<< Go Back

Grace Beneath the Frost

By Christine Dillon

Order Now!

PROLOGUE

Sydney, Australia, 1992

“This can’t continue.”
Paul raised his head out of the depths of the newspaper and peered at his wife. “What can’t continue?”
“This.” His wife gestured between them both.
He stifled a sigh and put down the newspaper. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“That’s just it. You’re oblivious.”
“To what?”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “To the state of things between us.”
The state of things between them was fine. Wasn’t it?
Wendy bit her lip, and he stifled another sigh. It was obviously not going to be a quiet morning of reading the paper. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What’s bothering you?”
“See, even the way you ask that question implies I’m the problem and you’re the consultant waiting to sort me out.”
What did she expect? For most of the week, consulting was his job. How was he supposed to switch off when he walked into the house?
He unfolded his arms and tried to look more approachable.
Wendy was silent, her face turned slightly away from him. Was he supposed to say something? Perhaps not. With Wendy like this, whatever he said would be the wrong thing.
The uncomfortable silence stretched on, broken only by the muffled hum of traffic in the distance and the squeal of the train braking as it approached the station across the park.
Paul cleared his throat, the sound loud in the room. “I think things are more than good—we have this house, and the children are in excellent schools.” Much more security than he’d had as a child. “Do you need a holiday?”
She turned towards him. “Do you really think it’s just a matter of providing me with things? I’m your wife, not your housekeeper.” She stared down at the Persian carpet. “I need you.”
Good grief. She’d known he wanted to be a medical specialist when she married him. Did she think that happened within a nine-to-five working life?
“We barely see you,” Wendy said. “And when you are home, you’re buried in your study and only come out for meals.”
Huh, yes. Meals where all conversation was dominated by the children. Those Victorian-era parents knew a thing or two when they said, “Children should be seen not heard.”
“Do you really need to go to medical conferences every second weekend a month and write quite so many articles?”
“I do, if I want to be a leader in the field, not just a cancer specialist.”
“A normal cancer specialist would be more than enough for me,” she muttered.
But it wasn’t enough for him.
“Why don’t we talk about this next weekend, when I have more time, and—”
“And what?” she said, voice sharp.
He’d been about to say “when you’ve calmed down” but that would really get her riled.
“And when I can think straight,” he said.
But she hadn’t given him the chance. 
Four days later, he’d come home to an empty house and a note.
We need to take a break. I’ve taken the kids to Mum and Dad’s. I don’t know if we’ll be back. I’ll contact you when I’m ready.
He’d waited and hoped, but she’d never been ready ...  

Order Now!

<< Go Back