by Cathryn Hein
She returned his hopeful expression with her special smile.
Matt pressed his forehead against hers. ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘You have to.’
‘Callie—’
She pressed her finger against his mouth. ‘Don’t.’
Hurt flickered across his eyes and disappeared. ‘Okay, but that coat’s still there. Waiting for you.’
‘I know. I just . . .’ She dropped her gaze, ashamed of her prickling tears. She hated herself for doing this to him, but she needed more time to reconcile her feelings. Hope was dead, her family fused to its loss, and yet here Callie was, happy. In love. ‘I’m still deciding.’
‘Hey,’ he said, using the curl of his index finger to lift her chin. ‘Take all the time you want. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?’
She nodded then kissed him hard in an attempt to recapture the mood. ‘Attractive, capable man.’
‘Angel,’ he replied, kissing her even harder back.
Impossible though it seemed, as she watched his taillights merge with the sunset, her heart soaring high on love, Callie actually felt like one.
*
At eight thirty the following morning, in need of a cold drink and a break after two solid hours of paint scraping and without Matt to make it fun, Callie sat in Glenmore’s kitchen, fired up her laptop, and called Anna on Skype.
Anna regarded her owlishly through the computer screen from the dishevelment of her bed. Her hair was sleep mussed, her blue eyes bloodshot. It had, by the look of her, been a big night.
‘Where’s Bubby?’ Callie asked before Anna could start complaining about the ungodly hour.
‘Work. Do you have any idea what the time is?’
‘Yep. I’ve been up since six.’
Anna flopped her head back on the pillow and groaned. ‘I hate Sunday seshes. I had an eighteen-year-old Scottish backpacker vomit on me last night. Ash just told me to hose off and get on with it.’
‘Poor you. Good thing you have Brucey-bubby to make things better.’
Anna poked her tongue out. ‘Your phone’s been off.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘I left twelve texts.’
‘Thirteen,’ Callie said. ‘I counted them last night when I was trying to sleep.’
Pulling the laptop across, Anna shifted onto her belly, pillow tucked under her chest, settling in for a girly chat. ‘Well?’
Callie smiled. ‘Well what?’
‘Don’t play cute. Your farmer. Spill.’
‘His name’s Matt.’
‘And?’
Callie deliberately took a drink of water. ‘And he’s nice.’
‘Nice? I thought you said he was a ute-driving crocodile wrestler.’
‘He’s that too.’ She put the glass down and smiled across the table at the sunflowers, still gloriously golden in their crystal glass. ‘And more.’
‘You had sex,’ said Anna, grinning.
‘I did.’ Amazing, heart-whumping sex that made her feel more alive than she had in years. Fingers around the heavy base, Callie twirled her glass and studied the water as it sloshed the sides. ‘Anna?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You and Bruce, what changed?’
Anna frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You were just playing around, never serious, and now . . .’
Anna’s frown dissolved into a smile. ‘I did what you said. Took a chance. I opened my eyes and really looked. And you know what I saw?’
‘What?’ asked Callie, leaning toward the screen.
Dreaminess softened Anna’s expression. ‘I saw how much he loved me. How good he was. Not just in bed, but inside—’ she pressed a hand to her upper chest, ‘—where it matters.’
Good, inside, where it mattered. Callie looked away. That was Matt.
‘I don’t know how to do this, Anna.’ She turned back, her throat tight. ‘I’m so scared I’ll hurt him.’
‘You love him?’
She nodded.
‘Does he love you?’
‘I think he might.’
Anna smiled. ‘Then it’ll be okay.’
That evening after her shift, Callie returned to Glenmore to find Matt in the kitchen chopping a cucumber, the table cleared and laid with a tablecloth, plates and cutlery neatly arranged at right angles, sunflowers decorating the centre and a bottle of red wine open beside two crystal wine glasses that Callie distinctly remembered packing up.
The room was warm with the scent of grilling steaks and the contentment of home.
He smiled at her. ‘You want a glass of champagne or should we save that for another time?’
‘Another time. Do I have time for a shower?’
He glanced at the stove. ‘If you’re quick.’
She placed a hand on his shoulder and stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll be back.’
Five minutes later, skin still glittering with drops of water that she’d missed with her hasty towel swipes, smelling of vanilla body wash and expectation, Callie walked quietly to the end of the hall, stretched up her arms and placed them on the jamb, angling her hip to pose with one knee bent like a fifties pin-up. Ready, she called out to him.
‘Matt, I’m hungry.’
‘Good,’ he replied, turning around. ‘So am— Fuck.’
Kicking her leg to show off her foot, she lowered her lashes and curled one corner of her mouth, well aware she didn’t need to give him ‘the look’. The milkmaid plaits, lacy bra, matching knickers and nurses’ shoes had already done their trick.
He didn’t say anything further. He simply put down his knife, flicked off the stove and came at her, kissing the breath from her lungs and turning her inside out with his passion as he manoeuvred her onto the table. The cutlery ended on the floor. Only quick thinking from Matt saved the wine, glasses and plates. The sunflower vase fell over, splashing the table and lino with water. Callie didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but being with Matt.
‘Still hungry?’ he asked when he’d finished reducing Callie to a panting, quivering lump of jellified joy.
‘For you?’ She ran her finger along his bottom lip. ‘Always.’
‘Always? A bloke could get used to that.’
‘I could get used to you.’
He kissed her nose. ‘That’s the whole idea. Come on, as much as I could stay here all night, I’ve spent the day shovelling chook shit and I’m starving.’
‘Romantic.’
‘That’s me. Attractive, capable and romantic. And you—’ he planted another kiss on her nose, ‘—are my sexy milkmaid angel.’
A detour via the shower meant it was another hour before Callie sat down to dinner, this time buzzing with pleasant exhaustion. With the tablecloth relegated to the laundry, they ate without it, sneaking hand holds like a pair of teenagers.
‘Wal wants you to come round for dinner tomorrow night for an Amberton lamb roast.’
‘We’ll have to behave.’
‘He probably wouldn’t mind if we didn’t. He’s over the moon about us. Silly old bugger can’t stop grinning. Reckons Maggie can rest easy now.’
Callie smiled, thinking of the photo of Wal and Nanna at the saleyards, the adoration in their gazes. ‘They were lovers, did you know?’
‘I suspected as much, the way he talked about her.’ He squeezed Callie’s hand. ‘Bet they weren’t as energetic as us.’
‘Or as kinky. That thing you did against the dresser . . .’ Her gaze drifted with the memory.
‘Fuck,’ he said, putting down his fork. ‘I need to take you to bed again.’
‘Okay.’
To Callie’s delight Matt stayed. She woke sometime in the deep night and lay watching him breathe, mesmerised by the gentle rise and fall of his body. Moonlight threaded a silvery beam through a gap in the curtains, the pure light blessing his skin. He might call her his angel but in the glow of night she knew that it was Matt that deserved the name.
She reached out to
hover her hand over the place where the moonlight touched, and the beam caught her Hope tattoo. The colours lit up, the blue like lapis lazuli, the leaves, flowers and birds coming alive, swirling around the letters, embracing her sister’s name. Gravel formed in Callie’s throat, painful roughness she could never swallow away.
Movement shifted her attention. Her gaze met Matt’s.
‘Don’t leave,’ he whispered, taking her hand, his eyes glistening. ‘That coat doesn’t fit without you.’
Callie closed her eyes and tried not to cry.
Twenty
Callie checked the clock for what felt like the fiftieth time. She’d only been at work an hour and another five dragged ahead. Five long hours plus a few minutes’ driving time and a shower to wash the pub smell from her skin, and she’d see Matt again.
‘I’ll do a run through the back,’ she said to Doug, who nodded and continued his glass polishing.
Tuesdays were typically quiet. The Royal’s usual collection of diehard punters lined the sports bar, turf guides snapping as they turned pages and reread forms and compared odds, gear changes and track ratings. Out the back, where Callie was heading, the bistro hosted only a table of five – young mothers, including Deb Graney, with babies in pushers, sipping the cappuccinos and lattes Callie had made them earlier.
‘Any more coffees, ladies?’ she asked the table, earning head shakes all round. Deb pushed her cup and saucer toward Callie, other arm holding a contentedly breastfeeding Jarrod. The twins were at Debbie’s parents being spoiled silly.
‘How are things out at Glenmore?’ asked Deb with a sly smile.
‘Good. Great.’
‘Yes, I imagine they are with Matt hanging around all the time.’
‘He’s been a help.’
‘I bet.’
Callie tried to remain cool in the face of Deb’s teasing grin but it was hard when the other four women started discussing Matt and what a great catch he’d make. That Deb knew about Callie and Matt was hardly surprising given the family connection, but it still left her a little dismayed. She wasn’t used to sharing her private life, and hearing her lover being dissected by a bunch of women she hardly knew was even more disconcerting.
‘We’ll have to have you both over for a barbecue soon.’ Deb touched Jarrod’s head as he shifted in her arm. ‘And Wal now that he’s back on his feet.’ She smiled. ‘Be nice to have a family get-together.’
A family get-together. That was a step Callie definitely wasn’t ready for. How could she be when she was still working out her place in the world? Anna might believe love solved everything, but Callie’s decisions encompassed more complex issues than whether to turn a fun shag into something permanent.
Keeping her doubts hidden, Callie gave a non-committal nod before gathering the dishes and carrying them behind the bar. Half an hour later, the women left, Deb pausing by the bar to tell Callie she’d be in touch about the barbecue, which did nothing to ease Callie’s distraction.
Knock-off time ticked around. She barely registered the drive to Glenmore, her mind running over the past few weeks. Wal was home, Lyndall well on the way to recovery and regaining Morton, the house was almost cleaned out, and Callie had discovered a solution to her Honk issue. Painting the house’s exterior was now just an excuse; with the sale of the second title, she could pay someone to do that. So why hadn’t she made a decision?
After freeing Patch from the makeshift dog run she and Matt had constructed in the shade of the liquidambar, Callie trudged to the house, the pup’s squirmy body soft in her arms. Holding the screen door open with one hand, she set him down. The pup exploded from her arm like a fluffy cannonball. Before she could order him to heel he was off, little claws scrabbling across the floor. Yipping with glee, he pinballed off the fridge and tore around the lino, racing toward the china cabinet.
‘Patch!’
But the pup wasn’t listening. He barged straight into the coiled laptop cord. Wire began to unravel, caught by his little legs. Powered by momentum and excitement, he kept coming. Callie leaped for the computer but it was already falling, dragging the crocheted doilies and Nanna’s precious figurines and Beauty with it.
The laptop crashed to the floor but Callie barely registered the sound. All she could hear was the sharp clink of china breaking as first the toreador and then Beauty hit the lino.
Patch halted, panting, his mismatched eyes intent on Callie. She crouched by the ruins, a low, extended ‘no’ reverberating in her throat. Whining in alarm, Patch sank to his belly and edged to her side. She placed a hand on his head, knowing it wasn’t the dog’s fault. She shouldn’t have stored the laptop on the china cabinet, but with Matt and her making love on every other kitchen surface, it had seemed safest.
A rough tongue tickled her palm. ‘It’s okay, Patchy-baby, it’s okay.’ But the words were more for herself than the pup.
The toreador’s head had snapped off at the shoulders in what looked like a clean break. She shifted her gaze to Beauty. His broken near foreleg had been joined by a fractured hind hock. A little moan escaped as Callie suddenly realised which leg it was. Her chin dropped to her chest. She closed her eyes, wishing the sight away but it was locked as hard and fast as the memory of the first time she’d seen Beauty’s in pieces.
Callie’s phone buzzed. Patch licked her fingers and sat back on his haunches. She surveyed the mess again and tugged her mobile from her pocket with a leaden hand and glanced at the screen.
A message from Matt. On your way?
Callie was. But to where, she had no idea.
*
Wal’s cane thudded across Amberton’s kitchen floor as he headed toward Matt. Callie kept her gaze on the television. The screen flicked from a shocking level-crossing accident back to the newsreader as Wal’s hoarse whisper filtered from the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong with the missy?’
Matt’s reply was too low to work out, but she sensed his worried glance. After a quick tidy and shower, she’d arrived at Amberton to an ardent welcome from Matt and a warm fug of delicious smells and homeliness. But instead of feeling content, Callie couldn’t shake the crawly sense of foreboding that had affected her from the first moment she saw Beauty’s broken leg. Emotions in turmoil, she’d retreated into the polite blankness that had held her in good stead all these years. To Matt and Wal’s enquiries, tiredness came as an easy and valid excuse for lack of spark. Exhaustion caused by too much sex, work and paint scraping. Almost the truth but not quite.
And Matt hadn’t believed her for a second.
Neither, it appeared, had Wal. He wasn’t much of a talker but the man had spent a lifetime assessing the body language of animals. Callie’s demeanour was barely a challenge.
A timer sounded, signalling Matt’s roast was ready for carving. With a long breath, Callie left the safety of the lounge for the kitchen and Wal’s shrewd gaze.
She touched him on the back as the old man fetched spuds from the oven. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘No, you just sit down, let us men sort it.’
‘Matt?’
‘You heard the boss,’ he said, giving a long carving knife a last expert stroke down a sharpening steel.
Callie’s smile was genuine when Matt placed an overloaded dinner plate in front of her. He’d gone to a lot of effort and the result looked and smelled delicious.
‘Thanks. I haven’t had a proper home-cooked roast for ages and this looks perfect.’
He squeezed her shoulder before serving Wal and then himself, finally settling down and pouring everyone a glass of cabernet merlot from the open bottle on the table.
To Callie’s relief, conversation stayed on safe topics. Amberton, Dargate, the upcoming relocation of the pony club and the design of the town’s proposed new library, which had divided the community. Though unable to summon much animation, Callie joined in the conversation as best she could, smiling at Matt as he occasionally reached across to touch her hand or back.
Meals finished, Callie ordered Wal out of the kitchen. ‘You go sit down, we’ll clean up.’
Wal winked. ‘You two just want time alone, I know.’
‘No, we just want to make sure you take it easy.’
‘Nothing wrong with me, missy. Fit as a fiddle.’
‘So that’s why you walk with a cane, huh?’
Beaten, Wal hobbled from the room, leaving Matt and Callie grinning at one another.
‘You shouldn’t tease,’ Matt said, squirting detergent into the sink.
‘I know.’ She leaned her hip against the bench, watching Wal’s progress. ‘He’s all right though, isn’t he? His hip’s healing okay?’
‘Yeah. Physio said he’s making amazing progress, given his age.’
‘That’s good.’ She nodded, eyes still on Wal. ‘That’s really good.’
Matt’s hands stilled in the sudsy water. ‘What’s wrong, angel? You’re not just tired. It’s something else.’
She held his gaze, lips pressed tightly together, eyes wide to halt the onset of tears. The urge to tell him welled huge. Except she couldn’t. There was nothing to tell. Not yet. Only a heavy weight in her chest that wouldn’t shift. Callie shook her head and angled away.
He pulled a saucepan from the suds and rinsed it. ‘My mum rang this morning. She’s going to be in Perth this weekend. She wanted me to fly over.’ He regarded her. ‘I said I had important things going on here.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Start of last year.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s hard to catch up with.’
‘You should go over.’
‘I don’t want to leave you.’
‘I’m a big girl. I can cope on my own.’
He placed another pot in the sink. For a moment she thought he was going to say something then he resumed scrubbing.
She touched his arm. ‘You should see her, Matt. She’s your mum.’
‘I know. I just get pissed off with her summoning me when it suits her. She knows how much I care about family and I hate the way she exploits that. But mostly I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m fine, Matt.’
‘So you keep saying.’ He stared at the pot. ‘I don’t know what’s worse. Knowing there’s something wrong or that you don’t trust me enough to tell me.’
