He nodded. “I’m a man of few words, I know, but that doesn’t excuse the way I’ve treated you. I should have spoken to you first.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “Being stuck here has given me time to reflect on all the things I have done over the years.” His eyes were earnest. “I know I’ve been unreasonable and far from fair, it’s just that there are so many factors I have to take into consideration. However, you deserve better treatment from your own father.”
“Where does this leave me?” she asked.
“Let me think some more, Rosie. Maybe we can find a way to make things work.” The slight reluctance in his tone didn’t instill any confidence.
The room fell silent and the tick-tock of the grandfather clock echoed from the hallway.
“Alex needs something to help him get up in the mornings because otherwise he’ll be wandering aimlessly,” her father said, as if the conversation had never stopped.
“I know.” It was good to hear someone else voicing their concern for Alex. “Is that why you asked him to take over? To give him something to focus on?”
“Yes.” Her father scratched his crippled arm and even that proved a difficult task. “I didn’t think of the impact it would have on you and for that, I am sorry.”
“But you won’t change your mind about who runs Tulpil.”
“No.”
She drew her lips into a thin line, then decided if they were going to be entirely honest she had to let it all out. “I don’t think he’s capable.”
“I don’t agree.”
“He won’t even tell us about where he’s been all this time. It’s obvious he’s been traumatized and I do understand it would be hard to talk about it but—”
“You’ve never been to war, you could never understand.” His tone held an edge once more.
“I’m not doubting you have a better understanding than me, but how can you let Alex run Tulpil when he’s clearly not ready? It could affect everyone. Please, don’t get me wrong, I love Alex, but I don’t know if lumping him with all this responsibility is the right thing. Maybe if he and I shared the role then—”
“No. He needs to step up and embrace responsibility like a man.”
“He needs time to heal from whatever it is that’s troubling him.”
“The best way to heal is with good honest work.”
How quickly the tables had turned. Her father had started to sound reasonable, then, like a flash of lightning, he changed again.
She stood, her heart heavier than it had been when she’d first walked into the room. Without a word, Rosie headed out the front door. Just when she’d thought she’d made progress, she ended up even further behind.
* * * *
Hours later Rosie stood in the kitchen, broke off a piece of freshly baked bread and shoved it into her mouth. The warm, fluffy delight melted on her tongue as she reached for the bread knife to help herself to a thick slice. The knife broke the crust and steam escaped, filling the room with an aroma that made her stomach grumble. In theory, she should have no appetite after the conversation with her father, but her mother’s cooking had always been irresistible.
The sound of smashing glass came from the laundry below and Rosie raced down the back steps and flung open the door. On the floor were the remains of a brandy bottle with large shards scattered across the ground. In the corner, her mother was curled up in a fetal position, her forehead smeared in blood.
“Mum!” Rosie went over and inspected her mother’s hands. A piece of glass was embedded in her mother’s palm but she seemed oblivious to the pain.
“Oh, Mum.” She tried to hoist up her mother’s shaking body but to no avail. Rosie stroked her mother’s hair and contemplated how to get her out of the stifling heat of the laundry and upstairs to the bedroom to lie down. “How did this happen?”
Her mother’s blank stare relayed nothing. It smelt as if she’d bathed in brandy.
“Please, Mum. Talk to me.”
Her mother’s gaze fixed on the chunk of glass in her hand.
“Ohhh!” Her eyes widened as she wailed and started waving her hand around, as if trying to shake the glass loose. Blood oozed across her pale skin and Rosie grabbed her mother’s arm.
“Mum! Please! I’ll fix it, but we need to get you out of here first.”
Rosie stood and used the toes of her shoes to make a pathway through the debris. Returning to her mother, who cowered in the corner, Rosie placed her hands under her mother’s armpits and used all her might to lift her. For such a fine-boned woman, Cecile was quite heavy.
“Mum, use your legs and I’ll guide you.”
“He’s gone…” she slurred.
“Who? Alex? No, he’s here. He’s returned to us, remember?” Rosie’s back ached with the weight of her mother but she persevered, guiding her through the laundry door and toward the base of the stairs that led up to the kitchen.
“No.” Cecile shook her head. The bright sun caught a sheen of sweat across her pale skin. “He has gone. Oh god, he’s gone!”
She buried her head in her uninjured hand and gut-wrenching sobs shook her shoulders.
“Is it Dad? Dad’s here and he’s doing fine.” That wasn’t quite a lie.
“No!”
“Geoffrey?”
Her mother waved her wounded hand in a dismissive manner, as if the pain didn’t register anymore. Rosie grabbed her mother’s wrist.
“Please, Mum, we need to fix this up. Then you can talk to me about What’s bothering you.”
The sobs intensified.
“Mum…let’s just tend to your hand and get you a cool drink.” Of water.
“No one can know,” her mother slurred then wiped a blood-streaked hand across her face.
“Know what? That you’ve sliced your hand? I can’t hide that.” Perhaps when her mother had sobered up and her hand was stitched she’d make more sense.
“No one can know!” shouted her mother before she passed out.
Chapter 18
Rosie’s mother remained tucked up in bed with a stitched and bandaged hand, sleeping off the booze while Rosie’s father slept on the couch, accounting ledgers on his lap. Alex was nowhere to be seen and as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, the heat of the day wrapped around Rosie as she paced the verandah. Kitty was in the next town over, staying with her parents for the weekend and Tulpil—the one place that brought Rosie such joy—closed in on her, like her lifeblood was slowly being sucked out, leaving her body weak and her chest hollow.
Rosie walked down the long gravel drive and to the road that led to town. The scent of the ylang-ylang flowers sweetened the air and the trill of the kingfishers melded perfectly with the rhythm of her shoes crunching along the stones. A cool breeze grazed her skin as the heat fell away and became more bearable. In the distance, she heard music but couldn’t distinguish what genre. It didn’t sound like the usual tunes she heard in these parts. It was more rhythmic, like the music she’d heard Italians play when in town.
The Conti party.
Of course, she should have remembered. Although she’d set out to spend time alone to clear her head, the enticing music made her want to wander up to the Conti house. But it was a ridiculous idea. She had no business forcing her way into the party after Tomas had made it abundantly clear he didn’t want to see her.
Rosie stopped to watch the lanterns in the distance. They swayed in the gentle breeze while a bonfire burned brightly in a cleared paddock. She couldn’t make out any of the dark figures, but it seemed that every Italian within fifty miles had congregated for this celebration—of what, she didn’t know.
Then it struck her: Why would the Contis throw a party when they were renowned for keeping to themselves? She should have known better than to listen to town gossip. If she’d ignored it, then she wouldn’t have had that ridiculous argument with To
mas.
Sighing, Rosie continued down the road, leaving the Conti house behind. Laughter floated from the party as she hastened away, her heart growing heavy.
She kicked a stone that went flying into the darkness and landed with a thud against a tree stump.
“What did that poor stone do to you?” A deep voice asked from the darkness.
Her heart skipped a beat as she spun around. “What are you doing here? Do you always sneak up on people like that?”
“Which question would you like me to answer first?”
“Either. Both. I don’t know…” She drew her brows together.
Tomas stepped out from the darkness and once again, her heart picked up speed.
“I am here because I saw a shadow,” he said.
“And?”
“And I did not know it was you until I got closer.”
“And?” What was wrong with her brain? Who was the one who spoke English as a second language?
“First, I thought the figure was a person invited to the party. You stood looking at the house for a long time. I thought this person must be shy. So when I saw the person walk away I thought I should go and tell them to come and join the party.”
“Then you realized it was me. The Australian.”
“Ah. I see you are still angry.” He drew close and she caught the scent of his spicy cologne. “I must apologize for my bad behavior.”
“Are you saying this because you accidently saw me now?”
Tomas jerked back, like he’d been slapped in the face. “Rosalie, I have been spending much time figuring out how I could ask your forgiveness. My manners were very bad.”
“Yes, they were.”
He lowered his head. “I was wrong. I was shooting the messenger.”
“Yes, you were.” Silence snuck between them. Rosie dragged the toe of her sensible shoes through the gravel, grappling for the right words. Quietly, she said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned the Mussolini thing. I know it divides people.”
“It does. Rosie, we should be able to talk about most things, yes?”
“But some subjects are out of bounds?”
“Yes.”
“Which subjects?”
Tomas waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “Let us not worry about this now. Perhaps you would like to join me?” He motioned for Rosie to thread her arm through his.
“Thanks all the same, but I don’t think so.” Only minutes ago she’d lamented about not being up at that party on the hill. Where was her nerve?
“Please, I insist. It is my way of an apology.”
She could continue on her way and envelop herself in the darkness and quiet of her own solitude. Or she could head to the bright lights and music of a party with people she didn’t know but who fascinated her all the same.
“Rosie?” Tomas’s expectant eyes drew her back into the moment.
To hell with it. “Sure. Let’s go.”
* * * *
The aroma of tomatoes, onions and a few unidentified foods wafted through the air as Rosie stood off to the side of the main gathering. Tomas had ducked off to fetch her a drink, which gave Rosie a chance to lurk in the shadows and view the lively crowd. She reveled in the anonymity while she tried to gather courage to join the throng.
“Rosie! You come!” Luka greeted her with a large smile as he walked up and planted a kiss on both cheeks. “Good?”
“Yes, yes, I am very good, thank you. And you?”
The light from the lanterns made his eyes twinkle as he gave an affirmative nod.
He patted her hand affectionately. “I happy you here.”
“So am I.” She took in the front garden where twenty or so kids darted through the crowds of women in flowing dresses and men in smart shirts and trousers. She looked down at her casual dress and shoes, feeling very self-conscious. Everyone laughed and smiled, they ate and drank, and they greeted each other with warmth. Now, witnessing the friendliness of the gathering, she felt more alone than ever.
“Ah, I see you have found Luka.” Tomas passed her a glass filled to the brim with red wine. “This is from the vineyard of my cousin in New South Wales.”
“He sends it up to you?”
Tomas’s gentle laugh sent a shimmer of happiness through her.
“No, my cousin is here. He brings many bottles!” Tomas pointed at a pile of crates stacked near the steps leading up to the verandah.
Rosie politely sipped the deep red wine and tried not to pull a face when it burned the back of her throat. The only time she’d tasted wine was at a dance a few years ago when she and Kitty had taken a few swigs from a bottle William had swiped from his auntie. They’d gotten so drunk that they’d fallen into a ditch and laughed about things that weren’t even remotely funny when sober. A smile formed on Rosie’s lips.
“You like it, I see?”
“Pardon?”
“The wine.” Tomas pointed at her glass. “You like it because you are smiling?”
“Oh! Yes, yes. It’s lovely.” To prove the point, she took another sip and was surprised when it didn’t burn at all. Instead, the rich liquid slid down her throat and left a taste of cherries mixed with black currents. A strange combination but it somehow worked.
“I am happy you like it.”
Rosie took another swig from the glass.
“And I am glad you are here.”
She nearly choked. “Thank you. I’m glad I am, also.”
Although shyness made her want to look away she held his gaze, determined not to be a wilting flower.
Tomas cleared his throat. “I hope you do not feel strange to be the only…uh…”
“Australian?”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t mind. In fact”—she glanced around—“I feel very honored to have been asked.” Although Luka had initially invited her, it didn’t count as it wasn’t his party. And the only reason she was here now was because Tomas had mistaken her shadow for someone else.
“You will find we are friendly and not just to our own kind.” He raised an eyebrow and she knew exactly what he was getting at.
“All right, perhaps I was wrong to listen to gossip—”
“Perhaps?”
“I was wrong to listen to gossip.”
“You will not find a fascist among us. And yes, my family does not socialize with those who are not from our country because of this reason—others think we are all fascists.”
“And you’re not,” Rosie said.
“Exactly. We are not. We get tired of explaining ourselves so sometimes it is easier to be with our own kind.”
“Isn’t that kind of…racist?” Oh. That may be a bit too far. And just when she was getting back in Tomas’s good books…
Tomas rubbed his chin, as if giving her question much thought. Eventually, he said, “I do not think of it that way. We have the same celebrations, the same traditions, the same food. We stay together because we understand each other.”
Rosie contemplated Tomas’s answer, now happy she’d asked. “I guess Australians do the same. We tend to stick together. And come to think of it, even the different nationalities on Tulpil stay close for the exact same reasons you said. Though at other times they socialize with everyone, no matter where they come from.”
“Like this evening,” Tomas said. “You are the representative of Australia.”
“No pressure.” She laughed and Tomas joined in.
The distinctive notes of a violin quieted the partygoers. Rosie turned to see a man in his sixties with a gray beard and salt-and-pepper hair, holding a violin and bow. He gently teased out notes of a mournful melody which floated along the light breeze. Enraptured, Rosie didn’t dare move for fear the spell would break.
A few loud, sharp notes changed the tempo and the violinist’s eyes o
pened as a grin spread across his face. The same grin she’d witnessed on Tomas.
“Is he…?”
“My father? Yes. His name is Cosimo. And over there”—he pointed at a tall, slender woman in a stunning red dress—“is my mother, Beatrice.”
“She’s beautiful. And your father is so talented.”
Tomas nodded and Rosie’s gaze returned to Tomas’s father playing the violin with fervor as a group of guitarists joined in. Young teenagers rhythmically tapped sticks against bottles of varying sizes. Men, women and children created a dance floor in the dirt as they spun each other around, laughing and dancing with pure delight.
“He’s very good,” she said.
“His grandmother—my great-grandmother—was an opera singer.”
“Really?”
“Musical talent runs in my family. Except me. I am afraid I was not born so musical.”
“I didn’t inherit that gene, either.”
“Although”—Tomas held out his hand—“I may not play music or sing, I can dance.”
Rosie glanced at the couples who moved joyously to the upbeat music that was so foreign to her. “I don’t know how.”
He leant in, his voice low, his warm breath against her ear. “Then let me show you.”
Tomas wrapped his fingers around hers and she tried to calm the shaking that threatened to overtake her body. It wasn’t like she hadn’t held hands with a male before, but this was…different. The males she’d stepped out with in the past were immature, whereas Tomas was a man.
He gently held her hand and led her through the moving crowd. Dust clouds danced around people’s feet, laughter filled her ears and the delicious aroma of crusty bread floated into her nostrils.
“You are ready for fun?” He grabbed both her hands.
“Yes?”
“Just follow me.”
The band were now in full flight. Tomas held her close and guided her through the throng. She let her body relax, allowing him to set the pace and the course, and as she did so, all the stress about her family and Tulpil floated skyward.
Tomas hadn’t lied when he said he could dance, and she loved being in his capable hands. The music filled her heart, her body instinctively responding to Tomas’s.
Burning Fields Page 17
