it had opened a whole new can of worms.
He felt his phone buzz and pulled it from his pocket. A text from his mother. Three words.
We love her.
Nothing else.
Guilt swamped him. What was he doing? As soon as Lien had sat down she’d fallen into the family conversation with no problems and been an instant hit with his parents.
He couldn’t pretend that hadn’t pleased him. He’d liked the way they’d exchanged glances of approval and joked and laughed with her.
But it also—in a completely strange way—didn’t please him.
Part of him still belonged to Esther. Always had. Always would.
He’d found love once. He’d been lucky. Some people would never have what he and Esther had.
How dared he even contemplate looking again?
His mother had pushed him here to start living again. Not to find a replacement for his wife.
The thought made his legs crumple and he slid down the wall, his hands going to his hair. For a few seconds he just breathed.
He was pulling himself one way and another. Guilt hung over him like a heavy cloud.
He knew why he was here. He knew he’d been living life back in Scotland in a protective bubble. It was time to get out there. That was why he’d accepted the tickets and climbed on that plane.
But what he hated most of all was that he did feel ready to move on. He was tired. He was tired of being Joe the widower. It had started to feel like a placard above his head.
But part of him hated the fact he wanted to move forward. He was tired of being alone. He was tired of feeling like there would never by anyone else in his and Regan’s lives. He was tired of being tired. Of course, he had no idea about the kind of person he was interested in. The truth was, the few little moments that Lien had caused sparks in his brain had bothered him.
It had been so long and he couldn’t quite work out how he felt about everything yet. Of course he’d want someone who recognised that he and Regan were a package deal. He’d want someone who could understand his usual passion for this work. These last few weeks had mirrored how he’d been a few years before. Every day there was something new to learn. Someone new to help. It was what had always driven him, and he knew that, for a while, he’d lost that. But Vietnam was reawakening parts of him that had been sleeping for a while.
He lifted his head and peeled his damp shirt from his back and sighed. Too much thinking wasn’t good for a man.
LIEN FINISHED WRITING up the notes on her last patient just as one of the nurses stuck her head around the door. ‘Lien? I know it’s late, but Joe asked if you’d mind dropping in at his house on the way home. There’s something he wants to talk to you about.’
She couldn’t help the way her face automatically curved into a smile. It seemed the nurse noticed too as she gave Lien an amused glance. ‘Okay, then, see you later.’
Lien glanced at her watch. It was late. Regan would likely be sleeping by now. She couldn’t help but be curious. What did Joe want to talk to her about?
She washed her hands and pulled her shirt a little straighter, then walked across the grounds towards his blue door.
She knocked lightly, waiting for only a second before he pulled it open with a tired smile. ‘Come in.’
He was wearing a white T-shirt and some lightweight jogging trousers. From the way he had papers scattered across the table he’d been working on this for some time.
He gestured towards the table, indicating she should sit next to him. In the last few weeks he’d made this place a bit homier. There were now a few pictures scattered around, and it looked like he’d finally got around to buying a laundry basket to get on top of the washing. She could see a haphazardly folded pile of clean clothes sitting on a chair in the corner of the room.
‘Want something to eat?’
She shook her head. She’d been hungry a few hours ago, but the feeling had passed. He held up a tin that she knew was where he kept Regan’s favourite biscuits. ‘One of these?’
‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘But promise not to tell him.’
Joe smiled. ‘Oh, too late, he has these counted. I’ll need to account for the missing biscuit tomorrow.’
She bit into the chocolate-coated biscuit. It was one that Regan’s grandparents sent every few weeks from Scotland and she was beginning to think she was getting quietly addicted to them.
There was a noise, a bit like a whimper, and Joe crossed to Regan’s doorway. As she watched she could sense his breathing get heavier. It was clear he had something on his mind. She waited a few moments, and when he didn’t move, she crossed over to stand just behind his shoulder.
Regan was curled into a little ball. His lips were moving, as if he were singing some song or nursery rhyme in his sleep.
Joe took a deep breath, his voice so low it was barely a whisper, his eyes fixed on Regan.
‘Sometimes when I’m in my bed at night, I get up and watch Regan sleeping. Then I start to wonder, is there some horrible, secret gene that predisposes you to cancer?’
Lien’s stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. He kept talking, his voice racked with emotion.
‘Both of Esther’s parents died of different types of cancer, and she died of leukaemia. So I look at my little boy and wonder if there’s even a tiny possibility that he might have inherited something that I don’t know about, can’t see, and won’t find out about until it smacks us in the face.’ His voice was shaking now, as were his hands.
She slid her arm through his.
He shook his head. ‘I know it’s crazy. I know it’s irrational. But I can’t help it.’
Her voice was tinged with sadness because she got the impression he’d been hiding these feelings for a while, storing them up, letting them fester, and not sharing them with anyone else. ‘But it’s not irrational, and it’s not crazy, Joe. It’s the thoughts of a man who has already lost his wife, and is terrified he might lose his son.’
She hated the fact they were having this conversation. She could reach out and touch his pain. It was so visible in the air it was practically creating a cloud around his head.
There was also a tiny twinge in her that wondered if this was why he’d asked her here. She’d been bright and happy about the invitation, hoping that—just maybe—it was for something other than work.
But now he was talking to her about his dead wife, and his fears for his son. Her heart ached for him, but she was also trying hard to hide the tinge of disappointment she felt.
She
