Montana dropped Julia on the footpath outside the pub. ‘Sorry I can’t come in. I need to get my sheep home, and if I go in there it’ll be hours before I get out. Friday night happy hour, you see.’
Whether the risk lay in Montana’s love of a drink or her inability to stop talking, Julia couldn’t tell.
‘Well, thanks for the lift,’ she said. ‘I really appreciate all your trouble.’
‘No problemo. Give me a shout if you need anything. Just dial 1300 FARMER and you’ll get me.’
‘Just one thing – is there a motel?’
But Julia was talking to air. Montana had pulled out, blinker flashing urgently in the evening gloom.
Julia turned and stared at the old red-brick double-storey hotel. ‘Bar’ read a dilapidated sign to the right. ‘Ladies’ Lounge’ was to her left. Maybe she should start in there.
Taking a firm hold on her bags, she stepped into a room straight out of the 1970s, complete with creamy Formica tables and brown vinyl-padded chairs. Julia realised her error immediately. The ladies’ lounge was the dining room and at 5.45 pm it was deserted, except for a scruffy-looking dog over near the open fireplace.
She headed through another door into what appeared to be the hotel’s original main entrance, with a beautifully carved staircase. She stashed her overnight bag in a handy alcove, along with Rupert’s coat and the scarf, and considered her options. All the noise was coming from beyond a set of swinging wooden louvred doors.
She pushed them open and found herself in the main bar.
‘What sorta car is it?’ said the man on the other side of the counter after she’d explained her predicament. He was busily polishing a beer glass. ‘Something normal, or a bit more la-dee-dah?’
She saw his gaze flick over her dress and pearls. She didn’t think he was really in a position to judge. His belly protruded through the holes in his blue singlet, he wore navy blue work shorts, and she had no doubt he had thongs on his feet. His big arms were red and not unlike a side of ham.
‘It’s a Peugeot 3008,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound too posh. She really needed his help.
‘A Pug, aye? Jacko, our regular grease monkey, won’t be able to help with that. He hates them foreign things, even if it is only the radiator. The boss is your man. He just loves tinkering with mechanical stuff, especially European vehicles. He’s restoring an old clunker. Don’t see the attraction meself, even if he is right and the first car ever was French. Your Pug should be right up his alley. Thing is, you ain’t gunna find him at home right now. I’ve already tried his phone on another matter. He’s probably down at the lake checking his pot.’
His what?
‘Take a seat if you want – you know, while you wait. Bluey’s the name.’
Julia introduced herself, and sighed again. She sat on a stool at the bar and stared up at the high ceiling. It was pressed metal, once white and now stained yellow, presumably from years of nicotine. Cobwebs swung in the breeze created by several lazy fans. The lights looked like they’d been there at least fifty years, and were filmed with dust and grease. This wasn’t the kind of place that would provide thousand-thread-count cotton sheets, a spa bath and room service. The sooner she found a motel the better.
‘The boss’ll be in for his tea soon,’ observed Bluey, placing the shining glass on the shelf behind him and picking up another. ‘Jean cooks him a special fish supper on Friday night. To do with his religion.’
A man sitting to Julia’s right suddenly spoke up. He was bald, red-faced and also wearing a blue singlet. She could definitely see thongs on his feet. Obviously the Australian rule of ‘No singlet or thongs’ didn’t hold sway in Lake Grace. ‘Yeah, because he’s not catchin’ any yabbies in his pot, and I wonder why?’ He sent a loaded glance towards the barman before turning back to Julia. ‘You the dame who came in with Tan just now?’
Was he talking to her? Julia looked around.
‘Must be you. Nobody else came into the pub. Those sheep she had in the back, are they the ones she was buyin’ from South Gippsland?’
‘Oh, Tan … Montana. Yes, I think so,’ said Julia.
‘Must be the new trainer mob for her dogs. The boss ain’t gunna like that. Anyway, about your motor vehicle. The boss is a right corker when it comes to them French shit-heaps.’
The boss again – who was this person? And how dare this man call Rupert’s precious car a shit-heap!
‘I promise you, my car is not a heap.’
She still couldn’t bring herself to swear out loud. Rupert had always frowned on her swearing. ‘Not ladylike, Julia,’ he’d say. Lesson number 10478 for Julia. Lydia definitely wouldn’t have sworn. There were a lot of things Julia didn’t get right, including – in Rupert’s eyes – the decision to keep her maiden name. What a fight that had caused. A lot like the one they’d had just before he died. Their last words to each other had been terrible. She sighed. Guilt was an awful thing.
‘No offence meant,’ said the old man. ‘I mean it’s not like one of them pieces of junk they produce in Third World countries.’
‘Charlie, give over, that’s exactly what you meant,’ said Bluey.
‘Did not.’
‘Did too.’
‘Did fuckin’ not.’
‘You wanna have it out round the back, bro?’
Julia moved her head back and forth between them in dismay.
‘I never meant it was a real shit-heap. I specifically said hers was not that kinda shit-heap.’
‘What’s a shit-heap?’ Another person, square and solid, appeared beside the barman.
‘Her car,’ said the two men together, both pointing at Julia. ‘Apparently.’
The woman – Julia realised it must be a woman because she was wearing pearl earrings – rolled her eyes and grimaced. ‘Don’t mind these idiots. They came out of the womb fighting. Must’ve driven their mother mad. I’m Jean. What can I get you to drink? You waiting for the boss? He’s gone to check on his yabbie pot.’
Julia couldn’t believe this man they kept talking about seemed to be everyone’s boss. What sort of one-horse town had she landed in?
‘Um,’ she said hesitantly, ‘do people just call this person “boss” or is he actually in charge of everyone around here?’
There was silence for a long minute, then Bluey gave a low chuckle – Julia thought it sounded like a roll of thunder – and cast a sly glance at Jean. ‘You could say that. But then maybe he just thinks he is, like most of us blokes.’
‘Took you long enough to work that one out,’ said Jean, grinning.
‘Love you too, darlin’.’
‘Steady on.’
‘You two lovebirds make me sick,’ said Charlie, shaking his head.
‘Who you callin’ a lovebird?’ said Bluey. ‘Just ’cause you can’t pull a chick.’
‘Yeah,’ Jean said, laughing. ‘He might be my husband and the father of our five kids, but that doesn’t mean I adore him or anything …’
Julia stared at them all. Couldn’t they see she was having a crisis? She really needed to get out of here. Find a nice motel, some nourishing food and a deep spa bath. Sleep in a pillow-top bed. Tomorrow she’d ring the RACV and be gone from Lake Grace. And this little interlude would be over before she came in contact with that certain someone.
She stood and said in a loud voice, ‘I’d be grateful if you’d point me in the direction of the motel.’
All three jokers immediately stopped bantering and gazed at her.
‘Who’s gunna tell her?’ Bluey asked.
Charlie shuffled his feet and gazed intently at the bar as if the knots in the dark-red wood were enemies he’d yet to conquer.
‘Tell me what?’ Julia said.
Behind her, a very proper English-accented voice responded. ‘It really isn’t the done thing for a lady such as yourself to be accommodated in a pub, but unfortunately …’
Julia turned to see a very dapper gentleman dressed in a bow tie, dress s
hirt, waistcoat and tweed pants, all totally at odds with his grubby baseball cap. He sat at the bar drinking, of all things, a cup of tea. The flowered teapot, dainty milk jug and matching sugar bowl looked rather incongruous atop a Bundaberg Rum bar runner.
‘Unfortunately what?’ asked Julia.
It was Jean who finally told her. ‘Love, there is no motel in this town. All we got is the pub.’
‘You mean this place?’ said Julia faintly.
‘We keep a few rooms for when the boys are too pissed to head on home up the mountain.’
No motel?
‘It’s a shared bathroom but I keep it all real clean.’
No spa?
‘And the sheets were me mum’s. Good hard-wearing cotton, fresh dried from the line.’
No thousand-thread-count luxurious bed linen?
‘We got foam mattresses too.’ Jean sounded especially proud of this. ‘They’re about ten years old but barely used. We got them cheap at the last St Vinnie’s sale. A school camp closed down.’
And she’ d bet no pillow-top bed.
The Lakes Entrance resort with all its delectable treats was disappearing into the distance. The anxiety that had been crawling through Julia’s veins since she’d driven into that dreadful rockslide finally exploded into a full panic attack. Her mouth became as dry as a brown leaf and her heart galloped. Her head whirled as the dreaded dark cloud of gut-clenching stress that had been her companion for the last eighteen months since Rupert’s death closed in on her. What was she going to do?
Jean must have seen her distress. ‘I cook a good hearty dinner and you’re in for a treat. We’ve got fish on the menu tonight, straight from Lakes Entrance. The boss, you see – his religion.’
Bluey grabbed another clean glass to polish. ‘No meat on Fridays, the boss says. It’s usually only during Lent, but he carries it over the whole year now since the doc told him he needs to boost his omega-3s.’
‘His father was a Roman Catholic,’ added the tea-drinker, as if that made sense of everything.
Julia had been raised a Christian too. But a fat lot of good religion had done her. After Rupert died, their local priest had called by once after the funeral. After listening to him drone on forever about God’s will, Julia had suggested very politely that he should leave. It wasn’t God’s will that Rupert had been taken. It was her will. If only she hadn’t argued with him that day, hadn’t told him exactly what he could do with his blasted roses if he didn’t like the way she pruned them because it wasn’t how Lydia did it. At the time she’d thought: If I died, would he miss me as much as he misses Lydia? But she hadn’t died. He had. The truck had crushed his little ute like a snail under a boot. It was God’s message to her: Look what you did. He was punishing her. And now Rupert and Lydia were together forever. A tiny part of her hoped they were happy.
‘Here he is!’ said the barman. ‘The boss.’
Julia swung around to see the back of a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was pulling out a chair at a table where a policeman was already sitting. The policeman was frowning and looking at something in the newcomer’s hand. Then the man they all called ‘the boss’ stood again and turned towards the barman, and Julia.
‘Got a good one for you, boss,’ called Charlie. ‘This here lady drives one of them Froggy shit – ahem … one of them cars you like so much. Needs a bit of help.’
The man was staring straight at her, frowning. And Julia was transported back in time. Twenty years ago to be exact. A deserted beach on New Year’s Eve. A moonlit foreshore. The tartan blanket stolen from a boat. The cloying scents of coconut oil and Stone’s Green Ginger Wine. Summer heat. Passion and desire. Hormones running wild. Sixteen-year-old Julia Gunn and eighteen-year-old Rick Halloran.
His handsome face had grown older, with fine lines patterning the smooth skin. She remembered the silkiness of it under her tingling fingertips. The soft texture of his dark hair as she ran her fingers through it. Sure, there was an age-weary air surrounding the man now, and his rugged physique had become thicker. But that same danger clung to him, some visceral, indecipherable thing that still made desire rush through her.
Then everything went black and she toppled off the bar stool.
‘I know how to bring her around,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I did me initial responder first-aid course at the footy ground the other week.’
Julia opened her eyes to slits, then thought better of it as Charlie’s boiled lobster complexion swam into view.
‘Let me through,’ said a loud booming voice.
Julia peeked through her lashes again. It was the policeman. Great, just what she needed. Maybe if she just lay here and pretended to be unconscious, this would all go away.
‘Bugger off, Harry,’ said Jean. ‘This is a woman’s job. She’ll die if you try to give her mouth to mouth. I saw how much extra garlic you added to those prawns at lunchtime.’
Oh Lord. Mouth to mouth? Nooooooo!
‘I think she’s coming around,’ one of the men said.
‘Yeah. Her eyes just flickered.’
Julia squeezed her eyelids shut. She didn’t want to wake up.
‘Why’d you go and call her car a Froggy shit-heap, Charlie?’ said Bluey. ‘Geez.’
‘You can talk. You’re the one who keeps swappin’ the boss’s yabbies for a dirty old hare’s foot.’
‘You what?’ said a new voice. It was husky, like a rusty guitar string. ‘You keep stealing the contents of my pot? Harry, arrest him, will you!’
It was Rick. She knew because her whole body was responding. No one in her whole thirty-seven years had ever made her throb with desire like he did; no one had ever made her blood sing with such a yearning to touch him. Not even Rupert. Especially not Rupert. That was why she’d chosen him. He was safe.
‘Stand back, fellas. I need some room,’ said Jean above her.
Julia snapped her eyes open – there was no way she was going to let anyone here give her mouth to mouth – and found herself staring straight into the face of Rick Halloran.
‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ he said, peering down at her.
‘I think we should call the ambulance,’ said another voice. The English tea-drinker.
Julia moved her head and realised the Englishman was on the floor beside her, patting her hand. ‘No ambulance,’ she muttered.
‘Aha, she speaks,’ he said. ‘No need for the emergency department then. Just as well. It’s a Friday night – you’d be waiting hours. Would you like a nice cup of tea instead?’
‘That’d be bloody right,’ said Charlie. ‘Pommy bastards like you, Ernie, think tea fixes everything. Shame the Pommies didn’t think of that at Gallipoli before they threw our boys to the wolves.’
‘Charlie,’ warned Bluey, ‘you’re way outta line with that one.’
‘Am not. What a cock-up that whole campaign was!’
‘Would you lot stop arguing and let me think where I’ve seen this lady before,’ said Rick. He was staring at Julia intently and stroking his square chin. ‘What, where and when?’ he muttered.
She could have told him all that. New Year’s Eve. A party boat. Lying on a sand-covered blanket, rumpled and flushed after losing her virginity to him. A week to follow of sunshine and salty days at the beach, riding the waves, laughing. Summer fun.
‘Never mind where you know her from. We’ve got to get her fixed up,’ said Jean. ‘My first-aid course said to put someone who faints in the recovery position.’
‘That’d be propped at the bar then,’ said Charlie.
‘Not your recovery position,’ said Jean. ‘The rest of the population’s recovery position. On her side, head tilted back a bit …’
Julia lifted her head. She didn’t want to be manhandled by this lot, even if one of the handlers was the man who’d haunted her dreams for most of her adult life. Rupert hadn’t been the only one yearning for someone else.
‘Hey, missy, you alright?’ asked Bluey.
No, she wasn’t al
right. She needed to grab her phone out of her handbag and ring her friend Clarence now. He’d know what to do.
‘She’s looking for her bag,’ said Jean. ‘Here you go, love.’
A bright green handbag landed on Julia’s chest.
‘Nah, that’s not hers,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Bro, I never knew. When were you going to tell me?’ said Bluey with a smirk. ‘Always wondered why you never married.’
‘What? Can’t a man have a handbag these days and not be judged for it?’
Julia stared at the green bag balanced on her chest. It was … moving!
‘Aaargh!’ she yelled, sitting up so fast she clanged heads with Rick.
The green bag ended up at the policeman’s feet, still squirming. Julia scrambled backwards, coming to a stop against an old metal cigarette trough fitted to the base of the bar.
Rick was rubbing his head and glaring at both Julia and Charlie.
‘Bloody hell, Charlie,’ said the policeman. ‘I’ve told you time and again to leave that python of yours at home.’
‘But he gets lonely,’ said Charlie.
A snake? That wasn’t on her list of things to see! Oh God, she had to get to her bag. Stretching out her arm, she snagged the strap.
‘Bloody hell, I know who you are!’ Rick said, still rubbing his head. ‘You’re that chick on the insurance advert.’
He didn’t recognise her. Gut-wrenching disappointment ripped through her. She felt humiliated.
‘My name is Julia,’ she said quietly.
All those years of wondering, dreaming, wasted. He didn’t even know who she was. The sooner she got out of this place the better.
‘Do you want us to call anyone for you?’ asked Jean.
‘I’ll be fine. Really.’
‘Nope, it’s not the advert.’ Rick Halloran was still ruminating. ‘Although you sure look like that woman. Perhaps you bought one of my sculptures?’ He looked straight at her. ‘Do you have any idea where we might’ve met before?’
Should she tell him? She didn’t know if she felt strong enough to say the words.
But she could see from his furrowed brow that he wasn’t going to rest until he found out. She remembered caressing that forehead on a laughter-filled summer’s night. She wondered if his temples still felt silky smooth, or had they roughened with age and the wind and sun? He was obviously the outdoors type, a tough and rugged man with broad hands.
Lake Hill Page 3
