‘I’d prefer it if he were back in Sydney getting on with his life but he’ll go soon enough.’
I bet he will.
‘How are you going with the set designs?’
Sofia glanced at Gabriel. ‘Getting there.’ She lifted the sketchpad off her lap and flicked through a few pages until she stopped at one to show him. ‘This is what I’m thinking for the first act. I had to borrow Gabriel’s hands. Mine are a little tired at the moment. What do you think?’
The strong angles and lines of the professional architect popped off the page, their intensity resonating in Bruce’s chest. He recognised the style from years before when Gabriel had never been without a pencil and pad. While Bruce had his hands full with Jason, Gabriel kept his busy drawing. Quite a few pictures had been of Bruce, the face blank but the shape recognisable, dressed in suits and outfits too cool for him ever to wear in real life. He’d kept some, but it had been ages since he’d taken them out of the bottom drawer.
‘You drew this?’
Gabriel shifted in his seat, his face devoid of any antagonism, any pride. ‘Yeah, but they’re all Mum’s ideas.’
When Gabriel left to pursue a career in Sydney, Bruce wondered if he’d made the right choice. Brachen was the place to be an artist. You came to Brachen to follow a calling. Sydney … Well, Sydney was where you went to get a job.
And to hide from the hurt you caused.
He stopped staring at Gabriel. Did he really expect an apology after all this time? He looked back at the sketch, noting Gabriel’s stylised ‘GM’ in the corner and focused on the set itself. His forehead contracted. Hard. This was no static backdrop made of a few pieces of wooden board hammered together with a support. This was … This was big deal stuff. Doors were no problem. Windows too. But … did that rotate? Were those moving parts? His hopes of banging something together evaporated and the smoke tickled his throat.
‘Looks like you’re going all out for the final play, Sofia.’
All the way out.
‘Well, it’s a start. I’m aiming to finish the rest by next week to show Lexi. And you of course. But I really want to help make this the best production Rivervue’s ever seen.’
He fashioned his smile out of frayed nerves and handed back the sketchpad, keeping the front-facing part of him light and friendly, while a cold sweat coated the back of his neck. He glanced at Gabriel, his eyebrows peaked in the middle and his mulberry lips thinned as he worried over his mother. How much of a toll was this going to take on Sofia? And would Gabriel be able to handle it?
‘I look forward to seeing them.’ He stood to go. She needed rest. And he needed to find a cushion to roar his frustrations into.
‘Are you coming by tomorrow to work on the gazebo?’ She struggled to stand. Gabriel shot up and slipped his hand under her arm. His whole attention was on her, searching for signs of pain. Bruce studied him and the care he gave her. Shame oozed down his body. Here he was nursing an old hurt while Gabriel faced the prospect of losing his mother.
He’d never thought of himself as a petty person, and guilt thickened his blood. He could do better.
‘Absolutely I’ll be there. Probably about eleven o’clock if that’s okay.’ He had three other jobs to do before then. ‘How do you like it so far?’
‘Oh, it’s wonderful.’ Her face shone. ‘It’s just what I always wanted.’
‘I’ll try not to make too much noise, in case you’re sleeping.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll be up as early as ever,’ she said. ‘Got to get back to normal. Can’t let this hold me back.’
He could almost be swept up with her denial of how serious her health condition was. She was stoic, brave, and he’d not ruin that for her. At least he could build a gazebo.
But Gabriel scratched that scar on the side of his head, and Bruce almost lost his smile.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
He nodded at Gabriel who gave a drawn-on smile in return. He might not want to be close to the kid anymore, but he wouldn’t heap more trouble on top of him. No-one deserved that when their mother was ill.
Chapter Seven
‘Did you enjoy that?’ Sofia asked on the drive home.
Gabriel gripped the top rim of the steering wheel, his body hunched forward as he peered through the windscreen and scanned for kangaroos or bandicoots bounding across the street. He’d never been able to achieve the laissez-faire attitude of people born and bred in Brachen. They took driving country roads for granted, that the roo would get out of the way, but his mother had taught him to drive and he’d absorbed her wariness.
‘Yeah, was alright. The play still needs an ending. And a middle.’
‘Not that. Lexi’s got that under control. I meant working together on the designs. Did you see Bruce’s face? He loved them.’
Bruce’s face had shown something but it definitely wasn’t admiration.
And that hurt a lot more than Gabriel cared to admit.
But he couldn’t deny working on the sets had been a welcome change from sitting in the theatre and imagining it being torn down, where the amenities would go, how people would afford to live in the new building. He’d kept his hands and mind busy. And he’d been able to bring his mother’s ideas to fruition on the page.
‘You’ve got some great ideas,’ he said.
‘Pssh. We both know a lot of them were yours. I wouldn’t have come up with that design in a million years.’
Complex. Impractical. Gabriel Mora, not Sofia Mora. He had to convince her to change it.
‘Yes, you would have. You’re just tired.’
‘It’s not that, mijo. Your brain sees things differently from mine.’
‘Thanks. I think.’ She spoke the truth. It saw possibilities free of reality. Great for designing buildings. Not so much for building relationships. He took pieces and forced them together in myriad ways until they clicked. It came with a decent miss rate but his hits were phenomenal. If only he could have found the right combination for him and Bruce, but all options had ended in failure.
That’s why he’d left Brachen after high school. Staying in Brachen meant seeing Bruce and Jason together—each kiss they shared another crack in his heart. He’d got his offers for university and he figured the sooner he started on a career path, the sooner he could support Sofia. Leaving was meant to make things easier, but after five years the pieces still hadn’t fused.
And now here he was as Sofia stared out the window at a world gone black, the headlight beams slashing the pale trunks of the eucalypts lining the side of the road, over a white cross or two. Then the trees were gone and they hit the main drag of the town. Sofia’s head rested back on the seat.
‘Mamá, are you okay?’
She turned to him. ‘Would you … would you work on the designs for the sets and costumes with me?’
The soft wary tone in her voice yanked his heart, pulling the muscles in his arms tight and squeezing his hold on the steering wheel. ‘Come on, Mamá. This is your thing.’ He’d already taken the first set far beyond what she would have produced. His hands had done more than smudge graphite; he’d erased her. Hell, he’d even put his initials at the bottom of the page.
‘I know, but it’s hard for me to hold the pencil … at the moment … and I think the play could do with your talent.’
‘I don’t want to take it away from you.’
And aiding her with the designs would take strength she couldn’t spare. They had doctor’s appointments and treatments to attend in the weeks ahead, all so she’d get better. She shouldn’t be working—on the play, at the bookshop, on anything.
‘You won’t be taking anything from me,’ she said. ‘You’ll be allowing me to finish the sets like Lexi’s expecting. Oh, and the costumes! You always were a wizard when it came to fashion. Of course, you should have been a model.’
‘Mamá …’ He’d heard that enough from her growing up but he’d rather dress the models than be one. His looks ha
dn’t brought him success and they hadn’t been enough to grab Bruce’s attention.
Not like Jason’s blond hair and blue eyes.
‘I’m allowed to think my son’s handsome. But if you won’t strut the catwalk, then you could at least work with me on Larrikin. It would give us something to do together.’ She twisted the rings on her right hand. ‘Unless you’re going back to Sydney, which would be absolutely fine.’
‘I’m staying.’
‘But won’t work be angry?’
Not as angry as she’d be if she knew what they wanted him to do. Luckily, she never remembered the name of the firm.
‘They can survive without me. I’m staying here until you’re better.’
She put her hand over his and squeezed. ‘Well, if you’re staying, then it’s settled.’
His forearm cramped. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. You should be resting.’
‘Stop worrying. I’ll be fine. I’m going back to work tomorrow anyway.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am!’
He huffed. Fighting would only weaken her. ‘We’ll see,’ he muttered under his breath. It was a strange thing to hope she’d stay at home while wishing she was well enough to go to work.
‘I heard that. But it would mean the world to me if we worked on the designs together. If you don’t want to add your ideas, then just be my hands.’ She turned the rings on her left hand now. ‘You don’t know what’s going to happen, and if this really is my last play, I’d love to have created something with you.’
‘You’ll do other plays.’ He didn’t want to think about the alternative.
‘Maybe. But will you help me with this one?’
He scratched his scar, his concentration hard outside the window even though roos weren’t going to jump out at him in the residential part of Brachen. He swung into the driveway and parked.
If he said no, could he bear to watch her struggle? If he said yes, could he restrain himself and ensure no-one suspected his influence? If it guaranteed her legacy at Rivervue and gave her some peace, then yes. He’d be her hands. He could do that for her. He could do anything for her.
‘Okay, let’s do it.’
She smiled and clasped her hands to her chest.
‘Under the condition that no-one knows I’m involved with the concepts. You can tell them I drew the lines but they’re all your ideas, agreed?’
She opened her mouth to argue.
‘Agreed?’ he glowered.
She closed her mouth and her resistance faded. How weak was she?
‘Agreed.’ She leaned over and lowered his head so she could kiss his forehead. ‘Thank you, mijo.’
She undid her seatbelt and made to get out of the car, but she struggled to push open the door. He dashed out and around to help her, leaning in and offering his hand. She didn’t look him in the eyes. A smile fizzed on her lips. The closer they got to the house, the more of her weight he bore. She weighed so little but each step tightened the vice around his heart and threatened to mash it into pulp. If they struggled to reach the door, would they have the strength to finish the designs?
Chapter Eight
Bruce didn’t remember signing for a delivery from Hell, but that’s what he’d gotten. A whole week of it. Fourteen days before his mortgage was due or the house was forfeit. Not one of his debtors answered their phones, and a few were suspiciously absent from around town. Siobhan had gone to Adelaide, Manusha was on jury duty, and Giovanni didn’t answer his door—even though Bruce was certain he heard the old bugger shuffling around inside. Bruce vowed that the next person to hire him would pay half upfront, but no-one had called for a quote.
Great. Another thing to worry about.
He could sell his ute, but that would seriously hamper his ability to make a living and then everyone would suspect something was up. He wanted to avoid that at all costs. He knew he could get this all sorted without others catching on—but he’d been saying that for months now.
Anyway, he’d barely recoup half of the hundred grand he’d dished out for the car. If he hadn’t bought it in the first place, the debt wouldn’t have been so crippling. He’d got the keys three weeks before Rachel showed up demanding her share of the house. Timing was everything. He should have known that working in a theatre.
And that was another thing propelling him towards financial ruin.
Giving up the house wasn’t an option. He was the only Clifton who gave a damn about it. Rachel had already left it behind, but Bruce wasn’t as down on the place as her. Not that it was grand or special or historic, but it meant more to him than a jumble of bricks and timber. It was a constant throughout his life, a … well … a home. As dysfunctional as it was.
At least with him the only one living in it, there weren’t any arguments or any secrets to be kept.
He finished work at five: the installation of a new set of shade sails in Ian Turner’s garden took longer than he would have liked but at least it was finished. He had the invoice ready, but Ian wasn’t home. Ordinarily he’d let the work sit for a day and return the next to check there weren’t any problems before asking to be paid. But every day counted. They’d agreed to payment on delivery and Bruce couldn’t afford to be lenient. He opened the letterbox and his hand shoved the envelope in.
What if Ian found something wrong with his work? What if it wasn’t done to his requirements? Unlikely. There’d never been any complaints before, and Bruce was nothing if not competent and thorough. He had integrity. Unlike Ed Greenleaf, he’d never been called back to fix dodgy craftmanship.
Integrity.
That’s what Brachen expected from him.
He retrieved the envelope, closed the letterbox and hopped into his ute, flinging the invoice onto the dash, along with Mrs Farrah’s. He’d come back the next day and give it to Ian in person. He could survive another twenty-four hours.
He drove to the Pavilion on Main Street for a pie and a carton of iced coffee. Sitting in his ute, he wolfed the pie down in five greedy bites, the lukewarm meat and dried-out pastry sitting heavy and oily in his growling stomach. He chased it with the iced coffee, hoping to disguise the taste and give him a much-needed hit of caffeine. He didn’t often eat fast food but he’d grabbed the easiest thing he could, not the healthiest.
Or the tastiest.
He was not living his best life, that was for sure. He’d cook something when he got home.
If it wasn’t late and he wasn’t knackered.
He drove to the theatre. They were five weeks from opening night and the sets hadn’t been started—the reason for that night’s meeting. The night before it had been to tweak the rehearsal schedule. The night before that he’d been sorting out the props list with Kenzie, and before that he’d been checking the lights with Sam in the bio box. Tomorrow night … Tomorrow he wanted to build something. He prayed that Sofia had tempered her designs. That first one had nearly given him a heart attack, and if they were all like that, his profit margin was going to be so thin it would have organ failure. If he didn’t get paid soon, not only would he not have a house, but he’d be forced to eat junk food like that stodge he’d just eaten all the time. The pie sat like a wet sponge in his belly. He had to get moving, if only to dislodge it.
He walked into the theatre and knocked on Lexi’s door. She answered it a second later, strands of her mahogany-coloured hair sticking out sideways, and her hand strangling a red pen.
‘Everything alright, Lexi?’
She sighed, brushed her fingers through her hair. ‘Oh, fine, just … this play.’
‘Words not flowing?’
Lexi had taken the difficult path of producing the play in stages and workshopping it as it went along to tease out the salient points of Ron de Vue’s life before and after Brachen. She’d wanted to make the play really special for the bicentennial. Nothing like setting yourself a challenge.
‘Something like that.’ She led him into her office.
�
�Mark not sitting in for this?’ Mark Conroy, Brachen’s CEO, had been seconded to the theatre to breathe down Lexi’s neck. He was an alright guy, genuine, but his appearance on the scene had provided another level of anxiety for Lexi.
‘No, we came to an arrangement.’
Thank God. He didn’t want to have to stand on ceremony. Bruce dropped onto the sofa and the strain of the long days and short nights scuttled through his body. He slouched, something he rarely did, but it had been ages since he’d stopped and sat in something more comfortable than his car seat. He could curl up on this couch right now and fall asleep.
When Sofia knocked on the door, he barely had the energy to turn his head.
Please God, let this be a quick meeting.
Then he’d go home, sleep and recharge himself. All he needed was six hours of shut-eye to buttress his strength and reinvigorate his spirit. A few hours of unconsciousness where he wasn’t harried by his problems. But when the door opened and Sofia shuffled in, her cheeks gaunt and shadowed, his guilt was slicker than the meat pie’s gravy. Here was someone with real problems. He still had his health.
Sofia gave them a hello, and he bound out of his seat to help her in.
‘Good to see you, Sofia. How are you feeling?’ He kissed her cheek and forced some levity into his voice.
She took his offered hand. ‘Oh, you know, Bruce. Shouldn’t complain.’
His jaw tightened and fixed his smile in place. Sofia and Lexi greeted each other with hugs and kisses before Sofia took the couch. A cough behind Bruce turned his head.
Gabriel stood in the doorway, close enough that he had to look up at Bruce: those brown eyes peering through under long lashes. His expression was neutral, but his eyes smouldered with an intensity that dried the saliva in Bruce’s mouth. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if he could say anything. That look didn’t mean anything. Gabriel always walked a balance between unaffected and incendiary. Bruce nodded and stepped aside. As Gabriel passed, his eyes pinched and he pursed his lips. What had he expected? A hello hug?
Set the Stage (A Rivervue Community Theatre Romance, #2) Page 5
