by Unknown
His father shuddered. Privately, Herman called Tilly, his granddaughter—offspring of the domesticated twin—Attila.
“I can rejoin the SAS,” Dan offered. “Mom need never know I was here.”
“Hell, no. I’d give up six farms to keep you home safe.” Herman stopped, cleared his throat, but his voice was gruff when he added, “Your aunt and uncle are still taking it very hard. When I think—”
“Dad.”
For a long moment they stared at each other, then Herman nodded and refilled their glasses. “All right, son,” he said. “All right.”
He’d been wrong; his father could look old. Dan cleared his own throat. “How’s this trial handover going to work?”
“I thought I should hold the reins for another few weeks … just until you settle in. And I promised Rob a holiday as soon as you came back.”
He wasn’t fooled by his father’s nonchalance. Giving up a farm you’d run for forty years wasn’t something to be hurried. Neither was taking one over. “I was hoping you’d hang around. I’ll need a refresher course.”
Though he’d made a point of keeping up with farming innovations, Dan had been off the land for thirteen years. Managing a 550-hectare property that ran over three thousand sheep and four hundred beef cattle wasn’t a walk in the park.
If it had been, he wouldn’t have been interested. “Besides, you’ve got to make sure I’m competent, if Mom’s going to be spending money renting villas in Tuscany.”
Herman gave a resigned grunt. “She’s been making me take Italian lessons,” he grumbled. “Accettate carte di credito? Do you accept credit cards?”
Dan laughed.
“It’s not funny, son. Back me up on a handover period or she’ll have me on a plane before you can say arrivederci.”
“Relax, you’ve got at least twenty-four days. Mom won’t go overseas before my wedding.”
“What?” His father nearly dropped his whiskey. “You’re getting married? Danny, you making fun?”
Pulling an invitation out of his pack, Dan slid it across the table. “Herman, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” He knocked back his drink in one burning gulp.
EVERY MORNING FOR THE past year when Jo woke up she sang the same silly tune under her breath. “I’m A-live, A-wake, A-lert, Enthussss-iass-tic.”
The friend’s preschooler who’d taught her the song performed it with matching actions. “I’m a-live—” tap head “—a-wake—” tap eyes “—a-lert—” tap shoulders “—enthusss-iass-tic!” big star jump.
On a bad day Jo forced herself to do the actions; lately she’d simply sung it under her breath. Today, her thirty-third birthday, she ditched the song altogether .&#‘€†and set her watch for an extra five minutes in bed.
It wasn’t a bed that invited a lie-in, being narrow and single with a fluorescent lime-green duvet cover that didn’t just draw the eye but imploded it. Ten months ago when Jo first moved back to the house she’d grown up in, she’d brought her own double bed and dumped her laminated school certificates and surf lifesaving medals in the bedside drawer. Her grandmother had gotten agitated so Jo returned everything to the way it was. Fortunately Nan hadn’t noticed the New Kids on the Block poster still missing from the wardrobe door.
A shaft of sun striped the edge of her pillow; she laid her hand on it. In late autumn it had little heat but it didn’t matter. For the first time in months she saw light at the end of the tunnel, saw solutions and possibilities. She saw her old self. On a surge of optimism Jo stretched her arms over her head, relishing the pull of joints and muscle. I’m back, she thought.
Her watch beeped. Flinging off the blankets she got up and padded across the hall to the old-fashioned bathroom. With a longing look at the claw-foot bath, she settled for a quick shower in the tiny stall installed after Nan had flooded the bathroom for the second time.
She was towel-drying her hair when the handle rattled on the door. Jo just had time to reposition the towel before her eighty-five-year old grandmother bowled in, dressed in a red quilted dressing gown, her best pearls and a gardening hat.
“Good morning, Nan! Remember we knock first?” My fault for forgetting to lock the door.
“I used to change your diapers. Now, what did I come in here for?” Rosemary tapped her frowning forehead with soft, wrinkled fingers.
“To wish me happy birthday, but I’ll be out in a minute.” Gently she turned her grandmother toward the door.
“Oh, yes, I’m making boiled eggs for your breakfast.”
Uh-oh. “I’ll be right down.” Jo scrambled into the suit she’d laid out for her meeting today—tailored gray trousers and jacket, teamed with a feminine ruffle-front shirt in pale apricot chiffon and matching shoes, higher than she normally wore. Hastily finger-combing her short auburn curls she hurried downstairs to the kitchen, which, at the back of the house, overlooked an autumn-shabby vegetable garden and orchard.
Nan was spooning coffee into the teapot. “Sit down, darling, everything’s under control.”
“Excellent.” Turning off the glowing stove element, Jo kissed Rosemary’s wrinkled cheek. “But I need a teaspoon for my boiled egg.” When her grandmother turned to find one, she rinsed the coffee out of the teapot, dropped in a couple of teabags and added the boiling water.
Nan paused in the midst of opening drawers. “What am I looking for, again?”
“A teaspoon.”
“Oh, yes, here you are.” Nan shooed her toward the table. “Now go eat before it gets cold.”
The egg sat in a rooster eggcup on a fine bone-china plate beside a loaf of bread still in the bag. Tentatively, Jo fractured the shell. Transparent egg white seeped through the crack. “Nan, I forgot the milk.”
En route to the table, Rosemary turned back to the fridge. Quickly Jo opened the cracked shell, dumped the raw egrin‘€†g into a paper napkin and folded it over, then replaced the shell in the eggcup.
Head in the depths of the fridge, Rosemary called. “What am I looking for?”
“The milk.”
Retrieving the carton, her grandmother joined her. “Goodness, you were hungry.”
Jo poured the tea. “So, what’s in your diary today?”
Nan pulled it from the pocket of her dressing gown. “Now,” she patted her gardening hat, “where are my glasses?”
“I’ll find them.” Jo searched the most likely places first.
“They’re hardly going to be in the oven, dear,” said Rosemary, amused.
“Of course not. I don’t know where my head’s at this morning.” Jo found them in the breadbox.
Nan put them on, looping the silver chain around her neck, and peered at the diary that reminded her where she was in place and time. “Alec and Elaine for morning tea. And Polly’s coming … you know, Jocelyn, I really think you should speak to that girl, she does so little housework.”
“Well, she’s more of a companion than a cleaning lady.”
But Rosemary wasn’t paying attention. Head tilted, she listened to something Jo couldn’t hear with an intent expression. “I think you’ll have to wake your grandfather.”
Reaching across the table, Jo took her grandmother’s hand. “Pops passed away years ago.”
“What?” Breaking Jo’s hold, Rosemary pulled her dressing gown closer. “He had a stroke at work…. Yes, I remember now….” Behind the glasses, her eyes were suddenly sharp. “I’m in the kitchen,” she said deliberately, “eating breakfast with my granddaughter.” Her gaze fixed on the calendar, the date decorated with bright stars. “It’s May 2, Jocelyn’s birthday … darling, why didn’t you remind me? Today she’s …”
“Thirty-three,” Jo prompted.
“So old!” Rosemary exclaimed. “What does that make me …? No, don’t tell me. Some things are better forgotten.” She picked up her diary and read it, lips moving silently. Early in her illness Nan had written in it religiously. Now it was usually Polly or Jo who filled in the details. “
Oh, good. I bought you a birthday present.” Relief smoothed the angular planes of her face and softened the blue-gray eyes Jo had inherited. “It’s in the dresser drawer.”
Jo fetched the small box and opened it. A pair of diamond earrings.
“Oh, Nan, they’re beautiful.”
Her grandmother removed her glasses, letting them fall on the chain. “Polly helped me choose them. You know, Jocelyn, I really think you should speak to that girl, she does so little housework.”
The “girl” came into the kitchen at that moment, a large, round woman in her fifties, with the no-nonsense briskness of her former profession as a charge nurse. Pocketing her key, she looked at the teapot. “Tea hot? I’m gasping.”
Nan sent Jo a pointed glance, which Polly caught. “Uh-oh. I’m a servant p c‘€†today, am I?” she said cheerfully. Taking off her coat, she hung it with her bag on a peg by the back door. “You might want to get dressed, Rosemary. We’ve got visitors this morning.”
“Visitors?” Nan put on her glasses and checked her diary. “Alec and Elaine for morning tea. Jocelyn, why didn’t you remind me?” She left the kitchen abruptly.
“Well, birthday girl,” said Polly, pouring herself some tea. “How are you celebrating?”
“Birthdays are overrated.” Jo took her plate to the dishwasher.
“As I thought. Well, I’m taking Nan home with me as your birthday present, so plan on going out tonight and having some fun.”
“No, Polly, you already do enough. Besides, I should spend it with Nan.”
“Rosemary won’t remember and you need a break. When did you last have time to yourself?” Mug in one hand, Polly helped clear the table with the other. “All your waking hours are spent either running the Chronicle or looking after your grandmother.”
“My two great loves.” Knowing where this was heading, Jo disappeared into the laundry, where she transferred an overnight load from the washing machine into the dryer.
Polly followed her. “Honey, this isn’t what she wanted for you.”
“We’re not discussing this on my birthday. Anyway, haven’t you noticed? I’m bouncing with energy these days.”
“Uh-huh,” Polly said skeptically. “Living on adrenaline overload more like.” The older woman went and got Jo’s briefcase. “Go out tonight,” she ordered her. “I don’t want to see a light on this hill until past eleven, you hear me? And don’t think I won’t be watching.”
Flashlight, then. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll check in later.” Jo went out to the mailbox. Bills mostly. Which reminded her that she’d forgotten the earrings. She’d return them on the way to work. She had the same arrangement with all the stores. Nan could buy anything she wanted; Jo would return it and the retailer got a discount on their Chronicle advertising.
Walking back into the house, she turned over a square silver envelope and smiled as she recognized Dan’s scrawl. He never forgot to send a birthday card, which depending on where he was stationed, would sometimes arrive weeks late. Checking the postmark she blinked. Auckland. Yesterday. He was already in the country? She ripped it open, looked at the cover and laughed out loud.
“What’s funny?” Polly poked her head out from the laundry.
“Private joke. See you tomorrow.” Jo picked up the jeweler’s box from the kitchen table and left the house remembering her conversation with him last month when he’d phoned from Kabul.
“You’re coming up for thirty-three, Swannie. We still on for that wedding?”
His troop mates’ deaths had hit him hard; it was such a relief to hear him joking again.
“Relax, you’re off the hook. To quote Katharine Hepburn, ‘Why give up the admiration of many men for the criticism of one?'”
“What about all those kiQ">‘€†ds you wanted?”
“The Chronicle’s the only baby I need.”
Dan snorted in disbelief. After all, she’d talked about having kids forever. “So I thought I’d use the beer mat we signed our pledge on as the wedding invitation.”
“Really? You’ve still got that?” Jo played along. “Well, I don’t want to be sued for breach of promise so I guess I’ll have to marry you. But let’s make the invitations tasteful. I’m thinking a picture of a bride hauling her groom to the altar by the hair … maybe a camouflage background as a nod to your military background.”
“And the text?”
“Hey, this is a partnership,” she joked. “It’s your turn to come up with ideas.”
“Okay, mate, you leave it all to me.”
She looked at the wedding invitation now and laughed again because he’d replicated every detail. Opening it, Jo skimmed over Dan’s name to the bride’s. As expected. Hers.
The day was shaping up to be fun.
Back in the Soldier’s Arms/Here Comes the Groom
CR!93BHZ3MAHS4NVAVVWQG1QCZMZ0ZB
CHAPTER THREE
It started raining as Jo drove her VW Polo down the rolling hills that protected Beacon Bay—squally autumn rain with sun laced through it. The harbor town sprawled around a sideways bite out of the land—estuary on one side of the peninsula, sea on the other. When Jo’s grandfather had settled here, he’d been the first in the valley.
Now it was a mass of roofs and aerials, the houses increasing in size and grandeur the closer they got to the water. Oceanside, the sea was a sullen gray—no swell today for the surfers to skip work or school for. A couple of fishing trawlers dotted the horizon.
Checking her cell, Jo saw she had seven messages already. Well, that was to be expected. The Chronicle hit letterboxes on Friday. Which meant Monday was complaints day. She started returning calls on her handsfree speakerphone.
“No, Bob, I don’t think I quoted you out of context. Before you were elected you said you’d fight to prevent developers making Beacon Bay a weekend playground for Aucklanders. Now you’re saying the only way to beat the recession is to make it easier for developers.” Jo maneuvered the car into a tight parking space outside the jewelers. “Well, that’s an interesting suggestion but I don’t think my body contorts that way.”
She returned the jewelry, dialing the next number as soon as she was back in the car. “You approved the ad, John. If you don’t like the font now it’s printed, you still have to pay for it.
“Clive, I’m sorry you’re disap
When her grandfather’s death put her at the helm of his business at the age of twenty-three she’d evolved strategies to cope. Always act like you know what you’re doing. Be decisive. Never apologize; never explain. At the time she couldn’t afford to show weakness, not when so many jobs depended on her.
She still couldn’t afford it.
“I hope the Chronicle will be in a position to increase sponsorship in another couple of months,” she said brusquely. Unfortunately challenges in her personal life had coincided with the economic downturn. The paper’s revenue had suffered. But four months ago, Polly had increased her hours, freeing Jo to rebuild her neglected business. Each month’s figures were improving.
Kevin was the only person in the office when she arrived at seven-thirty. They’d started at the Chronicle the same year, Jo twenty and fresh from a degree in journalism; and Kevin, forty-five, a disillusioned English teacher from the city looking for a lifestyle change.
Thirteen years later, the paper’s chief sub still looked like a scholar with his rounded shoulders, an intellectual’s deep groove between his bushy eyebrows and a total indifference to fashion. With the weather cooling, he wore socks under his Birkenstocks.
He was doing the crossword and looked up over his reading glasses. “You kept this mighty quiet,” he said and tossed the wedding invitation across his desk.
“I’ll kill him,” Jo replied without heat. Of course Dan would make the most of this. “It’s a joke, Kev. Isn’t that obvious from the picture and the camouflage background?”
“I did wonder,” he confessed, “but you two have a warped sense of humor. And the text is played straight.” Jo
flipped the wedding invite open and read it through for the first time.
“That boy has no imagination,” she complained. “You’d think he could have added a few jokes … Anyway, enough distraction. I need to prepare for this meeting with CommLink.”
Kev wrote temsik in one of the crossword squares before looking up anxiously. “And you’re definitely saying no? Even if they make you a brilliant offer?”
“Even if they make me a brilliant offer.” She rearranged the upside-down letters in her head. Kismet. “I’ll say they caught me in a weak moment, but on reflection I couldn’t possibly sell the Chronicle.” She’d expected relief but Kev was still frowning at her. “What?”
“That wasn’t a weak moment—it was a rip in the fabric of society. You, the people’s champion, selling out to a soulless corporate conglomerate that only cares about maximizing profit? It’s like Michael Moore joining the gun lobby. Okay, you had that shoulder injury and Rosemary’s illness grinding you down but—”
“Kev,” she interrupted him. “Can you please move on?”
When CommLink came a-wooing she’d been under intense emotional pressure and desperate for a rcou¡€†elief valve. Unable to do more than pay lip service to her business, it had seemed sensible to investigate options, particularly with the economy playing havoc with sales.
“I don’t think you should tell them you had a weak moment, either,” he added. “Maybe I should come with you.”
“No.” Jo stared him down. “I’ve got systems in place to manage Nan’s dementia and my shoulder’s fully recovered. I promise, no more weak moments.”
There was a piercing shriek from the door and Delwyn rushed over, waving the wedding invitation she held in her manicured hand, her acrylic nails flashing. Jo’s heart sank. Exactly how many invitations had Dan sent out?
