Long Hot Summer

by Victoria Purman

  She picked up her phone and called Mandy.

  It picked up after one ring. “Hannie? Are you okay?”

  Hannie breathed deeply to hide any panic that her aunt might read into what she said. “All good here. Just thought I’d let you know that we’re still standing.”

  “We’ve been watching it on the news. It sounds like the wind’s blowing in the right way for us. Did you see that three houses have been lost in Normanton?”

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “I hope it’s not the Porters. They’ve got that plant nursery there off the main road.”

  “Me too.” But Hannie knew that if it wasn’t the Porters who had lost their home and potentially their livelihood, it would be someone else, possible someone else they knew. Fires were indiscriminate, random, and devastating.

  “Now, Hannie, listen up.” Mandy’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “That daughter of mine is being a right pain in the patootie. She’s insisting I should stay down here tonight.”

  Hannie breathed a sigh of relief. “She’s right. Why don’t you stay put there? I’m sure Natasha and Ainslie will adore having you for the night. I’ll let the chooks out in the morning if things have settled down and check on Zelda.”

  Mandy’s voice seemed suddenly fragile. “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  “Okay then. Perhaps I will. Have you heard anything from Dylan?”

  Hannie hadn’t. She knew plenty of the men and women from around the ridge who jumped on the Country Fire Service trucks as volunteers when bushfires hit. Half her high school class, in fact. Everyone was on edge, waiting for them to return home safe. But this concern about Dylan was different. It had crept in to the space behind her chest, and was growing bigger as the day had worn on.

  “No, I haven’t. I’m sure he’s fine. He knows what he’s doing.”

  And, reassuringly, there had been nothing on the news about any injuries – or worse.

  “He hasn’t called you?”

  “No. I don’t even think he has my number.”

  Mandy chuckled. “Why ever not? You stay safe, Hannie. Natasha has just brought me a pile of her favourite books that she’s insisted her nanna should read to her. Oh, look here. Possum Magic. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hannie.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Hannie ended the call. She tucked her phone in her pocket and went to the heavy wooden back door, opened it, and then pushed the screen door open. The air smelt faintly of burning fuel and eucalypts. It was eerily quiet all around the property. The wind seemed to have settled down too, which would help stop the fire and embers from spreading. Hannie lifted her eyes up to the top of Reynolds Ridge. There were lights on at Dylan’s house.

  She didn’t think twice. She raced back inside and grabbed her car keys.

  Hannie had barely stepped foot out of her four-wheel drive when she heard Dylan’s voice.

  “Hey,” he called. He was standing on the veranda, which ran along the back of his long, rectangular stone house. The lights from inside glowed and she could just make out the surprised smile on his dirty face. He was still wearing his protective yellow trousers and his fire boots, but had stripped off his helmet, jacket, and T-shirt.

  “Hey,” Hannie said. She clutched her keys and her phone in one hand and walked towards him. She willed her eyes not to fall below his chin.

  “This is a surprise.” He stepped off the veranda and walked towards her, slowly.

  He was standing there and he was okay, looking at her with a bemused expression on his dirt-smudged face.

  Hannie wanted to lift her hands to her throat and wring her own neck. What the hell was she doing? Why had she jumped into her car and raced up the ridge on an unlit, dirt back track in almost the middle of the night to see if he was okay? And why were her hands shaking?

  “Well... I...” She could hardly admit she’d been scared shitless all day worrying about him, could she? “Do you know anything about what was lost in Normanton?” she blurted out.

  That bemused expression on his face became sombre. He ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Two homes. Some storage sheds.”

  “Oh, damn.” Hannie gasped, covering her mouth with a hand in shock. “And the Porter’s nursery?”

  “Their home was saved but the business is gone. The shade-clothed nurseries and everything that was in them.”

  “That’s awful news.”

  Dylan came closer. “But the Porters are safe, Hannie. They listened to the warnings and did what they had to do. They left in time. No one was hurt. No lives were lost.”

  Hannie closed her eyes against the memories in her head, which came flooding back. Her mother’s grief at losing her husband. The long, long months and the tragedy of it, so fast, so sudden, the inexplicable agony of never saying goodbye, the pervasive dread of imagining the flames and the fear. And then the grief and the rage was reignited months later when the coroner’s findings were handed down, revealing he’d died from a heart attack trying to flee the fire. There was little relief in knowing that he’d already been dead when his car had been incinerated.

  A strong hand on her shoulder pushed those memories deep down. There was a new sensation—warm fingers against bare skin. A strength calming her. When she opened her eyes, Dylan was close, looking down at her.

  He cocked his head back to the house. “Since you’ve come all this way, you want to come in for a drink?”

  Hannie felt dizzy. She was tired and hungry. In her nervous anticipation of what the bushfire was doing throughout the afternoon, she’d actually forgotten to eat. Without thinking, she brought a hand to her stomach.

  “Or maybe something to eat?”

  His hand was still on her shoulder, reassuring, gentle. He was so close to her she could smell the smoke in his hair and the sweat from his labours.

  “I haven’t had dinner,” she murmured as she looked up at him.

  He took his hand away. “Although the volunteers of the Country Women’s Association supplied the most amazing sandwiches today, I’m hungry for something more substantial. Feel like a steak?”

  She sighed and smiled back at him. “Yeah. I’d love one.”

  When he reached for her hand and tugged her forward, she let him.

  Dylan opened the back door and stood aside to let her in first. Hannie stepped right in the kitchen. She’d never been inside the Knight’s home when she was younger so she took it all in for the first time. It was a big old country style kitchen, with Baltic cupboards all around the walls and a long farmhouse table in the centre of the room. There was a new stainless steel fridge on one wall and on the bench, a coffee machine, a toaster, a microwave, and a food processor. It was neat and tidy. And there were ripe, purple plums in a white bowl in the middle of the table.

  The door closed behind her and Dylan gently urged her forwards.

  “Why don’t you grab yourself a drink? I really need to take a shower and get out of this gear. There’s wine and beer in the fridge and... you know the drill.”

  With a quick smile, Dylan strode off down the hallway and a few moments later, she could hear the sound of a shower running. She opened the fridge and saw two steaks marinating in a dish, an unopened bottle of wine in the door, and enough vegetables to make a decent salad. She took out some cherry tomatoes, a bag of rocket, a cucumber, a jar of semi-dried tomatoes and some marinated feta. There was a loaf of bread in a paper bag on the bench next to the fridge and she sliced a few pieces. She opened every door until she found the dinner plates and inspected every drawer until she found the cutlery.

  Five minutes later, when Dylan emerged freshly scrubbed, hair towel-dried but still damp, wearing a singlet top and some loose shorts, she had already made the salad, set plates out on the long table, and downed half a glass of a delicious Adelaide Hills sauvignon blanc.

  He stood open-mouthed in the doorway. “What’s all this?”

  “I’m starving. I thought I’d g
et things going while you were cleaning yourself up.”

  He strode towards her, reached into the salad bowl for a square of feta and tossed it into his mouth. “Remind me to invite you around for dinner more often,” he grinned.

  “Tell me something, Knight. Do you always have two steaks marinating in the fridge in case of a drop-in?”

  “They were both for me, but I’ll share with you.”

  Hannie popped a cherry tomato into her mouth. “That’s very generous of you.”

  Dylan rubbed his hands together. “Now where are those steaks?”

  “Another wine?” Dylan held the bottle up so it was hovering over Hannie’s glass.

  She quickly covered it with a flat hand. “No, I should go. It’s late.” She looked up to the big carriage clock over the door to the hallway. “It’s eleven thirty.”

  How had three hours passed so quickly? A delicious steak, cooked medium-rare to perfection, a green salad, fresh bread, and a crisp wine had enticed her to stay longer than she thought she would.

  They’d just spent a few hours getting to know each as adults, navigating around what they thought they knew about each other and what they didn’t know about each other’s families and filling in some of the gaps. And totally ignoring what had happened between them fourteen years before.

  Dylan was funny. He was thoughtful. His eyes shone when he laughed and when he looked at her... oh, the tingles.

  Major league tingles.

  Hannie reached for her keys and phone and stood up. His chair scraped back too.

  “Thanks for the steak. And the wine,” she said.

  “It was nothing. Especially since you helped.”

  Hannie went to the back door but Dylan made it there first and opened it for her.

  “We should do this again, sometime,” he said as they walked to her car, their footsteps crunching on the gravel drive.

  Another sometime with Dylan was not a good idea. Ever. She didn’t answer but left his offer hanging in the warm night air.

  She reached the car and turned, her keys in her hand, gripping tight. That’s when he stepped close and she automatically took a step back until her ass hit the car door. He reached a hand out and touched the lock of hair that had come loose from her rough bun. His face grew serious as he twined her hair around an index finger.

  “Your hair used to be short,” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “And all kind of crazy colours.”

  “Sometimes.”

  The night around them was pitch black and quiet. There was a rustling in the tall gum trees by the shed on the other side of the driveway. Possums, she supposed.

  He didn’t let go of her hair. Then his other hand was on her arm, stroking slowly from her wrist to her elbow. He wrapped his fingers there, and his touch was so soft she wanted to sigh into it, to close her eyes and linger on the feel of it.

  “Hannie.” His voice was a murmur in the quiet. “I never asked you. Is that short for something?”

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s just Hannie.”

  His face was close to hers. His mouth was a moment away. The tingling in her toes turned into a flash of light which shook her whole body awake. To stop herself losing her balance she lifted her hands and splayed them on his chest. His breathing caught and then there was a long, slow exhale. Under the fabric of his T-shirt she felt hard muscle and bone. They were so close to each other her wrists were pressed backwards up against her breasts.

  “Just... Hannie,” he said. And as he said her name, low and deep, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers.

  Lightning struck her. Dylan Knight tasted like wine and the cool night air. Kissing him felt so right she fell into it as easily as breathing. She moved her hands higher until they met at the back of his neck and she pulled him in closer, arched herself against him, so the kiss was deeper, suddenly more urgent, faster, bolder. She felt the kiss in every cell in her body. She melted and burst into flame all at once.

  They came up for air, gasping, then his lips were on her cheek and then lower, to the place behind her ear where her hair tangled; and she lifted her head to the stars and he kissed down her neck to her shoulder. He pushed himself into her, god, already hard, and then a hand was on her left breast, cupping her, his thumb flicking over her nipple which had tightened in a primal siren song for his lips.

  And then she heard Justin Timberlake in her head, crying about a river.

  She pulled away. Tried to find her breath. She looked up at him in the dark. His eyes were wide, his lips open. He rubbed a hand over his hair.

  “Fuck,” he said, as if he’d suddenly woken from a dream.

  “Dylan ...” She remembered who she was and what she’d done. Her last mistake had cost her in ways she still regretted. “This was ...” she fought for breath, for sense. “God, this was so stupid.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “You think I’m stupid?”

  “No, no. It’s me. I’m the stupid one. We can’t do this. Not again.”

  He held out a hand for her, but she slid sideways along the car and out of his reach. “What do you mean, not again? Hannie? What are you talking about?”

  She turned to him and pointed angrily, her finger wagging in the space between them. “You, me, and Alice. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

  His eyes flashed and his jaw clenched hard. Then he took two big strides to her, brought his hands to her arms. “I’ve never forgotten that.”

  “Then you must know what we did to Alice. Remember?”

  His brows knitted together. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. All I remember is what you did to me.”

  Hannie felt hot now, dizzy. “What?” She tugged herself free. “I’ve really got to go. Ted will be waiting to be let out.”

  His words were almost lost in the dark. “Yeah, you’re right, after all. This was fucking stupid.”

  Chapter Eight

  Overnight, the wind had settled into a gentle breeze but, at daybreak, it heaved and throbbed and was now a blistering northerly, sweeping up all the heat from the deserts of central Australia and blowing thousands of kilometres south to scorch and parch the whole of South Australia.

  At Reynolds Ridge, the wind tore leaves from the plum trees in the valley below and the heat that came with the fierce wind shrivelled orchards full of fruit just as they were ripening in the valley. When the sun came up they had been plump and red. A couple of hours later, they had split and burst, been tossed to the ground, ruined.

  Hannie hadn’t slept. She’d tossed and turned, sweat and sleeplessness combining to make her bleary-eyed and groggy as the sun came up. She stumbled out of bed and went straight to the fridge for a cold glass of water. Ted whimpered in his bed in the corner of the kitchen, a spot he preferred because it was the coolest part of the house, so she undid his leash and opened her back door. He tried to bolt outside but Hannie pulled him back. It would only be quick pitstop and then she’d take him back inside where it was safe and cool.

  The wind hit the back of her throat, parching it. There was something familiar and frightening about the heat. In the sky, the clouds were moving so fast they looked as if they were running from something; great white puffs stretched and bloomed and grew. Hannie sniffed the air. It smelt of crisp, dry heat but, thank goodness, no smoke.

  But the wind. It was like a monster come to life. The trees all over the property were bending into shapes she’d never seen; clawing sideways as if they were begging with outstretched hands. She knew what winds like this meant. When fierce winds hit, the limbs of trees became flying weapons as they flew into overhead power lines, ripping them from their poles and dragging them to the ground.

  With that came further risk of fires and blackouts, too.

  Southern Australian summers really were unforgiving and cruel.

  There was nothing Hannie could do but wait. She walked Ted to the grassed area at the side of her cottage and waited while Ted sniffed around before doin
g what dogs had to do. He made it quick. He didn’t like this wind either. As she turned to head back inside the house, there was the unmistakable sound of a car turning into the gravel driveway from the main road. When it approached, she recognised it as Dylan’s.

  He pulled up and was walking towards her before she could even think about what had happened the night before. That stupid, reckless kiss. Their second stupid, reckless kiss. One that had kept her awake all night, tossing and turning and thinking about the man she couldn’t have.

  He strode towards her, his face grim.

  “Hello,” she replied, trying not to come over all I-wasn’t-up-all-night-thinking-about-you-no-shut-up-it was-the-wind. Ted leapt forward, tugging in the lead, trying to reach Dylan. Get things back to neighbourly. She scolded herself. Pretend last night never happened. Pretend it ended with a goodbye at his door and a wave goodbye, not a kiss and his hand on her breast and his need pressing into her belly.

  “I’m about to head to the station. Everything okay here?” He strode over, looked her over, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down at this throat.

  She looked down. Oh. She’d walked outside wearing the clothes she’d slept in. Her knickers and a thin singlet top.

  “That wind is bad,” she said, looking up in to the sky. That was safer territory. The weather. The sky. The heat and the risk. Not the kiss. Not the way he’d been looking at her just now.

  “North-north easterlies. You’ve heard the forecast.”

  She nodded. He didn’t have to ask her, he knew that she would be prepared every day in the bushfire season. That was what came with the beauty and serenity of living in the Adelaide Hills. Green and lush in winter, but in summer, it was part of the driest state in the driest continent on earth.

  “Mandy’s staying down in town until the cool change arrives,” Hannie said, hoping to sound businesslike. “At Alice’s.” She looked across the valley. There was no sign of that cool change arriving any time soon.

  “Good to hear. She’ll be safer down in the city until her ankle heals. I wouldn’t want to see her trying to evacuate with that injury.”