Now Lauren, with whom he’d fallen so unexpectedly in love back then, walked beside him like a ghost—perhaps a ghost that had lingered in his mind for far too long, affecting his relationships with other women…
Zut! How had such sentimental thoughts crept into his mind? The long flight must have left him more tired than he’d realised, to be thinking such nonsense. His engagement had ended because Justine couldn’t handle his devotion to his work and his marriage to Therese had broken up long before he’d gone to India.
And Sydney had been the obvious choice because he’d met Alex Attwood at a conference and been impressed by the man. Working on his team would be enjoyable as well as a privilege.
He shoved the transient memory of Lauren back where it belonged—into the past. This was now, and his first day in the unit had been fascinating, although he’d have to start taking notes if he was to remember all the new ideas and subtle innovations he wanted to take back with him to Marseilles.
Work. It had been his focus as he’d recovered from his injuries ten years ago—indeed, with Lauren dead and his leg shattered it had been a reason to keep on living—and since then it had brought its own rewards, especially now with the offer to head up his own paediatric cardiac surgery unit at the new hospital in Marseilles!
He sniffed the air again, thinking of Marseilles and his home village of Cassis nearby—wanting to smell the sea this time—but he must be too far from those beaches.
And getting soft in the head to be thinking of such things!
‘Aagh!’
The shrill cry drew him out of his imaginings and he looked around. Ahead of him a small school bus was receding into the distance and on the footpath opposite a youth was flying along on a skateboard.
Had he called out?
The cry had turned to a wail of distress and as Jean-Luc crossed the road, certain that’s where the noise had originated, he saw the small child lying in a crumpled heap, wailing piteously.
It wasn’t hard to put the accident together—the school bus, the youth on the skateboard, getting away as fast as he could, no thought at all for his small victim. Jean-Luc reached the child and knelt beside him.
‘I’m a doctor,’ he said gently, removing a floppy-brimmed hat so he could see the child. ‘Can you tell me where it hurts?’
The small head turned and Jean-Luc recognised the epicanthic eyelid folds of Down’s Syndrome. Anger at the youth who’d knocked the little fellow over heated Jean-Luc’s blood, but right now he needed to check the little boy.
‘Did he run over you or just knock you down?’ he asked, while dark blue eyes continued to stare at him. ‘Does your head hurt?’
A nod, which could be answering anything—Jean-Luc realised he’d asked too many questions. The little boy straightened to a sitting position and brushed the back of his hand across his face to clear the tears that streaked his cheeks.
‘I got a fright,’ he said. ‘And hurt my hand.’
He held out his hand for inspection and, sure enough, the fall had grazed it, blood welling amidst the dirty scratches. He’d grazed his left knee and leg as well but possibly those injuries weren’t hurting as much as the hand and the child hadn’t noticed.
Jean-Luc looked around. Surely if the bus had dropped the little boy off, someone would be waiting for him, but all the houses showed blank faces to the street, no anxious mother peering out a window or a door.
What was wrong with people that they let a vulnerable child like this out on his own?
‘Do you live near here?’ he asked, as his patient sniffed and dragged his schoolbag onto his lap.
A nod, then the uninjured hand lifted and a finger pointed to the house outside which they squatted.
‘Number thirty,’ the boy said proudly. ‘Number thirty, Kensington Terrace.’
He had reason to be proud, Jean-Luc thought. For so young a child with developmental difficulties, knowing his address was a remarkable achievement.
‘What if I carry you inside?’ Jean-Luc suggested. ‘Will your mother be at home?’
The boy nodded. ‘Mum or Gran or Bill or Russ, someone’s always at home.’
Then why aren’t they looking out for you? Jean-Luc wondered, thinking Mum and Gran and Bill and Russ must all be remarkably laid-back or plain careless that they hadn’t been watching for the bus. People these days were just too casual about the safety of their children!
He lifted the child easily, and had just stood up when a frantic barking began across the road, then the blast of a car horn, a squeal of brakes, a desperate cry of ‘Lucy!’ and a golden Labrador landed on the footpath right in front of them, teeth bared as he greeted Jean-Luc with a deep-throated growl.
Put that child down!
The command was implicit in the threatening noise while the child’s delighted ‘Lucy!’ confirmed the dog was indeed the child’s pet.
Before Jean-Luc could decide on his next move—would the dog bite if he moved?—a long-legged woman came racing across the road, once again causing car horns to blare and brakes to squeal. Long, dark, red-brown hair flew behind her, flopping against her head as she slid to a halt in front of Jean-Luc, green-brown eyes flashing fire.
‘Put him down! How dare you? Who are you, touching my child like that?’
The dog, perhaps taking the woman’s demands as permission to get more involved, began to dance around Jean-Luc, barking furiously, the entire situation developing into something very like a farce.
Except that comedy was the last thing in Jean-Luc’s mind as he stared at the woman who reached out for the child, now wriggling in Jean-Luc’s absent-minded grasp.
It couldn’t be!
His mind was playing tricks.
It was because he’d been thinking of her.
‘He’s a doctor, Mum,’ the little boy said. ‘A big boy knocked me down!’
‘Lucy, sit!’ the woman commanded, then she snatched her child from Jean-Luc’s arms.
The dog sat, but kept his dark brown eyes fixed firmly on Jean-Luc. One false move and your hand is mine!
‘Oh, Joe, are you hurt? What big boy? Was it someone we know? Didn’t the bus driver see?’
She was too busy searching her son’s body for injury to notice Jean-Luc, which was perhaps just as well, for he was staring at her, dumbstruck, certain he was seeing a ghost returned to life.
That it was Lauren he had no doubt—the voice, slightly husky as if she always had a cold, the face, the freckles, the long, long legs—but for some strange reason the coincidence of running into her like this was not nearly as hard to believe as the fact that she was alive.
That was the miracle!
‘Oh, you’ve hurt your hand—but everything else? You’re all right?’
The little boy assured her he was OK and she hugged him to her body, finally acknowledging the presence of another person and looking across the child at Jean-Luc.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, offering an apologetic smile to underline the words. ‘I overreacted. Thank you for coming to the rescue. The bus must have been early. Lucy and I were just coming back from our walk. Did you see what happened? See who knocked him over?’
Jean-Luc