Mistletoe Kiss with the Heart Doctor Page 5

  ‘That’s the diagnosis,’ she said lightly. ‘I told you I’m a family doctor. Nothing fancy.’

  ‘Surely he’s been off the island to find out exactly what’s wrong?’

  ‘He has,’ she said and lay down and tugged the blankets up to her chin. ‘But he hates being off the island. That’s the biggest reason I’m here, but I’m not about to discuss Grandpa’s health in detail with another patient.’

  ‘I’m a cardiologist.’

  ‘Says you. For now you’re my patient. You’re suffering a broken leg and sore shoulder, plus a severe case of being stuck down a cave. I suggest you try and sleep, Dr Pierce, before that morphine wears off. Like I intend to.’

  ‘You’re going to sleep before my morphine wears off?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m not stupid. If I wait any longer you’ll start whinging and I need my beauty sleep.’

  * * *

  He dozed and then he woke and sleep wouldn’t return.

  He lay and thought of the complications one broken leg entailed. He thought about his friends heading to St Moritz. He thought of Kayla. He’d told Elsa she’d go to St Moritz without him and of course she would. Their relationship was purely fun and casual. There was no need for her to stay and hold his hand.

  This Christmas skiing vacation was an institution between a group of colleagues, something he’d done for six years now. Kayla was simply one of the group, and they’d started dating only recently. Their enjoyment of St Moritz had little to do with each other. They both enjoyed the hard physical challenge, the beauty of the slopes, the crowded bars, the excellent restaurants.

  The avoidance of Christmas.

  Though it wasn’t totally avoided. The resort their small group stayed in took elegance to a whole new level, with sumptuous furnishings, exotic food, magnificent decorations and designer gifts for each guest. They’d arrive on Christmas Eve and the festivities would be in full swing. The setting was picture-perfect, a magical white Christmas full of people enjoying themselves.

  As opposed to the Christmases he’d spent during his childhood, with his parents trying unsuccessfully to disguise mutual grievances. Stilted cheer in their harbourfront mansion. Gifts—something aspirational and educational and expensive from his father, something ecologically sound and expensive from his mother.

  A part of him had almost been relieved the Christmas his mother had finally left. At ten he’d been old enough to realise that at least it had eased the sham of pretending not to hear the bitter fighting. Afterwards he could take his certificate from his mother saying he’d just donated a school to a village in Africa—surely what every kid wanted for Christmas—and thank her as if he meant it. He could accept his mind-bending educational challenge from his father and not have to figure how to negotiate the minefield of which gift he liked best.

  Christmas when his parents were together had been a formal, rigid nightmare. Christmas as a teen when they’d been apart had been something he could almost get through.

  Christmas in St Moritz?

  Fun. Friendly. Busy.

  Impersonal. Which was the way he liked his life.

  The group congregating at the airport tomorrow would miss him, but only briefly. He was honest enough to suspect the short-term relationship he’d had with Kayla was pretty much already over. Kayla might even be secretly pleased she’d have a spare seat beside her on the long plane flight.

  But then his tired mind drifted sideways. To the woman beside him.

  Would a woman like this stay because her man had broken his leg?

  She didn’t have to tell him she was here on this island because of her commitment to the islanders and her grandfather—it was implied in almost every word she spoke. As for not talking about what was wrong with her grandfather... Patient confidentiality? Not so much. He was another doctor, a specialist, and the chance to talk to another professional about a worrying case would be grabbed by almost every colleague he knew.

  Not by Elsa though. In that quick rejoinder about patient confidentiality he’d heard pain. Something grim in the background. Something she didn’t need advice about.

  Something she already knew? That staying here was putting her grandfather’s life at risk?

  She’d saved his life. Maybe he could help her in return. He needed to figure this out.

  ‘You need more pain relief?’ It was a sleepy murmur from beside him. She’d placed their air mattresses so close they were touching. He knew the reason for that too. He’d had a fall. She had no guarantee that it wasn’t only his leg and shoulder that were damaged. If he was in hospital he’d be under constant observation for at least twenty-four hours.

  ‘You know, this is the second night I’ve been stuck down here,’ he told her. ‘If I was going to die of internal bleeding I probably would have done it before this. There’s no need for you to stay awake.’

  ‘Which is why I’m sleeping.’

  ‘You’re awake.’

  ‘So I’m dozing. You’re a doctor. You know we can exist on dozes. So how’s your pain?’

  ‘Still okay.’

  ‘Bladder?’

  Hell, he was a surgeon at the top of his field. The physical dependencies this situation called for were humiliating.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he told her dourly and he heard her smile.

  ‘Then drink more. Don’t you dare stop drinking because you have too much pride to let me help you. You’re a patient, remember.’

  ‘I don’t have to like it.’

  ‘What’s that quote about being given the serenity to accept things you can’t change? I can’t remember it exactly, but it’s something like “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference.” My grandpa has it on his wall and it’s wise. So if you need the bottle, accept it with serenity.’

  ‘Right,’ he said wryly. ‘But I don’t need it.’

  ‘And I’ll accept that you’re pig stubborn and we’ll leave it at that,’ she told him.

  They lay in silence for a few moments. He thought she might have dozed off again but then her voice sounded cautiously into the dark.

  ‘Tell me about St Moritz.’

  ‘You’ve never been?’

  ‘Hey, I’ve been to Sydney,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Is there a world past that?’

  ‘Only Sydney?’

  ‘No money to go further,’ she told him, still upbeat. ‘It took all Grandpa’s resources to help me through med school. During vacations I came home and worked for my keep in the hospital. Actually,’ she admitted, ‘I’ve worked in the hospital since I was seven. One of my earliest memories is helping shell what seemed like a mountain of peas, but my official job was cheering patients up. Me and Loopy the Basset, then me and Peanut the Fox Terrier and finally me and Sherlock the Beagle—had to go in and find stuff to talk about. It was the best training for family medicine ever.’

  ‘So what about your mum and dad?’

  ‘Mum was your original hippie,’ she said, almost curtly. ‘My grandmother died when Mum was thirteen and Mum took it hard. She blamed Grandpa—“You’re a doctor, why couldn’t you save her?” Then she took up with the surf crowd who come here every summer. She ran away when she was seventeen, following her heart, only the guy her heart had chosen turned out to be a scumbag. Coming back here was never an option for her, though, and she died of an overdose when I was seven. Who knows where my Dad is now?—I certainly don’t. After Mum died, Grandpa brought me to the island and, apart from the years in Sydney at med school, I’ve been here ever since. So I say again...tell me about St Moritz.’

  He was silent for a moment, letting himself sink into the story behind the story. He was imagining a neglected child with a drug-addicted mother, a despairing grandfather, grief.

  Hell, and he’d thought his childhood was hard.

&
nbsp; ‘St Moritz,’ she said again, and he gave himself a mental shake and tried to think of what she’d like to know.

  ‘You’ve seen all those soppy Christmas cards with snow scenes and twinkling lights and carollers and reindeer...’

  ‘Don’t tell me there are reindeer!’

  ‘I believe there are. Not on the ski slopes though, and that’s where I mostly spend my time.’

  ‘It’s really white? Not just slush?’

  ‘It can get slushy, but at this time of the year, especially when the snow’s just fallen, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘I’d so love to see it. They say every snowflake is different. To stand in the snow...to taste snow on my tongue...’

  ‘Would you let me give you a trip there—as payment for saving my life?’

  It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words came out of his mouth. She was lying beside him, her arm just touching his. He wasn’t close enough to really feel it, but he could sense the sudden rigidity in her. The withdrawal.

  ‘Hey, you’re just a patient and I don’t need gifts from patients,’ she told him, and her words were cool and stiff. ‘Tourists have accidents on the island all the time, and it’s my job to patch them up. You’ll get a bill for services rendered.’

  ‘What, standard consultation with medical procedure attached?’

  ‘More than that,’ she said with asperity. ‘House call out of hours. Extended consultation. Minor surgery. You’ll be slugged heaps.’

  ‘Do you charge more than the government rebate?’ he asked, knowing already what her answer would be.

  ‘Even if I did it wouldn’t equal a holiday in St Moritz,’ she told him. ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Try,’ she told him curtly and rolled over to face away from him.

  And that was that.

  * * *

  Insensitive toe-rag.

  A holiday in St Moritz! Grateful patients often gave her chocolates or wine, or nice handwritten cards. She never expected them, but when they came she appreciated them and shared them around with the receptionists and nursing staff. It seemed a thank you to all of them.

  A holiday in St Moritz. As if.

  But she lay in the dark, and for a little while she let herself imagine what it could be like. A plane ride to Sydney and then an overseas flight to Switzerland. A long flight. She wouldn’t be the least surprised—given the insouciance of this guy’s offer—if it’d be in business class, too. Then maybe a limo drive to the ski slopes.

  Her receptionist had a passion for glossy lifestyle magazines, and they ended up in her waiting room. Occasionally, in the tiny spaces between patients, she let herself browse and dream.

  There’d be a chalet—she’d seen the pictures. Luxurious resort suites. Views to die for. Maybe a sauna and a spa. Ski lessons with some gorgeous young Swiss, herself skimming down the ski slopes, then afterwards roaring fires, food and drink at expensive restaurants, laughter among friends...

  And that was where the picture cut out. Friends.

  She was so damned lonely.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, what was she doing thinking she was lonely? She could count on almost every islander as her friend.

  How many of them called her Elsa, though? From the time she’d returned to the island she’d been the doctor’s kid. The islanders had taken her into their hearts, loved her, cared for her so her grandpa could keep up with his medicine. But mostly Grandpa had cared for her himself. She’d been his shadow and the locals had called her Little Doc. ‘Here comes Doc and Little Doc,’ they’d say, and if things got tricky then whoever was closest would spirit Little Doc away until she could resume her role as his helper.

  So she’d been Little Doc until she’d come back from university, and then she’d been simply, proudly Doc. For Grandpa had never been into money-making, and so the islanders had chipped in to help fund her studies, too.

  Grandpa called her Matey. She was Grandpa’s mate. Everyone else called her Doc.

  Except recently Tony. Tony called her Elsa.

  Dating Tony had been a disaster. She should never have agreed to that first date. He’d almost instantly become possessive, and his use of her first name was a claim all by itself.

  He’d caught her at a weak moment.

  Because she was lonely!

  The guy beside her stirred, and she thought she should probably say something to cheer him up. She couldn’t think of a single thing.

  Instead she lay in the dark and for some unfathomable reason her future lay on her like a thick, heavy blanket.

  St Moritz.

  Why had one crazy offer disturbed her so much?

  Or the way this guy had smiled at her?

  He was just another patient. A tourist. He’d be out of here as soon as the smoke cleared enough for flights to resume.

  More to distract herself than anything else, she let herself think of the situation on the mainland. What had seemed a series of small fires two days ago had merged into a much bigger front. If she’d been working on the mainland she’d be so busy—part of a team coping with burns, smoke inhalation, shock. Part of a team...

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she was thinking longingly of a bushfire situation?

  ‘What’s the latest on the fires on the mainland?’ Marc’s deep growl cut through her thoughts, made her blink. Were his thoughts following hers?

  He’d be worried about getting out of here, she thought. Nothing more.

  ‘Latest report says there’s light rain,’ she told him briefly. ‘I guess that’s why the smoke’s so intense. Slow moisture on burning bushland. No lives lost, though.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘If it was worse... Do cardiologists cope with fire trauma?’

  ‘Everyone copes when it’s major,’ he said simply. ‘But if it’s settling now I won’t be missed. Plus I’m now officially on vacation.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘You think I’d prefer to be on vacation rather than helping out?’

  ‘Everyone needs a break sometimes,’ she said flatly. ‘Lucky you if you can get one. Go to sleep, Marc, or at least let me. I’m not on vacation and I need sleep even if you don’t.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE EVACUATION BEGAN the next morning and it nearly killed him that he had to play the victim. The idiot who’d got into such trouble.

  He was the victim. He was the idiot.

  So he lay strapped onto his stretcher while they worked around him.

  The inflatable stretcher was amazing. The night before Elsa had simply—or not so simply—manoeuvred it so it was lying on top of the air mattress. At dawn, as the team above prepared the gear to lift him, she used its pump to inflate the sides. The air-filled bumpers would protect him as it was hauled to the surface.

  It had head, neck and spine support. It had full body, pressure-point-free immobilisation. It had cross fix restraints and ten carry handles.

  ‘It’s also X-ray-transparent and it’ll carry anyone up to two hundred and fifty kilograms,’ Elsa told him proudly, as she adjusted the straps that held him fixed. ‘Though if you’d weighed that much we might have had to raise a small army to haul you up.’

  He didn’t smile. He was now totally immobilised and he’d never felt so helpless.

  Above ground the team was fixing cabling from one side of the unsafe ground to the other. What that meant was that team members could safely fix anchors above the hole, then abseil down if needed, or have someone stay safely above ground to guide him up.

  Elsa was explaining things as she worked. She was upping his drug dose as well.

  ‘It’s a great stretcher and we’re a good team,’ she told him. ‘But we can’t stop it being bumpy while we carry you down the mountain. I’m sorry, Marc, but there’ll need to be a bit of biting the bullet on your part.�
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  ‘You guys are saving me. I won’t be whinging.’

  That brought a wry smile.

  ‘What, you don’t believe me?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said enigmatically. ‘We hauled a tourist up a cliff face a few weeks back. He’d been trying to take a selfie, climbed the safety rail to get a better angle and leaned out a little too far over a fifty-foot drop to the sea below. He was super lucky to be caught on a ledge fifteen feet down, with only a fractured arm and bruises. It took our guys hours to pull him up, but do you think he was grateful? The first thing he did was abuse us because we hadn’t brought up his camera. He shouted at us practically the whole time before we managed to get him airlifted out of here. The fact that his camera had fallen the whole way down and the team would have been risking their own lives to get it simply didn’t register.’

  ‘People do stupid things,’ he managed, chagrined that he was in the same category.

  ‘They do, and you did, but at least you’ve been grateful,’ she told him, smiling down at him. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking of that St Moritz offer. I should say no and leave it at that, but if you’re serious...’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then could we swap St Moritz for a reclining lift chair for our nursing home patients?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Or maybe even two if you’re feeling super generous. We have a couple of oldies who can’t get out of chairs without help, and it makes them feel so dependent.’

  ‘I know how that feels,’ he said grimly, feeling the straps holding him immobile.

  ‘Then it’s a great time to ask,’ she said, and grinned again. ‘Damn, I didn’t bring a pen and paper or I’d have you sign a promissory note—before we bring you to the surface and you get all St Moritzy again.’

  ‘I won’t get... St Moritzy. I’ve said goodbye to that fantasy.’

  ‘You’ll be back there next year,’ she told him. ‘While we enjoy two great lift chairs.’

  ‘You won’t enjoy two lift chairs.’

  ‘You want to bet? Seeing Marigold Peterson get up from her chair and walk out to the veranda without having to wait for a nurse to help her... You take your St Moritz, Dr Pierce. I’ll take Marigold’s pleasure any day.’