Chapter 3
Peyton arrived for her last day of work before her holidays at St Auburn’s with a spring in her step. She hadn’t had a spring in her step for a long time but it was absolutely there today. She couldn’t believe McKenzie’s operation was just three days away now.
Three days.
Her daughter hadn’t been unwell or had a fever since the night she’d slept with… Since Nat and Alessandro’s wedding two months ago, and she had even put on a little weight.
Things were finally looking up. Finally going their way.
All Peyton had to do was convince Harry to let her be in the theatre to observe McKenzie’s operation on Monday and life would be complete.
A butterfly flapped its wings in her stomach as she rehearsed the words again. Not that Peyton really thought it would be an issue. Yes, it wasn’t usual, but she knew Harry well enough to feel confident that he’d overlook the rules for his right-hand woman.
So confident, in fact, Peyton was actually humming as she entered the operating theatre change rooms.
Dr Gloria Reinhart, the anaesthetist Harry used for his lists, was changing into her scrubs and Peyton bade her a hearty good morning.
‘Morning,’ Gloria said, staring at Peyton with an odd expression.
Peyton frowned. ‘What?’
The other woman shrugged. ‘Nothing. It’s just… I’ve never heard you hum before.’
Peyton didn’t need a translation; she knew what people thought.
That she was too serious. Not a lot of fun.
She came to work, ran Harry’s theatre and his clinics with ruthless efficiency, not particularly caring whether she made friends or not.
She didn’t socialise or have time for idle chit-chat, so what did it matter what people thought?
She was respected, that was the main thing. Being liked hadn’t been a priority.
Peyton grinned. ‘Well, it’s about time that changed, don’t you think?’
Gloria responded with a grin of her own. ‘Past time, I’d say.’
They chatted while Peyton changed into her scrubs then went in different directions – Gloria to the staffroom for a cuppa with her colleagues, Peyton to theatre four to set up for the first case.
The theatre list was sticky-taped to the door of theatre four’s anaesthetic room and Peyton removed it.
Not that she needed it; she knew exactly which patients were being operated on today.
In fact, if pushed, she could probably recite the list for the next month, even though it was next Monday’s she was the most fixated on.
There were two paediatric patients on the list this morning.
Children were always done first. It caused less stress for the parents, who didn’t have to wait around all day worrying about their child going under general anaesthesia, and also for the children, who were often at an age where they were frightened of the clinical hospital environment and didn’t understand why they couldn’t eat and drink and run around.
A little thrill ran through Peyton’s stomach. Come Monday, McKenzie Donald would be first on this list and her spirits lifted even further. Peyton couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt this positive. It had been a long hard three years with many a detour and roadblock.
It was hard to believe the path was suddenly clear.
Theatre four was frigid when she entered via the swing doors and Peyton rubbed at the goosebumps on her arms. Soon she would be gowned up and under hot lights and wistfully remembering the cold, but for now it seeped quickly into bones that had very little covering insulating them.
Her mother constantly fretted about Peyton’s leanness. You’re too thin was a regular refrain as she tried to tempt her daughter with home-made delights.
She was already slender to start with, and a rough pregnancy hadn’t helped. After two admissions to hospital because of hyperemesis, the vomiting had eventually stopped – for four blissful weeks. But her appetite had barely returned when the twins were born prematurely at twenty-eight weeks.
It was hard to eat with the stress of two babies in the NICU even though she’d known she had to for her breast milk supply if nothing else.
And then Daisy had died and Arnie had left, piling grief upon grief into the mix and, subsequently, with the ongoing issues of McKenzie’s fragile health, Peyton’s appetite had never really recovered. She ate only to nourish her body.
Food wasn’t fun, it was fuel.
All her energy was focused on getting McKenzie to eat. McKenzie’s appetite. McKenzie’s nutritional needs. McKenzie’s caloric requirements. Peyton Donald came low down on Peyton Donald’s list of priorities.
And, besides, things just tasted so bland.
A hoot of laugher outside in the corridor pulled Peyton out of her reverie and she busied herself getting the theatre set up.
Grabbing the trolleys she required, she positioned them correctly around the operating table, wiping them down with a solution of surgical spirits before exiting the theatre via the back door to pick up the trays.
Four sterilised trays wrapped in special blue disposable cloth and sealed into a sterile plastic covering were waiting for her and she grabbed the nearest, along with extras of similarly wrapped drapes and gowns.
She added two pairs of size-eight gloves for Harry and his resident before returning to the theatre and dropping her load on the waiting trolleys.
Heading out again, Peyton selected other bits and pieces she knew Harry would need – suture material, dressings and, of course, the actual implant device itself.
Turning the boxed bionic ear around in her hands, Peyton still found it hard to believe that something so innocuous could give such a precious gift. That come Monday one would be implanted into McKenzie’s head. She hugged it to her chest, sending a quick prayer into the universe.
Please let everything be okay.
Re-entering the theatre, she dropped the extras on the trolley again. A noise from the anaesthetic room alerted her to Harry’s arrival and she smiled. It was nice working for someone as dedicated as she was. Always early, ready to get to stuck in for the day.
Ready to make a difference.
Peyton glanced at her watch. Now, while they were still alone, was as good a time as any to ask her boss the question.
She shoved open the swing doors with her shoulder, ready to launch into her spiel.
Excited even. Except the man in the anaesthetic room wasn’t Harry.
He wasn’t reedy or a little stooped and grey-haired.
He was big and broad with curls of dark hair escaping the confines of his theatre cap to brush the neckline of his scrubs.
Valentino Lombardi.
Even if Peyton hadn’t dreamt about that back every night for the last two months, the lurch low down in her pelvis would have alerted her to his identity anyway.
Still, she shut her eyes tight for a moment, hoping that her fevered imaginings of him these past months had just somehow conjured him up to derail her from her quest.
When she opened them again seconds later it was to find him – Valentino, not Harry – looking at her, cool as a freaking cucumber.
What was he doing here? Didn’t he live in London?
A host of memories bubbled up in the silence between them before Peyton could stop them. Memories she’d thus far managed to contain to her dreams. Nightly imaginings that woke her in a sweat, his name on her lips, his taste in her mouth. Parts of her throbbing for his touch.
‘We meet again.’
Peyton’s heart skipped a couple of beats as his low flirty voice oozed into all the places that still craved his touch.
Then her cheeks warmed as the things they’d done together turned her awkward beneath his knowing gaze.
It didn’t help that he filled out a pair of surgical scrubs better than any man on the planet.
She’d seen him in a tux and in the buff and now in a set of scrubs.
Was there nothing the man didn’t wear to utter perfection?
‘Valentino?’ She didn’t mean to whisper it, to give his name some kind of hushed reverence, but it was exactly the way it sounded in the quiet, cool confines of the room.
She’d expected to never see him again and yet, here he was – in scrubs?
Peyton remembered that he was a surgeon but… why was he here? In her theatre? And where the hell was Harry?
Pulling herself together, Peyton cleared her voice.
She didn’t know what was going on but she couldn’t afford to betray any of her bodily reactions.
‘Dr Lombardi.’ Her voice was brisk – nothing like his flirty opening line.
Peyton had to start as she meant to go on – not let his presence and a bunch of very persistent memories make her forget she was at work.
‘What are you doing here? Where’s Harry? ’
The man opposite regarded her for long seconds, a small smile on his mouth – God, where that mouth had been – as if her formality had been amusing. But it soon changed to something more suitable for work.
‘I’m afraid Dr Abbott had to rush to Hobart in the early hours of this morning. His… grandson’s been in an accident.’
Peyton frowned. An accident? She searched the dark gaze that had softened to warm liquorice as he’d broken the news. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘He was kicked in the head by a horse. They’ve rushed him to Intensive Care.’
Peyton gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. Oh, no, how awful.
Her concern drove her a couple of steps in his direction.
‘Was it Andy or Ben?’ Harry’s daughter and her family lived on a horse stud just outside Hobart.
The Abbotts were a close-knit family despite the distance, and Peyton knew this would be devastating for them all.
‘Ben.’
A cold hand clutched around her heart. Benny was only four. One year older than McKenzie. Peyton moved closer again, needing to know more. ‘How is he? His parents must be frantic. Is he… has he…?’
As if sensing her genuine concern, Valentino crossed the remaining few steps between them and gently clasped her shoulders. ‘He’s critical. That’s all I know.’