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He guessed what she wanted to ask but was clearly holding back. ‘You want me to play the cello at her wedding?’
‘Only if you want to. Not if it’s going to be…’ She paused. ‘If it’s going to be difficult for you.’
Being part of her family? Rhys stopped, spun her round to face him and brushed his mouth over hers. ‘If you want me to play, of course I’ll do it. Tell her to pick whatever she likes—no, I’ll tell her that myself. Just as long as I have time to practise and polish any pieces I don’t already know.’
He’d go to her cousin’s wedding. Play the cello during the ceremony. Let her family draw him into the charmed circle.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d ask Katrina a question of his own. In the new year. When he’d sorted out a few things in his head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE first hurdle was two days before New Year. A day Rhys loathed. Even after all these years, he found his skin always was a bit too thin on that day. The anniversary of his little sister Gwyneth’s death. He knew he ought to tell Katrina about it, but he just didn’t have the words. Maybe tomorrow, he told himself, when things were less raw again. And he managed to act as if things were completely normal—until the middle of his shift, when a six-week-old baby was admitted with pneumonia.
The coincidence was harsh enough, but it was one he’d faced before and knew he could deal with. What he couldn’t deal with was what happened right at the end of his shift—when the baby’s mother, clearly worried sick, was shouting at her little boy. Blaming him for bringing home the virus that had made little Felicity ill and caused her to be susceptible enough to pick up pneumonia on top of it. The little boy’s face was white, pinched, and he was weeping silently.
And Rhys, remembering the child he’d been and the way he’d felt, was furious. He just about kept a lid on his temper as he strode into the cubicle. ‘Problem?’ he asked abruptly.
Mrs Walters stared at him, clearly shocked at the way he’d walked straight in, but the stethoscope hanging round his neck and his hospital ID card pinned to his shirt told her she was dealing with a senior doctor—one who wouldn’t be fobbed off. Though she was obviously too angry to let it check her. ‘Of course there’s a problem! My daughter’s lying there, seriously ill. You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?’
Rhys wasn’t bothered by her rudeness, but he was bothered by the little boy’s tears. Today of all days. He was aware that his fists were clenched in anger, and deliberately flexed his hands. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘we need a word in my office.’ He glanced around—luckily Lynne was in the bay opposite. ‘Lynne?’ he said to the nurse. ‘Can you do me a favour and keep an eye on Felicity and her brother for me?’
‘Simon’s not going anywhere,’ the woman said.
‘No, but you and I are. And your little boy’s already upset—he doesn’t need to hear this,’ he said.
Mrs Walters’s face whitened—clearly she thought he was going to tell her something drastic about Felicity’s condition. And although Rhys knew he ought to do the decent thing and reassure her before they went left Felicity’s cubicle, right at that moment he wasn’t feeling particularly nice. Not after the way the woman had treated her little boy. It was too close to his own childhood experience. So he merely shepherded her to his office and closed the door behind them.
‘Mrs Walters, I realise you’re upset because Felicity’s ill, but shouting at your son isn’t going help make her better. She needs quiet and rest—as do the other children on the ward.’
She lifted her chin, looking belligerent. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ she said. ‘I’m going to report you.’
‘You do that,’ Rhys said, knowing it was an empty threat—he’d done nothing wrong. ‘But I suggest you focus your thoughts a little closer to home first. Felicity should recover without any lasting effects, though she’s likely to pick up coughs and colds a bit more easily than most little ones for the next year or so. So although it’s worrying for you, seeing her in here—and she’ll get a little bit worse before she improves, because that’s the nature of the disease—she’ll be on the mend very soon.’ He folded his arms. ‘What I’m concerned about is your little boy. Even though we try to make our ward as comfortable as possible for children, the hospital’s still a very scary place for them. Simon’s already worried about his baby sister, seeing her here in hospital. You’ve shouted at him and told him that it’s all his fault, so he’s probably feeling scared and guilty as well right now.’
