the first time, confusion gave way to something akin to fear and like an obedient child she sat. ‘What’s going on?’
The policewoman set her cap on the coffee table. ‘Dr Dennison, is Richard Nichols your husband?’
‘He is.’ Merry’s breath hitched in her throat as her hand gripped the arm of the couch. ‘Why?’
The policewoman swallowed and her tongue moistened her lips. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident and your husband—’
‘What sort of an accident?’ She heard her voice loud and strident bouncing off the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, only it didn’t sound like hers. ‘What hospital is he in?’ Her head spun with the logistics of getting Richard transferred out of a small country hospital and into Melbourne City where they were assured of the best medical care in the country.
The male officer moved his head back and forth very slowly. ‘This year there was a lot more snow than there’s been for many years.’
The policewoman leaned forward, her official expression now full of compassion and empathy. ‘According to your husband’s friends, they’d hiked to Mount Feathertop and enjoyed two days of back-country activities. It snowed heavily last night and Mr Nichols went out early this morning for a last snowboard before he returned home this evening.’
Meredith nodded. ‘He lives for fresh powder.’
The officer didn’t respond to her comment but continued talking. ‘Your husband was caught by an avalanche.’
‘No.’ Merry shook her head so hard her brain hurt. ‘No, that’s not possible. Avalanches don’t happen in Australia, they happen in places with real mountains, like Switzerland.’
Sympathy glowed in the policewoman’s eyes. ‘By the time his friends found him it was too late and there was nothing they could do to revive him.’
Nooooooooo! Merry stared at the two of them as a slow and insidious shake started at her feet, vibrating up her legs until it consumed her entire body. ‘No! He can’t be dead. I won’t let him be dead.’ Her pitch rose sharply as hysteria took hold of her with a tenacious grip. Her throat narrowed and her eyes burned. ‘We’re having a baby in six weeks. We’ve got a nursery to paint.’
‘We’re so very sorry, Dr Dennison.’ The male police officer proffered a box of tissues. ‘Is there someone we can call for you? You shouldn’t be alone.’
The baby chose that moment to kick and a ragged sound left her mouth. Her dream of a family—of her and Richard as parents—shattered into tiny, jagged pieces. She was going to have a baby but now she’d be facing parenthood alone.
Three weeks later
AFTERNOON SPRING SUNSHINE poured through the window, setting up a glare on Raf’s laptop screen and making it hard to see. He was working on his current project—designing an app for cardiologists to use to explain conditions and procedures to patients. So much had changed in health care since his mother’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart attack it made that time look like the Dark Ages.
After an overcast and drizzly morning, he took the warm rays as a sign and closed the computer. His father was dozing in his recliner—weary after his hydrotherapy session earlier—and his ageing schnauzer and extremely elderly cat were both curled up on his lap, snoring louder than their master.
The brightness of the light cast Raf’s childhood home in an unforgiving glow. What had once been one of Shearwater Island’s state-of-the-art homes was now looking very tired and dated with its 1970’s arches, the faded and worn Berber carpet, and the wood-panelled feature wall with its geometric clock. The only things that had stood the test of time were the beautiful, clean lines of the Scandinavian furniture. His mother had decorated the house as a bride and twenty years later, when she probably would have redecorated, she’d died. That had been nineteen years ago and apart from the addition of a big-screen TV, his father hadn’t changed a thing.
The pounding surf combined with the warbling and happy song of the magpies and the sounds slipped under the open window, calling to Raf. He stood, stretched and walked over to the glass, leaning his hands against the sill and fingering the bubbled paint. He didn’t know why he often stared out this window—it wasn’t like he could see the sea. All he got was a view of the modern house next door. Perhaps that was the reason. Something about it reminded him of his new home in Melbourne—a house he’d designed and spent all of two nights in before his sister had telephoned with what he’d assumed was the daily Mario poststroke update.
‘The rehabilitation centre wants to discharge Dad,’ Bianca had said briskly.
‘I guess he’ll be happier at home,’ he’d replied, wondering if he’d really notice a change in his father’s mood. Happiness and Mario were two mutually exclusive things.
‘They won’t send him home alone.’
‘Can’t he live with you for a while?’ he’d suggested, as he’d ripped open another moving box.
Bianca’s sharp intake of breath hissed down the line. ‘I’ve got a business, Raf, a husband and two teenagers, all of whom are driving me crazy. I can’t add Dad into the mix or I’ll go under.’
He ran his hand through his hair, running options through his mind. ‘What about live-in help?’
She snorted. ‘He can’t afford that.’
He unwrapped a beautiful piece of glass art he’d bought from the Wathaurong in Geelong. ‘I can.’
‘It wouldn’t work. You know how difficult he can be and, besides, down here on the island in winter we’re not exactly overflowing with candidates for the job.’ He heard her click her tongue. ‘You’ve been a volunteer with St John Ambulance since Mum died.’
‘That’s first aid and emergency work. It doesn’t qualify me as a carer.’
‘Well, I’ve never done first aid but I’ve been looking out for Dad for years and now, little brother, it’s time for you to step up. Besides, it will give you something to do now you’ve sold your company.’
‘I’m designing an app and I’ve got plenty of things to do.’ Things that didn’t involve living on Shearwater Island with Mario.
‘I’m sure you do but for now you’re going to be the good Italian son you haven’t been in years and come home.’
Anger meshed with guilt and then, reluctantly, resignation followed. When Bianca got an idea in her head she didn’t let it go until it was a done deal, and he grudgingly conceded that she did have a point. He’d stayed away a very long time. ‘Exactly how long do I need to be there?’
‘For as long as it takes.’ Her snappish tone immediately softened. ‘His rehab coordinator said they’d review his independence in three months. Look at it this way, winter’s on the run and spring on the island is always pretty. Bring your computer and think of it as a working holiday.’
The thought of him and his father
