The Marry-Me Wish by Alison Roberts Page B

a bit of fresh air and escape four walls that were closing both her body and mind into an unfamiliar, and very unwelcome, prison.
    Good call, she congratulated herself a short time later. She felt better already, even if the bright light was hurting eyes that had been bathed in far too much salty fluid today.
    Planning a route for this gentle walk was too hard. Her brain was crying out for a rest. An escape from sadthoughts and decision-making. With a sigh of relief, Anne surrendered to just following her feet, content to enjoy the warmth and the colours in the pockets of the inner-city gardens she passed. For the first time in her life, she actually had the chance to stop and smell the roses.
    That had to be another good thing, surely?
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    He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
    The way she’d been lying, alone on that hospital bed, radiating unhappiness.
    He’d been contributing to that misery, hadn’t he? The feeling of distance between them was all too familiar. He’d pushed and pushed to try and get what he’d wanted in the past and all he’d achieved had been to push her so far away he’d lost her.
    With an outward breath verging on a sigh, David tapped a finger on the X-ray image on the screen.
    â€˜Right there, see? Probably a stress fracture. Not major but it’ll be causing the pain. She needs to go to the bone shop and get a cast on.’
    â€˜She won’t be happy. She’s training for a triathalon.’
    David grimaced, unconsciously rolling his head to try and ease the ache between his shoulder blades. ‘Try telling her that exercise is overrated.’
    His junior colleague grinned. ‘You still suffering, then?’
    â€˜I think it’s getting worse. I’m seizing up.’
    â€˜Keep moving, then,’ the registrar advised cheekily, trying to stifle his amusement. ‘It’s the best cure for soft-tissue injuries.’
    â€˜No. The best cure is prevention.’ David straightened his back with a groan. ‘Which is why I’m going to finda landscaping firm to come and tame that jungle that used to be my garden. Know anyone with a bulldozer?’
    â€˜Talk to Di on the front desk. I think her son is some kind of gardener.’
    â€˜I’ll do that. Thanks. Was there anything else you needed to talk to me about?’
    â€˜No. Sorry to hold you up. It’s past home time for you, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Sure is.’ David took a final glance around the department. He eyed a telephone on the triage desk and once again the thought of Anne crossed his mind.
    It wouldn’t hurt to call, would it? Just to see how she was doing?
    No. He turned towards the reception area instead, intent on tracking down the woman who might have an expert gardener for a son. Anne wouldn’t want to talk to him. Not yet, anyway. In a week or two, maybe, when she had recovered a bit more from the birth.
    The desire to talk to her was getting stronger every day, along with a faint hope that they could possibly salvage some kind of friendship from the ruins of the relationship they’d had. One that would give him a new base from which to move forward. One that wasn’t built on anger and hurt and loss.
    He could afford to wait. His two days off had made him realise what an enormous job it was going to be trying to get his property in shape to do well on the market. The garden was impenetrable in places and while he’d actually enjoyed wielding a pickaxe and clippers, despite the aftereffects on his body, he hadn’t made much progress.
    And the garden was only part of what needed to bedone. Trying to distract himself from thinking about Anne when he wasn’t sweating outside had led him to wandering around the big house, cataloging tasks that needed attention inside. Plumbing needed work. There was dry rot in some of the windowsills. The paint and wallpaper were tired to the point of being shabby but if they were