‘This panel is brilliant. Beautiful. The textures and patterning and the blending of colours—it’s glorious, and really tactile, although I don’t suppose for one moment it will be touchable art.’
‘Thanks.’ He spread the cover over the panel and Serena twitched the material so it fell over the far side. He drew a pair of mismatched stools out from under the bench. As he waited for her to sit, his gaze dropped to her boots, and the way she crossed one leg over the other as she tapped along with the country and western song on the radio.
Humming along with a couple of bars, she drew her portfolio towards her. Sunlight slanted through the window, highlighting hair the colour of cinnamon with fiery streaks of sunset red and gold. He snorted at the fanciful image. But sitting amid the scents of leather and wood in his workshop, Serena was a breath of spring on this early winter day. She made him think positive thoughts, and let him live in the moment, like his art usually did. If only Don Carter paid him for the panels, four long years of double mortgage payments would be over and he could afford to move into a nearby townhouse instead of camping in his workspace, outside plumbing and all.
‘Why don’t we get down to it?’
One side of her mouth twitched and she pressed her lips together before meeting his eyes. ‘A man of action. Good. I’ll just move my coffee out of harm’s way and show you what I want. See if you have any suggestions to add.’ As she leaned backwards and set her mug on the sink, her top clung to her breasts and a line of purple lace showed above the neckline.
Suggestions? Paul shuffled to the edge of the stool to ease the tightness in his jeans. He’d definitely been working too hard if he couldn’t conduct a normal business meeting without having a reaction like that to a bit of lace peeking above a pair of breasts.
Serena swung back and Paul grabbed a foolscap spiral notebook and pen from the end of the table, hoping to God she hadn’t noticed anything. He seemed to have developed a serious case of foot-in-mouth around her. Deft fingers untied the purple ribbon—it seemed she favoured purple in more than just lingerie—and she opened her portfolio of designs on the bench.
‘When Mrs Carter suggested I contact the local saddler to make the leather accessories for my designs, I was thinking mainly belts. But seeing what you’re doing here—’ She reached across and tapped the covered panel.
He cleared his throat and rested the notebook on his thigh. ‘Glad you approve.’
Serena’s praise from one artist to another was welcome, but praise didn’t pay the bills. He would have been happier if Don Carter had made progress payments as promised. ‘Are you sure you want to spend more time on your cotton collection? I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen to the festival. The gin and textiles mill is—was—the biggest employer in town. Look at any business in our area and it’s linked to cotton in some way. Even mine.’
‘I’m here so I might as well finish the collection, with you as my accessories man if you’re still willing. If the mill gets sorted, we’ll be ready for the festival. If not—’
If not didn’t bear thinking about.
If not meant chaos and loss of control—the very reason he’d left the family farm and struck out on his own. Working for himself, weather, market forces, mill closures, none of them could affect him.
The irony of that wasn’t lost on Paul.
‘Fine, what other ideas have you got?’ he said.
Serena leaned on the bench and rested her chin on her hand. ‘Do you teach what you’re doing?’
Paul struggled to come to grips with the question. Had she heard something? His contract of the Cotton Bale pub in preparation for his art school wasn’t general knowledge. Only the solicitor, Penny Fordham, and Vera at the courthouse knew.
Damn.
Penny would never have divulged a client’s business but Vera Wellington had signed one of his documents as a Justice of the Peace. Information was Vera’s secret weapon in Mindalby, where titbits of gossip were gold. Four years ago, she’d made sure everyone in town knew of his father’s unwitting role in the swindle that had almost killed him. Vera had been shaken but unrepentant when his father had collapsed with a heart attack. She shouldn’t have said a word this time but Paul couldn’t think how else his private business had become common knowledge.
‘How did you know that?’ The words sounded harsh to his ears.
Clearly puzzled, Serena sat straight. ‘Know what?’
‘About the school. I wasn’t going to publicise it until after the festival.’ When he’d made the final payment to the bank and cleared the second mortgage.
Her lips formed a silent O before stretching into a smile.
Despite his annoyance his fingers itched to pick up a stick of charcoal and capture her expression. Light and life with a hint of mischief looked back at him.
‘I didn’t know, but I promise I won’t breathe a word. It’s wonderful news for the town though.’ She looked around his workshop and frowned. ‘Have you got somewhere—bigger to set up? You’ll need more bench space than your workshop offers.’
He looked around, seeing the space through her eyes. Neat, clean, sufficient for his present needs but not for his dreams. ‘I have plans.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I don’t mean to hurry you but can we get started? I want to try and catch up with Carter after lunch.’
‘Sorry. How about I make another time to discuss this?’ Slipping her sketches into the folder, Serena fumbled and one page fluttered to the floor.
Paul pushed his stool back and reached down at the same time as Serena. Her chin collided with his shoulder and she jumped back, sending her stool clattering to the floor. She overbalanced and he grabbed her arm to save her falling. He wasn’t aware of pulling her against his chest but suddenly, there she was, strands of hair caught in his stubble, soft curves pressing into him and the scent of strawberry shampoo beneath his nose.
Her hand rested on his chest, and her thumb brushed the bare skin at the base of his throat. She drew a barely audible breath and stepped quickly away. ‘Thanks.’ Turning her back, she packed the sketches into her portfolio and began tying the ribbon.
Paul picked up the fallen page. His boot had caught the edge of the paper and a brown mark touched the edge of a very well drawn image. He handed the page to her. ‘Sorry about that. How about we head down to the Ace in the Hole and grab a counter meal? That way, we can kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Um, what are we killing?’ She spoke to the buttons on his shirt and he watched faint pink colour her cheeks.
‘Late lunch and a chance to talk about your designs.’ He nodded at the sketch she held. ‘If you still want to, I mean.’
Smoothing the page, she didn’t respond.
Paul’s stomach flipped. He’d done it again.
She put the sketch into the portfolio and retied the ribbon. ‘If you’re sure you have time. After our meeting, I planned to stay in town for a while anyway. Take a look around. If another time suits you better—’
‘Now is good. Look, I’m sorry if I sounded grumpy. I dislike doing interviews.’ But it was more concern about the commission for Don Carter that cut deep; because deep down, he knew he wouldn’t get any money out of the man.
‘I don’t like standing like some dumbass pointing at my work as if to say, “Aren’t I smart!” while they stick a camera in my face.’
Serena’s smile flashed out again. ‘Try having to model your own designs when you have two left feet. Bet that’s worse than your experience.’
‘Two left feet, hey? At least I can shuffle around a dance floor without falling on my arse.’ Not wanting to break the fragile camaraderie, he waited, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘So, how about it? They do a great steak sandwich at the pub.’
Serena’s stomach rumbled and she patted it without embarrassment. ‘Perfect. Lunch is on me.’
‘Can’t do that. My shout or it’s a pie from the bakery.’
‘But I’m taking up your time. Really, it should be
my treat.’
‘Tell you what, you buy the drinks. Deal?’
‘Okay.’ Serena picked up her portfolio case and headed out the door.
Thinking about the mess on the floor of his ute, Paul glanced at her high-heeled boots and crossed his fingers. ‘It’s only a five-minute walk.’
‘While it might be nice to stretch my legs, that wind isn’t pleasant. Would you mind driving? I drove part way here yesterday and started driving again at five this morning and then had a close call with some idiot in a truck just outside of town. It rather rattled me.’
‘Hard to imagine it would have been any of the local drivers but I can show you where the police station is if you need to report it.’ He picked up a brown paper-wrapped package from the box marked For collection. Might as well deliver Ruby’s mending since they were heading to the pub.
‘No, it’s okay. I’d rather forget about it and concentrate on finding—on work for now.’ Serena turned to collect her handbag from the back seat of her car, but not before he’d seen her bite her lip.
Finding? What was she looking for?
They drove to the pub, past houses with neatly tended gardens that put his to shame. When she asked about accommodation, he gave her directions to Trish Jenkins’s B & B one street back from the main road. ‘She’s sure to have a room at this time of year. I’ve got her number if you want to phone her now?’
‘Thanks.’
By the time they parked on Burton Park Road close to the Ace in the Hole, her accommodation had been arranged. They stepped up onto the verandah and Paul held the door open for her. A log fire blazed, creating an oasis of warmth. Dark wood panels had absorbed years of secrets and shenanigans and the vintage lithographs were a reminder of the history of his home town.
‘My home away from home. I come here for dinner twice a week, and to watch the footy on the big screen.’
‘Sea Eagles supporter, hey?’ Serena nudged his arm. ‘I’m a Storm fan.’
‘No accounting for people’s taste. I guess that explains your penchant for purple though.’
‘Why do you think I like purple?’
He tried not to—he really did—but his gaze dropped to her breasts. Just for a second. He was sure she couldn’t have noticed. Prayed she hadn’t.
She tugged the neckline of her top a little higher.
Shit. Couldn’t he even take a woman out for lunch without his gut and tongue tying themselves in knots?
Quarter to two was late for lunch and only a handful of patrons were seated along the bar, but Ruby had a soft spot for him. She appeared through the kitchen doorway, retying her apron when she spotted him. ‘Paul, g’day. Grill’s still on. I can do you a steak sandwich but I’ve just turned the deep fryer off.’
‘Sounds good. I brought your belt. It’s all fixed, no charge.’
Ruby took the package and patted his cheek. ‘If only I was twenty years younger—’
He chuckled and drew Serena forward. ‘Bert wouldn’t cope without you. This is Serena. She’s designing clothes for the festival parade.’
‘Pleased to meet you, love. Veronica was talking about how wonderful your designs are just yesterday.’
Serena smiled at the cook. ‘Thanks. Nice to meet you too, Ruby.’
‘So, two steak sandwiches?’
Serena nodded and her stomach gurgled again. ‘Could you add a bit of salad on the side, if it’s not too much trouble?’
Ruby looked Serena up and down and tossed Paul a wink. ‘She’ll do. Steak and salad coming up.’ She ambled behind the counter towards the kitchen.
‘I’ll do? Um, should I know what she means?’ One arched eyebrow rose.
Ruby pushed through the swing doors to the kitchen and the smell of chips and steak and fried onions teased Paul’s nostrils.
‘Probably not.’ But the mill and all its problems took a back step as a tiny bud of optimism unfurled in his chest. He was about to feast on Ruby’s melt-in-the-mouth steak sandwich and Serena was in town for a few days. As a distraction from work, she was off the scale, but as a distraction from reality, she was just what the doctor ordered.
Did lunch count as a first date?
‘How about we swap; I’ll get the first round of drinks and you look for a clean table? Would you like a wine or beer or something else?’
‘Light beer if they have it. Thanks.’ She headed off to choose a table while he waited for Max Dooley to pour their beers.
Max set two glasses on the counter and twirled the ends of his old-fashioned handlebar moustache. ‘Hot date, Paul? If you don’t measure up, maybe she fancies a more mature man?’
Paul picked up the beers. ‘Dream on, Max. She likes the smell of leather.’
‘Lucky bugger. I’ll say this for you: you know how to pick ’em.’ He grabbed a cloth and wiped down the counter.
Paul carried two schooners to the corner table and set them on coasters. With the lunch rush over, they could chat without being disturbed. ‘You said you’re hoping to find something while you’re here. Maybe I can help. What—’
‘Oh—peace and quiet, that’s all.’ She wrapped a hand around the glass and drank a mouthful. ‘Beer is refreshing after a long drive. It’s the only thing that gets rid of the dusty taste in your mouth.’
‘Yeah.’
Steering clear of the personal, Paul racked his brain to think of another topic.
Serena lowered her glass and leaned both elbows on the table. ‘Tell me about Mindalby.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘The cotton mill, the people who work there, that sort of thing.’ Her tone was casual, the question normal, but there was an intensity in the way she leaned forward, listening as though his answer was important.
He sensed trouble ahead, trouble with a capital T, if Ms Serena Quinlan ever pinned him with the same level of intense gaze.
‘Hey, Max, get over here, ya dozy bastard.’
Paul glanced at the speaker and grinned as Percy leaned on the bar and flicked a cardboard coaster at the barman. Max finished pulling a beer and plonked it in front of his friend. ‘Quit ya grousin’, numbat.’
Paul turned back and his grin died. Serena’s cheeks were pale and her gaze darted from door to bar and back again. ‘Where—’
‘You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Eyes wide, she met his gaze, and sudden colour flooded her cheeks. Quickly, she broke eye contact and fiddled with the cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. ‘I thought—nothing.’
Pondering Serena’s strange response and abrupt dismissal, Paul checked out the few patrons lined up at the bar. Weird characters some might be, quirky even, but not one of them was scary enough to provoke that sort of reaction. ‘Don’t mind this lot. Max and his mates run an illegal still, but they’re harmless.’
‘Max—is the barman?’
‘Yeah, he’s a good bloke.’
‘Oh.’ She picked up her glass and gulped a mouthful.
Ruby delivered their meals and they ate mostly in silence. He finished his meal and was considering asking what had made her edgy when the side door flew open, banging loudly against the wall, and his younger brother stepped into the pub. Their gazes connected.
‘Paul, I’ve been looking for you.’ Hayden strode up to their table, his body tense. Tight fists and white knuckles and the grim line of his mouth set off warnings in Paul’s stomach.
‘What’s up, little brother?’ If Paul were a betting man, he’d lay odds on Hayden having heard about the creditors’ meeting. His body tensed in response, knowing his brother wouldn’t be placated by platitudes.
Not this time. This time the outcome from the meeting was dire for the entire town: farmers, tradespeople, shopkeepers—everyone was going to be affected by the findings.
‘I suppose you heard the decision?’ Paul said slowly.
‘Forget the decision and screw the accountants. That bastard is back and he’s stirring things up at the mill.’ Hayden leaned over t
he table, his face close to Paul’s.
‘Carter? I didn’t think he had the balls to—’
‘Not Carter. Frankston is back in town.’
Chapter Two
Paul hooked his fingers through the mesh fence and searched the faces of the crowd gathered at the front gates of the mill. ‘Are you sure it was Frankston?’
‘I damn well know what I saw, Paul.’ Hayden stood rigid at his side, scanning the faces of people they knew well. ‘He’s not here now.’
The gusting southerly wind had drawn the small crowd into a huddle. Warren Leadbeater, their union rep, turned to face his members. They shuffled back to give him room to speak.
‘Think about what we’re trying to do. We’re not going to let management get away with this. Our jobs, our livelihoods, they’re tied up in this mill.’ Warren pointed at loaded trucks waiting for forklifts and men to deal with their cargo. The mill appeared ready to spring to life at the flick of a switch.
Someone muttered, ‘Gas leak, my arse. Where’s that poncy Carter?’
‘Don’t hold your breath waiting for him to explain what’s going on.’ The familiar female voice added, ‘I heard that the mill won’t be reopening anytime soon. Not unless some fairy godmother comes up with the cash.’
Paul spotted the speaker and nudged Serena to join him. ‘Come on.’ Emily Handford, part-time cleaner at the mill and his own occasional cleaner, was almost unrecognisable with her pink beanie pulled low around her ears and wearing an oversized man’s jacket. He tapped her on the shoulder and she turned to him.
‘Have you heard something?’
Emily tugged the sides of her jacket together and zipped it up. ‘There was a bloke here maybe quarter of an hour ago. Reckoned we’re fools if we think the mill will operate again. Said he might buy it dirt-cheap and sell off the plant and equipment. Poser.’
‘Greg Frankston?’ Paul’s throat closed around the name and his stomach clenched as though he’d eaten a bad oyster. The mill, the people, even his brother disappeared as the face of the scammer responsible for his father’s decline filled his vision. ‘Was his name Frankston?’
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