The Doctor's Special Touch

‘I have a wood stove in my kitchen,’ he said, with the resigned tolerance he might have used if she’d been a too-inquisitive child. ‘I cook my morning toast on a toasting fork.’

Her eyes widened. That brought back memories. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Cool.’

But he’d moved on. Back to business. ‘You know, I really would like to know what your sign means,’ he told her. ‘We seem to be going the long way round here. You know what I do. You know about my crazy mother’s addiction to romance. You know I cook my toast on a wood stove.’ His voice lowered, and suddenly the laughter was gone. ‘So now it’s your turn. Are you going to tell me why on earth there is a blue sign half written on the building next door to mine saying “Dr A. J. Westruther”?’

She gulped. Dr A. J. Westruther. She’d agonised over whether to use the ‘Doctor’ bit. But she was entitled, and if it meant more clients…

This was a small country town and massage would be a new experience for most. If the label ‘Doctor’ made the locals feel more comfortable—and scared away those for whom massage meant something totally inappropriate—why shouldn’t she use it?

‘Dr Westruther’s me,’ she told him.

This conversation had been frivolous up to now. But suddenly it wasn’t. She wiped her hands on the sides of her paint-stained overalls and thought, Uh-oh. Here goes.

‘You’re Dr Westruther?’

‘Ally,’ she told him and put out her hand.

He didn’t take it.

‘No one’s employing you to paint a sign?’

‘No.’

‘You’re saying that you’re a doctor?’

‘Yep.’

His brows hiked in disbelief. ‘You’re a doctor—and you’re setting up in opposition to me?’

‘Oh, come on.’ She tried to smile but there was something about the sudden shadowing of this man’s eyes that made her smile fade before it formed. ‘You think I’d do that? It’d be crazy to set up in opposition.’

‘You’re a…dentist, then?’ His eyes raked hers, and she saw disbelief that she could be anything so sensible. So mature.

This was hardly the way she’d wanted to meet this man, she thought. If this worked out, she hoped that maybe he could send work her way. That was why she’d rented this place so close to the doctor’s surgery. But when she’d visited the town two weeks ago to organise a rental, a locum had been working in Dr Darcy Rochester’s rooms. The gangly locum who’d been filling in for him had said that he’d tell…Darcy about her, but maybe he hadn’t.

As a professional approach, this was now really difficult. She’d imagined a cool, collected visit to his surgery, wearing one of her remaining decent suits, pulling her hair back into a twist that made her look almost as old as her twenty-nine years, maybe even wearing glasses. Handing him her card.

It hadn’t happened like that. She hadn’t been able to afford cards. She was aware that she looked about twelve. Her overalls were disgusting. Her long blonde hair was hauled back into two pigtails to keep it free from paint, and she was wearing no make-up. And he was angry and confused.

She had to make things right. Somehow.

‘I’m not a dentist,’ she told him. ‘Urk. All those teeth.’ She grimaced and hauled the ladder along past where she’d been working so he could see what the final sign would be.

After the huge, blue sign—DR A. J. WESTRUTHER—was another, as yet only faintly stencilled in pencil.

MASSAGE THERAPIST.

‘You’re a masseur,’ he said blankly, and she nodded. There was something in his voice that warned her to stay noncommittal. Let him make the judgements here.

‘You’re setting up professional rooms as a masseur.’

That was enough. ‘Hey, we’re not talking red-light district,’ she snapped. There was enough disdain in his voice to make it perfectly plain what his initial reaction was. ‘I give remedial and relaxation massage, and I do it professionally. By the way, I’m a masseuse. Not a masseur. Get your sexes right.’

‘Let’s get the qualifications right.’ Anger met anger. ‘You’re calling yourself a doctor?’

‘Yes!’ Her eyes blazed. Heck, she was committed to this profession. She’d fallen into it sideways but she loved it. She loved that she was able to help people. Finally. And she didn’t need this man’s condemnation. It’d be great if he supported her but she’d gather clients without him.

‘It’s illegal to call yourself a doctor.’

‘Phone my university,’ she snapped. ‘Check my qualifications.’

‘Doctor of what?’

‘Go jump.’ She was suddenly overpoweringly angry. Overpoweringly weary. What business was it of this man what her qualifications were? She was telling no lies. She wasn’t misrepresenting herself.

Maybe it had been a mistake to use the word ‘doctor’ in her sign. She’d agonised over it but, heck, she’d abandoned so much. If the use of one word would help her build this new career—this new life—then use it she would.

So much else had been taken from her. They couldn’t take this.

‘Look,’ she said wearily, her anger receding. Anger solved nothing. She knew that. ‘We’re getting off to a really bad start here. I’ve tossed blue paint at you and you’ve implied I’m a hooker.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did. If you check, you’ll find that I’m absolutely entitled to use the title “Doctor”.’

‘You don’t think a doctorate—of what, basket weaving?—might be just a bit misleading when you’re setting up in a medical precinct?’

‘Medical precinct?’ She swallowed more anger. Or tried to. Then she gazed around. There were a total of five shops in the tiny township of Tambrine Creek. Then there was a pub and a petrol station. The oak-lined main street ran straight down to the harbour, where the fishing boats moored and sold their fish from the final shop—a fishermen’s co-op that had existed for generations.

‘You know, we’re not talking Harley Street here,’ she ventured. ‘Medical precinct? I don’t think so.’

‘There’s two premises.’

‘Yeah, two medical premises. Yours and mine. Yours is a doctor’s surgery. Mine is a massage centre. It was a tearoom once, but it’s been closed for twenty years. The owner’s thrilled to get rent from me and the council has no objection to me setting up. So what’s your problem? Do I somehow downgrade your neighbourhood?’

‘There’s no need to be angry.’

‘It’s not me who’s angry,’ she told him, but she was lying. She’d done with the placating. ‘Basket weaving,’ she muttered. ‘I wish it had been purple paint I threw at you and I wish it had hit your head. Now, are you going to sue me for painting your feet? If so, there’s no lawyer in town but I can’t commend you strongly enough to leave town and find one. Preferably one in another state. I need to get on with my work.’

‘You’ve spilled your paint.’

‘Of course I have,’ she snapped. ‘And it was well worth it. Your brogues are drying, Dr Rochester. You need to go find some turpentine.’

‘You’ll never make a living.’