by Cathryn Hein
‘Are you sure?’ she said.
‘Go!’
On impulse Tash hugged her mum. ‘Thanks.’
Liz hugged back just as fiercely. ‘We’re incredibly proud of you, you know that, don’t you?’
She nodded, too choked up to speak. Her family was the best.
‘Don’t worry about Patrick either. If anyone can make someone feel better, it’s you. It’s your gift.’
Tash wished she had her mum’s faith in her ability to cheer Patrick up. So far she’d been no help, and her anxiety for him was made even worse when he turned up Friday morning with serious stubble, eyes glazed and rimmed with red and a walk so sluggish she wondered when he’d last slept. He dragged a stool from under the bench and sagged onto it.
‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ she began, switching on the espresso machine, ‘you look terrible.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s up?’
He shook his head and stared blankly at the wall.
‘Patrick?’ When he didn’t answer, Tash left her side of the bench to stand in front of him. She tried to make eye contact but he refused to play. She ducked and weaved until he was forced to look at her. The utter desolation in his gaze made her take his hands and she was shocked at how cold they felt. ‘What’s happened?’
To her horror he released a sob and reached for her. Tash let him hold her, eyes wide as she waited for whatever it was affecting him to pass. His breath was laboured, his grip desperate. His face was buried in the curve of her neck. She didn’t think he was crying but it was close, which somehow made it even more heartbreaking.
‘Shit,’ he said, finally letting her go. He scrubbed his palms over his face and let his hands fall wearily into his lap. His mouth twisted in one corner. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
He let out a long sigh. ‘No, it’s not and it never will be.’
‘Has something happened to Maddy?’
‘No. She’s fine.’ He barked a bitter half-laugh. Maddy would never be fine. He shook his head, and focused on the floor. ‘It’s just me.’
Tash cupped his upper arm. The muscles flexed rigid as he abruptly rose, once more refusing to look at her.
‘I shouldn’t have come. You have things to do and I’m …’ His breathing quickened and he covered his eyes with his hand. ‘Fuck.’
‘Stay.’ She touched him again, worry tangling her insides. ‘Sit. I’ll make coffee. There’s cake too.’
He sniffed and gave a fragile smile. ‘Of course there is.’
She smiled back. ‘I also have mini vegetable quiches, rabbit and prune terrine, and homemade gravlax. All the food groups covered.’
‘I don’t even know what gravlax is.’
‘Cured salmon. It’s lovely.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Now sit.’
Tash waited until he was seated before moving away, wary that he might bolt. The embarrassment of his mini-meltdown was etched on his face along with his fatigue. He’d been sad and tired on Monday but not like this. Something had changed and Tash wished she knew what it was so she could help. It hurt to see the man she’d known from childhood, the man she knew as strong and decent and loving, so broken.
There were white chocolate and raspberry friands in the pantry. She loaded a plate with them and pushed it at Patrick. ‘Eat.’
He regarded the tiny cakes with a slight frown, like they were something unfathomable. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘Have one at least. They’re light. Barely a mouthful each.’ They were also overloaded with sugar and if Patrick hadn’t been eating like he clearly hadn’t been sleeping, he could do with the carbohydrate hit. ‘Go on.’
‘You sound like my mum.’
‘Good. Mums always know best.’
Tash busied herself with grinding beans and making coffee, but kept half an eye on Patrick. He ate a friand, chewing slowly and without enthusiasm. On another day Tash would have been indignant, but his lassitude only deepened her worry.
Tash watched him sip his coffee over the rim of her own. ‘You can talk or you can just sit. It’s up to you. I don’t mind either way.’
‘Thanks.’ He put down his cup and stared at it.
Tash left him to it. Patrick needed time to settle and work out what he wanted to do. She took a sip of coffee and returned to her preparations. ‘I’m making buckwheat blinis to go with the salmon. They’re like mini pancakes. The buckwheat gives them a wonderfully earthy flavour that goes well with the cured salmon.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten it.’
‘If you give me a few minutes, you’ll be able to try some.’
‘Where did you learn all this stuff?’ he asked, as she measured out flour and sifted it into her nan’s ceramic bowl.
‘Nan mostly.’
‘I knew your nan and she made great scones but I doubt she cured her own salmon.’
‘No. I learned that from a Swedish lady I met at Prahran Market.’
‘What? You just started chatting about it?’
Tash shrugged, but was secretly pleased he was showing interest in something at last. The hollow-eyed staring had been too awful for words.
‘Pretty much. There was a line-up for the fishmonger. We just happened to get talking. She was making gravlax for a dinner party and when I asked how she did it, Marrtje was more than happy to share. We ended up having coffee together and a lovely chat. We’re still in contact. She gave me the best recipe for Jansson’s Temptation. I’ll make it for you one day. It’s unbelievably fattening but a spoonful in your mouth is like eating a cuddle.
‘People are amazingly generous when it comes to food,’ she went on. ‘There are those who believe it’s just something we need to live, and that’s true, but food is more than a necessity. I truly believe food—the preparation of it, the sharing, the way it brings people together—can be a powerful symbol of compassion and love.’
‘Is that why you cook?’
‘Partly. I also do it because I’m curious. I haven’t had the chance to travel but I’ve explored dozens of different cultures through cooking. There’s also my greedy stomach.’ She patted her belly. ‘I like to eat.’
Tash plucked eggs from a basket and began breaking them into a jug. She’d been up since six, dashing into Pa’s to grab fresh eggs and raid his garden. Besides the blinis, she still had rough puff pastry to make for the lamb and fetta mini sausage rolls, and shortcrust cases for the crab tartlets, along with several other canapés.
Fortunately, dinner for Thom and Ceci was already prepared and in the fridge in the main house. The night before she’d stayed up slow-cooking Thom’s favourite Sri Lankan lamb curry, aware it always tasted better after a day or so. Tonight, while they caught up on news and enjoyed drinks, she’d make and stuff parathas to mop up the curry gravy, and fry spicy vegetable bhajis to stimulate their tastebuds and soak up the alcohol.
She tried not to glance at the camera while she worked. Patrick didn’t need to know he was interrupting more than her cooking, and she could film later. Blinis were fast and easy, and it wouldn’t take long to whip up another batch to camera.
‘Maddy never really cared about what she ate,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Tash, remembering. ‘She was too busy with her horses. And you.’ She eyed him as she whisked the eggs with a splash of milk. ‘You must miss her very badly.’
He threw her an angry look. ‘She’s not dead.’
Tash was unintimidated. ‘No, but she’s not the Maddy she was either.’
His anger evaporated as rapidly as it appeared. He rubbed his mouth then dropped his hands to look at his fingers. Tash found herself looking too. They were long fingers, roughened. Patrick had a real man’s hands, like Pa’s and Dad’s. Thom’s had been soft and felt nice on her skin but she couldn’t help thinking that hands like Patrick’s would feel more exciting.
She blinked. No. This was not a place she wanted to go. Ever. And what sort of person was she for thinking s
uch a thing while they were talking about Maddy and with Patrick such a mess? It was appalling.
To hide her self-disgust, Tash snatched a pan from the pantry and set it on the stove. She dumped a wodge of butter in to melt while she fetched a measuring spoon.
‘I know she’s not the same,’ said Patrick quietly. ‘I know she’s never going to get better.’
The crack in his voice made Tash forget her own stupidity. She turned off the burner and faced him, catching her breath at the plea in his eyes.
‘But I made her a promise.’
‘They were different times.’
‘So you think I’m crazy too.’
Disappointment coated every word. Disappointment and resignation, as if he’d just realised how truly alone he was. But he wasn’t alone. Patrick was surrounded by people who loved and cared for him. Including Tash.
‘I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re hurt and lost and want her back. It’s normal. Not crazy.’ She tilted her head. ‘Is this why you haven’t slept?’
‘That and other things. I just don’t know what to do. Everyone keeps telling me to move on, that it’s okay and no one will think less of me, but I can’t. I can’t fail her. It’s driving me nuts. I keep seeing her, the way she was …’ His voice broke down. He closed his eyes, agony on his face. ‘I loved her so much. And now …’ He lurched upright and strode for the door.
‘Patrick!’
But he was gone, the sliding door flung open in his wake. When Tash caught up he was leaning against the car, his head bowed.
She placed her hand on his back, feeling his heaving breath. ‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It only feels like that because you’re exhausted. Come back inside. I’ll make you a proper breakfast and afterwards you can rest. My bed’s comfortable and I can be quiet for a few hours.’
He sniffed and straightened, not looking at her. ‘Thanks, but I should get home. Dad’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Your dad will be fine but you won’t be unless you rest.’ She took his hand. ‘Come on.’
He gazed at her with watery red eyes. ‘You must think I’m such a sap.’
‘Nope.’ She tugged until he moved. ‘If you must know, I think you’re one of the most decent men I know. Except when you’re yelling at me. Then I think you’re a butthead.’
That raised a small smile.
She squeezed his fingers. ‘I’m going to look after you, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Pure self-interest.’ At his expression she laughed. ‘Don’t look so scared. Cooking for other people makes me feel good. And here at The Urban Ranger we smother goodness like we smother butter—thick and with great pleasure. Gird your loins, Patrick. You’re about to get the treatment.’
Chapter 16
Patrick woke to the rattle of an aging air conditioner, soft sheets and the scent of femininity. For a long, blissful moment he thought he was back in his rental in Emu Springs, waking to Maddy. Then the memory of the morning crashed him fully awake and he groaned and buried his face in the pillow.
What must Tash think of him, snivelling all over her like a big girl?
She’d been amazing though. Unfazed, sweet and caring. Forcing him to eat the breakfast she cooked and marching him to her room along with an order to sleep. The combination of high-calorie food, exhaustion and the comfort of her doona had him falling asleep faster than he thought possible.
Patrick rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, wondering what the time was, then blinking as he realised the roof was freckled with sparkly artwork. There were smiling moons, shooting stars trailing rainbow colours, unicorns and fairies. Despite his despondency, he smiled. Only Tash would think of decorating her bedroom ceiling so joyfully. As if sleep had to be as fun as day.
Fatigue tugged at his muscles, bringing with it the urge to curl up and sleep again. He shifted to his side and closed his eyes. His breath caught the scent of her pillow and he found himself inhaling deeper. It was like her: nice, wholesome and homely but with a touch of something else, something exotic and tempting.
The thought made Patrick sit up. He rubbed his face, the scratch of his hand against its thick stubble a condemnation of how far he’d let himself go this week. What a frigging mess. His brain felt shattered, his heart not much better. Every waking hour felt like a war. If he wasn’t wrestling with his guilt over falling out of love with Maddy, he was fighting off inappropriate thoughts towards Tash, and both battles were doing his head in.
He swung his legs to the side of the bed and glanced at Tash’s clock, an old-fashioned style with two bells at the top and a little hammer to ping between them. The face was decorated with a Friesian cow jumping over a wheel of Swiss cheese.
‘Jesus,’ he said and launched himself off the bed.
He spotted Tash through the glass door, stretching up from a small stepladder to screw a hook into the tall lattice screen that provided privacy from the main house to the flat’s terrace. The sun was shining on her, as it always seemed to be. Coco was on her haunches at the foot of the ladder, tennis ball in her mouth, regarding Tash with hopeful brown eyes. The dog dropped the ball, looked at it and back at Tash. She finished fastening the hook and smiled wryly at the dog. She stepped down, feinted a few kicks and sent the ball soaring with a hefty punt. Coco raced after it, Tash laughing as the labrador skidded so fast she almost took a tumble.
She moved the ladder along and stepped up to secure another hook. Patrick watched her for a few minutes longer, a strange full sensation building in his chest. He’d been hollow for so long that it was a weird feeling, and too much for his screwed-up head to process.
Tash smiled over her shoulder as Patrick slid open the door and stepped into the bright sun. ‘Hey, sleepyhead. Feeling better?’
‘I’m not sure better is the right word. Embarrassed, more like.’
Tash climbed down to stand in front of him. ‘You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean it.’
Which was kind of her but wouldn’t stop him feeling like crap. Patrick squinted at the sky. The sun was past overhead and heading west. ‘I can’t believe I slept for so long. Dad will probably sack me.’
‘He won’t. I called him. He says you’re to stay as long as I need.’
Patrick pressed fingers to his temples. Shit. Then he clocked what she’d said. ‘Hang on, as you need?’
‘Uh huh.’ She grinned cheekily. ‘I pleaded the dire want of a strong healthy man to help me with a bit of heavy lifting. Dad’s in Hamilton and Pa’s playing bowls, and it just so happened that you’d oh-so-conveniently popped in for a cuppa, and one shouldn’t look a gift horse and all that. I was very convincing, and your dad’s a sweetheart and said I could keep you as long as I wanted.’
Patrick was so relieved he could have kissed her, even if she did make him sound like a stray dog that had wandered in for shelter. ‘Thanks.’
She took one of his hands and squeezed it. ‘I told you I’d look after you.’
He couldn’t help it. Pathetic gratitude had him hugging her, his eyes closing as emotion welled again. Jesus, he was becoming a sook but Tash had a way of making him feel special and cared for and a dozen other feelings he couldn’t describe.
‘Right,’ he said, clearing his throat as he let her go. Tash had flushed pink with the hug, which only made him want to do it again. ‘So where’s this stuff you need carried?’
‘Oh …’ She flushed even more. ‘I may have fibbed a little to your dad about that.’ She winced. ‘Oops.’
‘There must be something I can help with.’
‘Not really.’ She eyed the garden. ‘All I had planned was to put up a few more lattice screens to cover the bits of the garden Pa and I haven’t tidied properly yet, and screw in more hooks.’
‘Why the hooks?’
‘I’m going to hang big bundles of jasmine from them. Pa’s letting me raid his vine. They’ll look pretty and smell amazing.’
‘You don’t have to. I can manage.’
But Patrick didn’t want to leave, plus he owed Tash. Big time. ‘I want to.’
Tash tapped her chin, eyeing him. ‘All right.’
An hour later, Patrick was sweating lightly from hammering star droppers and hoisting lattice. Tash was using cable ties to lash the two together, a floppy flowery hat on her head. She’d brought speakers outside and music from their teenage years was blasting through the air. Tash occasionally sang along with the choruses until she remembered she wasn’t alone and quickly shut up. Patrick didn’t mind her singing. She was surprisingly good and he liked her cheeriness. It gave him hope the morning’s meltdown wasn’t as humiliating as he feared.
‘I think this deserves a beer,’ said Tash, standing with her hands on her hips and admiring the finished screens with satisfaction. ‘Want one?’
‘Sure.’
Minutes later she was back with a pair of label-less stubbies and a bowl of what looked like dried peas. She handed him his beer, cracked the top of her own, took a good slug and flopped onto a chair, sighing happily.
Patrick took a tentative sip of his beer and then a longer one. ‘Don’t tell me—your own brew, using hops grown by some artisan you met at a market, and barley roasted to your specifications.’
She giggled. ‘Not quite. Pa’s home brew. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’ He eyed the peas.
‘Wasabi peas,’ said Tash, snatching a few up and looping them individually into her mouth like a pro. ‘Home made. Try one.’
Wasabi. All he knew about it was that it was Japanese and hot. He picked up a couple and ate, chewing warily and then coughing as pungent fumes blasted his sinuses.
‘Sorry. It was a trial mix and the coating turned out a bit hit and miss. You must have struck one of the really hot ones.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
