Christmas in Bluebell Cove by Abigail Gordon

house, while at weekends Francine persisted in going back across the Channel to her own empty house.
    It was a crazy set-up, Ethan considered as he took a solitary stroll into the countryside on one occasion after leaving the three of them doing their own thing back at the cottage. Yet Francine had met him more than halfway by finding somewhere to rent close by for the children’s sake, and at least they were behaving in a civilised manner towards each other.
    Whether she was happy about the situation or not, his beautiful French wife had lost the frailty that had beenthere when she’d arrived so unexpectedly on Christmas Eve, and seemed to have thrown off the lethargy that he’d been concerned about. As the weeks went by she was positively blooming in the clear air of Bluebell Cove.
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    Francine was a great help in the surgery. Even elderly Lucy, who’d been dubious about her returning to the practice under the present circumstances, had fallen under her spell, and the women patients were making good use of the presence of someone of their own sex to voice their concerns to.
    Charlotte Templeton, plump, good-natured, and doing an excellent job as headmistress of the village school, was one of those who’d made an appointment to see Francine about an infection of one of her nipples, and had been expecting to be told that a sore that wouldn’t heal, and itching and burning in the area was eczema.
    When Francine had explained that she was going to arrange for a biopsy to be done as it could be something cancerous the teacher, who never flapped on the job, had gone completely to pieces.
    â€˜There is a possibility that it could be Paget’s disease of the nipple, a form of breast cancer that can easily be mistaken for eczema,’ she’d told her. ‘It starts in the milk ducts and if not treated quickly can spread further into the breast.’
    â€˜Oh, no!’ Charlotte had cried frantically. ‘I’m no good with illness. Never have been.’ With a wail of fear she added, ‘I don’t want to lose my breast.’
    â€˜No one is saying that you will have to. This is just the first step,’ Francine had told her consolingly. ‘I will arrange an appointment for a biopsy to be taken atthe hospital and from that we will get some answers.’ The distressed woman nodded tearfully and she said, ‘wipe away your tears, Charlotte. We cannot have those young ones who love their teacher so much seeing you weeping. The biopsy will be soon, and remember I may be mistaken, that it is eczema, but better to be sure, yes?’
    â€˜Yes, of course,’ had been the reply, and with it had come an explanation for the distress. ‘My mother died from breast cancer.’
    â€˜Not Paget’s disease?’
    â€˜No. I hadn’t heard of it until today, but it was breast cancer.’
    â€˜Don’t let us be crossing our bridges too soon,’ Francine had said gently. ‘Let us see what the biopsy has to tell us.’
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    She’d told Ethan about the head teacher’s problem that evening and he’d said, ‘So is it likely to be eczema?’
    â€˜No, it is not,’ she told him. ‘I have seen it before. It is Paget’s disease, how serious I do not know. I have told the hospital the test is urgent.’
    â€˜Hmm, bad news, then?’
    â€˜Yes, but we must hope it is not too bad. And how did your day go?’
    This was like old times he thought, discussing what the day had brought for them at the practice, but not quite. ‘Old times’ had included peace and contentment in their lives and there was not much of that around at present.
    â€˜I had the results back on a fasting test that I requested for diabetes,’ he told her. ‘And they’ve come back positive. So Jack at the butcher’s is going to haveto keep an eye on his fats and sugars, which he won’t like.’
    â€˜He wasn’t