Before Ava could compute what had happened, he was grabbing her and kissing her cheek multiple times, a whispered sorry to go with each peck. Dizzy from the force behind the slap, Ava wobbled and lurched sideways. But strong arms, the same ones that had pulled her from the crashed car on that life-altering day, held tight.
‘I’m sorry, Ava, truly. I’m not sure where that came from.’
Frozen with fear, Ava silently chanted her father’s words: Persone forti si salvano. The strong save themselves.
‘Come ’ere.’ He squeezed tighter. ‘You believe me, don’t you, Ava?’ He was whispering, or was his voice muffled by the ringing in her ear? ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, but you’ve hurt me.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, Ava, you hurt me all the time. I don’t know what you expect of me. I’ve done everything for you, haven’t I?’ His hands moved over her back, rubbing up and down, up and down. Meant to soothe, the repetitiveness worked her into a frenzy. ‘For months I’ve seen the way your eyes fill at the mention of John Tate’s name. Do you have any idea how much that hurts me? I’ve wanted you ever since the day you got off that bus and came into the pub asking for directions. Remember I gave you a lift out to Ivy-May? Do you remember, Ava? Do you?’ His hands gripped her shoulders as if he could rattle a response from her. ‘Answer me.’
‘Yes, Rick.’
‘Every time you came into town to collect supplies I asked you out, but you were always too busy. And now I know what you were doing, don’t I?’
Ava wanted to stand defiant, but Rick, although no taller than her, was burly from carting kegs and rolling wine barrel tables around the beer garden. Her rapid breathing, combined with the stinging in her cheek, was muddling her.
‘I saved you, Ava, and the way you let me rescue you only made me love you more. Don’t tell me it’s not what you want, too. You let me fall for you and I’ve waited to be loved back. Say something.’ He shook her again – harder. ‘Talk to me.’
Talk? Ava had struggled to open her mouth, to take a gulp of air that wasn’t tainted with the smell of warm beer and stale tobacco. She raised a hand to her cheek.
‘Ice will help,’ Rick said, his voice soft again, concerned. ‘You finish up in here and I’ll get some. Then I’ll fix our usual nightcap and snacks. You like it when we chat about changes to the menu. Everything will be all right, Ava.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘We’ll be fine.’
*
With her hands in dirty dishwater, she felt Rick’s body spoon hers, his hands attaching themselves to hers. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, as if the only thing ailing Ava was a headache. Before she’d washed the last pot, he drew her hands out of the water. She stood numb before him and let him wipe them with a tea towel. ‘Come on, a make-up cheese plate awaits.’ He led her out of the kitchen by the hand. ‘Your favourite combination of Brie with fig jam.’
Ava let him guide her to the bar where he dragged up a stool behind her.
‘Sit.’
Without protesting, she rested her bottom on the edge of the seat, and heard the glug, glug, glug of red wine spilling into goblets. He picked up her hand, closed her fingers around the bulb of a wineglass and steered the rim towards her mouth.
‘Drink.’ He tilted the glass slowly until she felt wetness on her lips. ‘You’ll feel better soon. Tonight was big and a bit crazy.’
Rick chatted, cut cheese and prepared several crackers for Ava, but she left them on the side of the plate.
‘Hey, love, cheer up, where’s my favourite happy face?’ He sat on a stool, so close to Ava’s that their knees touched. He reached out his hand and his knuckles scraped down her cheek. ‘Quit with the sulking, Ava. I don’t like it and I won’t play second fiddle to no man, especially not John Tate. Not a wise move, Ava. You need to love me – only me. Reckon I’ve earned it.’
A noise, like a laugh, made Ava look up from the glass cradled on her lap. He was smiling. ‘There’s my girl,’ he said. ‘I love this time of the evening when it’s just us. See what you do to me?’ He peered down at his lap, then at her, pride in his eyes and in the smirk on his face.
‘No!’ She made to move but he grabbed her wrists, pulling one hand towards his crotch. ‘I said leave me alone, Rick. I won’t.’
‘My last wife reckoned she could tell me where and when as well,’ he said, his tone threatening. ‘So you listen to me.’
Ava flinched, her neck stiffening against his hand now clamping the base of her skull and squeezing until she felt giddy. When the comb that kept her red mane in the essential French twist fell away, the hair tumbling to her shoulders brought back memories of her mother’s abuse.
‘Not my hair, please.’ She grabbed Rick’s hand.
‘When I was told I’d be sorry for hiring you, and that I should lock up my valuables because you stole from your last employer, I chose to ignore the advice.’
‘I’ve never stolen anything.’
‘Not sure why someone with Marjorie Tate’s standing in the community would make something like that up. Unless she’s talking about you cradle-snatching her son.’
Ava ignored the barb, self-control and inner strength her only shield. ‘Marjorie wants me gone. She doesn’t want me working here at the pub or anywhere in town.’ With no income and no place to live she would be forced to leave Candlebark Creek. Not only that, she would be remembered as a thief. Did Marjorie hate her so much because she’d dared fall in love with her son?
‘I saved you that day in more ways than one,’ Rick told her, his grip around her neck loosening. ‘I patched up that car of yours, making it better than when I sold it to Marj. I gave you a place to live and a job so people in this town wouldn’t think bad things about you. I reckon a little appreciation on your part is overdue, don’t you?’
Ava couldn’t answer. She couldn’t speak at all. She’d never seen Rick like this. He’d always been a flirt, but he flirted with everyone, even Katie today. It was what he did every night in the pub when the local girls came into town. But something had tipped him over the edge tonight. Katie’s visit?
‘I’ve held off long enough, Ava. It’s been months. You’re going to have to start fitting in around here.’
‘What do you mean?’
He straightened on the bar stool until he was looking down on her. ‘For a start you can get into your thick skull that Marjorie doesn’t want you near her son. So forget about bloody John Tate, bake a cake when I tell you to bake a fucking cake, and pay more attention to my needs – starting now. I know you can cook, Ava, and it’s time to turn the heat up around here.’
By morning Rick was back behind the bar, the lovable larrikin and everyone’s favourite flirty publican.
*
A few days later, at three in the morning, Ava crept out of the pub and into her car. In the days leading up to her departure, she’d sneaked her belongings into the boot. She would leave with only the things she’d brought with her to Candlebark Creek, plus a bit of extra cash. For working overtime and tolerating Rick’s mood swings, she told herself. Getting away required money, but she wouldn’t do anything that might further sully her name. According to John’s mother, Ava was already a thief.
‘Well, lock up your valuables, Marjorie, and your son,’ she muttered, as she drove out of the pub’s car park. ‘Ava Marchette is on her way.’
Chapter 23
Birdbrains and Bar Rooms
The flicker of the pub’s illuminated sign through branches outside the Moo-tel’s office jolted Ava from thoughts of Rick Kingston. The sun was long gone and she wondered how much more time she’d have to waste waiting to check in. She had tired of hanging around Candlebark Creek once before, and now she was tiring again. Or was she afraid again?
‘So foolish,’ Ava muttered. ‘Who was the birdbrain back then, eh?’
‘Birdbrain! Bwark!’
The cockatoo’s owner was off the phone. ‘Sorry about that. Shut up, Jack.’
‘Shut up, Jack! Bwark!�
��
Ava smiled and paid the man for two nights’ accommodation, skilfully skirting his question as to whether she’d been to Candlebark Creek before. ‘I notice you don’t keep him chained.’ She nodded at the bird. ‘Can he not fly away?’
‘Sure he can,’ the man replied. ‘He’s got out a few times. But you know what they say about setting something free?’
‘If it returns it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.’
‘Or it comes back simply because it’s hungry and too lazy or birdbrained to feed itself. What do you reckon, Jack?’
‘Give Jack crack. Bwark!’
‘It’s “cracker”, Jack,’ the proprietor scolded, flushing. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? It’s give Jack a cracker. I swear that bird will have me arrested one day.’
Ava smiled. ‘There’s every chance that bird of yours is smarter than us both.’
The car’s interior lit up as she opened the door and she almost fell into the seat before driving the short distance to her room. It was later and darker than she’d planned, but she hoped a good night’s sleep would make her feel more positive about things. She’d return to Ivy-May in the morning, even though going back would bring with it shades of three decades ago when she’d driven there for the last time to see John before she’d said goodbye to the town and to him for ever. Ava remembered the fear as if it were only yesterday. The way she’d prayed that the car tyres scattering gravel as she left the pub in the dark had not woken Rick.
*
Ava drove with her lights off until she was a safe distance out of town. About thirty minutes later, as close to Ivy-May as she dared go, she parked the old Ford Falcon behind the dilapidated milk shed, disused since the 1930s when the place was a dairy farm. With a coat tucked around her to keep the night’s chill at bay, she closed her eyes and tried to convince herself the shed couldn’t possibly still smell of sickly warm milk. When sleep didn’t come, she watched the hands ticking on the dashboard clock, waited for the sun to rise over the rocky mound and wondered how many ill-fated lovers the mountain had kept apart.
Unable to sit in the car any longer, she splashed her face with water from the plastic bottle she kept in the cup holder, fixed the auburn bun at the back of her head, and checked her teeth in the rear-view mirror. As prepared as she could be to knock at Ivy-May’s door, she had no idea what to expect. For all she knew Marjorie Tate might answer and escort her off the property for a second time.
Ava touched her dragonfly brooch, gathered every scrap of courage, then strode determinedly along the driveway and up Ivy-May’s front steps two at a time. She knocked firmly, her resolve wavering as a figure and face came slowly into focus through the fly wire.
‘John.’ The whispered word wasn’t intentional. Her voice had failed her at that very moment. A crew-cut replaced the wild blond curls. It made his brown eyes even bigger and she could see the surgery scar on his head.
‘Can I help you?’ He waited, expecting Ava to speak. When she didn’t he grinned. ‘Am I supposed to guess your name?’
‘I’m—’
‘Ah, the cook!’ Marjorie Tate appeared beside him, ready to guard her son from Ava. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ Stepping forward, she spoke deliberately: ‘You remember the cook, don’t you, darling? She worked here before your accident. This is Ava.’ John showed no recognition. ‘Ava, this is my son, John.’
‘You’re a cook?’ John’s smile broadened and Ava knew then that some things didn’t change. ‘Perfect timing. I need a cook to settle a food argument I’ve been having with my mother.’
Ava knew she’d opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
‘I mean, if a man wants mud cake, he should be allowed mud cake, right?’ John explained. ‘Mum insists a wedding needs fruit cake.’
‘Fruit cake? But you hate fruit cake, John.’
‘Yeah, that’s right, I do.’ With the familiar tilt of his head, the mischief in his smile shifted to curiosity. ‘I hate it with a passion.’
‘John, dear, Ava’s not here to settle your arguments. I believe you were putting the kettle on while Katie and I discuss the wedding plans. Where is Katie? Katie!’ Marjorie was beginning to sound uncharacteristically anxious. ‘Katie! Come here!’
‘Would you like to come in for a cuppa?’ John was asking Ava, his voice cutting through Marjorie’s.
‘Yes, I—’
‘No, dear, definitely not.’ Marjorie was back to being bossy, buzzing back and forth between the front door and the kitchen. ‘Katie,’ she called again, clearly not daring to stray too far from her son. ‘Ava can’t stay, John. Rick called me a short while ago, and he— Oh, there you are, Katie.’
Wearing a floral smock, the girl waddled across the living room towards the door, one hand pressing the small of her back to emphasise a protruding belly. So that was why Marjorie had called her. She’d wanted Ava to see for herself. Perhaps that was what Rick had meant at the pub that day when he’d told Katie she was carrying precious cargo?
While wanting to scream and lash out at someone – probably herself for being so stupid – all Ava managed was ‘Oh.’
John laughed. ‘That’s kind of what I said when I found out she had a bun in the oven. That’s a cooking joke. Get it?’ For that, he received a thump on his arm from Katie. ‘Ouch! I mean, er, I’m going to be a dad. Imagine that.’ There was no mistaking the genuine excitement in John’s face.
‘Everyone say goodbye to our visitor.’ As though she had sensed that at any moment Ava would throw herself at John and beg him to remember, Marjorie Tate took a step outside, one hand firmly gripping the screen door close to her body. The other she waved at her son. ‘And please pass me the white envelope from the hall stand before you go, John. No, no, the next drawer. It has Ava’s name on it.’
‘This one, Mum?’
‘Yes.’ Marjorie tucked the white envelope into the side pocket of the gum-leaf green trousers she was wearing. ‘Now, hand me my hat from the hook so I can walk Ava back to her car.’
‘No worries.’ He slipped the sunhat through the small gap between his mother and the door, then turned to leave, stopping to look back and smile. ‘See ya round like a rissole,’ he called, waving.
‘Now do you see that I know what’s right for my son?’ Marjorie asked, closing the front door behind her and positioning her hat. ‘Come, walk with me, Ava, so we can talk.’
Ava could only nod and allow Marjorie to guide her by the elbow, back down the Queenslander’s steps and along the path towards her car. She steeled herself, determined not to cry, even though this was hardly the terse march off the property she’d expected. Marjorie seemed to have softened.
‘I knew you were waiting, Ava, and that you’d come back to Ivy-May in due course. I’ve been waiting as well to give you this.’ Marjorie held out the envelope.
‘What is it?’
‘Take the money this time and go. Waiting any longer would be a mistake. I’m going to look after my son and do what needs to be done. Take this and go somewhere nice. Make something of yourself, live your life and let John get on with his. I have my son back. You need to go away.’
Ava was reminded of her father’s last words on the day he’d told her to walk away from her family before it was too late. She had wanted to turn around on that occasion as well, but Marco had given her the brooch and begged the daughter he loved to walk swiftly and not look back.
That was why she’d kept her eyes forward when leaving Ivy-May. She would never return. This was the last time Marjorie would send her away and Ava was going because she could see it was the best thing for John. He’d looked genuinely happy when he’d said he was going to be a dad, and Ava knew how much a child could miss a father. Defying Marjorie and telling John the truth came with only one certainty: more lives would be destroyed and hearts broken. She didn’t want to shoulder that responsibility. She felt enough guilt already.
With Marjorie Tate’s envelope in her hand, Ava return
ed to the car crammed with her belongings. Just before she reached the highway she pulled to the side of the road, curious about the white envelope wedged into the corner of the dashboard. She opened it and, as she let the car idle in the shadow of the mountain, she knew what she had to do. With the help of Marjorie’s parting gift, she would grow more resilient. The contents had provided her with the wings to soar, to follow her dreams, and hope she found a new life and some happiness.
*
Ava’s Audi purred softly and blew cool air on her face. She was parked at the Moo-tel, the car’s headlights shining on the reflective door number directly ahead. Thirty. Fortuitous, Ava thought, that thirty was the number of years since the day she’d driven away from Ivy-May, too young to understand how far a mother would go to protect her child.
She was gathering her coat and handbag from the passenger seat when another thought struck her. If not for Marjorie Tate and her parting gift, would she have had the courage to fulfil her promise to her father that she’d do the four things he never had – to travel far, find her place in the world, love deeply, and be loved in return?
She would have given up her travel dreams in a heartbeat, if it had meant being with John. But that would have changed so much: no jaunt to the Amalfi coast, no catering job aboard a luxury yacht moored in Capri harbour, and no Dirk Toft – the wealthy Irish-American businessman and frequent guest on board Il Mare d'Amore, who’d fallen for the Australian cook with the wicked sense of humour.
The New Yorker had been older, easily amused and generous, and he’d treated her as if she mattered. A couple of years later, the well-travelled and much-loved Ava was the mother of twins, Nina and Tony, whom she’d named after the owners of the yacht. With Dirk uninterested in babies, or in anything that interrupted his jet-setting lifestyle, Ava had found herself back in Australia, settling into a small house in a Sunshine Coast suburb where, as a working mother, she raised the twins. Eventually she’d met the man who became her next boyfriend. She’d declined his marriage proposal, and that of the man who followed. She had no reason to marry, even though her daughter constantly asked for a father.
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