‘It’s good to be home.’ Caroline’s answer was honest, and she smiled for the first time. ‘I didn’t realise how much I missed the normalcy of this place, of Sydney, of catching up with old friends. It’s very different from Paris, socially, and I have been concerned as to how Fern would adjust, but she seems to love it here. She gets along well with Joel and Michaela, and with Mum, who adores her. They’ve become such good friends in a short space of time.’
‘I know. I think she enjoys having a family around. She’s not had that experience before.’
Caroline’s blue eyes hardened, her shoulders stiffened. ‘Yes. Well, we know the reason for that, don’t we?’
‘Touché.’ Damn. Casting aspersions on the past. They had once been a family, happy, contented with things until … Him and his big mouth! Would he never learn? Even so and in spite of the setback, he could relate to how Fern felt. Like her, he had experienced a similar upbringing, spending much of his early childhood alone.
Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn had been fraught with hard knocks, literally, with no extended family to protect him as other street kids had had. Estranged by circumstances from his father until he was a young adult, when he had been in his teens his mother had married, and it wasn’t until the two half-sisters from that marriage — Donna and Paula — had come along that Nick had felt part of a family. Walt Bacharach had been a good stepfather. He had made sure Nick got a college education, and steered him in the right direction career-wise until Nick and Jack had been reunited and gone into their first partnership: a small Lake Tahoe hotel. Later, when Michaela and Joel had been born, though he’d seen them infrequently, the feeling of being part of a family had expanded. He was very glad that Fern was forging family links at a younger age than he had.
When he occasionally drifted into a reflective mood, he wondered if the experiences of his early years were partly to blame for the way he had acted with Caro. A psychologist — if he’d ever been to one — might say yes. He had wanted to keep her close to him so desperately, had been afraid to share her because he’d thought he might lose her and so, by his suffocating possessiveness, he had done precisely that.
Nick struggled to find neutral ground. ‘Fern tells me you’re going to work at Ashworths.’
‘I started last week. At the moment it’s all double Dutch to me, but Daniel seems to think I’ll get the hang of it.’ Her expression was tentative. ‘I didn’t realise how much was involved in understanding the retail trade. Michaela makes me feel like a rank amateur. Enjoys showing her big sister up, I think.’
Nick chuckled at that. ‘Michaela would. Since Joel’s shown no interest in the company, she believes that Ashworths is her own personal preserve. Is she giving you a hard time?’
‘A little, but …’ She went to say more, but stopped herself. One thing she hated was a whinger. ‘I’ll survive.’ She also decided not to mention that the Sydney Conservatorium of Music had offered her a position to head up a special concerts section. She was keeping that offer in reserve as a future possibility if she flunked out at Ashworths.
‘You’ll do more than survive, Caro, and I applaud your decision to tackle something different from music. The change will do you good even if, eventually, you do return to the arts in some capacity.’
From bitter experience he knew she could be very single-minded and that once she’d made her mind up to do something, she did it extremely well. Such as the time she had fractured her ankle while competing in a martial arts competition, Tai Kwon Do. Unable to move around too much, she had taught herself the basics of decoupage and, in a short time, become quite proficient at it. Her appointment to Ashworths confirmed something else. She was going to stay in Sydney. Heartened by that, he changed the subject.
‘Fern and I are going sailing. The weather report promises light sou’easterly breezes, so we should be in for a good day.’ He didn’t mention that he’d named his twelve-metre yacht Caro One, after her — she’d be uncomfortable with that. ‘Later on we’ll head up to Palm Beach.’
‘I’m sure Fern will like that.’
‘I’m the one having a great time. Seeing Fern every weekend, we’re becoming very close.’
‘I know. Fern’s enjoying that, too.’
‘Maybe you’d like to come sailing with us one weekend?’ Damn! He hadn’t intended to ask her that yet, he’d planned to let her become more used to seeing him with Fern, but he was so eager to knock a chink in the wall she’d built around herself that the question just popped out.
‘Mum, what a great idea,’ Fern piped up enthusiastically from the doorway. ‘Hi, Dad.’
‘I don’t know.’ Caroline’s reply was slow. Discomforted by the idea, she fastened her gaze on a point about ten centimetres above Nick’s head. She tried to bluff her way out of his casual invitation. ‘I don’t think I’d make a very good sailor.’
‘You never know till you try. That’s what you always tell me when I don’t want to try something new,’ Fern retaliated, grinning.
‘I usually take a crew of four, including Fern and myself. You wouldn’t have to raise the sails, man the jib or do anything strenuous.’
Caroline gave him a droll look. ‘You don’t think I’m capable of doing anything strenuous?’
‘Careful how you answer that, Dad. Mum’s gone back to learning Tai Kwon Do,’ Fern advised with a chuckle.
Without betraying a flicker of emotion, Nick answered, ‘I believe you can do anything you want to do, Caro.’
‘Yes, please, Mum. Do come.’
Caroline felt her heartstrings being tugged in two different directions. On the one hand she didn’t want to disappoint her daughter, who clearly would like her to come along, but doing so meant she had to spend an entire day with Nick. She didn’t want to think about that. Ultimately, she compromised. ‘Maybe another time.’
‘Promise?’ Fern entreated, giving her a hug to encourage a yes.
She looked at Nick for a moment, sensed the intensity within him and, oddly, though later she couldn’t understand why, capitulated. ‘Of course, love.’
After Nick and Fern had left, Caroline stood quietly, not moving a muscle, by the window in the music room, her mood reflective. She was now aware of one disadvantage in being home: having to have more contact with Nick Beaumont than she wanted to. In Paris there had been a healthy distance to help her put her feelings in perspective and get over her love for him. Now he was around, every weekend, constantly reminding her of the past and the love they’d once shared and how it had soured. All things she wanted to forget.
Find someone else, a voice whispered to her. There are plenty of attractive, available men in Sydney. There had been the very occasional affair in Paris, nothing serious, intentionally light-hearted. She hadn’t wanted to become involved, had purposely shied away from commitment. And she didn’t now. At forty-four her life was, after the decision to stop playing had been made, on an even keel. She liked that. Love and entanglements complicated life and, with what she had on her plate, unofficially watching over Laura, caring for Fern and tackling a new career at Ashworths, there was enough to contend with — without romance.
Still … a smile played curiously about her lips as she made her way to the kitchen. There was Warren Tremayne, who’d come up from the Melbourne store. He was an attractive man, and while she hadn’t been looking for it, she had recognised a glint of interest in his eyes when they’d been introduced. Maybe …
The Royal Arms pub at Woolloomooloo, close to the wharves, was one of the few which hadn’t been tarted up to appeal to Sydney yuppies, or turned into a boutique hotel to capture some of the tourist market. The odour of stale beer, sweat and cigarette smoke hovered permanently inside the dimly lit bar despite the fans being turned on from opening time till midnight. The decor dated back to the early sixties: laminex-topped tables, chrome and padded vinyl chairs, a linoleum floor, and tangerine walls that cigarette smoke had dulled to a leathery brown. It was the kind of pub patrons went
to for a cold beer — and anonymity. Unsavoury deals were done here, and no-one cared. Fights broke out periodically, bets were placed, winners congratulated and the losers quickly forgotten.
Lenny Kovacs loved the place. He was more comfortable there than he was in his home, a beachfront mansion at Tamarama with neighbours who believed him to be a legit businessman. He’d practically been brought up on the smell of beer slops, cheap perfume and various body odours — not at this particular pub but in Enmore where, for several years, his old man had been a barman. Short and stocky, with unremarkable features and thinning mousy brown hair, Lenny worked at not standing out in a crowd. ‘Mr Anonymous’, the criminal element in the city had dubbed him. Such a trait in his youth had helped to make him a successful pickpocket at the races, the Royal Easter Show, footie finals and any place where crowds and a little jostling were to be expected.
He’d branched out into burglary, assault with and without weapons, and car theft, and had assembled a group of associates to carry out his well-planned endeavours. Lenny soon grew a reputation for being cunning, tough, and ready to become involved in any job that netted a quick profit. The one area he steered clear of was drugs, because he’d seen first-hand the damage they could do and was secretly scared that he might somehow get hooked on the stuff while dealing it. The law had only managed to put him away once. Five years in Grafton had convinced him that he had to work smart all the time, because he had no intention of doing hard time again.
Liking to have several deals bubbling along at once, Lenny had cottoned onto a sweet deal which included some healthy coercion on the wharves and inside information from a certain individual in the retail trade. To that end, Lenny downed the remains of his beer and went to the phone. It was located in a booth which resembled the red ones once prevalent in the suburbs. The door, with its glass panels, afforded him the privacy he needed.
‘Mate!’
A moment’s silence. ‘I told you not to call me here.’
‘I can never catch you at home, mate. I’ve rung six times tonight. What do you do, live at your place of work?’
A sigh. ‘Sometimes it seems that I do.’
‘That last deal netted us a handsome profit. You want me to send you your share the usual way?’
The man on the other end of the line nervously cleared his throat. ‘I guess so, but this time make sure the “courier” looks like a bloody courier. The last bloke looked like he’d escaped from some bikie gang.’
Lenny made a face which was reflected in the glass panel. ‘Okay. Point taken. Donger does look a bit on the rough side. So,’ his voice softened with anticipation, ‘what have you got for me, mate?’
He grinned to himself as he said the word ‘mate’. A long time ago he’d had to explain to Donger why he always called his little friend ‘mate’ instead of using his real name. It was a leftover from when they’d been kids growing up together. Lenny’s rough and tough father had actually coined the expression for the smaller, towheaded boy who’d tagged along behind him when their dads had been delivering kegs to hotels, and the nickname had stuck. He had to think hard to remember what his mate’s real name was, so most of the time he didn’t bother. Mate was good enough.
‘Lenny, I think we’d better cool it. Things are a bit hot here at present. The bosses are on to what’s going on. There’s a big investigation, paperwork’s being checked, people who have access to import schedules are being watched. We’d best sit tight for a while.’
‘What?’ Lenny frowned. He didn’t like hearing the hesitation in the man’s voice. Was the little shit getting cold feet on the sweet deal they had? No bloody way! He’d invested time and money and he had employees to keep busy, like any regular business. ‘Mate, are you trying to,’ he imitated a chicken-like sound into the phone’s receiver, ‘on me?’
Pause. ‘No. I like the money as much as you do. It’s just … I think we should let things cool down for a while, until the bosses think it was a one-off. They’re considering calling in the police, Lenny.’
‘But you’re all right, mate. You’ve covered your tracks, haven’t you?’
‘Of course.’ His sigh came through the receiver loud and clear. ‘It’s just that … I don’t have your nerve, Lenny. You never cracked under pressure. I remember that from the old days.’
Lenny’s senses went on the alert. Yellow-bellied, gutless jerk-off. He always had been. ‘Don’t go saying that, mate. You being nervous makes me nervous, and you know how I am when I get nervous.’
The man understood the implicit threat in Lenny’s tone. He said quickly, ‘No, no, Lenny, I’m solid as a rock. All I’m saying is that we should take a break for a month or two, let the scene settle.’ Then as a sweetener, ‘There’ll be some good product coming in then. More leather gear from Europe. Exclusive lingerie from Paris, perfume from Japan and the Middle East.
A shipment of Swiss watches. It would be prudent and eventually more profitable for us to bide our time.’
Lenny relaxed. ‘I’m beginning to see your point. Okay. We’ll play it that way.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, I read in the Herald about that scuffle in the company’s basement. Nasty. She’s quite a looker, that Michaela chick. Lucky, too.’
‘Y-you … didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?’
Lenny drew himself up to his full height of one hundred and sixty centimetres. ‘Mate, you know that’s not my style, unless I want to make a statement.’ He let that sink in before he added, ‘Probably some no-account druggie looking for easy money.’
Recalling the newspaper’s photo of the Beaumont woman, Lenny felt himself getting horny. He knew what he’d like to do to her. Through one of the glass panels he spied three pros who’d come in to the bar to check out the action. He slid his hand into his pocket and rubbed himself. Christ, he’d give the blonde one, the best of the bunch, some action all right. As soon as he got rid of this prick.
‘Okay, mate. We’ll sit tight for a while, but I’ll keep in touch.’ He grinned mirthlessly as he hung up. His informant at Ashworths was the type that had to be kept intimidated; otherwise, who knew what he might do?
Smiling broadly at the blonde, who’d caught his eye and his intention, he swaggered confidently towards her.
Chapter Six
Joel sat on the side of his rumpled bed, knees apart and head in his hands, waiting, praying for the throbbing in his head to subside before his curdling stomach chucked its contents. He couldn’t recall how he’d got home last night. Neither could he remember much of anything after his six-hour drinking binge. He used the tail of his T-shirt to wipe a layer of sweat off his forehead and under his nose, the material snagging in his day-old growth of beard.
Suddenly he heaved himself off the bed and stumbled to the ensuite, just making it to the toilet bowl in time. Afterwards, feeling marginally better, he showered, shaved and put on some clothes, not caring how they looked as long as they were clean.
Fastidiously neat, despite the staccato pounding of his temples, he made the bed and tidied his studio-style apartment, which was located on the first floor, with its mini kitchenette, study area and adjoining ensuite. He found suitable medication in the mirrored cabinet and took two pills for the killer headache.
Sitting on the made-up bed, Joel assumed his earlier position. He had to stop doing this to himself …
Every time he got bad news, did poorly in an exam, had ‘words’ or was lectured to by the dean of the faculty on his struggle to achieve acceptable grades, he reacted by going on a binge to block out the knowledge of his shortcomings. Drinking himself into oblivion helped — for a while — but as soon as the hangover lifted a bout of depression would hit him and again, like an unwelcome friend who refused to go away, would come the temptation to find another drink, and another.
Joel knew he had a problem, that he should seek professional help, but he continually procrastinated, and told himself that he could get on top of things. He’d known he had a problem since hi
s first binge at the age of thirteen, two years after his father’s death. Back then he didn’t relate it to the trauma in London — for years he had successfully blocked it from his mind and used alcohol to reinforce the block. But recurring dreams since then, nightmares in which he relived the scene in London, continued to haunt him. His father had given up his life to save his. Christ, how could he forgive himself for that, or forget his father’s sacrifice, even if he’d only been eleven at the time?
For years he had disguised the results — the hangover — from his mother as a variety of viruses or stomach upsets. He believed that she was unaware of the real problem, but not so Michaela and Nick. They’d wised up to his ‘weakness’ a long time ago, but continued to shield Laura from the truth, knowing how upset she’d be if she knew.
Joel picked up the university exam notification sheet showing his third semester results. He’d passed, scraped through by one lousy mark! The dean of the faculty wouldn’t be impressed, again. He ran his tongue around his mouth to moisten his lips. Christ, he wanted a drink, even now when the rest of him felt like shit. He clenched his jaw against the craving, trying to stop it from taking over his mind as well as his body. For several minutes he fought the desire to give in. Straightening, he looked around the room. Activity was what he needed to take his mind off … He stood and walked over to the window.
In the garden Fern and Caroline were playing soccer on the lawn, with Rufus running around and barking incessantly because the ball was too big for him to grab hold of. His dog had really taken to fifty-two’s new inmates. Fern was a great kid, and Caroline had done an exemplary job in raising her and was to be congratulated for it. He watched his older sister kick the ball with gusto. She was quite agile considering her arthritic problem. From the way Fern raced to intercept it, clearly they played the game together often. Another fact he liked was that Caroline tried to spend most of her leisure time with her daughter. They were obviously very close and, whenever Nick didn’t have Fern on weekends, the two of them always did something together when time and Fern’s studies allowed.
52 Waratah Avenue Page 9
