‘Yes, children.’ As usual, thoughts of Blair disarmed John. ‘You are forgiven, Ava, and your daughter sounds like my son whenever his mother or I tell him how to run the business.’
‘Something else we have in common – sons taking over, I mean,’ she clarified.
‘No choice in my case. Someone had to. In my mother’s words I was quite useless.’ A memory made him smile. ‘And I proved her correct on numerous occasions. Dad once tasked me with slashing paddocks, but instead I spent hours mowing a pattern and climbing a windmill to get a bird’s-eye view of the finished design. I took a photo, and when I showed my parents, Mum went berserk. That night she threw my old camera, along with every photo I’d ever taken, into the incinerator.’
‘Not everyone has an appreciation for talent.’
‘My family didn’t see mine. They didn’t understand. No one did, including me and the doctors half the time. I was an anomaly who attracted interest from researchers and reporters. Finally fed up with all the fuss, I hid until a gallery contacted me out of the blue. Next thing I knew an investor had bought several pieces and I had a dealer. That made the family sit up and take notice. I wasn’t making a fortune, and the paddocks were still off limits,’ he smiled, ‘but I had all the time I needed to paint and the cottage at the bottom of the property to make a mess in.’
‘The cottage on the creek?’ Ava asked.
‘Yeah. I thought having my own space would be better for everyone so I moved in, but being there alone was more distracting for some reason, my ability to concentrate zero. My dealer suggested a move to Sydney would have me closer to the art scene and more accessible, so I rented a Newtown terrace.’
‘You? In the city?’
There was that familiarity again. The woman’s sudden fit of the fidgets implied she’d noticed. She was up and prowling the room, stopping at the old sideboard with its dusty display of ornaments – remnants of the women from John’s life that should have been thrown into boxes for the charity shop a long time ago. She strolled all ten feet of handmade cabinetry in silence, her fingers tracing framed family snaps. She picked up a fancy silver frame that had fallen, pausing over the photograph of him with Katie on her eighteenth birthday.
Who was this woman and why was she having such an effect on him?
‘You’re right about the city and me,’ John said. ‘Like living in an ants’ nest. Too many people, too suffocating, too loud, and too bad if you didn’t get on with your neighbour, who was in your face every time you stepped outside the door. I wanted my own space. I wanted Ivy-May.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ Ava looked towards him briefly. ‘That I can appreciate.’
‘Apart from the occasional gallery opening, most of the time I was locked away so I didn’t see the benefit of being close by. I also missed my son,’ he said, joining her at the sideboard to move a picture of Blair in front of the birthday snap. ‘My boy was growing up without me. Do you and your children share a good relationship?’
‘Regular phone calls is what Tony calls a good relationship. Then again, I’ve heard that your son is your son until he takes a wife, but your daughter is a daughter for the rest of your life. Cooking bonded Nina and me, but Tony is definitely his mother when it comes to business.’ She smiled.
‘Such connections must be nice.’
‘I’d suggest Blair is very much like you, John. I met him on the way here,’ she explained.
‘Thanks for saying so. Sometimes I wonder…’ He faltered. ‘Well, I’m just not so certain he got my looks, which is probably a good thing for him.’
‘Looks are superficial. It’s what’s inside a person. Sharing the same passion helps.’ Her eyes, beautiful, with a mischievous twinkle, rested on him. ‘And that’s the answer.’
‘I didn’t know there was a question,’ John said.
‘Dilemma solved.’
‘I wasn’t sure we had one of those either.’
‘The sitting,’ she explained. ‘If we use that chair of yours, John, but at the table rather than in isolation, I believe there’ll be less of Whistler’s mother, and my daughter might appreciate the setting. I’m most relaxed in the kitchen and very much the kitchen-table type.’
‘A kitchen table is hardly—’
‘It’s the heart of any home,’ she said, with authority. ‘I never wanted a traditional portrait, more something lively, expressive and possibly quirky. Now, let me think.’ She hovered over the sideboard’s contents, like a bee deciding on the best bloom. ‘Considering all you’ve explained about detail, I’m thinking that perhaps…’ She made for a colourful plate at the far end. Leaving its contents behind – his grandson’s cowboy figurines from last Christmas – she carried it with the placemat to the table. ‘I can picture myself sitting here at the corner with something pretty – a cup and saucer with something freshly baked on a plate like this one.’ She stepped back as if appraising the finished work.
‘Baked as in scones?’
‘Of course! How about you pop the kettle on?’
‘But, I, ah—’ John was fidgeting again.
‘Nothing better than fresh scones and a cuppa, unless it’s high tea at a fancy hotel.’
‘Again, I’m not sure I’ve ever had the pleasure.’
*
Ava had to hold her tongue and avert her gaze. Yes, you have, John. I didn’t need afternoon tea that day, but you’d insisted the weekend be the most memorable of my life. We ate tiny sandwiches and your favourite mini éclairs. You told me you had a surprise – dinner at seven and we couldn’t be late. Oh, John, where had you planned to take me that night? ‘Where?’ Ava muttered.
‘Right here,’ John was saying from the far end of the room. ‘The table is the perfect compromise, here where the natural light is best.’ He seemed amused. ‘This section of wood also has beautiful textures, even lovelier if I bothered to run a duster over it more often.’ He was tapping the dent in his cheek again. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry the place is… Well, I’m not used to having guests. I need time to prepare a canvas and easel.’ He was on the move, his step light before he stopped, turned and stared at Ava. ‘And if you think the living area is cluttered, you don’t want to imagine my art room.’ He smiled and motioned for her to sit again. ‘You may want to hold off on the tea and scones. This could take a while.’
Chapter 29
Tables, Teacups and Scones
Ava was alone, except for the magpie family, their dagger-like beaks repeatedly stabbing at the earth, hopeful of skewering a meaty morsel. Finally, she could peel away the cheery façade and take stock. Not everything was going to plan. Hardly surprising as there was no plan, other than to see John. Now she was satisfied he was not hollowed-out and miserable, she could slip away and return to her own life and family. At least she’d go with a more up-to-date image of the man he was today. Possibly more appropriate than the twenty-one-year-old version she would sometimes find herself recalling when she was in bed at night.
But she wasn’t ready to leave him.
Not yet.
Not again.
Although she was still angry with Marjorie Tate, and sad that John had no memory of their time together, she could take some comfort from perpetuating the lies John had been fed about his past. The secrets his family had held all these years were not Ava’s to tell and she was glad about that. She knew of men who’d crumbled from lesser truths. Nothing was to be gained by telling, plus there was Blair to consider. When she left Ivy-May after the sitting, John would still be blissfully unaware, his family bond strong. That way, if he remembered Ava at all, it would be as a stranger who’d insisted that tables, teacups and scones were included in her portrait. She could only hope such objects would be distraction enough to take his focus away from the painting’s subject: her.
It wasn’t the first time Ava had sat in that room, at that table, desperate to shift the focus from herself. On numerous occasions she’d had to divert John’s dinner conversation with his parents away from what h
e and Ava had done on the farm that day, or how he’d contributed to the meal she’d prepared by harvesting fresh vegetables and herbs for her, rolling pasta or scaling and gutting the fish he’d caught in the river. They were freshwater barramundi, so not the tastiest, but as he’d told the table one night, ‘Ava Marchette could make mud taste good.’ For some reason no one, not even Katie when she was there, seemed to care that John always ended the meal by volunteering to help the cook with the dishes.
While Ava didn’t apologise for falling in love, or see anything wrong with their age difference, keeping her job had meant following unwritten rules. Their liaison was never going to meet with his parents’ approval, and she had been genuinely sorry for the hurt she knew it would cause Katie. At the start she hadn’t encouraged John, and she certainly hadn’t seduced him, but she hadn’t said no to him when she should have. When Marjorie Tate had found out about the affair, all of their lives would have turned out differently if her focus had been her son’s happiness rather than wealth creation.
Ava had tried to forget John and work through the pain, but not a day went by when she didn’t falter. Thirty years later she hadn’t envisaged being so fascinated by the man she’d loved and let go, and a couple of the glances he’d cast her way today had added a dash of hope when she’d thought there was none. Still, remembering and wondering, all the what ifs and regrets were beginning to weary her. She knew what it was like to drift unfulfilled and pretending to be happy. Tripping around Europe had been like that, but those years with the twins’ father in Italy, in a life so removed from Candlebark Creek, had been her distraction.
Her discovery that she was pregnant had been the best moment of her life and the twins made up for every bad thing that had ever happened. Her calling to be a mother had saved her. The children needed all of her. They were the promise of a future, reinvigorating her sense of purpose. They remained her greatest achievement. In spite of her own mother, Ava had been a good and loving parent.
‘Ava?’ John’s voice startled her. She hadn’t heard him return. ‘Should you wish, I can leave certain details out of the portrait.’ His gaze travelled over her face. If he was looking for more imperfections, other than the scar above her eye that she was tracing with the tip of her index finger, he wouldn’t find any. The rest were hidden. ‘If you’re worried about that mark I can leave it out. We artist types can do that kind of thing.’
‘I suppose you can.’
‘I’m an old-fashioned Photoshopper, remember that.’
‘Well, in that case,’ Ava chuckled, ‘I’ll give you a list.’
‘A short one, I’m sure.’
Now she blushed and let her hand fall to her lap. ‘On second thoughts, leave nothing out. They say scars are life’s lessons and this was one of the hardest.’ Her finger returned to her forehead as an image of Lenore flashed through her mind.
‘Shame our lessons come with such reminders,’ John said. ‘Although this scar of mine comes with no memory whatsoever.’
‘They say the invisible scars are the ones we shouldn’t forget, or we may find ourselves being hurt in the same way all over again.’ The audible clack of magpie beaks on the railing outside accentuated the silence in the room. ‘And right now,’ Ava added, ‘I think we need to lighten the mood. Food does that. I’ll bake those scones.’ Before he could object, Ava headed for the kitchen she’d once known so well. ‘You did say you like to get the detail right,’ she called across the room. ‘And we did talk about sitting with tea and scones at the kitchen table.’
‘I guess we did,’ he said.
‘Another couple of things… Ah, here we go.’ Other than new doors on old kitchen cupboards, appliances and bench tops now slick stainless steel, Ava was finding her way around as if nothing had changed. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’
‘You did say you were at home in a kitchen and I can see that for myself. Should I put the kettle on for tea?’
‘The scones need to be in the oven first. It’ll be faster if you help.’
John plunged his hands under the running water. ‘Just tell me what I need to know.’
What you really need to know, John, is that we spent hours together in this kitchen, fighting over beaters dripping with cake mix, giggling and shushing each other. And you had all those crazy flavouring ideas for your sausages. You loved your meat and vegetables, as long as you’d grown it all yourself. But your sweet tooth was insatiable – and so were you.
‘I might’ve done this before,’ he said. ‘Gently does it, or the scone will be dense, right?’ When a flour storm erupted from the bowl he swore. ‘Sorry, maybe I’m not the best person for the job after all.’
‘No, no, you’re doing fine. Like this.’ Ava demonstrated.
‘My son’s the cook in our family.’
‘And he’s good at it?’ she asked.
‘As a kid he didn’t have a choice. Poor little guy was stuck with me most days and stopping to eat wasn’t high on my priority list back then. Blair started cooking so we didn’t starve.’ His laugh was filled with love and pride.
‘Your wife didn’t cook?’
‘Katie? Not a domestic-goddess bone in her body. She was and still is the type of woman who fuels up every morning on nothing and runs all day, but always doing the important things, like heading up the town’s Progress Association and numerous tourism projects. Candlebark Creek had needed something or someone to kick-start its dying heart, and Katie can kick arse and get things done like nobody else. She loves a project. I should know. For a while I was one of them.’ John went quiet. He stepped back and Ava transferred the dough from the bowl to the floured bench. ‘Then my wife discovered there were more rewards in the fancy stuff, like decorating new cabins and sprucing up old rooms. She told me this sunroom was her blue period. Wedgwood blue, to be exact, in case you hadn’t guessed already.’
‘Blue and white is a lovely combination for a country home. Katie has a good eye.’
‘My ex-wife has two.’ John smiled. ‘One she keeps on me – still.’
The girl Ava remembered always had both eyes firmly set on him. When Ava had moved into the cook’s cottage, she hadn’t understood the delicate balance of power at Ivy-May, and family politics were of no interest. She had taken the job for one reason: to get as far away from the city as she could so that she could squirrel away enough money to go overseas and fulfil her father’s wishes that she see the world and find her place in it. She hadn’t realised when Rick had dropped her off at Ivy-May that she’d found it, and that Fate would snatch it away too soon. Ava had also been slow to grasp that, behind the giggles and glibness, young Katie was smart, with both feet planted in the land around Ivy-May. To everyone other than John, Ava was hired help.
Now Ava rested her hands on his to guide his shaping of the dough into a mound, ready for cutting.
‘How about I do the next step while you tell me more about Katie-from-next-door?’
The look he shot Ava was a reminder to check herself before she spoke. ‘My wife was the girl next door. Everyone called her that as if it was her name. She was my best mate before we slipped into marriage.’
‘Slipped?’ Ava enquired.
‘I was young, Katie younger. I suppose we were impatient.’ John dabbed sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, leaving behind a flour smudge that was hard to ignore. ‘As it turns out she was more patient than anyone.’
‘How do you mean, John?’
‘She stuck around, even though living with me wasn’t easy.’
‘You mean living with such creativity?’
‘That’s one way of putting it. Most people in town thought I was mad. Instead I drove my wife crazy and she eventually left.’
‘Do you mind?’ Ava said. ‘You have something on your face.’ She took her time dabbing the floury stripe with the hand towel. ‘I’m sure if Katie really loved you…’
‘She tried, but you’ve seen my living room. Give me any implement that could leave a mar
k, and any surface on which to leave one, and I couldn’t help myself.’
Even now, as Ava placed precise rounds of dough on a baking tray, John was tracing a design in the dusting of flour that remained on the bench.
‘How about you finish the tray while I check the oven temperature? Keep the scones close together to ensure they rise.’ She put a hand on his to demonstrate and caught John grinning at her. ‘What’s funny?’
‘I’ve heard good bakers rise to the occasion,’ he said. ‘It’s the yeast they can do. That’s a cooking joke. Get it?’
Somewhere in the midst of Ava’s burst of laughter came a sob that surprised them both. ‘I’m so sorry, I – I don’t know what to say except…’ Blotting her face with her shirt sleeve, Ava recovered her composure, somehow raising a smile as she lifted her face to his. ‘I always react that way to bad jokes.’ They laughed together. ‘Can we take a walk while these bake?’ she asked. He seemed poised to decline, and Ava wondered if she’d pushed too far. ‘Years ago I could’ve stood at a kitchen bench for hours. These days I need to take frequent walks.’
‘Too easy,’ he said, following Ava to the back veranda, ‘although, with the state of the yards and gardens, walking might not be easy. I’m a little embarrassed that you’re seeing the place in such a neglected state. My mother regularly maintained this lawn when the B-and-B was open to guests. A lot has changed since then.’
He was right. The much-loved flowerbeds encircled in stone borders and scattered around the farmhouse were overgrown and clearly missing Marjorie Tate’s touch, while the winding path leading from the veranda, which Ava had trodden daily, was now no wider than a tyre track.
‘You weren’t expecting visitors.’
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘Thank you for providing me with a legitimate excuse.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ Ava was about to say more when John hooted.
‘Listen to us,’ he said. ‘We’re being terribly polite, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not sure one can ever be too polite.’
A Place to Remember Page 18
