‘I’m talking about Mrs Deutschkron’s test results.’
‘Mrs…?’
‘There.’ She gestured. ‘Under your hand. The pathology reports, and hers is on top. I saw the name a few minutes ago when Bev handed them to you.’
‘I haven’t looked at them yet,’ Marshall confessed, his scalp tightening even further. ‘I hadn’t even realised that hers was on top.’
‘So what were you talking about?’ Rebecca accused.
He was hot, now, as guilty and self-conscious as a child caught stealing lollies. ‘Nothing important.’
But she wasn’t buying it. She ticked his recent statements off on her fingers, one by one. ‘You don’t know yet. You’re starting to think it might be. You’d like it to be.’
‘I can see why you hoped it wasn’t Mrs Deutschkron’s test results,’ he joked heartily.
‘Dad…You meant Aimee, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded briefly. ‘Because I thought that you did.’
There was a rather long silence. ‘Been wondering, actually,’ Rebecca finally said.
She was standing by the door, running her fingers up and down the edges of the wooden Venetian blinds in an irritating manner. Marshall found it irritating, anyway. It was permissible to be irritated with grown-up, married and newly pregnant daughters who asked probing questions at the wrong moment.
Only, he remembered, she hadn’t been asking about his feelings for Aimee Hilliard at all. He’d made the wrong assumption because of the direction in which his own thoughts had been moving, and as a result he now found himself having to talk about their relationship—which wasn’t a word he liked these days because people always said it as if it had such a very significant capital R at the beginning of it—long before he was remotely ready to. So perhaps it was himself he was irritated at?
Yes, undoubtedly.
‘Yet you haven’t said anything,’ Rebecca was now accusing him gently.
‘Because there isn’t anything to say,’ he burst out, goaded beyond endurance.
Unfairly, of course. This was his own fault! Rashly, he ploughed on. That was the danger when you were reserved by inner nature and upbringing. Once you did open your mouth, you didn’t know when to stop!
‘Rebecca, please, don’t put this under that mental microscope of yours!’
‘Microscope?’
He ignored her. ‘I wish the subject hadn’t come up. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how she feels. I’m very rusty at this—’
‘What did you mean, “microscope”?’ Ominous. Her voice wasn’t quite steady.
‘Bad word choice.’
‘You think I—’
‘No! No, Rebecca.’
‘You know that all I care about is your—’
‘Yes, yes, I do know that.’ Marsh steadied himself, remembering too late that her pregnancy, which wasn’t making her nauseous or even particularly fatigued, was making her rather fragile and volatile emotionally at the moment. Both he and Harry, his son-in-law, had been trying unsuccessfully to get her to slow down just a little.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘This is all completely my fault. Can you accept that I’m not ready to talk about it yet, and that when I am—if I am, if there’s anything concrete to say—you’ll be the first to know?’
She nodded brightly. ‘Of course, Dad.’
But the straight line of her mouth seconds later told him that she hadn’t quite forgiven him for the microscope thing, or…perhaps more importantly…for the fact that something new and potentially important was going on in his life and he hadn’t said a word.
‘I’d better head off now,’ she said, a little too abruptly. ‘Harry was going to see a patient on his way home, and I told him I’d get there first and get dinner on. He’ll be worried if I’m not in evidence.’
‘Don’t tire yourself out with elaborate cooking, Becca.’
‘Frozen quiche and garlic bread, and a bag of salad greens,’ she summarised dryly.
‘Good girl!’
‘See you tomorrow.’
A smile came and went too quickly, leaving a frown in its place, and then she’d gone. He could hear her youthful, energetic footsteps scraping on the half-dozen concrete steps that led down to the street. He listened until they faded.
She was too protective of him, that was the trouble. It had been that way for years, since her mother had died when Rebecca had been just fifteen years old. That was thirteen years ago now. Thirteen years…
For a long time, his grief for Joy had been overwhelming, and it had been Rebecca who’d held the family together, helped him to cater for ten-year-old Simon’s needs, nurtured both of them in a hundred different ways.
Three years ago, he’d finally felt ready to consider marriage again, but his choice—made more as a matter of expediency than love, he could now see—had been disastrous. He’d proposed to his live-in housekeeper, who was ten years his junior, but, instead of politely turning him down, she’d acted as if it had been a case of sexual harassment and he’d been badly shaken by his misreading of her.
Rebecca had been furious on his behalf. At one point he’d had to talk her out of storming around to Tanya’s new flat and demanding back the jewellery he’d given the woman.
‘The jewellery isn’t the issue, Rebecca!’ he’d had to argue urgently. ‘She’s more than welcome to it as some sort of compensation if my behaviour was really so offensive.’
‘Oh, of course it wasn’t!’
‘It’s my own judgement that I’m doubting.’
‘You should be doubting the mental state of the entire female sex over the age of thirty,’ Rebecca had muttered darkly. ‘I am!’
Marshall sighed. He loved his daughter’s passion, and her strong responses, and he knew that his son-in-law had fallen for those same qualities. There were times, however, when it might have been more…convenient…if Rebecca bore less of a resemblance to an angry lioness protecting the pride.
Absently, he looked down at the pathology reports still resting beneath his fingers. That was where this had all started a few minutes ago. Rebecca had wanted to know if Mrs Deutschkron’s prognosis was serious. He picked up the sheet of paper and studied the details, and had the answer to his daughter’s question a moment later—an answer which suddenly dwarfed his concern over Rebecca’s attitude towards his blossoming new relationship with Aimee Hilliard.
It was serious. Far more serious than he’d thought it would be. Hilde Deutschkron had had exploratory surgery last
