her hand out in greeting, but he ignored the gesture and was instead dipping his head down towards her as if he was about to kiss her. The bolt on the box she’d labelled ‘Charlie’ and buried deep all those years ago blew wide open. All the hurt and betrayal rose in a spurt of bile, scalding the back of her throat. How dare he think he could just swoop in and kiss her after all this time after what he’d done to her heart?
She instinctively—protectively—took a step back and ducked her head. All the while she kept her hand outstretched as much as a stop sign as in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Ainsworth,’ she said crisply and professionally, as if she was meeting him for the first time at a conference. She mentally dubbed him Charles as extra insurance.
Her brusque manner was a solid entity and it filled the space between them. He rocked back on his bare feet, his smile fading until his lips settled in a firm, flat line. A deep V was carved between his dark eyebrows—their ebony so at odds with the rest of his fair colouring—and then the light in his eyes dimmed and vanished completely. The previous stranger with the almost blank affect was back. ‘Actually, it’s Mr Ainsworth.’
Of course it was. Their time together had been on the cusp of his medical career and Charlie—Charles—had mentioned a vague plan of one day working with his father in cardiology. Unexpectedly seething with an anger she’d assumed had faded and aged into acceptance a decade ago, she jerkily zipped up her medical bag. ‘It’s probably a long time since you’ve dealt with the less exciting aspects of medicine, Mr Ainsworth.’ She hit his title with emphasis. ‘But your grandmother’s blood glucose readings are currently all over the shop. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t offer her any more champagne or cake to celebrate your return.’
‘You’re planning on killing the fatted calf, aren’t you, Gran?’ Charles deadpanned. ‘It’s totally diabetic friendly, Dr Fuller, so we’re all good.’
Unbidden laughter bubbled up inside her, just like it always had when she’d been in his company. The memories of how easily he’d made her laugh and smile—how quickly he could talk her out of a bad mood—circled her, tempting her to follow a well-worn path. It’s an overgrown path filled with briars and weeds.
Lauren cut off the laughter. It morphed into a hard lump sitting uncomfortably in her chest and reminding her how easily he’d broken her heart. Her spine stiffened. She was no longer eighteen—hell, she wasn’t even twenty-four—and only a fool failed to learn twice from her mistakes. She was no fool.
‘Please ring the surgery in the morning, Mrs Ainsworth, and make an appointment to see me next Thursday.’
‘I promise,’ Anna said with a little nod to their previous conversation. ‘But don’t be too hard on Charles, dear. I was the one who suggested the champagne and he’s—’
‘I’ll see you out, Dr Fuller,’ Charles said abruptly.
Lauren had already slung her medical bag over her shoulder and moved to the door. ‘That’s not necessary.’ But his hand was on the small of her back and his heat was swirling through her, stealing both her words and her willpower. Without knowing exactly how it happened, she was standing by the front door and he was standing a foot away from her, studying her as if she were a fascinating scientific specimen.
His lips curved slightly—only this time it looked as if the effort to smile was almost too much. ‘We’ve met before, although the last time you saw me I was considerably younger and I didn’t look quite so...’
Worn out and faded? What on earth had happened to the energetic twenty-three-year-old she’d once loved? But she didn’t want to wonder and she had no intention of asking. Engaging with him would at best achieve nothing and at worst upset her. Desperate to get out of the house and away from the unwanted memories his presence was currently breathing life back into, she reached for the polished brass doorhandle.
‘I find it hard to believe you don’t remember me, Lauren.’
The mild thread of arrogance that underpinned his bemused words acted like a stiff breeze. The angry coals she had banked years ago flared into life. ‘Whereas I find it hard to believe that you do.’
‘Of course I remember you,’ he said softly.
She could almost see his memories in the words, but she couldn’t believe him—didn’t trust herself to believe him. Moving decisively, she was quickly out the door and jogging down the steps to her car, determined not to look back. Fortunately, he didn’t follow her. If she had anything to do with it, this was the first and last time she’d be in conversation with Mr Charles Ainsworth.
* * *
Charlie lacked the energy to run along the beach and was slightly aghast at the fact that Basil, his grandmother’s aged beagle, was walking faster than him. It was as if touching down on Australian soil had drained him of all his vitality. His body felt encased in mud and all movement was an effort. He wanted to blame jet-lag for the fact he woke at two each morning, unable to get back to sleep, but who was he kidding? Vanuatu time was only one hour ahead of Australian Eastern Standard Time, so that excuse didn’t cut it.
Apart from his first compulsory session with the counsellor and a quick visit to see his brother, he’d spent almost no time in Melbourne. Harry was much the same—thinner perhaps than the last time Charlie had seen him but just as quiet. Charlie had sat and told him about being on enforced leave. Harry had listened, his face impassive apart from a muscle twitch near his eye. He’d not offered an opinion, but that was par for the course. Charlie hadn’t expected one.
There was no point lingering in Melbourne so, after leaving Harry, he’d hired a car and driven straight down the coast to Bide-a-While. Now he stared out at the horizon, scanning the calm seas for fins—preferably those of dolphins—and breathed in deeply, willing the salt air to magically invigorate him. With not even the hint of a wave, the bay was empty of its usual cluster of wetsuit-clad surfers and their boards eagerly anticipating the perfect ride.
Charlie vaguely entertained the notion of stand-up paddle boarding, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. It seemed like a lot of effort to climb back up the stairs to Bide-a-While, get the key, open the shed, find the board, pour himself into a wetsuit and finally get out onto the water.
Last night, Gran had suggested he walk into town early and buy coffee and the paper. He knew it was a just ploy to get him out of the house and into the fresh air, because she had a state-of-the-art Italian coffeemaker in the kitchen, plus he thought she still had the paper delivered. Still, he had to admit that being out on the beach as the sun rose beat thrashing about in bed, seeking sleep that never came.
Good old Gran. She’d welcomed his unannounced visit with open arms and thankfully with a distinct lack of questions—for now. He’d caught her studying him every now and then, worry clear in her eyes, and he hated that. He’d tried to reassure her—‘just following the rules, taking some leave and satisfying the shrink that I came through the cyclone with my head intact’—but even he didn’t totally believe his own spin. Cyclone or no cyclone, being back in Australia and without work to keep him busy and his mind full meant the past had a horrible way of sneaking up on him.
It hadn’t taken long for the past to insert itself. Last night, the nightmare he’d thought he’d finally banished had visited, laughing at his naiveté. It turned out it had been languishing in the wings, just waiting for him to land on bright red, Aussie soil before making a grand entrance. During its dormancy, it hadn’t change in shape or form. It was still him and Harry trapped in caves, wells, mines, barrels—any sort of container, vessel or space. They’d fight their way to the entrance,
