It was happiness. Her smile was a glow from inside, impossible to turn off. And why? Because she’d just arrived back at this godforsaken place…
No. That wasn’t fair, he decided. The country was beautiful. Charles had fought for this place and for good reason. The farm land was softly undulating coastline, dotted by magnificent eucalypts and backed by mountains. In the afternoon sun it looked magic.
But not so the house. The veranda looked as if it’d topple at any minute, and the house attached to it was worse.
‘Welcome to Rosella Farm,’ Peta was saying through dog barks. ‘Down. Down, guys.’ But there was no way the dogs were obeying. They were almost turning inside out as they realised it was Harry in the car. Harry did a mighty leap, and dogs and kid ended up rolling joyously in the dust.
But Marcus was still staring at the tumbledown house. ‘Is this really your home?’
‘Yes.’ Peta’s smile faded a little. ‘But don’t worry. Aunt Hattie’s house is better. It’s a couple of hundred yards further on, behind the dairy. I’ll take you there now.’
‘Right.’ He climbed out of the car, looked around him and made a decision. He needed to ground himself here. This was unfamiliar territory and Marcus dealt in facts. Knowledge was power. Or, at least, knowledge was being just a little less disoriented than he was feeling right now. ‘I need a guided tour,’ he told her.
Was it his imagination, or did she back off a bit? ‘Harry can show you over the farm after school tomorrow.’
Harry’s cheerful face emerged from his pile of assorted dogs. ‘Sure. But it’ll take ages. I’ll stay home from school tomorrow and show Marcus everything. You’ll need me to entertain Marcus. Girls never know what to do with guys.’
His grin was infectious but Peta was obviously immune. But at least she could look at Harry now instead of Marcus. He was right. She had backed off. ‘Not likely,’ she told her brother. ‘You’ve missed enough school already. But you can take Marcus down to Hattie’s now.’
Thus he was summarily dismissed. Marcus frowned. It was a neat plan. Harry could take him to her aunt’s house and therefore let her get on with her life.
So? That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Maybe not.
‘I’ll bring your bag in first,’ Marcus told her. He’d taken their combined luggage.
Peta shook her head and held out her hand for the bag he’d pulled out of the car. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Your ankle…’
‘Is fine. Leave it here.’
‘Don’t you want me to see your house?’
‘There’s nothing to see.’
‘You don’t want me to carry it to your room?’
‘Peta sleeps on the veranda,’ Harry volunteered. ‘Out the back, out of the wind.’ He pushed the dogs aside, rose and turned to playing host. ‘There’s only one bedroom and Peta makes me sleep in that.’
‘Peta sleeps on the veranda?’
‘It’s…cool,’ Peta said.
‘I bet it is,’ he said, stunned. ‘In winter I bet it’s really cool. You sleep out all year round?’
‘We all had to sleep on the veranda until Dad died,’ Harry told him. ‘Us boys had a really big bed, and Peta had a littler one at the other end. When Dad died the big ones made William and me move inside so I can hardly remember. But I think I liked it.’
‘It’s unbelievable.’
‘It’s none of your business,’ Peta told him. Her face shut him out as best she could as she attempted to move on. ‘But if you’re thinking Harry wasn’t looked after, he was. When he was a baby he slept with me. Now… There’s basic groceries at Hattie’s. There’s food in the freezer and long-life milk and juice in the pantry. I’ll go shopping tomorrow for whatever else you need. But meanwhile…’
‘What are we eating for dinner?’ Marcus asked.
We.
The ‘we’ hung in the air, halting conversation. It was a push in the direction of sharing.
Was that wise? Probably not, Marcus thought, but the idea of calmly driving to another house and foraging in the freezer alone was really unappealing.
‘We’ll be eating sausages,’ Harry volunteered. ‘Peta always cooks sausages. She burns them, too.’
‘Will there be sausages in my…in Hattie’s freezer?’
‘Sure,’ Harry said expansively. ‘Peta buys millions of sausages.’
‘Okay.’ Marcus smiled down into his bride’s confused face. ‘Then I’m cooking. Dinner’s on at my place. In, say, an hour?’
‘You don’t even know what’s there,’ Peta said faintly.
‘How far away are the shops?’
‘Fifteen minutes by car.’
‘No worries, then. Job’s done.’
‘You can’t cook!’
‘Who said I can’t cook?’
‘Can you really?’ Harry demanded, suspicion and hope warring on his adolescent face. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Not stuff like…sushi.’
Marcus grinned. ‘I doubt even my ability to whip up sushi given a core ingredient of sausage.’
‘Ace,’ said Harry, deeply satisfied. ‘Isn’t it ace, Peta?’
Her face said it was anything but ace. ‘I need to milk the cows.’
‘What, tonight?’
‘I’m not paying anyone to milk tonight. If I don’t milk there’s no income.’
‘Can I help?’
‘I like milking alone,’ she said stolidly. ‘You concentrate on your sausages.’
‘Your ankle…’
‘Is fine. You’ve done enough,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want you to help.’
The joy had faded. It was still there, he thought, but there was discomfort, too. As though she’d realised that the joy had to be paid for.
And the price was…him.
The second farmhouse was like a doll’s house. In much better condition than the first, it had obviously been built for one very fussy woman.
It was pink. Very pink. The outside was a demure brick but the moment Marcus walked inside he was assaulted by pinkness. Pink walls, pink paintings, pink doilies…
‘Auntie Hattie liked pink,’ Harry said by his side. Peta had abandoned them, leaving Harry to do the honours.
‘I can see that she did,’ Marcus said cautiously and then he looked down at Harry’s bland face. ‘It’s horrible.’
‘It is,’ Harry said, blandness making way for mischief. ‘Our place is better, even if it’s falling down.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Marcus stared around him. ‘How come this place is so much better than yours?’
‘Better?’
‘Well, if you ignore the pink…’
‘Oh, you mean money,’ Harry said with just a trace of scorn. ‘Aunt Hattie always had more than us.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘Easy. My grandpa was fair.’
‘Fair?’
And Harry was off, all too ready to tell a story of an injustice he obviously felt strongly about. ‘My grandpa had two kids, my Dad and Auntie Hattie. Auntie Hattie had a baby when she was a teenager-that was Charles-but she stayed living here. Grandpa built her this little house. My Dad married my Mum and had five kids. When Grandpa died, he left the farm half to Dad and half to Hattie, even though our family did all the work. Peta says Dad was really angry. She says that’s another reason why Dad hated women.’
‘So…’
‘So all the income from the farm had to be split into two. Half to Hattie and half to us.’
‘Who works the farm?’
‘Peta, mostly. We help.’
‘Did Hattie help?’
‘Hattie never worked.’ Harry gazed around the little house and grimaced. ‘Except to paint things.’
‘That seems unfair on Peta,’ Marcus said thoughtfully and Harry nodded.
‘Yeah, it is, really unfair, but Charles always said we had a choice-do it like that or we could leave the farm. My Dad never wanted to leave the
farm-he couldn’t be bothered and as long as there was enough money for his drink…’ He bit his lip at that, and suddenly looked very young. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have told you about Dad drinking. It’s what Daniel told me. But Peta would growl.’
‘I won’t tell her.’ Marcus frowned. ‘So… Peta stayed and worked the farm. Why did your brothers leave?’
‘Peta made them.’
‘Why?’
‘She said there was never going to be enough money for us all to be farmers and they were going to have careers if she had to drive them off with sticks.’ His grin returned. ‘When Peta gets bossy no one can argue with her.’
‘I guess you’re right at that.’
‘Are you really going to make sausages?’
‘Not if I can help it. Where’s the freezer?’
‘I’ll show you. Hattie used to go to the city sometimes and buy gourmet stuff. There might be something interesting. But…not too interesting.’
‘Let’s go look,’ Marcus told him. ‘Can you cook?’
‘No!’ Harry told him, startled.
‘Then you’re about to learn.’
By the time Peta came in from the dairy she was tired. Good tired, she thought though, as she showered. Great tired. The cows-her girls-were all fit and healthy. They’d swivelled their great bovine heads as she’d appeared at the gate to lead them up to the dairy; there’d been gentle moos and, moving among them, she felt she’d come home.
Home.
No one could take it from her, she’d thought over and over as she’d washed teats, adjusted cups, released one cow after the other and given each an affectionate pat as they ambled off towards an evening of grazing the lush pasture on the cliffs around the house. Home. At long last the threats to her security-her father and her cousin-were gone.
Marcus had given this to her. It was a huge gift. Vast.
She stared down at the plain band of gold on her finger. Marcus had insisted they each wear one for a year-‘Let’s do this right.’
He’d done it right.
And she’d sent him off to Aunt Hattie’s.
Maybe he’ll like pink, she told herself, and grinned to herself as the cool water streamed over her. And at least he’ll be comfortable.
And he’d be away. Separate. Life could get back to normal. From this day…
‘Peta?’ Harry was yelling for her and she poked her head out of the shower.
‘Mmm?’
‘Marcus and me have made dinner. It’s ace. You gotta hurry before it gets cold. Marcus says hurry.’
He waited for her, jigging up and down with impatience as she hauled on clean jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Come on. Come on.’
So much for eating toast on the veranda and getting her head together. ‘Didn’t you want to have dinner just with me tonight?’ she asked.
‘Are you kidding?’ Harry demanded, amazed. ‘Marcus is ace.’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘And you should see what we’ve cooked.’
Curry.
Peta walked in the back door of Aunt Hattie’s little house and stopped in astonishment. Curry! She’d never smelled such a thing in this house. It’d take three cans of air-freshener for Hattie to lose it. Hattie would never tolerate it.
Then Marcus appeared in the doorway and she stopped thinking about Aunt Hattie.
She’d never seen him like this.
The first time she’d met him, Marcus had been dressed formally. He’d been wearing a business suit. For the wedding he’d gone even more formal, and he’d worn a suit on the way out here on the plane. He’d looked an experienced business traveller and Peta had been vaguely self-conscious beside him.
No. Peta had been incredibly self-conscious beside him.
But now… He’d changed. Transformed. He was wearing jeans that were almost as faded as hers, with a plain T-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and showed the muscles rippling down his arms. His deep black hair was tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it often and often. There was a smudge of something orange on his cheek.
He was wearing a pinny.
It was one of Aunt Hattie’s pinnies, she thought. Pink. Frilly. With a bow attached.
She stared. She’d come prepared to be stiff and formal and polite-welcoming to a guest but here to have a fast meal and then say a formal good night and get away.
Stiff, formal and polite didn’t get a look in. One glance and she was lost. Laughter bubbled up and exploded.
‘What?’ he demanded, mock offended as she whooped. ‘What? Don’t you like my apron?’
‘It’s…’ She fought gamely for control but lost. Another whoop or two and then she tried again. ‘It’s a very nice pinny. Did you tie the bow?’
‘I tied it for him,’ Harry said behind her. ‘He had his hands all covered in yuck stuff and said “find an apron” and that’s all Auntie Hattie had.’
‘It’s a very nice apron,’ she managed. ‘It’s a very nice bow. Well…well done, boys.’ She fought a bit more for control. ‘Um… Is that curry I can smell?’
‘It is.’ Marcus beamed at her as if a protégée had just proven herself incredibly clever. ‘Harry said he liked curry.’
‘How… Did Auntie Hattie have curry powder?’ She was fascinated.
‘You don’t make curry out of curry powder,’ he told her.
‘No?’
‘No. You really don’t cook, do you, Mrs Benson.’
Mrs Benson…
The label came out unexpectedly and hung. She bit her lip and tried desperately to ignore it.
‘When I was eight years old, I had a very sensible grade teacher,’ she told him. Somehow. ‘Mrs Canterbury was Yooralaa’s answer to Emily Pankhurst. One day she took us girls aside and said if we were ever to amount to anything we should never learn to type, never learn to sew and never learn to cook. I followed her advice to the letter.’
‘Well done, you,’ he said faintly, obviously bemused. ‘And here you are, amounting to lots. But hungry. Curry powder, huh?’
‘So how do you make curry without curry powder?’
‘You take the little bottles of herbs Hattie has in a collection labelled Gourmet Delight. It looks as if it was bought for decoration rather than use but she has everything. Coriander, cumin, turmeric, cardamom, you name it. Nothing’s ever been opened so it’s still good. Then you lift the cute little ornamental chilli plant off the veranda where it’s obviously been placed because it clashes with pink. You pick two chillis. You take a hunk of frozen lamb, a can of tomatoes, a few lemons from the tree outside, and voilà.’
‘Voilà? Is that Indian for delicious?’
‘Of course it’s Indian. And absolutely it’s for delicious. Hungry?’
Was she hungry? She smelled again and the smell did things to her insides she found extraordinary.
No. It wasn’t just the smell, she thought. It was the whole experience.
A man in Hattie’s house.
A man in her life!
There were enough men in her life, she told herself desperately. She had four brothers whom she loved. She’d coped with a neglectful father and a violent cousin. Six men. She didn’t need any more. Ever.
But Marcus was holding the chair for her to sit. No one had ever held a chair for her. Marcus was smiling at her. No one had ever smiled at her…
Was she crazy? Of course people had smiled at her. All the time!
No one had ever smiled at her like Marcus.
She was home, she told herself. Life had to get back to normal. This was some crazy two-week aberration-a man cooking for her-a man acting as if he cared. It’d go away. He’d go away and then her life could go on as normal.
Could it?
They sat across the table from him, Peta and her little brother, and they ate his curry as if they’d never eaten such food. They savoured every mouthful.
Marcus’s cooking was his secret pleasure. His mother had never cooked. For the first few years of his life he’d lived on hambu
rgers and Coke. Then one of his mother’s boyfriends had wooed her by hiring a chef for the night. Marcus had been sent to bed while the two had a romantic tête à tête, but the smells had been tantalising. The next day the leftover ingredients filled the kitchen. He’d investigated, then had a long discussion with the lady in the next door apartment.
The result had left him delighted. It had been the start of a skill that until now had never been shared. But sharing…
It was great, he thought. His food was being consumed with total enjoyment and it added to his satisfaction tenfold. Peta and Harry discussed the curry with absolute fascination; they ate every scrap and the three dogs under the table were left to eye each other disconsolately.
‘Where did you learn to do this?’ Peta demanded and he told her. That felt odd, too-talking about the past to a woman who looked as if she was really interested. Who looked as if she really cared.
She didn’t. She couldn’t, he told himself. This farm was her life and she had no part in his. He knew that, but as the last of the curry was finished and she rose to go, he was aware of a sharp stab of loss.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ he told her but she shook her head.
‘I have milking in the morning. Five a.m. I need to go to bed. And it’s back to routine for Harry. He has school.’
‘Aw…’
‘Come on, Harry.’ Peta hauled Harry to his feet and whistled the dogs. ‘Come on, guys. We need to go home and let Mr Benson get his sleep.’
‘It’s just after eight o’clock,’ Marcus said, startled. ‘Even Prince Charming got a better look-in than that.’
‘You left Cinderella in New York,’ Peta said firmly. ‘And she’s staying there.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE silence was deafening.
Peta and Harry left, the dogs followed, and Marcus was left in his little pink house with his thoughts.
His thoughts weren’t exactly little and pink. They were large and black. He cleaned the kitchen and polished the pink bench-tops. He unpacked, put his clothes on the pink clothes hangers, stared at the pink walls, thought about how many hours there were in two weeks and how much pink a man could stand.
Not much more than this.
The Last-Minute Marriage Page 11
