‘What then?’
‘Well…’ With the night air too cool, she closed the door and folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’ve told myself it will be a sign from my dad.’
‘A sign of what?’
‘That I’ve found my place, that I can stop moving, that I’ve done the things he wanted me to do – the things he could only dream of doing.’ As usual, remembering her father calmed Ava. ‘My panna cotta search has kept me going since I left home ten years ago.’
‘You must’ve been young.’
‘I was seventeen.’ She relaxed against the door and her hands slid into the pockets of her jacket. ‘I survived, although it wasn’t always easy. The panna cotta challenge became my motivation to keep moving.’
‘Surely your dad would have preferred you to settle down, marry, have kids, that sort of thing. Not chase the ultimate panna cotta.’
Ava could have explained her parents’ relationship and how it had stopped her wanting to tie herself to one place or one person, but she didn’t. ‘Maybe, John, but my happy-ever-after is my responsibility. I have to feel good about myself before I can be any good to another person. I can tell you this, though.’ She needed to bring back some levity. ‘I’ve developed a panna cotta tradition when I find one that’s pretty darn close to perfect.’ She picked up a plate from the tray on the table and licked it clean.
When she lowered it, John had moved close to her. His hands cupped her cheeks, drawing her to him. She closed her eyes, then felt something soft and warm on the tip of her nose.
‘You left a bit,’ he said, grinning.
She stepped back to take a playful swipe at him, but he grabbed her hand and leaned in again, pressing her back against the door and planting his mouth on hers. It was only when his hands brushed her breasts under the thin T-shirt that she found the sense that had evaded her since she’d let him step inside her cottage too close to midnight.
‘Stop!’ She must have screamed it because he startled. ‘Please, John.’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘This, John. What I’m doing is wrong.’ Ava walked as far away as the small space allowed, needing to distance herself from him. ‘You and me, here like this. It couldn’t be more wrong. You have to go.’
‘But, Ava—’
‘I said go, please.’ From the kitchen, she pointed to the door. ‘Good night.’
A blast of chilly air blew into the room when John left.
Ava had one more reason not to go to the yards tomorrow.
Chapter 8
Sorries
John was angry. Ava hadn’t turned up as she’d told his father she would. He’d even been a little hard on the herd this morning, impatient with a couple of cows that had insisted on guiding their calves towards the shade. John could appreciate the cool now he’d propped himself in the shadow of a giant ironbark tree. He was tilting his head skyward when he noticed the first signs of a strangler fig. He and his father had come across a mature one in the north-west paddock a while back. Epiphytes, like the strangler fig, were the result of a random seed landing in a high, moist crevice of an existing tree. Often delivered in bird droppings, the seed thrives in the sunlight and rain and eventually its aerial roots take over the host. ‘Poor bloody thing gets the life sucked out of it,’ Colin had explained, then muttered something about bloody women and marriage.
John picked up a small rock and flung it at a nearby tree. He swore as the stone rebounded to score a direct hit to his knee, leaving him smarting as well as angry when he set off again, his destination and thoughts clear. If he didn’t go to the cook’s cottage and find out why she hadn’t shown up, his ability to concentrate for the rest of the day, week, month, year – his whole life – would be shot to smithereens. Barely sleeping last night after they’d kissed, he’d stewed all day, first waiting for Ava and then for the best time to seek her out. About now she would be taking a break, which meant John would have her to himself until she had to return to the main house in a couple of hours to start the evening meal. Closing in on the cottage, he took deep breaths to calm himself, certain of only one thing. He’d wait for her to apologise to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted, when Ava opened the door. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
*
She’d prepared a response in anticipation of this very moment, but could Ava articulate any of it to his face when his expression was burning holes in her heart? His clothes were filthy and those robust shoulders his mother had boasted about slumped. Sweat and cattle dust smeared his face, his eyes were red, but she couldn’t turn him away.
‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped aside, then shut the door behind him. ‘You might want to start with a wash in the bathroom. I’ll make us both some tea.’
John emerged a short time later looking refreshed, but no less forlorn. The striped shirt in shades of brown was damp in places and unbuttoned, but that was better than no shirt at all. But the man’s tall, taut body presented a temptation Ava could not afford. This situation had to be nipped in the bud. Before he sat at the small table where Ava had set tea, John moved the two chairs she’d purposely positioned on opposite sides and straddled one, as usual.
‘Thanks for not closing the door. I acted like a jerk last night, like the kid you no doubt think I am. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘John, I don’t think you’re a kid. Our age difference is not the problem. Truth be told, I missed out on being your age, too focused on getting by. Being around you is fun.’ Ava smiled. ‘I like that we can laugh at goofy things one minute and the next be ruminating over the best way to make prawn cocktail dressing.’
‘Then what’s wrong with us being together?’
‘Other people will see you as too young, or me as too old. To your mother you’re still her little boy and I’m too old to be calling her Mrs Tate.’
‘But I am my own man.’
‘Yes, you are that and I like you a lot. I’ve never met a man like you. I feel good in your company, I do. You’re also very different from the boyfriends I’ve had in the past. Add all that to the romanticism that comes with living at a place like Ivy-May, and, well… Don’t look at me like that. Why are you smiling?’
His grin grew. ‘You called me a boyfriend.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘You did. You said I’m very different from your previous boyfriends. Means the same to me and I like it. And I like hanging around you. I’ve never known a girl who speaks my language – and I’m learning so much about food.’
‘You’re a fast learner, but, John—’
‘Do you think I’m going to steal all your chef secrets?’
‘I don’t have any. I don’t believe in keeping secrets. Listen to me—’
‘Every chef has secrets,’ John quipped.
Was he deliberately goading her? Ava stiffened. ‘Look, I’m not a qualified chef. In fact, I have no qualifications at all, not even a school leaving certificate, yet your mother still picked me. She gave me a chance. Not only can I not afford to blow this job, I won’t repay your mother’s trust and generosity by doing the wrong thing. Besides, Marjorie would kill me.’
‘Ava, in case you haven’t noticed, my mother is over-protective, and that’s a generous description. I also hate to admit that you were the only applicant. There are no cooks banging down our door out here. We’re the ones who should feel grateful you applied.’
‘That makes no difference to what I believe. I’m safe here at Ivy-May. I’m part of a real family, and I can’t remember a time I ever felt so secure and connected.’
John reached out and placed a hand where Ava’s rested on the table. ‘Were you not safe in the city? Are you running away from something?’
‘Someone.’ She smoothed the hair above her ears.
‘Are you… are you married, Ava?’
‘No.’ She couldn’t sit any longer, but in such a small space, smaller still with John in it, there weren’t many places to go, so she pa
ced. ‘I was in a relationship and… Well, the thing is…’ Now Ava was in the kitchen, her back to John as she rinsed dishes in the sink. ‘I have a record of picking bad men who think they have to break a girl’s spirit.’
‘I’m not a bad man. I don’t even believe in breaking a horse’s spirit.’
‘I know, John, but you’re not good for me either. You’re the type who…’ She felt his presence, but didn’t turn.
‘Tell me,’ he whispered, his breath tickling the back of her neck. ‘What type am I, Ava?’
Conscious of his every move, Ava couldn’t think. There was so much to say, but the words in her head were not equal to the task. The dishes crashed back into the sink and she planted both hands on the edge for strength.
‘The type that will break my heart.’
He was closing the safe distance, his fingers sliding from her shoulders to her hands. ‘And if I promise that will never happen?’
‘You can’t make that kind of promise, John.’ She was pinned in the circle of his arms, his body hard against her back.
‘What did you mean when you said “a real family”?’
‘You don’t realise how lucky you are to have a mother who wants to protect you. I left home at seventeen. I wasn’t a runaway. I didn’t want to leave my father. He was sick, he needed me, but I had no choice.’
‘Why?’
Ava somehow managed to turn around, the small of her back arched and straining, the attempt to distance herself from him futile. ‘See this scar?’ She pointed to the one on her forehead, just above her left eyebrow. ‘It reminds me every day of my mother.’ She told him about her childhood, dragging up memories of her mother’s indifference and her drunken rants at a man she’d once vowed to love in sickness and in health. Delving into those memories was Ava’s first mistake, doing so with John the second.
When he ran out of soothing words, and when the last tissue from the box had been tossed into the garbage bin, Ava surrendered herself to him. When his embrace tightened and he kissed the scar, her cheeks, her neck, she pulled back to breathe, to take stock. She saw his face and understood the question his eyes held.
*
How she’d managed to drag herself out of his arms and off the bed before they did anything irrevocable that afternoon, and every night since, she didn’t know. Even more surprising was John’s maturity and his calm unquestioning relinquishing of her body each time she asked. At twenty, John Tate was more of a man than any other Ava had ever met and turning him away was more difficult each night.
Chapter 9
Forbidden Fruits
Ava could no longer stop herself opening the door to John. After his parents retired for the evening, he would bring supplies from the main house to the cottage, where they practised recipes together. Occasionally he’d sneak back to the main kitchen for a forgotten ingredient.
They’d long ago moved from sitting on opposite sides of the table, edging so close to each other, a hair’s breadth away, that Ava could feel the warmth of John’s body through the thin cotton shirts and shorts she wore at the height of a tropical Queensland summer. When she complained her feet were swollen from the heat and sore from standing all day, he’d lift them onto his lap and massage her toes while she discussed cooking techniques and they debated flavour combinations and made up recipes together. With Christmas approaching and night-time temperatures so sticky that the ceiling fan on high would turn the pages in her notebook, Ava had to accept she was falling in love.
John remained frustratingly fascinating: intelligent, kind, and with the wisdom and strength of a much-older man. That trait was never more evident than when they snuggled on the bed, her body spooning his back, her chin digging into his shoulder while they turned the pages of the latest food magazine. Having sent him packing on numerous occasions, or slapped his fingers away when he dared cross the unspoken boundaries Ava maintained, they’d settled into a routine that felt so natural she didn’t recognise the walls around her heart coming down until it was too late.
On that occasion, John had arrived when she was already in bed. He let himself in and slipped straight between the sheets with her, but rather than turning his back so she could spoon him as usual, he’d faced her and asked her a question no man had ever asked her before.
‘May I make love to you?’
Maybe because he was worried her silence would lead to a refusal, his hand ran over the curves of her face, her neck, her shoulder, and his fingertips grazed the skin on her arm, her hip, her thigh, until…
*
Ava couldn’t understand how his parents had failed to notice the changes in her and John’s behaviour. They were acting like love-struck teenagers. Katie, though, was becoming inquisitive and seemed more than usually on edge, more attuned to the comings and goings, and constantly asking Ava where John was or what he was doing. Every time, she said she didn’t know and suggested Katie ask Marjorie.
Then, at eleven o’clock each night, Ava would answer her door. He’d sneak down the path from the homestead’s back door and stay, barely sleeping, but setting an alarm that would be sure to wake him well before sunrise. Ava always woke before the clock buzzed. Wrapped in a sheet, she’d see him to the door, kiss him long enough to last her all day, then watch as he retraced his path to the main house. Once he was out of sight, she would stay on the porch until the moon faded into sunlight and, like Cinderella, she changed back into Ava Marchette, Ivy-May’s domestic help.
The more time the pair spent together, the more the hours dragged when they were apart, and the more risks they took to steal time alone. John was like a drug and Ava couldn’t get enough of him. Sometimes she had to be satisfied with the brush of a hand, a wink, a furtive glance. While she was cooking, John would sneak up behind her. He’d wait until her hands were covered with flour or she was kneading dough to press against her at the kitchen counter.
‘You look so sexy when you’re cooking,’ he’d whisper.
‘John, stop now or I’ll banish you from the kitchen for ever.’
‘I won’t go.’
‘Then I’ll be forced to tell your mother.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Chapter 10
Cars and Scars
The day Marjorie summoned Ava to the office, calling her from the steps that separated the sunken kitchen annexe from the formal living area, she’d wagged a finger and Ava had naturally thought the worst. With her mouth suddenly dry, she stopped to gulp a glass of water before she followed her employer, treading across the wooden floorboards and through the maze of wing-backed armchairs and sofas in the living room. She found Marjorie behind the desk in the adjacent office, pen poised.
‘We’re delighted with your commitment, Ava. You do so much around the place. More than expected. You spend your days off working in the garden and helping with other odd jobs and we appreciate your efforts, particularly over what turned out to be a busy Christmas holiday period.’
‘Oh, ah, thanks.’ She’d had little choice but to stay close by. There was no local bus, no train service, no way of getting anywhere from Ivy-May unless she borrowed a car, and only one vehicle on the property was registered as roadworthy. The rest had an assortment of faults and flaws, all acceptable for bashing around the paddocks: bald tyres, missing doors, dodgy brakes. ‘There’s really nothing I need to do and nowhere for me to go.’
‘Nonsense. Candlebark Creek and Basmorra region offer an array of amusements, all accessible by car.’
Ava remained puzzled. Marjorie had already told her the good car was off limits and must remain onsite during the day in case of an emergency.
‘You’ve settled into the position well and it’s been months. Time to get out and start making friends of your own age.’ Ah, the fog of confusion was lifting. Marjorie had noticed the amount of time John was spending in her company. ‘Consider this a bonus payment.’ She scribbled a cheque. ‘You’ll take this and buy yourself a car.’
‘A car?’ Ava hardl
y knew what to say. She didn’t need one, but she would gladly accept a cheque of any amount and have the money banked next time someone went into town. She was about to pocket the slip of paper when she noticed the name of the payee. ‘Who is Rick Kingston? I don’t understand.’
‘The publican, dear,’ Marjorie explained. ‘You remember? He was good enough to drive you out here for your interview. Lovely man, although a terrible negotiator. He has a car for sale.’ Her self-congratulatory tone and the speed with which she scooped the cheque book out of sight into the desk drawer as she stood had Ava reeling and needing the door frame for support. ‘Ask John to drive you into town to collect it soon, before Rick changes his mind on the price. That’ll be all.’
Ava was dismissed.
*
‘Wow, you must’ve really made an impression,’ John said, when Ava shared her news.
‘But I don’t want a car.’
‘Why not? Don’t look a Marjorie gift horse in the mouth. I’ll go grab the ute keys and we’ll head into town straight away. I wouldn’t trust Rick as far as I can throw him.’
Ava fell onto the bed to wait. What a waste of money. A car was not going to help her bank balance or get her to Europe. She’d spoken openly to John about her deadline, the promise she’d made herself to celebrate her thirtieth birthday, come hell or high water, on the other side of the world. She’d told him all manner of things about herself, her father, her mother’s impact on how she lived her life. She’d told him everything, including why she wore her hair tied back and the need to protect her heart and the money she’d worked so hard for. Money was security and independence, and that meant everything to Ava if she was to avoid turning out like her mother – the woman who’d felt trapped by the constraints of family and financial hardship.
Their marriage had been shotgun style while Lenore was in her first trimester with Ava, hardly an auspicious start, but Marco the mad Italian had been crazy in love and so excited about becoming a father. When he was struck down with an illness and lost his job, and a blood clot had meant amputating his left leg, the evil Marco claimed lurked in Lenore’s side of the family reared its head. He had understood, to protect his daughter and break the curse, he had to send Ava away.
A Place to Remember Page 5
