Set the Stage (A Rivervue Community Theatre Romance, #2)

by Daniel De Lorne

  He’d hastily plunged himself into debt so he could pay his sister for her half of the family home over a year ealier, a loan he should have easily been able to pay off. But a new ute had added to the debt, a broken arm had forced him to stop work for six weeks, and he’d lost work to another builder who’d moved into the area.

  And then there was the fact that he lived in Brachen, where people promised to pay but weren’t clear on when. Arty types. They were fine with concepts but try to get them to deal with reality … He’d have more luck building a house out of water. Meanwhile the bank wanted cold hard cash, and he’d gone through all his, leaving him with rapidly accruing credit-card debt and a house that would soon be taken away. He had four weeks to make a payment or that was it.

  Default. And the fault’s all mine.

  He snorted at the dumb joke then cursed himself for his stupidity. He needed to start calling in the invoices and chase up the people who had well and truly exceeded his thirty-day terms. But the thought of doing that had him gripping the railings along the walls.

  ‘You alright there, Bruce?’

  He looked up to see Mrs Farrah in her dressing gown and pulling an IV on a stand. Her hair was coiffed, a natural grey that had a tinge of purple, and she was as thin and wiry as ever. Bush-hardened, unkillable, and if not for the location and the drip, he wouldn’t have believed she was ill. He’d gone around to her house the day before to deliver an invoice, and her daughter told him she’d gone into Shoalhaven for a few days. The invoice was still on the dash of his car.

  ‘Can’t complain, Mrs Farrah. Violet said you were in here. How are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. I should be out soon. I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to thank you for the wonderful job you did on my kitchen cabinets.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ It had been an easy enough job and he’d agonised over charging her, but Ed Greenleaf would have charged twice as much, if not more. Though Bruce had been stretched for time, he hadn’t wanted to let her down. He would have done the work for free but Trudy insisted on paying. Even so he’d undercharged. But now to see her in the hospital … That was one debt he wasn’t going to chase up.

  ‘And don’t forget to send me your invoice.’

  ‘Sure, just don’t worry about paying it until after you’re well and truly better.’ Hopefully by then she’d have forgotten he never gave it to her.

  ‘Oh, Bruce, you’re too generous. What are you doing here anyway?’

  He wasn’t sure whether Sofia would want everyone to know but it took a while to think of a lie. Maybe a test of some kind? A follow-up for his arm? Visiting? Yes, he could say he was visiting. But as he was about to give his excuse, Gabriel appeared down the hallway, looking like he’d run all the way from Sydney.

  ‘Just visiting, Mrs Farrah. I’ll see you later. Hope you get well soon.’ He touched her arm and hurried to meet Gabriel halfway. He’d gotten older but was by no means less handsome, perhaps losing some of the weight in his face, which accentuated the angles in his cheeks and jaw. Black hair as dishevelled as ever, brown eyes that hovered between cruel and kind, and lips the colour of crushed mulberries. He’d always appeared mature for his age, even at fifteen, but now at twenty-four he looked how Bruce imagined he would always look: like a force that would break you. Bruce might have towered over him but he felt as lumbering and oafish as a sack of flour. He pushed his shoulders back. They didn’t mean anything to each other. He was only here to pass him on to Sofia.

  Gabriel’s face contorted as he looked up at Bruce, a smile that crashed and tried to revive itself.

  ‘Hey. How is she?’

  Despite it all, Bruce wanted to hug him. They’d been close once, but when Gabriel left and took Jason with him, that had been the end of any chance at friendship. Bruce folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘She was asleep when I left her room. Number 816. The doctors haven’t said much to me so you might want to let them know you’re here.’

  ‘What happened? You found her?’

  ‘I’m building her a gazebo and she came out to see how I was going and then she fainted. She looked bad enough for me to call an ambulance. She’s been ill a while. You didn’t know?’ There’d been enough talk among the theatre crowd about Sofia having cancer that it was a surprise Gabriel hadn’t been aware.

  ‘No.’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘I guess it’s been a while since you’ve been around.’

  Gabriel’s eyes hardened. ‘Is there something wrong, Bruce?’

  He shrugged his shoulders, his mouth moving like it juggled marbles. ‘Not for me to say.’

  ‘I think you’re saying plenty. Look, thanks for being there for her, but I’m here now and I want to see her.’

  ‘Better late than never, I guess.’

  The frown on Gabriel’s face deepened, and the plunge of those eyebrows took out Bruce’s heart. He didn’t have the right to berate Gabriel for not being there, but it didn’t sit well with him that Gabriel should be living the high life in the city while his mother was in Brachen suffering.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Gabriel muttered through gritted teeth and left to see his mother.

  Whatever. Sofia was the one who was sick and you didn’t just leave family to go it alone. Perhaps Gabriel being there would make him see that he couldn’t just treat people like they were disposable. Especially family. They were supposed to mean more to you than that.

  Or that’s what he always wanted to believe. His own family history would have said otherwise.

  Now Gabriel had taken over, he could go but he still went back to the room and glanced in. Gabriel was leaning over the side of Sofia’s bed, his hand in hers, whispering to her. If Bruce hadn’t acted like such a jerk, he would have stuck around to give him some support, but he’d blown that from the start. Better to start as you mean to continue.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and shook him out of it. A call from a client. He had to get back to Brachen.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Home, sweet home.’ Gabriel opened the front door and half-carried his mother into the house.

  ‘It is now you’re here.’ Sofia’s breath wasn’t quite strong enough to carry the sound.

  He let her lead. He wanted her to go to bed, which was a short trip down the hall and a right into the master bedroom, but she continued into the living room to her favourite armchair. ‘You don’t have to carry me the whole way, you know. I’m fine.’

  ‘Fine people don’t end up in hospital.’

  Or have to stay the night.

  ‘That was one time.’ She sat down and settled herself, no hiss of pain, no grimace twisting her mouth. But was this really the first time? The drive home to Brachen hadn’t been filled with much conversation, and the questions had built up without him finding the right moment to ask them.

  Actually, he only had one question: why hadn’t she told him?

  He’d been there when the doctor came in to discuss her care and the fact that she had stage three metastatic lung cancer. Diagnosis: bad—but not without hope. She’d explained what would happen next, how the cancer had progressed sooner than they would have liked, and what to expect in the days, weeks and months ahead.

  No mention of years.

  He’d taken that in somehow, like being in the dentist’s chair where the anaesthetic’s sting brought more pain than what came after. At least until it wore off.

  She pulled a knitted blanket over her knees and cast him a grateful look that stuck straight through his heart. She was so pleased to have him home. And true, he only lived a couple of hours away, but he hadn’t come home nearly often enough. If he had, she wouldn’t have been able to keep this a secret. Those coughing fits she had, that shortness of breath … He’d noticed them but she’d said they weren’t anything to worry about. If he’d been around, could he have encouraged her to seek help sooner and bought her some more time? As much as he wanted to ask, h
e didn’t want to upset her.

  And he didn’t want to hear the worst.

  Most of the curls in her dark hair had straightened and her skin was paler without her makeup. When he’d gone back to the hospital to get her that morning, he’d brought everything she’d asked for but she’d found it too much to do her face. It had been a while since he’d seen her uncovered.

  ‘I’m going to put the kettle on. Want a cuppa?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  That gave him time to gather his composure. He racked his memory for a time when he should have known something was wrong. Had that cold she had a couple of months ago been cover for this? When she hadn’t answered the phone that Thursday had it been because she was too weak to pick up?

  He kept his hands busy filling the kettle and getting out mugs, tea, milk and sugar, but they were things he’d done thousands of times before when he’d lived here. So his mind easily wandered free and tripped on the barbs of his guilt.

  The kettle boiled. He made tea. Now was the time to ask. But as he carried the mugs over, the spread of papers on the dining table caught his eye. He stopped and looked at the sketches, putting one of the mugs down on the table.

  ‘Use a coaster!’ she called out. Like always. Rings dotted the varnished wooden table, evidence of his—sometimes wilful—forgetfulness. No matter how hard she polished, she could never get rid of them.

  He found a coaster and relocated the tea, then shuffled through a few pages. Sketches for the theatre’s new production. What had she called it? Aussie? Maverick? Larrikin. Her lines were shaky, but the ideas were coming. Costumes and sets, Australian-themed, olden, her notes around the edge about it needing to be the best because it would be her last.

  No, not hers. The theatre’s. They’d spoken about it when he’d called. The theatre might be closing down and there was a proposed redevelopment on the cards—which he knew about almost better than anyone.

  He carried a few sheets over with her tea, putting the mug on an old magazine on the side table beside her armchair.

  ‘What do you think?’ She took the pages. ‘I’m not sure they’re capturing the right feel. Lexi wants this show to be spectacular, what with the bicentennial celebrations and all, but I’m struggling to get the concepts right.’

  Eight years of working on sets and costumes and she always said the same thing. It was part of her creative process. Part of her doubt. It was either hers alone or a carryover from the belittling that she went through married to his father. Some wounds never healed. Gabriel had always encouraged her, even as a surly and secretive teenager, but today, as she sat in her chair, somewhat diminished, shrunken, fading, such words were harder to form.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mamá. Focus on getting better.’

  She stared at the designs, not at him, and his heart squeezed with the tactless way he’d said it, for forcing them to talk about this thing between them.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He sat on the floor at her feet and put his hand over hers. ‘I would have come home. I would have been here to help you.’

  ‘Mijo, there wouldn’t have been anything for you to do.’ She put her hand on the side of his face, her fingers light on his skin as she stroked his cheek. ‘Honestly, I’ve been fine. I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘But there must have been something I could do.’

  ‘You living your life was the best thing for both of us.’

  That’s because him not being around meant she could ignore it too. He’d always been the one to show up the truth and bring upheaval. He’d done it when he was younger, when he couldn’t hide the bruises or the reason behind them and told his parents that he was being beaten up after the kids at school found out he was gay. She’d protected him, but his father had hit him a lot harder than the kids had. And the moment he’d been thrashed had been the moment his mother’s life had shredded. She packed their bags and the two of them fled, leaving behind that semi-comfortable life. If he hadn’t been around, she would have been able to stick it out.

  And now here he was making her confront her own mortality.

  ‘I would have helped.’

  ‘I know, mijo, but you have your job, you have your life. Here I have my friends and I have the theatre. So you stay the night and then you go back to Sydney, okay?’

  Go back to destroying Rivervue? And her? No chance.

  ‘I’ve taken time off work. The doctor said you shouldn’t be living by yourself … right now.’

  She was going to get better. He had to believe that, even if the doctor wouldn’t confirm it.

  ‘Pssh. What does she know? Look, I’ve got work to do. I have to get these designs done for Lexi. She’s depending on me.’

  ‘I’m sure she can find someone else.’

  Sofia frowned. ‘Why would she need to find someone else? I’m the designer.’

  ‘Because you need to put all your energy into getting better.’

  ‘And sitting around doing nothing is going to do that, is it?’

  Better than finding her slumped over the table with exhaustion.

  ‘Mamá, let’s talk about this later when you’re rested. You’ve had a shock, and I’m worried that you continuing with this is going to affect your health.’

  ‘Gabriel, I know you think you’re doing right, but I am going to keep doing what I’ve always been doing. Tomorrow I’ll go to work at the bookshop—as usual—and in the evening I’ll go to rehearsals at the theatre—as usual. Understand?’

  Panic scratched at the back of his throat, trying to get out. The doctor had demanded she rest and with the upcoming radiation and chemotherapy Sofia wouldn’t have the stamina to shower herself let alone design costumes for the theatre.

  ‘But Mamá—’

  ‘Enough!’ Her tone and her hand put a stop to his pleas. ‘This is what I want and this is what’s going to happen.’

  He sighed and let his head fall. He understood it was important to her to carry on as if nothing had changed, but he’d seen the worry in her eyes as the doctor laid out a diagnosis she’d no doubt heard before. And probably with increasing frequency.

  ‘Fine, but if you’re too sick tomorrow, you’re not going to work. They can do without you for a day.’

  He got to his feet but stopped at the table, putting his mug down, to look at more of her designs. Most had a scraggly line drawn diagonally across the page indicating they were her mistakes, the times when the ideas didn’t transfer well into reality. They were expected, but the shakiness of her markings was new. And terrifying. How much strength had these taken from her? How many hours had she sat alone while he was in Sydney figuring out how to destroy her second home? If she couldn’t finish the designs, couldn’t see her vision come to life before the theatre was taken away from her, what would that do to her health? People died of broken hearts and he was going to break hers again.

  He tidied the pages, picked up his tea and sat beside her on the couch. Even if they didn’t talk, he would be where he was meant to be when she needed him.

  Chapter Four

  Bruce reorganised his day so he could get some other jobs out of the way before going to Sofia’s. He wanted to avoid disturbing her with his hammering and drilling. He rose before dawn, made a quick stop at the theatre to drop off sheets of plywood, and went to Paul Leeman’s antique shop to continue with the fit-out. Thankfully Paul wasn’t expecting much for what was essentially the installation of a new countertop, and he finished before opening. He’d return after closing to put on another layer of varnish, but Paul could use it in the meantime. That meant he could bring the invoice with him and hand it over once the job was completed.

  And then wait until Armageddon for Paul to pay.

  The last time he swore he’d never take another job from Paul … but he took it anyway.

  Like the job before that. And the one before that too.

  The very first job he’d done for him was while he’d been an apprentice, and when old Joe, his boss and
mentor, moved away, Paul was keen to use him again. Bruce had been so grateful that first time to be a ‘real builder’ that he’d drastically undercharged. Paul came to expect that level of pricing ever since. It wasn’t worth dwelling on all the money he’d lost doing work for Paul Leeman.

  Next, he stopped in at Gaia’s Gifts to relocate a bookshelf for Niamh. She said it was something to do with the feng shui of the joint, but all Bruce knew was that if she loaded it with any more crystals the whole thing was likely to come down and kill whoever was standing beneath it. A few holes, a few screws, and he was done. That was just a cashie and since it took about fifteen minutes he only asked for twenty bucks. The smile Niamh gave him almost made it worth it.

  Almost.

  Bruce was kicking himself as he left, but Niamh didn’t see as many customers as some of the other vendors in town. Like that bookshelf, she was barely hanging on. The twenty-dollar note weighed his pocket down but he forced himself to walk away.

  With any luck the upcoming festival celebrating Brachen’s two-hundredth birthday would bring a whole heap of new customers to town. Everyone loved a party and Brachen knew how to throw a good one.

  Judith Lancet called as he climbed into his ute, asking for a quote to build a new fence around her house. He took the details and though he was ready to blurt out a price—having run the mental sums to figure out labour plus materials—he bit his overeager tongue and promised to call back. He had a habit of underquoting, but when it was for Mrs Lancet, who was on a fixed pension and dabbled in watercolours, it was hard to charge the full rate.

  Not that Ed Greenleaf had such qualms. He was always busy with the big jobs and he didn’t look like he was in danger of losing his house.

  Enough of the day had passed that Bruce figured it was reasonable for him to go around to Sofia’s to get on with the gazebo. He hoped to finish the roof that day, then he only had the painting to do. By four that afternoon Sofia should be able to sit under it, even if the sun would stream through. She wanted vines to climb the sides and provide shade overhead. But after the trip to the hospital the day before, would they grow in time for her to enjoy it?