The Life Saver Read online

  She must have done that at some point that afternoon, and her hair streamed and rippled from the crown of her head to her shoulders, which could be a good look on some people but not when it was this, um, this...

  'Wild,' she tried,-out loud.

  Be honest at least, Jo.

  Tangled.

  Dragged through a bush backwards.

  Witchy.

  And the colour seemed dull, somehow, as if even her hair was telling her that she needed to get a life. Natural redheads needed shine, and if they didn't have shine, they needed something to camouflage the fact that they didn't have shine.

  I can't cook eggs on toast tonight.

  I can't watch TV.

  Restless, irritable and unhappy, she went into the kitchen, found some wine under the sink and stuck it in the freezer to chill more quickly. The five cartons of ice cream greeted her like old friends when she opened the freezer door, and like old friends they were each different, each with their own unique appeal.

  Tonight she chose chocolate-chip cookie dough. Three scoops. Waffle cone, because a bowl and a spoon would be far too staid. Changed into snug-fitting navy stretch sweats and a grey knit cotton top, but resisted the thick violet-and-yellow bedsocks. Bedsocks were part of the rut.

  To be honest, ice cream was part of the rut also, but, like Rip with his new, not-yet-admitted-to campaign to quit smoking, Jo knew that she had to take things one step at a time. Ice cream held a special place in her heart, and not just because the stuff had to be Vermont's best-known export.

  And I have to fix more than just my hair.

  I have to fix my life.

  But the hair was a start.

  She grabbed the telephone directory that covered this part of Vermont. She'd never managed monogamy when it came to hairdressers, and knew from previous flips through the relevant listing that there were a couple around here who would come to your home. Maybe even after seven at night, if it was a real emergency.

  OK, here. Hayley's Hair at. Home.

  Hayley was a honey. She responded like an ambulance on full lights and sirens, and correctly diagnosed the problem at once. Jo needed a new look the way a drag dealer with multiple gunshot wounds—not that Jo saw many of those in Harriet—needed a transfusion.

  'We are going to cut, we are going to condition and we are going to bleach,' Hayley decreed.

  'Bleach?' Jo had never considered that.

  'Just highlights.'

  'On a redhead?'

  'Trust me. That peachy autumn leaf shade, with sun-kissed strands on top. You are so-o-o lucky to have this hair. It will look fabulous.'

  Two hours and a second glass of wine later, Jo agreed. 'I love it!'

  And I think I've reached the point in my life where I'm ready to settle down and try for hairdresser monogamy after all...

  Hayley departed in a bouncy mood—she'd had a glass of wine, too—but she must have forgotten something in her mobile miracle hairdressing kit because five minutes later the doorbell sounded once more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nine twenty-five on a Tuesday night.

  Was that too late, Rip wondered two seconds after he'd pressed the bell.

  He and Jo were both doctors. He wouldn't have hesitated, wouldn't even have thought about it if this had been a medical emergency, but it was...no, not quite personal, but close. He was there to apologise for being so sore-headed earlier in the evening in his office.

  It was a professional visit really, he decided, but he and Jo had always stayed so completely out of each other's personal lives, scrupulous to a fault on the issue, that simply coming to her house felt like stepping over a line. In five years he'd only been there a handful of times, almost always in daylight, never for more than a brief visit, very much focused on work.

  Walking up the herringbone brick path that led to the front steps, he'd noted how cosy and pretty Jo had the house looking now. When she'd first moved in with Mamie—the whole town had called Jo's grandmother Mamie—the place had been a little run down. Bare patches in the front lawn, some straggling shrubs, bland paint colours on the clapboard and trim, nothing but dust and an old porch swing to welcome a visitor when they reached the top of the steps.

  Now the lawn was all filled in, if still brownish after its most recent covering of snow just a few days ago. There were spring bulbs poking up green fingers all through the flower-beds that ran along in front of the porch, and cafe-style chairs and a round table already sitting on the wide porch floorboards ready for the warmer weather.

  And Jo had painted the place herself.

  When? Last year?

  He vaguely remembered her talking about it. It had probably been one of those thoughtful, gentle attempts of hers to get him to think about something other than medicine or the divorce, and he probably hadn't been grateful enough for it at the time. She'd used three different colours that no doubt had silly names on the paint-sample brochures but were really a golden cream, a grey-green and a rusty brownish, darkish red. Reddish.

  OK, maybe you did need the silly colour names, he decided as he waited for Jo to answer the door.

  He heard her footsteps, the rattle of the knob and a creak as she flung the door wide. 'Did you forg—? Oh.' Her face changed. 'Rip.'

  'I came to apologise.' Maybe she wouldn't even ask him in. 'For earlier, in the office.'

  'That's OK. I put it down to the nicotine withdrawal.'

  'How did you know I'd—' He stopped and re-thought. 'I guess that's how you knew. Because I was in such a foul mood.'

  'I'm perceptive that way.' She smiled. 'But don't stand there on the doorstep. Come in.'

  She seemed serious about the invitation, so he did.

  The place was comfortably untidy. She'd flung her jacket over the back of a chair earlier, and there were two empty mugs on the coffee-table, along with some magazines and a TV guide folded back to today's page. He glimpsed pink highlighting on the listings in several places.

  The room smelled strange. Astringent, like bleach. He looked at Jo, dressed down in her sweats. She looked very comfortable. He realised she'd done something to her hair and mentioned the fact in exactly that phrasing.

  'You've done something to your hair.'

  'Try that again, Ripley.' She grinned at him. 'You're supposed to say, "Wow, your hair looks fabulous, what have you done to it?'"

  'No, I'm not,' he shot back at her. 'I'm male. I'm supposed to say something obtuse and vaguely accusatory, as if you've confused me unfairly with such a change and I might be in danger of not recognising you any more. And that's exactly what I did say.'

  She laughed.

  Thank goodness.

  'And now, as a female, am I supposed to explain the finer points of a cut and style, conditioning treatment and highlights until your eyes glaze over?'

  'Something like that. And my eyes will glaze over. But it does look good.'

  'Thanks.' So he could see the full effect, she did a little pirouette, which surprised them both. She wasn't a very demonstrative, physical person. Didn't flirt. Never showed off.

  Ripley appreciated the change to how she looked in the same untutored way he'd appreciated the paint colours. Her hair was shorter and shinier and lighter on top, bounder and a much better shape. It made her head look elegant, showed off a perfect profile he'd never noticed before, and revealed a graceful neck that he'd never noticed before either.

  But the real change was in how pleased she seemed about it. He'd never thought of her as bubbly, but she seemed bubbly tonight. Bubblier.

  'I've been thinking,' they both said at the same time.

  'You go first.' Jo told him. 'Shall I make us coffee? I had two glasses of wine tonight and— Oh!' She frowned. 'I'm starving. Have you eaten? Shall I make us omelettes?'

  'Omelettes and coffee?'

  'Omelettes and whatever. Coffee and whatever.' She waved a hand.

  'An omelette and one of those glasses of wine for me, if there's some left.'

  'The
re is. I opened a bottle. There's plenty left. I really only had two glasses. Hayley had one, too.'

  Hayley?

  'The make-over emergency worker,' she explained. 'Hairdresser to you.'

  'Right. That's why you're bubbly? Potent combination of hair and wine?'

  'Am I bubbly?'

  'Yes.'

  'No, it's not really the wine. It's partly the hair. And I think I'm going to put away my TV for a while, I've decided. I think I'm in a rut.'

  'That's what you've been thinking about?'

  'No... Well, not until tonight. No, I've been thinking about the practice. I think our load is too heavy and we need a third partner.'

  , Which was exactly what Rip had been thinking. Either that, or close their books on new patients and send them elsewhere—to the newer practice in Netherby with which they shared the after-hours on-call roster. But for some reason the third partner idea appealed more. Some fresh blood, a fresh perspective. Their patient load had increased so gradually that they'd gotten overworked without realising it, and to be honest he'd welcomed the long hours over the past year—the late finishes, the Saturday appointments, the more frequent call-outs, the evening sessions on Mondays.

  But Tara had gone. He had to accept it. You could be one hundred per cent committed to the idea of marriage yourself, but if the other person wasn't, your own commitment couldn't sway the result. Their divorce had been made final nearly ten months ago and it was time to move on, throw open a few windows, not bury himself ever deeper in work.

  It seemed auspicious that he and Jo had both had the same idea about how to handle the situation. He stood in the kitchen watching her make the omelettes—mushroom and cheese—and they talked about it in more detail, with only the most trivial of disagreements about a couple of points.

  Their shared vision reminded him of how bad-tempered he'd been earlier in the evening—so bad-tempered, especially when she'd left him to lock up the practice, that he hadn't even considered apologising to her about it until after nine, by which time he'd had a peanut-butter sandwich, thrown away a couple more packets of cigarettes, been for a two-mile run, waxed his skis and sharpened their edges, and taken a long shower. The ends of his hair were still damp.

  'I really am sorry about earlier,' he said.

  'About calling me a witch?'

  'That? That's what got to you the most? I have no idea why I even said it!'

  She shrugged and grinned, sheepish this time, and touched her straw-and-beech-leaf hair. 'Don't you see the connection? Witch? Emergency after-hours hair makeover?'

  'I didn't realise you cared that much about my opinion.'

  'Of course I care about your opinion!' She wheeled around and put her hands on her hips, huffy and indignant but mocking her own spirited reaction at the same time. 'We work together every day. I respect you. I like you.

  You often do it, you know. You say something, and it takes me by surprise so I don't react on the spot, then I go home and think about it and decide that you're right.'

  'So I'm a deeply influential figure in your life.'

  She laughed again, and didn't answer, and he couldn't think of the right thing to say next either, so they were both silent for a good two or three minutes. She put bread in the toaster, deftly folded the first omelette in half, flipped it onto a plate, buttered and triangled the toast, poured the second batch of lightly beaten egg into the pan and added the sautéed mushrooms and a sprinkling of grated cheese.

  He watched her, appreciating the way she moved, and the way she didn't bother to look at him, which gave him free rein to continue looking at her.

  She was utterly different from Tara. That was his first conclusion.

  Tara was tiny and nimble and fiery, like Tinkerbell in Peter Pan. She had fair skin with cheeks that flushed to a hot rose when she was happy or angry or hard at work. She had dark hair and big dark eyes that could flash at you with a dozen different emotions in the space of a few hours.

  For years Rip had been captivated and fascinated by the rapid shifts in her moods, by the emotion and energy and talent she put into her singing and her work with fabric, by her saucy selfishness and her moments of extravagant generosity. From when he'd first known her, she'd had a trust fund from her grandfather's estate which had given her a large enough income to live on and a corresponding attitude of flexibility and insouciance, and he knew that was part of the appeal. She had the luxury of being a free spirit, and he hadn't met too many of those.

  He'd probably still be captivated if she was still around, but he'd started to accept that she wouldn't ever be.

  Physically, Jo was much larger. Big-boned? Full-figured? No, because those were so often euphemisms for 'overweight' and she definitely wasn't that. But she was strong, smooth-skinned, smooth in her movements. Like the curving branches of a sycamore tree, or something. Her colouring was far less exotic than Tara's. It was the coloring of Vermont itself. The fall tones of her hair, her pale skin like the winter snow, her green eyes like river water running over moss.

  And emotionally...

  Calm, steady, reliable. The kind of woman whose generosity and perception you didn't notice for a good while because she was always so quiet about it.

  The kind of woman whom you took for granted and didn't appreciate until it was too late?

  A jab of apprehension suddenly stuck him in the chest like a blunt knife. Was there a subtext to her suggestion of taking on a third partner? Was it a prelude to her easing her way out and moving on? She'd come to Harriet mainly for her grandmother's sake, since her parents were out of the country so much, and Mamie had been gone for almost two years now.

  'There!' With her usual easy, unhurried smile, Jo slid a filled plate towards him, complete with a sprig of parsley as a garnish.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'It looks great.'

  'Where do you want to sit? Dining table or couch?'

  'I'm not fussy.'

  'Dining table,' she decided. 'Since I'm giving up TV.'

  'Is it as addictive as smoking, then?'

  'Oh...' She laughed and shrugged, leading the way through the kitchen door to the small dining room where the table only seated four. 'Less addictive, I guess. But just as bad for my health right now.'

  'Why is that?' He sat down, absently watched her topping up his wine and lighting two candles, even though she didn't turn the electric lighting down low. Why had she done that?

  'Because I really am in a rut,' she said, sitting opposite him. She played with the softening candle wax for a moment, as if she'd lit the flames purely to have something to fiddle with. Her fingers were long and fine, with nicely shaped oval nails, covered in a clear polish. 'It's time to make some changes.'

  Oh, hell, she really is going to leave, he thought. How can I get her to change her mind? What can I find for her in Harriet to keep her here?

  His mind flipped through an insane set of options. Bigger house. Better office. Their nicest, least troublesome patients. A free season ski pass at Stowe. A blind date with one of the local ice-cream millionaires.

  He wanted to tell her, 'Don't!' but she hadn't said it in so many words and he didn't want to put ideas into her head, or bring the issue to crisis point if she was still only mulling over her future plans.

  What did she need?

  Why wasn't she happy here?

  Gosh, he didn't know her at all!

  Hiding a panic he didn't understand, Rip put his heart and soul into at least making some appropriate conversation, and after they'd covered how delicious the omelettes were and whether this was a wine he'd tried before, he actually managed to ask something sensible and fairly discreetly worded about where she saw herself in five years' time.

  She laughed. 'In Paris, floating in a boat down the River Seine.' She gave a fake double-take. 'Oh, we're not talking about my vacation plans?'

  'You can,' he invited her, then added more honestly, 'But I wasn't.'

  'I have some great vacation plans.'

  She shoul
dn't torture him like this.

  'But if you're asking about my professional plans, and my life plans...' She stopped and looked at him across the candle flames as he took a large gulp of his wine. Her eyes had gone a little smoky, grey more than green. The flames reflected in them as points of golden light, and light hit her new hair from above also, showing off its pretty shape again. 'I guess I'll be here.' She spoke slowly. 'Unless there's a reason to leave.'

  He had to ask, 'There isn't one at the moment?'

  'No. I don't think so.'

  Damn! He had put the idea into her head.

  'I don't want there to be a reason to leave,' she added. 'No, on balance, Rip, I think you can pretty much count on me staying in Harriet.'

  And the blazing rush of relief he felt on hearing that statement from her set off a ripple effect which threw him off course for the rest of the evening.

  CHAPTER THREE

  'Boy, that nicotine withdrawal is really hitting you hard, Rip, isn't it?' Jo said to her colleague at the door, an hour and twenty minutes after she'd first put his omelette on a plate.

  'Does it show that much?'

  'You seem, oh, off-line somehow. Inhabiting a slightly different universe.'

  He gave a vague smile. 'Sorry.'

  'It's fine. Way better than the bear-with-a-sore-head routine you were pulling earlier, I have to say.'

  'Right.' His jaw went even more square than usual, its strength emphasised by the day's growth of beard shadow. 'Thanks for the feedback.'

  'Oops. I'm making the bear come back.'

  'No, you're not, I'm sorry, I—'

  'It's OK, Ripley,' she told him gently, tempted to touch him on the arm. In the end, she didn't.

  Was he coming down with something, though, on top of giving up smoking?

  She felt a wash of concern. He was always so competent. Back when he and Tara had looked like a happy couple— from the outside, at least—he had clearly been the one who had held all the practical stuff together. Jo had often heard him phoning his wife during a break between patients to remind her about some household detail, a bill to pay or an errand to run.

  Tara was flaky. Fun and fascinating and highly creative, but definitely flaky. Jo could see the attraction to the male eye, but was glad she didn't have the requisite testosterone levels that made a man so vulnerable in that area. Tara would be very high maintenance, in every sense of the phrase. She had needed someone solid and strong and clever and perceptive like Rip, who was up to the task.