A southern star, p.25
A Southern Star, page 25
He strode across the ward without another word, drawing the privacy curtain around Christie’s bed decisively, realising instantly she was deeply upset, almost crying, that Isla was unsettled, fractious in her arms. His eyes scanned the rest of the room, noticing the birth registration form on the bedside cabinet, the pen on top. Without a word, he gently took Isla from Christie, reached over to press the call button.
Christie realised Blake was holding Isla, that she was starting to calm down as Blake carefully held her in the crook of his arm, her small face relaxing. I know that feeling, Christie thought, her heart contracting painfully. And I threw it all away because I didn’t trust him.
“Do you want to just shuffle over, Christie,” Blake said tentatively, his voice low, almost hesitant. Silently, she moved over on the wide hospital bed; Blake swung his legs up to sit next to her. Christie was no longer conscious of the noise of the rest of the ward, only of Blake’s presence, his closeness, her eyes blurring again as she saw Isla in his arms. And I’ve lost control again, she thought, embarrassment warring with desire.
I’ve got to focus on practicalities, Blake thought, wondering where Christie’s parents were. I’ve got to sort out what’s worrying her. He hesitated. “How’s Isla going today?”
Christie tensed as he asked only about Isla. “Obviously, not so good,” she replied, an edge to her voice. “She wouldn’t take a bottle just now, even though the nurse said I should feed her. I didn’t even realise she was hungry. It turned into a bit of a war.”
“Christie, if you didn’t think Isla was hungry, and she won’t feed, you’re probably right,” Blake said reasonably. “So just flag the feeding for now.” He grinned at her. “If she’s anything like her mother, there’s no point trying to tell her what to do.”
A faint smile lit Christie’s face, died away again. Blake’s eyes narrowed; he glanced down at Isla, already regretting holding her, unprepared for the protective emotion sweeping through him. He was desperate to comfort Christie, knowing at the same time he could hardly involve Christie in a discussion about a relationship when she was rightly so caught up in looking after Isla. And there’s the small matter of trust, he thought silently.
Christie realised Blake was shifting Isla against him, slouching slightly so that Isla could fall asleep against him, her tiny hand trying to grip the rough wool of his jumper, fisting, then falling back to her side as she relaxed. “You were right,” he emphasised. “Sleep, not food.” Christie found she couldn’t even look at Blake as regret swept through her, hearing him comment on Isla’s hat. Christie looked down at her sleeping daughter hesitantly, realising she was wearing the pale green hat from the outfit Blake had bought in Dunedin together with one of the small sleeping suits he had also chosen.
“It’s too big for her right now,” she said, striving for a casual tone. “The whole outfit is. But I can roll up the rim of the hat.” Just then a nurse called to Christie, came through the curtain.
“I want to see the lactation consultant,” Blake said before Christie could say anything. “Urgently. And I want to find out about Christie moving to a private room, or a smaller ward. I asked about it the other day. Thanks.” His tone brooked no argument. Christie looked at him, shocked at the raw emotion still visible in his eyes. She heard the woman’s words repeating in her head again, feeling faint with fear, focusing only on the health of her child.
“And I don’t want to talk to the consultant in here,” Blake added, knowing how private Christie was.
“I’m being discharged tomorrow,” Christie said when the nurse had gone. “It hardly seems—”
“I don’t care,” Blake said, his voice hard. “You should just be able to enjoy time with Isla, not listen to that garbage.” He cursed inwardly at the sudden look of fear on Christie’s face. I can’t let myself rely on him, Christie thought silently. It will just be me and Isla from now on, I’ve got to sort things out myself. Blake seeing her distress, the physical process of birth, had left her feeling vulnerable, exposed physically and emotionally.
“You don’t need to take over, Blake,” she said stubbornly. “I can sort out things for myself. And for Isla. Not your problem.” Her heart screamed at her as she kept talking, reminding her of her need for Blake, for someone to talk to who understood her so completely. “You hardly need to be here,” Christie continued. “I appreciate your help but we’ll be fine.” She couldn’t look at Isla, sleeping so peacefully against Blake’s jumper, the oversized pale green hat squashed against his arm.
“I guess it’s got to be your decision, Christie.” Blake’s voice was heavy. “But I was just concerned about Isla,” he added. “And you seemed concerned too. But no worries; if you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll head off.” Christie took a deep breath, thinking again of Isla, of the cold tentacles of fear she had felt at the woman’s harsh words. I can’t think of myself when it’s about Isla, she realised.
Involuntarily, she thought of Blake’s constant reassuring presence during Isla’s birth; the thought of him staying for the meeting was painfully seductive. “Do you have time to stay for the meeting?” Christie asked.
“Of course,” Blake said, not wanting to admit he had taken the whole afternoon off, hoping to spend more time with Christie. And with Isla. His face set as he thought of his business partners’ good-natured comments about his lack of concentration the day before.
Twenty minutes later, Christie was installed in a private room; the doctor arrived almost immediately. Christie nervously repeated what the woman had said, her voice faltering as she asked about cot death. “There are a couple of studies that point to formula as a possible risk factor, refer to intelligence and development, but, really, Christie—” Christie burst into tears, all her emotions rushing to the surface as the doctor referred to even the remote possibility of Isla’s health, her life, being threatened due to Christie’s own inability to provide breast milk for her.
“You can find a study to show most things,” she heard Blake say. “Surely these risks are remote, there must be so many variables for any baby?”
“That’s true,” the doctor said. “And Isla is a healthy little girl, Christie, look at how alert she is…” Christie was still distraught, barely heard the doctor’s words. “Please don’t let the exaggerated words of a stranger damage your joy about Isla,” the doctor urged. Eventually, Christie brought herself under control, trying to think through what the doctor had said.
“Cot death is a risk though, isn’t it? For any baby.”
The doctor nodded cautiously. “Yes, but Christie—”
Blake interrupted them both, thinking of the way Isla had slept so peacefully in his arms, her blue eyes peeking out at him from under the rim of her hat when she woke. “What about a baby monitor, just to be on the safe side? What’s involved?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, a breathing monitor.” Concisely, she explained the way they worked, the approximate cost.
Christie was silent after the doctor left. Suddenly, she spoke, calculating the cost of hiring a monitor. Blake shook his head, correcting her. She blushed, realising he was right, unused to being wrong. “See, formula didn’t damage my intellectual development,” he said with mock arrogance.
“Or the development of your ego,” Christie said, a reluctant smile finally reaching her face, her heart lurching at Blake’s familiar teasing tones. “Why did you have formula?” she asked suddenly, dangerously, wondering what he would say.
Christie was unprepared for the change in Blake’s expression, the flash of pain, the uncertainty. Just as quickly, he mastered himself, shrugged nonchalantly. She flushed slightly as he smiled at her, at the same time knowing deep in her heart he was using his devastating smile, his charm, to deflect her question, distract her. “How would I know?” he said easily. “I’ve never asked about that sort of thing.” He looked across at Isla, still able to hear his mother’s voice in his head, answering his innocent questions when he got home from school after a classroom talk. But you know enough to know you had formula…You’re still hiding things from me, Christie thought, dismayed, her heart plummeting.
She looked down at Isla, trying to concentrate. I can hardly discuss Isla’s health with Blake when he still can’t be open with me. The doctor had reassured Christie to a large degree but she was still naturally concerned about even the slightest risk to Isla. Blake must think I cry all the time, she thought bitterly. Christie’s thoughts returned to the idea of a breathing monitor, of asking her parents to go out tomorrow to hire one, knowing she could hardly ring them now, out of the blue. They would want to know why, be upset at what the woman had said. Already they were quietly concerned about Christie being a single mother, emphasising their belief in her ability to cope but disappointed in Paul’s complete lack of support.
While of course Christie had not told them the full extent of Paul’s appalling attitude, they had asked her several times about the apartment arrangement, the contracting, made comments about applying for child support. Like I’d ask that bastard for anything again, Christie thought savagely. We’ll be fine on our own.
Disappointed at Christie’s silence, noticing her tiredness, Blake lingered against his better judgment, one minute telling himself he should go, the next minute resolving to talk to Christie. He tried to will himself to stand up, failed, instead, heard himself say her name. She looked over at him, clearly preoccupied. “I thought…” He cleared his throat, unaccountably nervous. Isla stirred in the transparent hospital crib; he caught a glimpse of her hat.
Blake looked back at Christie, his mind suddenly made up, remorse tugging at him for leaving so abruptly on the day Isla was born. He’s going to leave now, Christie thought. Again.
“Thanks for coming to visit Isla,” she said politely, deliberately referring only to her baby. “You were a hit,” she said, smiling, breaking off, unable to continue as she recalled the
image of Isla in Blake’s arms, wearing the hat he had chosen. Again, Christie heard his voice, his angry defence of her parenting. “And for slaying an old dragon,” she said before she could stop herself, hoping the comment came across as friendly banter.
Christie’s joke prompted Blake to continue, to be cautiously optimistic. “I thought a breathing monitor would be a good idea. Just for peace of mind.”
She looked at him, surprised at his interest. “I agree,” she said softly. “It didn’t sound like Isla’s at any greater risk, but—”
“I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances,” Blake interrupted, stopped abruptly as he realised what he had revealed.
Christie nodded, her mind completely focused on Isla. “I’m going to ask my parents to look at them tomorrow,” Christie said. “So I can use it when I get home.” Blake leaned forward in the chair.
“I’ll head out and get one now,” he said. “Then you’ll be all set for tomorrow.” He kept talking, not giving Christie a chance to refuse. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, bring back an early dinner for you. Does that give you time to rest?”
Christie looked at Blake, overwhelmed at his matter-of-fact planning. Just for one evening, she thought. Her mind crept back to the evening at the pub, the evening at Mason Bay, the evening at his cottage, the night at his cottage. And then her stupid, stupid mistake, the monumental implications, Blake’s hurt, his anger. The more she had thought about it the more an uncomfortable realisation had crept over her, unable to be dismissed. And yet she still didn’t know, not really.
Christie took a deep breath. “My parents are coming back later,” she said guiltily. He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.
“Well tell them to be here about six, I’ll bring enough for them too.” Christie tensed as he stood up.
“Blake, here—” She reached for her wallet, took out all of the substantial emergency cash she had asked her parents to withdraw from her account earlier. “Can you look at hiring one or buying one, whatever the best model seems to be. I’ll pay any difference, of course, and for the takeaways. And I owe you for the formula and the bottles…” Her voice trailed off at the look on Blake’s face.
“Christie, I was wanting to get a gift for Isla. A practical thing.” He smiled at her. “Since I know she has enough clothes.” He gestured at the cash. “Put that away for now, I’ll get an idea of prices, models, let you know. We’ll sort it out later, maybe split the cost,” he lied, having absolutely no intention of letting Christie pay, offended at her rigid insistence on paying her own way for everything. He left the room abruptly, saying he would see her around six.
Christie rang her parents and then checked Isla, who was still asleep. Exhausted herself, she tried to rest, shake off her upset about the events of the day. She promptly fell asleep in the peace of the private room, only to wake up again, hazily realising Blake was sitting on a chair, holding Isla. Still sleepy, Christie tried to sit up.
“Just go back to sleep, Christie. I’ve got Isla, she’s fine.”
“You said you were going,” Christie murmured.
“Came back again,” he said, not wanting to tell her he had been worried about her. Sleep overtook Christie again; she woke up properly an hour later, lay quietly for a few minutes. Eventually, she struggled upright, still disorientated, unable to shake off her disappointment about the birth registration form, her concern about Isla’s health. Christie tensed as she saw Blake stretched out in the chair by the window, reading what looked like a hunting magazine. He looked over at her, seeing she was awake. Their eyes met; Christie moved her gaze over to Isla, asleep again in her crib, unable to look back at Blake, hearing him put down the magazine.
Christie saw a package by Isla’s crib, reached over to open it, realising with a shock Blake had purchased rather than hired a breathing monitor. “Is that one okay?” Blake asked. Christie nodded.
“Yes, it looks great; was this the one you thought—”
“Yes,” Blake said, his voice definite. Realising Christie wanted more details he explained the different versions he had looked at, why he had chosen that one. Christie nodded, thanking him as she reached for her wallet. Blake put his hand over hers; Christie tensed, her eyes fixed on his wrist, his knuckles, his fingers curved around hers. The warmth of his hand sent a shock of longing through her.
“No,” Blake said, his voice low. “I’ll get that for Isla. No arguments.” Christie was about to protest, looked up at him, saw the emotion flash across his face. “Christie, maybe you should find out about infant CPR.” Her eyes widened at Blake’s blunt advice, even as she realised the sense of his suggestion that mirrored her own thoughts.
“I thought that too, Blake. I’m going to ask the nurse more about it. But I don’t want you paying for things for—” Christie hesitated, “—for Isla.”
“You’ll have to put up with it, Christie.” Blake’s face was set. “I won’t take your money.” The silence between them drifted for a while. Christie was unnerved by the impersonal tone of Blake’s voice even as her heart leapt at his generosity, her mind breathlessly wondering if it meant something more. The memory of his fury on the morning of her stay at his cottage washed over her. Don’t build yourself up for disappointment, she thought inwardly.
Blake’s fraternal attitude, his friendly interest in Isla was almost constant; try as she might, Christie could not realistically give herself reason to hope for anything more. Blake had never mentioned the telephone call or referred to anything that had happened between them, had rigidly kept the conversation solely on Isla at all times.
Christie had been disappointed at Blake’s reaction to her parents’ plans to visit her that evening; he had not raised any objection to a family dinner rather than a dinner for two. She made a conscious effort to stop her train of thought, determined not to read more into Blake’s actions. Great, she thought wryly. Takeaways in a hospital room with my parents as chaperones. A definite reality check.
Bringing her mind back to the present, Christie took a deep breath. “I’ll call my parents, ask them to get takeaways on the way to the hospital.” She reached for her mobile as she spoke.
“Done,” Blake spoke briefly. “Dinner will be delivered any minute; how long will your parents be?”
Christie paused, looking at him. “Delivered?” she repeated. “Does the pizza place deliver out here?” Watching Blake, she realised he was smiling suddenly; her heart started pounding unreasonably.
“Blake, what have you arranged? I just wanted takeaways, something simple, what—”
His phone buzzed with a text; he stood up. “That will be dinner,” he said calmly. Just then Christie’s parents arrived; she could not insist on an explanation as Blake left the room, was instead caught up in reassuring her parents when her mother spotted the breathing monitor. Her mother’s perceptive questions unnerved Christie, reminded her of her emotions during the afternoon. Emotions she had camouflaged from Blake she now also hid from her parents, minimising the concern she felt.
Christie looked towards the door as her father noticed Blake’s arrival with a large box. Stunned, Christie watched him unwrap four meals that had obviously been professionally prepared and were still piping hot. Blake met her gaze, his eyes suddenly intent, warm, fixed on her. Incredulous, Christie was speechless, barely heard her parents’ amazed comments as
Blake moved the sliding table closer to her and started opening a bottle of wine as her parents pulled chairs closer to the bed.
“This is from the winery,” Christie said, suddenly realising how Blake had arranged the meals. Blake nodded, pouring her a glass of wine. Christie could see her mother mouthing something behind Blake’s back; she shook her head slightly, trying to discourage her mother from—
“Blake, this is such an extravagance, even if it is Christie’s birthday. Thank you for going to so much trouble. And for getting a meal for all of us; we were just going to pick up some takeaways.” Christie looked at Blake, embarrassed, feeling unaccountably guilty. She saw Blake’s eyes darken as he watched her, the hurt on his face instantly hidden, replaced with his most charming expression as he turned to acknowledge her mother’s comment, offering her mother first choice of the four meals that had been delivered.
