Children's Doc to Heal Her Heart
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Annie Claydon
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CHAPTER ONE
REBA RUSHES IN where angels fear to tread... Rebekah Sloane’s friends made the joke on a relatively regular basis, and usually she laughed and agreed with them. But right now she wasn’t laughing.
She had rushed in, wanting this job because she knew that it would be challenging. When the position of music therapist in the paediatric department of the London and Surrey hospital had become vacant, it had been decided to expand the role from one day a week to two. Reba had sent off her CV, along with a hastily prepared document outlining some ideas for how she might make use of the extra time. She’d been interviewed by the head of rehabilitation services at the hospital and offered the post almost immediately, which Reba reckoned was not so much an indication that her skills were so much better than any other music therapist, but that there were precious few applicants who were willing to put their heads into a lion’s mouth for a living.
But if she didn’t take on the most difficult jobs, and her interview had left her in no doubt that this would be difficult, then how would she ever know what she was capable of doing? Her father had drummed that piece of wisdom into Reba from a very early age, although medicine wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind as a career for his only child.
Working with children was always challenging, and that was one of the reasons why Reba loved it so much. Filling the shoes of the previous music therapist, who’d been highly respected and attached to the ward for the last twenty years, made things even harder. The tragic circumstances in which her predecessor had died meant that Reba was going to have to be sensitive and respectful in what she did. She’d been fully prepared for that, by the hospital’s grassroots network and her new boss when he’d called her in for a chat before he’d put the final paperwork through the system.
But nobody—not one single person—had thought to prepare her for Dr John Thornton. He rose from his seat, grabbing a pile of papers from the chair opposite his desk so that she could sit down, and suddenly all that Reba could think of was that she’d omitted a very important entry on her list of challenges and solutions.
She could accept gorgeous and move on. Work had taught her how to face challenges, think outside the box and find ways forward. Life hadn’t prepared her for someone who made all of the hairs stand up on the back of her neck and her fingers tingle.
He introduced himself, mentioning almost in passing that he was head of department here. And then he retreated behind his desk, taking his heady scent, his spectacular body and that gorgeous kissable mouth with him. Beyond reach. That was actually something of a relief.
‘I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to meet up before now. Welcome to the department.’
‘Thank you.’ Reba smiled, and then decided she was probably smiling too much and straightened her face. ‘I’m really looking forward to being here.’
‘And that’ll be Tuesdays and Fridays.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I work with private patients for the rest of the time. I gather that your previous music therapist was here for one day a week.’
‘Yes, we’ve only recently received funding to increase that to two. We’re all looking forward to working with you in expanding the role of music therapy in the department.’
Yeah. He was saying all of the right things but there wasn’t any sincerity in his tone. He looked down at the copy of her CV that he’d plucked from one of the piles of files and papers on his desk, suddenly freeing Reba of the dilemma of deciding whether his eyes were grey or blue. Whatever colour, they were entrancing, and she’d noticed the dark rings beneath them as well. She’d bet they’d taken more than one sleepless night to form.
‘Rebekah Sloane. No relation to Hans Sloane, the pianist?’
Good. A much-asked question that had a very simple answer, as long as no one thought too deeply about the realities of the situation. Most people worked that out from the blurb about her education, which skimmed as tactfully as possible over her chaotic childhood, travelling between the world’s greatest cities, immersed in the all-encompassing belief that music was the key to almost everything.
‘Actually, he’s my father.’
He was still scanning the paper in front of him. ‘And you play the piano yourself, I see.’
‘Yes, I do, but when I’m working I find that sitting behind a keyboard sometimes separates me a little from the people I’m playing for. The violin’s my first love, and it’s much more portable as well.’
‘This isn’t a second interview but... I’m just interested...’ He seemed to want permission to ask questions. That was fine with Reba, she had any number of answers.
‘Yes?’ She smiled encouragingly.
‘What you do seems very different from a concert hall, where you’re shushed if you don’t keep quiet. You’re looking for reactions.’
That was generally one of her answers. Dr John Thornton was perceptive, and she should concentrate on what he said, rather than letting those beautiful lips claim her attention.
‘That’s right. It’s one of the reasons why I love playing sea shanties and folk songs, along with popular songs, because it’s really hard not to join in and tap your feet. Although I know a little boy who loves Bach and has a whole robotic dance routine worked out to the Ode to Joy.’
That made him smile. ‘That’s not what music therapy is really about though, is it? Entertaining.’
‘No, but it’s my way in. Music reaches people, and who better to reach than a seven-year-old in hospital?’ Hans would disagree with her there. Maybe if she’d grown up calling him Daddy then there would be some distinction between the father and the pianist, but Hans had always seemed like a much-loved mentor. She’d worked with what she had, trying to ignore the hurt over his obvious disappointment at her career choice.
It wasn’t like Reba to allow her mind to wander during a business meeting, and she swallowed down the temptation to meet his gaze and tell him everything about herself. ‘Isn’t a connection what every medical professional seeks to establish? It doesn’t really matter how someone does it, just that they do.’
There was something about the wry smile he gave in reply, which emphasised the gaunt lines on his face, and told Reba that John Thornton had been reaching out a little too much recently. That he was exhausted and too hurt to maintain his engagement with the people around him. She wondered if anyone had suggested he take a break and find a quiet place to let the sounds of the world flow past him, instead of blowing through him like a hurricane.
‘Yes, you’re right. Cathy had a very different way of working but...that’s not really relevant, is it? No one wants to be told how their predecessor did things differently on their first day in a job.’
That she had an answer for. ‘I still have plenty to learn. When I find that I can’t take anything from the way that other people do things then I’ll reckon I need to give this job up. And I’m very conscious of the need for continuity.’
He smiled suddenly. The first real smile she’d seen from him.
‘Cathy may have used slightly different techniques from the ones you’re outlining, but her approach was essentially the same as yours. She used who she was to connect with her patients.’
He was fiddling with one of the pens on his desk, and there was more he wanted to say. Reba waited. One of the things that Hans had taught her was that it was best to get your emotions off your chest. It was a good principle, although Hans’ habit of shouting at the top of his voice wasn’t always the best way to do it.
‘I’m sure you already know what happened with Cathy...’
Reba didn’t nod. Everyone had their own story to tell about any given situation, and it was clear that John was no exception to that.
‘She’d been here for many years, and was very well liked. Cathy had a massive cardiac event in the staff break room here and even though there were doctors on hand, myself included, we couldn’t save her. It’s been difficult for everyone here.’
‘I can only imagine.’
‘But that’s something we need to deal with, and we’re doing so. The recent amendment in structure means that I’m not your line manager and you report direct to the head of rehabilitation, but the staff on the ward here are my responsibility. I’d like to work with you to make sure everything goes smoothly.’
It was nice of him to address the elephant in the room and just come out and say what everyone had gone around the houses in an effort to say tactfully. It would make broaching the subject much easier if she ever needed to. But still his gaunt face and embattled air was ringing alarm bells at the back of Reba’s mind.
‘I’m sure there’ll be no problems...’ She’d fallen into the habit of papering over the cracks and that wasn’t true. Reba had been told outright that there might be problems, and she’d prepared herself for that. The flash of his grey-blue eyes told her that he wasn’t buying it either.
Reba shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m sure there may be one or two. But I’m determined to make this work, for me and for you. I think one of the ways I can do that is to accept that everyone would rather not be in the situation of needing a new music therapist, and not take that too personally. Maybe let them get to know me a bit and go from there.’
‘Sounds like a constructive start.’ His guarded smile crashed against her defences. ‘I may be able to contribute something to that. Joanne’s our trainee administrator, and when she steps fully into the job she’ll be the one to greet new staff and take them on a tour. I asked her to write something up for me as an exercise and she’s made a good job of it...’
He was obviously waiting for her reaction, and it occurred to Reba that this might be her first test. ‘I’m used to being shown the way to the therapy room and left to get on with things. If Joanne would give me her tour I’d really appreciate it.’
Right answer. John nodded, reaching for the phone and then pausing. ‘If you have any clinical questions, or want to know how things are supposed to work, then my door’s always open. If you want to know how things actually work then Joanne’s probably the one to ask.’
‘Thanks, that’ll save me some time. It usually takes me at least a couple of days to find the person in any department who knows how everything works.’
He nodded. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to raise with me, Rebekah?’
‘Nothing else. Apart from saying that most people call me Reba.’ Rebekah always sounded as if she was in trouble about something, because generally when Hans called her that she was.
He nodded, picking up the phone and dialling an extension number. ‘Joanne, Rebekah’s here and I’m wondering whether you’ll be able to give her the grand tour...’
What’s in a name? It was probably just a slip of the tongue, but there was something in the way that John had called her Rebekah that said he was being careful to keep his distance. Maybe he was putting an emphasis on the idea that he wasn’t her line manager, by maintaining a degree of formality. Or maybe something behind those beautiful, haunted eyes was telling her that she shouldn’t get too close. He’d delivered the perfect welcome chat, and Reba was suddenly conscious that it had been all about how she felt, and he had never once betrayed his own feelings.
Rebekah. It was a lovely name, the old-fashioned spelling making it delightfully hers. But he should remember to call her Reba in future, since that was her preference. John swung his office chair back and forth, staring out of the window. Anyone who passed her in the street might say that she was beautiful, but that wouldn’t be doing her justice. She was striking, with bright blue eyes and hair that was almost black, tied up at the back of her head in a slightly spiky arrangement that seemed to defy the laws of gravity. Her jaw was a little too broad and decisive and her gaze a little too frank for conventional beauty, but the effect was electrifying. And the way she moved had a rhythm about it all of its own, as if Reba was dancing to a melody that ordinary mortals weren’t able to hear.
Reba. As he mouthed the name silently it almost felt like a kiss. That was going to be the biggest difficulty of all, because John had no time for this. He had a child to look after and a job to do, and both of them required every last drop of his emotional energy.
He had no spare capacity for grief either. Cathy had been a good friend, the mother of two grown-up daughters who’d applied a great deal of common sense to the situation when his sister had died and John had found that being the sole guardian of a four-year-old was a great deal more complicated than being a favourite uncle. Rosalie was five now, and beginning to settle after the upheaval of losing her mother, which was in no small part the result of Cathy’s good advice and the good humour with which it had been given.
‘You reckon pink?’ He could practically see her now, standing in the sunny room that he was decorating as a bedroom for Rosalie. ‘You’re sure about that, John?’
He’d shrugged. ‘Little girls like pink, don’t they?’
Cathy had rolled her eyes. ‘Sure they do. And they’re made of sugar and spice as well...’
‘All right. So what colour do you think, then?’
‘You could always ask her. Only don’t just give her a paint chart and tell her to pick something out. If she’s anything like my eldest she’ll decide she likes crimson and it’ll give her nightmares.’ Cathy had smirked at him. ‘I made all these mistakes, so you don’t have to.’
‘How did you do it, then? When you were deciding what colour to paint the crimson over with?’
‘Choose a few different colours that you think might be suitable. Then get some tester pots and paint squares on the wall. See if you can get Rosalie to help you with that, and then ask her to choose the one she likes the best.’
It had been good advice. Rosalie had selected a pale apple green, which wouldn’t have been John’s first choice but actually looked very nice when he’d finished. They’d kept going like that and by the end of it Rosalie had a bedroom that she loved, which incorporated all of the things that he’d brought from her room at home, along with a few new things to delight a child, which Cathy had helped him choose.
And now Cathy was gone, leaving behind a devastated husband and two daughters. John had known he couldn’t save her, but tried anyway. And all of his own medical training and the quiet assurance of the cardiac specialist who had arrived and made the call that John had been unable to make...none of that was enough to assuage the guilt he’d felt when Cathy’s husband had somehow found it in himself to shake John’s hand at the funeral, thanking him for doing his best for her.
But he couldn’t stop and feel that grief. Just as he’d been unable to stop and feel the grief when his sister had died. As a single mother, his sister Cara had relied on him to help take care of Rosalie and he’d agreed that he would always be there to look after her if anything should happen to Cara. All that mattered to John now was Rosalie’s welfare, and falling apart wasn’t going to do anyone any good.
Neither would feeling what he imagined he could very easily feel for Reba. He’d learned that lesson when his partner, Elaine, had made him choose between her and adopting Rosalie, throwing in the warning that coping with a child would be impossible while he was settling in to a new promotion at work and grieving for his sister. He had to kiss a sweet goodbye to thoughts of any relationship because even if a partner did accept that he was a single father, it presented a whole new set of possibilities for loss.
His phone rang, and he jumped. The department secretary reminded him that he was late for ward rounds, and John got to his feet. This was what he did best, pushing everything else aside and getting on with the job in hand.
