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“I’ll try for more moisture next time.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I trust you will. You’re baking for me again now.”
“What shall I make for you today?” When there’s an ebb in our patient flow, and I’ve nothing to do out on the slopes, Doctor likes it when I bake sweet things.
“Do you have dough for friendship bread? Something that you can’t foul up, and besides, I’ve missed the taste of it.”
“I don’t believe I do, I’m sorry to say.”
He frowns, tugging at the chain attached to the arms of his bifocals. “Plum cake, then.”
“Plum cake it is.”
I’m not sure he’d mind if I left the adjoining den and kitchen area, so I start to spray the counters with some cleaner. When I’m finished, I stand near the table where he’s sitting. “I’ll start on your laundry now, I believe.”
He says nothing. Likely too absorbed in what he’s reading. As I step into the bedroom, I note that the clock on the bedside table says it’s 4:49 a.m. Normally, Doctor is up at 5:30, but he’s been in Cape Town—west—so his biological clock is a bit “off.”
I sprinkle lavender oil atop the sheets to mask the musty, unused scent before making the bed. I had no time to do so last night, but it’s better late than never till I get a chance to wash them.
I hold still a moment, listening. Then I walk to the room’s doorway, holding my breath as I point my ear in the direction of the kitchen. When I hear nothing, I slip into the hallway and walk silently but briskly toward the door adjoining residence to clinic.
I find my torn panties beneath one of the pillows on the bed I shared with him. Scooping them up, my heart seems to skip a few beats, and my eyes throb awfully. It’s the first bit of emotion I’ve felt in a number of hours—a stinging needle-prick of deepest longing for him. It’s there then gone. I stuff the panties into my bra and walk quickly down the clinic’s short hall. When I make it back to our room, I pull my contraband from my bra and nearly fall to my knees with relief.
A moment later, he clears his throat. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
I whirl around, my body vibrating with terror, my blood roaring in my head. “What do you mean?” My voice is hopeless—weak and cracked.
He strides closer. “What’s this then? Something you fetched from the clinic.”
I hold the panties up, my fingers bending desperately to mask their torn appearance. “If you mean these—”
He snatches them from my hand. Holds them to his nose, inhaling.
“From the drawer,” I whisper.
The back of his hand connects with my mouth, and I taste the stinging tang of blood.
Fifteen
Declan
I leave Baby in the house with a fresh lamb nappy and a full belly and walk down to the village.
It’s really cold out. I think colder than it’s been so far.
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When I get to Upper Lane, I notice all these lanterns on the porches, and I remember that it’s solstice. The twenty-first of June’s the longest night here.
Every time I take a breath, I feel it in my chest. My chest is sore. It’s kind of weird how bad it hurts. My whole body hurts. I kind of like it. It gives my mind an anchor.
When I get to the clinic, I don’t know what to do. I just stand there in the dirt-patched grass beside the door and watch my breath fog. I forgot to wear a coat. I guess that’s why it’s so damn cold.
The sky is orange and pink this morning. Usually, then sun’s nowhere in sight, so dawn is always blue or sort of purple. I rub my arms and sort of pace around for a minute. I spend a second being careful with my breaths, doing the breathing from my nose and letting it out my mouth.
It’s okay. It’s weird how when I think shit like that now—when I tell myself something to calm me down—I hear her voice saying the words. Thinking of that makes my throat ache.
I need to get going. Earlier, I used my radio, which has spent this whole trip at the bottom of my bag, to talk to someone on the Celia, and I don’t think they want to wait around too long. I need to get going.
