‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she said.
‘Want a bag of potato chips? Peanuts?’ He started to rise. She put her hand on his arm.
‘No, I don’t want any chips or peanuts. Apart from what’s happening with Jess, something’s bothering you. Your father can tell. I can tell.’
He sat down, nursed his beer. He was probably deciding what to tell her.
‘Jess is a total mess, and the boys are devastated. Not only did Darren, the prick, take the only decent vehicle they had, but he cleaned out what little they had in their joint bank account as well.’
‘Oh, no. How awful for Jess. How will she manage? I can lend her some mon—’
‘Laura,’ he said, steel in his voice. ‘Don’t even go there. I have money.’
‘The offer’s there.’
He drained the schooner, sat back, closed his eyes. ‘I’ll never get out of this fucking place.’
She almost choked on the silly, dizzy bubble of hope that rose in her throat. ‘You won’t?’
He opened his eyes. She drew back at the fierceness of his glare.
‘I’m hardly going to leave her to manage the farm on her own, am I? The boys are just boys, they’re too young to be expected to work the way I was . . . Talk about history repeating itself.’ He stopped, cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was rough. ‘Neill’s dying and I’m here to help there. I don’t know how I’m supposed to pick up the slack on the farm as well.’
Laura bit back a retort about it being his father who was dying. The anger, the guilt, the grief, she remembered them all so well. Taking a steadying breath, she bit back on all the things she wanted to say, said gently instead, ‘You poor bugger, you’ve really been dropped in it this time,’ and he looked away.
She reached out and gave his arm a squeeze, much like she had his father’s only hours before. Only this time the arm was warm, almost hot. His muscles were thick, bunched with tension, and the springy dark hairs tickled her fingertips. He looked at her hand, then his gaze locked with hers and she slowly withdrew, wrapping her fingers around the cool glass in front of her.
‘So,’ she said at length. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘We are not going to do anything.’ He shook his head slowly from side to side, his mouth a grim line. ‘And as much as I appreciate the offer, Laura, this isn’t your problem. Do you want another drink?’
‘My shout,’ she said and stood up, the chair grating across the wooden floor. She picked up both glasses. ‘Same again?’
‘Yep, thanks,’ he said. She was halfway to the bar when he called out after her, ‘And while you’re there, I’ll have a bag of chips or peanuts, not fussy.’ She rolled her eyes and kept walking.
Half an hour later she dropped him off at Neill’s front gate. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ he said, his hand resting on the doorhandle.
‘What do you mean?’
‘All work and no play —’
She thumped him on the arm. ‘I am not dull!’
‘No, you’re not. In fact you’re very un-dull, and you’re very —’
‘Go, while you’re still ahead,’ she said and gave him a firm shove with one hand.
His fingers snaked around her wrist. The temperature in the car went up five degrees. He pulled her towards him. She licked her lips, and then he kissed her on the cheek, discombobulating her completely.
‘Thank you, sweet Laura,’ he said, and she felt the words against her cheek, felt them shiver right through her body. ‘Thank you for the drink, and for being so loyal to Neill and persisting until I talked to you.’ He tilted his head to one side, expression wistful. He feathered his fingertips across the cheek he’d just kissed. ‘As much as I hate to admit it, you’re far too good and kind for a bitter bastard like me.’
Neill’s forecast storm didn’t arrive until Tuesday evening.
It was preceded by another hot, sticky day without a breath of breeze. Laura’s morning run had been a chore that left her sweaty and drained. There’d been no sign of Jake or the dog first thing and the ute had been gone from the carport. The health centre had been hectic and she’d ended up seeing a man with chest pain at the hospital and missing lunch.
Later that afternoon, the Magpie Creek locum had rung about one of the patients Laura had admitted. He sounded about Milt Burns’s vintage, and about as grumpy, and she had to wonder if she’d still be hanging in there when she was as old as they were. She seriously hoped not. Unless she was enjoying it as much as she was now, and could keep up with the ongoing changes in medicine.
Laura hadn’t been home from work long when the rain came down in sheets, thunder rattling the windows, water overflowing the gutters. Standing at the kitchen window she watched with increasing dismay as water steamed down the back wall between the house and verandah roofs. Her dismay turned to horror when a trickle of water made its way down the inside wall above the window. The gutters would be choked with leaves and unable to cope with the downpour.
The rain stopped but Laura wasn’t fooled into thinking the storm was over. In the distance lightning snapped and snaked across the eerie blue-grey sky. Thunder rumbled. There was only an hour or so until sunset. Making the most of the brief reprieve, she shoved a pair of pink rubber gloves into her pocket, grabbed a bucket and carried the light aluminium ladder she used for painting out onto the back verandah.
Propping the ladder against the verandah roof she swung up the rungs to peer over the edge and into the verandah gutter. Sure enough, it was clogged with twigs, rotting leaves and dirt. But she needed to get to the gutter on the back of the house; that was the one causing the water to leak in through the eaves and into the kitchen.
She glanced back over her shoulder. The lightning looked brighter, the thunder closer on its heels, gusts of wind swirled soggy leaves on the cement path below. There was no time to lose. She heaved herself up onto the verandah roof, crawled along on all fours to the house gutter. It was chock-a-block with rotting organic matter. In one spot blades of grass pushed through the slimy mess. Many moons had passed since these gutters had been cleaned. Gritting her teeth, she pulled on the rubber gloves and began scooping the muck into the bucket.
It would have been okay if a sudden squall hadn’t sent the ladder clattering to the ground. She dropped onto her haunches, squeezed her eyes shut and cried out with dismay. The sky darkened, there was a snap of lightning, a crack of thunder. With a frightened yelp she flattened herself on the verandah roof. The last thing she wanted was to become a human lightning rod. Then, in one almighty burst, the rain came down again.
It only took a minute of sheeting rain until she was saturated, her hair plastered to her scalp. Laura crabbed across the verandah roof on her stomach and gripped the edge of the gutter, blinking water out of her eyes as she carefully looked down. Yes, there was the ladder, swamped on the cement path. She wanted to scream. She was getting colder by the second.
With the rain and the gloom of night falling, she could barely see into Neill’s backyard but she was sure the carport was empty. Jake wasn’t home and the chances Neill would come outside were slim to none. She wanted to cry out with frustration.
Instead, she cupped her trembling hands around her mouth and called out at the top of her voice, ‘Help! Help! Someone – anyone – please help.’
Against the pounding rain and the deafening claps of thunder, her shouting was almost inaudible. Laura waited a few minutes, then felt the goose bumps erupt across her body and knew if the rain didn’t stop, it wouldn’t be long before she started to shiver. She called out again, called until she was hoarse, and her tears of fear and frustration mingled with the rain. She was afraid that if she wasn’t frazzled by the lightning, she’d be drowned by the incessant rain. Imagine the headlines if she was struck by lightning. Woman dies by lightning strike . . . two years after husband electrocuted.
Soon the terror subsided and gave way to a different sort of fear. Now, as she hugged herself and curled int
o a ball as small as she could against the corrugated iron roof, she began to worry about hypothermia. Please, let her be rescued before her hands and feet went numb and she started to feel sleepy.
Eventually the rain eased to a light drizzle, and then stopped altogether. The storm had passed. It was nearly dark when a pair of headlights swung into Neill’s driveway. Giddy with relief, she waited until the door slammed before shouting at the top of her voice.
Moments later she heard the gate being unlatched and the crunch of gravel.
‘Laura?’ said Jake. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m up here, on the verandah roof.’
‘I’ll just turn the verandah light on.’
‘Don’t!’ she shrieked. ‘Water’s leaked in everywhere. You could get electrocuted.’
He looked around, saw the ladder on the ground and turned back the way he came.
‘No!’ she yelled. He was headed back towards the gate. ‘Don’t leave me up here any longer,’ she pleaded. She scrambled on all fours to the edge and stared down at him.
He looked up at her. ‘Laura, I won’t leave you up there. But I need to go and get another ladder, that one doesn’t look safe,’ he said. He vanished next door.
Minutes later he was back with a larger, sturdier ladder. Setting it firmly against the edge of the verandah, he climbed up. ‘What the hell are you doing up here?’
‘Sunbathing. What do you think?’ she snapped and flung the bucket of muddy sludge towards him. ‘Here take this.’
‘Pink rubber gloves, nice touch.’
She glared at him. ‘Move,’ she said her voice thick with tears of vexation and relief. When he’d disappeared from sight she manoeuvred around, tentatively searching out the top rung of the ladder with her foot. She eased onto the ladder and, with wobbly knees and chattering teeth, slowly backed down. Warm, strong hands encircled her waist and Jake lifted her off the last rung.
‘Are you okay?’ he said gently.
‘No, I’m not,’ she said, sniffed, hiccoughed, and pushed past Jake. She toed off her sodden sneakers and rushed inside.
The rain had stopped. Cool, fresh air drifted in through the open back door.
The bathroom door opened and Laura dashed through the kitchen wrapped in a towel, with another one wound turban-style around her head.
‘I’ve made coffee,’ Jake said. His mouth dropped open as she flashed past and disappeared up the passage, all legs and skimpy towel. He let out a low, appreciative whistle and chuckled when he heard the bedroom door click shut. He shook his head and carried the steaming mugs to the kitchen table.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured a few minutes later, as she slid into the chair opposite his, dressed in well-worn denim jeans and a t-shirt. She wasn’t shivering anymore and her lips weren’t blue.
‘So tell me, Laura, what were you doing up on the roof in an electrical storm?’
She pointed to the wall above the kitchen window and he saw the watery tracts. ‘The gutters just couldn’t cope. It’s probably years since they’d been cleared out. There was water running down the light bulb on the verandah.’
Her face had paled, she licked her lips, her eyes wide. He remembered her husband had been electrocuted. It must have been terrifying for her up there on the roof.
‘How long were you up there? Why didn’t you ring me?’
‘I took my phone out of my pocket when I came home from work and changed my clothes.’ She glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘I was up there for about half an hour, forty minutes. It felt like half a day.’ She shook her head, wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup. ‘I couldn’t believe it when the wind blew the ladder over. It always looked so easy when Brett did it.’
‘Brett?’
‘My husband,’ she said, glancing at him and then away. She scraped at a mark on the tabletop with her fingernail.
‘Of course, Brett. Your husband.’ Jake gulped his coffee and told himself the burning in his gut was from the hot drink. He couldn’t be jealous of a dead man.
‘What did he do, your husband?’
‘He was a carpenter.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, what?’
‘Explains your expertise and penchant for home renovations. I remember you said he was electrocuted.’
‘Yes, at work. By an unearthed generator. It happened when no-one else was around. Apparently he wanted to finish what he was doing before he went to lunch.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Must have been a shock.’
She made a strangled sound and his eyes widened in horror. ‘Shit, Laura, I’m sorry, no pun intended.’
‘I know that.’
‘What was he like?’ he said, the words tumbling out before he could think. What was the matter with him? Talk about picking at a scab until it bled. He held up his hand. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, sitting forward in her chair. She tilted her head to one side, her expression pensive. ‘He was gorgeous – tall, blond, everything I’d ever dreamed about. Kind, funny, handy.’ She smiled. ‘That’s how we met – I hired him to help me with the renovations at my place in Adelaide.’
Brett sounded like Mr Perfect. ‘It must have been hard,’ he said.
‘It was . . . It is. But it’s true what they say, time does heal, slowly, but it heals, and then you can move on.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘If you let it. If you don’t let it heal you’d probably end up bitter and twisted, always ranting at fate.’
‘Like me, you mean.’
She didn’t answer. She just looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes, brimming with life and hope, and he wished he could drown in them. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to be whole again, to heal this gaping wound in his soul once and for all. He’d been alone for too long, his bitterness preventing him from really living.
‘I’d better go,’ he said. He felt like he was coming out of a trance. ‘The old man will be wondering where I am.’
She stood up and followed him out into the porch.
‘And Jake, thanks for coming to my rescue. I could have been up there for hours, all night even. That’s if I didn’t get struck by lightning.’
‘You’re welcome. Don’t use the light until it’s dried out and I’ve had a chance to look at it. In fact, put some tape over the switch.’ He reached out and tipped her chin up with his finger. ‘And next time, before you go climbing about on the roof in an electrical storm, ring me.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered and it took every gram of strength he could muster to turn away from her, to not pull her to him and kiss her until their lips went numb. There were things he needed to do and conversations he needed to have before he’d be in a position to push Mr Perfect off his pedestal.
Laura went back into the house and it felt empty, as if Jake had sucked all the energy out with him when he’d left. She tipped the dregs of her coffee down the sink, went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of white wine. Then she remembered she was on call until eight the next morning. She looked longingly at the bottle and slipped it back into the fridge door.
She threw her wet clothes into the washing machine and reflected on her conversation with Jake. The subject of Brett was becoming easier to discuss than she’d ever imagined it could. Now, when she thought about Brett, about them, about their life together, it almost felt as if it had been someone else’s life, not her own.
This was her life now, the new life she was creating for herself, in the present day, in Potters Junction. Or, more truthfully, it was the life that was falling into place around her. And if Jake became part of that life, for however long, that would be okay. More than okay, actually. She shoved her dirty clothes into the washing machine, scooped in the detergent and turned the machine on.
After dinner, while Laura contemplated what she’d do the next day, Milt Burns rang.
‘Hello, Milt.’
‘I’ll cut to the chase
. I’d hoped you could work tomorrow. Something’s come up and we’re on our way to Adelaide.’
‘All right, I’ll go in,’ she said as she scanned the unpainted walls, the ones she had been going to paint the following day. ‘Do you want me to cover call until Thursday morning?’
‘I’ll be back by eight tomorrow night, I’ll cover call from then.’
There was the sound of a displeased woman’s protest in the background. His wife, Linda, she supposed. ‘All right, eight a.m. Thursday,’ he said, and disconnected.
Laura restacked the drop sheets and paint tins she’d laid out for the following morning. She found some gaffer tape and taped over the switch to the verandah light. After the storm, the humidity had dropped considerably and the air was now lighter, easier to breathe. When she went outside with a torch to inspect for water damage to the garden and vegetable patch, the twinkling stars were visible above.
Jess fed the dogs and shut them up for the night. The storm had broken just as she’d been about to do it earlier. All through the lightning and thunder, the two kelpies had cringed on the back verandah, squeezing in behind the wood box. Jess was glad Jake had taken Skip home with him – the wood box was huge but there wasn’t room enough for three dogs behind it.
As she walked by the ancient gum trees behind the house, the roosting galahs squawked and squabbled, slow to settle after the electrical storm. The torch beam bounced along the ground in front of her; she sidestepped a puddle, glanced up at the open sky. On the distant horizon, a bank of clouds and intermittent flashes of lightning were the only remnants of the storm.
With the torch balanced in her armpit, Jess managed to empty the rain gauge on the back fence. Seventeen millimetres. Nice, but not all that welcome this time of year for those further south who’d be making hay or preparing for harvest.
No issues there for Jess. There was no hay – or anything, for that matter – to reap on this barren property. If they could just keep alive the few hundred head of stock they had left . . . Jess sighed and slid off her shoes, let herself in the back door. When she wasn’t cursing Darren, hating him for what he’d done to the boys by leaving, tossing and turning in a lonely bed, she could sympathise with why he’d wanted out of the place.
The Doctor Calling Page 17
