by Cathryn Hein
He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
Mouth tight, Callie nodded.
For a while he said nothing, surveying the paddocks with that hangdog expression he’d developed. ‘So do you know what you’re going to do? With Glenmore, I mean.’
‘Yes.’ She winced at the word. ‘No.’ Callie let out a breath. ‘No, I don’t. I thought I knew. I was so certain and then . . .’
‘Mum must have had something in mind when she left you the farm. Maybe she wanted you to keep it.’
She smiled a little. ‘You sound like Wal.’
‘Wal? How is the old sod?’
‘In hospital with a broken hip. Not very happy about it either.’
He threw her an enquiring look.
‘Horse accident.’
‘He gave me an earful about Mum at the funeral.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s been giving me one too.’
They shared a smile and Callie wondered why it was always so much easier with her dad – not perfect but less tense than with her mum. Perhaps it came down to something as simple as him being country bred. Her mum was always uncomfortable at Glenmore, whereas Callie and her dad adored it.
Gently, Michael lifted her arm and inspected her tattoo. Callie fought the urge to tug her wrist away, forcing herself to relax as he traced a finger over the letters.
‘Must have taken a while.’
‘It did.’
He caught her gaze. ‘This is your tribute?’
‘Sort of.’
Michael’s hold slipped until he held Callie’s hand between his. ‘It took me a long time to realise how hard it must have been for you, living with us. We were so fixated on what happened to Hope that we didn’t stop to consider how it affected you.’
Callie’s jaw clenched. ‘I don’t want to talk about this, Dad.’
‘We have to sometime.’
‘Yes, but not today.’ She glanced toward the house. Not while her mother was in there sobbing over Hope’s things. Not while Callie felt so weighed down by all her old insecurities. ‘This sun’s got some sting. Best we get into the shade before we get burnt.’
‘Callie?’
She halted on the concrete path.
‘Don’t shut us out again.’ He stepped toward her. ‘Losing one daughter was bad enough. Don’t let us lose two.’
Callie regarded the screen door, somewhere behind which her mother still lingered.
‘I’ll try.’
Right then, it was all she could offer.
Fifteen
The moment he clattered down the float ramp onto Glenmore’s crushed limestone yard, Morton propped, stuck his head in the air and released an ear-splitting ‘welcome me home’ whinny.
‘You right?’ Matt asked before succumbing to Morton’s nudge and rubbing his nose. He may have sounded annoyed but Matt appreciated the horse’s sentiment – every time he set foot on Glenmore he felt like whooping too.
Except perhaps not today.
Callie had a visitor, and if her strained appearance at the window when he pulled up was anything to go by, it wasn’t an easy one.
He eyed the white Camry again, glancing from it to the house as he registered the Hope Foundation sticker adhered low on the rear window. The Reynolds. No wonder she was tense. Though he had some appreciation of their loss, Matt couldn’t help taking on some of Wal’s umbrage over the way they’d abandoned Maggie. Or the way they might have treated Callie. Eighteen-year-old daughters from well-to-do families didn’t leave home to go wandering the country alone without reason.
Michael Reynolds emerged around the corner of the house. Matt’s heart gave a slow judder as he took in the ruin that Callie and Hope’s father had become. It had been years, ten at least, but where Matt would have expected the tell-tale signs of middle age, Michael had the startling, shrunken demeanour of a man atrophied by loss.
As Michael looked up, Matt changed his assessment slightly. Atrophied was probably too strong. Callie’s father didn’t look that worn; it was more that he exuded the air of a man who’d simply given up on life. Where a man of vigour would have strode to his vehicle, Michael slugged: his shoulders didn’t stay quite level; his back wasn’t quite straight. And he looked tired. Really tired.
Her expression inscrutable, Callie trailed a step behind, alongside Jacqueline Reynolds. From her reddened eyes, Callie’s mother had been crying yet her mouth was fixed in a stiff curve that was more contortion than smile. Otherwise, she appeared the same as he remembered: expensively dressed and made up; stylish in spite of the half-stuffed garbage bag she carried. Given she was Hope’s mother, Matt had tried to like Jacqueline on the few occasions they’d met, but he’d always found her standoffish. To be fair, he supposed that could simply be a result of her feeling out of place. Wal, in his black-and-white way, preferred the label ‘snob’.
Michael smiled at Matt. ‘Is that a gift horse?’
‘As a matter of fact it is. Not from me though.’ Matt led Morton over, and held out his free hand. ‘Mr Reynolds, good to see you again. It’s been a long time.’ He nodded at Jacqueline. ‘Mrs Reynolds.’
Michael turned to Callie. ‘So he’s yours?’
‘He is. Apparently Nanna wanted me to have a horse as well.’ She flicked a rapid, unreadable glance at her mother before regarding her father once more. ‘She named him Phantom.’
‘Ahh,’ said Michael before also casting a look toward his wife, whose set smile faltered a fraction before relocking.
‘But he’s called Morton now, aren’t you, boy?’ said Matt, scruffing his fingers into the centre of Morton’s black mane the way Wal taught him and that he’d learned horses adored. ‘Warty-Morty.’
‘I renamed him,’ Callie explained. ‘It suits him better.’
As he stroked the horse’s nose, Michael scanned Matt’s scar. ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars.’
‘I have. Literally.’ He pulled Morton back as the horse zoned in on Callie’s dad for a full-on forehead rub, before answering Michael’s unspoken question. Funny how people didn’t want to ask, as if the war he referred to might be related to gangs or drugs or something else other than a fight Australia, and he, had signed up for. ‘Afghanistan.’
Michael nodded. ‘Glad to see you in one piece. Others haven’t been so lucky.’
‘No,’ said Matt, thinking of Stevie. ‘Others haven’t.’
‘Callie mentioned you’ve been helping out on the farm,’ said Jacqueline. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Only a bit. She’s been doing pretty well on her own.’
Michael gave his daughter an indulgent look. ‘She always was a capable girl.’ He turned back to Matt and nodded. ‘Good to see you again.’
Matt knew a dismissal when he heard one. Probably not a bad thing. There was a whole lot of shit going on between Callie and her parents that he didn’t understand. His first instinct was to protect her, but that wouldn’t help them sort out their problems and from the way they were acting, they still had plenty. Plus maybe Callie’s dad was the one who could convince her to keep Glenmore. After all, it’d been his home too.
He returned Michael’s nod and led Morton to his paddock, the horse tugging the lead as he kept looking back at Callie as though hurt she hadn’t greeted him.
‘Stop being a sook. You’ll get your turn.’
He stayed at the gate, watching Morton, flicking surreptitious glances at Callie, until he heard the car leave and her approaching footsteps crunching over the grass. She leaned on the fence strainer rail and rested her chin on her folded hands. Though the sun burned with typical summer brilliance, the southerly that had brought an end to their dramas continued to blow, keeping conditions mild. Matt leaned his elbows on the gate, sucking in grass and forest-scented air and the pleasure of a perfect day. Any other time he’d feel dozy but Callie’s presence kept his senses on alert.
She tilted her head to regard him. ‘First time I’ve seen my parents in eight years.’
Matt said nothing, leaving the space for her to fill if she wanted.
‘Dad’s aged.’ She squeezed her eyes shut as though against some internal pain, her voice thick with sorrow. ‘Really badly. It’s horrible. Makes me so sad to see him like that.’
‘They’ve been tough years. For everyone.’
‘I know.’ She rubbed her face. Matt let Callie be, giving her time to recover. Huffing out a breath, she reversed position, leaning her back against the rail with her arms and ankles crossed. ‘Mum’s still the same. A few more lines but not much else different.’ She contemplated her feet. ‘She spent most of her time in the spare room crying over Hope’s things.’
That must have hurt. Eight years and Callie’s dead sister still took precedence. He flicked the leadrope’s spring clip, trying to think of something soothing to say but Callie spoke first.
‘I think she still blames me.’
‘For Hope?’
Gaze heartbreakingly sad, Callie nodded.
Matt wanted to belt something for seeing her like this. ‘How could it be your fault? You didn’t force those drugs down her throat. She wanted to take them.’
‘But she might not have if I wasn’t there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I begged her, Matt. I wanted to come along. I should have known she’d have wanted to show off, put on the sophisticated big sister act.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘Is it? The papers said that’s what happened.’
‘Fuck the papers. Hope did what she did because she thought it was cool and she liked it.’ She’d said as much to Matt when things started to go bad between them. He hated drugs, whereas she seemed to regard taking them as a rite of passage. ‘Listen to me. What happened wasn’t your fault.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, grimacing. ‘The rational part of me understands that but seeing Mum . . .’ She rubbed her face, digging the tips of her fingers into the corners of her eyes and pressing hard before letting her hands fall and sighing. ‘This isn’t doing any good.’
Matt couldn’t agree more. ‘At least you’ve made a start with them.’
‘Yeah. That’s something.’ And to his relief she smiled, blue eyes regaining their spark. ‘More than I had before.’
‘Much more,’ he said, winking at her to lighten the mood further. ‘Your parents, me. This place is providing all sorts of new starts. Maybe you should stick around, see where they lead.’
But Callie merely rolled her eyes and pushed off the fence, leaving him twirling the leadrope like a lasso and grinning at the glorious sky.
No straight out refusal.
Progress. Definitely progress.
Matt glanced at the puppy in the passenger side footwell of his ute as it attempted once again to bounce up onto the seat.
‘You’re not going there.’
The pup turned his head and panted, eyes bright.
‘What did I say?’ he said, leaning across to gently dump the pup back to the floor, cursing himself yet again for not thinking of a way to restrain the pup in the ute tray. Already the pup had piddled on his mat. Any moment the little brat would start chewing something.
Poor Deb, as if a toddler and twins weren’t enough, she was about to be terrorised by a black-and-white ball of fluff. A very cute, very naughty ball of fluff.
He flicked the indicator and turned up the road leading to Snob Hill and his cousin’s oversized house, wishing instead he was heading back to Glenmore and Callie. She was busy though, packing up her nanna’s china cabinet and then off for a hectic Friday shift at the Royal.
The morning’s events swept back into his mind. Callie seemed sick with worry for her parents, and with good reason, given how crap Michael looked. As for Jacqueline, Matt didn’t know what to make of her. He hoped like hell what Callie suspected wasn’t true. Blaming Callie for Hope was beyond unfair but a blind man could see the gulf between them.
At least she hadn’t said no to his suggestion that she think about staying. Maybe she was even considering the idea.
He grinned. Imagine how happy that would make his uncle.
Interpreting the grin as approval, the pup made another leap up to the seat, this time succeeding. Mouth open as though in laughter, he placed his paws on the centre console to look at Matt, one ear perked up, the other flopped over, tail waggling in glee. Matt threw him a dirty look, and for a moment the tail stopped its wagging, but the pup was nothing if not plucky and was soon ducking and wriggling again, desperate for attention.
Matt reached out his hand and scratched the pup’s ears. ‘Know how you feel, little buddy. Know exactly how you feel.’
As he’d hoped, Deb was home, baby Jarrod motoring over the floor like a plump miniature tank, releasing joyous ahhs as he attempted to escape his mother’s clutches. The twins were playing at a lurid green child’s table set, dolls, dresses, baubles and cosmetics strewn around. They greeted him like a pair of gaudy clowns, mouths covered in startling pink lipstick and eyelids smothered in bright blue eye shadow. Their eyes widened when they spied the puppy.
Deb took one look at the pup and groaned, before stooping to scoop up Jarrod as he attempted to scurry out the front door. ‘I can barely cope with this lot. How do you expect me to handle that as well?’
‘The girls will keep him occupied.’ He peered past Deb and winked at Maddy and Flora. ‘Won’t you, girls?’
They nodded vigorously in response.
‘Can’t refuse now,’ he said to Deb.
‘You’re a terrible man.’ She pushed the door open wider. ‘Come in.’
Maddy and Flora stood side by side, jittery with excitement. Matt placed the puppy on the floor and pushed him toward them. The two girls were on the pup in seconds, cooing and stroking, the pup almost turning himself inside out in squirmy delight.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’ asked Deb, leading him to the kitchen.
‘That’d be great, thanks.
Like the rest of Tony’s house, the kitchen was a slave to architect-indulged minimalism and as impractical for children as a modernist art gallery. Finger smudges pasted the stainless steel appliances. The glossy white cupboards showed the telltale signs of spills and adventures with crayons. But Deb had made it feel homely, with the girls’ artworks pinned up, photos of the family on the walls and hand-made craftworks lining the windowsill.
She handed him Jarrod to nurse while she set to work. The baby regarded him solemnly, torn between wanting to howl for his mother and curiosity about the man holding him. Matt made faces, delighting in Jarrod’s hysterical reaction. Every contortion made the baby giggle as though it was the most hilarious thing he’d ever seen, his chubby little body quivering like warm jelly. Matt handed Jarrod back with reluctance when Deb opened her hands for the baby so she could strap him into his high chair.
Coffee turned out to be lattes brewed from an alien-looking automatic espresso machine. Deb slid a trendy handleless glass toward him and caught his amused look.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but Anthony likes them.’ As she picked her own glass up for a sip, the puppy raced into the kitchen, skidding on the white tiles, little claws clattering, only to be followed by two giggling girls. The pup propped and yipped before succumbing to a fit of over-excitement and piddling on the floor.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ said Deb, setting down her glass. With calm efficiency she plucked the plastic spoon he was noisily drumming against the table from Jarrod’s hand before crouching down to wipe the floor with paper towels. Towels dumped in the bin, she washed her hands, passed Jarrod a less cacophonous squidgy toy, ordered the girls to take the dog outside and sat down again.
‘So how are things at Amberton?’ she asked.
‘Good. Keeping me busy. Wal’s list of instructions is, anyway.’
‘Terrible about the fires.’
‘Yeah. Didn’t look good for a while.’
Deb rotated her glass with her fingertips. ‘This will business—
’
‘Wal’s not telling me anything, Deb.’
‘Anthony’s worried sick about what he’ll do.’
Matt wanted to make a disparaging remark but restrained himself. Deb deserved better, and she had the pinched look of someone who wanted to talk but was unsure if she should. Bitching about Tony would only cause her to clam up and Matt was curious to know what they’d discussed.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘You think he only cares about the money he could make off the place, but that’s not true. He’s genuinely concerned about Wal. And the family. Things were so tough before this boom came along, when his mum and dad had the business. It’s a well-kept secret, but there were a few times when they nearly lost it. Anthony can’t stand the idea of going back to that worry.’ She reached out and touched the back of Matt’s hand. ‘He’s a very loving man who wants only the best for his family. You can see that by the way he looks at us.’ She withdrew her fingers and looked down at her glass. ‘He thinks you don’t understand. But I think you do. I think you want exactly what he does.’
Matt stared through the kitchen window at the girls being chased by their new puppy, the family’s dopey chocolate labradoodle, Canute, joining in the fun.
‘I’m sorry. That was a bit rude of me.’ She smiled. ‘I just wanted you to not judge him so harshly.’
‘It’s hard not to when he wants Wal to sell. Losing that place would kill him.’
‘I know. I think Anthony sees that now. But that still doesn’t solve what will happen after he dies. Will you talk to him?’
‘Who? Wal or Tony?’
‘Wal, but it’d be nice if you and Anthony could get along again.’
One of the girls released a high-pitched squeal. Matt swivelled in time to see her rolling on the ground with the puppy trying to lick her silly, Canute bouncing around like a curly jack-in-the-box, his tongue hanging out.
‘Although if that dog starts digging holes in Anthony’s precious lawn like Canute did, you might be pushing it. He paid a fortune for that turf.’
‘I’ll try, but only because you’re too nice to refuse and Jarrod laughed at my funny faces. No promises though.’
