‘Oh, Bruce.’ Angela sobbed into his chest.
He held her but couldn’t cry. He waited for Angela to sniff back her tears and said he’d lock up the house, put everything right while Gabriel and Sofia were at the hospital. She tried to stay but he didn’t want her around. He didn’t want anyone to see him as he sank into his own self-pity. She took the costumes and left.
In a daze, he locked the house and climbed into his ute. The memory of the sirens still wailed inside his head as he drove home. He struggled to feel anything, his pain over Gabriel’s lies smothered beneath his grief and worry over Sofia.
And what would happen to Gabriel if she died.
He drove in a daze, arriving at his property with no awareness of the journey. He pulled up the long driveway, the rumbling ride unable to shake free his anguish. But as he reached his house, his focus sharpened, going from the open front door to the smashed-out front windows.
What the hell?
The fog clouding his mind dissipated and he slammed on the brakes. Jumping out of the car, he raced into his house but slowed once he crossed the threshold. Black, white and brown paint covered the carpets, and giant red letters swore at Bruce from the walls. He picked his way over the still-wet mess. Paint coated the soles of his boots as he assessed the rest of the damage.
The couches had been slashed, their stuffing ripped out. The television was smashed and face down on the floor. Cupboards were emptied, their contents strewn about like an earthquake had rattled them loose. Making his way through the house, it was much the same in whichever room he went. Whatever could be broken had been broken. Whatever could be stolen had been stolen.
Rachel must have enjoyed herself.
There was no doubt in his mind that this was his sister’s work. The framed photos of their family had been stomped on and ripped. Petty thieves wouldn’t go to this much trouble. Her rage permeated every room, but it stopped at the boundaries of his body. It wasn’t that he resisted it; but he’d been rendered insensitive. She’d destroyed his house but that paled in comparison to what had happened to his heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
The days bled into one another until Gabriel found himself sitting in the front row of the funeral parlour. Behind him: a crowd. In front: a coffin and a window that looked out to Brachen’s verdant forests. Angela had put the service together. She’d asked him questions along the way, displaying infinite patience while he struggled to hold on to the information she gave. The cost of everything. What should be done before and after. Whether Sofia wanted to be cremated or buried. He had to make decisions but he had no idea if they were right.
All he knew was that he’d made the wrong decision in leaving her to go talk to Bruce. If he’d stayed, he could have been there when she collapsed. And if he’d kept his mouth shut about the theatre, none of this would be happening.
Angela knew what he’d done but she kept up her performance well, acting the good friend and never once showing that she thought less of him for causing his mother’s death. But once done with ashes and dust, it would be a different story. The whole town would put it all together. He hoped to be long gone by then. Sell the house. Move back to Sydney. Leave Bruce …
He didn’t want to think that far ahead. He was meant to be thinking about Sofia.
The celebrant appeared by his side at the end of the row and asked if they could start. Gabriel looked behind him at the crowd. A blur of people. All here for his mother. He nodded. One of Sofia’s favourite songs played through the speakers and the crowd hushed.
The service began. He kept his eyes down, not listening to what was being said. He’d worried so much about Sofia, that he’d left her to struggle when he moved to Sydney, but the size of the congregation showed she’d not been alone. It was he who’d isolated himself, and now the one person who’d been an anchor in his life was gone and he was adrift.
‘Gabriel,’ Angela whispered, her hand tapping his leg. ‘It’s time for your eulogy.’
He lifted his head, heavy with woe it was difficult to raise. They were waiting. When had the celebrant stopped talking? What had she said?
He stood and walked to the lectern, scanned the crowd and smiled quickly before dropping it for being inappropriate. But there were rows of people here, all come to see Sofia, all come to say goodbye. Faces he knew, many he didn’t, so many from the theatre— Kenzie and Lexi and Magda. He searched for Bruce but couldn’t find him. Not that it would do any good. Yes, he wanted him there but they’d only fight again. He’d heard how Rachel had ransacked his house. It was the one thing that had got through to him. The damage would have broken Bruce’s heart.
If I hadn’t done it already.
Like he’d done to Sofia.
He dropped his gaze, afraid they’d see the truth about what he’d done.
‘Thank you everyone for coming.’ His words came out croaky. ‘I know it would have warmed Mum’s heart to have so many of you here. It’s just a shame she’s not with us to see it.’
His lips twitched to show he meant it to be light-hearted while a vice constricted his chest.
‘Sofia Gabriela Mora was born on 15 September 1967. She moved from Spain to Australia with her family when she was seven years old, the eldest of three daughters. She married when she was eighteen and would have lived an ordinary life in the suburbs if not for her rebirth. Nine years ago we moved to Brachen with nothing.’
Because of me.
‘She had some money but there wasn’t a lot and with a fifteen-year-old kid in tow things were not easy. But in Brachen she found a home, she found friends, she found a way to become who she’d always wanted to be. It helped that she was the kindest, gentlest and funniest woman I know and that brought many good people into her life.’
She deserved them for what I’d done. The words on the page shimmered. He gripped the edge of the lectern and blinked them back into focus.
‘Within a short while she’d found a place to live and transformed it into a home. She worked at The Page Turner and loved it. No-one could refuse to buy something after Sofia had talked their ear off for half an hour.’
A ripple of laughter through the crowd.
‘But the thing she loved the most was Rivervue, where she was the costume and set designer. She worked on sixteen productions, applying her creativity and following her dream. She found herself in Rivervue.’
And I was going to take it from her, like I took her first home.
The pressure on his ribcage squeezed the air out of his lungs and the grief hardened in his heart with a pain that stopped thought. He struggled to continue. He couldn’t look up. Couldn’t risk them seeing how much he lied. Couldn’t risk them guessing what he’d done.
Wounded, he forced himself on.
‘When she got sick, the idea of not being able to work on Rivervue’s last production was unacceptable to her. I tried to get her to slow down but, as anyone who knew her can attest, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I helped her. I became her hands.’
One more lie to go.
‘She directed me on what the designs should be and working with her on them I saw her passion, her creativity and her love for Rivervue and Brachen. It sustained her until the end. You sustained her until the end and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.’
It was short but he didn’t have the energy to say more. Anything else would be punctuated with sobs. He’d save it for when he was alone. He returned to his seat, slipped back into the unfeeling gloom and waited for it all to be over.
***
‘I think that’s all of it.’ Angela put the last of the dirty crockery into the dishwasher and turned it on. She dried her hands on a tea towel and rehung it over the oven door rail.
‘You didn’t have to stay,’ Gabriel said.
Everyone had tailed off after a few hours. The wake had been held at home, filling the garden and the house with people, laughter, noise. Now they were all gone and soon it would just be him. Their lives continued
but grief cocooned him: comforting in a way, suffocating in another. He would have distracted himself by cleaning the house but Angela had done everything. It was like no-one had ever been there.
‘I know but I wanted to. I’m worried about you, Gabriel.’
He shrugged, unable to say he was fine, and got up from the stool. He searched for anything she might have missed, some cup left out, some fork, hell, even crumbs, but there was nothing.
‘Your mother told me it was you who did the designs for Larrikin.’
Angela’s declaration cut the thread that had been keeping him together. His shoulders sagged, his chest caved and his knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the sofa. Why would she do that? Was she so ashamed of what he’d done and how he’d lied to her that she didn’t want her work associated with his? Bruce had been disgusted enough, perhaps Sofia felt the same.
With hands clasped in his lap, one thumb stroked the other, coaxing out the words, soothing his tears. ‘I was only trying to help her.’ His words came out in a whisper and the rims of his eyes quivered.
‘She knew that and she was so grateful.’
‘Then why did she tell you?’ he demanded, louder but no less shaky.
‘She felt that she’d been holding you back from following your dreams because you thought you owed her. She was so proud of you, Gabriel.’ Angela sat on the armchair opposite him, beaded necklace dangling in front of her chest while a noose tightened around his throat.
‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Proud to be the mother of a lying son who was ripping out her heart.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Angela spoke softly and leaned forward.
‘The theatre! You were there.’ He fought to get the words out of his mouth. ‘You saw how ashamed and hurt she was that I had anything to do with the theatre being redeveloped. It was what killed her.’
Angela jerked back. ‘Cancer killed Sofia, not you. She was shocked but she was so worried about how you’d had to keep it a secret, how you’d felt like you owed her so much.’
He rocketed to his feet and evaded her false comforts. ‘I did owe her. She never would have had to leave if it wasn’t for me. She wouldn’t have had to struggle. She wouldn’t have been left alone if—’ Grief jammed his throat and he grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter, straining to keep the tears back. He couldn’t let them out. He’d never stop crying.
She hugged him from behind and he went rigid.
‘Gabriel, you said so yourself that this was where she wanted to be. She said how much she owed you, for letting her live the life she always wanted. She had absolutely no regrets about coming here with you.’
‘Then why did she look so hurt?’ He straightened out of her embrace but she kept a hand on his arm and the heat burned.
‘Because she thought she’d done you wrong. Your confession didn’t kill her, it was just her time. And I’m sorry you weren’t here, but she heard you, Gabriel. She knows how much you loved her.’
He grabbed both of her hands. ‘Please don’t tell anyone they weren’t her designs,’ he begged. ‘I did it for her, for her legacy.’
And thanks to the revelation that the play was written by Draven, not Lexi, her legacy would reach further. It was a big deal. Draven, the mysterious playwright whose work was equal parts metamorphic and devasting blah, blah, blah. He’d read the promo material and didn’t care. Sofia had died not knowing the impact she could have made.
She squeezed his hands in return. ‘I promise, but she also made me promise something too.’
‘What?’
‘To help you develop your talent. Trust me, Gabriel, you have it, and it would be a crime to waste it.’
He dropped her hands and turned away, his eyes on fire as the tears threatened to burn their way out of him. Sofia was still looking out for him, but this time, she’d got it wrong. He didn’t have what it took, and he wasn’t ready to try. Angela placed her hand on his hand and he flinched—a shock ricocheted through the emptiness.
‘When you’re ready, you come and see me and we’ll talk about how we can turn Gabriel Mora into the best fashion designer Australia’s ever seen.’
He coughed out a laugh, as much for her enthusiasm as for the ridiculousness of it. He sniffed through a half-blocked nose and smiled at her, his cheeks straining from the effort. ‘Sure thing, Angela. Whatever you want.’
She brushed aside his fringe. ‘It’s not about what I want, Gabriel. It’s about what you need.’ She hugged him and he relaxed just enough to bask in her warm affection. She didn’t feel like Sofia but she cared and rather than break him apart, the hug held him together.
‘Do you want me to stay for a while longer?’ she asked.
He shook his head and stepped out of her arms, wiping at his eyes. ‘Thank you, but I think I want to be alone for a while.’
‘I understand.’ She picked up her bag and headed for the front door.
He walked behind her. ‘Umm … Did you see Bruce at the funeral?’
She gave him a look pumped full of pity. ‘I did. He was up the back. Didn’t he come say hello?’
‘No.’
She frowned. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. He’s had a lot going on too. I’m sure if you give him a call, he’d be happy to talk to you.’
‘I doubt that. We had a big fight the day Mum died. He wasn’t happy to talk then, he’s not going to be happy to talk now.’
‘Lovers fight but that doesn’t mean it’s over.’
‘I’m pretty sure it is.’
‘You didn’t see him that day after you went to the hospital. He cares for you a lot, Gabriel, but Bruce has had a lot of people hurt him in his life and he’s learned to rely on himself. Sometimes he just needs someone to give him a hand and show him that he doesn’t have to go it alone.’
‘In this case, he might be right. I don’t think Bruce and I work well together.’
‘I’ve seen those sets you two made; if there’s anyone who knows how to work well together, it’s you two. Just be honest with him about what you want. What’s the worst that could happen?’
He answered with a smile and showed her out of the house with more thanks. Honesty hadn’t ever been their strong suit, but Angela was right. As hard as it was to attempt to right past wrongs, it was harder to think that Bruce and he were over. Words hadn’t worked so well in the past, so he needed to act, to show that even if they couldn’t be together, Bruce still mattered to him a lot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It seemed like Hell Week had started early so Bruce changed the name to Hell Fortnight. He was flat out preparing everything for next week’s final production run. Assistance on the ground was thin, Sofia’s funeral having deflated the cast and crew. He knew he should pump up morale but his tank was running on empty with no hope of a refill. Before Gabriel, the work itself had been enough. Keep busy: his mantra. Things should have gone back to normal. He hadn’t seen Gabriel since the funeral on Monday when he’d hidden at the back. Gabriel had looked distressed enough without Bruce’s presence and he’d retreated when the service was over. Gone back to work, though not back home.
He’d avoided it since discovering Rachel’s destruction and calling the cops to file a report for the insurance. She’d made the place unliveable and so he’d taken to sleeping in the props room now that Dylan had left town. Kenzie had offered him a bed at her place, but he was too ashamed about the literal and figurative mess he’d found himself in. They compromised and he was bedding down beneath the stage. He was at the theatre so much, he may as well sleep there.
Not that he got much sleep.
His feet hung over the edge of the cot and during the sleepless hours he was forced to look at the underside of the stage, a continual reminder of making love with Gabe up above. The sooner he got out of there, the better, but the demands of work and the theatre meant his house was put on hold. He welcomed the distractions but he was forced to return home to collect a chainsaw for the job at Petra’s. It was one of th
e few tools that hadn’t been in his ute while Rachel trashed his house. So he was on his way back to the property to find out if it had been taken.
He used to enjoy the drive out of town to his place, passing through the shadowy arch of gum trees but that day their spindly branches formed a bony tunnel to Hades. He drove slowly, fearful of another unwelcome surprise.
He wouldn’t stay long. Find the chainsaw, chuck it in the back of the ute and get the hell out of there. But as he came up the long driveway and crested the hill, he slammed on the brakes. Cars were everywhere, and people entered and exited his house like worker ants dismantling a cricket’s carcass.
What the …?
He jumped out of the car, blood hammering through his arteries as he thundered towards the house. His tongue thickened, ready to shout. He wanted everyone gone. They had no—
‘Bruce!’
He spun at the sound of Kenzie’s voice behind him.
His friend’s diminutive form appeared from behind one of the cars.
‘What the hell is going on here, Kenzie?’
She tucked a strand of dyed pink hair behind her ear. ‘Please don’t be angry, Bruce.’ She took his fist in her hand. ‘Come on, come with me for a second.’ She led him away from the house, but he craned his neck to see what was going on.
Malcolm and Paul carried out a roll of carpet, while Niamh pushed a wheelbarrow full of broken tackless strips. Through the open windows, more people moved around inside. Assessing. Prying. Judging.
She took him behind one of the big trees and positioned him with his back to its trunk, blocking his view of the house. He crossed his arms and scowled. Kenzie was meant to be his friend and she’d done this to him?
‘I’m waiting for an explanation, Kenzie.’
‘I promise you, Bruce, it just kind of happened.’
Why did people feel the need to lie to him all the time?
‘And then all these people decided to come and empty my house?’ he said.
Set the Stage (A Rivervue Community Theatre Romance, #2) Page 16
