Heart of the Cross

by Emily Madden

  It gave her hope that all would be good. Things may not be how she had planned, but life rarely followed well-defined plans. Give it a month or two, she was sure the place they called the Cross would become her home.

  If only Rosie could have known on that stifling summer day just how much the Cross would change, and in turn, how much it would change her.

  Four

  Brianna

  The meeting at the funeral home went overtime. Even though Rosie had pretty much laid out how she wanted to be remembered, going through the details took a while. By the end of it, Brie’s head was spinning. She closed her eyes and rubbed her aching neck.

  ‘Your grandmother certainly was firm with the way she wanted things done.’

  Snapping her eyes open, she returned the funeral director’s smile. ‘Rosie always seemed to know exactly what she wanted.’ That much was true. It was a quality she had admired about her grandmother, and if she was honest, had been a little envious of. Rosie always was so sure of who she was and what she wanted in life, and it seemed even in death, too—from the flowers to be displayed during the service, to the music to be played. There was a playlist—everything from traditional Irish songs to Elvis Presley.

  ‘Now there’s just one more thing on the agenda, Ms Hart. Your grandmother was adamant that those attending the funeral not bring flowers, but donate the money they would’ve spent to charity.’

  Brie nodded. ‘That makes sense—Gran always had a soft spot for the underprivileged.’

  Rosie often told Brie the story about how she had emigrated to Australia in the 1960s and supported herself by working in a Coles café in the city surrounded by other immigrants. Rosie had nothing when she arrived, and had worked hard to build a life for herself. Brie knew this was where her grandmother had gained a passion for owning her own café. She had seen the in-house offering as staid and generic and envisaged a market for a more personal model. Over the years, Rosie had owned five cafés, all unique, but each and every one of them had the distinct Rosie touch, and at the core was the promise of amazing coffee. Rosie Hart had a knack for knowing her customers, the demographic of the area. Where there were older citizens, she kept the menu traditional—scones, jam sponges, lamingtons, that sort of thing. Where the crowd was younger, the café would reflect a more effervescent and vibrant ambience. Edgy, eclectic interiors, with a cutting-edge menu that displayed the latest newfangled trends—gluten free, dairy free, sugar free, paleo—Rosie was on top of it all. Each of the cafés supported a different cause, each centred on the clientele—from homeless shelters to kids with cancer to various animal shelters.

  ‘Which charities did she nominate?’

  The funeral director cleared his throat and squirmed slightly. ‘Actually, there is only one …’

  Brie cocked her head, slightly perplexed. ‘Which one?’

  More squirming ensued. ‘Scarlet Alliance,’ he half coughed, half mumbled and Brie’s curiosity grew.

  ‘Scarlet Alliance?’ She frowned. ‘I’m afraid I’m not aware of them.’

  The funeral director, Walter, was now sporting a bright-red face beaded with sweat. ‘As far as I can tell, it’s the national organisation for … sex workers.’

  ‘Sex workers?’ Brie repeated, which only seemed to make Walter’s moon-shaped face even more crimson.

  ‘Yes, you know, like …’ he leaned in, and despite the fact they were all alone, with the door of his office closed, whispered in a conspiratorial manner, ‘prostitutes.’

  Brie instinctively raised her brows in surprise, but not perhaps for the same reason as Walter Smyth.

  ‘In all my years of funeral directing, I’ve never been asked to collect money for …’

  ‘Ladies of the night?’ Brie offered. Poor Walter seemed to be having trouble with his words, in stark contrast to ten minutes ago, when he’d chewed her ear off about everything from what talented tuba players his two grandsons were to how he was an avid bird watcher in his spare time.

  ‘Yes, well … it’s certainly an unusual charity to be … um, supporting.’

  At first, Walter’s blushing and tongue tripping were amusing. Brie could excuse him for being a little embarrassed, but now, it seemed that he was directly having a dig at her grandmother. Her dead grandmother.

  ‘I really don’t think it matters what you think of my grandmother’s choice, Mr Smyth.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Furthermore, while I’m not entirely sure of why my grandmother chose the Scarlet Alliance, it doesn’t matter to me and it definitely shouldn’t matter to you.’

  ‘Now, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Actually, Walter, I think you did. All her life, Rosie Hart has supported various charities. When I was in Year Six, there was a little boy I was at school with who had cerebral palsy. Next thing I knew, we were hosting a fundraiser for what was known then as the Spastic Society. A year later we had two foster children in Tanzania called Faithia and Graciela, and by the time I left high school I had lost count of the humanitarian, disability and animal welfare groups Rosie has … had supported. She was a person who supported far and wide—her love of people, animals and those in need knew no bounds. The day she wrote her will she probably woke up determined to have the Cancer Council as her nominated charity, but by the time she saw her solicitor, Rosie would’ve changed her mind a few times.’

  Brie paused, drew in a breath, and by the looks of it, Walter could do with some oxygen, too. His somewhat startled expression made Brie realise that the volume of her voice had increased and her tone had taken on a defensive quality.

  The question remained—was it because she didn’t appreciate Walter’s unsavoury attitude towards the charity, or was it because Brie herself had no idea why her grandmother had chosen to collect money for Scarlet Alliance? Probably a combination of both, but it rankled that it was yet another layer of her grandmother Brie wasn’t aware of.

  ‘My point, Mr Smythe, is that there is probably no salacious rhyme or reason as to why Scarlet Alliance was chosen, and the fact is it was chosen and guests will, in lieu of flowers, donate money to the organisation.’

  Walter looked suitably chastised. ‘Of course, Ms Hart, we will arrange In Memory cards to be printed and distributed and, of course, it will also be noted in the online and newspaper notices.’

  The ache in her neck had now travelled to her head, yielding a dull throb. Brie rubbed the tender skin of her temples and expelled a breath. ‘Thank you, Mr Smythe.’

  As her phone began to buzz, displaying a message from Joe, Walter gave a short nod. ‘I think we’re done for the day; I’ll let you get that.’

  Smiling her thanks, she swiped her phone to view Joe’s message.

  Brianna, I need to cancel our meeting, apologies. Are you available on Monday?

  Brie cursed under her breath. Monday was four days away and after the funeral. Truth be told, there was a lot to do before then, and as much as she wanted to know what the link between the address in the Cross and her grandmother was, she was probably better off spending the next couple of days organising what was left of the funeral arrangements, the wake, and as she had seen when she’d visited the house, the rest of Rosie’s packing. Brie really hadn’t thought past the funeral so her Monday was wide open. She texted Joe and they agreed to meet first thing Monday morning.

  On the way home, she stopped by the supermarket near Rosie’s house. Grabbing a small hand basket, she made her way down the aisles, marvelling at how wide they were, although to be fair, every supermarket in Australia probably seemed to be bigger than the small Lawsons, a 7-Eleven-like convenience store in Narita.

  It wasn’t a new supermarket, it was one she had been to before, many times, and in fact she had had a boyfriend, Josh Cooper, who worked as a night filler once upon a time. Shit, Josh Cooper. There was a name she hadn’t thought of in years, and for good reason. For a brief moment she wondered where he was now. No doubt married to someone whom his mother would approve of, someone
who was not Brie Hart—orphaned girl who barely remembered her mother and never knew who her father was, granddaughter of an eccentric, a wanderer, a gypsy, citizen of the world. She imagined Josh’s bride would be of model calibre, someone who would easily grace the society pages of the papers.

  The bump of an errant shopping trolley against the back of her heel pulled Brie out of her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ a young mother, her hands and shopping cart clearly full, apologised profusely, clearly horrified that she had run into someone. Brie looked at two wide-eyed pairs of hazel eyes, dark hair askew, and smiled.

  ‘Don’t give it a thought, I probably wasn’t paying attention,’ she offered truthfully. ‘Jet lag,’ she added as if it would explain everything.

  The young woman, who looked the same age as Brie, smiled knowingly. ‘I know exactly how you feel, I’ve been in a jet lag holding pattern for the past three years,’ she sighed, but the goofy grin that graced her lips told Brie she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Then a chubby hand reached out, Brie’s white shirt clearly his intended target. His mother’s eyes widened with horror, but her lightning-speed hand was no match for that of a young child with a fistful of soggy vegemite toast. ‘Jai, no!’ she cried, too late, and a very distinct brown smear graced Brie’s white smock top.

  ‘I am so, so sorry!’ Immediately, she began rummaging through her nappy bag, which on closer inspection, Brie could see was an oversized designer handbag. ‘Here, I have Wet Ones.’ Frantically, she pulled out a wad of wipes and handed them over.

  ‘Thanks.’ Brie smiled politely, although she was already resigned to the likelihood that her top was ruined. Not that she particularly cared—she had sullied her fair share of clothes during photo assignments—but she dutifully dabbed at the smear, which surprisingly seemed to be disappearing.

  ‘They work wonders, those things.’ The mother nodded towards the vanishing stain. ‘I take them everywhere I go.’

  ‘I’ll take note.’

  ‘I’m Tamara by the way—everyone calls me Tam—and these two messy demons are Jai and Iris.’

  ‘Brie,’ she said as she waved to the very cute pigeon pair.

  ‘Are you a local? I should buy you a coffee to make up for ruining your top.’

  ‘Thanks, but that’s not necessary. The top will wash out and I really need to get home and deal with the jet lag.’

  ‘Well, once you’re over your jet lag, there’s a great little café nearby called Albi & Ruby’s. It’s on the corner of Richmond Street and Orange Avenue.’

  Brie felt a smile tug at her lips. ‘I know it, my grandmother used to own it.’

  Tam’s eyes went wide. ‘Rosie is your gran? I’m Tamara Sloane; she sold the café to my husband, John, and me. How is she? She normally comes in once a week, but I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  Brie felt winded, like her stomach was wound in a thousand knots. ‘Rosie is … she passed away a couple of days ago.’ She swallowed, a golf-ball-sized lump forming in her throat. That was a whole lot harder than she had imagined. It was the first time she had told someone about Rosie’s death, besides telling Sebastian, and he really didn’t count—he hadn’t known Rosie, and Brie had only told him because they had been sleeping together. It couldn’t be classified as a relationship, but she had known Sebastian for years. He owned the bar in Narita where most of the overlaying airline crew would spend their free time.

  ‘I’ll be back, Seb.’ Even as Brie had said the words, she knew they were a lie and, it seemed, so did Sebastian.

  Seb had shaken his head. ‘You are like the sakura. Your blossom is beautiful, but in reality, you’re here for a brief moment in time.’

  She’d always had an inkling that Seb was more invested in them than she was, but his words, the look in his eyes, had left her with a certain amount of self-reproach. Yet, as she’d walked away, leaving Seb to set up for a night of welcoming patrons that were there for nothing but a good time, she had felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

  Brie had resisted getting involved with Seb. He was one of the handful of permanents in a town of fly-ins. There were always the usual suspects: pilots, flight attendants and engineers from the world over, so that on any given night it seemed as if there was a UN convention. For a while she was seeing Dan, an Aussie pilot, till one day Dan brought his wife along on a trip and had the nerve to leave his hotel room after she’d fallen asleep and seek Brie’s company. He knew she would be at Seb’s, and after telling Dan for the tenth time, that no, she would not leave with him, Seb had walked calmly around from behind the bar and quietly disposed of him. After Dan, there was Freddy the Swede, then Roger the Canadian. Each and every time, Seb was there, not so much to pick up the pieces—Brie never allowed herself to fall so deep that her heart would be broken, more her ego bruised—and every time Seb had hinted that she was better off with him, she’d laughed it off. When Roger announced he was getting married but he still wanted to keep seeing her, Brie knew it was time to give up the game and succumbed to Seb’s advances, knowing full well that they too would not last.

  ‘Goodness, I’m so sorry!’ Before she knew what was happening, Tam had wrapped her in the tightest of hugs, bringing her back to the present. When she moved away, Tam’s eyes shone. ‘I can’t believe it.’ Tam placed the heel of her hand to the centre of her chest. ‘I saw her just a couple of weeks ago. She was going to help me look for a new paleo dessert supplier. John and I were forever grateful that she kept coming in. She helped us so much on the business side of things—she really wanted us to succeed.’

  ‘That sounds like Rosie.’ It did. Her gran really had a head for business and a heart for helping others. Brie always thought her gran reached out to others because it was just the two of them. While it never seemed to bother Rosie that they had no family but each other, Brie never felt so secure and content.

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Saturday, eleven am, at St Patrick’s.’

  Tam nodded. ‘I’ll be there. John probably won’t be able to get away, but at least one of us can pay our respects.’

  ‘Rosie would’ve appreciated just the thought.’

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Brie. I’m sorry it’s not under happier circumstances. Rosie spoke of you often. She was proud of her globetrotting granddaughter. Well, if I can help out at all, please come by the café. I’m there most mornings. In fact, I’m heading back there now. My mum lives across the road and I’m dropping these ratbags there.’

  ‘Thanks, will do.’ She waved goodbye to Tam and her cute kids, but as she was driving home in Rosie’s car, an idea hit her and she found herself taking a detour to Albi & Ruby’s.

  ‘Brie,’ Tam greeted her with a smile. ‘I didn’t think I would see you so soon. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Yes to the coffee, then I have something to run by you, and probably your husband too if he’s around.’

  ‘He’s in the kitchen, but I’m sure I can drag him out for a bit. What will you have?’

  ‘Double-shot latte.’

  ‘Ah, the hard stuff. Take a seat and I’ll bring it out to you soon.’

  Brie chose a table by the open French bi-fold doors. Of all her gran’s cafés, Albi & Ruby’s had been Rosie’s favourite. It was also the one Gran had resisted selling for as long as she could. She remembered Rosie telling her she’d found the most darling couple for Albi & Ruby’s. Rosie was eager to take Brie to the café when she was next in the country, but that never eventuated.

  When Rosie had the café it was French shabby chic. Tam and John had kept the integrity of Rosie’s original idea and given the space an industrial vintage feel—an eclectic mix of steel and timber, just the right balance of cool with warmth, with an abundance of green foliage that provided the perfect ambience. And if Tam and John were amiable, it would be the perfect place for Rosie’s wake.

  Her coffee arrived promptly, along with John, who instantly offered his condolences and reiterated
his wife’s offer of assistance. Brie sipped the latte slowly and savoured it, noticing how it almost immediately improved her headache.

  ‘Actually, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to ask you both if you would consider holding Rosie’s wake at Albi & Ruby’s.’ Brie drew in a breath and watched as Tam and John exchanged a brief glance.

  ‘We’d be honoured,’ John said and Tam nodded her agreement.

  ‘Really? I mean, I’m not sure how many you can fit or if you even have the capacity to do events, but I think that this is what Rosie would’ve wanted. I was going to have it at her house, but it’s been sold and there are boxes everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, she told us she’d sold her house,’ Tam said, and for the second time that day, finding out that others knew about it and she hadn’t, rankled.

  Had Rosie actually told her and she’d forgotten? Not likely—Brie often got wrapped up on assignment, but when it came to Rosie, she always paid attention.

  ‘And as for capacity—we’ve been able to fit between eighty to ninety people here standing. Maybe a little more if people don’t mind being slightly squished.’

  ‘I’m sure there won’t be that many. We can probably cater for about fifty.’

  ‘Oh, I think we’ll be turning people away. Rosie Hart was a popular woman. I’m sure all of the owners of her previous cafés will want to come, as well as the guy that’s running the one she never sold. What’s it called? I can never remember the name.’

  Brie stopped mid-sip and peered at Tam over her cup. ‘Rosie sold all her cafés. Indeed, Albi & Ruby’s was the last one.’

  Confusion crept over Tam’s face before she slanted Brie a look that said Brie was the one confused. ‘I thought I was sure she told me that … oh never mind,’ Tam waved her hand, dismissing the thought, ‘the point is, there will be a crowd eager to say goodbye to your gran.’