by Carla Caruso
Slowly, she shook her head. ‘You never said a word. All the times you could have . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Winnie, I —’
She put up her hand. ‘Save it, Alex, or whatever your name is.’
Behind Alex, the aviator-wearing visitor cleared his throat, but it was just as quickly drowned out by another noise – a shriek. Alex swung his head in its direction, along with the rest of the guests. It was Honey, holding the front of her bridesmaid dress, as a puddle of liquid pooled on the ground in front of her.
‘My waters just broke!’ the pint-sized bridesmaid yelped. ‘The twins are early. Glad I wasn’t planning on wearing this frock again. Where’s my hubby?’
From under the tree Winnie raced to Honey’s side, hooking arms with her friend, just as a violent boom of thunder sounded overhead. ‘I’ll help you find him and get you to the ute.’
The pair rushed away as sudden, pouring rain began. Alex could feel fat drops dribble under his shirt collar and down the back of his suit jacket. It was a baptism of sorts. At least the local farmers couldn’t cry ‘drought’ any more with all the wet weather they’d had recently. In the distance, he could see Eden’s red-lipped mouth fall open, contrasting with her pale face powder, like one of those amusement park clown heads. Not everything that day had gone according to plan.
As the hundreds of guests ran for shelter, Alex flicked up his jacket collar, glad all eyes were no longer on him, and cut a slow and steady path towards the helicopter. He was ready to properly face his father.
Winnie stared out at the ocean the next morning. Usually, she found the sights, sounds and smells comforting, meditative, like being back in yoga class in Sydney. But that day, her head spun and a sense of sadness engulfed her.
Sleep had evaded her most of the night, but she’d eventually fallen into a dreamless slumber. Not that she felt rested. When she’d woken, a cold sweat prickled on her skin, her shoulders felt tense, and her back and legs ached. The devastation – betrayal – had taken its toll.
Being up late at least had given her plenty of time to find out all about Alex – scratch that, Ciro – online. Despite the shock, she still wanted to know more, get answers. And the gossip sites had brimmed with stories. Headlines were imprinted in her brain. SHIPPING CZAR’S SON MISSING AFTER HEARTBREAK & FAMILY BETRAYAL; SHIPPING FAMILY ON GLOBAL HUNT FOR SON ON THE RUN; GREEK SHIPPING HEIR LET DOWN BY LYING LOVER.
Thanks to the internet, she’d finally gotten the keys to Alex’s locked box of secrets. But rather than feeling sated, she just felt cheated. Humiliated. Hurt. Sure, Alex had had a rough trot lately by any account, but it still didn’t excuse him from making a mockery of the town. Of her.
All the time he’d known her, he’d probably been secretly laughing at her behind his boarded-up facade. While chastising her out loud for being a fashion-mad city slicker, he likely thought her common, try-hard, cheap.
She’d seen pictures of his socialite ex-fiancée, Olympia Dranias, on the web. And while the woman might have done the dirty on Alex – broken his heart – Winnie couldn’t compete with her sort of moneyed, manicured perfection, no matter how hard she tried to mirror that world. Olympia, with her honey-toned hair, grey-blue eyes and sharp-as-glass cheekbones, was out of her league.
Of course Alex knew designer brands like Gucci and Ray-Ban. Those sheets at his house were a thousand thread count. And it made sense that he was well acquainted with the likes of Allira Becci – obviously they moved in the same circles. He’d just been playing the role of a backwater bumpkin.
Everything she’d shared with him – the ups and downs – now felt tainted. She’d revealed so many parts of herself and he’d given her nothing in return. Further, he’d criticised her for not being honest about how long she planned to stay in town – made her feel guilty – when he’d proven to be the biggest liar of them all.
Perhaps women like Bruna and Yasmin would have been thrilled to find out a guy they’d been intimate with actually had a secret identity like his. But Winnie? She just felt used.
It pained her that, after all their time together, when she’d finally felt like she’d gotten to see pieces of him, she didn’t really know him at all. And she was sick of being let down by men who said one thing and meant another, who couldn’t offer any promises. Just like Grant. Just like her father.
Even if Alex – or Ciro, or whatever his name was – did look even better in real life than he did in the media pictures. Even if she missed his presence, his voice, his body melding with hers . . .
It had been a weekend of endings. Along with the whole thing with Alex, she’d farewelled Bruna on the bus yesterday morning. Though things had stayed amicable, Winnie knew they wouldn’t stay in touch. Not after she’d discovered her friend had only come to town to verify Alex’s true identity, thinking she could take advantage.
It was the very last time Winnie would let her ex-housemate slither out of trouble. Bruna, on the flipside, couldn’t understand why Winnie wanted to stay in Kingston any longer unless there was a wealthy cray fisherman on the horizon – which, clearly, there wasn’t.
As Winnie watched the water rippling, like a blue blanket thrown in the air and sailing back down again, she knew in her heart she could never forgive Alex. Not that he’d even tried to contact her. Obviously, he lacked the courage. Or more likely, he didn’t care enough.
Alex sat alone in Kirk’s four-wheel drive, wearing sunnies and a baseball cap in an attempt to hide from the media that had flocked to the town since his father’s flashy arrival and the news had broken about his secret identity.
Alex knew he really should have left town by now, but another part of him didn’t want to keep running. His eyes – and thoughts – were solely on Winnie, who cut a lonely figure on the sand from afar.
Guilt gnawed at him; at the entire farce he’d subjected her to; at how holding himself back might have kept him safe, but had cut her like a knife. He was no better than his lying ex-fiancée, he could see that now. And he desperately wanted to reach out to Winnie, to try to explain, but he felt frozen in his seat. Terrified, if he were honest, that he’d get everything that was coming to him.
He had the morning free because Walker had told him not to bother coming on the boat, he didn’t think it would look right. Alex wasn’t sure if he meant just that day or forever. Kirk had been pretty sore about being lied to as well, though he’d been generous enough to let Alex take cover at his place for the time being and to borrow his car. He was a good sort.
Like Winnie. To think he’d written her off when he met her. Put her in the same category as his social-climbing ex, Olympia, just because he’d recently had his heart broken, had a jaded outlook on life, women, relationships. But he’d been wrong about Winnie – dead wrong. Just look at how well she’d slotted into country life in such a short space of time, the changes she’d made in herself, the lives she’d touched.
Last night, he might have finally gotten things off his chest with his father – sent him back to his privileged existence, telling him in no uncertain terms he didn’t want to join the family business, that he couldn’t forgive him – but it hadn’t filled him with relief, only deep regret at how he’d screwed things up with Winnie and about how late he’d left it to try to repair things. He felt like he’d won the lottery, then lost the ticket. Looking at Winnie now, he knew his whole world had collapsed beneath his feet. His life was an empty shell with no purpose, nothing to look forward to. And he only had himself to blame.
Reluctantly, Alex turned the keys in the ignition and the four-wheel drive’s engine purred to life. He felt spineless, leaving with words unsaid. But he was sure he’d lost Winnie. There was only one silver lining: he’d certainly learnt his lesson. He had to be grateful for the little time they’d had together, and now leave her alone. He didn’t want to add to her pain.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Olive, looks like you haven’t wiped the smile off your dial since last night,’ Winn
ie remarked as she hurried down the shiny hospital corridor, a huge bouquet in her arms.
Despite everything that had happened, she was determined to put on a brave face in front of her friends. Olive, already outside Honey’s door, also juggled a colourful bouquet. Honey’s husband, Owen Carmichael, who ran chartered fishing trips in his spare time, was a magazine advertiser.
‘Can’t I just be in a good mood?’ her colleague shot back, fluffing her titian bob one-handed.
Winnie paused beside her. ‘You can be. Especially if it has anything to do with a certain cattle farmer named Chester Wyatt.’ She nudged her soon-to-be ex-coworker in the ribs. ‘You’ve certainly landed on your feet. I never did get to ask you at the wedding – not with Chester glued to your side all night – what went wrong with the optometrist. Was it the single dad thing?’
‘No, no.’ Olive flapped a hand in the air. ‘There simply wasn’t a spark. Not once we had a few proper dates and he was no longer a fantasy figure. Oscar’s a really great guy, but I just didn’t feel it in the end.’ The ad manager’s eyes grew dreamy. ‘To think Chester was right under my nose all along. I thought I’d be too noisy for him, but I can be myself with him in a way I never could with Oscar. Chester and I got talking one night at the pub and the rest, as they say, is history. I know I said I wouldn’t touch half the locals with a bargepole, but Chester’s . . . different. He’s a keeper, I reckon.’
‘That’s great.’ Winnie excitedly nudged her in the side, then pulled a face. ‘What about Farmer Wants A Wife, though?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Olive’s eyes shone. ‘Well, ever the gentleman, he’s pulled out. It took a bit of work to wangle out of his contract, but he got there in the end. It’s lucky, because if he did do the show, I’d have had to get stuck into any women with a cattle prod.’
Winnie grinned. ‘That’s my Olive.’
She made a metal note to put a footnote on Chester’s Beach Life interview about the turn of events. Still, it’d make an even better story – Farmer Finds Love Before the Camera Rolls.
The ad manager’s voice dropped. ‘So, the helicopter arrival and everything was all a bit strange yesterday. What about you and Mr Billionaire Shipping Heir? Sorted things out? Talk about landing on your feet!’
Winnie pulled a face. ‘No, no, nothing to report. I don’t think we’re going to have the happy ending you guys have had. Besides, I’m not interested in money. I’ve had enough of men from – from that world. Integrity, honesty – that’s what does it for me. Which,’ she hastily added, ‘Chester appears to have both of in spades, along with a healthy bank account.’
Olive pulled a sympathetic face. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Alex. His loss. By the way, I never did properly say sorry for going off at you about your interview in Sydney. Of course, it’s your prerogative to pursue whatever career opportunities you like. I was just mad because I knew I’d miss you. I reckon we’ve built up a good rapport at the office, you and me.’
‘I know, and I’m going to miss you, too. But I’m not going anywhere – I’ve decided I’ll go freelance, which means I’ll still be in the same town. We can stay in touch, do lunch, catch up on gossip.’
‘I’m glad. I just hope they find a good replacement for you.’ She crossed her eyes. ‘It better not wind up being someone like Yasmin Cox.’
‘Oh dear, don’t even say that.’
‘Of course,’ Olive mused, ‘if it does wind up being another city slicker, I’m sure it won’t take me long to whip them into shape.’
Winnie smiled. ‘If anyone could, it’d be you.’
‘Shall we go in?’
Winnie nodded solemnly. ‘Let’s.’
Beyond the door, they found Honey propped up against fat white pillows in bed, a twin bassinets by her side. Cyndi and Owen sat in chairs by a window overlooking a garden. Yesterday had been the first time Winnie had actually met Honey’s husband – an attractive, outdoorsy blond sort, with dimples and a mild manner, especially compared to his wife.
‘Not more flowers,’ Honey griped. ‘It’s like a funeral home in here.’
Olive rested her bouquet next to Winnie’s on a cabinet counter, nodding at the cradles. ‘The bubs are asleep?’
‘Yeah, you just missed feeding time at the zoo.’
Winnie perched on the edge of the hospital bed, leaning forwards to tap Honey’s hand. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m a bit bushed, but happy,’ Honey said. ‘There was no time for burning lavender oil or Hypnobirthing-style nipple tweaking last night – not that I was actually going to do any of those things. The little tadpoles were in a hurry to get out and see the world.’
Owen reached forward to squeeze her hand. ‘The only thing she insisted on was AC/DC classics for the labour. Like a true-blue Aussie.’
‘It was better than Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” or Justin Bieber’s “Baby”,’ Honey quipped.
‘So the suspense is killing us,’ Olive piped up, hovering near the end of the bed. ‘Names? Sexes? Spill.’
A look of happiness floated over Honey’s features. ‘We had a pigeon pair. The girl’s Lucinda, like Lucindale, and the boy’s Kingsley, in honour of Kingston.’
Climbing from the bed, Winnie edged over to the bassinets for a peek at the bundles of joy. Her lips curved into a smile. ‘What happy little Vegemites.’ She glanced over at Honey. ‘So seems like it was worth it in the end, despite all the grumbling during your pregnancy?’
Honey’s forehead creased. ‘I didn’t grumble much, did I?’
Winnie exchanged loaded looks with Cyndi, who was reaching for something in her handbag. She bit back a laugh. ‘No, I suppose not.’
A popping sound rang through the air from Cyndi’s direction. An opened bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips was now in her hands. ‘Sorry. I haven’t had breakfast.’
Honey gaped at her best friend. ‘I thought your new thing was not adding salt to your meals.’
Cyndi thoughtfully chewed on a mouthful. ‘But I didn’t add any salt – it came with the packet.’
As Winnie listened to the pair affectionately squabble, she felt her phone vibrate in her bag. Bugger. Being in a hospital room, she’d meant to switch the thing off. Fumbling for the device, she moved to jab the power button, but was distracted by the name onscreen. Alex.
Unable to help herself, she discreetly clicked open the text. It read, Id love to talk. Please. Cld u meet me@ the office?
After pausing, Winnie typed a string of angry responses, deleted each of them, then typed a simple Okay. After all, she deserved answers; a lightening of her load. Especially as it looked like he’d be skipping town faster than her now. It didn’t mean she’d fall into his arms. She was doing it for herself. Her sanity.
His reply was swift. Meet me@ the back entrance. Half hr?
Fine, she texted back then switched off the device as planned, her heart pounding.
Later, on the way to her car, she had to sidestep two inky-black crows plonked in the middle of the cracked footpath. She took it as a bad omen, not that she needed one. She knew when it came to her and Alex, things were beyond repair.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘I want you to have the exclusive – to interview me.’
Winnie fingered the fishtail braid at the side of her neck. ‘Excuse me?’ First, Alex had made her let them in through the office’s back door. Then he’d had her sit opposite him, no desk between them, in the semi-darkness, with the blinds drawn. It was all very cloak and dagger. Ridiculous.
Alex ploughed on. ‘I was going to leave town, but . . . I thought of you.’ He quickly amended, ‘Of Beach Life.’
‘Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?’ she retorted.
Alex looked at his hands. ‘There are media, from all over, camped outside my place already. Kirk’s been good enough to let me hide out at his for a while, but the reporters will find me soon enough.’ He lifted his head, holding her gaze. ‘It’s your choice. I just thought you, of all people, deserved some so
rt of explanation for what happened.’
Winnie chewed on her bottom lip. ‘Well, I rang Christa a few days back and gave notice to quit Beach Life,’ she shot back, ‘so if I do say yes, it’ll be my last story for the magazine.’ Of course, Christa would make room for such a piece at the eleventh hour. It was media gold. Not that Christa herself particularly cared.
A stricken expression crossed Alex’s face, which Winnie briefly found touching. But as far as she knew, it could all be an act. She wouldn’t put it past him – not now. The skin under his eyes looked dark, as though he’d been tossing and turning all night, like her.
‘You’re leaving?’
‘The magazine, yes, but I’m staying in Kingston – at least for a while.’ Winnie hunched her shoulders protectively, like a turtle drawing into its shell. ‘I’ve decided to go freelance – like you, I guess – and technology means I can do it anywhere. This town feels like the right place at the moment, as does not being at one boss’s beck and call. I can pursue whatever stories I’m interested in. Be a free spirit. I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll stay or where to next – maybe Adelaide – but I’m actually finding the feeling kind of liberating.’
‘Good on you.’
Something snapped in Winnie. Why the hell was she telling him her plans? He didn’t deserve to know anything about her life any more – he’d relinquished that right. The time for small talk was over. She was here for answers, that was all. Jumping to her feet, she fished her phone from her bag, turned the voice recorder on and thwacked it on her desk. Then she grabbed a notepad and biro and perched on the edge of her chair.
‘Right.’ She clicked the top of the pen, her tone cool. ‘First, what should I put your name down as?’
Alex scraped a hand through his new short, spiky hair, looking exactly like the online pictures of him she’d seen. ‘Fair enough. Officially, it’s Ciro Ballas the third.’ He looked up again, his green eyes earnest. ‘But my good friends have always called me Alex – short for my middle name, Alexio.’ He moved his mouth to one side. ‘“Bass” was just made up, though. A play on “Ballas”.’
