LITMIR.BIZ

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weren’t letting him off the hook.

      ‘We might need you,’ Sally said, casting a questioning glance at Marge. ‘We’re so pleased you’re all coming. We were sort of hoping to meet one of you.’

      ‘I doubt I’m much good at delivering wombats,’ he said, and the thought had him relaxing a little. The sunlight glinted on his dark hair. His eyes were narrowed against the sun, and he looked suddenly at ease.

      Why had he been defensive at first? What had he thought, Jessie wondered—that she and Dusty were somehow intending on intruding on his private space? Or … She glanced at Dusty and then at Ben. The similarities were really marked. Maybe he’d seen.

      ‘We have a dog,’ Marge said, a bit shamefaced. ‘A pug. She’s sort of … pregnant.’

      ‘She’s very pregnant,’ Sally retorted. Sally was a wiry little woman with a mop of grey curls, considerably younger than her friend. Late sixties? ‘Dogs aren’t allowed on the island, but Pokey is fat and quiet and no threat to anything. She belongs to Marge’s sister, but Hilda had to go into a nursing home last month. Having her put down would have broken her heart. And because we run the shelter …’

      ‘We sort of sneaked her in,’ Marge admitted. ‘There’s three of us there, Sally and Dianne and me. The rules about animals on the island are strict—and good—but in this case we thought it wouldn’t hurt to hide her. But then she started to get fat.’ She sighed. ‘Or fatter. And now …’

      ‘She’s definitely pregnant,’ Sally said. ‘So we’re sort of in trouble. And if she gets into trouble we have no vet.’

      ‘You have no vet on the island—and you’re a wildlife refuge?’ Ben said, clearly confounded.

      ‘We’ve done specialist wildlife training,’ Marge said, with a touch of reproof. ‘Sally and Dianne and I, we pooled our money to set this place up. We plan to stay here until we die; it’s our dream retirement. We have a vet come over once a week, and we can do most things. But we can’t afford for him to come every day. And we sort of haven’t told him about Pokey.’

      ‘He might say she shouldn’t stay,’ Sally added, and Jess intercepted a worried glance at her friend. There were problems, Jess thought. Undercurrents. The words We plan to stay here until we die had been said almost with defiance. But then Sally caught herself and gave a rueful smile and the moment was past. ‘Okay, he would say she shouldn’t stay,’ she conceded. ‘Marge’s daughter’s coming home from New York after Christmas and we hope she’ll take her, but meanwhile we need to care for her. We’re worried,’ she conceded. ‘Native animals don’t have trouble giving birth. Joeys, baby kangaroos, wombats, possums are born tiny. If Pokey gets into trouble we don’t know what to do.’

      ‘But then we found out about the obstetrician conference,’ Marge said. ‘So we thought we’d find a nice-looking doctor and confess. And you … you look kind.’

      Silence. Did he look kind? Jess wondered. An Oaklander? Kind? Hardly.

      ‘My mum’s an obstetrician, too,’ Dusty said into the silence, and then there was even more silence.

      Jess and Ben … Two obstetricians and one pregnant pug.

      Two elderly ladies looked defiant but hopeful. Jess started feeling exposed.

      ‘You’re here for the conference, too?’ Ben asked Jess at last, and the wariness was back in his voice.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I’m not stealing your patient.’ She managed a smile. ‘Pokey is all yours.’

      He didn’t laugh.

      He was wary, Jess thought, and maybe not just of being pulled into an illegal dog-birth situation. She saw him glance at Dusty.

      Definitely wary.

      ‘It’s okay,’ Jess said. ‘We’re not about to intrude on your privacy.’

      Why had she said that?

      It was just that … his body language was all about protecting himself. He was acting as if she and Dusty and maybe also these ladies and their weird animals were a threat.

      Familiar anger started surging. Kind? Ha. He was an Oaklander.

      She was reminded suddenly of the night she’d told Nate she was pregnant. He’d closed down. Backed off. Disclaimed responsibility.

      The Oaklander specialty.

      ‘If your mother’s going to the conference, what will you do?’ Sally asked Dusty, seemingly unaware of the undercurrents running between Jess and Ben. Between Ben and everyone. The assumption was that the question of Pokey had been solved. The belief was that Ben would help.

      Would he?

      ‘I’ll play on my computer,’ Dusty said, switching instantly to martyr mode. His specialty. ‘I have to do that when Mum has to work and I can’t go out. Mum says there’ll be a hotel person to sit with me. Whoever that is. It’s okay. I’m used to it.’

      Uh-oh. All eyes—including Dusty-the-Martyr’s—gazed at her with reproach. She could feel herself flushing. Neglectful mother, abandoning child to uncaring hotel person and mindless computer games.

      Guilt …

      She’d checked there was a child minding service before she’d come. She and Dusty had talked about it. They’d go to the beach early and she’d skip less important conference sessions. Dusty wouldn’t suffer.

      ‘Try being a single mother yourself,’ she muttered under her breath, and practically glowered.

      But Dusty was soaking it up. Pathetic-R-Us. ‘It’s okay,’ he said again, manfully. ‘I don’t really mind.’

      ‘Would you like to help us in the wildlife centre?’ Sally asked Dusty. Taking pity on The Orphan.

      ‘We can use some help,’ Marge agreed, smiling at The Orphan as well. ‘That is, if you like animals. Your mum could walk you over to the refuge in the mornings before the conference and pick you up afterwards. It’s not too far. If you think you’d enjoy it …’

      ‘We look after lots of things,’ Sally told him. ‘Possums, echidnas, kangaroos, goannas, birds, turtles; there’s always work to do. You look like the sort of boy who’d enjoy helping.’

      So they’d seen his hunger.

      Dusty’s fascination with animals had started early. Even as a toddler, he’d been fascinated with the photographs of his mother’s childhood. His grandma’s cat who’d died just before she did was the extent of Dusty’s hands-on animal contact, but he’d read it all, and now, even while he was playing the neglected orphan, he hadn’t taken his eyes from the baby wombat. He’d known instantly what it was. He knew his animals.

      ‘If it’s okay with your mother,’ Marge said, and it was still there, that faint accusation. Abandoning your child …

      ‘It must be hard to be a doctor and a mum as well,’ Ben said suddenly, and she glanced up at him in surprise. She’d been carefully not looking at him, expecting the same accusation. But instead what she got was almost … empathy?

      ‘Patients don’t understand that doctors have families,’ he said gently. ‘Emergencies don’t always happen in school hours. And if Dusty’s mother wants to keep up with the latest developments in obstetrics so she can give her mothers the best of care, then she needs to undertake professional development. Like coming to this conference. I’d imagine coming with his mum would be much more fun for Dusty than leaving him behind.’

      ‘Yes,’ Dusty said, finally abandoning the pathetic. ‘Mum went to a course last school holidays and I had to stay with Mum’s Aunty Rhonda for three whole days. And she made me eat roast beef and soggy vegetables for three days in a row. Coming here’s better than that.’

      There was a general chuckle.

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