Bride at Bay Hospital

Meg knew she must sound strained, but she’d come to the beach in an attempt to regain her inner peace and composure—to try to get rid of all the turbulent emotions that seeing Sam—and knowing she’d be seeing more of him—had stirred inside her. Now, just when it had seemed to be working, here he was!

She studied him. Tall and strong-looking. He’d naturally enough filled out over the intervening years so his broad shoulders looked well muscled and his body solid—manly!

‘You were coming anyway?’ she said again, thinking she’d be better getting her mind off the subject of Sam’s body.

‘I was coming anyway,’ he echoed, but there was such sadness in the words Meg stepped towards him, responding to some inexplicable need within her—or within him.

‘Sam?’ she murmured, and he leaned towards her.

The waves whispered softly on the sand, the early stars shed soft silver light about them, and Sam’s head bent towards hers, slowly, slowly, as if willed by something beyond his control—something that went against his wishes and judgement and common sense.

A barely heard ‘Meg…’

The kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing—and the taste of Sam was both new and yet familiar. Too new and too familiar for Meg not to respond—tentatively testing for herself. It was a kiss that both sought and gave her comfort, though comfort was far from the other reactions it was generating.

Need, desire, heat—all the reactions Sam’s kisses had generated in the adolescent Megan long ago—not diminished by time, but heightened and strengthened by the maturity of her body and the very obvious maturity of his.

Or was it his skill as a kisser that was changing her response? Skill and mastery that seemed to be drawing the very soul from her body and sweeping away any will to resist.

This was the kiss of her dreams but with a real Sam, not a fantasy, yet fantasy was there as well and she was sixteen again, kissing the teenage Sam who was soon to become her lover…

‘Meg,’ he repeated softly, and though his voice seemed to be coming from a far distant planet, enough of her name reached her to make her draw away.

As she moved, the spell was broken. She stared at him in disbelief—disbelief levelled at herself, not him.

Then very deliberately she wiped her hand across her lips and said, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’

Would he remember? she wondered as, with tears puddling in her eyes and agony tugging at her heart, she walked away from him.

‘Megan, wait! Meg, I can explain!’

His voice followed her, but she wasn’t going to stop. Wasn’t going to risk being caught in that web of sensuality he wove so effortlessly around her—not again.

Would he remember his own gesture—his own words—from all those years ago?

She doubted it, and somehow that thought made her blink back the tears and straighten her shoulders as she crossed the park, determined not to show Sam Agostini her pain.

Sam watched her go, remembering back to when he’d given Meg good reason to write ‘Megan Agostini’ in the sand.

Meg at sixteen, arriving for the Christmas holidays thirteen years ago, flying from her house to the cottage, in through the side door and into his bedroom, casting herself into his arms and kissing him full on the mouth.

Over the previous three holidays—Easter, June and September—their relationship had changed. Somewhere along the line Meg had grown breasts and put a little padding around her hips so they swelled gently out below her tiny waist. While looking at her legs, he’d seen not their paleness but their sexy length. Hormones and libido had done the rest and two childhood best friends had become not lovers but girlfriend and boyfriend, together exploring their developing sexuality. The sheer delight of moonlight walks on the beach and stolen kisses had been all they’d wanted from each other during the shorter holidays, although by October they were sure enough of how they felt to discuss taking their relationship further.

How innocent we were! Sam thought, grimacing at the memories.

Christmas holidays, they’d decided, would be the perfect time for both of them to lose their virginity. They’d have seven weeks together—or as together as they could be. Seven weeks! It would be like a honeymoon—only before marriage, not after it.

But when the day had come, when she’d come bursting into his room, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, he’d wiped her kiss off his lips, told her never to do it again, and broken her heart.

Lost his own at the same time, Sam suspected, for he’d felt nothing for the pain he’d caused his mother over those particular holidays or for the girls he’d kissed and left without a second thought, or for the trail of chaos he’d blazed through the Bay until Meg’s father had stepped in, offering to pay his tuition at a private school in Sydney for his final year at school—finding his mother a job down there so they could be together.

Now, when it was too late to say thank you because Meg’s father was dead, he understood Dr Anstey had done what he had out of kindness, but back then, poisoned by words Ben Richards probably didn’t remember saying, it had served to prove to Sam that Ben’s jibe was true.

He had to explain…

He caught up with her as, breathless from her rush up the steep path, she rested a moment, leaning against the big eucalypt at the top of the track.

‘Meg! I thought you were my sister!’

Were the words breathless because he’d run to catch her, or because of their ridiculous nature?

Meg spun to face him.

‘You thought I was your sister?’ An echo of utter disbelief. ‘How could I possibly have been your sister?’

The answer, though slow coming, was obvious. Her disbelief deepened but with it came uncertainty.

And then pain.

‘You thought my father—My father?’

And now the demon doubt arrived, cutting into her so deeply she had to bend to ease the pain. Was that why her mother had been so anxious to sell the holiday house after her father’s death?

It was all too much for Meg.

‘How could you think that? How could you?’ she yelled, swiping the stick she still carried towards Sam, catching him across the cheek, before turning and racing towards the cottage.

Sam wanted to follow—to explain he no longer thought it—but that wasn’t the point and he knew it. Meg had adored her father, and he her. They’d shared the same hair colouring, quick temper, utter loyalty and soft heart. The careless words—Sam’s urgent need to explain the past—had made things worse, not better.

Though wasn’t he always making things worse?

Wasn’t that his forte in relationships?

Wreaking havoc in the lives of the women he courted, leaving a trail of destruction in his path?

He muttered angrily to himself as he made his way home.

Home! That was a laugh! How could the Anstey house ever be his home—with Meg living in the cottage next door, a constant reminder of how things had once been?

He changed his mind and went back down the track to the beach. Maybe a run would make him feel better. And maybe the huge full moon, rising in orange-gold glory above the waters of the bay, was made of cheese!

He should have followed her—explained it better. He’d have to try again.

Have to hope she’d understand.

Now, why would he hope that? he wondered as he pounded along the beach.

Because one kiss had told him so. One kiss had proved that the fire he’d found lacking in every relationship he’d ever had since that momentous day was still there between himself and Meg.