by Jennie Jones
He stopped in the hall, returned to the kitchen and moved so close to her that she was pressed with her back up against the wall. He took her face in his hands and kissed her.
She quivered. Just a touch from him, let alone a kiss, was enough to send ricochets of pleasure through her.
She kissed him back, eyes closed—because they closed automatically whenever he pleasured her—but she managed to remember to keep one ear alert for Ali.
He released her mouth but not her face. His hands were rough and warm on her cheeks. ‘Beautiful woman,’ he said softly ‘You’re a beautiful woman, and a fantastic mother.’
He took his hands from her face and walked out of the kitchen.
She stayed against the wall, bracing herself by placing her palms on it. The front door opened, then closed.
There was something wrong, and to her mind, filled with hope as it was, it had to be because he was about to leave.
She pushed from the wall. She pulled her hair out of its knotted bun and ran her fingers through it. She shook her head, closed her eyes and took three breaths. Then she moved into the hall. There were night-time rituals to be dealt with and no matter how sleepless the night ahead of her was going to be, Adele Devereux was used to doing what Adele Devereux had to do, regardless of ill-fated hopes that stuck to the heart of the Adele Devereux she’d like to be: the woman who was cherished. The woman who had a loving husband. Or just a loved man who didn’t leave.
‘Ali!’ she called. ‘I’m home.’
‘I’m in bed, Mummy.’
She made her way down the hall towards Ali’s bedroom and found she had to touch the walls on her way, so that she didn’t tremble so much that she fell. ‘Have you brushed your teeth, sweetheart?’
Chapter Twelve
It was done. He’d sold the palace in Canberra. He’d given his accountant the go-ahead to finalise the superannuation payments, and he’d given his lawyer the task of preparing for the legal necessaries that would see most of the remaining money going to Scott. His lawyer thought he was mad. Tom thought he’d go mad if Scott refused. Scott still hadn’t spoken to anyone, not even the doctors. He was locked in his own painful, mental anguish and Tom couldn’t blame him. It hardened his resolve to help his friend, whether his friend wanted it or not.
One outcome he was reasonably happy about was the recent telephone call to Maxwell, his old business competitor who’d bought up all Wade Rigging’s equipment at way below cost-price. He’d managed to tether his tongue during the conversation but Maxwell hadn’t hidden the glee in his tone as Tom had asked him—he wasn’t going to use the term ‘begged’, although it had felt like he’d done just that—how many Wade Rigging employees Maxwell could take on. Thirteen. So nine were still out. Whether he’d been right to do so or not, Tom had pushed the family men Maxwell’s way first. He couldn’t take the thought of them not being able to buy their kids an ice cream. Two of the four women he’d employed were also being taken on by Maxwell—the smug bastard had said he’d put them in his secretarial team. Tom didn’t have anything against secretaries—his own had been a powerhouse—but the women Maxwell was happily demoting had been Tom’s transport and logistic experts. Hopefully, they’d stuff up his banking and give half his money to charity.
‘Drink your coffee,’ Ali said. ‘Or it’ll go cold.’
‘Okay, kiddo.’ He picked up his mug and sipped. It was already lukewarm, but he make a show of drinking it. Adele was in the back room of the café talking to the owners.
Ali had been quiet up until about ten minutes ago, but Tom hadn’t pushed to make her talk to him. He didn’t want to head back into the conversation he’d started the night before about baddies, not unless she wanted to open up the subject. Which he’d known she wouldn’t want to do because he’d been off-track with his diagnosis and had likely frightened the kid. He hadn’t cracked any silly jokes or made any offbeat comments, because he wanted her to know that she was safe with him, and he figured the only way to do that was by showing her, not telling her.
Imelda hadn’t come with them this morning. Tom hadn’t thought it necessary. They’d been seen together around town a few times now, and everyone probably knew that he picked the kid up from school. If Imelda was asked, or if she heard rumours about a relationship going on down Thompson Street, she’d squash them with a lift of her eyebrow.
He should have told Adele what had happened last night, but he hadn’t. He’d made a blunder, had barked up the wrong tree, thinking for a second that he had the answer. Nothing new had been discovered during the conversation except that a smart little girl had the ability to make Tom Wade recognise that his ego had grown a lot bigger than it should.
The responsibility he’d taken on with Ali crowded all other responsibilities. Helping out was one thing, leaving before the job was finished was anathema to his usual work ethic.
He shifted on his chair and picked up his mug again. How much longer before he had to leave Dulili?
On top of his fondness for Ali and his regard for Adele, he was worried about Imelda. She’d changed, but he wasn’t sure how. She was acting like she was in the middle of a mid-life crisis, which was pretty damn strange considering she was seventy-four.
He had forty years to go before he was Imelda’s age. She’d be gone by then and what would Tom be doing? Same-old, same-old probably. Although he reckoned on being a sight wealthier by then than he was now. Would Imelda have rid herself of the grief she talked about by the time she passed on? And if she hadn’t, what did that say? That life was too bloody hard, even for the most determined? Is that why his mother had done herself in, or whatever had happened to her? He was imagining suicide. What else could it have been? She’d obviously been depressed—no wonder, living in the same house as Samuel Wade most of her life—but had she fought it, whatever ‘it’ was?
Would Tom fight if he had an ‘it’ to get over?
He watched Ali pick the melting marshmallows out of her hot chocolate and pop them, one by soggy one, into her mouth.
Yeah, he’d fight. If he’d been Ali’s father, he’d have fought the world. Fought for Ali.
So, okay then. He’d stay to fight for Ali, and he’d continue to fight for Scott over the telephone and via legal correspondence until it became time to definitely leave town and start again with another business, another decade of hard graft with disappointments and the occasional win. It was the wins that would eventually see him regain his place in the working world. He didn’t care about losing his house. That’s what some people did for each other. Just because he had the impression that no bastard would fight for him didn’t mean he had to sink to their level of thoughtlessness. One day Scott would come out of the ‘it’ he was currently buried in, and Ali would talk and make friends and live a normal life. And Tom would be gone, carrying on with the same-old, same-old weekly grind.
He looked up as Adele came through to the café from the back room, a smile so wide on her beautiful face that his heart did that weirdo flip. He was getting used to it, slowly.
What would Adele do? Who would fight for Adele?
He half-stood when she reached their table and pulled a chair out next to Ali.
‘I really am a spectacularly smart and savvy business woman,’ she said as she sat.
‘Really?’ Tom asked, a smile forming to clear his worries. The woman was a blast of sunshine in the drizzle-grey sky of his life.
‘This town is lucky to have me,’ she proclaimed.
‘It is.’ He couldn’t have agreed more if he’d said it himself. Ali was lucky to have her. Imelda was lucky to have her around. And Tom? He was lucky to have Adele too. While he was here.
Relief coursed through him, yet again, that she hadn’t taken his odd mood last night the wrong way. He’d been the one to suggest morning tea at the café today. It was his way of apologising without words. He glanced at Ali again, licking her fingers.
‘They’ve got no use for the back room,’ Adele continued while m
opping up a hot-chocolate spill around Ali’s glass and saucer. ‘So I’ve persuaded them to rent it out to us on a commission basis.’ She beamed at Tom. ‘Ten per cent of each pamphlet sale.’
‘That’s peanuts.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m smart. They didn’t refuse because it’s a worthy cause, and it opened up further avenues of business talk for everyone.’
Tom laughed. ‘I’ll give you the number of my lawyer. You can handle him from now on.’
‘No, really,’ she said, her smile disappearing as a professional-looking frown creased her brow. ‘We’ve come up with an idea to sell local sweet goods. Homemade fudge, toffee, biscuits or whatever. We’ll use the small funds we’ve got left, after the cost of producing the template for the pamphlet, to buy chic, trendy packaging—wholesale—with Dulili Historic Society stickers. The café will take fifty per cent of those sales and the rest will go to the good people who make the lollies and sweet treats.’ She lifted a finger. ‘Unless I can persuade them to donate their fifty per cent to the historic society.’
‘In which case?’ Tom asked.
‘In which case, we’ll grow the society via a webpage and make all our findings available to genealogical societies around the world, and we’ll also be able to pay for the coffee-table book faster.’
‘You’re a whiz, all right.’
‘It’s Imelda who’ll be the whiz—if she can persuade her publisher friend to help out by lowering costs. He’s interested in the book and he mentioned that he might be able to get it into the bookstores. That’s who the society will be thanking. Imelda Wade.’
***
Adele had tried to stay out of Tom’s way over the last four days as much as possible, and she was grateful for the full-time involvement in the town’s historic society, and for her two days a week of work for the school. She’d also managed to mow her back lawn, create garden beds that were just waiting to be planted, and paint Ali’s bedroom—golden-sand again, but it was a gentle, warming colour.
They hadn’t spent any romantic time together since before Tom had babysat Ali. Although he had been the one to take her rubbish to the tip, and they’d tidied up the front garden on the middle house—without mentioning his mother or the newspaper article.
She’d insisted on paying him the petrol money to take the rubbish to the tip, which had earned her a sardonic Tom grin. But he’d taken it and pocketed the dollars. Then he’d bought her and Ali dinner at the pub—which defeated the purpose of paying her own way, but he’d insisted. And he’d made Ali laugh. And what else could Adele do but be grateful to him for that?
‘You’re busy,’ Cath Foster said.
Adele looked up from the stack of buff-coloured folders. ‘I like being busy.’ She glanced at the shelving unit behind her, now quarter-full of neat, tidy, alpha-numeric folders. ‘Filing keeps my brain occupied, believe it or not.’ Although it hadn’t stopped her thoughts of Tom.
‘Oh, I do believe it.’ Cath sank into the swivel chair at her desk and kicked her shoes off. ‘But I mean really busy. Not just with your two days a week in the office. I understand you’ve got big business deals underway with sweet manufacturers and book publishers.’
Adele laughed. ‘Sarah Pratchett, Evelyn Mitchell, and a few others. They’re spreading the word and I think they’ve already got a dozen eager bakers on their list.’
‘Just as well so many have stepped up,’ Cath continued. ‘I don’t think you should take on too much, Adele.’
‘Everybody is working hard. Everyone is taking on so much. I’m not going to be the one slacking.’
‘I doubt you’ve ever had a slack bone in your body.’ Cath rose, and glanced out the office window at the yard where the children were on their lunch break. ‘I have ulterior motives for asking you not to take on too much more.’ She flicked the switch on the kettle and organised two cups and saucers and the coffee tin. ‘I don’t want you leaving me. I need you.’ She nodded at the shelfing. ‘I really need you.’
‘I won’t be resigning, Cath. I love this job—and I need the income.’
‘Good.’ Cath poured the water into the coffee cups. ‘I heard on the grapevine that they’re considering letting you take on the house now, as opposed to waiting the full twelve months.’
‘Really?’ Adele accepted the coffee Cath handed her. ‘I’ve only been here just over a month.’
‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is the commitment you’ve shown. The Project Committee own that house, they can do what they like with it. And they want you to buy it. Small weekly payments, no interest. A bit like renting to buy.’
‘It would be fantastic. Is Imelda aware? Since it was originally her house.’
‘Pleased as, apparently. She probably suggested it.’
‘It’s wonderful, Cath. I’d feel secure, you know?’
‘I do know. Nothing worse than insecurity breaking the backbones of the best people. Do you know what Imelda has planned for Thompson Street? Gossip’s flying faster than a Boeing 747.’
Adele shook her head. ‘Afraid not. She’s only asked me to help do up the front gardens.’
‘I suppose she’ll let us know, when she’s ready. Always been the type to keep things close, has Imelda. What about Tom? How’s it going with Ali?’
‘Marvellous. She talks to him all the time.’
Cath cleared her throat. ‘Since we’re chatting as friends, I might mention that as her teacher—although I’m talking now as your friend—I caught her looking over another girl’s shoulder this morning and I’m pretty sure she was evaluating the poster the girl was painting. When young Lisa turned to Ali, Ali smiled.’
Hope ballooned in Adele’s chest. ‘She did?’
‘Ali didn’t respond though. She went back to her own seat. But your friend thinks it was a vitally important moment.’
‘So do I, Cath.’ She’d never be able to thank Cath enough for being her friend. Ali was still on the eternal waiting list to see the regional school psychologist, and in that time Ali had changed. Without Cath’s small snippets of classroom goings-on, Adele wouldn’t know what ballooning hope felt like. Neither would she be able to thank Tom enough for just being Tom. For returning to town for Ali. The only days he didn’t now pick her up from school were the days Adele worked in the office.
‘So what are Tom’s plans?’ Cath asked, and Adele halted the need to look away from her friend.
‘Not sure. I suppose he’ll be heading for Canberra soon.’ He hadn’t said. Not a word. Not even about his business issues or how his friend Scott was doing. He’d clammed up, a bit like Ali had done six months ago. The pressure must be getting to him, and Adele needed to forgive him for not being absurdly in love with her.
Cath unwrapped a sandwich that she’d taken from her lunchbox, pulled a plate from the cupboard that was used as the kitchen and plonked herself at her desk again. ‘Someone in town mentioned an idea for a festival. Apparently people think it might help bring our surrounding neighbours over to Dulili to spend their money.’
‘What sort of festival?’
‘Hasn’t been decided but a big one. Fun parks, races, sheep-trials, haystack art. And I doubt anybody will take on a task that big, but we were discussing ways of bringing people back to town.’ She chewed her sandwich. ‘Sorry,’ she said after swallowing. ‘Not bring people back—that’s unlikely to happen. I meant bring new people into town.’
Adele pushed the folders away and sat at her desk, picking up her own lunchbox. ‘It’s a shame that the people still in town don’t see their relatives very often.’
‘They moved to the bigger towns or the cities in order to find work. Now they don’t have much time—or the money—for holidays back home.’
‘Still.’ Adele unwrapped her sandwich. ‘Perhaps the festival might bring them back for a holiday.’
‘Maybe. But I doubt the idea will grow, let alone eventuate.’
Adele bit into her cheese and salad sandwich, thinking about what Sarah Pra
tchett had said regarding Imelda. ‘She asked me how often my children visited.’
Maybe Imelda had an idea up the sleeve of her mannish checked shirt. The woman had resources, hidden but there and available when she deemed the time for disclosure appropriate. Maybe Imelda would also make something for the little historic society shop. Her vases, or paintings? In fact, Imelda could design stickers for the sale goods.
She caught herself in time, before she voiced this notion to Cath. Adele wasn’t supposed to know about Imelda’s artistic history—whatever it had been.
***
‘I can’t thank you enough, Tom.’
‘What for? Making love to you?’ Tom smiled down at his beautiful, shy woman, still lying beneath him. His body still warmed from hers.
She slapped him playfully on his back. ‘I thought I’d made love to you this time.’
He kissed her. ‘We did it together.’ But she hadn’t been the one to suggest it, and he’d been almost tongue-tied when he’d asked her if he could take her to bed, not knowing what her response to him might be. ‘What is it you’re thanking me for?’ he asked. They’d done the going-out stuff with Ali. They’d sorted out a few front gardens on Thompson Street, but Tom had made the excuse of business to back himself out of more. They hadn’t slept together for five days.
‘For being honest,’ she said with a simplicity that suggested she’d thought about this a lot. ‘A woman couldn’t ask for more from a good man.’
‘Honest?’ He curved his mouth to a smile she’d interpret as suggestive, instead of what it was: apprehension. ‘For honestly liking sex with you? For honestly liking the kissing and touching, and the secretive smiles? Hell, that’s nothing. Think no more on it.’ He was falling too hard for this woman. He’d moved from lust to—well, a kind of love, he supposed.
‘I know how hard things are for you,’ she said, her hand curving over his shoulder in a protective sweep of softness. ‘I’m surprised you’re still in town, actually.’
‘Oh?’ He wasn’t ready for this conversation. ‘I’ve got stuff to do here. I’m a bit concerned about Imelda. There’s Ali, although she seems a bit more open recently.’
