes along with the designer nursery and matching stroller.’
Come on, Merry, of course we need to know if it’s a boy or a girl so we can plan. She kept her eyes down on the stitching as the memory of her and Richard arguing over her refusal to find out the baby’s sex came back to her. ‘Call me old-fashioned,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t want to know ahead of time.’
‘I guess you’re going to be doing a lot of hard work during labour so you deserve a surprise at the end.’
The unexpected words made her glance up from his hand. ‘Thank you.’
He frowned. ‘What for?’
‘You’re the only person who gets that. My husband, Richard …’ The words slipped out as naturally as breathing. The bolt of pain that followed almost winded her. She cleared her throat. ‘My in-laws really wanted to know so they could fill out school enrolment forms.’
His brows rose. ‘That’s a new one. I thought grandmothers wanted to know so they could knit pink or blue.’ His tone was light but his eyes were doing that searching thing again as if he knew she was hiding something from him.
Talk about the stitches. ‘This is the fifth and final stitch,’ she said, snipping the excess thread and then picking up a low-adherent dressing and taping it in place. ‘You need to keep this clean and dry for a week. Are you up to date with your tetanus shots?’
He nodded, his curls bouncing and brushing his intelligent forehead. ‘Yes and I know the drill. I’ll see my doctor to have the stitches removed.’
She stripped off her gloves. ‘I can do it for you.’
‘Won’t you be back in Melbourne by then? You are from Melbourne, right?’
‘Yes, I’m from Melbourne,’ she said briskly as she bundled up the rubbish. ‘And I’ll still be here.’
‘But that’s only two weeks before the baby’s due.’ Deep concentration lines carved into the skin between his eyes as he took a quick look at her wedding band before saying gently, ‘You and your husband do know that the nearest hospital is on the mainland at Wongarri. That’s seventy kilometres away.’
‘We do.’ It was both the truth and, in a way, a lie. Richard had known the distance to the hospital but he wasn’t here to drive her.
‘So your husband’s planning on coming to the island very soon to be with you, right?’
The question froze the breath in her lungs.
Raf Camilleri’s concern for her pulsed between them, reflected in the creases in his high forehead, in the depths of his rich, warm eyes and in the deep brackets around his mouth. She knew she should tell him that Richard wasn’t coming but she also knew that the moment she did, everything would change.
People’s reactions to death were never uniform but as she and Raf barely knew each other, she was pretty certain he’d feel embarrassed and that could play out in one of two ways—mortified and choking silence or prattling pity. Men usually went silent.
Thankfully, Mario chose that moment to return to the kitchen holding one of Raf’s shirts in his hand. He draped it over a chair. ‘Meredith, can I make you an espresso, latte, cappuccino?’
‘Dad,’ Raf said with resignation ringing in his tone, ‘pregnant women shouldn’t drink coffee.’
Mario muttered something that sounded both Italian and empathetic before saying, ‘Meredith, can I offer you tea or hot chocolate?’
‘Thank you, but there’s really no need,’ she said, zipping up her medical bag. The noise sliced through the frosty air that surrounded the two men.
‘I insist.’
Two male voices—both deep, one slightly accented—collided, tumbling over each other as Mario and Raf spoke simultaneously. Mario continued, ‘Indulge an old man and a foolish one.’
Raf shot his father a dark look. ‘I think Dad is trying to say we’re grateful for your help.’
‘As you can tell, Meredith,’ Mario said, ‘we’re sick of each other’s company and we’d welcome your delightful presence a little longer.’
‘You may also prevent me from committing patricide,’ Raf muttered under his breath.
Mario slapped the top of a very expensive, stainless-steel Italian espresso machine. ‘I can make you whatever you want and milk is good for the bambino.’
Meredith had a similar machine sitting on her kitchen bench next door and she’d been returning from the small corner shop with the milk to make herself a drink when she’d heard Raf’s pained and loud swearing.
During the first week after Richard’s death a lot of people had made her drinks, because they hadn’t known what else to do for her and it had made them feel better. But right now, with Mario’s coal-black eyes twinkling at her and Raf giving her a wry smile that held an element of save me from my father, this offer of a drink was completely different. Suddenly the idea of someone without pity or sympathy in their eyes making her a hot beverage was very tempting. ‘Hot chocolate would be great, thank you.’
‘And chocolate and hazelnut biscotti,’ Mario said firmly, opening the fridge and lifting out the bottle of milk.
‘I don’t need—’
‘Don’t even think about fighting Italian hospitality, Meredith,’ Raf said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll never win. Dad will feed you until you waddle.’
She grimaced. ‘I’m eight months pregnant so I already waddle.’
‘Do you?’ The words were laden with query and utterly devoid of sarcasm. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
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