The Christmas Vigil (2 page)

“What are you up to for Christmas, Shelley? It isn’t far away.”

The young hairdresser grinned. “You’re right. It’s less than a week away and I still haven’t done any shopping. I’m hopeless. Every year, I vow I’ll be more organized next time, but it never seems to happen.”

Marguerite laughed softly. “You’re lucky you don’t have too many to buy for. Me, I have to start in June if I’m going to have any chance of finding gifts for everyone.”

“Yes, I can well understand that. You have the largest family I know. Are they all coming home for Christmas?”

“I hope so. Riley and Kate will be here, of course. They live not far away. Chanel will be on Christmas break from university and Josie has the time off work. I’m hoping the other boys will make it. I love it when we’re all together. I haven’t seen some of them for a while.”

Shelley completed the finishing touches to her hair and stood back with a mirror to give Marguerite a view from the back.

“There you are, Mrs Munro. All done.”

“Thank you, Shelley. You’ve done a wonderful job, as usual. Grafton’s lucky to have stolen you away from the city. I don’t know how you manage to keep weaving your magic on an old woman like me.”

Shelley smiled with genuine affection. “Now, listen here, Mrs Munro, I refuse to listen to another word about you being old. You’re…
mature
, that’s all and the way you look, you’d give women half your age a run for their money. I might add a touch-up here and the odd highlight there, but you’re the one with the goods. Your hair is thicker than some thirty-year-olds and that color…all that gold and honey and wheat. You can’t get that kind of combination out of a bottle.”

Marguerite smiled back at her and patted the girl’s hand in gratitude. Marguerite was old enough to be her grandmother, but she appreciated the sentiment and the kindness that shone from the young girl’s eyes.

“Well, whatever it is, I’m grateful,” Marguerite replied. “I always feel like a million dollars when I walk out of here and my hair simply never
looks better.”

Shelley smiled again and helped her out of her chair. Collecting her handbag from where she’d left it near her feet, Marguerite moved over to the counter and fished inside for her purse. Her phone vibrated against her hand. She’d turned it on silent when she arrived, refusing to allow anything to interrupt the couple of hours of bliss she enjoyed every six weeks at the salon.

Tugging it out of her handbag, she glanced at the screen. Her breath caught. Nine missed calls.
Nine.
How could that be?

Sudden fear crawled insidiously along her spine and dread tightened her stomach. Nothing about nine missed calls could be good. It was as simple as that. Something had happened. Her thoughts immediately flew to her family.

“Are you all right, Mrs Munro? You’ve gone very pale.”

She did her best to focus on Shelley, who now frowned at her in concern. Marguerite reached out and grabbed the counter in an effort to steady herself. “Yes, yes of course,” she managed and hurriedly paid her bill. “K-keep the change, Shelley. I’ll see you again soon.”

“We haven’t made your next appointment, Mrs Munro. Would you like me to—?”

Marguerite let the door to the salon close behind her, cutting off the rest of Shelley’s question. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but she didn’t have time to make another appointment. She had to find out what was wrong.

With shaking hands, she pulled her phone out again and stared hard at the screen. Two of the calls were from the same number, a number she didn’t recognize. The others were from her son, Riley. The screen indicated she had three new voice messages. She dialed into her voicemail, her breath coming fast.

The first message was from a Detective Joel Parker from the Grafton Police Station who urged her to call him back
as soon as she could.
He sounded solemn and the quiet urgency in his voice terrified her.

She listened to the remaining two messages, both from Riley. He lived closest to her than any of her children and was her fourth-born son.
Well, kind of fourth.
Riley was a twin, but he’d been born first. There were only three minutes and forty-five seconds between him and his brother, a fact Clayton, Riley’s twin, took immense delight in frequently reminding him, particularly now the pair of them had dropped over the other side of thirty. In fact, they were nearly thirty-three.

Where had the time gone…?

She shook her head and tried to concentrate on Riley’s messages. They were short and succinct. They told her nothing.

Mom, as soon as you get this message, please call me.

Mom, you need to call me.

Mom, where are you?

His tone was increasingly desperate, but it was his lack of information that filled her with dread. That, and the way he spoke. He’d used his police voice. The one he used when he was addressing the thirty or so officers under his command; the tone that brooked no argument.

With panic nipping at the edges of her consciousness, Marguerite stumbled to a nearby bus shelter and took refuge from the summer heat. Ignoring the startled look from a waiting passenger, she dropped clumsily to the low steel bench and fumbled with her phone. She had to call Riley. She had to find out what had happened.

With shaking hands, she dialed his number and waited for the call to connect. He answered immediately.

“Mom, thank God. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you!”

“Wh-what’s wrong?” she stammered, her lips so dry she could barely form the words.

Riley paused. “It’s…it’s Dad. He’s suffered a brain hemorrhage, or something. They’ve taken him straight to the operating theater.”

Fear held Marguerite frozen. “Wh-when?” she managed.

“About an hour ago. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

Guilt surged through her and she bit her lip against the pain. Her husband had been hurting, possibly dying while she’d been blissfully unaware, enjoying being pampered by her hairdresser, content to switch her phone to silent and block out the rest of the world.

“H-how is he?”

Riley blew out his breath on a heavy sigh and the fear inside her magnified.
Oh, heavens. Was she too late? Please, God, don’t let her be too late…

“I don’t know, Mom. He’s still in surgery. He was unconscious when they found him.”

“Oh, dear Lord!” she cried out in distress and jammed her fist against her mouth, as if she could somehow hold the pain in. The waiting passenger sidled away, shaking his head at her and muttering under his breath. She barely noticed.

“I’m at the hospital now. I’m waiting for the doctor to get out of surgery and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Who…who found him?” All she could picture was her husband lying unconscious, alone and in pain, tending the roses in the back garden, where she’d last seen him a mere handful of hours ago.

Riley remained silent. Marguerite frowned. “Riley, what’s the matter? Where was he? Who found him?”

“Mom, it doesn’t matter. Just come to the hospital. You need to come. Please.”

Riley ended the call and Marguerite stared at the phone in bewilderment.
Why hadn’t he answered her questions?
Confused and disorientated and weighed down with dread, she stared blindly around her and did her best to tamp down her panic.
Where had she parked her car?
For the life of her, she couldn’t remember.

The salon was halfway along the main street. Surrounded by other shops, it was always difficult to find a parking spot, especially around lunchtime and with the streets full of Christmas shoppers. She gazed blindly at the cars that lined the street, but none of them were familiar.

She shook her head and tried to slow her breathing.
She was being silly.
The car had to be somewhere nearby. Ignoring her growing anxiety, she tossed her phone into her handbag and stood a little unsteadily. She stumbled out of the bus shelter and headed in the direction of the mall. Sometimes she would park in the underground car park there. It kept the worst of the summer heat out of the vehicle and even though it was a little further away, there was always a better chance of finding a vacant car space.
Perhaps that’s where she left her vehicle?

Her recent conversation with Riley replayed in her head and she frowned again.
What wasn’t he telling her?
And why the call from Detective Parker? Why would the
police
be involved? She knew she should simply pick up her phone, return the detective’s call and find out exactly what was going on, but try as she might, she couldn’t do it. Fear of what she might discover held her back. A deep sense of foreboding took hold of her and wouldn’t let her go.

Her body trembled. The cacophony of noise from passing cars and pedestrians echoed in her head. She spun around, looking both left and right. Her gaze bounced wildly from the people around her, going about their business, oblivious to her turmoil and confusion.

She stepped off the sidewalk and was immediately blasted by a car horn. She jumped back and narrowly avoided being hit. She stumbled and almost fell.

This was madness.

She didn’t even know what the problem was—or even if there
was
a problem. Her husband had suffered a brain hemorrhage, but he was still alive. Her son had been sketchy on the details. That was all. There was no reason for her to turn the situation into a drama of mindless proportions with no good reason. She had to get a grip, calm down. She had to find her car and head over to the hospital, to Duncan and to Riley.

Riley.
He was waiting for her. He’d make everything all right. He always did. As the only one of her seven children who had returned to live nearby, she’d come to depend upon him more and more over the years and was genuinely fond of his lovely wife, Kate. And then there were their children, her grandbabies. The twins, Rosie and Daisy were two-and-a-half years old and were growing cheekier by the day. They called her ‘gran’ and offered her toothy smiles while they plastered her with sticky kisses. She loved every minute of it.

Of course, they weren’t her only grandchildren. All five of her sons had offspring. It was only the youngest of her children, her daughters, Josie and Chanel, who were yet to marry and produce grandbabies. Between the five boys, she had ten grandchildren and each and every one of them was dear to her heart. It was just that Riley was the only one close at hand and his toddlers the only ones she saw regularly.

Thinking of her family, her breathing slowed until at last, it was almost regular. The distraction had done her good and little by little, she clawed back her self-control. She’d always prided herself on being cool and collected—in fact, in her nursing days, she’d been renowned for it. She hadn’t managed to work for several years in busy trauma units without knowing how to remain calm in a crisis. Yet, here she was, on the verge of falling apart in the middle of the afternoon on a public street and she still didn’t know what had happened.

Duncan was unconscious. Okay, she could deal with that. Unconscious wasn’t dead. Unconscious could mean anything. Who knows? He may even now be waking up.

With that thought in mind, she blinked hard to clear her vision and drew in another deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she made a more concerted effort to locate her car. A minute later, she spotted it, parked near the escalators that took shoppers into the mall. Hurrying over to it, she dug in her handbag for her keys and breathed a sigh of relief when her fingers closed around them. The hospital was in another part of town, well away from the main street. All of a sudden, she couldn’t get there quickly enough.

CHAPTER THREE

Marguerite

Grafton Base Hospital

Marguerite hurried into the lobby of the Grafton Base Hospital, barely noticing the brightly colored Christmas decorations that hung from the ceiling. She headed straight for the information desk. While she’d never worked there, she knew the hospital well. She volunteered three times a week in the hospital cafeteria. She was a familiar sight on the grounds. The girl manning the desk wore a cheerful Santa hat and smiled upon her approach.

“Mrs Munro, how are you today? Might I say, your hair looks spectacular. I wish I could get that kind of color. Where do you get—”

Marguerite’s smile was strained. “Isabelle, sweetheart, thank you, but I’m in a bit of a rush. My husband’s been admitted to the hospital. Could you please tell me where I can find him?”

Isabelle’s face collapsed in shock and embarrassment. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize. I’ll let you know in just a minute.” The girl quickly tapped on the keyboard in front of her and focused on the computer screen. A moment later, she bit her lip and a frown appeared between her eyes. She looked up and met Marguerite’s anxious gaze.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Munro, he’s in the Intensive Care Unit. It’s up on level three.”

Marguerite’s her heart plummeted at the news. Only the sickest patients were treated in the ICU. Refusing to let the knowledge affect her, she nodded her thanks to Isabelle and headed toward the elevators.

Much too soon or way too long, the elevator
dinged
and opened its doors. She drew in a deep breath and stepped into the quiet corridor. Riley sat hunched in a hard plastic chair outside the door to the ICU. He looked up at her approach. For a moment, relief flooded his face and eased a little of the tension that held his jaw tight. He stood when she reached him and engulfed her in a hug that was tinged with desperation.