The Last-Minute Marriage

by Marion Lennox

  He wasn’t getting accustomed to the situation, though. This woman had stood beside him two days ago and promised to be his wife. She’d stood for press photographers, her hand in his, his lovely bride. She’d slept beside him in the plane, she’d tucked her hand in his as they’d gone through customs, she’d let him take control, manage things, do what he was good at.

  What had he expected here?

  Not this. An invitation to share her veranda with a pack of killer dogs between them.

  But…

  He stared out at the night. It was…perfect.

  He could sleep here. He could sleep with Peta. Or he could go back to the pink puffy concoction that was Hattie’s bed, or to the horror-fantasy-poster-covered room that had been the creation of an adolescent Charles before he left home.

  Three options.

  ‘It’s a very generous offer,’ Peta said cheerfully, following his line of thought. ‘I don’t make it to anyone. But now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep.’

  She turned over on to her side; the covers came right up, and her body language said that whatever he did was up to him. She’d made her offer and the rest was his business.

  He should go home.

  Home? Who was he kidding? Home was Hattie’s pink palace.

  It wasn’t so different to his place in Manhattan, he thought. Both seemed suddenly indescribably bleak. He stared down at Peta for a long moment and then slowly walked the length of the veranda.

  The bed was made up. It was three times the size of hers. The boys had slept in it, Peta had said. All the boys?

  Maybe.

  And maybe it wasn’t such a bad childhood. He stared down at the mound of bedclothes and thought of four little boys tumbled among the pillows. With Peta sleeping close by.

  Not so bad. Not so bad at all.

  He hesitated, but not for long. He turned and stared at the mound of bedclothes that was Peta.

  No choice.

  He slipped off his outer clothes and slid under the bedclothes, feeling like a kid on a camping trip. And here was another surprise. There were no burst bedsprings. No thread-bare blankets. The bed enfolded him. The smells and the sounds enfolded him and one of the dogs came up and put his nose above the side of the bed, nosing a hopeful enquiry.

  ‘Let me see. I’m guessing you must be Tip. You’re one of the killer pack?’

  A wag of the tail and a low woof. A quiver of the backside. Hopefulness personified.

  ‘If you have fleas you’re out of here.’

  ‘He has no such thing!’ It was an indignant squeak from the other end of the veranda.

  ‘I thought you were asleep?’ Then Marcus gasped as the big dog accepted the flea enquiry as a welcome and wriggled right in. Right across his chest.

  ‘Tip likes it there,’ Peta said in satisfaction. ‘I’ve never slept with a husband. Doesn’t it feel odd?’

  Odd? That was the understatement of the century, Marcus thought. He lay and stared outward at the stars while Peta settled again and the big dog started to snore gently beside him.

  He’d never sleep. How could he sleep?

  He’d never sleep.

  He slept.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MARCUS BENSON hadn’t slept for more than four hours straight since he was fourteen years old. He hadn’t needed to. Hadn’t wanted to. If he slept then he dreamed, and now it was easier to wake and log on to the world’s financial markets and exercise his brain by making money rather than letting his thoughts dwell on the demons in his past.

  Until this night.

  He slept. The sun crept over the horizon. Peta rose and took herself off to the dairy. The dogs bounded off after her, jubilant at having their mistress back in her proper place, and still Marcus slept.

  He woke as Harry tore round the side of the house, hauling a school bag over his shoulder while he manoeuvred a piece of toast with half his mouth.

  He glanced sideways at the veranda and stopped short.

  ‘You!’

  It was hard to say who was more surprised-Harry or Marcus. They stared at each other. Marcus stared down at his watch. Then stared back at Harry.

  ‘You slept with Peta.’ It wasn’t an accusation. There was no aversion in Harry’s tone-just surprise.

  ‘I slept on this end of the veranda,’ Marcus said hurriedly. ‘Peta slept on the other.’

  ‘Yeah, she’d never share with us,’ Harry said, taking another mouthful of toast. ‘We told her it was warmer in bed with us but she preferred the dogs. Guess she preferred the dogs to you, too, huh?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Marcus said weakly. ‘Um… Are you off to school?’

  ‘Yeah. Yikes.’ Harry looked round to where a faint cloud of dust in the distance heralded an arriving school bus. ‘Gotta go. What’s for tea tonight? Something good? Ace. See ya.’ And he was off in a tangle of toast, school bag and undone shoelaces.

  Marcus watched him run, saw him catch the bus by the skin of his teeth, grinned, and then turned back to the enigma of his watch.

  His grin faded. How on earth had he slept so long?

  No matter. He had.

  From the dairy there was the gentle hum of the milking machine and the occasional moo of an indignant cow. Peta was up? Peta was working?

  Before him?

  The thought was almost unbelievable. So, too, was the thought that she was working and he was sleeping.

  He was supposed to be rescuing her, he thought. Great Prince Charming he was. Marry the girl and send her back to her cinders.

  But helping her wasn’t as simple as it had seemed. Two minutes later he walked in the dairy door-only to have the nearest cow start back in alarm and Peta call, ‘Stop right there.’

  He stopped.

  This was a different Peta yet, he thought. She was a woman at work. In faded jeans, a checked overshirt with rolled up sleeves, her hair caught back with a couple of serviceable combs and her knee-high rubber boots liberally coated with mud, she looked every inch at home in her environment.

  As opposed to Marcus. The cows stared at him as if he’d landed from outer space and that was exactly how he felt.

  ‘I’ve come to help,’ he told her.

  ‘Thanks, but you’ll scare the cows.’

  ‘Why will I scare the cows?’

  ‘They’re not used to seeing New York billionaires in their dairy.’

  ‘You didn’t have to tell them I was a billionaire,’ he said cautiously and she smiled.

  ‘They might have guessed by the shoes. Soft suede shoes don’t cut it here.’

  ‘I guess they don’t.’ He looked down at his footwear. ‘Um… Would your brothers have any rain boots I can borrow?’

  ‘There’s another giveaway.’ She adjusted the cups on a sleek, fat cow and then rose to bring the next cow into the bail. ‘We-the cows and I-call them gumboots.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the cows and I are Australian.’ The cow pulled back from her and she sighed. ‘Yeah, the boys all have gumboots you can borrow but it won’t help. You’re making it hard for me.’

  ‘Just by being here?’

  ‘Cows don’t like strangers.’

  ‘I have to do something,’ he told her. ‘If you think I’m just going to sit round being ornamental for two weeks…’

  ‘Don’t you like being ornamental?’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So you really want to work?’

  Hmm. A little voice was telling him to be cautious. ‘I might.’

  ‘Well, then. You could get rid of the pink.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You could paint Hattie’s house.’

  ‘So that you can live in it?’

  ‘I’m staying on my veranda. But the boys bring friends home from university and a non-pink guest house would be nice.’ She gave him her very nicest smile. ‘That is, if you really do want to be useful. But I’m happy if you’re not. You deser
ve to be ornamental if you feel like it.’

  ‘Is there anything in between?’ he asked, thinking it through. ‘Say, if I don’t want to be ornamental and I don’t want to paint houses.’

  Her answer to that was immediate. ‘You could make me breakfast.’

  ‘You’ve decreed that I’m cook?’

  ‘I thought you decreed that yourself. I do a mean bowl of cornflakes and I’m willing to share.’ She glanced across at the yard to where only ten more cows patiently queued. ‘I’ll be back at the house in half an hour.’

  ‘For cornflakes?’

  ‘For cornflakes or whatever variation you care to dream up.’

  He’d had enough of pink. He made pancakes in Peta’s house. He felt really, really strange.

  While he cooked he watched Peta through the window. He saw her finish in the dairy, sluicing it down ready for evening milking. She took herself to the outside shower-a primitive arrangement that he’d already inspected and found wanting-and he watched as she emerged dressed the same way as she’d been in the dairy, only cleaner.

  Peta’s house had a lean-to kitchen-not a patch on Hattie’s bright beauty, but it had the huge advantage of being homely. The kitchen was obviously the place where Peta and the boys spent most of their lives. There was an ancient fire-stove, a vast wooden table, rickety chairs, battered linoleum, and windows looking out over the farmland to the beach beyond. It was a great room.

  It was better when Peta walked in. Somehow.

  She stopped in the doorway and sniffed in delight, and her smile lit the room.

  ‘Pancakes. Coffee. There. I knew there was a reason I married you.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep referring to our marriage as if I’m some sort of acquired toy,’ he complained and she paused from kicking off her gumboots.

  ‘It’s the only way I can think of it,’ she told him. Her eyes turned suddenly serious. ‘Not that you’re a toy boy. I didn’t mean that. But that it’s a sort of game. I can’t believe we did it. That I wore that dress. That I made those vows.’

  He watched her face, and he shared her confusion. She was right. This was a far cry from white, lacy and bridal in New York. But underneath she was just the same Peta. The reason he married her still held. She needed help and she deserved it. ‘It’s not a game,’ he told her.

  ‘But it’s not for real.’

  ‘For two weeks it has to be real.’

  ‘When I think about it superficially,’ she said slowly, walking into the kitchen in her socks and lifting the flipper for the pancakes, ‘then it’s fine. But then all of a sudden it hits me. Wham. A complete stranger married me so I can stay here. So Harry can live here if he wants. So we can have a permanent home. But… To marry a stranger… How on earth did it happen?’

  ‘Fantasy,’ he told her. ‘Everyone likes a fairy story. I’ve already flipped the pancakes. They’re ready to eat. Sit.’

  So she moved to the table and sat. He couldn’t object to her reaction to the pancakes-she ate as if she was ravenous-but as the pile dwindled she pushed back her plate and the look of trouble settled on her face again.

  ‘I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you help in the dairy.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not. I owe you so much. I should let you do whatever you want.’

  ‘But not sleep on your end of the veranda?’

  Now where had that come from? The moment he said it he regretted it. She flinched. And then she faced him. Head on.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  Did he want to? Hell!

  But as he gazed at her across the table, as he let the sensation of her flinch settle, he knew there was only one answer.

  ‘No, Peta,’ he told her. ‘I don’t want to. I’m not here to take advantage of you. It was a stupid thing to say and I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’d be within your rights.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met very nice men,’ he told her. ‘If that’s what you think of marriage. That it comes with automatic rights.’

  She stared at him. The moment stretched on. And on.

  Ridiculous.

  ‘Tell me what you’re intending to do now,’ he said at last, and if his voice didn’t come out as he’d intended he couldn’t help it.

  ‘You mean…marriage-wise?’

  ‘You already got married,’ he reminded her. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘You mean, in life?’

  ‘I was thinking more how you intended spending the morning,’ he told her. ‘Sort of between here and lunch. There’s not a lot of hatches, matches and dispatches we can fit in until then.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounded flummoxed. ‘You mean…like shopping?’

  ‘Is shopping on the agenda?’

  ‘We’re living out of the freezer. It’d be good to get something fresh.’

  ‘I’m good with shopping.’

  ‘You want to come into town and push a supermarket trolley in Yooralaa?’ Her smile, irrepressible, came flooding back. ‘There’s no cans of caviar for miles.’

  ‘Peta?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cut it out.’

  She peeped him a smile. ‘Okay. I’m sorry. But I’m sure you don’t want to come.’

  ‘I’m sure I do.’

  ‘You-’

  ‘Peta, I refuse to stay locked in Hattie’s house for two weeks while the world decrees our marriage is valid. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘But people will think…’

  ‘That we’re married? That’s what they’re supposed to think.’ He hesitated. ‘That is-there aren’t suitors waiting in the wings who’ll be put off if they see me at your side?’

  ‘Um…no.’

  ‘No suitors?’

  ‘I find suitors are an awful pest,’ she told him. ‘They mess up the house something awful and object to gumboots.’

  ‘Which is why you just cut straight to the chase and got married. Okay.’ He rose and smiled down at her. She looked great, he decided. He might even enjoy walking side by side through the supermarket with her holding his trolley.

  ‘Don’t get any funny ideas,’ she said and he blinked. Peta, the mind reader.

  ‘Look, separate ends of the veranda is a concept I can deal with,’ he told her. ‘But separate supermarket trolleys is maybe taking independence too far.’

  ‘You can never have too much independence. I thought that was your motto.’

  He’d thought so, too. He stared after her as she disappeared to find some shoes respectable enough to wear to town and he thought, yeah, independence. What had happened to his ideal now?

  It was a very satisfactory day-the sort of day Marcus had never had in his life.

  First there was the trip to the supermarket. He’d expected that she might be embarrassed but instead she introduced him to all and sundry and he was conscious of suppressed laughter.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Michaels. This is my husband, Marcus.’

  It was Marcus who was flustered.

  ‘They need to know you’re here,’ Peta told him. ‘Charles knows any number of locals and I’m sure he’ll be contacting them to make sure you’re here. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘After all, you don’t have to see any of these people after two weeks. It’ll be me who’ll be playing the deserted bride.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll play a beautifully pathetic divorcee,’ he managed and she chuckled.

  ‘You’d better believe it. How many cans of spaghetti do we want?’

  ‘None,’ he told her. ‘Canned when you can have fresh?’

  ‘Sure. I’m a canned girl.’

  ‘If you don’t want to be a divorcee by tomorrow then you put the cans back.’

  There were locals watching them. Whispering. News was spreading.

  ‘There’s not a lot of friendliness,’ he said as they proceeded through their shopping list.

  ‘My dad lied and cheated and my cousin did the same,’ she told him. ‘Our family are still prett
y much outcasts.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘I learned early to keep myself to myself.’

  ‘But you pay your debts?’

  ‘I don’t have debts. The O’Shannassy credit dried up a long time ago. I pay cash or I get nothing and that’s the way it’s always been. Now… Baked beans?’

  ‘Not baked beans.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘And not processed cheese, either. Honestly, woman, do you have no soul?’

  ‘I eat to live,’ she said with a certain amount of pride.

  ‘You’re proud of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a culture thing,’ he told her. ‘It must be. You come from convict stock?’

  ‘I surely do,’ she told him. ‘I have baked beans in the blood.’

  ‘It’s a whole life I never knew existed,’ he said faintly. ‘And I’m not sure I want to.’

  But he did want to know.

  As the day wore on, the more fascinated he became. They took their shopping home, and then Peta took him on a tour of the fences. ‘They need to be checked once a week,’ she told him. ‘The cows damage them and if stock gets out I’m in real trouble.’ So they hiked along the fence line with Peta’s fencing tools slung over her shoulder. For the first two minutes.

  ‘You’re not carrying them,’ she told him. ‘They’re dirty. You’ll get your nice shirt soiled.’

  ‘Peta…’ He lifted the tools from her grasp. ‘Your ankle still hurts and you’re married, remember? Isn’t the husband supposed to be hunter gatherer?’

  ‘Only in families when the little woman stays home and cooks. And you wouldn’t let me buy baked beans.’

  ‘So I wouldn’t,’ he said, and grinned. He handed one of the six tools back. ‘Okay. You get to carry one spade and you get to cook cornflakes and toast. But for the rest, you have a husband. Use him.’

  They fenced. They found a cow in the bottom paddock caught up in a hedge of gorse and a gully caused by erosion. They dug her free and watched her make her way back to the herd, with nary a thankful glance. They ate sandwiches that Peta had stuck in a backpack before they’d come out and they sat on the cliff and watched the sea. A dolphin pod appeared on cue, surfing through the breakers and cruising along the coast line. Marcus could see why Charles fought for development rights to this place. As a holiday resort it’d be fabulous.