by Joan Kilby
“It’s not what I wanted to happen. I’ll do my best to help my people find other employment.” His quiet voice held an edge.
“‘Your people’?” she spat. “You don’t own them. Save your hypocritical explanations and useless platitudes for the factory. Just don’t count on anyone believing a word.”
He propped the surfboard against the car and faced her squarely. “You’re a businesswoman. Surely, you can understand that if you’re not turning a profit you won’t stay in business for long.”
“Not turning a profit? How can that be? Your top-selling product is a super-duper alarm system that not even my father can afford to buy.”
“A rip-off model has come on the market, undercutting me,” he countered sharply. “I don’t want to move production offshore, but it’s that or shut the business down altogether.”
“How can you afford this house if your company is doing so poorly?” she demanded. “I don’t see you suffering.”
“I bought this house five years ago, when times were good and real estate prices were low. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You drive a Mercedes,” she said, grasping for ammunition. She had him on the defensive, so why did she feel she was being backed into a corner?
“I wanted a car with safety features…a family car,” he said, his voice hardening with every word. “Are you finished?”
Damn it, she wanted so badly to hate him. The surfboard caught her eye. Aha, Nero fiddling while Rome burned. “Shouldn’t you have been thinking up ways to save Aussie Electronics, instead of going surfing like some irresponsible teenager?”
He didn’t flinch from her accusing gaze. “Surfing clears my mind. It puts me in a head space where I can see alternatives to problems.”
Intrigued despite herself, she cataloged the information. “Really?” she had to ask. “What is it about surfing that does that for you?”
“I’ve got a theory,” he said slowly, taken aback at her abrupt change of tack, “that the ocean’s horizontal planes promote lateral thinking.”
Was he joking? He looked serious. Yet as she stared at him, he grinned sheepishly, as though he knew that even if his theory made sense to him, it sounded crazy to others.
“But waves are vertical,” she objected.
He slapped the roof of the Mercedes. “This is the surface of the ocean.” Then he slanted his hand at a sixty-degree angle to the roof. “This is the wave.” With his other hand he intersected the wave and the ocean. “This is the surfboard with me on it. At the juncture of the two tangible planes is a third, imaginary, dimension, where anything can happen.”
It didn’t make rational sense, but, God help her, she could see it. Her mind translated his abstract notion into a vision of cascading drifts of blue and white flowers with, here and there, the unexpected blossom of red or purple—
No, it was too late for that. The check fluttered between her fingers in the light breeze.
He glanced at it, seeming to catch her thoughts. “I hope you’ll still do my garden.”
Her fingers tightened, crushing the flimsy bit of paper. With Art out of work, they would need the money. She gazed into Will’s blue eyes and saw intelligence and compassion, qualities as attractive to her as his physical appearance. He was a good man caught in difficult circumstances.
Then she thought of Art, a broken man.
And she just…couldn’t…do it.
“Go to hell.” She stuffed the check in his hand, ran back to her utility truck and tore down the driveway and out of his life, before she could change her mind.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLOODY HELL. She had no right to blame him. No one wanted Aussie Electronics to stay in Australia more than Will Beaumont.
Will watched her ute’s rear lights flash red as she braked briefly at the end of the driveway, before squealing across the bitumen and roaring down the road.
Still cursing, he hauled his surfboard to the back of the house and flung it against the wall, salt crusted and sprinkled with sand. After peeling off his wet suit, he dropped it beside the board, little caring he was committing the unpardonable sin of leaving board and suit unrinsed.
Nor did he bother rinsing himself off after discarding his damp bathing suit; he just pulled on a pair of gray shorts and a dark-purple short-sleeved shirt, grabbed Maeve’s quotation off the hall table and strode back out to the Merc.
He wanted his garden fixed up, damn it. She’d signed a contract. She couldn’t just quit because she thought he was some evil capitalist who destroyed people’s lives for fun and profit.
Glancing at the address on the letterhead, he brought the car’s powerful engine to life and sped out of the driveway, steering with one hand and doing up buttons with the other.
He caught up with her in the town of Rosebud, where traffic slowed for stoplights and beachgoers streamed across the road from the waterfront park to the takeaways and ice cream parlors on the other side. Waiting at the red light, he had a moment to wonder whether stress might be forcing him into uncharacteristically irrational behavior. He was chasing his gardener up the peninsula, for goodness’ sake.
Whether, however, his actions were foolish or merely futile, a big part of him, he realized, wanted to confront not Maeve but her father. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Art alone after he’d broken the news to the employees, and he hated to think Art saw him as the bad guy.
So if he wasn’t the bad guy, who was? Some banker who wouldn’t be happy until he made three-thousand-percent profit? The government for relaxing import tariffs? Or did fault lie with people who bought cheap imported goods? Supporting local industry had become a luxury not everyone could afford.
He pulled up behind Maeve, but she didn’t notice him. Or refused to notice. He considered beeping the horn but decided against it. He didn’t want to appear aggressive; he just wanted to talk to her. As the light changed to green, she spotted him in her rearview mirror.
Maybe she would pull off into the small parking lot that ran parallel to the road. Then again, he mused as she sped off, maybe not.
He followed her all the way home. She didn’t look in the mirror again until she turned off the highway into the village of Mount Eliza. He smiled. She was woman enough to want to know if he was still following. Maybe to want him to keep following. Yeah, right. Just like she wanted to go out with him.
Through the leafy streets, down a winding, dead-end road he trailed her, before pulling up at last in front of a sage-green weatherboard cottage with painted wooden filigree lining the veranda roof. Wandin Cottage, proclaimed a sign above the door. The garden was a mass of flowers, shaded by huge golden-limbed gums with sun-dappled leaves.
Maeve parked and went inside, shutting the door firmly behind her without a glance his way.
A minute later Will was tapping the brass door knocker. Five minutes passed. Now she was just being rude.
Art opened the door. His hair was smoothly combed and his white T-shirt was tucked neatly into work pants.
Will suddenly felt like a sixteen-year-old facing his father. Despite their employee-employer relationship, Will had sensed that Art had always taken a paternal interest in him; even, Will sometimes thought, a fatherly pride.
Today Art was a troubled man, angry with his favorite son.
Will pushed a hand through his hair and did up his top button. “G’day, Art. How’re you going?”
Art nodded, his seamed face wary, but appeared prepared to be friendly. “What can I do for you?”
“I came to see Maeve. You may not have known, but she gave me a quote on some landscaping the other day, and I wanted to talk to her about it.”
“Maeve said she’d canceled on you.” Art looked more troubled than ever. “I want to apologize for her, Will. I told her that my job and hers were two separate things and that she should honor her contract. But she wouldn’t have it.”
Hell, Will said silently. Art wasn’t angry at him; he was upset because his daughter hadn�
��t done the right thing. Or maybe he was angry, too, but felt conflicted out of loyalty and a belief in fair play. Will never should have come here, invading their space, imposing on Art’s good nature. However, he would look frivolous if he left now. “May I talk to her?”
“Don’t know that it’ll do any good, but go ahead and try.” Art stepped back and allowed Will inside. “She’s in the backyard. Come through.”
The dim hallway was cool, papered with pale floral print and hung with botanical drawings of flowering herbs. In the kitchen, newspapers were spread out on the table. The employment section. Ouch. With a glance at Art, Will pushed through the screen door.
Maeve was reaching high on a bush to snip a long stalk bearing a lush white flower almost as big as her head. Peonies. His grandmother had grown them.
“Hi,” he said.
She ignored him and laid the blossom in the basket at her feet.
What flowers grew in Maeve’s garden? They were too many and various for him to identify even half of them. From brightly colored to delicately pale, they grew at every level from ground to tree. They twined along the fence, overflowed from tubs, hung in pots from the veranda. Beside a swinging garden bench of carved wood was a raised herb garden planted in a hexagram. On the other side of the yard, next to the garage, was a miniature nursery with rows of potted seedlings and baby shrubs. Behind a low hedge in what still must be her property was a greenhouse.
“This is really nice,” he said, truly impressed. The whole place was cool, fragrant and inviting. Except for her.
Aggressively, she thrust the hand holding her clippers forward; her other hand was planted on her hip. “What do you want?”
“A fair trial, for starters.”
“You chased me all the way up the peninsula just to persuade me that deep down you’re really a great guy? That none of it’s your fault. You’re ruled by global markets, free trade, forces beyond your control? Listen, mate, I’ve heard it all before and I’m sick of it. If you believe in something, you make a stand.”
“It’s not that simple,” he began. “You see—”
“Save it,” she said with indifference, then turned back to the peony bush and lopped off a dead head. “Anyway, what do you care what I think?”
Good question. And one he wasn’t prepared to answer right now.
“I just want you to do my garden.” He brandished her signed, typewritten quote. “We made a deal.”
That instant he remembered that he’d made a deal, too—with her father. A contract signed before Christmas, which had more than ten months to run. She met his gaze with a level, sardonic stare.
“So sue me.” She bent to pick up her basket.
“I’ll pay you double.” He saw her hesitate, and triumph surged through him. Until he remembered it was because of him that she and her father would be hungry for money.
Holding her basket in front of her with both hands on the curving handle, she eyed him with disdain. “You can’t keep your company in the red. How could you afford to pay me double?”
“That’s not your concern.” From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Art’s face at the kitchen window. Then Maeve’s father ducked away.
“You can’t buy my respect,” Maeve said. “And I wouldn’t take your blood money if I was starving.” She reached into her pocket for a small note-pad, scribbled something on it and handed it to him. “Just to be nice, I’ll give you the number of a colleague of mine—Peter Davies. He’ll do a good job.”
Will crumpled the scrap of paper. He wanted her. He wanted the magic she’d promised. And although he hated to admit it, she was right. He wanted, at least in her eyes, to not be the bad guy.
He was losing perspective, he told himself. Having lost control of his company, he was desperate to control other aspects of his life. He forced himself to smooth out the paper, fold it properly and tuck it in his pocket.
The garden wasn’t that important. Maeve’s opinion of him wasn’t life threatening.
“I need to talk to your father before I go. I’ll catch you later.”
He was about to return to the house, when he spotted a solar panel lying on its side up against the wall of the garden shed. “What’s this?”
She shrugged, clearly through talking to him but bound by innate courtesy to answer. “Just part of an experiment I’m running. Dad was trying to figure out a way to increase the energy output of the solar panel so I could heat a large volume of running water. So far he hasn’t had any luck.”
Will crouched to examine the electronic control box connecting the solar panel with a twelve-volt battery. “You wouldn’t get a lot of heating capacity out of a panel this size,” he agreed. “Why not use a larger one?”
“I can’t afford it.”
“What’s your experiment about?”
“Look, don’t worry about it. It’s just something I was trying out to help my friend Rose. She raises hydroponic herbs for a living.”
“Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“I doubt it.” He waited. “Oh, all right. You know that in hydroponics, plants grow in a soilless medium and water containing nutrients flows over the roots.”
He nodded.
“Well, my experiment aims to determine the optimum temperature of the hydroponic solution so as to boost production. I want to test growth rates of a variety of herbs at three different temperatures.”
“That sounds interesting. How are you regulating the water temperature?”
“That’s the other problem,” she said, sounding frustrated. “I’ve got a water heater but not the technology to produce three different temperatures simultaneously, which I have to do to ensure that—”
“Other factors influencing plant growth are equal. I get it.” He turned the control box over in his hands. This was just the type of problem he loved to sink his teeth into. “If I could take this to my workshop, I could have a go at fixing it.”
“No, thank you.” She plucked it out of his hands. “Goodbye.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He cast a last reluctant glance at the solar panel, and went back to the house. After knocking once, he pushed open the screen door.
Art looked up from his newspaper, unabashed at openly searching for another job. “Get what you wanted from her?”
“Er, no.”
“Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed,” Art intoned with grim satisfaction.
“I disagree, although I can see why you might hold that opinion. But there’s a silver lining in every cloud. I planned to talk to you at work tomorrow about an offer I hope you’ll take up, but if it’s convenient, we could talk now.”
“All right. Will it affect Maeve?”
“I suppose it would, indirectly.”
“Then I’ll call her in. Care for a beer?”
“Thanks.”
Art reached into the fridge for a pair of thick green bottles, the type that usually contained imported German beer.
“I brew my own,” Art said, setting the bottle and a clean glass in front of Will.
“Ah.” Will reached for it, anticipating the cold tart flavor with relish. “Where did you get all the bottles?”
Art tipped his head and winked. “That, me old son, was a labor of love.”
The phone rang, and Art crossed the kitchen to answer it. “Hello? Yep, hang on a tick.” He carried the receiver to the back door, stretching the phone cord as far as it could reach. “Maevie! Phone.”
Maeve came in, dropped her basket on the counter and took the receiver from her father, averting her gaze from Will as she leaned against the counter. “Hello?”
As Maeve listened, her face turned pale. Lowering her voice, she walked as far away as the phone cord would allow, to stand in the doorway between kitchen and lounge room, her back to them.
“Pour carefully,” Art said, pretending not to notice. “You don’t want the sediment in the bottom of the bottle.”
“I used
to make beer when I was at university.” Will expertly tilted his glass and poured, then held it up to the light, all the while aware of Maeve. “Nice color. Wheat beer, is it?”
Art looked pleased. “Bit of an aficionado, are you?”
“Passionate.” His gaze flicked to Maeve. Her shoulders were hunched and stiff. “What footy team do you barrack for?”
“Collingwood Magpies,” Art proclaimed. “Like my father and grandfather before me.”
“I’m a Carlton Blues fan myself.” Will sipped his beer. “Hey, this is good.”
Art nodded, but his smile was forced. He, too, was aware of Maeve’s tension. “Her ex-husband,” he explained in a low voice.
“We should give her some privacy.” Will started to rise.
Abruptly, she hung up.
Art swiveled in his chair. “Maevie, love, you okay?”
Dry-eyed and drawn, she nodded. She glanced at the full beer in Will’s hand. “I’ll be out in the garden.”
“Will has something important to discuss with me,” Art said, as she started to leave. “You’re to stay and hear it, too.”
“More bad news?” Her voice was bitter.
“Maevie, be polite,” Art said quietly.
“You might as well listen,” Will said. “I’m sure Art will want to talk it over with you, in any case.”
Maeve got herself a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and sat next to her father. She pushed up her sleeves and leaned on the table, faint scratches visible on her tanned forearms. “Well, what is it?”
Will cleared his throat and spoke directly to Art. “When the new factory starts up in Jakarta, we’ll need someone to run things at first and show the workers how to operate the machines. I’d like you to go across and be that person. It’d be a short-term contract, six months or so, but would delay the need for that—” He gestured to the employment section of the newspaper.
Mouth open, Art sat back hard in his chair. “Me? Work in Indonesia?” He glanced at Maeve and snorted. “Can you picture it, Maevie?”
“Not in a million years.” Turning to Will, she spoke angrily. “Art has a heart condition. The heat would kill him. Why, he’s never even been out of the state.”
