Or the hand-holding.
Get over it!
‘OK!’ he said, edging near enough to the bed for Meg to have to move. ‘Your blood has an increase in something we call CPK. That’s a cardiac enzyme—creatine phosphokinase, if you want the whole story. An increase in CPK usually indicates a heart attack even when the monitors don’t show it, and the level of CPK indicates how severe or otherwise the attack was. You’ve been lucky, Ben. It was very mild. Next we’ll do an echocardiogram to see if we can see any damage to the heart muscle and there’ll be further tests once you see a cardiologist.’
‘We have a visiting cardiologist who comes twice a week—Tuesday and Thursday,’ Meg offered. ‘He’ll be in town tomorrow and we can make arrangements for him to see Ben here.’
‘Here? I can’t stay here,’ Ben protested, trying to sit up. ‘I’ve got to get home to Jenny and the kids. Benjie’s due for more chemo tomorrow.’ He broke down again, tears pooling in his eyes as he added, ‘We both come in with him every time.’
Sam felt Ben’s anguish but before he could explain why he couldn’t be released, Meg was talking.
‘Benjie’s tough,’ she reminded their patient. ‘He’ll be OK just with Jenny, although, as he has it right here in the hospital, if you’re OK, there’s no reason why you can’t be with them. But right now the best thing you can do for Jenny and all your family is to rest and get better.’
Sam nodded, adding, ‘And you’ve no option but to stay here. We’re giving you drugs to keep your arteries open and to dissolve any clots that might be lurking in them. We need you on the monitors so we can see how the drugs are working.’
And to make sure you don’t have another heart attack. As he left the cubicle, Sam couldn’t help thinking of the number of times he’d seen a second more severe heart attack occur in patients while they’d been in A and E. Chest pain caused anxiety, anxiety caused blood pressure and heart rate to increase, and the higher the blood pressure and heart rate, the harder the heart had to work. Unfortunately, a heart already battling to work properly didn’t take kindly to an extra workload.
‘Are you going to move him to a ward?’
Meg joined him outside the curtains, seeing his worry for Ben in Sam’s narrowed eyes and furrowed forehead.
Sam hesitated for a moment before shaking his head.
‘If the hospital had a coronary care unit I would, but right now the best monitoring he can get is right there, for a few hours at least. We’ll move him later. His wife’s coming in?’
‘As soon as her mother gets out to the farm to mind the kids.’
‘How many kids do they have?’ Sam asked, concern warming his voice, surprising Meg because he’d always remained detached from other people’s problems. Except for hers… ‘I know about Benjie! Talk about rotten luck—the little fellow getting leukaemia. I guess the only good part is you’re able to give him chemo here so there’s less disruption to the family.’
‘Not without a fight,’ Meg told him. ‘The powers that be insisted at first he go to Brisbane, but Ben’s a farmer—he can’t get away for any length of time, and there are three older girls as well, so it wasn’t exactly easy for Jenny to go either.’
Sam’s smile twined around Meg’s heart.
‘You did the fighting?’
‘The whole town fought,’ she told him, not wanting him to think her special—more especially not wanting smiles that affected her heart. ‘The mayor wrote directly to the premier, every doctor in town wrote to the Health Department, and ordinary, everyday citizens bullied their local MPs until an agreement was reached. The Bay hasn’t changed much in that everyone pulls together in a crisis, and Benjie’s leukaemia is just one of many uniting forces I’ve seen since I came to live here permanently.’
‘Why did you come back, Meg?’
It was the last question she’d expected and she hesitated, uncertain how to answer. She couldn’t lie to save herself, her tendency to go fiery red a dead give-away. In the end she settled on part truth.
‘Cheap accommodation.’
It was a flippant reply and Sam obviously read the warning she’d hoped to convey.
‘None of my business, huh?’ he said, then he changed the subject. ‘Ben’s wife—Jenny, is it? Do I know her?’
Meg heard a hint of apprehension in his voice and frowned at him.
‘Are you surprised people remember you?’
‘I’ve been gone thirteen years, Meg. Of course I’m surprised.’
‘Then you didn’t think through this “back to the Bay” decision too well. Why wouldn’t people remember you? You were into everything—the swimming champ, the football captain. Jenny was Jenny Wilson—her parents still have the bakery in town. Mrs Wilson used to give us finger buns whenever we went in there. Mind you, she probably gave finger buns to every kid in town.’
‘Of course. Jenny Wilson was in my year at school.’ Sam spoke slowly, as if he was only just beginning to consider the implications of his return to the Bay. And for a moment Meg almost felt sorry for him.
‘Exactly,’ she said, quelling the feeling before it had time to take hold. Then curiosity got the better of her. She asked the same question he’d asked earlier. ‘Why did you come back?’
Sam’s face closed. Someone else, standing in front of him, might not have noticed the wiping of all expression from a face that didn’t give away much in the first place. But Meg had seen it happen before—often enough to recognise that whatever minor truce might have existed between them for a few minutes was now over.
Not that she should be worried about it—Sam Agostini was none of her business.
Though not yet late—just after seven—it was dark by the time Sam drove back up to the Point and along the road to his house.
His house?
In his mind it was still the Anstey house.
He glanced towards cottage but there were no lights on. No doubt Meg was still performing one of her seemingly limitless roles at the hospital. Family counselling it had been when he’d called in to check on Ben Richards late that afternoon and had found Meg there with Jenny and various other family members who all remembered him—and registered their surprise he wasn’t in jail—but were strangers as far as he was concerned.
He parked his car and walked up the front steps—hoping the removal men had successfully completed the unpacking for him. I don’t care what goes where, he’d told them, sure they’d be better able to place furniture and stack cupboards than he would be.
He wondered what they’d made of the drawer full of feminine underwear in the main bedroom.
On the front veranda, he stopped and turned towards the view, seeing the sweep of the bay and far out a faint twinkle of light from the island. A fisherman on the beach? Someone camping in the sand dunes?
His chest began to ache again and a savage anger swept over him as he realised Meg had been right.
He hadn’t thought through his return to the Bay.
Oh, he’d considered all the practical aspects of it—the business side of things, the opportunities it presented—the reasons he’d had to come. But if he’d considered any emotional impact, it had merely been to remind himself he was older now—a mature adult—and in spite of what an interfering, psychiatrist ex-girlfriend had once said about him carrying emotional baggage, he’d been totally convinced that all the past was right where it belonged—safely in the past.
A movement down on the beach caught his eye, and though the moon had not yet risen, there was enough light reflecting off the water for him to see