Grace Beneath the Frost

Chapter 1

1

Easter, 1997

Sydney, Australia

“Never get emotionally involved with a patient.” How many times had Paul heard that as a medical student? And he’d always followed the unwritten rule—an absolute must for a cancer specialist who heard more than his fair share of heartbreaking stories and saw too many poor outcomes.

He buttressed his heart. He controlled his emotions. His patients’ pain slid off him. Warmth and empathy? That was for the nurses.

Meeting Esther for the first time, he’d had no clue he was in danger.

The door from Sister O’Reilly’s office opened, startling him.

“Dr Webster—” A faint flush stained her cheeks. “Mary Brown just tapped on my door and asked if you’d forgotten her.”

Now it was Paul’s turn to be embarrassed. He had indeed forgotten Mary, and he’d never done that before.

“Yes, please send her in.”

Sister O’Reilly looked at him. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve seemed distracted all day.”

He reached for Mary’s file on his desk. “I’ll be okay. Nothing a good sleep won’t fix.”

But that was precisely the problem. He hadn’t been sleeping since Esther had died. Why, oh why had he failed to keep the normal emotional distance? Yesterday, he’d attended Esther’s funeral. Broken another personal rule.

Mary entered his office.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Paul said as Mary sat down. No point in telling the poor woman he’d forgotten all about her.

Thankfully it was Mary’s final check-up, and the news was all good. He could do these kinds of appointments on automatic—which was useful today. By keeping the file open in front of him, he managed not to call her by the wrong name and must have made the correct comments.

“Still all clear. Hopefully I won’t be back,” he heard her say to Sister O’Reilly as she left.

These were the cases he longed for—breast cancer caught early and responsive to treatment.

Some of the doctors he’d graduated with couldn’t understand how anyone could handle being a cancer specialist. Couldn’t understand the challenge of fighting something so insidious, life changing, and sometimes life destroying.

But Paul loved the fight. Loved being on the frontline of such a worthwhile war. Loved seeing the success rates improve as new treatments became available.

He wasn’t the sort to enjoy doing cosmetic surgery for people dissatisfied with their appearance. Dealing with disfiguring conditions like cleft palates made sense, but not doing surgery for people like his mother, people desperately trying to stop the ravages of time. Ridiculous.

Sister O’Reilly poked her head through the connecting door. “Is it okay if I head home now?”

He nodded. “Sorry I kept you late.”

She turned to leave, then hesitated and looked back at him. “You will let me know if there is anything I can do?”

He’d always suspected a warm heart beat under her formal, old-fashioned exterior.

“Thank you for your concern.”

Paul waited until she’d gone before scribbling the final notes for Mary and putting the folder aside to be filed.

He looked at the chair Mary had vacated. He hadn’t registered anything unusual about Esther when she first sat in that chair. She was one more strained, pale face in a line of similar cases stretching back twenty years.

He hadn’t even paid attention when rumours drifted back to him that Esther had caused a minor sensation prior to her surgery. Apparently, her father had organised a meeting in the ward to pray for healing. Then Esther had insisted her breast examination be redone just before surgery in case she was healed and didn’t need a radical mastectomy.

Paul laughed grimly. He’d never seen such a miracle. He’d been prepared to write Esther off as some sort of religious nut after hearing about that incident, but things hadn’t turned out as he’d expected. In fact, over the next months, Esther had changed in ways he couldn’t ignore. A growing peace and calm and eventually a twinkling sense of humour had replaced her fear.

Before long, he had found himself looking forward to her visits. And no, he hadn’t fallen in love with her.

Esther had been plucky and courageous, with a winsome sense of fun. She’d never seemed overawed by the fact he was a cancer specialist. People often treated him as a demigod, and it had been refreshing to be treated like a normal person. Not that she’d been rude. Not at all. But when they’d finally ventured beyond medical matters, she’d dared to call him out on some of his beliefs. He chuckled at the memory of her expression when he’d laughed at her belief in heaven. He’d said she was a gambler, trusting in blind faith. Not exactly a tactful thing to say to someone with her diagnosis. Esther hadn’t backed down. Instead, she’d called him the superstitious one and given him two books—books he’d put off reading until the consistency of her beliefs had been too confronting to ignore.

He stared at the clock on the wall. He must get home. Not that home was any more than a place to sleep. These last five years had been the loneliest time of his life. He lived for his monthly visit from his kids. Lauren, almost eighteen, and Ben, nearly sixteen, who was just beginning to step out from under his sister’s shadow.

If only Paul hadn’t been so selfishly preoccupied with his climb to the top of his profession. He’d been stunned when Wendy had walked out, but he’d been too proud to fight for her and the kids and now he had no one but himself to blame for the barrenness of his life.

Maybe that was why Esther had managed to get under his skin.

Right. Get up, Paul.

He got up, went over to the locked cupboard and took out the grey leather briefcase Wendy had bought him for their final anniversary before she’d left. He’d grab a bite to eat on the way home. He’d barely slept last night. Too much on his mind. Too many whirling thoughts.

He flipped off the last of the lights, locked his office door, and strode towards the main doors of the building. The security guard said goodnight, and he was out into the cool darkness. Somewhere, the scent of a flower perfumed the air, the same kind of flowers that had been part of the floral arrangements at the funeral.

A wave of sadness coursed through him. Such a waste. Twenty-nine was too young to be gone. Yet Esther hadn’t railed against God. He snorted as he opened his Land Rover door. When they’d stood around her hospital bed on her last night, all long faces and gloom, she’d chastised the lot of them for not understanding she was going to a better place.

Paul turned the car key and backed out of his reserved car spot. He didn’t understand Esther. But then he still didn’t know if Jesus had ever existed, and if he had, whether he was anything more than an impressive teacher. Esther had laughed at him when he’d expressed these kinds of thoughts. She believed Jesus was God and her confidence was unshakeable. Why?