“Hey. What’s up?” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it.
His mother looked at him for a long beat, her gaze unnerving in its intensity.
“What?” Harry said.
“I’m trying to work out why you’re here.”
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m visiting.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his legs out.
“It’s Saturday night,” his mother said.
“So?”
“When was the last time you stayed in on a Saturday night?”
“I have no idea. And I’m not in. I’m here.”
“Which is even more strange.” His mother stood. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
His mother carried the plates to the dishwasher. As usual, she wore a pair of jeans that most of the world would consider too tight for a woman pushing sixty. Her red tank top was equally tight, and the nails on her bare, tanned feet were painted a matching scarlet.
“Are you feeling sick or something?” she asked, concern wrinkling her forehead.
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Mum, I’m fine. Change the record. How have you two been?”
“Same as we always are,” she said.
His father shuffled the travel brochures together, crossing to the sideboard.
“What are you doing?” his mother said, a sharp note in her voice.
“Putting these away,” his father said.
“But we haven’t finished talking yet.”
“Nothing’s going to change, Val, no matter how many times we talk it over.” He dropped the brochures into the drawer and pushed it shut.
Harry watched as his mother’s mouth got thin, a sure sign she wasn’t happy. “Maybe you can talk some sense into your father, Harry. He seems to think we should wait until we’re completely fossilized before we start having fun.”
“I have fun with you every day,” his father said, sounding aggrieved.
His mother made a rude noise, clearly unmoved by the blatant flattery.
“What’s the problem?” Harry asked, since it appeared to be expected of him.
“I want to go on a cruise. Libby and Dave up the road went on one and haven’t stopped raving. But your father keeps coming up with excuses why we can’t go.”
Harry looked at his father, who shrugged eloquently. “I can’t leave the business. You know what it’s like.”
Harry frowned. “What about Ben? Can’t you leave him in charge for a few weeks?”
“Your mother wants to go for six weeks.”
“Why fly all that way if you’re not going to make the most of it?” his mother said.
Ben was his father’s most senior mechanic, but there was no getting away from the fact he wasn’t the most social bloke in the world. Great with an internal combustion engine, not so great with people. While the business might survive a week or two with him at the helm, six weeks was asking for trouble.
“What about Julian?” He was less senior than Ben, but more personable and sharp.
“He’s too unreliable, especially now he’s broken up with his girlfriend.”
“What the business needs is a good senior mechanic with a smart head on his shoulders and a vested interest in the business,” his mother said pointedly.
His father shot her a look. “Val.”
“I’m just making an observation.”
Harry contemplated the toes of his boots, aware that his mother’s comment was a dig at him. When he didn’t rise to the bait, she shut the dishwasher door so hard the plates rattled.
“Sometimes, Harry Neville, you really try my patience.”
Harry sighed. It seemed his day was destined to suck no matter where he went. “Dad would be better off hiring a manager. I’m not cut out to run a small business.”
It was the same argument he’d put forward the last time they’d had this discussion.
“Bullshit, Harry. God, it drives me crazy when you say that.”
“It’s true. I’m hopeless at admin stuff. I wouldn’t have a clue how to hire and fire staff. Just because I’m family doesn’t mean I’d be any good.”
“You could do anything you put your mind to, and you know it. Don’t think I’ve forgotten those straight A’s you got in high school. The truth is you don’t want to do it. That’s all it is.”
Harry met his mum’s gaze. He was sick of pussyfooting around this issue. Maybe it was time to put it to bed once and for all.
“Okay. You want the truth? You’re right, I don’t want it. Dad’s the one who had the burning desire to be his own boss, but that was never my dream. I like being a soldier ant. I like doing my hours and taking my wages and living my life without all the stress and crap I see Dad go through, worrying about taxes and superannuation and workers’ compensation and whatever.” Harry cut his gaze to his father. “No offense, Dad, but I don’t want to be a slave to anyone or anything.”
“Why do you think your father started the business? For exactly that reason. How are you not a slave when you’re marching to the beat of someone else’s drum, jumping when he says to?” his mother demanded. “Honestly, Harry, I don’t understand how you can have this so backward.”
Harry rose. If he stayed any longer, he would say something he’d regret.
“I’m going. Sorry for upsetting you.” He glanced at his mother first, then his father. Then he headed for the door, shoulders tight.
He was descending the steps when he heard the screen door swing shut behind him.
“Wait up a minute.”
He paused, giving his father a chance to catch up. He eyed him warily when his father joined him.
“I’m sorry, Dad, but I don’t want to get into this now. I’ve had a crappy day, and this is pretty much the cherry on top.”
His father’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm. He squeezed once, firmly, before letting go and walking toward Harry’s car.
“How’s the Monaro running? You ever get around to switching out the fuel pump?”
It took Harry a moment to understand his father hadn’t followed him to keep prosecuting his case.
“Haven’t got around to it yet, but she’s been running sweet lately so I might hold fire for a bit.”
“Still thinking of replacing the shockers?”
“Yeah. Next month, maybe.”
“Let me know and I’ll help you out.”
“Thanks.”
They stopped beside the car. Even though it was his mother who had pursued the why-won’t-you-come-work-with-your-father line this time around, Harry knew it was something his dad wanted. It was impossible to tell what his father was thinking or feeling, however. He’d always had a good poker face and tonight it was utterly inscrutable as they both pretended to inspect the Monaro.
“There must be some way you and Mum can take that cruise,” Harry said after a short silence.
“We’ll work it out. Don’t worry about it.” His father offered him a small, distracted smile and took a step backward. “Everything turn out okay with your friend?”
It took Harry a moment to understand his father meant Pippa.
“You could say that.”
His father smiled properly this time. “Give you a hard time, did she?”
“Something like that.”
His father turned toward the house, still smiling. “Thought she might.”
He lifted a hand in farewell. Harry watched him walk away, noting the gray in his father’s hair. There had been a time when his father’s hair had been more pepper than salt, but the ratio had reversed in recent years. His father’s shoulders were still strong and broad, though, his arms still thick with muscle. To Harry, he seemed as powerful and vital a presence as he’d ever been.
Unsettled, he got in the car. As much as his mother’s emotional appeal had made him uncomfortable, he disliked his father’s quiet acceptance even more because he knew it hid a wealth of disappointment.
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Harry thumped the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, feeling cornered and small and immeasurably shitty as a result. Not once had he ever indicated by word or deed that he was interested in taking over the garage. In fact, he’d done the exact opposite, leaving his father’s employ the moment his apprenticeship was finalized to avoid setting up expectations that would never be fulfilled.
He didn’t want the responsibility, and he didn’t want the worry. He wasn’t the kind of man who craved big houses and expensive cars. He valued his freedom more than any material thing money could buy, and the thought of taking on the burden of the business, of being responsible for eight employees and his father’s legacy… It made him feel like he was choking. As though the walls were closing in.
The Monaro started with a dull roar and he headed for home, where he probably should have stayed in the first place.
CHAPTER SIX
PIPPA WOKE TO Alice crying at five in the morning. She prepared a bottle and sat in the old armchair in Alice’s room, watching her guzzle half a bottle before falling into a milky drowse. Smiling, Pippa put Alice to bed and went into the kitchen to make her own breakfast. It was still dark outside and she sat on the arm of the sofa in the sunroom, eating her toast and watching the dark sky turn gray and then pink with dawn.
Because Pippa didn’t want to put off making her apology any longer than she had to, the moment Alice woke again at nine she dressed her and packed her into the car. Pippa swung by the bakery on the way to Harry’s place, picking up a bag of doughnuts to sweeten her apology. When in doubt, bribe with food. It was a strategy that usually worked with Alice, and Pippa figured Harry probably wasn’t that different.
She had an apology worked out. She’d started formulating it last night and perfected it this morning while she cleaned the house and waited for Alice to wake. She would tell Harry he was generous and kind and that she had spoken too hastily last night, letting her pride do the talking. She would tell him she appreciated everything he’d done and that she hoped he might one day forget she had been such a prickly, ungrateful cow. Then she would offer him the doughnuts and hopefully a miracle would occur and he’d smile and tell her it was okay, he didn’t think she was a complete psycho-hose-beast.
The last bit was wishful thinking, but she figured she was in with a mild chance that he’d forgive her. Maybe.
She chewed her bottom lip as she parked in front of his house. Both his car and the old truck were in the driveway, a good sign he was home. This time she took Alice with her as she approached the front door. After knocking three times, she was forced to conclude that either Harry wasn’t home, or he was so deeply asleep he was in a coma. She suspected it was option A, which meant she would have to delay her apology. Damn it.
She could leave the doughnuts on his doorstep, but they were covered with sugar and redolent of jam and the odds were good that the ants would find them before Harry did.
She drove home, set the doughnuts on the kitchen counter and told herself she would try again in the afternoon. Then she dragged out her textbooks to look for quotes to support the central argument in her essay.
She studied all morning and into the afternoon. At three o’clock she drove to Harry’s place again, only to discover that his car was gone this time, a sure sign he was out.
She stared at his house, frustration welling inside her. She wanted this done, wanted to right her wrong, if that was possible, and get on with her life.
Fate had other ideas, because Harry still wasn’t home when she tried again in the early evening, and he wasn’t there the next day, either, when she’d be certain she would catch him after work. By that time the doughnuts were past their best—certainly they were past being used as a shameless suck-up. She ate three, then gave the remainder to the family next door in deference to the size of her backside.
Tuesday dawned gray and overcast, a perfect reflection of her mood. She worked a long shift at the gallery, picking up Alice from day care as the heavens opened and it began to pour. Pippa swung past Harry’s place, feeling like a stalker, she’d been up and down his street so many times. Surely he must be home. Who went out in weather like this?
She swore under her breath when she saw that, once again, the black muscle car was missing.
What is wrong with you, Harry? Don’t you like your home or something?
Where on earth could he be? Not surfing, which had been her explanation of choice on Sunday. Not in this weather. And even Harry couldn’t hang out with the boys this much.
She frowned as it occurred to her that it was possible he was with a woman. As in a girlfriend. He hadn’t mentioned that he was seeing anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t as though he’d ever been short of female companionship in the time she’d known him. Women responded like catnip to his hard body and the cheeky, knowing glint in his eye.
She was feeling more than a little disgruntled when she turned Old Yeller for home. She told herself she was frustrated because her attempt to do the right thing had been stymied. Definitely it had nothing to do with the idea that Harry might have a girlfriend. His love life had nothing to do with her. At all.
Perhaps it was time to give up on the notion of a face-to-face apology and move to Plan B. Not that she had a Plan B, but she could formulate one.
For instance, when she got home, she could compose a written apology. She could then leave it on Harry’s doorstep with a nice bottle of Scotch, ready for him to discover when he returned home. She had no idea if he drank Scotch, having only ever seen him drink beer, but she hoped that, like the doughnuts, it would be interpreted as a gesture of goodwill.
She liked the idea so much she drove home via the liquor store, purchasing a single malt Scotch with an appropriately Scottish name with lots of badges and coats of arms on the label and a hefty price tag. Between the beer she’d bought for Harry’s dad and the bottle of Scotch, she’d pretty much annihilated her budget for the next couple of weeks, but it couldn’t be helped. She needed to make amends.
She kissed her daughter’s warm cheek as she left the shop. “We’re in business, Alice. Once the letter is delivered, we—by which I really mean me—are home free. Sort of.”
And hopefully the next time she ran into Harry in six months’ time they would both be able to smile at one another the way they had last week.
The house was gloomy when she got home and she flicked on lights and even considered turning on the central heating. She made do with a shawl for herself and a blanket for Alice and sat with her laptop on her knees.
It took her an hour to compose a suitably friendly, regretful apology—not too formal, not too casual, not too sucky, not too flippant. She’d walked a fine line, but she was pretty sure she’d gotten there. Or thereabouts. She printed it, sealed it in an envelope and wrote Harry’s name on the front with a sense of relief.
There. Almost done. Once it stopped raining, she’d deliver it and the Scotch. Problem solved.
Dusting her hands together, she stowed away her laptop, then registered the steady drip-drip-drip of water. She went into the hall, looking toward the bathroom. But the sound was coming from somewhere much closer. She frowned at the closed doorway to Alice’s bedroom, then pushed it open. She flicked on the light. The room was illuminated for half a second before the bulb blew, but it was long enough for her to see a growing wet patch on the carpet.
The roof was leaking. Just what she needed.
She grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen cupboard and returned to Alice’s room, aiming it at the ceiling. A dark stain marred the plaster, and water dripped down the wiring for the pendant lamp.
She didn’t know much about electricity, but it struck her she had been extremely lucky she hadn’t been electrocuted when she flicked on the light.
Thank God Alice hadn’t been in her room during any of this.
She grabbed her phone and called the landlord, Peter. He was a master of excuses, but he had to do something about a leaky
roof. If for no other reason than that it could cause permanent and expensive damage to his property.
The phone rang and rang before going to voice mail and she listened with growing outrage as her landlord explained he was on holiday and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks.
Two weeks!
She was so busy reacting to the news she forgot to leave a message and had to call back to ask Peter to please phone her as she had an urgent repair that needed attention. Surely he must have organized for someone to keep an eye on things while he was away?
She aimed the flashlight at the ceiling again, studying the growing damp patch. The way things were going, the plaster would come down in a sodden mess unless someone took care of the leaky roof pronto. Pippa made a rude noise as she imagined how long it would take for Peter to get on to that repair. Judging by his track record so far, a year or two. In the meantime, she would have the privilege of living in a house with a hole in the ceiling.
“Damn it.”
Mouth pressed into a grim line, she changed into yoga pants and a long-sleeved top, then tied her hair back with a scarf. She made her way to the laundry where the access hatch to the roof space was located.
She’d spent the week lamenting being a victim of circumstances. She wasn’t going to wait around for someone to rescue her this time—she would take action herself.
The access hatch was above her washing machine. Even standing on the machine she had no chance of reaching it. She glanced around the room, her gaze falling on the storage unit she’d bought to hold her towels and linen.
Perfect.
A bit of grunting and groaning saw the unit moved into position next to the washing machine. She went into the kitchen and gathered the stack of old ice-cream containers from under the sink. Alice was playing with her Fisher Price toys again, but to be safe Pippa put her in her playpen. Then, armed with the flashlight and her stack of containers, she prepared to do battle with the roof.
It took her a full minute to clamber onto the washing machine, then onto the storage unit and finally through the access hatch.
Suddenly You Page 8
