by P. L. Harris
Melody reached to take Heather’s hand. “I’m glad you feel safe. I want to look after you...”
A knock sounded at the door, and the nurse entered. “Sorry to disturb you guys. Just need to do some obs on Heather. Technically, visiting hours are over, but if you’re just sitting here quietly I won’t kick you out.”
Melody released Heather’s hand and stood, moving out of the way so the nurse could check Heather’s vital signs. When the nurse had left, Melody stretched.
“Time for me to get out of here and let you get some rest. I’ll call in the morning, find out what time you’ll be ready to be picked up.” She leaned forward, intending to offer Heather a brief, polite embrace as she left. As she leaned in, Heather’s hands came up to rest on her waist. The chaste peck she had intended for Heather’s cheek somehow landed wrong, and time stopped as their lips met.
Heather’s lips were warm and soft, moving gently under Melody’s. Heather’s hands tightened on her waist, her thumbs gently stroking. After an eternal moment, Melody pulled back, her heart racing, to look deep into Heather’s eyes. She saw her own confusion and excitement mirrored there. She hesitated, not knowing what to say. Should she apologise? She hadn’t really meant it to happen. Or had she? They looked into each other’s eyes for a long wordless moment of perfect communication.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Melody whispered at last. She pressed a lightning-fast kiss on Heather’s lips, then released her and stooped to pick up her bag. She paused at the door for one long last look, then headed out into the hospital corridor, her steps light and her heart singing.
“GOOD MORNING. CAN YOU put me through to Heather Lindsay, please? Ward four, bed two.” Melody had waited until 9.30 to call the hospital, giving them time for the specialist to examine Heather and decide on treatment. She’d woken early and gone for a walk on the beach with her camera, catching a spectacular sunrise over the dunes.
Her mind had been full of Heather, reliving moments from the previous night, daydreaming about even sweeter moments in the future. She’d made plans to show Heather her favourite haunts around Gannet Bay, to visit Heather in Perth.
“Hello?” The voice was not Heather. It was older, and disapproving.
“Oh, hi, I was looking for Heather. It’s Melody. I was going to pick her up this morning. Is she there?”
“Heather is in the shower. This is her mother. She won’t be needing a taxi. I will be taking her home.”
“I’m not a taxi, just a friend. How is she? Can...”
There was a click, and the call cut off. Dumbfounded, Melody stared at the screen. Her mind raced, her pleasant fantasies crumbling to dust. Maybe Heather would call her back once she got out of the shower. Mounting disappointment brought tears to her eyes—hey’d never even exchanged phone numbers, what with Heather’s phone being smashed.
The phone buzzed as she stared at it, and a wild hope filled her, only to be dashed as the phone displayed Terry’s number at the petrol station.
“Hey, Melody. I know you’re not supposed to be working today but Jeff is off sick and I really need someone. Can you come in?”
She considered refusing. She wanted to jump in her car and drive to the hospital at full speed, and beg Heather not to go home with her mother.
“Please, Melody?” Terry sounded desperate.
“Sure, I’ll be there in half an hour.” She could always call the hospital again, hope to get Heather instead of her mother. And Heather would have to come back to Gannet Bay to pick up her car and her things from the B&B.
The B&B! Melody grinned. She knew how to make contact with Heather. She’d have to move fast.
THE PETROL STATION and its associated convenience store and gift shop did a brisk trade all day, with plenty of holiday-makers filling up before driving on to their destination or back to the big smoke. Families stopped for a rest break, kids excited by the unique climbing maze in the playground. Products from local artisans were popular, everything from soap to jewellery, paintings to hand-knitted garments. A few of Melody’s best photographs, carefully framed, went out the door during the day and she made a mental to note to bring some more in.
She tried to keep an eye on the door and the pumps, hoping to spot Heather, but since she had no idea what car her mother drove, or if she would even stop here for petrol, it was a fruitless watch. She kept her best customer-service smile on her face throughout the endless day, constantly wondering how Heather was, if she had made it to the B&B yet, what she would think of the surprise there.
At four in the afternoon the night staff finally arrived, and Melody was able to escape. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck, taking deep breaths. What now? She walked around to the rear carpark, deciding on her plan of action. Call Christina at the B&B and see if Heather had been by yet? Drive over there?
Paper flapped under her windscreen wiper. Hope flared, and she hurried over to snatch the note and read the few words written there. ‘Meet me at The Sweet Spot’, a scrawled H followed by a little heart. Melody’s heart raced, and a laugh bubbled up out of her, her tiredness and stiffness forgotten.
HEATHER SAT AT A TABLE outside The Sweet Spot, crutches leaning against the wall. She stood awkwardly as Melody approached, her eyes glowing with welcome, and opened her arms. Melody stepped into her embrace. Heather’s arms closed around her with an overwhelming rush of completion and homecoming.
They broke apart, and Heather waved towards the inside of the bakery before resuming her seat. A beaming Janine appeared moments later, carrying two serves of lemon meringue pie.
“Here you are,” she announced, setting the plates on the table. “Apparently they’re the best lemon meringue in the world.” She winked at the happy pair and retreated.
Heather picked up her fork and sampled the dessert. She closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure. Looking directly at Melody she said, “I sent Mum home. With amazing desserts and awesome wildlife, I think Gannet Bay is a place I want to stay for a while longer.”
Rose’s Path
Lauren Loos
Rose stood with one foot teetering on the threshold, looking down the bright hallway. It seemed endless. There were dozens of doors, all different—different colours, different sizes, different handles.
Her face was stiff with makeup, her hands jittery. What had she been thinking when she agreed to this?
A too-handsome man, surrounded by a fog of musky cologne, with hair that looked permanently fixed in place, said in a smooth, deep voice, "Which door do you choose, Rose?"
Rose took a deep breath and pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose for perhaps the tenth time; a thin film of sweat had both her glasses and the thick layer of television makeup sliding down her face. The lights, the heat, the nerves were getting to her; her underarms were damp and the prickling heat formed a small moustache on her upper lip.
She couldn't see the cameras, but knew that they were following her. Her gut clenched, thinking of her friends, family, co-workers watching from home and seeing the expanding wet patches in the underarm region of her carefully chosen 1950s style full-skirted dress, and her professionally styled wavy copper hair damp and clinging to the back of her neck. How did she let herself get talked into this? Her cheeks burnt. She knew how.
Walking forward, she took in her first option. Its red double doors were oversized, towering way over her head, framed by gold door jambs, with two large gold rings for door handles.
Despite the disingenuity of the situation, despite the cameras, despite her reservations about this whole thing, the line of doors was quite enchanting; like a magical world waiting to be explored.
"Could this be the one?" the man asked, too loudly given their proximity.
Rose gave a small shake of her head. Too big, too ostentatious.
The next door was matte black, shiny, and modern looking. She didn't even pause at this door.
"Thirty-two-year-old Rose is a self-confessed bookworm and cat lover." His voice was smarmy
and full of condescension.
Rose suppressed a groan. That description made her sound boring and maybe a little like a crazy cat lady. She wasn't either. Or at least, she was a lot more than that. She was also a movie buff, an avid gardener, and an indoor rock climber. She wondered if, when they show her face on the screen, it will read Rose, Crazy Cat Lady?
"Coming from sunny Brisbane, Rose has never been in love. Can Rose turn that around? Will Rose find the path to her true love today?"
That wasn't entirely true. She had been in love. She was in love.
Continuing along the corridor, Rose passed an intimidating steel door, a barnyard door that looked to be made from reclaimed wood, a crisp white door with a shiny silver handle.
She stopped at a Moorish style door—orange with metal embellishments and surrounded by small blue mosaic tiles. It was breathtaking. Rose stopped and contemplated it.
"Could this be the door?" Mr Plastic asked, beside her.
Rose grasped the handle, and paused—waiting for what, she didn't know. Maybe she needed a sign. She did want love. She really wanted it—not just romance or sex, but someone to love who loves her back, someone to share her life with.
"Rose," he began earnestly, though not really directing his words to her, "will you find your true love behind this door?"
Rose had a sudden urge to laugh. She wasn't going to find her true love on this stupid game show. She already knew her true love, and he was entirely uninterested in her. He was the reason she was doing this. Steven had said she would be perfect for the show; he said that maybe she would finally find her person. Up until that moment she had been holding out hope that he would be her person. Their chemistry didn’t feel one-sided, but him encouraging her to find love elsewhere was irrefutable. He wasn't interested in her and he never would be. Her heart hurt, but instead of applying salve, she was on television, looking at doors with a beautiful dimwit.
Rose steeled herself and pushed the orange door.
Just inside the door was a stool; sitting on top was an enormous crystal vase containing a mountain of red rose buds. The sheer size and volume of roses was awe inspiring, and the sweet scent captivating.
Rose shook her head. Definitely not. When she was in high school, a young and awkward boyfriend had given her a bunch of plastic wrapped red roses, and made a lame joke about roses for Rose. Later that same evening, after she refused to sleep with him, the gangly, pimple-faced jerk had told her in a plaintive voice that the roses had been really expensive, as if that should change her mind. Ever since, she had held a slight grudge—however unfair—against roses, especially red ones.
"Red roses don't make this Rose swoon."
Rose stepped back into the hall and shut the orange door.
She continued along the corridor, trailing her hand against the wall, across each door, feeling embellishments, smooth surfaces, rough surfaces, cold surfaces, glass, wood, metal, tiles, round door knobs, simple lever handles, ornate knockers. She looked at each briefly as she passed but didn't pause.
Then Rose came to a small door; deep forest green, arched and reaching to just above her waist.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Rose mumbled to herself, a smile stretching across her lips. Rose reached for the tarnished doorknob, and turned. No hesitation. This was the one.
"Rose, you seem certain about this one."
She didn't wait for him to finish talking; unlike Alice, she stooped, and stepped through the tiny door.
She could hear the smooth voice behind her making some joke about a man with such a tiny door. In Rose's opinion, the man with this door—very unlike Mr Handsome—was not compensating for anything.
Just beyond the threshold, sitting on the floor, was a simple glass vase containing sprays of golden wattle, yellow flowers like tiny pom-poms that looked lighter than air—as though a slight breeze would have them floating away—with silver-green leaves and gumnuts framing the modest posy.
"Rose, you have the option to accept these flowers or choose one last door."
Just looking at the bouquet sent her back to her childhood, to her grandmother's garden, which had been wild and delightful, filled with wattle, kangaroo paws, bottlebrush and one enormous gum tree.
"This is the one."
"What was that?"
"This is the one," she repeated, louder, giving one firm nod of her head.
"For the folks watching from home, tell us, Rose, what do you look for in a man?"
"Ahh, well, I guess he must love cats."
"Of course."
Not helping her Crazy Cat Lady image!
"And spending time in nature," she added quickly.
"Long walks on the beach?"
She just looked at Mr Ken-Doll.
"And I bet you want him to be good looking too, hey Rosie?"
Rose narrowed her eyes at him. What an idiot! She flicked her gaze away from him, trying hard not to roll her eyes, and she gave a stretched smile for the cameras.
"Will it be love at first sight for Rose today?"
Rose wasn't sure she believed in love at first sight. It hadn't been love at first sight with Steven. He was good looking—and sexy, very, very sexy—but that wasn't love. It was a slow burn; smouldering away with snatched moments that were just for them; shared looks during the Monday morning staff meetings and inside jokes and whispered conversations in the lunchroom and his hand brushing her arm and talking for hours about their favourite books and his jade green eyes crinkling at the corners when he tried to suppress a laugh; until a flame caught in her chest every time she thought of him.
But, sure, maybe she would find love at first sight today, on a ridiculous reality television show.
"So, as you know, this selection narrows it down to four candidates, four paths to find true love. One of these candidates chose this door and these flowers for you, Rose. Next you will make a selection between the sweetest of romantic favourites—dessert!"
A white curtain hanging behind the posy of flowers began to roll open, revealing a long wooden table with four identical shiny silver cloches laid out—presumably hiding the desserts. This was suddenly feeling like a completely different reality TV show.
"Rose, which would you like to reveal first?" His overly earnest tone was getting to be a bit much.
Rose stepped forward and reached for the silver handle atop one of the cloches. Pulling it up, she found a white ramekin containing a golden crème brûlée. She shook her head and returned the cloche to its home.
Next, Rose found a chocolate extravaganza. Raspberry brownie, with chocolate ice-cream, choc-malt balls, an assortment of chocolate truffles and a trio of chocolate sauces—dark, milk and white.
Rose shook her head. She loved chocolate, but this was way too much—it kinda looked sickening.
"Chocolate doesn't stir Rose's heart."
Another cloche lifted to reveal a cinnamon donut. It smelled fresh and sweet and delicious.
"Will a simple donut be the key to true love?"
The final dessert was strawberry shortcake. The shortcake looked dense and buttery, the strawberries a luscious red, glistening with the sugary coulis. It looked homemade. When she was small, her mother used to take her to a strawberry farm at the Sunshine Coast and she would pick and eat the berries in the field until she had a stomach ache. They were her favourite. And this particular dessert just so happened to look exactly like the one she used to make with her mum when she was a small child.
Without hesitation, Rose reached for the small silver fork and skewered a strawberry and popped it into her mouth. It was sweet and juicy and delicious—exactly how it should be. She dug the fork into the shortcake, greedily scooping more into her mouth.
"Rose, can we assume that this is your choice?"
Rose looked up from the plate, eyes wide, mouth full, and nodded. She'd practically forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. She covered her mouth with her hand, surreptitiously sliding her tongue across her front teeth and lips. She wou
ld just die of shame if she was on TV with crumbs stuck to her lip gloss and food between her teeth.
Mr Handsome paused, looking bored while he waited for her to swallow what was in her mouth.
"I can now reveal that you have been following the path towards the same candidate all along! That's right—the little green door, the Australian native flowers, the strawberry shortcake, were all picked by the same person! It's such a strong connection the two of you share!” He said this with a flourish. She assumed he would record his voice over narrations at some later time. “Will you follow the path to true love?"
Steven was her true love. This was ridiculous. Why was she doing this to herself? And on national television?
"Rose, you're going to be presented with four options again. But this time there's a catch—three of the options lead to nothing. And you will go home today without having met your true love."
Rose wanted to groan at Mr Ernest's overuse of true love. He seemed more than a bit heavy handed. Did anyone really think that they would find actual love on this hokey show?
"The next choice that you have to make is a trail."
Another white curtain rolled open in front of them. Rose stepped forward. At her feet was a trail of petals leading to another white curtain. A trail of sand, thickly layered, forked outward to another section of curtain. The third trail was made of sweets, sprinkled across the ground like a strange interpretation of Hansel and Gretel. The fourth was blue yarn; it twisted and looped around itself, with the ball resting in front of the white curtain.
"Which path will Rose take to find her true love? Will it be the romantic rose petals for Rose? Or does she prefer walks on the beach with her special someone? Does Rose have an insatiable sweet tooth? Or does she want someone with whom she can share a yarn?"
