A Southern Star (34 page)

“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.