Single Dad in Her Stocking Read online

  On first impressions, Terry didn’t look like a man who was in the middle of having a heart attack. His colour was good, he wasn’t sweating and he seemed to be clutching the side of his chest rather than a more classic sign of pressing his hand to the centre. He’d also told her that he wasn’t feeling sick in any way but Emma wasn’t about to make assumptions. She helped her patient climb onto the bed and lifted the back so he wasn’t lying completely flat.

  ‘Let’s get that coat and jumper off and unbutton your shirt, Terry.’ Emma opened the drawer on the ECG trolley and took out electrodes. ‘So you’ve been getting angina for a while?’

  ‘Just a bit. And only when I’m doing too much.’

  ‘He’s taken up jogging,’ his wife told Emma. ‘I told him he’s going to kill himself but he’s determined to lose the weight.’

  ‘And you were jogging when the chest pain came on?’

  ‘No...’ Terry lifted his arm out of the way as Emma stuck the final electrodes on the left side of his chest. ‘I was getting the damned turkey out of the freezer in the barn.’

  ‘It was far too big to go in the freezer in the house.’ Jenny nodded. ‘And it takes days and days to thaw.’

  ‘It was like carrying a giant, slippery rock,’ Terry complained. ‘And then I started to drop it and almost tripped over something at the same time and it went flying.’ He gave a huff of something like laughter that turned into a groan. ‘So to speak... Anyway, it was when I bent down and picked the turkey up that the pain came on. By the time I got it into the laundry tub, I could hardly stand up.’

  ‘Does anything make it worse?’ Emma asked, still smiling at Terry’s attempt at humour. ‘Like taking a deep breath?’

  Terry tried to breathe in and groaned. ‘Yep...that really hurts.’

  ‘And you used your angina spray?’

  ‘Didn’t do a thing.’

  ‘Okay.’ Emma was becoming more confident that she wasn’t dealing with a critical cardiac event. ‘Keep really still for me for a few seconds, Terry. I’m going to do the ECG.’

  With the sheet of graph paper in her hand a short time later, Emma smiled at the anxious couple in front of her.

  ‘Good news,’ she told them. ‘This all looks absolutely normal. There’s no sign of your pain being due to angina and certainly no indication that you’re having a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh...’ Jenny started to cry. ‘I was so worried.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ Terry asked.

  Emma handed Jenny the box of tissues. ‘I suspect you pulled a muscle between your ribs while you were wrestling with that frozen turkey,’ she told him. She put her hand on the left side of his chest. ‘Tell me if this hurts...’

  Jenny stayed by the head of the bed, watched the thorough examination her husband was receiving and listened to the advice about cold and heat packs and using anti-inflammatory medication.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not a heart attack?’ she asked.

  ‘Quite sure.’ Emma smiled. ‘But you did the right thing in getting it checked out. I’m going to take your blood pressure while you’re here too, Terry.’

  ‘Imagine if it had been a heart attack.’ Jenny reached for another tissue. ‘Right before Christmas. I know it’s terrible at any time of year but there’s something about Christmas, isn’t there?’

  ‘Mmm...’ Emma stuck the earpieces of a stethoscope into place as a hint for Jenny to stop talking. She didn’t need a reminder of how much worse it was to have a tragedy at Christmas time. She placed the disc of the stethoscope over the artery in Terry’s elbow as she pumped up the blood pressure cuff.

  Jenny hadn’t taken the hint. ‘It’s like the poor Cunninghams. Ruined Christmas forever for those poor boys. They used to call it “the Cunninghams’ Christmas Curse” in these parts.’

  Emma knew she shouldn’t encourage gossip but it wasn’t as if she’d asked a question aloud. Her startled glance had been enough to prompt Jenny to continue.

  ‘Their poor mother,’ she said sadly. ‘Fought off the cancer for such a long time and all she wanted was one last Christmas with her little boys but they didn’t even get the decorations up.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And they’ve never been put up again, from what I heard. Not in that house...’

  Emma let the pressure out of the cuff slowly. Concentrating on the figures as she heard a pulse begin and then disappear again didn’t stop part of her brain absorbing the information she’d just been given. What a sad house this must have been for Max—especially that first Christmas without his mother.

  ‘Your blood pressure is on the high end of normal,’ she told Terry. ‘Are you on any medication for that?’

  ‘Yes. Dr Cunningham looks after me well, don’t you worry about that. Can I get dressed again now?’

  ‘And then there was last year.’ Jenny handed her husband his jumper as he finished buttoning up his shirt. ‘Losing poor Andy like that. It shouldn’t have happened at all, but to have it happen in December. Another Christmas funeral...’ She clicked her tongue. ‘And now...those children... What sort of Christmas is this going to be for those poor wee mites?’

  Terry’s head popped out of the jumper’s neck. ‘That’s enough, Jen,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sure Dr Moretti isn’t interested in hearing all this gossip.’

  ‘It’s not gossip,’ Jenny said defensively. ‘We care about each other in Upper Barnsley, that’s all. Especially our closest neighbours.’ She smiled at Emma. ‘Are you here to help Dr Cunningham, then? It’s about time he had another doctor to help him in this clinic. Young Max is brilliant but he’s always been one for an exciting life. He doesn’t want to leave that big emergency department at the hospital.’

  ‘I’m actually here to help at the hospital,’ Emma told them. ‘But, right now, I’m going to go and show Dr Cunningham your ECG, Terry, and let him know that you’re okay.’ She held the door open for the couple. ‘Have you got plenty of anti-inflammatories at home?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Jenny nodded. ‘And don’t go bothering Dr Cunningham with my Terry’s problems right now. I suspect he’s got enough of his own...’

  * * *

  ‘You need to follow the directions on the tin for how many scoops. Level scoops, like this...’ Maggie scooped the formula and showed Max how to level it off with the back of a knife. ‘Put it into the bottle of warm water. Attach the nipple and ring and cap like this...and then shake it.’

  Maybe baby Alice could smell the milk being prepared and she was sick of waiting. Or maybe she didn’t like the unfamiliar male arms that were holding her right now. Whatever the reason, her unhappy whimpers were steadily increasing into shrieks that were pulling the tense knots in Max’s gut tighter by the second.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t stay, Maggie?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Max, but it’s impossible. I’ve got my daughter, Ruth, arriving and she’s nearly eight months pregnant and on her own. She’ll be exhausted after that long drive up from Cornwall and I haven’t had proper time with her since that bastard of a boyfriend walked out on her a few weeks ago. We’ve got a lot of talking to do about how she’s going to cope.’ Maggie took the cap off the bottle and upended it. ‘Shake a few drops onto your wrist, like this. If it’s the right temperature it won’t feel either hot or cold. There...that’s perfect.’ She held the bottle out to Max. ‘Try that. She’s probably eating solids now as well and there’s plenty of baby food in with all that other shopping that’s in the pantry but she’ll be wanting her milk for comfort right now, I expect.’

  He took the bottle and offered the teat to the baby. Alice turned her head away and arched into his arm as if she was trying to escape.

  ‘Take her into the drawing room with the others,’ Maggie suggested. ‘This is all new and strange for her too, and it might help if you’re sitting in a comfy chair with her brother and sister nearby.’

  Max walk
ed out of the kitchen and into an entranceway that looked like it had exploded into a collection point for a children’s charity over the last thirty minutes or so. A portable cot had a few stuffed toys and books in it. There were car seats and a pram and even a high chair, along with boxes of baby supplies like nappies and formula and suitcases that he’d been told were full of clothing. The social worker who had delivered the children and their belongings had been apologetic but in a hurry to get away before the snow started settling on the country roads and Maggie, who’d done far more than anything her part-time position with the Cunninghams had ever expected of her, was obviously worried about leaving the men to cope but also anxious to get back to her own family.

  ‘You go, Maggie,’ Max told her. ‘I’ve got this.’

  The older woman gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked quietly. ‘I don’t want to leave you in the lurch. Ruth would understand if...’

  Max shook his head. ‘These children are my responsibility,’ he said. ‘Between us, Dad and I will figure it out.’ He joggled the baby in his arms and, for a merciful few seconds, the howling seemed to lessen.

  ‘You’ve got that lovely Emma to help, for tonight at least.’ Maggie was heading for the coat rack. ‘If you’re sure, then... I’ll come back as soon as I can in the morning if the roads are clear enough.’

  As she opened the door, Max could see a car disappearing down the driveway. Emma had spent a good deal of time assessing that unexpected patient who had turned up but she hadn’t summoned an ambulance or come to find his father so he had assumed things were under control. Some things, anyway. Baby Alice was crying again as he went into the drawing room.

  His father was sitting in his usual chair by the fire but Pirate had disappeared beneath the chair, which was highly unusual. On the sofa next to the chair were the two older children, Ben and Matilda. They were both sitting silently, side by side, holding hands. Six-year-old Ben was clutching a very small artificial Christmas tree in his other hand that was devoid of any decorations. Four-year-old Matilda had a toy rabbit with long legs and rather chewed-looking ears clamped under her arm. They both looked accusingly at their uncle when he came in carrying their miserable baby sister.

  Max sat in the matching leather wing chair on the other side of the sofa, settled Alice into the crook of his elbow and tried to get her to accept her bottle again. Her renewed cries were so loud he didn’t hear the door opening. He didn’t notice that every other head in the room had turned to see who was coming in or that Pirate had wriggled forward enough to peer out from under the chair.

  What he did become aware of was that fresh lemony scent he’d noticed when Emma had come into his office in what was beginning to feel like a previous lifetime. And when he looked up, it felt like the depth of understanding in Emma’s eyes told him that she knew exactly how far out of his depth he currently was. That, no matter how determined he was to do the right thing for his nieces and nephew, it felt like he was drowning. But there was something else in her eyes that looked as though she was tapping into something much deeper. Darker.

  Fear...

  But why would Emma Moretti, of all people, feel afraid when faced with a miserable, hungry infant? She’d been the first to offer cuddles or bottles to their small patients in that paediatric ward, the first in line to be present at a birth or do the newborn checks on those slippery, squiggly little bundles that Max had found quite alarming at the time. If anything, he would have expected her to scoop Alice out of his arms and rescue the situation like some sort of Christmas angel, albeit with dark eyes and hair and olive skin instead of peaches and cream and blue eyes and golden hair.

  But she was just staring at him and...yes...he was sure he could see fear in those astonishingly dark eyes.

  What on earth had happened, he wondered, to have changed her like this?

  The curiosity was fleeting, however, because despite Alice’s cries still increasing in volume, he could hear the landline of the house ringing from the hallway. His father seemed oblivious, slumped in his chair as if he had no idea quite how to deal with what was going on around him. Emma had clearly heard the sound of the telephone and the way she raised her eyebrows was an offer to go and answer the call but Max acted without really thinking. He could handle a phone call far better than what he was trying to cope with right now.

  He walked towards Emma and shoved Alice at her, knowing that she would instinctively hold out her arms to take the baby. Then he passed her the bottle of milk, turned away and walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EMMA WATCHED IN horror as Max walked out of the room and left her—literally—holding the baby.

  And maybe Alice was significantly older and heavier than a newborn but, for a heartbeat, Emma simply froze because this baby wasn’t sick and she wasn’t standing here in the capacity of a doctor. This baby needed feeding and she had just been forced into the position of being a surrogate mother—something she wouldn’t have volunteered for in a million years.

  Turning away from watching Max leave, Emma found herself looking at the two small children who were sitting on the couch and staring at her. They both looked scared. That something terrible was happening with their baby sister, perhaps?

  ‘It’s okay,’ Emma heard herself saying calmly. ‘I think she’s just hungry.’

  She could do something about that, she realised, and that was the only thing she needed to think about right now. Anything else, including how this was making her feel, would simply have to wait but, as she moved to sit down, it seemed that the shock of having the baby shoved into her arms was receding enough to make it bearable. She would certainly not have volunteered to take the baby and feed it but, now that it was happening, Emma found that it hadn’t smashed through her walls the way she might have feared that it would. This was someone else’s baby, not her own. A healthy baby that just needed to be fed. Surely she could cope with this?

  She chose to sit on the couch beside the other children, not wanting to take over the chair Max had been using. Or maybe she thought it might comfort the infant in her arms to be near her brother and sister. She settled Alice into the crook of her arm and offered her the nipple of the bottle, sliding it into her mouth that was opening for a new wail. Surprised eyes stared up at her and then, mercifully, that little mouth closed over the teat and Alice began sucking vigorously.

  In the sudden silence that fell, Emma was aware that the older children were still watching. Max’s father had turned to peer at her from behind the wing of his chair and even the dog had wriggled forwards far enough to see what was happening beyond the safety of being beneath his master’s chair. She could hear the fire behind its screen, crackling softly in this new silence, and then she could hear Max coming back into the room. Or maybe she could feel the change in the atmosphere as he entered—that kind of electricity that charismatic people radiated.

  ‘That was the builder,’ he said. ‘They’ve fixed the leak in the apartment above mine but it’s going to be a big job to get things fixed and cleaned up. It certainly won’t be happening before Christmas.’

  James Cunningham grunted. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s hard enough to get tradesmen in a hurry at the best of times.’

  Max sat down in the other wing chair, his gaze fixed on Alice. ‘You always did make it look easy,’ he murmured. ‘You’re just a natural, aren’t you, Emma?’

  Emma said nothing. She couldn’t say anything. Not with that damned lump that had just formed in her throat. Breathe, she told herself. You only need to breathe.

  The silence returned and then Max sounded like he was making an effort to break it.

  ‘Is that your special Christmas tree, Ben?’

  Emma glanced sideways to see Ben nod solemnly. ‘You’ve got to have a Christmas tree,’ he told his uncle. ‘It’s a rule.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Emma could under
stand the note in Max’s voice—as if he was wondering what other ‘rules’ Ben might be holding as sacrosanct.

  Ben nodded again. ‘That’s how Father Christmas knows where to leave the presents. It should go near the chimney.’

  Emma lifted her gaze to look around the huge room they were in. She wondered what this little boy might think of those paintings in their ornate frames, the ornaments on sideboards and the baby grand piano in the corner. Was he used to this kind of house or was it making this an even more frightening experience for him?

  But Ben was sounding worried rather than frightened when he spoke again.

  ‘Where’s your Christmas tree, Grandpa?’

  This time, the silence in the room was filled with a tension that made a knot start to form in Emma’s stomach. There was level upon level of misery here that she could feel as if it was her own. Some of it was her own but she had learned long ago how to shut that away and it was actually quite empowering to find she could hold and feed baby Alice without falling apart in any visible manner. Looking down, she met the fixed gaze of those dark baby eyes on her own and could be confident that all was well in this tiny human’s life for the moment, at least, as she sucked down the rest of her milk. It wasn’t the case for anyone else in this room, was it?

  Emma looked at the children beside her on the couch. The little boy was still staring at his grandfather, waiting for an answer to his question about the missing Christmas tree. The little girl seemed to sense Emma’s gaze and returned it with such a solemn one of her own that, if her arms weren’t full of baby Alice and her bottle, she would have instinctively wanted to gather this child to her as closely as she could to give her a big hug. James was stroking an imaginary beard as if it might help him find an answer and Max...