The Midwife's Secret Child. Fiona McArthurЧитать онлайн книгу.
pushed on. ‘And we’ll sit in silence for a minute or two just to soak it in—where we are, how long this cavern has been here, and how amazing you all are to do this and still be having fun.’
A few murmurs of pride.
‘After the silence I’ll share an Aboriginal legend I was told about a good spirit from the ocean and a bad spirit from the cave, and how these caves were formed.’
Like good children, one by one they turned out the lights until the darkness fell like a blindfold over them.
Faith closed her eyes. She always found this moment, this silence, incredibly peaceful. The air she breathed felt moist on her nose and throat as she inhaled and she dug her fingers into the damp earth and collected two handfuls of the sleeping riverbed and held them with her eyes shut tight—not that it made any difference, open or shut, in the total dark.
She always felt blessed to have been given this moment in time to embrace the idea of being a part of this river under the earth. Breathing in and out quietly as the silence stretched for several minutes. Nobody fidgeted or spoke until she judged enough time had passed. Then she began to tell the story of the battle of the ancients.
RAIMONDO BRUNO SALVANELLI closed his eyes as Faith’s lilting voice rose from the darkness beside him. He allowed her words to flow over and through him because he’d heard the cave story before, privately, and he wanted to find the peace she’d once told him she found here—for himself.
So, instead of listening to the story, he savoured the cadence of her voice and the reality that she had still been exactly where he’d left her so long ago. Again, he inhaled the oh, so subtle scent of her herbal shampoo and welcomed the warmth in the air from her body so close to his.
The sudden rush of possessiveness he’d felt when he’d first seen her from the tourist shop door had shocked him. An emotion he had no right to, a stranger very briefly in her life almost six years ago, a stranger still, and one who had told her he would never return after he had broken her heart.
That first time had been Sydney Airport where he’d caught her eye, she’d smiled, and he’d instantly invited her to join him when he’d seen her flight had been postponed along with his.
Then, hours later, because still he wasn’t ready to lose his new companion, they’d shared dinner in an airport bar, jostled by other stranded passengers yet alone in their own world of discovery, and she had captivated him. He’d watched her mobile face as she’d described her beautiful Lighthouse Bay. Her work as a midwife, her hobby of cave tours and her love of life.
Their flights had been rescheduled again and they’d spent the night stranded, and then, imprudently, tangled together making love in an airport hotel, lost to the wild weather outside that had grounded their aircraft.
The crazy urgency had grown until he’d done something so out of character, so reckless and impulsive, even years later he was still surprised. He’d changed his flight to match her re-booked one, delayed his return to Italy for two days, followed her home to the house on the cliff for the one night and two days he hadn’t scheduled and found himself lost in unsophisticated and trusting arms.
This was a world of tenderness he hadn’t known since he’d been a child and his parents had been alive.
When she’d taken him the next morning for a personal cave tour before he’d left he’d been captivated again by her passion for the natural wonders she’d shared. Had silently begun to plan to return and see where this craziness between them might lead.
Then the return to sanity from the craziness that had come upon him with Faith. He could have vanished into it for ever if not for that call from his brother—his grandfather lay dying, the man who had raised them since he was seven. The news had been a deluge of cold water that had dashed his dreams and dragged him home to filial duty and deathbed requests. His brother had warned him what lay in store so he had said goodbye to Faith with finality.
Never to return because they were from different worlds. Because of the commitment he’d made to his dying grandfather—one he would never have broken until it had self-destructed—his fault, his ex-wife’s fault and also partly this woman’s fault because his heart had not been available. His new wife had seen that and hardened her own heart even more. Then his twin brother’s tragedy and the need for Raimondo to shoulder the leader’s role until Dominico could recover.
At the time, returning to Australia had seemed impossible. His brother had agreed that the woman he’d had so brief a liaison with would have married by now, then the years had slipped by so fast after his marriage had dissolved—his new direction into a general practice for the needy, and the occasional international aid work, placating his feelings of failure and he didn’t have the time to fly across the world on a whim.
There had never seemed a future, with Faith settled here and him a son of Italy for ever. Had he been wrong?
He would never have come back except for the news he’d heard.
News he hadn’t believed.
News he hadn’t been able to risk not investigating.
It had been the mention of a place called Lighthouse Bay in Australia, in a discussion of a wedding one of his colleagues had attended before she’d returned to Florence.
Raimondo had been drawn like a moth to the flame of that conversation.
‘So, you have seen Lighthouse Bay?’ he’d asked, unable to stop himself.
‘Yes, I have been to two weddings there, now. This wedding in the church and one on the beach. Both very beautiful.’
His colleague had appeared mildly curious that he too had seen the place. Again unable to help himself, he had asked about Faith and the answer had stunned him.
‘Yes, I met many people. And yes!’ There had been an amused glance. ‘In fact, I remember Faith, the bridesmaid, and her little girl—so cute.’
He had not known she had a daughter. ‘So, she’s married then?’
‘No, Mr Puritan. She has a daughter without a husband. The child looked about four or five.’
So he’d come.
And on his first sight of Faith, the woman he’d never forgotten but whose charisma had endured as if she were a distant enchanted dream, he’d felt the swell of an emotion he shouldn’t have. Here he was, sitting on the sandy bed of an ancient river, forty-five metres below the earth’s surface, listening to her so-charming voice as it caressed his ears and wishing he had never left.
That voice was still as restful and as calming. She was as beautiful as he remembered, with her slim but curved body poured into that ridiculous T-shirt and so tight jeans. It proved difficult to resist the urge to slide his fingers through the damp earth and find her hand to take in his, as he had when she’d brought him on a private tour of this place.
His empty hand could even remember the warmth and softness of her small fingers interlaced with his from all that time ago. How could that be? He didn’t know. What he did know was that he had not planned well.
A week would not be long enough.
He knew that now from his first sight of her, the way his whole being had come alive from what felt like a deep sleep. And that was without the added possibility that they shared a child.
Faith. He’d lost her and her conviction in the goodness of others and perhaps he would find both again in this place of dark caves and far oceans. He’d forgotten so much about her and he wanted to learn it all over again.
Which would require some negotiation with the life he’d