Healing The Single Dad's Heart. Scarlet Wilson

CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER ONE

      ON PAPER, THE journey had seemed so long. But for Joe it had been a blink-and-you’ve-missed-it kind of day. Go and show your little boy a part of the world where you can make some new memories. That was what his mother had said to him as she’d handed him the plane tickets to Vietnam.

      She had been right. He’d known she was right. And that she was finally giving him the push he needed.

      After that, everything had passed in a blur. Getting all their vaccinations, finishing up at work, packing, handing over his house keys to a letting agency and making sure all his mail was redirected to his mother’s house.

      By the time he’d sat down on the plane he had been well and truly ready for a rest. But his stomach had had other ideas. It had fluttered in a weird kind of way. It had been so long since he’d felt excitement about something he almost hadn’t recognised the sensation.

      Regan had loved the journey. Between watching movies, eating snacks, sleeping and asking questions he’d been a great travelling companion. And now, as they came in to land at Hanoi airport Regan stared in wonder at the green landscape. ‘It’s just like home!’ he said with a smile.

      Joe couldn’t stop the ache in his heart. This whole trip was about moving on. He got that. Inside he was ready—up until now he just hadn’t quite managed to take the steps. But every now and then Regan did something—it could be a wave of his hand or a look in his eye—that reminded him of Esther. He’d never push away the ache that came from knowing she couldn’t see this—couldn’t share this moment and be proud of their son and the bright, brave little boy he was becoming.

      Joe leaned over and stared out of the window too. He’d half expected to see a city landscape but it seemed Hanoi landing strips were just as green as Glasgow’s. Maybe this place would be more familiar than he expected.

      The airport was filled with a melee of people. Joe held tightly to Regan’s hand as they navigated through passport control and collected their luggage. A guy dressed in a white shirt and casual trousers was leaning against a pillar, holding a piece of paper with their names hastily scrawled in black on it.

       Dr Joe Lennox and son

      He juggled pulling the cases while still keeping hold of Regan as he gave the guy a nod. Around him a dozen languages were being spoken. He just prayed this guy spoke a little English.

      ‘Dr Joe?’ the guy asked.

      He nodded again. The guy held out his hand. ‘Rudi. I’m your ride to the May Mắn Hospital.’ He grabbed hold of the two cases and started walking quickly to the exit. ‘From Scotland?’ he said over his shoulder.

      Joe nodded again and bent to pick up Regan, lengthening his strides to keep up.

      ‘I know all the football teams. Which is your favourite?’

      Joe laughed. It didn’t matter where he went on the planet, Scotland was known for its football and most conversations started off this way.

      It didn’t take them long to hit hectic traffic. It seemed the whole world travelled by scooter or motorbike in Hanoi. Regan was tired and tucked in under Joe’s arm, snuggling against his chest.

      For the briefest of seconds Joe had a moment of doubt. What if Regan didn’t like it here? He didn’t have his grandparents for reassurance. This was completely different from anything Regan had experienced before. As he brushed his hand over his son’s soft hair, he had a flashback to Esther. Regan shared his mother’s adventurous spirit. No matter what they tried, Regan tended to jump in with both feet. Like most young boys he was fearless. And that made Joe’s heart swell. He didn’t ever want his son to lose that element.

      After half an hour Joe couldn’t resist winding down the window in the car to let the sounds and smells of the city surround them. The first thing that struck him was how busy the place was, how packed in everything looked, from people to shops to transport to homes.

      Colour was everywhere. They drove by a row of shops with red, blue and yellow awnings, while packed above, almost squashed together, were flats.

      One was in pink brick, with a balcony on each level, next door was white, with plants trailing down towards the awning beneath, next was the thinnest block of flats he’d ever seen, its first balcony entirely taken up with a dining table and chairs. Next came a pale blue block, littered with children’s toys, then a flat of unknown colour because green foliage completely covered the roof and the outside walls.

      It was like a higgledy-piggledy town constructed from a kid’s set of building blocks, and it was utterly charming. The area in front of the shops was packed with street vendors, food carts, a variety of tourist souvenirs and brightly coloured long-sleeved shirts. A tiny part of the chaos of the stalls reminded him of the Barrowlands back home in Glasgow. He smiled as he wondered if the street vendors here used as colourful language as the guys back home.

      The driver pointed out places as they drove into the Ba Dinh district—then into the French quarter. The French Colonial architecture was evident all around them, but as they passed through, it was clear they were moving further away from the more tourist-oriented areas and out towards the suburbs. It was denser here, street vendors everywhere, but poverty was evident at every turn. A little prickle ran down his spine. Again, it reminded him of home. His GP surgery served one of the most deprived areas of Glasgow.

      Children were running happily through the streets, and even though they were still in the city, strips of green occasionally showed. The taxi turned down a slightly wider street. The houses were different here, not as packed in as before. These looked like private residences, each with a little more ground around them.

      The taxi driver pulled up in front of a large, pale yellow two-storey French colonial-style house that was a little shabby around the edges. There was a sign just above the door: ‘May Mắn Hospital’. The driver turned and smiled, gesturing at the sign and getting out to open the door for them. Joe lifted Regan into his arms and stepped out, letting the close, warm air surround him. ‘Bit of a temperature change from Scotland,’ he said quietly to himself, turning his head from side to side to take in his surroundings.

      There were several similar-style buildings. What once must have been residences seemed to have been converted. Two appeared to be restaurants, another a hotel. It was clear that once the houses had been very grand, though now they all looked a bit run-down. Paintwork was a little faded, some shutters on the windows slightly crooked, and most of the houses gave a general air of tiredness. The only thing that seemed bright was the sign above the door: May Mắn Hospital.

      The driver collected their cases from the boot and followed him up the steps to the hospital entrance. He walked through the wide double doors and stopped.

      A