Dancing In The Grass
Renee Conoulty
Setting:
Australia - uses Australian English spelling.
Heat rating - one chilli
About Dancing In The Grass
Libby Summers' shotgun wedding to her high school sweetheart, Daniel, has dissolved, leaving her with joint custody of their 4-year-old daughter, Chloe, and disbelief in Happily Ever After. Libby agrees to take Chloe to a family-friendly music festival to see her daddy perform with his rock band. Within minutes of arriving, Chloe gets locked in the toilet. Libby doesn't want a knight in shining armour but her daughter needs rescuing.
Paul White is a full-time carpenter and part-time musician. His rockabilly band is invited to play at the local grassroots music festival. Before stepping onto the stage, he has to use his trade skills to help a little girl in distress. He can't get the little princess and her beautiful mother out of his mind but a woman with baggage is the last thing he needs.
Will Libby realise that not all musicians are the same and can Paul make room for a mother and daughter to dance into his heart?
1
“Don’t get too close to the fire.” Libby Summers grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her away from the fire pit.
“But Mummy, I can’t cook my marshmallow from back here.” Chloe thrust her confectionary-tipped stick towards the flames, waving it about in the cold air.
“They roast better over coals. You should wait until it gets dark and the flames are smaller.”
“But I’m hungry now.”
“A marshmallow won’t fill you up. Here, let me help you, then we can go find something more substantial.”
“I don’t want to eat a sub-san-shell.”
“How about a sandwich? I’m sure I saw a loaf of bread over on the trestle table. The sausages won’t be ready yet but I’m sure we can find something to put in it.”
“I seed chips where I got this.” Chloe waved her stick in the air. “Can I have a chip sandwich? Please?”
“Okay. But only because it’s a special night, I’m not making them for pre-school.”
Libby stepped closer to the fire and supervised the rapid burning and blowing-out of the marshmallow, ensuring her daughter’s synthetic princess costume didn’t get close enough to the flames to melt.
Tears welled in Chloe’s eyes. “I don’t want a burnt one.”
“Here.” Libby pulled the outer burnt layer from the marshmallow, popping it in her mouth, then held the stick a little further from the flames. A minute later, she blew on the toasted treat and, once cool enough to touch, passed her daughter the golden-brown remnants of the marshmallow.
“Thanks, Mummy.” Chloe slid it into her mouth.
“Come on, let’s go get that sandwich before your dad’s on. He’s playing the opening set today.”
Chloe skipped ahead and stuffed a handful of lollies in her mouth while she waited for Libby to make her a snack.
“Here you go.” A couple of chips fell onto the grass as Libby handed her daughter the sandwich.
Chloe took a huge bite. “Mummy, I need to do a wee wee.” Chip crumbs flew out of her mouth as she spoke.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I made the sandwich?”
“I didn’t need to go then.”
“Come on.” Libby took Chloe’s hand and led her across the paddock and though the rusty iron gate marking the entrance to the home of the people hosting the local grass roots music festival. The place looked just the same as it had last year, when her then husband, Daniel, was first invited to perform with his band. That time, Chloe spent the night with her nan and Libby stayed up until the sun rose, hand in hand with her husband as they talked about their dreams, just like they had as teenagers, before the responsibility of parenthood snuck up on them. The house might not have changed, but everything else in Libby’s life had.
The front door stood open. Libby followed the signs up the hallway to the toilet. The festival was bigger this year than last year. They’d managed to crowd-fund enough money for a larger stage and better speakers, but they hadn’t raised enough for Portaloos, so the main house was open. Everyone attending the free festival were family or friends of the bands so the hosts were happy to open their home. By the time the sun went down, most of the blokes would end up peeing behind a tree in the paddock, anyway. So long as they stuck to the paddock at the front of the house. The one at the back had a little creek running through it that the owners pumped water up from for the vegie patch. Though the risk of contaminating the water was much lower than the risk of a drunk man falling in the creek.
“Give me that.”
Chloe handed her mum the half-eaten sandwich.
“Do you want help?”
“No. I can do wiping all by myself.”
“Okay. Call out if you need me. I’ll be right here.”
Libby leant against the door jamb and nibbled on the sandwich while she waited. After a minute, the doorknob jiggled.
“Flush,” Libby said to the closed door.
The toilet flushed then the door knob jiggled again.
“Wash.”
Running water and splashing sounds began. “Fishy fishy, turtle turtle, butterfly butterfly,” Chloe chanted the rhyme she’d learnt at pre-school to remember to wash her hands properly. The door knob jiggled again.
Libby stepped away from the door. “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s go. Your daddy will be playing soon and he really wanted you to hear him.”
“I’m trying. The door is stuck.”
“Did you unlock it?”
“Yes.”
“Then try turning it with two hands.” Libby could open the door for her but the pre-school teacher had suggested that Chloe might cope better with her separation issues if she had more independence skills. Chloe’s self-confidence had improved since Libby had stopped hovering over her.
Chloe shrieked.
“What’s wrong?”
“The door knob fell off!”
Libby grabbed the door knob and turned. The other knob came off in her hand. She pushed the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Mummy!”
Libby peered through the hole in the door. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll get you out. I need to go get someone to help.”
“Don’t go Mummy.” Chloe began to sob.
“You’ll be alright. I’ll be back really quickly.”
Chloe’s cries escalated into howls.
“Shh,” Libby soothed through the hole in the door. She knelt in front of the door, poking her finger through the hole. “I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Chloe pressed her tiny fingertip against Libby’s through the gap. After six months of pre-school, Chloe was finally saying goodbye in the morning without tears. Libby didn’t want to set her back again. “Take a big breath and calm your body down. I’ll stay with you until you feel safe.”
“Testing, testing.” Her ex-husband’s voice reverberated through the valley as he began the sound check.
“Daddy,” Chloe whispered.
“Do you want me to go get him?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
The vintage FJ Holden panel van shuddered as Paul White eased it over the cattle grid. He continued at a snail’s pace down the gravel driveway, trying not to kick up too much dust onto the freshly polished baby blue paintwork of his pride and joy. He pulled in beside a row of cars in the paddock, far enough from the four-wheel-drive that its passenger door would have full clearance. Dust, he could deal with, but you couldn’t wash a dint off.
Paul locked his car then clipped the keys back onto the chain attached to the belt loop of his dark blue jeans, slipping them into his front pocket. The afternoon sun blazed down, warming the colourfully inked skin of his arms left exposed by his fitted white singlet. He adjusted his dark sunglasses then strode across the paddock to join the other two members of The Rick-a-billy Trio gathered near the ma
keshift stage.
“Hey,” he greeted.
“Paulie, about time you got here.” Ricky, the lead guitarist and vocalist, scowled. “Bitter Mourning are setting up already. You nearly missed the opening.”
“I’ve got plenty of time, then. The sets are, like, an hour, right?”
“Yep.”
“And we’re third up, so I’ve got until six. Heaps of time to grab some food and a beer. I’ll meet you back here later.”
“You’ve got half an hour. Bin Chicken’s drummer’s kid broke his arm, so they’re up the hospital. We’ve been pushed up to second.” Ricky looked from Paul to Jodie, The Rick-a-billy Trio’s drummer, and back. “I need you both back here by 4.30 with your gear.”
“Righto. I’ll just scoff down some snacks and a glass of water.” Paul turned to Jodie. “Hungry?”
“Not really. I think I’ll unload my drum kit so I’m not rushing. Might grab a drink after that.”
“See you both back here soon.” Ricky checked his watch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”
Paul nodded then skirted around the crowd gathered in small groups on the stretch of grass in front of the stage. Towards the back of the natural amphitheatre, close to the farm house, he found a bowl of chips in the middle of a trestle table. He stuffed a handful in his mouth, grabbing another handful to eat while he wandered. If he stayed near the snacks, he’d polish off the whole bowl. Chips were so more-ish. The saltiness stung his cracked lips. He definitely needed to rehydrate before the set. His hangover from the night before had worn off, but backing vocals would still be a struggle if his mouth was too dry.
The small clumps of people sitting on the ground in front of the stage each had an esky sitting next to their picnic blankets, but there was nothing to drink near the snacks. Paul had lots of water and a couple of stubbies in the esky in the back of his car, but that was way over the other side of the paddock. He glanced up at the house. There’d definitely be water in there. And he should probably go to the loo before performing, anyway. He walked through the front garden and into the country house.
Paul popped the last chip in his mouth, the build-up of vinegar beginning to burn at his tongue. Water first. He scanned the entryway then headed to the left. Seven years of working on building sites had left him with good instincts to find his way around an unknown home. He found the kitchen around the corner of the L-shaped living area. Kitchen organisation wasn’t his strongpoint, though. After opening four cupboard doors, he found plastic cups decorated with a cartoon character he didn’t recognise. Kid’s cups held water as well as anything else. He filled the cup at the kitchen tap and guzzled it down. He downed a second cup then rinsed it out using the soapy sponge-on-a-stick thing he found lying on the edge of the sink and left it to dry in the dish rack.
He wandered back through the living room and up the hallway. The loo was bound to be somewhere along there. He passed a child’s bedroom on his right, the door propped open to display a neatly made bed, with a doona cover matching the cup he’d just used. There was an alcove off the left. Bingo. As he rounded the corner, he found a woman sitting on the floor, her arm stretching above her head, fingertips poking through a hole in the door where the door knob should be.
Paul cleared his throat. “You okay?”
The woman looked up at him, her pale blue eyes glistening. She sprang to her feet. “Oh, thank god. My daughter is locked in the toilet and the door broke and I don’t know how to get her out. She’s scared.”
“I’ll have a look.” Paul picked up the knob and glanced around the floor. “Looks like the spindle fell off in there.” He handed the woman the door knob. “I’ll see if I can find something to jimmy it open. Be back in a sec.”
He strode back to the kitchen. Cupboards might be confusing, but surely everyone kept a screwdriver in the bottom drawer. He rummaged around, shoving the rolls of baking paper, cling wrap and aluminium foil to the side to reveal a pink-handled Phillips-head screwdriver. Clutching the tool, he returned to rescue the damsel in distress. Or the little prince. He hadn’t really paid attention to what kind of kid it was.
“Alright, let’s get this door open.” He couldn’t help but notice the band of pale pink elastic that crept above the waistband of her shorts as she squatted to speak through the hole in the door. No. She was a mother. He couldn’t be thinking about a mother like that. Mothers came with baggage.
“It’s okay, Chloe. This nice man is going to get you out.” She reassured the child then moved to the side. “Thanks.”
Paul peered through the hole. Scared blue eyes stared back at him. “Chloe, I’m going to push on the door. Shut the toilet lid and sit up there, will you? I don’t want to knock you over with the door.” He watched the little girl climb up onto the toilet, her blue dress still tucked into the back of her undies and plastic crown sitting askew.
Paul shoved the screwdriver into the spindle hole in the latch and levered it to the side. Leaning lightly on the door, he gave it a shove with his shoulder as he felt the latch let go. The door swung inward.
The woman pressed past him, sweeping her daughter up into a hug. “It’s okay, darling. Mummy’s got you.”
The small silver crown clattered to the floor. Paul picked it up and placed it back on the little girl’s head. “Here you go, princess.”
The woman turned to him. “Thanks. I don’t even know your name.”
“Paul.” He smiled.
“Thank you, Paul. I’m Libby and this is Chloe.” She hitched the child onto her other hip. “Um, want me to guard the door while you go.” She nodded towards the toilet. “You better not shut the door again.
“I’ll be right. I’ll sing. That’ll keep everyone away.” Paul chuckled.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. You go enjoy the music. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”
“It is. And we really didn’t want to miss the first band. Thanks again.” They disappeared around the corner.
Paul unscrewed the plate and removed the latch mechanism completely. He picked up all the door knob pieces and carried them to the kitchen. He piled them up beside the sink and put the screwdriver back where he found it.
The opening band started up their first song. Heavy rock music reverberated through the house. On the way back to the toilet, he stepped into the kid’s room and picked up the door stopper. That would at least stop the door swinging open on its own and hopefully reduce the chance of accidental exposure. Nobody would hear him singing over the racket that band was making.
2
Libby and Chloe raced down to the edge of the stage, reclaiming the front row seats Libby had staked out with her picnic blanket and esky. They’d only missed the first verse of Bitter Mourning’s opening song. Libby kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the tartan rug. She’d hit the other side of the adrenalin spike, excitement morphing into exhaustion. Chloe seemed to have bounced back, like only a four-year-old could, waving frantically at her father and jumping around. Daniel Collins gripped the microphone with both hands as he belted out the chorus. He noticed his daughter within moments and she beamed when he waved back.
“Come on, Mummy.” Chloe grabbed Libby’s hand and tried to haul her to her feet. “Dance with me.”
“Hang on.” Libby rubbed her temples. Dancing was the last thing she felt like doing in that moment. The last thing apart from letting Chloe down. She stood. Libby glanced around the crowd. Nobody else was standing, let alone dancing. Chloe’s excitement was infectious, though, and within moments mother and daughter were dancing together, oblivious to those around them.
“I need a rest. Do you want to sit with me for a bit?” Five songs in a row was Libby’s limit. That’s if you count swaying side-to-side for that last song as dancing.
“Nope.” Chloe continued to bounce around, one hand to her head to hold her princess crown in place. Her little Blundstone boots had stomped the grass flat.
Libby lifted the lid off her esky and pulled a glass bottl
e from the ice. You might not be able to bottle Chloe’s energy but you could bottle vodka. Libby rolled the icy bottle over her chest then sipped the cool, sweet liquid. The slow, melancholy song gave way to one with a more upbeat tempo.
“Mummy, it’s my song.” Chloe held her arms out to Libby.
Libby ran her hand over her stomach as she met Chloe’s gaze. She stood, sweeping her daughter up onto her hip. The little crown fell to the ground. Libby kicked it onto the picnic rug so as not to step on it then spun Chloe around twice. She held her daughter close, angling her own body to make sure Chloe had a clear view of the stage.
“Soon will come the day, I look into the face, of an angel, of my angel,” Daniel crooned those words directly to the love of his life, the little girl he’d written them for.
So much had changed since the first time Libby had heard that song. She’d been nineteen, naïve, and engaged to her high school sweet heart. Now she was twenty-four, cynical, and divorced. Daniel and Libby had made better friends than lovers. The split had been a mutual decision, and they’d remained on good terms. Not quite sharing-a-tent-at-music-festival terms, but friendly enough to have a meal together every second Friday night to discuss their co-parenting.
Libby set her daughter on her feet at the end of the song then settled back onto the rug, sipping her vodka premix. Chloe continued to prance and twirl around on the stretch of grass before the stage, the heavy rock beat incongruous with the tiny ballerina’s pirouettes.
Bitter Mourning finished their set and Chloe disappeared around to the far side of the stage. Libby was about to get up and go fetch her when she saw her daughter and her ex, hand-in-hand, walking across the paddock to the cars. Daniel had his guitar slung across his back, amp in his right hand. Chloe trotted along beside him carrying a coil of cable. Libby relaxed. It was technically her weekend, but Daniel had asked her to bring Chloe to watch him play.
Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart Page 11
