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His hand was behind her back, guiding her through the dark yard, barely touching her, yet the—probably imagined—warmth from his hand was as distracting as the niggle had been earlier.
‘Car? Hospital?’ he asked again as she didn’t reply.
She shook her head, hoping to clear it.
‘No, I walk to work.’
‘Then I can run you home. The good thing about Braxton is that nowhere’s far from anywhere else.’
The small helicopter looked like a toy after the rescue aircraft.
‘This is yours?’ she asked, glad of distraction.
‘My pride and joy,’ he told her, ‘and the two people standing beside it are my—well, mother and father, Hallie and Pop.’
He introduced Emma, explaining she was new to Braxton.
‘I’ve put a bit of food in a basket behind the seats,’ Hallie told them.
‘And Izzy packed us sandwiches,’ Marty said. ‘We might have to stop on the way home for a picnic.’
Everyone laughed, but the picnic idea had taken hold in Emma’s head. It was such a short flight back to Braxton, and eating on the way would be awkward.
‘If you’re driving me home and not in a hurry to get back to your place, we could picnic on my veranda,’ she found herself saying as they flew over the mountain range between the two towns. ‘The boys will be in bed, and Dad will happily join you for a beer if you fancy one, or a glass of wine if you’d prefer. I think after the day I’ve had I’ll be having one.’
The words rattled out of her mouth, and the pleasure she felt when he agreed was all to do with making friends—well, a friend.
And having worked with him and seen him with his family, she knew he’d be a good friend to have.
Or so she told herself.
But he would be a good friend to have, an inner voice insisted. Hadn’t he introduced one of the nurses to her husband?
Surely she wasn’t thinking he might do the same for her? This from the more sensible of her inner voices…
And she didn’t really want a husband, did she?
The thought reminded her once more of loss and pain—first her mother, then Simon. No, she couldn’t go through that again, the pain of loss was just too much to bear. But it would be nice to have a father for the boys.
The voices stopped arguing as the helicopter touched down back in Braxton, and Marty transferred wet clothes and the picnic goodies to his four-wheel drive.
Although now a slight uneasiness had crept into Emma’s head to replace the argument.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Sensible inner voice to the rescue. You’re only going to share a meal with a colleague, what the hell is wrong with that?
‘Wow, you live in this place?’ Marty said as they drove up the street towards the big house. ‘I’ve often wondered about it because for years it seemed abandoned, then suddenly it came to life again.’
They pulled up outside the old federation house, with its fresh white paint, wide verandas and dark green roof, and Emma saw it through Marty’s eyes—the front steps climbing up to the veranda, the wide hall with its gleaming polished floorboards leading off it, living and dining rooms off to one side, bedrooms and bathrooms off the other. And at the end of it the kitchen, already the heart of the home.
‘It was Dad’s aunt’s place and she was ill for a long time before she died. Dad grew up in Braxton—a little further up the hill. The four of us, me, Dad and the boys, had been crammed into a tiny flat in Sydney so when this became available we couldn’t move fast enough. I think we’d have come even if I hadn’t been able to get the job. Moved here, and just believed something would eventually come up.’
‘I doubt any country hospital would turn away a doctor—particularly an ED specialist.’
Having heard them arrive, her father had turned on the light over the front steps and was waiting at the top of them.
‘Dad, this is Marty…’ Emma stopped and turned to her companion. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea of your second name. But my father’s name is Ned, Ned Hamilton.’
Somehow they sorted out the confusion, Marty supplying an unexceptional surname of Graham, and explaining about the food.
After which, as always seemed to happen these days, Dad took charge, bringing out plates, and napkins, cold beer and a bottle of chilled white wine, a couple of wine glasses dangling precariously between the fingers of one hand.
Emma took her wet clothes through to the laundry and glanced in at the sleeping boys before joining the party. Her father was telling Marty that he was kept fairly busy by the boys during the day but was slowly reconnecting with old school friends.
‘The boys will be in kindergarten from the beginning of next term so he’ll get more free time,’ Emma put in, but her father and Marty had discovered an acquaintance in common. One of Marty’s older foster sisters—one of the first children fostered by Hallie and Pop just over forty years ago—had been at school with Ned.
