by Jennie Jones
Adele blew out a breath of exasperation. Rude. Downright rude.
Chapter Two
Tom Wade opened the front door and ducked as he walked inside the house. At six-four he was used to ducking his head in most indoor environments.
‘Imelda!’ he called.
‘Laundry!’
He closed the door, using the handle to lift it so that the bottom didn’t skim the stone step and jamb. He did it without thinking. He’d been doing it for years, like ducking his head.
He paused in the hallway and gave himself a mental dressing down. The Devereux woman and her kid were playing on his mind, which pissed him off. Imelda had told him of their imminent arrival but he hadn’t taken a lot of notice, although he’d remembered their names for some reason. There’d only been two times in his life where he’d failed to recognise the dangers of a situation: one had all but lost him his business—still his at the moment, but he was aware it wouldn’t be for much longer. The second time was today, in the cab of his ute, when he’d looked into the Devereux woman’s eyes and for a split second all safety precautions had failed to kick in as his heart had lurched and the short hairs on the back of his neck had risen in warning.
‘Christ,’ he muttered. Why now? More to the point—why the attraction to this woman?
She was slim, tending to thin. Long face. Fine-boned features. Fine-looking even in her simple choice of clothing, but he hadn’t detected any fragility about the woman apart from her undoubtedly surprised acceptance of his need to keep conversation to the minimum. She hadn’t been comfortable with that. There was a haunted look about her but it was way in the back of her eyes, covered up. It looked to Tom like she was used to looking after herself but somehow that slimness, her reserved approach and those bewitching green-grey eyes—full of kindness that had turned to determination when she’d recognised his lack of humour—gave him the impression she was someone for whom you watched your mouth.
He pulled his baseball cap off his head, slapped it against his thigh and tried to wipe her from his thoughts. He wasn’t sure why he was attempting to read too much into this. Not the right time to get attracted to someone. Not the right woman. And he certainly didn’t need anything fine and delicate around him.
‘Washing machine’s died on me.’
Tom looked into the kitchen as his grandmother entered from the back laundry and stopped himself from sighing. ‘You need a new one.’ He’d fixed the damned thing last month, the month before and the one before that.
‘It’s the pump.’
‘It’s thirty-five years old.’
‘It works fine. Needs a good kick now and again, that’s all.’
Tom would like to kick it all right.
‘Toaster’s gone too. I’m having to use the grill.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Imelda.’
‘Don’t swear.’
‘Let me get you new whitegoods.’
‘You can’t afford to throw your money around the way you used to. It’s the fuse.’
Tom let the conversation die. Imelda accepted very little from him anyway and he wasn’t used to talking about how much floating cash he had and didn’t want to start now. It was enough having to endure the legal issues on his plate and the occupational health and safety violation, without mentioning the bank.
‘How’d it go?’ Imelda asked.
He slapped his cap against his thigh again, his thoughts now on the recent visit to the hospital where his friend was recovering. ‘He’s not good. It’s going to take him a while to adjust.’
‘You mean accept,’ Imelda said.
‘Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘Not quite,’ Imelda said, turning for the kitchen.
Tom followed. ‘Worker’s comp people have visited.’
‘So that’s one issue dealt with.’
‘Not quite,’ Tom said dryly. Imelda switched the kettle on and got out two mugs. ‘They’re questioning the accident and the reasoning behind his failure to follow safety regs.’
‘What?’ His grandmother turned to him, leaving the kettle and the mugs.
‘It shits me but it doesn’t surprise me.’ Tom threw his cap onto the benchtop behind him, then leaned against the bench, arms folded. ‘They’re saying it was the result of his mental state—which another personal insurer originally refused to cover him for—and that’s why he hasn’t got life insurance, let alone income protection. He didn’t bother following it through.’
‘But surely his worker’s comp through your business will handle it? They’ll pay for his care, won’t they? He was an employee. It’s his due.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Tom shrugged, studying his boots, then looked up and caught Imelda’s gaze. ‘I’m selling the house.’ He uncrossed his arms and gripped the bench behind him before Imelda spoke. ‘I’m behind on the employee superannuation, Imelda. I’ve managed to cover their final pay, all the annual leave and whatever, but because the business is not running, I haven’t got income to pay their super. I could be prosecuted for that.’
‘I can help. I’ve got—’
‘Imelda, you haven’t got anything. No matter what your savings are they won’t be enough.’ And there was no way he was going to take the little his grandmother might have off her. That’s not the way it worked.
‘So you’re planning to give the rest of the money from the house sale to Scott?’
‘Yeah.’ Not that it would be enough to keep Scott forever but it would help out with physio and whatever he was going to need.
Imelda shook her head. ‘The accident wasn’t your fault, Tom.’
‘Yes, it was.’ And he’d be paying for it for the rest of his life.
‘You weren’t even there.’
‘Doesn’t matter, Imelda.’ Up until five weeks ago Tom and his business, Wade Rigging, had an accident-free record. As had Scott, his dogman, his buddy. His now-paralysed buddy.
‘She hasn’t come back to him, then?’
Tom grunted. ‘Did you expect her to?’
‘No, but it’s a disgrace, the way that woman has treated him.’
‘She left him before the accident,’ he reminded her. ‘She was never going back into that marriage, it’s just that Scott couldn’t believe that.’ Or wouldn’t. Stubborn bastard. He’d been so fixated on his soon-to-be ex-wife that he’d lost concentration. Lost himself because of lust. If Scott had been able to step back and view that relationship with clarity, he’d have discovered that he probably hadn’t been in love. He’d just been in lust. Tom had never been in love, and after seeing what had happened to his best mate, he wasn’t looking for it. Or for lust, either. Both had a way of hampering a man’s sense.
Imelda turned her attention to the mugs and the kettle, which had just switched itself off.
‘Gave your new resident a lift just now.’ He looked at Imelda’s back, waiting for a response. She threw him a quick look over her shoulder but said nothing. ‘What’s with the kid?’ He told himself that he’d only mentioned the Devereux woman to change the subject from Scott and Wade Rigging business problems. Not because he wanted to know more about her than he needed to.
‘The child doesn’t talk much.’ Imelda spooned coffee and sugar into the mugs.
‘Something wrong with her?’
‘Don’t think so. Just doesn’t want to.’
Lucky kid. Tom had been doing far too much talking over the last month. He’d like nothing better than to hand out notes stating: I don’t talk anymore. But he couldn’t. ‘She doesn’t have a vehicle?’ he asked, going back to the kid’s mother.
Imelda placed a mug of coffee on the bench. ‘She doesn’t have a husband either.’
Tom lifted his eyebrows. ‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘Far as I can tell, she’s been going solo for the whole of the kid’s life.’
Tom picked up his coffee and sank onto a chair at the small Formica-topped table he’d been sitting at since he was younger than the non-talking kid. Since he’
d been able to climb up and onto a chair. Since his mother had left him with her mother. ‘So it’s the new start and the happy ever after she’s here for?’ he asked, and reminded himself that his interest in the Devereux woman wasn’t any higher than his interest in the others who’d be moving to Dulili in the next year. He was just asking a question.
‘I told her you’d stop by and check out the house.’
Tom slumped against the back of the kitchen chair. ‘Why? I’m not around enough.’
‘Enough will be enough time to check out the house.’
Imelda treated him like he was still twelve, and had done so since he’d turned thirteen, but he was used to it. It was like ducking his head or lifting the door before closing it. ‘I’ll go over tomorrow.’
***
Adele paused, hacksaw in hand, shower rail pipe over the rim of the bath and foot on the pipe to steady it when Ali tugged on her shirt and whispered, ‘Door, Mummy.’ Ali nodded to the hallway as someone knocked on the front door. Adele hadn’t heard anything through the grating noise of the saw shredding metal but her daughter must have. Ali went back to her cardboard boxes in the corner of the bathroom.
‘I take it you’re home!’
Adele straightened, lifting the pipe from the bath. The male voice reverberated through her even though it had to reach her through two walls. ‘In here! The bathroom.’
She barely had time to brush stray strands of hair behind her ears before the chauffeur from yesterday arrived in the doorway. He took a brief look around the bathroom then ducked beneath the doorframe and stepped inside. ‘Sorry to barge in but Imelda wanted me to take a look at the house.’
‘Why?’ Another strand of hair fell and Adele pushed it firmly behind her ear. ‘I mean …’ She hadn’t meant to sound rude. Perhaps they wanted to do an inventory, to note the condition, like they did with rental flats.
‘To check that everything works,’ he said, glancing to where Ali was sitting on the floor, intent on building a cardboard dollhouse, balancing a box on top of another and struggling with the roll of packing tape Adele had given her. Her neighbour—if that’s what he was—moved to Ali and took hold of the top box, holding it in place for her as she cut through the packing tape with her plastic, blunt-edged scissors. It took her a while. He didn’t speak to Ali, and Ali only acknowledged his presence by letting him hold onto the boxes. Once she’d cut the tape he looked over his shoulder at Adele. ‘Like your electrics. Dripping taps.’
‘Oh—thank you but everything’s working fine. Um …’ Adele stumbled over her words, still in a surprised state that her possible neighbour had walked into her house and taken up all the oxygen, not to mention the space. He was an overly tall man and his shoulder span went with his height: huge. ‘I don’t know your name.’
His face creased in a frown. ‘Tom,’ he said, as though he hadn’t understood why she wouldn’t know. ‘Tom Wade.’
‘Hello, Tom Wade.’
‘Hello yourself. Adele, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and that’s Ali you’re helping.’
He glanced at the top of Ali’s head. ‘Hello, kid.’ He didn’t wait for a response before turning his gaze back to Adele. This time, he did look her up and down. Quickly, as though he thought eyeing her fast might not be noticed. He was wrong. Every nerve ending in her body lit up like a flame with his swift appraisal.
She turned, hiding her confusion and the physical reaction to him by going back to the pipe and the hacksaw. She raised her foot and steadied the pipe on the edge of the bath. She sensed him come up behind her and wondered if he was now appraising her backside, or the shape of her raised thigh in her ivory cotton jeans. The denim in the charity shops hadn’t appealed. They were dark and heavy and most had elasticated waists. At thirty-one, Adele wasn’t ready for elastic.
She placed the saw into the groove she’d already made in the pipe then turned the pipe in order to saw through the next bit. She half expected him to say ‘Here, let me do that’ but he didn’t. He did, however, take hold of the pipe, steadying it over the rim of the bath. It made sawing through it easier since he seemed to have the strength of a vice. The end snapped off and fell onto the old towel she’d put into the bath to protect the enamel.
He straightened and looked around the dingy bathroom. Adele had found pots of paint in the back laundry area. Half-full, a bit old, but in neutral colours and still usable. She’d already painted the bathroom a golden-beach colour and with the windows open and the warm spring breeze, it had dried in a couple of hours so she’d made a start on the shelves.
‘You put those up?’ he asked, taking the two steps it took him to reach the mirrored wall tiles that had been glued onto the wall above the stand-alone sink. She’d need shelves beneath or beside too. She doubted her skills would reach as far as building a cupboard but she could do shelves and she planned on putting up a curtain around the sink, to hide the clutter of female bathroom necessities.
‘Yes,’ Adele said, slipping the shower curtain rail into two plastic spring-ends but watching him from the corner of her eye.
He studied the two shelves below the tile-mirror then angled back as though gauging the level. It must have met his standard because he turned, leaned against the sink and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.
Adele stepped onto the stepladder. He moved immediately and came forwards to place a big hand on the frame, steadying it.
‘They aren’t bad houses,’ he said.
‘It’s a great house. It’s got potential to be greater.’ Since the stepladder was placed at the centre of the bath, she had to carefully lift the pole to the height she wanted in order to make sure the spring-clips didn’t fall off.
‘I’ve got a pile of stuff you can have,’ he told her.
She was aware he wasn’t looking at her; he was looking at Ali and her cardboard dollhouse and she was grateful for that. His presence in her bathroom was overpowering. Not because he was in a bad mood today—not that she could detect—but the character of the man seemed to pierce through her skin to her veins and saturate all oxygen in her blood. ‘Like what?’ she asked as she placed one end of the pole against the wall that housed the bathtub and shower head, pushed against the spring then slid the other end against the opposite wall.
‘That’s straight,’ he said, and Adele looked down and into his eyes. They were blue but so dark they were almost navy.
He wasn’t so much handsome as enigmatic, which kind of made him appear handsome anyway. His brown hair was too long but it suited him. His features were currently set in a concentrated, almost hard-bitten mask. For some reason he was hiding any gentleness he might possess. He also looked like he’d forgotten how to smile.
‘What stuff?’ she asked, stepping off the ladder.
He went back to the place by the sink, hands in his pockets. ‘Sanding gear, plastering gear. You can have it.’
‘You don’t need it?’ For whatever your business might be? He wasn’t an office worker, his hands were too roughened, but neither was he a farmer type. The pinch between his eyes told Adele he was used to a lot of paperwork. Maybe too much paperwork.
‘It’s spare. You can have it,’ he said again. ‘I meant to bring it over before you moved in but something came up.’
Whatever the something was, he wasn’t happy about it. ‘If you’re sure,’ she said, ‘then I’ll accept. I promise to put it to good use.’ She didn’t have enough money to spend on fancy tools, and she had only the most basic of equipment. She figured that as he’d offered, he meant it to be accepted.
He lifted a shoulder. ‘It’s your house now. You don’t need to prove anything to me or Imelda.’
‘Maybe not, but I have to prove myself to the town.’ She gathered her tools and put them into a cardboard box she was using for her collection. She’d found a few things in and around the house and presumed she was allowed to use them, since nobody had taken them. ‘So Imelda owned all the houses?’ she asked, fishing for information. Th
is was obviously the grandson. Better to get it from the source than from gossip.
‘My great-great-grandfather, Thompson Wade, helped build the town. He owned the street. Over the years the properties were handed down. My grandfather rented the houses out. Then he kicked the bucket, people started moving out of town, so Imelda lost her income.’
‘And her husband.’
Another shrug and even a smile. ‘She wasn’t too concerned about that part.’
Adele couldn’t take her eyes off a face that had changed so much with a slight smile. It softened him; lessened the marks of whatever burdens he was carrying. A few seconds later, she forced herself to look away. Maybe she’d gathered too much information too soon and although a story—and an opinion on the Wades—was beginning to form, it was Tom’s smile that undid her. It was a slow, sloping smile that crinkled the tanned skin around his mouth and reached his navy-blue eyes. A smile that seemed to unravel her with unbearable slowness, peeling away the reserve inside her.
‘I need a roof.’
Adele started at the sound of Ali’s voice. She’d forgotten her child was in the room. She focused on Ali, newly astonished to find her daughter looking up at Tom. She held a large sheet of art card up to him. It wobbled in her hands.
Tom stared down at her, his frown suggesting focus, not annoyance. Nothing like the frowns Adele had received from her father on the occasions she forgot she was a nuisance.
Tom didn’t speak and neither did he look at Adele. Adele held her breath, willing a mental telepathy between them so she could tell him to answer. Please don’t look to me for confirmation. Please just answer her. Ali spoke to Adele quietly and only when necessary, like when she needed to get her mother’s attention. She was used to hearing her mother explain to people that Ali didn’t speak often, but Adele never—never—gave excuses in front of Ali. Adele had guessed that Tom had been told about Ali not talking. He had spoken to her briefly when he first arrived, just saying hello, but he had turned as though not expecting a response. If he ruined this gift now—and it was a gift, but he wouldn’t know that—Ali would resume her silence, going back to her own world where she watched through the window of her mind.
