Praise for Amy Andrews:

‘A spectacular set of stories by Ms Andrews,

the ITALIAN SURGEON TO DAD! duet book features

tales of Italian men who know how to

leave a lasting impression in the imaginations

of readers who love the romance genre.’

—Cataromance.com on ITALIAN SURGEON TO DAD

‘THE ITALIAN COUNT’S BABY—4 stars!’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Whether Amy Andrews is an auto-buy for you,

or a new-to-you author, this book

is definitely worth reading.’

—Pink Heart Society Book Reviews on A MOTHER FOR MATILDA

Amy also won a

RB*Y (Romantic Book of the Year) Award in 2010 for

A DOCTOR, A NURSE, A CHRISTMAS BABY!

How to Mend
a Broken Heart
Amy Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Carita. Who knows.

Dear Reader,

The subject matter of this book is a difficult one. The death of a child and the often paralysing grief that comes with it aren’t exactly ripe for a romance novel. But in my line of work, I have unfortunately seen many couples go through this harrowing experience and I so often wonder how they fare when they leave the surrealness of the hospital setting and have to get on with their lives without the little person that completed it so utterly. From this Tess and Fletch were born, two people whose profound grief had driven them apart despite their love for each other.

My life has been charmed until recently, with no bereavements or tragedies to speak of. Then half way through 2011 I lost my mother quite unexpectedly. Needless to say I now have more than a passing acquaintance with grief. It’s not the loss of a child but grief doesn’t discriminate and it’s been a long, hard road to trudge.

Giving Tess and Fletch their HEA, even a decade after the tragic events that had marked theirs lives, was vital for me on many fronts.

I hope you root for them as I did during their journey back to each other.

Regards,

Amy

CHAPTER ONE

THICK grass spiked at Tessa King’s bare knees as she sank to the ground beside the tiny, immaculately kept grave. Large trees shaded the cemetery and birdsong was the only noise that broke the drowsy afternoon serenity as she laid the bright yellow daffodils near the miniature marble statue of a kneeling angel.

Grief bloomed in her chest, sharp and fresh, rising in her throat, threatening to choke her. She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath, reaching for the headstone as the tsunamilike wave of emotion unbalanced her.

She let some tears escape. Just a few.

No more.

Even on the anniversary of his death she rationed her grief. It was ten years to the day since Ryan had died. Ten years of living life in greyscale.

The memories struggled for release but not even on this day did she allow herself the luxury of remembering too much. She rationed the memories too. His little body squirming against hers, his boyish giggle and that perfect little bow mouth.

The double cowlick that had refused to be tamed.

It was enough.

Tess opened her eyes, the simple inscription she knew as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat, blurring in front of her.

Ryan King.

Aged 18 months.

Gone, and a cloud in our hearts.

She reached for the letters, the smooth marble cool beneath her fingertips. She didn’t let them linger. She wiped at her cheeks, blinked the remaining moisture away.

Enough.

Fletcher King ground his heels into the luxurious carpet of grass, resisting the urge to go to her as she sagged against the headstone. His butt stayed stubbornly planted against the bonnet of his Jag. She’d made it perfectly clear when they’d separated that it had to be a clean break. That she didn’t want to see him or talk to him, and every overture he’d made the first year to keep in touch, to check on her, had been resoundingly rebuffed.

Frankly, after nine years of watching this ritual from afar, he didn’t even know how to approach her. She seemed as distant today as she had for that awful year after Ryan’s death when their marriage had slowly shrivelled and died.

He hadn’t been able to bridge the gap back then and he doubted almost a decade of distance would have improved things.

It didn’t mean he was immune to her grief. Even from this distance the weight of her despair punched him square in the solar plexus. Took him right back to the dreadful day as they’d frantically tried to revive their son, hoping against hope, trying to ignore the portent of doom that had settled over him like a leaden cloak.

His frantic ‘Come on, Ryan, come on!’ still echoed in his dreams all these years later.

A lump rose in his throat, tears needled and stung his eyes and he squeezed them tightly shut. He’d already cried a river or two; hell, he was probably up to an ocean by now, but he couldn’t afford to succumb today.

He was here on a mission.

He needed his wife back.

Tess put one foot in front of the other on autopilot as she made her way to her car. Whether it was because of the dark swirl of emotions or the jet-lag, she didn’t see him or at least register the identity of the tall, broad man leaning against the car parked in front of her rental until she was two metres away.

Then, as her belly did that almost forgotten somersault and her breath hitched in the same way it used to, she wondered why the hell not. She may not have been interested in a man in ten years but she obviously wasn’t totally dead inside.

And Fletcher King in dark trousers and a business shirt that had been rolled up to the elbows and undone at the throat was still an incredibly impressive man.

In fact, if anything, the years had honed him into an even more spectacular specimen.

He looked broader across the shoulders. Leaner at the hips. There were streaks of grey at his temples and where his dark, wavy hair met sculpted cheekbones. His three-day growth, black as midnight last time she’d seen it, was lightly peppered with salt. There were interesting lines around his tired-looking eyes, which were the silvery-green colour of wattle leaves.

Did he, too, still have trouble sleeping?

The indentations around his mouth, which became dimples when he laughed, were deeper. Even his mouth seemed fuller—sexier. His lips parted slightly and she caught a glimpse of his still-perfect teeth.

‘Hello, Tessa.’

Tess was surprised by the prickle of awareness as his soft voice rumbled across the void between them. The latent attraction was unexpected. She was so used to locking down anything that had an emotional impact on her she was amazed she could still feel a pull at all.

But this was Fletch.

‘Fletcher.’ So much lay unsaid between them she didn’t know where to start. ‘It’s been a long time.’

Fletch nodded, stifled by their formality. ‘How have you been?’

She shrugged. ‘Fine.’

Fletch suppressed a snort. Hardly. Each year she seemed to have faded away a little more. Gone were those curves that had driven him to distraction. There were only angles now. The legs sticking out of her above-knee, cargo-style pants were slender, her collar bones visible through the V-opening of her modest T-shirt were like coat hangers.

‘You’ve got very thin.’

She shrugged again. ‘Yes.’ Tess ate as a matter of survival. Her pleasure in it had been sucked away with all the other things that had once brought her joy.

He regarded her for a moment. She was still a striking woman despite the angles. And the uber-short hairstyle. She’d cut it some time in that first year after they’d separated. She’d once had long white-blonde hair that had flowed down her back and formed a perfect curtain around them when they’d been making love. He’d spent hours stroking it, wrapping it around his hands and watching the light turn it incandescent as it had slowly sifted through his fingers.

It was darker blonde now, more honey than snow—a direct consequence of moving far away from the sunshine of Brisbane to the drizzly English countryside. It was cropped closely to her head, the back and sides razored severely in. The slightly longer locks on top were brushed over from a side parting, blending in with the jagged edges.

His sister had called it minimalist. He’d preferred the term butchered.

It did, however, draw attention to her amber eyes. They sat large in her spare, make-up-less face, dominating prominent cheekbones that fell away to catwalk-model hollows. They looked at him now, shadows playing in their sherry depths.

Her composure reached across the space between them and squeezed his gut hard. She projected calm detachment but he knew her well enough, despite their time apart, to see beyond. There was a fragility about her he’d have not thought possible a decade ago.

The impact of it rattled the shackles around his heart.

Tess weathered his probing gaze, waiting for him to say something more. Finally she could bear the silence no longer. She cleared her throat. ‘I have to go.’

Fletch’s gaze was drawn to her mouth. Her wide, full lips were devoid of any cosmetic enhancement, just as he remembered them. The same mouth he must have kissed a thousand times. That had travelled over every inch of his body. The same mouth that had desperately tried to breathe life into Ryan, that had begged a God she’d never believed in to spare their son.

Tess took a step towards her car. ‘I have to go,’ she repeated.

Fletch blocked her path, gently snagging her wrist. ‘Could we talk?’

Tessa recoiled from his hold as if she’d been zapped, crossing her arms across her chest. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘It’s been nine years, Tess. You think we have nothing to say to each other?’

Tess bit her lip. Nothing that hadn’t been said already—ad nauseam.

Fletch glanced at her white-knuckled grip as her fingernails dug into the flesh of her bare biceps. Her wedding ring, his grandmother’s ring, snagged his attention. ‘You still wear your wedding ring.’

Tess, surprised by the sudden direction the conversation had taken, looked down at it. The rose-gold band with its engraved floral pattern, thinned with age and wear, hung loosely on her finger, only her knuckle preventing it from sliding off. She absently twisted it around with her thumb a few times before returning her attention to him.

‘Yes.’ She wasn’t going to tell him it was her deterrent against unwanted advances from men. She glanced at his bare left hand. ‘You don’t.’

Fletcher glanced at his hand. It had taken a year after the divorce to take it off yet sometimes he was still surprised by its absence. The white tan line that had remained after he’d removed it had long since faded.

‘No.’ It had got to the stage where he hadn’t been able to bear the memories it had evoked.

Tess nodded. What had she expected? That he would choose to hide behind his as she had hers? That grief would torpedo his libido as it had hers?

Tess dropped her arms to her sides. ‘I really have to go.’

Fletch held up his hands. ‘I just need a minute, please.’

She felt exasperation bubble in her chest. In less than twenty-four hours she’d be back on a plane heading to London. The same as last year. The same as the last nine years. Why had he chosen to complicate things now?

‘What do you want, Fletch?’ What could he possibly want to say to her after all this time? After all these years of silence? Silence they’d both agreed on despite his lapses early in their separation.

Fletch blinked as her familiar name for him finally slipped from her lips to claw at his gut. ‘It’s my mother … she’s unwell. She’s been asking for you.’

Tess felt her stomach drop as concern for her ex-mother-in-law caused her heart to leap in her chest. Fletch looked so grim. ‘Is she …? What’s wrong with her? What happened?’

‘She has Alzheimer’s.’

Tessa gasped, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. ‘Oh, Fletch …’ She took a step towards him, their baggage momentarily forgotten, her other hand reaching for him.

‘That’s terrible.’ Her hand settled against his arm, her fingers on the sleeve of his business shirt, her palm against the corded muscles of his tanned forearm. ‘Is it … Is she bad?’

Jean King was one of the sharpest women Tess had ever met. She was funny, witty, insightful and supersmart. Tess’s mother had died when she’d been eight and Jean had filled a very deep void. They’d been close right from the get-go and Jean had been her anchor—their anchor—in the dreadful months that had followed Ryan’s death. Even when she and Fletch had separated and then divorced, Jean had been there for her.

Fletch nodded. ‘She’s deteriorated in the last couple of months.’

‘When … How long has she had it for?’

Tess had dropped in on Jean on her yearly pilgrimage home those first two years after she’d moved to the UK. But it had been too hard on both of them. Jean had wanted to talk about Ryan and Tess hadn’t been able to bear it. So she’d stopped going.

Fletch, aware of her nearness, of her faint passionfruit fragrance, of her hand on his arm, waged a war within himself. Tess looked as devastated as he felt and it was as if the intervening years had never happened. As if he could walk right into her arms and seek the solace he so desperately craved.

It was a dangerous illusion.

He couldn’t hope to execute what he’d come here for if he let emotion take over. He just hadn’t been prepared for how hard it would be, seeing her again, talking to her again. He’d foolishly thought it would be easy.

Well … easier.

He gave himself a mental shake and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘She was first diagnosed five years ago. She’s been living with Trish for the last two years.’

‘Five years?’ she gasped. Tess couldn’t even begin to comprehend a world where Jean King was anything less than her larger-than-life self. ‘Why … why didn’t you tell me?’

Fletch raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously, Tess? I rang you practically every day for a year after you went to England…. You made it pretty clear that no correspondence would be entered into. Anyway, what were you going to do?’ he asked, surprised at the bitterness in his tone. ‘Come home?’

Tess bit her lip. He was right. She had been ruthless with her no-contact request. ‘I’m sorry …’

She searched his silvery-green gaze and saw apprehension and worry and for one crazy moment almost took another step forward to embrace him. But a decade of denial slammed the door shut and she dropped her hand from his arm, shocked at the strength of the impulse.

She shook her head. ‘It’s just so wrong. Your mum has always been as fit as a fiddle …’

Fletch felt her withdrawal from their intimacy as keenly as if it had been ten years ago.

Damn it.

Did she really think because she hadn’t moved on that things weren’t going to change around her? ‘She’s seventy-four, Tess. She’s getting old. Did you think she was just always going to be here, frozen in time, waiting for you to come around?’

Tess recoiled as if he had slapped her, colour draining from her face. ‘I doubt your mother has been sitting around waiting on me,’ she retaliated.

‘You’re like a second daughter to her, Tess,’ he dismissed impatiently. ‘She’s missed you every day.’

I’ve missed you every day.

Fletch blinked at the thought. He had. Standing here in front of her, talking to her for the first time in nine years, he realised just how deeply he had missed her.

Tess felt the truth of his starkly delivered words wrap around her heart and squeeze. She wanted to deny them but she couldn’t. He was right. They had been close. And Jean was getting older.

Fletch sighed as Tess gnawed on her bottom lip, looking utterly wretched. He raised his hands in a halfsurrender.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ To what? Get angry with her? Make her feel guilty? ‘Will you, please, just come and see her? She gets anxious easily these days and you’re the one she wants to see the most.’

Tess was torn. She’d love to see Jean again. Had missed her wise counsel and warm hugs over the years. And if it helped ease some of her mother-in-law’s anxiety to see her then that was the least Tess could do. But would it be Jean? And would it build an expectation, make it harder to walk away?

Because she was getting on that plane tomorrow. Just like she did every year.

And most importantly, what if Jean wanted to talk about Ryan? What if she didn’t remember he was dead? Talked about him as if he was alive and just down for a nap?

Tess looked at Fletcher. ‘What about …?’ She cleared her throat as a lump formed there. Even just saying it was beyond difficult. ‘What does she remember from …?’

Fletcher watched the shimmer of emotion in Tess’s amber gaze as she struggled with her words. He shook his head. ‘She doesn’t remember him at all, Tess.’

It had been a particularly difficult thing for Fletch to cope with. After Tess had refused to hear his name, his mother had been the only person he’d been able to talk openly with about Ryan.

Now it was as if his son had never existed.

‘Her memory seems to stretch to about a year after we were married. As far as she’s concerned, we’ve just got back from Bora Bora.’

Fletch had taken Tess to the tropical paradise for a surprise first wedding anniversary present. They’d lazed in their over-water bungalow all day. Making love, drinking cocktails and watching the multitude of colourful fish swim by their glass floor.

He shrugged. ‘There’s an occasional recall of an event beyond that but it’s rare.’

For a brief moment Tess envied Jean. The thought of forgetting how Ryan had felt in her arms or at her breast, forgetting the way his hair had stuck up in the middle from his double cowlick and how his giggle had filled the whole room. Forgetting that gut-wrenching day and all the empty days that had followed since.

It sounded like bliss.

The fantasy was shocking, wrong on so many levels, and she quickly moved to erase it from her mind. Jean was suffering from a debilitating disease that was ravaging her brain and would rob her of her most basic functions.

There was no upside to that.

And no justice in this world.

Although she already knew that more intimately than most.

Tess nodded. ‘Okay.’

Fletch blinked at her easy capitulation. ‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ She frowned, his disbelief irksome. ‘For Jean.’ He should know she’d do anything for his mother. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

He shrugged. ‘Yes.’

His bluntness hurt but she pushed it aside—it was, after all, a fair statement. She had been sneaking into the country once a year for the last nine years with only two paltry visits to Jean to defend herself against his conviction.

But they’d agreed on a clean break.

And she’d stuck to it.

Eventually, so had he.

She gave him a measured look. ‘It’s Jean.’

Fletch nodded as the husky note in her voice didn’t mask her meaning. She wasn’t doing it for him.

And that was certainly what he was counting on now.

‘Thank you.’ He gestured to his car. ‘Do you want to follow me?’

Tess shook her head. ‘She’s at Trish’s, right? They still live in Indooroopilly?’

Fletch shook his head. ‘No, she’s at my place for the moment.’

Tess blinked. ‘You have a place in Brisbane?’

Since their separation Fletch had moved to Canada, where he’d been heavily involved in research and travelling the world lecturing. Or at least the last time she’d heard, that had been where he’d been. It was suddenly weird having absolutely no idea where he lived—or any of the details of his life for the last nine years.

She honestly hadn’t cared until today but it somehow seemed wrong now to know so little about someone whose life had been so closely entwined with hers for so long they may as well have been conjoined.

When she thought about him, which she still did with uncomfortable regularity, it was always against the backdrop of their marital home. The ninety-year-old worker’s cottage they’d renovated together.

Polished the floorboards, painted the walls, built the pergola.

The house they’d brought Ryan home to as a newborn.

‘I’m renting an apartment on the river.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

Tess tamped down on her surprise. Fletch had always despised apartment living. Had loved the freedom of large living spaces and a back yard.

But, then, a lot of things had changed over the last ten years.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow you.’

Fletch nodded. ‘It’s only about a ten-minute drive. See you soon.’

‘Sure,’ Tess murmured, then walked on shaky legs to her car.

Nine minutes later they drove into the underground car park of a swanky apartment block. She pulled her cheap hire car in beside his Jag in his guest car space. They didn’t talk as he ushered her to the lifts or while they waited for one to arrive.

Tess stared at the floor, the doors, the ugly concrete walls of the chilly underground car park—what did one say, how did one act around one’s ex? An ex she’d deliberately put at a fifteen-thousand-kilometre distance?

A lift arrived, promptly derailing her line of thought. He indicated for her to precede him, which she did, and then stood back as Fletch pushed the button for the nineteenth floor. More silence followed. Surely at least they could indulge in inane conversation for the duration of their time together?

A sudden thought occurred to her and she looked at him leaning against the opposite wall. ‘How did you know I was going to be there today?’

Fletch returned her look. ‘Because you’re there every year on the anniversary.’

Tess blinked at his calm steady gaze. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I watch you.’

Another silence descended between them as her brain tried to compute what he’d just said. ‘You watch me?’

He nodded. ‘Nine years ago you were leaving as I was arriving.’ He remembered how close he’d come to calling her name. ‘I thought you might come back the next year. You did. And the year after that. So now I … wait for you.’

The lift dinged. The doors opened. Neither of them moved. The doors started to close and Fletch shot an arm out to push them open again. ‘After you,’ he murmured.

Tess couldn’t move for a moment. She stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘I know you think that your grief is deeper than mine but he was my son too, Tess. I also like to visit on the anniversary.’

Tessa flinched at the bitterness in his voice. And then again when the lift doors started beeping, protesting their prolonged open state. She walked out, dazed, conscious of Fletch slipping past her, leading the way down a long plush hallway with trendy inkspot carpeting. She followed slowly, still trying to get her head around Fletch’s revelation.

She drew level with him, glancing up from the floor. ‘I meant why wait for me? Why not just visit for a while and leave?’

Like she did.

Fletch wished he knew the answer to that question. It was the same thing he told himself every year as he set out for the cemetery. Go, talk with Ryan for a bit, then leave.

But he didn’t. He’d sit in his car and wait for her. Watch her kneel beside Ryan’s grave.

Torture himself just a little bit more.

He shrugged. ‘To see you.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘MUM, we’re home,’ Fletch called as he opened the door, checking behind him to see if Tess was following or still standing in the hallway like a stunned mullet.

He wasn’t sure why he’d said what he’d said. Except it was the truth. He just hadn’t realised it until right that moment. He’d kidded himself that it was to check up on her but now he knew it was more.

That there was part of him, no matter how hard he’d tried to move on, that just hadn’t.

He walked into the apartment, throwing his keys on the hallstand. ‘Mother?’

A voice came from the direction of the bathroom. ‘I’m in here, darling, there’s no need to shout.’ Jean appeared a moment later with a spray pack in one hand and a mop in the other.

‘Mum, you don’t have to clean the apartment,’ Fletch said, trying to keep the exasperation and relief out of his voice as he unburdened her of her load.

He didn’t like to leave his mother alone for too long these days. She seemed so frail and unsteady on her feet and he worried she might fall and injure herself while he was out.

Especially if she was mopping floors.

‘I have a cleaning lady for that.’

‘Nonsense, darling, I have to make myself useful somehow. Now, is Tess working late or shall I put something on for tea for her tonight?’

Tess stepped out of the shadow of the entranceway where she’d been frozen since Jean had entered the room. Jean, who had once been a towering Amazon of a woman and was now white-haired and stooped and looked like a puff of wind would blow her over.

She sucked in a breath at the absurd urge to cry. ‘No, Jean, I’m here.’

Jean looked over her son’s shoulder and smiled. ‘Oh, Tess! There you are!’ She hurried forward and pulled Tess into an effusive hug. ‘Goodness, you’re getting so skinny,’ Jean tutted, pulling back to look at her daughter-in-law. ‘And your hair! Did you have that done today? I love it!’

Tess swallowed hard at the shimmer of moisture in Jean’s eyes as her mother-in-law wrapped her in another hug. She shut her eyes as she was sucked into a bizarre time warp where the last decade and all its horrible events just didn’t exist. She held tight to Jean’s bony shoulders.

Her mother-in-law had become an old woman while she’d been away. Guilt clawed at her.

‘How about a cuppa?’ Jean said, finally letting Tess go.

‘Great idea, Mum,’ Fletch agreed. ‘Why don’t you take Tess through and I’ll get the tea?’

Jean smiled and nodded. She turned to go then stopped, her smile dying as a look of confusion clouded her gaze. She looked at her son blankly.

‘Over there,’ Fletch murmured gently as he pointed to the corner of the open-plan living space where a leather three-piece suite, a coffee table and a large-screen television formed a lounge area.

Jean’s gaze followed the direction of Fletch’s finger. It took a moment or two for the set-up to register. ‘Of course.’ She shook her head. ‘Come on, Tess. Tell me all about work today.’

Tess moved off with Jean but not before her gaze locked with Fletch’s. She saw his despair and felt an answering flicker. No wonder Fletch had looked tired earlier—this had to be killing him.

Jean patted the cushion beside her and asked, ‘How was the unit today, dear? Busy as usual?’

Tess sat beside Jean, bringing her thoughts back to order. ‘I …’ She glanced at Fletch for direction.

Since moving to England Tess had changed her speciality to geriatrics so nursing Alzheimer’s patients was part and parcel of what she did every day. But each patient was individual and responded differently to having their misstatements corrected.

He nodded his head encouragingly, which didn’t really tell her very much. ‘I didn’t go to work today,’ she sidestepped. ‘It was my day off and I had … some business to attend to.’

‘Ah, well, no doubt Fletch will know. Fletch?’

‘It wasn’t too bad, Mum,’ Fletch said as he placed a tray with three steaming mugs on the coffee table and apportioned them. He sat on the nearby single-seater. ‘Still a lot of kids with the last of the winter bugs getting themselves into a pickle.’

Tess picked up her mug and absently blew on it. So they were validating Jean’s false sense of reality? At this stage of her disease it was probably all that was left to do. Too many dementia patients became confused and distressed when confronted with their memory loss, and to what end? They were too far gone to realise what was happening to them.

Jean sighed and looked from one to the other. ‘I’m so proud of both of you. It can’t be easy going to work each day looking after such sick little kiddies.’

Tess squeezed Jean’s hand in response. What else could she do? She and Fletch hadn’t worked at St Rita’s Paediatric Intensive Care Unit together for ten years. Not since Ryan had died there. In fact, she hadn’t been able to return to that field of practice at all, hence her move to the other end of the spectrum altogether.

Fletch changed the subject to the weather and they let Jean lead from there, navigating a maze of patchwork conversation—some lucid, some not so lucid. They got on to the spectacular view from the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, with Jean teasing Fletch about his fancy apartment. ‘I can’t believe you two got this thing. What happened to that gorgeous little cottage you were renovating?’

Fletch smiled at his mother. ‘We sold it. Too much hard work.’

‘Oh, pish,’ Jean said, swatting her hand through the air. ‘As if you’re afraid of hard work.’

Tess swallowed a lump as Jean, despite the dementia, looked at her son the way she always had, like he could hang the moon. Fletch’s father had died when he and his sister, Trish, had both been very young and Fletch had been the man of the house for a long time.

‘Gosh, Tess,’ Jean remarked, shaking her head. ‘Look how skinny you are! And where did that lovely tan go? I can’t believe how quickly that gorgeous tan of yours has faded. It hasn’t been that long since you’ve been back from Bora Bora.’

Fletch felt the bleakness inside ratchet up another notch. The tan had gone to England and never come back!

Jean held up an imperious finger. ‘Hold on a moment.’ And she scurried off towards the direction she’d originally come from.

Tess felt exhausted with jet-lag and trying to keep up with Jean’s meandering conversation and rapid-fire subject changes. But not as exhausted as Fletch looked. ‘What medication is she on?’ she asked.

Fletch rattled off a series of the most up-to-date dementia pills on the market. He shrugged. ‘They’ve held it at bay for many years but—’

Jean bustled back in, interrupting them. ‘Here it is,’ she said, brandishing a book of some description. When she sat down and opened it Tess realised it was a photo album. The one she’d put together all those years ago after their return from Bora Bora.

Fletch frowned as a hundred memories flooded his mind. He shook his head slightly at Tess’s questioning look. He’d had no idea his mother had this album. It, along with all the others, had been stored in one of the many boxes that he’d packed their marriage into after he and Tess had separated and she’d run away to the other side of the world.

Maybe when he’d asked his mother to get rid of it all just prior to his move to Canada, she’d decided to keep a few souvenirs? He hadn’t really cared at the time how she’d made it disappear, just that it had. God knew, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of going through it all himself, deciding what to keep and what to discard.

Getting rid of it all, holus bolus, had been a much easier option.

And yet here was a part of it, turning up like the proverbial bad penny. A full Technicolor reminder of how happy they’d been.

‘See, now look at you here,’ Jean said, pointing to Tess in a bikini on the beach. ‘Brown as a berry!’

Tessa stared at the photograph, shocked by the sudden yank back into the past. She’d taken three photos from the ruins of their marriage—all of Ryan. Not that she’d been able to bear to look at them. They lived at the back of a cupboard she never opened.

But it had been a long time since she’d seen ones of Fletch and herself.

A stranger stared back at her. Yes, she was very tanned. She was also deliriously happy, obviously in love and blissfully unaware of the giant black hole hovering in her future. In fact, the woman in the photograph looked nothing like the woman she was today.

And it had nothing to do with the tan.

For a fleeting second, Tess wished she could jump into the photo, like Mary Poppins had jumped into that pavement painting, and give herself a good shake.

If only she’d known then what she knew now.

If only …

‘I think this is my favourite one,’ Jean said, flipping to one of Fletch, towel wrapped around his waist, elbows on the balcony railing, looking back over his shoulder and laughing into the camera, crystal waters behind him.

Tessa stilled as she remembered she’d been fresh from the shower and naked when she’d taken that picture and the series of intimate photos that had followed—ones that had not made it into this album! She remembered making him lie on the bed and loosen his towel, snapping shots of every glorious inch of his body.

Then he’d grappled the camera from her and returned the favour, asking her to pose for him and taking a set of photos a professional photographer would have been proud of. To this day the one on her stomach, looking over her shoulder with her hair flowing down her back, the sheet ruched around her bottom revealing only the slight rise of one cheek, was the best picture ever taken of her.

She remembered being so turned on by their nude photo session they’d made love for hours afterwards, rolling and sighing and moaning to the gentle swish of the waves.

She glanced at Fletch—did he remember?

His gaze locked with hers, turning almost silver as heat flashed like a solar flare. It dropped to her mouth and she watched as his throat bobbed.

‘It’s my favourite too,’ Fletch murmured.

Oh, yeah, he remembered.

Tess sat through the rest of the album, desperately trying to claw back some control of her brain. Bora Bora was in the past—a long time in the past. She hadn’t come here to take a walk down memory lane, although she guessed to a degree that had been inevitable. Neither had she come to rekindle the sexual attraction that, prior to Ryan’s death, had always raged like an inferno between them.

She’d come for Jean. To alleviate some anxiety and then turn around and go back to her perfectly fulfilling, asexual, far-away existence.

Jean closed the album. ‘I think you two need to go back to Bora Bora. You’re both too tense.’ She patted Tess’s hand. ‘And pale.’

Before Tess could answer, an alarm blared out and she jumped slightly at the same time Jean clutched at her chest and looked at Fletch anxiously.

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Fletch reassured her as he reached over and turned off the alarm on the clock that was sitting on the coffee table. ‘Remember, that just means your show’s about to start.’ His mother continued to look at him blankly. ‘Wheel of Fortune,’ he prompted.

‘Oh.’ Jean sagged a little and dropped her hand to her lap. ‘Oh, yes, oh, I love that show! ’

Fletch nodded as he picked up the remote and flicked on the big sleek screen to the channel that played nonstop 1980s television shows. ‘There you go, just starting,’ he said as the game-show music rang out.

‘Tess.’ Jean bounced like a little girl on Christmas morning. ‘Do you want to watch it with me?’

Fletch watched the play of emotions mirrored in Tess’s eyes. She was obviously shocked by the many faces of Jean. ‘Actually, we’re going to go out on to the deck and have a chat,’ he said.

But his mother wasn’t listening, engrossed in the show, her invitation to Tess already forgotten. He inclined his head at Tess, indicating they move away, and she eagerly complied, following him to the kitchen.

‘Would you like something a little stronger?’ he asked as he removed the mug she’d brought with her and placed it in the sink.

Following a period after she’d moved to the UK when she’d drunk a little too often, Tessa didn’t drink much these days. But if ever she needed alcohol, it was now. Being with Jean was heartbreaking. And being with Fletch, seeing those pictures, was … disturbing.

‘Yes, please.’

Fletch pulled a bottle of chilled white wine out of the fridge and held it up. ‘All right?’

Tessa nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

He poured them both a glass and handed her hers. Normally he’d clink glasses with someone in this situation but nothing was normal about right now so he took a mouthful then led the way to the deck.

Fletch, conscious of her behind him, put his arms on the railing and inhaled the late-afternoon river breeze. He took another sip of his wine then turned to face her.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘I’m so sorry, Fletch,’ she murmured. ‘It’s … it’s so unfair.’

Fletch’s lips twisted into a bitter smile as his mobile phone rang. ‘Since when has life ever been fair?’ he asked as he located his phone and answered it.

Tess nodded. Truer words had never been spoken.

She moved to the far side of the railing to give Fletch some privacy. She had absolutely no desire to eavesdrop on the conversation but it was hard not to when he was standing two metres from her.

It was Trish and Tess gathered Fletch’s little sister was asking after Jean. Then she heard Fletch tell her that he’d been to the cemetery and reassured her three times that he was fine. Like Jean, Trish had been a tremendous support for them after losing Ryan. She’d worried about them, about her brother particularly, like a little mother hen. Tess knew that if Trish had been able to turn back time for them, she would have.

Her name was mentioned and Tess wondered how Trish was taking the news that she was here. They’d been close once, like real sisters, but Trish was loyal to a fault and while she’d been supportive for that horrible year, she’d been angry with Tess over her desertion of Fletch.

It had hurt at the time but blood was thicker than water and it was only right that she should stand by her brother.

Fletch hung up. ‘Sorry, that was Trish.’

‘So I gathered,’ she murmured, swishing the wine in her glass absently. ‘How’s she and Doug doing these days?’

‘Great. Doug started his own computer repair business five years ago. It’s thriving. Trish gave up the child-care centre a few years ago to work full time taking care of the books side of things and managing the job schedule. They have Christopher, he’s almost two. And she’s seven months pregnant with number two.’

Tess stilled, the swirl of the wine coming to a halt. She glanced at Fletch. Trish had a child? A little boy. A little boy only a few months older than Ryan had been when he’d died?

And another on the way?

She and Fletch had been trying for another baby just prior to Ryan’s accident.

The ache that was never far from her heart intensified. In a split second she both envied and despised her ex-sister-in-law with shocking intensity.

Fletch watched Tess’s face as a string of emotions chased across the taut face, which seemed suddenly paler. ‘She always wanted babies, Tess,’ he said gently.

Tess breathed in raggedly. She nodded her head vigorously. ‘Of course.’ Trish had absolutely doted on Ryan. ‘That’s great,’ she said, forcing words past the husky lump lodged in her larynx. ‘So, you’re an uncle, huh?’

Fletch nodded. ‘Yes.’

Of sorts. He hadn’t had a lot to do with his nephew given how often he was out of the country. But he was a dear little boy who adored him. And if it was hard at times to hold his wriggly little body and not think of Ryan, not see the similarities between the two cousins, then he erected another layer around his heart and sucked it up.

Tess heard the grimness in his response and knew that it couldn’t have been easy for him. She hesitated for a moment, went to take a step towards him until a shout of ‘Buy a vowel!’ coming from the lounge area halted the reflex before her foot had even moved.

She smiled at him as the sound of Jean’s excited clapping drifted out. ‘How’s Jean with him?’

Fletch felt his answering smile die. ‘She doesn’t remember him most days. It’s hard for Trish. Especially as Mum’s been living with them since just before Christopher was born.’

Tess frowned. ‘How come she’s living with you now? I don’t mean to tell you how to manage Jean’s condition but I don’t think changing her living arrangements at this stage in her disease is such a good thing, Fletch.’

‘Trish had problems with her first pregnancy. She went into early labour at twenty-four weeks. They managed to stop it and get the pregnancy through to thirty-four weeks. A month ago she went into early labour again with this one. Which they also managed to stop. But given her history and her age, her obstetrician ordered bed rest and no stress for the remainder of the pregnancy.’

‘Ah,’ Tess murmured. ‘Not very easy when you’re looking after a toddler and your high-needs mother.’

Fletch grimaced. ‘No.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Trish tried day respite but the unfamiliar setting distressed Mum, made her anxious, which flowed on into the nights. Mum stopped sleeping and she started to wander. She had a couple of falls.’

‘Oh, no,’ Tess gasped.

Fletch shrugged. ‘Lucky she has bones made of concrete.’

Tess laughed, remembering the time that Jean had slipped and fallen down a flight of stairs with not even a bruise to show for it. Fletch smiled at her laugh. It was as familiar to him as his own and yet not something he’d heard for a very long time.

Another thing he’d missed with surprising ferocity.

‘We got a day nurse in but the same thing happened. An unfamiliar face just aggravated the situation. So … I took a leave of absence from Calgary and came home to step in and do my bit. Look after Mum until after the baby’s born.’

Tess understood the conundrum he and Trish faced. The familiar was important to dementia patients, who clung to their repertoire of the familiar even as it shrank at an alarming rate around them. But, still, uprooting yourself from the other side of the world was a big ask.

Although she guessed not for Fletch. He’d always been very family orientated, always taken care of his responsibilities.

‘It’s a good thing you’re doing,’ she said softly.

He looked at her. ‘It’s family, Tess. Family sticks together.’

Tess shied from the intensity of his silver-green eyes. Was there an accusation there? Sure, she’d asked for the divorce but he hadn’t exactly put up a fight. In fact, he’d been pretty relieved as far as she could recall. Did he really blame her for wanting to get as far away from it all as possible?

She took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to go there. She was finishing her drink. She was going back to her hotel room.

Tomorrow she was getting on a plane.

‘So you’re not working, then?’

Fletch shook his head. He looked into his drink. ‘That was the plan but St Rita’s approached me with an interesting proposition and I’ve accepted a temporary contract …’

Tess blinked as the information sat like a lead sinker in her brain. ‘St Rita’s? In the … PICU?’

Fletch glanced up into her huge amber eyes, flashing their incredulity like a lighthouse beacon. ‘In both the adult and kids’ ICUs. They want someone to head up a study on the application of hypothermia in acute brain injury. They’ve asked me. I didn’t come here to work but … how could I refuse? It’s a marvellous opportunity.’

Tess was quiet for a moment while she processed the startling information. ‘Oh.’

She knew that since their separation and his move to Canada, Fletch had become an authority—some might call it an obsession—on cold-water drowning, undertaking several world-renowned studies. In fact, he was probably one of the world’s foremost experts on the subject. She’d read everything he’d ever published from the impressive studies to journal articles and every paper he’d ever given at a conference or a symposium.

None of them had brought Ryan back.

‘It’s part time, only a few hours a day with no real clinical role. I can do a lot of the work from home, which is perfect, leaves me a lot of time for Mum.’

Tess nodded. It sounded ideal. She just wished she could understand how he could go back there. She knew, although she didn’t pretend to comprehend, why he’d chosen that particular field of research but how he could handle the subject matter was beyond her. And how he could enter St Rita’s without breaking down she’d never know.

Her eyes sought his. She remembered how he’d told his mother earlier about the kids with the last of the winter bugs. She’d thought he’d been fobbing Jean off but obviously not. ‘You’ve … you’ve been into the PICU?’

Their gazes locked. ‘Yes. Several times. In fact, I called in there on my way to the cemetery.’

Tess let out a shaky breath. ‘Right …’

What did she say now? How was it? Have you been into room two? Did it bring back memories? Was Ryan’s presence still there or had it been erased by years of other children and hospital antiseptic?

Instead, she said nothing because she really didn’t want to know.

Fletch’s stare didn’t waver. ‘It wasn’t easy, Tess.’

She looked away. Had he thought it would be? Did he expect her sympathy? An embrace? Applause? Some kind of a shared moment where everything was suddenly all right because he’d confronted some ghosts?

A surge of emotions knotted in her belly and she knew she had to leave. Get out. Far away from Fletch and all that reminded her of that dark, dark time.

Denial had been working for her just fine.

She just wanted to go to bed and sleep off the jet-lag and not have to think about any of it.

‘Well,’ she said, downing the contents of her glass in one long swallow. ‘It looks like you have everything worked out.’

‘Tess.’

She ignored the reproach in his voice. ‘I’ve gotta go.’ She placed the wine glass on the table and headed for the door.

‘Tess,’ he said, catching her arm lightly as she brushed past him.

Tess stopped. ‘Let me go,’ she said, staring straight ahead.

‘Tess, please, stay for a while.’

She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Fletch.’

‘I want to talk to you, Tess.’

‘I think we’re all talked out.’

‘It’s about Mum.’ He felt her arm strain against his hand. ‘Please, Tess, just hear me out. For Jean.’

Tess sighed, and her muscles relaxed, knowing she was defeated.

Damn it.

And damn him.

CHAPTER THREE

TESS sat at the table, staring out over the Brisbane River, while Fletch was in the kitchen fixing them both a top-up of their glasses. A light breeze ruffled her utilitarian locks and she had to shake herself to believe she was actually sitting on her ex-husband’s deck, drinking wine.

The whole scene felt surreal. Jean’s dementia had dragged her reluctantly into her past. A time when things had been simple and she’d truly believed that love could get a person through everything. It was a strange reality that warred with her present-day situation.

What did he want to talk to her about regarding Jean? Surely he had better access to the medical side of Jean’s condition than she did? He probably had half a dozen gerontologists up his sleeve he could talk to. Or maybe he was after practical advice? How to care for his mother on a day-to-day basis? Or a recommendation for a good home-care agency, maybe?

Whatever it was, she hoped he made it snappy because when she got to the bottom of her second glass she was walking away.

Fletch paused by the sliding door, watching Tess’s profile for a moment, and wished he was sure of her. He needed her help. Once upon a time he could have counted on it. But a lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then and she was so very, very skittish.

Plus he wasn’t so sure of himself now. His plan had sounded fine in theory but being with her again was confrontational on many levels. He’d thought he could handle it but standing two metres from her he realised it would be physically and emotionally harder than he’d ever imagined.

Still … he was desperate and Tess was perfect.

He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the deck. ‘Here you go,’ he said, placing her refilled wine glass in front of her.

Tess glanced down at the offering and murmured, ‘Thanks.’

She picked it up and took a decent mouthful, the smooth, fruity crispness against her palate not really registering. She placed the wine back down as Fletch sat opposite her, hearing the clink as it met the smoky glass of the tabletop. ‘You wanted to talk about Jean?’ she prompted.

Fletch sighed. Obviously there wasn’t going to be any small talk. Which he’d have preferred. He had no idea how she was going to react to his proposition, although instinct told him it wouldn’t be very well …

‘I need to get someone in for Mum. Someone who can be here while I’m out. When I accepted the contract I thought I’d be able to juggle it and her. It’s only part time and Mum doesn’t need constant care and attention. But the truth is I don’t feel comfortable leaving her at all. I just don’t think she’s safe enough and I’d feel a hell of a lot better if she wasn’t here by herself.’

‘Like a home-care nurse?’

Fletch shook his head. ‘No. I’m not after someone to help with her physical needs because she’s still capable, so far, of taking care of that. Although having someone who understands Alzheimer’s is a definite plus … I’m thinking more like a companion.’

‘You mean someone closer to her own age?’

‘I mean someone who knows her. She’s not great with strangers—they distress her.’

Tess’s brow wrinkled. ‘That would be ideal, of course. Are you thinking of one of her old friends?’

Fletch didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘I’m thinking of someone closer than that. Someone she knows really well who has experience with the elderly and with dementia sufferers. The best of both worlds.’

Fletch watched and waited—waited for his meaning to sink in. It didn’t take long.

Tess narrowed her eyes. Was Fletch thinking what she thought he was thinking? She shook her head at him. ‘No. No way.’

‘You’re perfect, Tess.’

She shook her head again, mentally recoiling from the plea in his wattle-leaf gaze. ‘No.’

‘I know this is kind of out of the blue—’

‘Kind of?’ Tess spluttered.

‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t stuck.’

Tess stared at him, wondering when he was going to grow a second head. ‘Putting everything else aside, I’m leaving for the UK tomorrow.’

‘It’s just until after Trish is back on her feet. A couple of months.’

Tess blinked. ‘I have a job, Fletch.’

Fletch snorted. He’d always thought Tess squandering her critical care skills in a geriatric facility was such a monumental waste of a highly skilled nurse, even if it was to his advantage now.

She glared at him. ‘That I love. Where I get an enormous amount of respect and job satisfaction.’

It might just be a little nursing-home in the middle of the Devonshire countryside but people depended on her. The staff and the residents. When she’d needed a place to hide and lick her wounds they’d taken her in and given her a direction for her life. They’d helped her function again.

‘I’m sure they’d understand if you explained the circumstances. I can recompense you if it’s money you’re worried about.’

Tess shook her head at his utter gall. Had he thought she’d just agree? They’d been virtual strangers for the past nine years and he expected her to just … comply? And that splashing some money around would sweeten the pot? Sure, she loved Jean, he knew that. He knew how close they’d been. But it was still a big gamble for him to take—betting the bank on her.

The woman who had already turned her back on his family.

‘So this is it?’ she demanded. ‘This is your brilliant plan? Ask your ex-wife? Who just happens to be here at the same time you need someone to look after your mother? That’s crazy! What would you have done if I hadn’t been in town?’

‘It’s not crazy. It makes absolute sense. You’re the perfect person to ask. And, yes, the timing has been perfect too but, frankly, Tess, I would have gone to England to get you.’

‘To get me?’ Fletch held up his hands in a placatory manner.

‘To ask you,’ he amended.

Tess wasn’t placated. ‘How about this, Fletch? How about you give up your job and look after your mum instead? Trish’s been doing it for two years. Surely you can take a lousy couple of months off to do your bit.’

Fletch nodded. ‘And I will. If you won’t … I will. But studies like this are so important, Tess. The results can help the way we treat acute head injury. What we learn from them can make a real difference to neurological outcomes. This is critical stuff, Tess.’

‘Someone else can do it,’ she snapped.

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Someone else could … but this is what I do.’ He placed his hand on his chest. ‘This is my field of expertise.’ And his passion—Tess could hear it lacing every syllable. But chasing after medical rainbows wasn’t going to bring Ryan back. She stood up, the metal chair legs scraping against the terracotta tiles.

‘No, Fletcher. I’m sorry about your study, I really am, but I do not want to do this.’

He rose too and opened his mouth to interject and she held up a finger, silencing him. She looked into his determined face, his jaw set, his hand thrust on a hip, and she knew he didn’t get it. Didn’t understand why she’d be rejecting his perfectly rational plan.

He didn’t understand how just being around them—him and Jean—would be like a hot knife to her chest every day. How the reminders of Ryan that she was able to keep rigorously at bay on the other side of the world would be torturous.

It was suddenly vitally important that he understand. Vitally.

‘I get by, okay? I make it through each day and I sleep at night and my life is on an even keel. It may not seem very exciting to you—I’m not setting the world on fire with my cutting-edge research, but it took a while to reach this place and it works for me, Fletch. I don’t want to undo it.’

Fletch felt his breath catch as the fierce glow of her amber eyes beseeched him. He held her gaze, ignoring the anguish he saw there. ‘I came home the other day to a blaring alarm and smoke pouring out of the oven. She’d baked some biscuits and forgotten about them.’

He refused to look away, refused to back down. His mother was his priority and Tess was the answer. He needed her.

Whatever the emotional impact.

He was pushing her, he knew that, but listening to her talk had him thinking that maybe this was exactly what Tess needed also. Maybe she needed to start living a life where she more than just got by.

It was criminal that she was living this half-life stashed away in the English countryside where nobody knew her past and she could eke out an existence by pretending nothing had happened. That her whole world hadn’t come crashing down and sucked her into the deepest, darkest despair.

Maybe it was time for both of them to confront the past and deal with it. To talk and grieve together instead of separately. He’d let her deny and avoid all those years ago because her sorrow had been all-consuming and he’d been walking through a minefield he’d had no idea how to navigate whilst suffering his own debilitating grief.

He hadn’t pushed her back then.

But maybe it was finally time to push.

Tess swallowed as his intense look seemed to bore a hole right through her middle. It made her feel ill thinking about Jean almost burning the place down but her ex-mother-in-law wasn’t her responsibility.

She was ex for a reason.

And she didn’t want to get sucked back into lives that were too closely entwined with the tragic events that had defined all their lives since.

It just would be too hard.

She shook her head and turned away. ‘Goodbye, Fletcher.’

Fletch shut his eyes as she whirled away, heading for the door. Damn it! He’d felt sure he’d be able to convince her. He opened his eyes, resigned to letting it go. He’d tried. But he had to respect her decision.

Tess stalked into the apartment. Wheel of Fortune had finished, the show’s theme song blaring out. Jean was nowhere to be seen.

‘Jean?’ Tess called, reaching for the remote. Nothing. Not that anything could be heard over the roar of the television. ‘Jean?’ she called again, hitting the mute button.

‘Tess?’

Tess walked quickly towards the feeble, panicked voice she could hear coming from the kitchen area. ‘Jean?’

‘Here … I’m here.’

Tess rounded the bench to find Jean sitting on the floor, her back propped against the fridge, staring down at two raw eggs, one in each hand, the shells crushed, yolk oozing between her fingers. She looked at Tess with red-rimmed, frightened eyes, the papery skin on her cheeks damp.

‘I don’t know what these are,’ she said to Tess, holding them up.

‘Oh, Jean …’ Tess sank to the floor beside her and put her arm around skinny shoulders. ‘It’s okay,’ she murmured. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

Jean shook her head, pulled away to look at her daughter-in-law. ‘I’m frightened, Tess,’ she whispered, and started to tear up again. ‘Something’s wrong. H-help me, please.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Please … h-help me.’

Jean dissolved into soft tears and Tess felt her heart swell up with love for this woman who had been like a mother to her as she snuggled her into the crook of her shoulder.

‘Shh,’ Tess crooned, rocking slightly. ‘Shh, now.’

Tess heard footsteps and looked up to find Fletch staring down at her with solemn eyes. He crouched beside them and Tess saw that all-too-familiar look of sadness sheen his eyes to silver. She watched as he reached for his mother’s shoulder, placed his long brown fingers over her pale, waxy skin and gently rubbed.

‘It’s okay, Tess,’ he whispered over his mother’s bent head. ‘I’ll fix it.’

Tess shut her eyes as Jean’s plea tugged at her. She was almost out the door, damn it. She didn’t want to be needed like this. Not by Jean. And certainly not by him.

Not fair. So not fair.

But, as Fletch had only just pointed out, when had life ever been fair?

Could she really turn her back on Jean who had never asked her for anything? Fletch maybe, but Jean?

She opened her eyes. ‘Let me see if it can be arranged …’

Fletch felt his heart swell with relief and something else far more primal. He sagged slightly as what seemed to be the weight of the entire world lifted from his shoulders. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed. ‘Thank you.’

Tess pushed the ‘end’ button on the phone thirty minutes later. Her boss at Estuary View Nursing Home had been very understanding of Tess’s predicament and had urged Tess, her best employee who only ever took the same two weeks off every year, to take as much time as she needed.

So, that was that.

She kept her elbows firmly planted on the balcony railing, staring out over the river darkening to liquid mercury. The city’s first lights winked on the polished surface and shimmered in the wake of a City Cat as it fractured the surface. She was surprised at the tide of nostalgia that crept over her.

Brisbane was her home town.

And she’d been away for a long time.

In recent years it had been a place to dread, a place of terrible memories, a heinous pilgrimage. But a sudden strange melancholy infused her bones.

Irritated by the path of her thoughts, Tess turned her back on the river. Through the open doorway she could see Jean sitting happily once again in front of the television, sipping a fresh cup of tea, her incident with the eggs forgotten. Fletch sat beside her, holding her hand, his dark wavy hair a stark contrast to the thin, white wisps of his mother’s.

He looked up at her at that moment and for a second they just stared at each other. Tess felt the melancholy sink into her marrow. Then Fletch raised an eyebrow and she nodded at him and he once again mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ before kissing his mother gently on the head and easing away from her.

Tess moved inside, following Fletch into the kitchen.

‘All sorted?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

They were standing a couple of metres apart and Fletch took a step towards her as a well of gratitude rising inside him propelled him forward. In the old days he would have swept her into his arms. ‘I know this is a big ask, Tess …’

Tess shook her head. If he truly knew, he wouldn’t have asked. ‘You have no idea, Fletch.’

Just looking at his face caused her chest to ache. It took her back to times she’d spent ten years trying to forget. Ryan had looked so like his father it had been ridiculous. He took another step towards her but she held up her hand to ward him off.

Fletch stopped. ‘You think this is any easier for me?’ he asked.

Tess dropped her gaze at the honesty in his. It was a horrible situation for them both. ‘What time do you want me here in the mornings?’

Tess had no idea where she was going to stay for the next couple of months but she’d figure it out. In the interim she could extend her stay at the hotel. But there was no way her budget could stretch to such luxury for more than a week.

Fletch frowned. ‘I don’t just want you here in the mornings, Tess, I want you here twenty-four seven.’

Tess’s gaze flew back to his face. ‘What?’ Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as his meaning sank in.

‘Mum’s wandering more during the night and can become quite agitated when you try and get her back to bed. She’s particularly disorientated when she wakes up in the morning since moving from Trish’s. She sees me and the first person she asks for in the morning or if she wakes at night is you. It’ll be good for her to have you right there when she’s so distressed.’

Tess held his gaze. ‘And when I go?’

Fletch had always believed in not borrowing trouble. He had it covered for the next two months and that was all he was worried about for now. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,’ he said, his expression grim.

‘Your mother’s condition needs a little more forward planning than that,’ she said waspishly.

Dealing with families of dementia sufferers, Tess knew that those who had planned for every contingency coped better with the curve balls the condition threw them.

Fletch nodded. He couldn’t agree more. ‘Another reason why I need you here. Forward planning.’ He looked into her shuttered gaze. ‘It makes sense for you to stay here, Tess. And where are you going to find short-term accommodation at such late notice?’

Anywhere but here. ‘I have friends in Brisbane …’

‘Do you? Do you really, Tess? Kept in contact with the old crowd, have you?’

Tess broke eye contact. He knew she’d severed all links when she’d moved overseas. Before that even, when concerned friends had been too much for her to handle. She’d withdrawn from all her support groups, from her life really, as grief had consumed her utterly.

‘I can’t pretend happy families with you, Fletch,’ she said, the marble surface of the kitchen bench cold beneath her hand. ‘Too much has happened. Living with you again … it’ll bring too much back.’

Fletch nodded. He knew that. And after only a couple of hours in her company he knew it would be harder than he’d originally thought. But sometimes the greatest gain came at the greatest cost. Ten years ago she’d shut down, shut him out—shut the world out—and he’d let her. With her here and committed to the task she wasn’t running away any more and maybe, just maybe, they could face head-on what they hadn’t been able to a decade ago.

‘You think it’s going to matter where you lay your hat each night,’ he asked her downcast head, ‘when we’ll be seeing each other day in and day out?’

Tess knew he was right. It was going to be difficult whether she stayed here or not.

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