by Cathryn Hein
‘You make it sound romantic.’
‘Not romantic, just . . .’
‘Like here is where you’d rather be?’
Her mouth pressed closed and she nodded as though the answer dried her throat too much to speak. Taken aback by the sadness of her expression, Matt reached out to trace a finger down her sleeve only for his hand to fall away when she took a swig from her tumbler.
‘I need to get this over with.’
‘This?’
‘Selling Glenmore.’
‘And then what?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll go back to Airlie I suppose.’
‘Leaving the attractive, capable man who cooked you the perfect steak behind?’
Her mouth twitched. ‘There’ll be other girls for you to cook steak for.’
He rubbed at his scar. ‘Do you think?’
‘I should hope so. I didn’t call you an attractive, capable man for nothing, you know.’
‘I thought that was just a woman in need thing.’
‘It was, but the best lies come with an element of truth.’
Matt regarded her steadily. ‘You know what? Life’s too short to fuck around. Right now I don’t want other girls. I just want you.’
For a long while she said nothing. Matt couldn’t blame her. Trouble was, what he’d said was the truth: he did want her. Badly. Happiness and caring and protectiveness and a hundred different other emotions battled inside him whenever she was around.
‘I don’t do relationships, Matt.’
‘Not sure I was thinking that far ahead.’ He grinned, aware he was fibbing but not caring. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘You know.’
Time snagged on the way she met his gaze: hopeful and hesitant, like she wanted to grasp the moment but didn’t know how. His hand crept along the rug, dragged by the desire he thought he recognised in her eyes. As his fingers touched the edge of her shirt she turned back to the sea.
He waited, holding onto his optimism, only for her to suddenly down the remainder of her wine and rise.
‘Time for home.’
So he’d gambled and lost. This time. Matt wasn’t the most sensitive of men but he knew hesitation when he saw it.
‘I’ll drive you.’
‘I can walk.’
‘You don’t have to worry. I won’t try anything.’
‘Ahh, but that’s the thing,’ she said with a shallow smile. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’
*
Matt paced the return journey, taking more care than was necessary. After Callie’s comment, he wanted to draw out their time together. Her words gave him hope she might at least acknowledge the attraction between them. Open up that discussion and he might even get to kiss her. And who knew where kissing might lead? The thought left his stomach clenching in anticipation.
The Amarok’s headlights lit up the forest, the encroaching darkness making the thick interior appear impenetrable. A red-necked wallaby eyed the vehicle before dashing away into the undergrowth, while through the lowered windows came the raucous chatter of birds settling in for the night.
‘Look,’ said Callie, a thrill in her voice.
Matt followed the line of her finger to see a wombat shuffling across the track. He smiled, as delighted as Callie. Wombats were rare, especially this side of the river.
Leaving the wombat to its nocturnal fossicking, Matt turned down the firebreak that led to the Glenmore, scanning the paddocks as he steered.
‘Looks like Warty-Morty’s given up.’
Callie leaned forward, peering through the windscreen. ‘He’s up by the gate.’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘Not me. Apples. I bought a bag the other day. He gets one a night.’
‘The way to a horse’s heart.’
She sat back. ‘They’re so funny. One bite and he gets this look on his face that’s almost orgasmic. Phan used to do that.’
‘You still miss him.’
Callie crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulder, twisting to stare out the side window. ‘Yeah.’
Matt’s left hand lifted off the wheel, then dropped back down. Though the gesture would be purely compassionate she might interpret any touch otherwise and he’d promised not to try anything.
‘I’m fine. Really,’ she said when Matt insisted on carrying her fishing gear to the house.
‘Aren’t I allowed to be a gentleman?’
‘A gentleman who cooks steaks. Ever heard of too much of a good thing?’
Matt shook his head and released a theatrical sigh. ‘You women. No wonder us blokes get confused. We’re either not doing enough or doing too much. Can’t win.’
‘We just like to keep you on your toes.’
‘Trust me,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘I’m so far up on mine I’m a ballerina.’
‘Nice image.’
He grinned and winked. ‘You wait till you see me in a tutu.’
Her laughter broke as she passed the water tank, the noise reverberating, buzzing his body with warmth.
Suddenly it ceased.
‘Lyndall?’ Callie dashed to the back step and knelt in front of the teenager, collecting the quietly sobbing girl’s limp hands in hers. ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’
Lyndall raised her head. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her mouth trembled, and a drip ran from her nostril. Sniffing it heftily back, she regarded Callie with pooled eyes, voice coming in a choked, hiccupy wail.
‘It’s D-Dad. He doesn’t w-want me coming here anymore. H-he doesn’t want me seeing Phan.’
‘Oh, Lyndall, I’m so sorry.’
The young girl broke into heaving sobs. Callie wrapped her tightly in her arms, rocking and shushing her gently. When the spasm was over, Callie settled back on her heels, Lyndall’s hands once more in her own.
‘Tell me what happened.’
After a few shuddery breaths Lyndall related how she’d come downstairs to find her parents arguing in her father’s office.
‘Then he said he wished Phan had broken his leg, that way he would have had to be shot and none of this would be happening.’ Her face crumpled, threatening more tears, but a burst of anger held them at bay. ‘That’s when I barged in and said that Phan was sweet and good and it was him that deserved to be dead.’ She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. ‘Then I ran out.’
‘And came here.’
Lyndall nodded.
Callie glanced at Matt before turning back to Lyndall. ‘They’ll be so worried about you.’
‘No they won’t. They don’t care about me.’
Callie reached up to stroke her hair. ‘You know that’s not true. Your mum adores you and your dad does too. They’re just worried, that’s all. They’re probably going frantic looking for you right now.’
With a teenager’s typical self-absorbed impracticality, Lyndall jutted her chin and folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m not going back there.’
Keeping his movements slow and quiet, Matt rested Callie’s rod against the rainwater tank and placed her tackle box alongside it. This was way out of his realm but he couldn’t stay silent.
‘Parents don’t like to see their children hurting,’ he said. ‘It makes them weird. That’s why they’re acting the way they are.’
Lyndall gave a derisive snort.
Matt glanced at Callie, whose despairing look told him she was as lost as he was. Brilliant. Neither of them had any idea what to do. He studied Lyndall’s mutinous expression; this required a delicacy he wasn’t sure he possessed. Resigned to a long night, Matt made his way to the back step and sat alongside her with his knees up and wrists draped casually over their tops. A friend there for a chat.
‘You’re lucky, you know,’ he said. ‘I never had the kind of family you do. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason I even exist is because Mum couldn’t find the time to fit an abortion into her schedule.’ Lyndall threw him startled look. Matt shrugged. It was a hars
h thing to say about his mother but not, he suspected, very far from the truth. ‘She’s not a monster. Just someone who values her career over family and children. She had me, hired a first-class nanny to do all the mothering stuff, and carried on as usual. Then when I turned nine, Mum decided I was big enough for boarding school and packed me off to Australia.’
‘You must hate her.’
‘No. I wish she was different but I don’t hate her. She’s just a woman with flaws.’ He smiled. ‘We all have them.’
The sulky expression returned to Lyndall’s face. ‘My parents especially.’
‘Parents aren’t perfect, Lyndall, they’re just human. They make mistakes, but most of the time they’re only trying to do what’s best. My mum realised her limitations. She did what she could, which in her case was to pay for the best care she could find. I was looked after, received a good education, but I missed out on what you have. That really special thing called family. You might think it’s dumb but I’d trade a lot for that.’
Lyndall dropped her head. ‘I can’t not see Phan.’
‘So tell your dad that.’
‘He won’t listen.’
‘Have you tried?’
Callie’s eyes met Matt’s. Even in the poor light he could see her approval radiating. The warmth he’d felt earlier grew, strengthening him.
‘Do you want me to talk to him for you?’
Lyndall’s jaw dropped. ‘You’d do that?’
Matt pretended to think for a few beats before sliding her a sideways look. ‘Does he own a shotgun?’
‘No!’
‘Then, yes, I’d talk to him for you.’
‘I thought you were meant to be a brave soldier.’
He pressed his shoulder against hers in a gentle nudge. ‘There’s a difference between stupidity and bravery, you know.’
‘I can talk to him too,’ said Callie. ‘I lost my Phan. I’m not going to stand by and see you lose yours.’ She gripped Lyndall’s wrist. ‘You’re not alone in this.’
To Matt’s relief, Lyndall began to come round, though it took another twenty minutes for Callie to gain Lyndall’s permission to call her mother. As soon as she had the go-ahead, Callie strode with her mobile to the end of the yard, setting Honk into a brief flurry of wing flaps and trumpets. The goose’s outrage faded as Kate’s panicked tones fractured the night air.
‘Are they angry?’ asked Lyndall on Callie’s return.
‘No. Just very worried and relieved that you’re safe. They’ve been searching everywhere. Neither of them imagined you’d run all the way out here.’
‘It’s not that far.’
‘Far enough for a young girl on her own,’ said Matt, standing and holding out his hand. ‘Come on. I’ll drive you home.’
Callie threw him a look he couldn’t interpret before addressing Lyndall. ‘Do you want to say a quick goodbye to Morton?’ Callie waited until Lyndall was past the liquidambar before addressing him with quiet urgency. ‘I’ll take her.’
‘I can do it. My car’s just there.’
‘I know you can, but you need to remember she’s a thirteen-year-old girl.’
Matt stared at her, confused. ‘And?’
‘And you’re a man. Think about it.’
Realisation dawned. ‘Right. Of course.’ He shuffled. The idea he might be thought of as some sort of child molester had never occurred to him. ‘You’ll be all right though?’
‘I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.’
‘I can wait here until you get back.’
‘You’ve done enough.’ She smiled. ‘Beach dinner, wine, convincing a distraught young girl about the importance of family. That’s a big day for anyone.’
Matt repaid her with a saucy look. ‘I’m up for more.’
Callie laughed. ‘I’m sure you are. Unfortunately I’m not.’ She glanced at Lyndall, still standing a metre from the gate, Morton hanging over the fence in hope of a scratch. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call.’
‘Doesn’t matter now.’
‘I suppose I should also say that you told the truth about your steak cooking prowess. It was good. I mean that.’
‘See? I’m not just a pretty face after all.’
‘No, you’re definitely more than that.’ She looked Lyndall’s way again, expression clouding when she saw the teenager turning back to the house. In the smooth, moonlit line of her neck Callie’s pulse ticked faintly as though calling for the touch of his lips. An uncertain tension seemed to fill her, as if she’d ratcheted up her strength and held it in check with a hair trigger. Then she turned back, collar once more hiding her throat, and shoved her hands into her pockets. False brightness turned her voice high. ‘Anyway, thanks. It was great.’
Matt touched her upper arm and was rewarded with a lift of her chin, followed by a hesitant, hopeful part of her lips. He could kiss her right now, he knew it as sure as he knew the moon existed, but they weren’t alone. A teenager was picking her way toward them, and panicked parents anxiously awaited their daughter.
Plus kissing Callie merited privacy and time. Lots of privacy and time, because once he started, Matt didn’t intend stopping.
Smile teasing, he lowered his head to place his mouth near her ear. ‘You can thank me properly tomorrow.’
Matt straightened, tossed a wave toward Lyndall, and sauntered off to his car. He didn’t look at Callie. He didn’t need to.
The shallow fast breaths caressing his neck had said it all.
Thirteen
‘Damn,’ Callie muttered as she shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen in her shortie pyjamas. The curse had nothing to do with the lumpy mattress on which she’d twitched and flipped all night, or the ache in her back and hips. It came from somewhere far deeper than her bones and muscles. Somewhere visceral. It was a feeling as powerfully undertowed as the tide she’d fished yesterday.
She straggled her way to the kitchen entrance and slumped against the wall, eyes closing in dismay as memories of last night bubbled to the surface. ‘Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!’
A groan followed, then a rub of her tired, sleep-filled eyes. She was absolutely knackered. And it was all one person’s fault.
Matthew Hawkins.
Dropping her arm, she focused on the kitchen. Dull morning light spilled through the window over the sink, giving the room a greyish hue that matched her mood perfectly. The weather must have turned overcast, although Callie couldn’t recall that being the prediction. Endless heat was the bureau’s forecast last time she checked, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’d misjudged western Victoria’s fickle elements.
What did she care about the weather anyway? She had bigger worries. The biggest owned laughing green eyes and a manner that made her insides pop and jingle. Not always in a good way either. For some unfathomable reason, in Matt Hawkins’s presence her emotions became unruly, frothing beneath her mask, raising it up and exposing the frailty beneath. And he’d be over again today. Claiming his ‘proper’ thanks. Thanks she’d desperately wanted to give last night.
Must have been the wine.
‘Damn,’ she muttered again, knowing it had nothing to do with the wine. Callie simply wanted him in that primitive, gut-driven way she’d hoped she’d inured herself to over the years. Keep busy, that was the only remedy. Concentrate on what needed to be done. Fight this lunacy. Because that’s exactly what it was – lunacy. Callie couldn’t afford to have feelings for Matt – or anyone else – here. She was leaving.
Once she had Lyndall and Morton sorted.
And Wal was out of hospital.
And Honk taken care of.
And Nanna’s house properly cleared.
None of which would be achieved by flopping about, moaning. Straightening, she stepped onto the lino, trying to decide where to start. Her gaze settled on the china cabinet, where Nanna’s beloved porcelain toreador and bull faced each other in an eternal standoff.
Treasures existed behind the cabinet’s glass doors. Memories. Ea
ch time Callie thought about clearing the cabinet, she’d found something more important to do, but the time had come, just as it had for sorting the other rooms: the lounge, with its photo frames and knick-knacks and bag of knitting, still open as if Nanna would settle into her recliner at any moment and create something warm and wonderful; the spare room, with its wardrobe of children’s clothing that Callie had taken one look at and slammed the door on, breathing hard. Hope’s favourite navy cable-knit jumper, neatly folded. The riding coat Callie had once taken so much pride in wearing, traces of grey horse hair still clinging to the sleeves.
As painful as it was, she had to stop being a coward and face the memories and relics of her childhood. The sooner she did, the sooner she could leave Glenmore and Matt Hawkins and everything else behind.
She rubbed her eyes again. First, breakfast and coffee, then at least the world might look less dreary. Pausing momentarily to fire up her laptop, Callie padded to the sink, grabbed the kettle and began to fill it, staring blankly out the window while the tap ran. When the kettle was full, she plugged it in, but didn’t flick it on. Instead she frowned, hand hovering over the switch as a horrible prickle of wrongness crept up her spine.
That wasn’t cloud.
She jerked back to the sink, palms gripped against its steel edge, straining forward as she took in the view. A nightmare sky festered across the horizon. Where bright sun and cobalt blue should have blazed, the atmosphere instead churned with charcoal menace. Further in the distance, past the river and into the national park beyond, hovered a terrifying orange glow.
Bushfire.
‘Please, no.’
Callie darted to her laptop, clicking madly on the news sites, opening webpage after webpage in the hunt for information, breath shallow and rapid and choked with dread. The blaze had started during the night just south of Dartmoor. At first it’d been a grass fire, but as the wind rose, the flames began to race, tearing across desiccated summer pasture until it hit the tinder brush of the park. There, it exploded, gobbling up the forest undergrowth, whipping skywards through the stringybark, strafing the country with hungry sparks and cinders that caught and fed and grew.
