by Cathryn Hein
‘You sound like Em. She didn’t like it either, kept telling me to end it, that it would never work out, but she never blamed me for the way I felt or my inability to stop it.’
Digby didn’t want to talk about Em. His feelings towards her were still confused. Because of Em he’d doubted the woman he loved, and that doubt had driven her to Rocking Horse Hill. It didn’t matter that Em’s accusations against Felicity were true, Digby was meant to be her champion and he’d failed. And now she was dead, and he was left so lonely and hurt there were days when he believed he’d never recover.
He parted his hands. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.’
‘Yeah, except it’s not. It’s still here.’ She rubbed her knuckles against her chest. ‘That love. Like Frankenstein’s monster.’
He understood. Even though Felicity was gone, his love remained strong. The only difference was that he knew how pointless it was. Jas probably knew too, but where life existed, so did hope.
‘It’ll take time, believe me.’ He made a self-deprecating noise, like a half laugh. ‘I’m an expert.’
‘You still love her?’
‘Yeah.’
Jas reached to take his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
Shaking his head, he looked away at the fire. His throat felt thick, his heart bruised. He wanted to tell Jas what it was like, the endless longing, the grief of a million should-have-beens. How one half of him prayed that one day it might end, while the other half clung to her, refusing to let go.
But tonight wasn’t about his lost path to healing. It was about Jasmine’s.
He closed his palm over the top of hers, and gently rubbed. ‘Will you be okay?’
She nodded.
‘I can stay if you need me to.’
‘You’ve done more than enough.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘I’m only going to cry myself to sleep anyway.’
The words ‘I’ll hold you’ swooped through his mind like a winging bird, causing him to swallow and look aside.
‘Thank you, though. For understanding. For not …’ She gazed upwards, hunting for the words. ‘For not judging me harshly.’
He toyed with her fingers, aware it was time to leave, not knowing how. Finally, he looked up. ‘Call, if you need me. Any time. It doesn’t matter.’
‘I will.’
He was halfway back to Levenham, when he realised he hadn’t said what he wanted to say. Without thinking, he called Jas’s mobile number. She answered with a voice that sounded clogged.
‘Don’t let this …’ He breathed in. ‘Don’t become like me, Jas. Keep your hope. It’ll happen again. Love, I mean. And it’ll be good and right, and everything you deserve.’
She was silent for a long while, and he wondered if his words hadn’t been the solace he’d wanted them to be. That he’d made things worse rather than better.
Then she spoke. ‘It’ll happen for you, too.’
But as Digby glanced to the side and saw the moonlit rocky edges of Rocking Horse Hill’s crater, and his heart began to crush in on itself with misery and regret and the searing pain of longing, he doubted that would ever be true.
CHAPTER
8
For the first time in almost three years, Jas called in sick. She rose, showered, applied make-up and dressed in her uniform, taking comfort in routine. But the kitchen, with Digby’s half-drunk bottle of wine still on the bench, brought her undone.
The humiliation of last night crashed down on her. Fatigue sucked at her bones, making them weak. Breathing caused sharp pains in her chest. Her eyes felt sandblasted, the skin beneath them puffy and bruised. It was no wonder. Crying had left her exhausted but sleep had only come in fragments. Her mind churned with fear of what Mike might do next. At what her harasser would make of his visit. And Digby’s.
Nothing, she hoped. But that didn’t calm her anxiety.
After phoning in she returned to bed, but finding no respite from her thoughts Jas rose again, slipped on her riding breeches and warm clothes, and headed out into the clean air and the non-judgemental comfort of her darling Ox.
A strong breeze was scudding clouds across the sky, painting the grassy dunes and pasture in sunshine and shade. As though sensing her fragility, Ox behaved with gentlemanly aplomb, not putting a hoof out of step as Jas practised simple dressage moves in the paddock. She relaxed into his rocking gait, using the rhythm to clear her mind. Except her mind wouldn’t clear, not totally, and she found herself thinking about Digby and his kindness.
She’d never asked what he and Mike talked about during their drive. Perhaps she should have. Would Digby have said anything to Mike? Jas had no idea. Before Felicity Jas would have bet her house that Digby would have been non-confrontational, but he was a different man now. Harder. Less weakened by uncertainty. A man who didn’t care what anyone thought of him. A man who had nothing to lose.
He had almost said as much when he’d called her from the car. Don’t become like me. She assumed he meant burdened with loss, bitter, incapable of love, but the tenderness he’d shown her proved otherwise. He’d been a revelation, and nothing like the Digby she’d known most of her life.
She smiled and leaned forward to stroke Oxy’s smooth neck and whisper to him. ‘What do you think, Foxy Oxy? Am I going to become old and bitter?’ The horse’s charcoal-tipped grey ears swivelled. ‘No,’ she said, scruffing his mane and smiling fondly at him. ‘Not this little black duck.’
Mike wasn’t worth it. Mike wasn’t worth anything.
With Ox brushed down, re-rugged and fed, Jas wandered back inside, yawning all the way. The outdoors and exercise had combined to fill her with the sleepiness she craved. Her muscles were more relaxed, her head clearer, and renewed resolve had made her strong again. After a quick wash, she shrugged back into her nightie, crawled under the soft sheets of her bed and was asleep within minutes.
It was after two when she woke. Jas stretched and rolled over to her side where the sun was creeping in a golden stripe across the carpet. Dust motes cast cheerful glitters in the air. Outside, she could hear the steady beat of the sea and the caaa-caaa of seagulls. A strange feeling flushed over her. A sense almost of renewal, as if she’d been plunged into some sort of heroic test and come out the other side alive. Better. Stronger.
She stretched again and rose. Her body still felt pummelled by fatigue but it was different, more the aches and pains of garden-variety lack of a good night’s sleep than bone-deep emotional exhaustion. And she was starving—another good sign. Perhaps a day off was what she’d needed all along. The chance to be selfish and indulgent. Which made her think of the packet of Tim Tams hiding in the cupboard that she hadn’t had the stomach for lately. She dressed quickly in a pair of paddock jeans and the tops she’d worn riding, and strode out into the kitchen to make a late lunch.
There was plenty to be done around the house and yard but, having designated today her mental health day, Jas ignored the chores. Instead, she buckled a halter on Ox, clipped on a long lunge lead, and led him down to the beach for a splash around and roll in the sand.
Oxy loved a beach frolic. He shied playfully at the tide, pawed at the water, sniffed at seaweed piles, and pranced and mucked around, making Jas smile with affection. Her sweet old darling was getting on, but he could be coltish when the mood took him.
When he’d finished rolling and making satisfied horsey grunts and groans, and shaken himself off, she led him back through the dune cutting and coastal scrub, keeping a good look ahead for the tiger and brown snakes that liked to sunbathe on the narrow sandy trail. When the boobialla cleared she turned left, and stopped.
A man was sitting on her back porch.
For a brief moment anxiety flared then quickly faded as the man stood and held his right hand out in greeting. Smiling, she waved back and clicked her tongue for Ox to move on.
‘Digby,’ she said, when she’d cut back through the rear gate and caught up with him near Oxy’s paddock. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, but it’s n
ice all the same.’
‘I dropped into your work, to see how you were. They said you’d called in sick. I got worried.’ He scanned her face, concerned. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, although I wasn’t this morning. Not much sleep, woke feeling like crap. Decided to take a mental health day.’ She smiled her reassurance. ‘It’s working too.’
‘Good.’ He turned to point at the verandah, where a plastic container sat on the top step. ‘I brought you some soup. Mum’s minestrone. I thought there was some chicken in the freezer but I must have eaten it. Or chucked it out.’ His expression turned sheepish, more like the old Digby she’d grown up with. ‘She keeps bringing me food that I can’t eat. So I either stick it in the freezer or throw it out, then drop back the container.’
‘You’ve been chucking out your mum’s cooking? Digby, you do realise that’s a criminal act?’
He grinned. ‘I know. Whatever you do, don’t tell her.’
‘I won’t. It can be our secret.’
Another to add to their collection, Jas mused as Digby followed her into the paddock. They’d been sharing a few lately.
With Ox brushed down, rugged and let loose, they wandered back to the house. Digby placed the soup in the sink to finish defrosting while Jas put the kettle on to boil. It was after four and, tempting as the thought was, too early for a glass of wine.
‘You haven’t plugged your phone back in,’ said Digby, eyeing the dead machine.
‘No.’
Jas glanced at it and grimaced. She couldn’t keep hiding, and she had friends, family, people who wanted to contact her as they normally did, via the home phone. Why should they and she miss out because of someone’s petty meanness?
She spooned sugar and hung teabags ready for hot water, and went to sort out the phone. No matter what her resolve, her stomach was tight at the thought of what might happen when she turned the power on. To her relief, other than a few flashing lights as the unit centred itself, there was nothing. No sudden invasive ringing followed by that horrible, distorted voice calling her a whore, and worse. Just silence.
The kettle boiled and clicked off, rousing her. She breathed out hard and went to pour the tea.
They took the mugs and a Tupperware container of Tim-Tams outside to sit on the back verandah. Digby didn’t seem in the mood for chatter, which suited Jas. She didn’t know what to say anyway, and the thought of broaching the subject of last night—and what he might, or might not have said to Mike—made her cheeks hot.
The morning’s fluffy clouds had given way to thickening bands of grey. Out to sea the sky was turning indigo, while onshore the breeze that had been so pleasant was gaining strength.
‘Storm coming,’ said Digby, squinting towards the southern horizon. ‘Forecast predicted one.’
‘I haven’t checked.’ She blew on her tea. ‘Too busy sleeping and playing with Ox.’
‘It’s not severe. The bureau’s only talking winds up to 35 knots, bit of rain. Sea will be rough though.’ He nodded towards her horse. Ox was hanging over the fence, eyes half closed, his bottom lip drooping in that gorgeously dopey way he had. ‘He might need an extra rug tonight.’
Mention of the coming night made Jas quiet. She stared into her tea.
‘Are you worried about Mike?’
She nodded, eyes fixed.
‘Don’t. He won’t bother you again.’ Digby’s voice developed a steely edge. ‘Not if he knows what’s good for him.’
She looked up then. Digby’s face was as iron-like as his words. ‘I’m so sorry, Dig. I never meant for you to get involved in my mess.’
His expression softened. ‘I know, but I’m glad I was here. You’re safe now. Free to move on.’
‘Yes,’ said Jas, studying the darkening horizon, thinking of the future, where it might lead now she could plan. Somewhere positive, she decided. Somewhere positive and fun and happy and unburdened. Even on good days, the feeling of being captive to something more powerful than her will had thrummed behind her smiles and laughter. Few had noticed, and she’d been careful to keep it that way. But now that thick shadow was gone. She was free, and Jas planned to make the most of it.
Tossing the cool remains of her tea over the lawn, she grinned brightly at Digby. ‘And about bloody time too.’
Although she asked, he didn’t stay for dinner, but it wasn’t until later that Jas regretted not pressing harder. By 7 pm the storm had made landfall and she could have done with Digby’s gentle company. Not that Jas was afraid of storms, or worried about damage to her house or to Ox. The house had endured wilder weather than this, and Ox had his shelter and thick rugs. But there was something about rugged weather than made her want to snuggle.
On the few nights she and Mike could snatch together—usually when he’d lied to his wife about business trips or meetings—Jas had adored the simple joy of romantic company. Mike’s talent for affection, for making her believe that she was the only person he loved and would ever love, for making her feel special, was unbounded. He was also the most attentive and passionate lover she’d ever had, making those who came before seem like bumbling adolescents.
Losing that passion, that sense of specialness and love, had been one of her greatest fears. It seemed impossible to believe that she could find excitement and pleasure of that calibre again. Perhaps it might never be, but surely another might come close. And if that closeness was reached without all the shadows and chains that accompanied Mike’s version of love, then that had to be better.
From the yawns Jas was producing it was just as well Digby hadn’t stayed. It gave her the excuse for an early night. She had sleep to catch up on, work tomorrow, and on Saturday she had Em’s bridal shower. As chief bridesmaid Jas should have hosted it herself, but Granny B had insisted on it being held at Camrick, where there was plenty of space and guests could catch taxis home should they overindulge on champagne.
Meanwhile, the boys would amuse themselves with a round of golf followed by drinks at the Australian Arms Hotel, after which Josh, Digby and Harry Argyle, the other groomsman, along with Samuel, Josh’s dad and brothers-in-law, would trek back to Camrick to share war stories from the day with the girls over a barbecue.
As Jas shuffled into her nightie, the thought made her smile. A party weekend spent with people she adored would be just what she needed.
The future was at last hers to forge.
CHAPTER
9
Even wearing a fuchsia plastic Alice band on her head, topped with two sparkly multicoloured unicorns on springs and a square of pink card on which ‘Daffy Duck’ was inscribed in glittery gold letters, Granny B still managed to act as regal as a queen.
Not that her manner had much effect on Em’s bridal shower guests. Not after well over three hours of multiple champagne toasts, canapés, chatter and silly party games. The mood was warm and relaxed, any last remaining barriers broken down by a hard-fought game of Celebrity Head. A game Granny B seemed hell-bent on winning.
With Em safely at PaperPassion dealing with Saturday-morning customers, Jas and Adrienne had spent the morning transforming Camrick’s back yard into a garden-party delight while Granny B stomped around inspecting their efforts and generally getting in the way. For a woman suffering chronic open-angle glaucoma in one eye, practically blinding it, her eyesight could be dismayingly sharp. The relief when Granny B departed to get her hair done had Jas and Adrienne smiling at one another, and sneaking in an early glass of fizz to calm their frazzled nerves.
By the time they were done the lawn was dotted with inviting white cane chairs topped with squashy navy cushions. Blue cantilever umbrellas created pockets of shade. Pots of cobalt blue lobelia—on loan from a local garden centre, thanks to Adrienne’s connections—formed vibrant centrepieces on white cloth-draped tables, while tall plantings of cosmos added attractive green-and-white accents. Tubs of ice were filled with bottles of Krug champagne donated by Granny B, the price of which Jas didn’t want to contemplate. Heavy
crystal champagne flutes stood in perfect ranks, while small china plates from the Wallace family collection—plain white with a blue art deco rim design—waited in stacks for loading with Adrienne’s restaurant-quality canapés. Little blue and white parcels of handmade champagne-scented soaps, each labelled with a guest’s name, were placed alongside on crisply pressed linen napkins.
Both Jas and Adrienne were desperate for the day to be special and couldn’t help fretting that something would go wrong. They needn’t have worried. Camrick looked gorgeous, and more than fit for a queen of Granny B’s bearing, let alone a bride-to-be. Best of all, their efforts had Em’s eyes tearing up in pleasure and gratitude, and she hugged them both in a way that had Jas once again silently thanking every entity she could think of for the gift of Em’s friendship.
As Adrienne settled a bright blue Alice band with dancing butterflies on Em’s head ready for the Celebrity Head final, Jas snuck a sly glance at the others and felt a rush of contentment. She hadn’t been sure how the game would go down but everyone seemed to find it a hoot, in particular after spying Granny B’s allotted character. Jasmine’s mum Phillipa and Josh’s mum Michelle were both grinning. His sisters, Sal and Karen, both of whom had organised babysitters for their brood, were hitting the champagne hard and outright giggling. The remainder of the group, which comprised Em’s assorted school, work and horsey friends, and family acquaintances, and who tended to be intimidated by Granny B’s dowager duchess act, were trying—mostly unsuccessfully—to hold back their amusement.
Jas exchanged another satisfied smile with Adrienne before turning to Granny B and inviting her to open the game.
‘Am I dead?’ Granny B asked in a voice more cut than her crystal glass.
‘As if anything could kill you,’ said Jas.
The others looked at one another, a few whispering. Was Daffy Duck alive or dead? Technically he wasn’t human …
Jas cut them off. ‘I think you count as alive, although perhaps not in the normal sense.’
