They rounded a bend and Thomas’s boom began again, a finger jabbing here and there as the buildings came into view.
“That there is the house where we live and down there opposite is the restaurant. Down that way is the…”
Clancy had tuned out. She gazed across at the old homestead with its huge verandah and its straggling grapevine draped over the front of it. Nothing extraordinary there. It was the restaurant that caught her attention, and the dilapidated sign spanning across the front of it.
It was enormous. It stood off the ground like a shearing shed. A ramp angled up to a double doorway. Ancient corrugated iron, thick timber struts and beams and generous windows. She couldn’t wait to see the fit-out inside.
“…was the original shearing shed so I gutted it and…”
There’d been an attempt at a garden to pretty the place up, the corral- like fence in the front now protecting only the weeds from kangaroos and wallabies. Plastic tables and chairs were stacked on a lean by the back of it.
As they drove past, she turned to see more. There’d been sandstone pavers laid, and an outdoor fireplace, and something which resembled a wood-fired oven.
“…then the kitchen itself was a bit of a shonk, but I eventually got him to pass it, you know, to keep in theme with what…”
Under the shed itself she could see a jumble of equipment, more chairs, and generally a heap of junk stuck out like the proverbial sore toe. She imagined it would all be loaded into a truck in the next day or so and removed. Likewise, someone would tidy up the garden and maybe deliver some new outdoor furniture. That plastic stuff was really tacky.
A creep of unease spread though her still queasy stomach. Something on the edge of her subconscious nudged a question forward, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.
“…and the heating proved to be a no-show, but we’re used to that out here. Bit breezy in the real winter, but it’s hardly that now. I’ve got plans for the…”
The vehicle skewed toward the homestead. He boomed on, but she wasn’t listening. What the homestead had hidden from view, until they pulled up, was the spread of leafy vines, which stretched for what seemed like miles in front of her. The hills behind the house were covered in vines as far as the eye could see.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she breathed.
“What? Yes. But a lot of back-breaking work has gone into that beautiful, and a lot more back-breaking work is still to be done. And now the bloody bottom’s dropped out of the market, we’ve got to take steps to ensure we can get over the line and stay there.”
The glut of grapes in the industry this year was no secret. Yet panning ahead of her were hectares of fruit not far from the picking. She felt another tingle of apprehension. “You won’t be pulling up the vines?”
“Jee-sus, no. People still want their wine but I reckon we’ve neglected another area of revenue.” He thrust his chin towards the barn-like building. “The restaurant.”
The vehicle came to a sudden full stop and he launched himself out before she could even unbuckle her seat belt.
“Get yourself over to the restaurant. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
“Right,” she muttered, and stepped out of the car.
She stretched, winced at the throb in her temples. Should have had a big glass of water at the pub. She pulled the clip from her hair, shook her head and earned another throb, then gathered the unruly lot into a twist and re-clipped it.
She headed for the building, over a stretch of cleared land, her feet sinking into soft sand and dirt mixed with gravel. It made the going hard. She wondered how patrons dealt with it – if it was in fact the car park for the restaurant.
On closer inspection, the ‘restaurant’ really did resemble more a shed than anything else. And it looked as if it had been neglected for a lot longer than a year. As she stepped on to the ramp, a plank of wood gave way under her weight. She yelped, her foot crunching through soft rotting timber, which scraped the inside of her leg above her boot.
Clancy reefed her foot out of the hole, balanced on the other foot and clutched a wobbly handrail. “This is not a good start.” She steadied herself, bent down to examine her leg.
“Doesn’t look like it,” a male voice piped up beside her. She jumped afresh.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Greg Thomas.” He bent and checked the few timbers ahead of them, shook the rail. “Didn’t think they’d be this brittle. Reckon these few’ll hold. Are you okay?”
Clancy gripped the outstretched hand which guided her up a metre or two. “Yes, I am, thanks. I’m Clancy Jones. The new cook.”
“Good to have you on board. I take it the old man is meeting us over here?”
When Clancy finally met his eyes, she’d already gazed over big feet encased in solid working boots, lean legs in blue jeans, a broad chest and a stomach draped with an old flannelette shirt over a pale grey T-shirt. Wisps of ginger chest hair curled at the base of his neck. His hair was deepest auburn, his face a younger, sharper version of Mac Thomas. But those eyes. Blue of blue of blue. Piercing, and strange, as if they looked at you from a different perspective. And not a good one.
“Who?”
“Dad. He said he was meeting us here?”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“All right, so you and I may as well go on inside and I’ll show you around.” He smiled at her.
Warning bells were clanging. It was a brilliant smile, dazzling in its effect, fake, and almost leery.
Her head pounded. Oh God, this was the son and heir. This was also looking like she’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
She followed him up the ramp aware at any moment she could plunge through and break her neck, so she stepped carefully and at a much less enthusiastic pace than he set.
At the door inside, she was a little dismayed to note the whole internal floor was timber. “Oh no,” inadvertently escaped her.
“Don’t worry about this floor. We’ve checked it over. It’s fine.”
“The ramp…?”
“Was also due for replacement but the tradesman never returned.”
“Your father said there was a function at the end of the week.”
He nodded. “Over this way.”
Clancy followed him to the back of the huge room. She took in the exposed timbers of the ceiling, cobwebs draping many metres below where they originated and wasp and swallow nests dotting every mitre she could see. At times a pungent aroma wafted up from the floor.
There was a short wall of timbers in front of her, a gate of sorts and then some pens beyond, all smeared and splashed with stains of light and dark.
“This is a shearing shed.” She looked around her, dismayed. Bewildered.
“Yep. Not used as that now of course. This,” he turned and spread his arms wide, “is the restaurant.”
“I missing something here.” Perhaps dehydration had killed off more than a few brain cells; like maybe her eyesight. There was nothing in here. “So, where do you intend to have the function?” Where was the pristine, stainless steel kitchen with a huge gas cooktop, and state-of-the-art chargrill, and freezers and a coolroom and a stylish but snappy bar and—
His grin dropped away. “Here, of course.”
“How?”
“That’s your job.”
Clancy began to see where this was going. “I don’t think so. I’m a chef, not an interior designer of shearing sheds.”
Greg Thomas stepped into her space. The sudden glare backed her up a pace. At the same time Mac Thomas lurched into the shed and marched over to them.
“Don’t get your knees in a knot. The whole new fit-out is due tomorrow.” He kept booming. “We’ve had it decked out as a restaurant before, I told you that. But it just got a bit untidy, ‘specially when we put the sheep back in. You’re gaping.”
Clancy closed her mouth, turned away. “The whole fit-out... you mean that junk under the floor is the old—”
“S’right. It
’s gonna be a busy place tomorrow with the tradies in. I’ve made bloody sure every tradie known to man will be on deck to get cracking.”
Clancy turned to stare out the huge window space along the walls. “Glaziers...?”
“Yep. And plumbers and sparkies and cabinet makers and the furniture truck.”
“Four working days left up to Christmas Day and you don’t have a restaurant.”
“S’right. You’ll see, we’ll get you there.”
Clancy rounded on him. “It’ll take a week to prepare a Christmas function and I haven’t even got a kitchen. I took the job expecting to walk in and begin work. I can’t order anything without a storeroom, or a coolroom or kitchen benches or—”
“Hey! We’ll get it done.” Mac Thomas shoved a gnarly finger at her. “Your job is to go over my menu and get prepared.”
“Dad.”
Clancy frowned and waved her hand around. “Where am I going to work while you outfit this shed?”
Mac Thomas swung his arm towards the back corner. “Over there. We’ll get a desk in. You’ll be right.”
“A desk.”
“Dad.”
“Mr Thomas, if you haven’t got a restaurant ready to go, functioning and clean, fully stocked—”
“Your job is to get it ready once the tradies are done. They’ll be finished by sundown tomorrow.” Mac Thomas turned and clomped away.
“What about staff?” She followed him. “What about—”
He didn’t bother to turn around but boomed over his shoulder. “I’ll bring my menu. Be at the house at two pm. I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.”
Clancy stopped following as Mac Thomas hurled himself out of the shed. She stood a moment or two watching as his uneasy gait crabbed its way across the paddock, small puffs of dust billowing at his feet. She turned to look at Greg. “What the hell—?”
Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Once you answered the ad, he just went ahead and started to order everything.”
Clancy was shaking her head. “Uh, I didn’t sign on for this. I need to speak to your father. I can’t do this without a kitchen even on the ground yet. Four days – barely that, and the worst week of the year for getting what you need in time.”
“It’s all under control.” Red blotches glowered on his cheeks.
Clancy thought at first that he might have been embarrassed. Well, so he should be, they both should be. “I need to get your father to take me back to the hotel. I’ll get the bus back to the ferry. This just isn’t going to work. Not only for me, but for you as well.” Though how she thought she’d find a place to live, get work and start all over back in town was just a bit beyond her at the present moment. Her insides were parched, including her brain.
The suffocating air, thick with the smell old lanoline and sheep piss had her head spinning.
Greg ducked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just wait until tomorrow. It’ll all happen then.” He looked at her, anger evident in his eyes. “You can prepare at the house kitchen. It’s not brand new, but everything works. There’s a big coolroom there. Think about it.” The red blotches paled. “We need to do this.”
She took another sweep of the huge area, pressed a forearm to her forehead to mop the perspiration. She frowned. “Why not do it at the pub? You own that, don’t you?”
“Already suggested that.” He kicked at something under his boot. “Dad does things on impulse. Drives the bank manager crazy, shuffling money here and there, but he was so excited you were on board—”
“He didn’t tell me everything I needed to know.”
Greg stared at her. “Thing is, this is our last shot.”
Clancy’s heartbeat escalated. “What?”
“This has to work or nothing. He’s right down to the wire, mortgaged to the hilt and has a legal battle on his hands over the land.”
“Stop.” Clancy held up her hands.
“We can pay you – that’s no problem. We just need the place rolling by New Year, to show it’s viable. We already have forty-five firm bookings for Christmas lunch, all paid in advance.”
He tried a smile but Clancy was on to him. There were agendas here and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her either.
As if she was prey or something.
Noo-noo radar was in overdrive and it was never wrong. And she was tired, wrung out after last night’s useless fun and boring games after the blow-up with her father. Maybe her perspective was skewed.
She was also broke and homeless and this was not going to be a good way out of that predicament.
She weighed up her options as best she could. Had she said she wanted a challenge?
Don’t wish too hard for what you want...
She rubbed her face, wiped her hands down her sides and felt Berry’s card in her pocket. Berry. Green eyes. She shook her head to dispel the distraction and tried to recall their conversation earlier in the bar. Hadn’t he said something about working for him if it didn’t pan out here?
She looked at Greg Thomas. “It’s the twenty-first today. If the place is not fully operational on the morning of the twenty-third I’m gone. That’s electricity connected, gas connected, clean running water, ovens, cook tops, deep fryers...” She counted off her fingers.
“I get it.” He nodded at her. “It will be, don’t worry. Thanks.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.” She was busy trying to figure out what should happen first, the menu and orders for food to save time, or should she wait to see if the fit-out made it across the line then go mad on the twenty-third. If it worked out.
“If you need a hand...” His voice trailed off, but his leery gaze didn’t.
She stopped short of telling him to get the hell away from her. His strange blue gaze was on her face. “Where are my quarters, please? I need to get changed before I meet your father again.”
He ducked his head once more. “Uh, a room in the main house. I’ll show you.” He turned on his heels.
“Wait a minute.” She was talking to his back. “I was told I had a self-contained cabin on the property.”
“I told Dad he shouldn’t have offered that. It’s in worse shape than this.” He waved a hand behind him. “A room in the main house. Come on.”
Clancy stared after him, the creep of uncertainty spreading inside.
Chapter Three
Berry Lockett sat on his verandah watching the sun sink over the vines, a glass of his own fine shiraz in his grip, the bottle open on the table beside him.
So Mac Thomas was going for it. He was going to try and put together that shearing shed restaurant of his and tackle his problem by throwing more money at it.
He glanced across at the sheaf of papers alongside the bottle. His solicitors had done as much as they could before they closed a week or two back for the Christmas break.
Some Christmas.
He had an early January court battle on his hands and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
He bent over the arm of his chair and ruffled his dog’s head. Rommy looked up at him. “Stupid bugger, that Mac Thomas.” Rommy knew what he meant. Kelpies were smart that way. He dropped his black head back between his equally black paws.
Berry thought of the woman he’d met at the hotel, Clancy. He wondered if she’d given his card any more than a cursory glance before chucking it in the nearest bin.
By now, if she had any sense, she’d be able to see Mac Thomas didn’t have a hope in hell of pulling off what he needed to. She should be running for the hills.
Mac’s pub was up for sale. Everyone in the district knew Mac was up against a wall and his last chance was to make a go of the Vineyard Restaurant again.
Clancy Jones hadn’t struck him as someone who could pull it off, either. She’d looked a bit jaded, weary.
He liked what he saw, but he figured she had battles of her own.
Don’t we all?
He thought again about her. The easy conversation, the laught
er, the way her gaze rested on him when she spoke.
He thought again of her hair in that clip-thing, all loose and bouncy, as if at any minute it might fall down around her shoulders. He’d like to see that.
The thought startled him.
It wasn’t all he’d noticed. The rest of her had fired his interest, the first woman in a long time to grab his attention and hold it for more than a moment or two.
He swallowed some wine, allowing the pepper and spice flavours to fire his taste buds. He refilled his glass, held the bottle up in the fading light. “Berry Flavours,” he said, admiring the label. “Still a good name, hey Rommy?”
Rommy agreed, although he wasn’t a connoisseur of wine himself.
A vintage from 2007 – one of Berry’s best ones. It had come out of a good summer with decent rains in the winter before. He rolled another mouthful around and let it sit on his tongue a moment before letting it slide down his throat.
Full bodied, fruity and intense, with mulberry and blackberry flavours deep on the palate, pepper for pizzazz, spice for comfort. He loved this wine.
He loved his home.
He didn’t love his neighbours.
And he certainly didn’t like this time of year. Oh sure, he was busy enough and his own restaurant was doing well using his farm produce, the freshwater crayfish, and his own wines from the vineyard.
But it wasn’t a happy time for him. He was a man on his own, long past hoping for the right woman to join him. He had his work, his dog, his friends. But it was times like Christmas when he felt bleak, when he knew his mates invited him over because their wives couldn’t stand to see him on his own on that particular day.
Even they’d given up trying to match him with single friends. Seemed nobody before had caught his eye.
But Clancy Jones had. And there she was, working for the enemy.
*
“No and no and no.” Mac hit the table three times with the flat of his palm.
Clancy winced inwardly at the booming voice. “You can’t have a Christmas feast with Poacher’s Pie as the main course.”
Berry Flavours Page 2
