The Christmas Vigil Read online

  Don’t be ridiculous, she chastised herself. he’s your father, no different to the man you saw when you were home during the Spring Break. He’s had an accident, a bleed on the brain. That’s all.

  An older nurse with short, dark hair opened the door in response to the buzzer and asked if she could help.

  “I’m Marguerite Munro and this is my daughter, Chanel. We’d like to see Duncan Munro.”

  “Of course, Mrs Munro. You’re welcome to visit. At this stage, however, we’re still asking that you come in one at a time and that you limit your visit to ten minutes.”

  “Of course. I understand,” her mother replied before turning to look at Chanel. “You go ahead, darling. I’ll wait out here.”

  “No, Mom. You go in first. I don’t mind waiting.”

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. I saw him yesterday. I know how much you want to see him. I’ll go in after you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course. You won’t be long. I’ll go in when you finish.”

  Chanel looked at her mother closely, but she appeared to be holding herself together. With a little shrug, Chanel leaned over and gave her a quick hug and then followed the nurse into the ward.

  The smell was as familiar and comforting as the bedroom her mother still kept for her at home. Being in her final year of med school, Chanel had spent countless hours pounding the corridors during her practical blocks in the hospitals around Brisbane. The feel, the smell, the mood of a hospital never failed to stir her. They were places that ran the whole gamut of emotions: from joy at the birth of a baby to sadness and despair at a death. She loved every minute she spent in them. She couldn’t wait until she was working as an intern and calling the sterile, white corridors home.

  Of course, it was different when the patient was someone she knew—not only knew, but loved and cherished and adored. Being in a hospital under those circumstances was a world apart from being there in the capacity of a doctor. The thought sobered her. When the nurse came to a halt in front of a bed, Chanel drew in a deep breath.

  He looked smaller than she remembered, which was weird. She’d only seen him a couple of months ago. He couldn’t have shrunk in that time. She supposed it was because he looked so weak and lifeless, lying still and silent on the bed. Mindful of the bandages that swaddled his head, she stepped closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek, relieved to feel it warm beneath her lips.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she whispered and then blinked back a rush of tears. This was her father, the man who commanded every room he entered. His booming voice could reach from one end to the other and his laughter was just as loud. He was vibrant, charismatic, alive. The man on the bed in front of her was anything but.

  She’d expected it, of course. She’d seen her fair share of sick people, even seriously ill people, like him. But this was her father. He wasn’t just another patient requiring treatment. He wasn’t just another patient who might or might not pull through…

  With a soft sigh, she dragged the solitary visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sat. A moment later, unable to help herself, she stood again and moved to the end of the bed where her father’s chart sat in a plastic holder. Flipping it open, she scanned the hospital notes made by the staff on her father’s condition.

  She was reassured to see his vital signs had remained stable since he’d been brought in by ambulance the day before. His neurological responses were all within normal limits. Although he’d suffered a serious bleed when the artery ruptured, it appeared there were no long-term effects from the emergency and it was expected he’d regain consciousness.

  Chanel’s shoulders slumped with relief. The notes painted a positive outcome. It seemed there was nothing more to do but wait. Regaining her seat, she reached over and squeezed her father’s hand and was a little disappointed when there was no response. She wanted to talk with him. She refused to believe he’d been unfaithful to her mother, but it would be nice for him to open his eyes and confirm it.

  Aware that her mother was waiting outside, she stood and leaned over the bed and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “We’re all here for you, Daddy. We’re all waiting for you to wake. Get well, Daddy, please. I love you.” With a final squeeze of his hand, she left him to his solitude.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Marguerite

  Grafton Base Hospital

  Marguerite followed the nurse into the ICU and braced herself for what was to come. She’d left the hospital last night, when visiting hours had come to an end and was now apprehensive about what she might find. On her way out, Chanel had reassured her he was doing fine, but nothing changed the fact he was still in a coma and no one could tell her when he might wake up.

  Her nursing training told her this wasn’t unexpected and didn’t necessarily indicate a negative outcome, but this was her husband, the man she’d loved for more than two-thirds of her life. She didn’t want vague reassurances or well-meaning platitudes from strangers. She wanted him to open his eyes and smile and tell her he loved her and that no matter what, he’d never, ever cheat on her.

  She bit her lip against a fresh surge of emotion and clung to Chanel’s suggestion. It made sense. It made perfect sense. And it wasn’t the first time. He’d surprised her in the past—not often, but it had happened. She could still remember years ago, when he’d done something similar to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary.

  It was more than possible he’d been going to do it again. The signs all pointed to it. It made far more sense than the suggestion he was cheating on her. That made no sense at all.

  Why else would he be in a hotel room with items so blatantly sexual? Lingerie? Massage oil? A single red rose and champagne? Their wedding anniversary had come and gone months ago. For the first time, he’d forgotten all about it. She’d been too upset to remind him, but could he have been trying to make it up to her? Was he preoccupied with, or seeing another woman…? Or was it merely as Chanel had suggested—an early celebration of Christmas meant for Marguerite and him?

  With a sigh, she followed the nurse into the ward. A few moments later, Marguerite spied Duncan where she’d left him. He was still pasty, like he’d been yesterday, but that wasn’t surprising. Though it had been years since she’d worked in a hospital, she hadn’t forgotten what it looked like to be gravely ill. No one survived a ruptured aneurysm and met you the very next day sitting upright in bed with a smile.

  She moved closer and laid her hand against his cheek. Leaning across him, she kissed him softly on the lips and breathed him in. Only the faintest whiff of his cologne teased her nose. Mostly, he smelled like the hospital, the same smell of harsh disinfectant that permeated the temperature-controlled air.

  Her fingers slid across his cheek and rasped against his stubble. She’d watched him shave only yesterday morning as she’d been dressing for the day, but already his beard was growing back. Her father had been the same, often grumbling that he needed to shave twice a day to remain looking fresh and presentable.

  At the memory, a sad smile tugged her lips slightly upward. She hadn’t thought of her father in years. Her parents had been horrified when she’d announced she was marrying Duncan. That seemed like a lifetime ago…

  She’d met him late one Saturday night while working in the Emergency Room of a busy Sydney hospital. He’d walked in off the street, bleeding profusely from a nasty gash on his forehead. He’d told her he’d been celebrating at an office Christmas party and had fallen down the stairs. Though she smelled alcohol on his breath, he swore he wasn’t drunk.

  He’d shot her a crooked smile, his dark chocolate eyes full of mischief. She’d been drawn to him by some invisible force and it had been all she could do to concentrate on cleaning his wound and readying him for the doctor.

  When it was time to put the stitches in, he’d asked her to hold his hand. By the time he’d been ready for discharge, she’d fallen head over heels in love. A few months later, Duncan got down on one knee and proposed.


  They’d told her parents together. Marguerite had braced herself for a fight. It wasn’t that they thought her too young—at twenty-five they were more than happy for her to find a husband and it wasn’t that they disapproved of Duncan’s job. As a young and ambitious lawyer employed in a prestigious law firm in Sydney, he was more than qualified to support their much-loved, and only daughter.

  The problem lay with the color of his skin and the fact that Duncan’s parents were aboriginal. His family originated from a small country town in the far west of New South Wales. He’d been born and raised in Bourke and after receiving a scholarship, he’d been sent to boarding school in Sydney.

  It was at the prestigious Scot’s College where he met and befriended many of the men who would ultimately become influential in his life, including those who supported his upward progress in the law. He was still friends with many of the Old Boys and regularly kept in contact.

  But none of that mattered to her parents. They refused to see past his heritage. Their narrow-minded, bigoted attitude infuriated and saddened her, but it didn’t change her mind. Three months after Duncan proposed, he told her he’d been offered a job in Grafton. He was to join the partnership of an old established firm, with a view to buying the existing partner out when he retired.

  Enjoying the idea of one day having a firm to call his own, he was keen to give it a try. She’d never been out of Sydney, but she was happy to go wherever he chose. All she wanted was to be with him.

  They married in a Registry Office in Sydney, a week before they were due to leave. She’d invited her parents, but they’d politely declined. Their regrets had been sent on her mother’s personal, gold embossed stationary. They were nothing if not well mannered.

  She’d tried not to let their attitude affect her and had been determined to enjoy her day. A couple of nursing friends stood beside her; Duncan had two of his mates from school. They’d celebrated a wedding feast at a local restaurant with plenty of fresh seafood and champagne. Except for the dull ache left by the absence of her parents, she’d never in her life been happier. A month later, after settling in Grafton and finding a house to live, she sent her parents a letter and signed it Marguerite Munro. She never heard from them again.

  It had been forty years and yet they’d never once tried to contact her. She’d heard through various friends and relatives that they were both still alive and faring well, living in a retirement village not far from where she’d been raised. It saddened her that they’d never known their grandchildren and had missed so much of their lives. Still, it had been their choice. They’d made it clear it was either them or Duncan; she’d never once regretted her decision.

  The memory of the hotel room and the things that had been found there intruded into her mind. The tiniest trickle of doubt crept into her heart. Surely, it couldn’t be true? She couldn’t have been betrayed by the man for whom she’d given up so much. He loved her as much as she loved him. He was the moon, she was the stars. They went together like night and day and it had always been that way. It all couldn’t be a farce. She simply refused to believe it and yet…

  A moan of anguish forced its way up through the tension in her belly. She clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth but the harsh sob persisted. She grasped the hand that lay pale and still on the bedsheet right beside her and held it hard against her cheek. Hot tears ran down her face. As if suddenly giving herself permission, she cried and she cried and she cried.

  Her fingers tightened on her husband’s in an effort to stem the flood. A movement snagged her attention and she gasped mid-sob. His fingers had moved! She was sure of it! She dragged his hand down lower and tightened her fingers again, watching closely for the slightest sign that he felt her hand around his.

  And there it was again: The tiniest bending of his fingers. Her sobs came harder and she cried out in relief. Hugging him awkwardly to her, she murmured his name in a litany of pain and love and release.

  He was waking up. He really was! He was going to be okay.

  * * *

  Duncan fought his way through the weight of thick molasses that held him weighted down. He’d dreamed his baby girl was by his side. He could have sworn he’d heard Chanel’s voice, calling to him from afar, but then she was gone and he could only surmise he’d imagined it.

  He thought of Marguerite and wondered once again why she hadn’t stopped by. Surely, she wasn’t one of the doubters? No, it was ridiculous for him to even think that way. She’d never believe he could cheat on her. She was his life. She was his everything, just as he was hers. It had always been that way. For forty years, it had been that way.

  His thoughts snagged on Susan and he frowned. In his excitement and haste to get to the hotel, he’d forgotten all about the painting. He stirred restlessly, trying once again to push past the fog.

  “Susan…Susan… Must see…Susan.”

  * * *

  Marguerite’s mouth gaped open in shock. She couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Not only had Duncan moved his fingers, he’d just gasped another woman’s name. Blood rushed through her veins and pounded in her ears. She must have misheard him. Surely he couldn’t speak around that tube? She must have been mistaken. Besides, why would her husband call out another woman’s name?

  Fear clawed at her insides and her belly cramped with dread. Had she been mistaken, after all? Was Duncan seeing someone else? The thought left her more terrified than when the doctor had told her she had a malignant tumor in her breast. Pain seared her from the inside out and it was all she could do not to cry out. She wanted to escape, to run as far away as she could, but her feet remained frozen in place.

  With a desperate gasp, she swiped at her tears and shouted for the nurse. The woman came running and in garbled sentences, Marguerite told her what she’d seen and heard, although she kept the exact words to herself. The next few moments were a blur of movement as doctors and nurses checked vital and neurological signs in an effort to determine if it were true.

  At last, Marguerite’s legs started moving and she stepped back to keep out of the way of the medical staff to allow them to do their job. She understood that better than most. Dread warred with elation when she thought of what they’d find. She hadn’t imagined the movement. Duncan was regaining consciousness.

  Within hours, he’d be talking.

  Within hours, she’d know the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Duncan

  Grafton Base Hospital

  Duncan was swimming through treacle, striving hard to move closer to the light. His legs and arms were so heavy, it was like he was barely moving and yet there was an urgency inside him that forced him to keep going. His head felt like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer and his eyes burned with pain. He struggled to open them, but couldn’t seem to make them work. He clenched his fists, his jaw, his toes, but it was all too much effort. With a sigh of defeat, he slipped back into the darkness.

  He dreamed of Marguerite and how she’d looked the night he met her. Even in her regulation navy nurse’s uniform, she was beautiful. Her white blond hair had been pulled back into a bun that sat softly at the back of her neck. A few tendrils had escaped and curled around her face and his fingers had itched to touch them. He stumbled through an explanation as to how he’d come to be injured. He could tell she didn’t believe him, but when she smiled, her face lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Even in his inebriated state, her eyes looked bluer than the sea. Clear and guileless and innocent, they’d sparkled with life and good humor. She even managed to keep a straight face when he told her he wasn’t drunk.

  “I might have had one or two,” he conceded, “but I really had no choice. It was a Christmas party, after all. What could I do? The partners expected it of me.”

  She’d lifted one perfectly groomed eyebrow, a couple of shades darker than her hair. “The partners? And who might they be that you felt this…obligation to partake in several libations?”

  A smile had tugged at t
he corners of her full lips and it had been all he could do not to laugh. It was either that or kiss her, and given that they were in the middle of the Emergency Room and she was his treating nurse, he didn’t think such a course of action was wise. Or, that she’d appreciate it.

  Instead, he explained how he was a lawyer in a rather large firm downtown and that he had a certain…obligation to join with his colleagues in some Christmas cheer. “Just one or two, mind you,” he added and had then spoiled it by almost toppling off the bed.

  She’d merely smiled and helped him upright, her hands cool and soothing on his heated skin. At the contact, her body stilled too, and he’d forced back a surge of satisfaction: She wasn’t as immune to him as she appeared.

  When she tilted back his chin for a better look at the gash, he’d cataloged her perfect features. He took the time to savor each one until a blush stole across her cheeks. She dropped her hands and cleared her throat and mumbled something about finding the doctor. It was like the sun moved behind the clouds when she hurriedly walked away.

  From the moment she first touched him, blood had flowed to his groin. She left him hard and wanting, made worse by the knowledge there was nothing he could do about it. He wanted her, but more than that, he wanted to know her: He wanted to know everything about her. He already knew her name. He’d seen it on her badge: Marguerite Riley, Registered Nurse.

  Marguerite. The name rolled off his tongue: rare, exotic, beautiful—just like her.

  His brothers would chide him and tell him she was way out of his league and maybe they’d be right, but he’d always been a fighter and he’d never given up on going after what he wanted. It was one of the reasons he’d done so well in his legal career. He was ambitious and determined and yet still managed to live by his own internal compass: The end didn’t always justify the means.