Rose River

by Margareta Osborn

  She stopped a few times to have a cry. Despite the tears, she couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of this remote southern evening sky. She’d never seen such a mass of glittering, twinkling little sparks of light. The moon was also beaming its glow across the mountainous countryside. Just as well too. In her rush to leave the hall, she’d forgotten her fear of the dark. Luckily, she’d only had to use the torch when she felt really scared. Like when a loud rustling in the scrub had caused her to nearly pee her pants. The racket had turned out to be a wombat out on a ramble.

  Tiffany wouldn’t have reacted the same way, Jaime was sure. The girl was too country for that. She just had to face the fact that she, Jaime Josephina Hanrahan, wasn’t a good enough match for Stirling McEvoy. He needed a partner like him, who understood life on a remote property. Not one who argued with him at every turn, even if she was the best bargain hunter at a Myer stocktake sale, could run in stiletto heels, do an elaborate up-style within minutes, pull together a marketing plan standing on her head, and play a mean game of nude cricket.

  Finally, she reached Polly’s Plains front gate. With all those fairy lights picking out the letters of the sign, she’d been able to see the damn place from kilometres away. Stirling had turned on all the lights before he’d left and she could see the red and white Santa flapping around on the roof. Exhausted, she sat on a handy tree stump and took it all in. A fairy land of sparkling lights in all shades of red, green, yellow and blue.

  And that’s how she felt. Blue. The walk, and the scary wombat, hadn’t helped. She should’ve stayed at the hall and hidden in the car. At least there she would’ve been comfortable while she wondered why loving someone had to hurt so much.

  The sound of a purring motor interrupted her thoughts. It was the Merc, creeping down the road, its lights on high beam. She stood up so Dave could see her as the vehicle swung into the main entrance, and was surprised to see her mother at the wheel. Blanche didn’t normally drive if Dave was with her.

  Jaime’s amazement must have been apparent.

  ‘You didn’t expect me to let him drive, did you?’ Blanche said, nodding towards her husband.

  Dave was reclining in the passenger seat, his head lolling to one side, dribble sliding from his half-open mouth. A stubby sat in his lap, held upright by a pair of powerful thighs.

  Fair enough.

  ‘And as for that thing in the back,’ her mother went on, ‘he can leave first thing in the morning. He threatened to vomit in my car!’

  Jaime peered into the Merc and saw Marty sprawled across the back seat, his head lolling like his uncle’s. She suspected there was more than just dribble running from his mouth, but she wasn’t going to tell her mother that. No way.

  ‘They announced the winner of the talent quest,’ said Blanche, her tone sulky.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Tiffany. Irene gets the day spa package. So not fair.’

  That’d be right, Jaime thought. Beaten at every turn.

  ‘You were better,’ added her mother.

  Jaime just nodded. Regardless of what Blanche thought, Tiffany had a good voice. Unfortunately.

  ‘Do you want a ride up to the house?’ asked Blanche.

  ‘Where would I sit? In the boot? No, thanks, I’ll keep walking.’

  Blanche kept the driver’s window level with Jaime as she strode along the gravel track, which shone gold in the car’s headlights. Jaime felt her mother fix her with a hard look.

  ‘I never took you for a quitter, Jaime Josephina.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jaime did have half an idea of what her mother was talking about. But she didn’t want to go there with Blanche. Their mother-daughter fence hadn’t been mended that much.

  Blanche had no such qualms. ‘You know exactly what I mean. If you want that man, you’re going to have to fight for him.’

  ‘What man?’ She could play the dumb blonde too.

  But her mother wasn’t having any of it. ‘Do you take me for a fool? I know when my daughter’s in love. And, much as Dave would like it, it’s not with that buffoon in the back!’

  Jaime stopped walking and swung around to face her mother. The car stopped too.

  ‘Okay. I am in love with him, but she had him first. And, as you can see from tonight’s big announcement, she’s still got him. End of story.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

  ‘You were the one offering to help that old bat find her niece a bridal dress!’ Jaime said, and walked on. The car moved with her.

  ‘It was the heat of the moment,’ said Blanche. ‘What was I supposed to say? “Heave over, that man belongs to my daughter”?’

  Well, she could have tried!

  Jaime paused again, and the Merc halted too. She faced her mother, noticing that the eerie light from the moon made her look every bit her age. And wiser too, maybe …

  ‘You think –’ Her voice hitched mid-sentence. She tried again. ‘You think I might have half a chance?’

  Blanche nodded, then looked straight ahead through the front windscreen. But not before Jaime saw a shining glimmer in her eyes.

  ‘But what should I do?’ she asked.

  Her mother snapped her head back. ‘What should you do?’ she said incredulously. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Jaime, use your brain.’

  ‘But I don’t know how … what … I mean, look at me! I’m not a country girl! I don’t do all this …’ She flung her arms in the air, grasping for the right word. ‘This … well … farm-y stuff.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Just be your normal sassy self.’

  ‘Myself?’

  ‘Do you have to repeat everything I say?’ Blanche asked with an arched eyebrow. ‘Yes, yourself. Goodness knows why, but the man seems to like it.’

  ‘But I’m not like her.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t want to be. She’s just a self-centred, fawning accessory.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to do all this!’

  ‘You’ve managed alright so far, haven’t you?’

  Jaime thought about it. She had. She’d faced down rampaging cattle (well, cattle that were running at her), shot rabbits (okay, so she’d held the spotlight), stared down a possum (she had screamed, but it was dark and it was on her bed), baked a sponge cake (one, anyway), driven a ute (and killed it), backed a trailer (after she’d lost a load of Christmas trees off it) and turned a cat that hated her into a pining groveller (not quite, but nearly, thanks to Dine). The fact that she tried counted though, didn’t it?

  ‘Well,’ said her mother, ‘are you going to let that little hussy get him? Or are you going to put up a fight?’

  Jaime shook her head very slightly. Who would’ve thought her mother could be this feisty?

  ‘You think it was easy to capture Dave?’ Blanche flicked a glance across at her snoring second husband. ‘He had no idea. There was a line of well-meaning widows stretching all the way to Balwyn, every one of them with her sights set on him. But I got in first.’

  Her mother sounded exultant. Like a woman who’d just landed the biggest PR campaign of all time, or a limited-edition DKNY handbag.

  ‘Don’t you remember your father’s advice back when you and he used to go fishing around Healesville?’ Blanche added.

  Jaime blinked at the sudden turn in the conversation. She did remember, all too well. Her memories of those times with her father had helped keep her grief at bay. But she didn’t answer, because she knew if she spoke right now it would come out as a sob.

  ‘When you were sure you simply couldn’t take another step, he used to say, “Don’t say you can’t. Say you can.” Well, it’s that simple now.’

  The memory came crashing back. Her father walking ahead along an overgrown track, leading them towards a fishing spot where, according him, no man had been before. How that could be possible when they were so close to suburbia, she didn’t know, but as a ten-year-old she’d believed the story. She’d crashed along behind him, burgan and black
wattle branches whipping her face, blackberry canes ripping at her sleeves, stinging nettles sliding their prickles across her jeans. She’d whinged that it was taking too long, they were walking too far, it was too hard. And she was tired. And sore. And hungry.

  Her father had stopped, spun on his heel and hunkered down before her. He’d taken her cold, scratched hands in his big, warm ones and said, ‘Don’t say you can’t, Princess.’ She could hear him as if it was only hours earlier. ‘“Can’t” is a naughty word. It means you’re admitting defeat before you even try. Say “I can” instead. “Can” is good word. Positive. It shows you’re willing to try and do your best.’ He’d then pressed a block of chocolate into her hand, tapped her nose and turned to keep walking.

  They’d come to the fishing spot not five minutes later. Caught a brown trout and had it frying on the little burner her dad carried in his backpack before another half-hour had passed. It had been the most delicious fish she’d ever tasted thanks to the effort it had taken to get to that incredibly beautiful fishing hole. She could still taste the melting flakes of lemon and salt-seasoned flesh on her tongue. See the soaring, chocolate-inked cliffs rising above the darkened still water. Hear the plop and splash of a platypus as he swam away on seeing them. Smell the warm, eucalyptus scent of her father as he hugged her fears away.

  Was she willing to put in her best effort now to show Stirling McEvoy that she loved him?

  The simple answer was yes. Yes, she was. Yes, she could. Yes, she would.

  ‘I can,’ she said to Blanche.

  Chapter 27

  Twelve hours later and Jaime was revising that resolution.

  Stirling hadn’t come home. The Christmas lights had stayed on all night, beaming at her. Taunting her.

  And now look who was coming down the station track.

  Irene’s car took a short-cut past Stirling’s cottage and progressed towards the main house.

  ‘I’ll switch on the kettle,’ Blanche said, with a grim look out the kitchen window.

  ‘But, Mum! Both of them!’

  ‘I’ll take Irene. You deal with Tiffany.’

  It sounded like a strategy for battle. The only thing she could feel grateful for was that Marty and Dave were still in bed, sleeping off last night.

  It was Irene who knocked at the glass back door. ‘Is Stirling here, Blanche?’ she said. ‘We’ve come to claim our prize from last night.’

  Talk about being ignored! Jaime was mistress of this establishment for the next little while.

  ‘No, we haven’t seen him,’ she said, jumping in over Blanche. ‘Why would he have anything to do with a day spa?’

  Tiffany arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, he is president of the hall committee. The spa people sent him the voucher.’

  The president? She hadn’t known that.

  ‘I was just telling Aunty Irene, the first thing I’m going to change when I live here is that,’ Tiffany added, pointing with distaste at the propped-open door. ‘Make visitors use the front door instead.’

  Despite her own dislike for the door, Jaime suddenly found herself feeling passionate about keeping it just as it was. Besides, hadn’t Ryan told her when she first arrived that people in the bush always came round the back?

  It didn’t really matter because Tiffany was onto her next renovation project before she’d got halfway through the closed-in back verandah. And who invited her in anyway? ‘As for this porch, I think it can come off. The kitchen will need to be bigger anyway.’

  Dodge must have taken offence because he came out from under the old couch with a snarling hiss and latched himself onto Tiffany’s leg. She flung out her foot and flicked him off – unfortunately onto her aunt’s dress. Irene danced around while Dodge clung precariously to her nylon petticoat. His claws had already gone through the cotton of her dress.

  ‘Get this thing off-a me!’ the older woman screeched.

  Jaime found herself laughing, which she hurriedly turned into a cough. ‘Dodge, get down from there!’ she said, only half meaning it. Irene looked so funny dancing around in circles, as if she’d lost half a rudder.

  ‘Tiffany, remove this creature right now!’ Irene’s voice was three octaves higher than normal.

  But Tiffany wasn’t taking any notice. She was too busy scanning the room for the next modification she would make as Mrs McEvoy.

  ‘Jaime,’ said Blanche. ‘Do something!’

  Jaime sighed, grabbed Dodge in a firm grip and extracted his claws from the layers of material. The cat was not impressed. He lashed out at Irene from the safety of Jaime’s arms and hissed some more.

  ‘Hush now, you silly cat,’ Jaime said to the bundle of spitting grey fur in her hands. She cuddled him into her chest, forcing him to submit to her pats, then carried him outside, well clear of Irene. ‘Now, off you go,’ she said, putting him down. ‘And well done,’ she whispered as he sprinted off into the garden.

  Jaime watched the cat head in the direction of the river and wished she could follow. A morning spent walking or fishing under those regal red gums would be far preferable to the scene behind her. But duty and a whistling kettle called and, with a sigh, she turned to walk inside.

  As she did, she thought she caught the rumble of a motorbike, but after listening long and hard decided she must’ve been mistaken. Stirling had definitely not returned; she’d been watching the driveway practically the whole night. Which meant the only way she was going to find out if he’d spent the night with Tiffany was to go back inside and play nice with the ladies. Damn, bugger and blast.

  Blanche was wielding the teapot like an accomplished hostess. ‘Sugar, Irene?’ she asked in her ‘rounded vowel’ voice. Trust her mother to come on all toffy in such a situation, Jaime thought.

  Tiffany didn’t seem impressed though. She was still expounding on what she was and wasn’t going to do to the Polly’s Plains mansion when she became mistress.

  ‘Those benchtops are ridiculously out of date.’

  Jaime looked at the bench set squarely in the middle of the kitchen. Saw a tall, solid, handsome man with his arms clasped around her waist, her naked back glued to his muscular chest as he guided her hands to fold in flour …

  ‘And this sink! It’s just so old.’

  The same man washing his hands, draping the tea towel to hide a bulge that had made her want to gyrate her hips against him.

  ‘I swear I’ll make some changes around this dreary place …’

  Jaime found herself balking at that. Okay, so the homestead had seemed spooky when she’d arrived, but now she’d come to like it. She found comfort in the creaks and groans of the old house, the idiosyncrasies and secret places of the garden. From what she’d seen in the past few weeks, the whole property was a treasure trove of intriguing nooks. And then there were the beguiling hills and wide open plains, not to mention the glorious Rose River. She could understand why the McEvoys loved it so much.

  ‘… when I marry Stirling,’ Tiffany finished.

  At those words, Jaime’s heart dived to the floor.

  She needed something else to concentrate on so she could drown out Tiffany’s voice. She cocked an ear towards outside. Listened hard. Wasn’t that a motorbike for real?

  The rumble stopped near the back garden gate. Two dogs barked like they wanted to be let off their chains and have some rough-and-tumble play, and Jaime couldn’t blame Busters One and Two for that. It would’ve been a much nicer place to be than in here at the moment.

  Stirling appeared at the screen door, then the kitchen door. Boots still on, hat atop his head, a waft of earthy scent coming from him. The look on his face said it all.

  ‘What are you lot doing here? I mean,’ he added awkwardly, ‘what’s the occasion?’ He took his hat off and fiddled with it agitatedly.

  Nice save, Marble Man, thought Jaime as she drank him in. He was wearing the same emerald shirt and jeans as last night, both a bit rumpled, but he still looked like Mr McDreamy. Well, her Mr McDreamy anyway. She felt h
er body yearning towards him. She just wanted to bury her face in his chest, like she had during their special night together at the pub.

  He leant against the doorjamb and she took in the russet hair curled lightly against his collar, the open neck of his shirt where snippets of chest hair teased the buttons on his placket. The breadth of his shoulders … although the left one was stained a greeny-brown colour. And there were clumps of dirt clinging to his outer left leg. She felt a sudden sense of disquiet. It almost looked like he’d been lying in –

  ‘Oh, Stirling, have you been calving?’ squealed Tiffany. ‘You should’ve called me. I would’ve done it for you!’

  Oh, please. Let’s just show off a bit, shall we?

  Jaime wondered how her marketing skills might help with calving. On reflection, not a lot. Not at the birthing end of the life cycle anyway. Maybe at the butchering end though.

  ‘I haven’t got any cows calving at the minute, Tiff,’ Stirling said. ‘And I’m usually right by myself. Or I call Valerie. My aunt’s a small-animal vet,’ he explained to Blanche.

  The others would have known that, Jaime thought, just like they knew everything else about him. She wondered if Tiffany knew about that faint little mole to one side of his … She shook her head. Of course she would. The two of them had been together for two years.

  Jaime took another look at the woman Blanche had taken to calling her ‘adversary’. She’d obviously given Stirling the run-around while they were together, and afterwards too by what Ryan had said, and now here she was, back again, so sure of herself and where she was going. Straight down the aisle with the ‘man of her dreams’. It was incredible that Tiffany hadn’t even registered that Jaime might be competition. Her aunt had though, and Jaime realised with a start that Irene had noticed she was staring at Tiffany. She could feel the wily old woman’s eyes on her. Irene knew something, but what, Jaime couldn’t be sure. Maybe someone in town had been gossiping about her and Stirling going upstairs together Boxing Day evening? Maybe she’d just picked up some vibes between them?

  Jaime plastered a fake smile on her face and dipped her head to concentrate on her cup of tea. She wasn’t helping matters by gazing at Stirling as though he was the last piece of Cadbury’s chocolate on earth. She heard someone take a glass from a cupboard. The fridge slam. Liquid being poured.