by Cathryn Hein
They finished the dishes to the sound of the television and crackling unease.
‘You’d make someone a good wife one day,’ she said, when the last dish was stacked away, relieved when Matt played along with her clumsy attempt at reconciliation.
‘I’m available for marriage, if you’re interested.’
‘I’m not the marrying kind.’
Matt grabbed her from behind, spinning her around and planting a noisy kiss on her neck. ‘Live in lust then?’ He pressed his mouth to her ear and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You, me, sexy nurses’ shoes. What a life.’
She rested her head against his chest. ‘You make it sound so easy.’
Matt stroked her loose hair. ‘It is easy, angel. If you let it.’
Callie said nothing for a long while, content in his hold. Finally she looked up. ‘Will you come home with me?’
He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll always come home with you.’
At Glenmore they made love in the creaking single bed. As though sensing her need for comfort, Matt indulged Callie everything. Hand in his, he led her to the centre of the room, where the setting sun glowed through the window and cast blazing streaks through his hair.
He undressed her with slow seduction, placing fluttery kisses on every scrap of skin, tracing lines over the dips and hollows of her body, until she stood naked and quivery, breath coming fast. Lifting her, mouths joined, her legs around his waist, Matt carried her to the bed and used his lips and tongue to pleasure her into exquisite ecstasy. Only when he’d reduced her to molten contentment did he undress himself and join her, skin to skin, teasing her with a love she couldn’t find a way to accept.
She curled against him, dozing, her head to his chest, arms and hands wrapped against her body. Matt kept his arms protectively around her, his lips on her hair.
Sometime in the night, when the sun had fallen and moonlight streaked the room, she told him about Patch’s accident – the laptop, the toreador and, in faltering words, Beauty. ‘His leg, the hind one, it was the same one Hope broke when we were kids.’ She plucked at the sheet. ‘It’s stupid, I know it is, but I can’t help thinking it means something.’
‘Angel, it was just an accident. You can’t read anything into it. It was just one of those chance things. You want something with true meaning?’ He took her palm and pressed it against his chest. ‘I’ll show you. This is where truth lies.’ He covered her hand tightly with his own. ‘I’ve told you before, I’ve learned what really matters in life. And it’s not statues. It’s what lives here.’
She smiled slightly. ‘You know, for a man you’re an incredible romantic.’
‘Only when it comes to you.’ Gaze riveted on hers, he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘Now come here and let me show you my big, strong, masculine side.’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘Not enough,’ he said, nibbling his way up her arm. ‘Definitely not enough.’
Callie woke feeling dispirited and, despite Matt’s best efforts, still disturbed by the previous day’s events. She wasn’t one for superstition, nor was she religious, even horoscopes barely held her interest but, irrational as she knew it was, there was something unsettling about the the breakage – accidental or not – of both statuettes.
Matt took his time leaving, lingering over his cereal, toast and tea, touching her constantly, alert green eyes following every move. They’d made love in the shower, draining Glenmore of hot water again and forcing Callie to boil the kettle to wash the dishes. Matt stood behind as she washed, kissing her neck and whispering sexy nonsense in her ear.
‘I’ll come back at lunch,’ he said, as she walked him to his ute.
A southerly had blown in overnight, bringing with it cool conditions and a sense of fading summer. Patch scampered and skidded over the crushed limestone yard, chasing tumbling leaves and yapping at the wind. Morton stood near the trough with his rump pointed south and his tail blown backward onto his hocks. The trees rustled as though whispering. Callie shivered and wished she’d donned a jumper.
Noticing, Matt draped an arm around her shoulders tugged her close to his side.
‘Wal’s got a few things he needs done but I’ll see if I can sneak a few hours to help you with the house.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll work on it. I was thinking of going fishing.’
‘Bit cold.’
‘I have jumpers.’
He wrapped his other arm across her front, enclosing her. ‘Not as warm as my arms.’
‘Nothing’s as warm as your arms.’
They shared a smile as they walked the last few steps to the car.
‘Angel, about last night—’
‘I’m fine, Matt.’ She held his gaze. ‘It’s all right.’
‘I worry about you, that’s all.’
‘I know. You’re an attractive capable man and a hopeless romantic who worries too much.’
‘You forgot to mention my big, strong, masculine side.’
Callie pressed her nose against his. ‘Okay, so you’re an attractive capable man and hopeless romantic whose big strong masculine side is very, very—’ she grinned at his raised eyebrows, ‘—masculine. Now go before you get into strife with Wal.’
Despite her order, Matt dallied and played around another ten minutes before departing. He kept dragging her close for kisses, sneaking his hands up her top, making her laugh with ridiculous promises of what he was going to do to her later. Finally he left, window down, arm out and fingers stretched as though wanting to hold her hand one last time. Callie cuddled Patch, using his paw to wave back.
The ute disappeared past the forest, its dust trail vaporising in the wind. She set Patch down and the pup took off once more across the yard, chasing shadows cast by clouds. Cold without Matt’s warm touch, Callie crossed her arms around herself and inspected the sky. The clouds were low, most white but with a spattering of bruised types. The southerly’s strength kept them scudding across the sky and it was unlikely she’d see more than a light shower. Nothing to prevent her going fishing. Not that the tide was right – that wouldn’t be optimal until lunch time – but with her feet in the soggy sand, the tide’s mesmeric lap and the loop and pull of the line to watch, Callie could clear her mind and let it drift.
She whistled for Patch, the smile she’d worn for Matt loosening as she walked back to the house. Why couldn’t she shake this off feeling? It was an accident, nothing more and yet the symbolism of Beauty’s broken leg continued to nag.
Three solid hours of being battered by wind and salt water brought Callie no closer to a decision about Glenmore. She hadn’t really expected it to. The reality was, she didn’t want to decide because the moment she did, she’d pay. Callie could do the right thing by Hope, her parents – even, in part, by herself – but doing so would dishonour Nanna and leave her own heart cleaved from the loss of Glenmore. As for Matt, leaving him didn’t bear contemplating.
To her surprise, she’d bagged half-a-dozen good-sized King George whiting, making her choice to walk further along the bay to where a deep gutter formed between two reefs worthwhile. She’d cleaned the fish on the beach, wading out into the cool water to wash the blood and dangling entrails away while seagulls screeched and squabbled over the scraps, the birds rising and falling like breakers in the wake of Patch’s galloping raids. The walk and catch had rekindled memories of her grandfather and summer days spent fishing in his company while Hope wandered off on one of her rambles along the forest trails and firebreaks.
Matt arrived at lunchtime as promised and as sexy mouthed and touchy as ever. Making up for future lost time, he called it. His mother had sent e-tickets through and he’d decided to make the trip to Perth after all. Life was too short to hold grudges, and for all her faults, Phoebe was still his mother.
Thanks to Matt’s endless games, filleting the fish took far longer than usual. To keep him occupied, she set him to salad preparation while she dusted half the fillets lightly in flour
and grilled them for lunch, the other half kept aside for Wal. With the wind still cool, she and Matt ate in the kitchen, Patch whining and scratching at the back door, the radio tuned to the Country Hour.
A stage set with all the ingredients of home, yet unlike their other days together, there was an air of falseness, as if her happiness was all an act, and now the play had to end.
Matt ducked off again mid afternoon, leaving her to continue with the house, although Callie had no enthusiasm for the chore. In his absence her efforts were desultory, progress slow and more than once she wondered why she was bothering. Restless, she called for Patch and spent an hour and a half trailing around Glenmore, trudging to its farthest reaches, where the forest encroached and the land began its downward drift toward the river. She rested, watching Patch snuffle and duck cutely through the grass chasing mice and butterflies, his lithe puppy body twisting with excitement, tripping and tumbling with joy.
She arrived back at the house in time for Kate and Lyndall’s visit, smiling as she watched Lyndall stride to the gate. Since Wal applied his magic, the teenager had blossomed, her confidence soaring as she reconnected with her horse. The way she walked, the brace of her shoulders and back, how easily she smiled – all pointed to a girl who had reclaimed a passion she’d thought lost. Whatever happened with Callie and Glenmore, Lyndall’s transformation proved at least that her time here had some purpose.
‘I’ve a present for you,’ said Kate when Callie wandered over to the car. ‘A little thank you gift for helping Lyndall and allowing us to visit Phantom.’
‘You don’t need to thank me, Kate. I wanted to help. And the truth is I need to find a home for the horse.’
‘I don’t care what your motives were, my daughter’s a different girl because of you.’ She opened the Range Rover’s back door and reached inside, hauling out a poster-sized dark timber frame. Smiling, Kate balanced the frame on the toes of her trainers, its back facing Callie. ‘And I’ve found a friend. So I’m going to say thanks whether you like it or not. Now,’ she said, turning the frame around. ‘This is for you. So you remember.’
Her fingers to her mouth, overwhelmed, Callie stared and stared.
The frame contained a collage of photos, each containing the heart-tugging image of a stumpy grey horse in various poses. Phan with his head held nobly, nostrils flared. Phan munching grass on Glenmore’s back lawn, Honk watching warily in the background. Morton and Phan sharing a scratch, Phan too short to reach the taller horse’s neck properly but trying anyway. Phan with his coat buffed to polished silver, his tail clean and silky. Phan with his eyes half closed in bliss as apple juice dribbled from his greedy lips.
There were also photos of Callie with Phan. Pictures she wasn’t aware had been taken, bar one. In the centre of the frame was the one Callie knew of. It was her favourite, a photo that Matt had snapped on his iPhone of Callie, crouched, with her arms around her beloved horse’s neck and her cheek pressed against his jowl. A broad grin split her face, her blue eyes vibrant from the sun and love, while Phan’s sleepy eyes and half-curled muzzle suggested an almost comically smug expression.
‘Oh, Kate,’ said Callie, her eyes filling. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Mindful of the frame, she embraced the other woman. ‘Thank you. It’s the most perfect gift.’
Kate returned her hug. ‘I’m so glad. Lyndall was worried you’d be upset because you had to let him go again.’
‘Not at all.’ She released Kate to admire the pictures once more, stooping to trace her finger over Phan’s face. ‘It’s wonderful. Really, really wonderful.’
Thanking Kate once more and admiring the photos as she walked, Callie carried the frame to the house, leaving it propped carefully against the water tank before joining Kate as she headed to the home paddock’s gate.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Lyndall when they arrived within earshot.
‘Love it,’ replied Callie, ducking through the fence to give her a hug. ‘It means a lot.’
She released Lyndall to give Morton a scratch. Callie hadn’t spent much time with the horse since Lyndall had begun caring for him. Though his nose still appeared as if covered in some alien creature’s droppings, Morton’s sweet, gentle manner remained unchanged. Summer had curled the ends of his bay coat even further, giving it the colour of gold-shot taffeta. His combed mane and tail shone glossy black, his hooves slick with oil. Callie inspected his black-dipped legs, noting a sprinkling of tiny yellow bot fly eggs.
She knelt down to pick at them with her fingernail. The larvae that hatched from the eggs were revolting creatures, lodging and developing in the horse’s mouth before being swallowed down where they attached to the stomach. ‘Do you have a bot-knife?’ she asked Lyndall.
‘At home. I’ll bring it tomorrow.’ Lyndall knelt down to help. ‘Callie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you give me a leg up?’
Callie ceased her picking. ‘Sure. Do you want me to fetch a halter so I can hang onto him while you sit?’
Lyndall shook her head, her hand on Morton’s upper foreleg. ‘Mr Graney says trust goes both ways. Phan trusts me, I think. So I should trust him back.’ She stroked his leg. ‘I won’t need a halter.’
The teenager took her time, smoothing her palm over Morton’s coat, chattering to cover her nerves. Callie glanced at Kate, who remained behind the gate, watching, and debated whether to call her over. She decided against it. Lyndall needed to do this on her own.
Callie made a stirrup with her interlocked hands. ‘Are you ready?’
Lyndall nodded, fists knotted in a hank of mane. As though sensing the importance of the moment, Morton kept his head up and didn’t stir.
‘Okay, one, two, three.’
On the third count, Lyndall vaulted onto Morton. She sat with both hands seized in his mane, legs clenched, teeth locked over her bottom lip.
‘You’re doing great,’ said Callie, patting her thigh. ‘Relax your leg. He’s not going anywhere but if you keep too tight a hold he might take that as an aide to walk on.’
Giving Lyndall’s loosened leg another pat, Callie walked to Morton’s head, distracting the horse with ear tugs and forehead rubs to give Lyndall time to settle herself. Every now and then she threw a reassuring glance at Kate but the other woman didn’t seem to need it. Her face fairly glowed with pride at Lyndall’s achievement.
She stroked Morton’s cheek. ‘I can’t believe how far you’ve come. Not so long ago you couldn’t step within a metre of the gate, now look at you.’
‘I know. I can’t believe I was like that. It seems stupid now.’ Lyndall ran her palm up Morton’s mane. ‘What you said, that first day I came here, about how you’d give him away to the right home. Do you still mean it?’
‘I do.’ Callie softened her gaze. ‘He’s your horse, Lyndall. He always was. In fact, I’d love for you to take him back home today, but it’s not my choice. That’s something you need to talk over with your mum and dad.’
Lyndall’s head dropped. ‘Dad’s still not sure.’
‘Then you’ll just have to convince him otherwise.’ Callie smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry. You have your mum on your side and from what I know of her, when it comes to looking after you, she’s a pretty tough nut.’
They stayed in the paddock half an hour longer, Callie traipsing winding paths through the long grass, encouraging Morton to follow with Lyndall on his back. The horse, as they’d both expected, behaved impeccably. By the time Lyndall slid off her cheeks were flushed and her confident walk had almost become a swagger.
In a better mood than she’d been all day, and deciding she should make up for her lax afternoon with some paint scraping, Callie gave Kate and Lyndall a last thank you hug and left them at the gate, stuffing Morton with carrots. She sauntered to where she’d left the frame, raising it up and balancing it on her knee so she could feast again on her beloved horse. She was still picking through the photos, smiling at Phan’s expressions, when the Range Rover’s engine start
ed. The horse could pull the goofiest faces and there was always a hint of mischief in his gorgeous brown eyes. He and Patch, with their naughty playfulness, would have made great friends.
As she looked up for her puppy, she heard two quick thumps, like sacks being dropped. The engine noise ceased. Car doors opened, then a sharp cry.
Frigid horror washed through Callie. Her eyes darted around, hunting for Patch, but the only animal they located was Honk. She wanted to call for her puppy, watch him streak across the grass and bounce into her arms, pink tongue flopping and mismatched eyes alive with delight, but the call stayed inside, blocked by a whimper.
With exaggerated care, she placed the frame against the house wall and, letting icy numbness settle in her chest, turned on stilted legs down the concrete path toward the yard.
Kate appeared at the end, her face stricken. ‘I didn’t see him, I swear. I didn’t know he was there.’
‘It’s okay,’ Callie replied, her voice sounding strange, as though it was a dream person speaking instead of her. ‘It’s not your fault. I forgot to call for him.’
She crossed the yard to where Patch’s motionless body lay. Lyndall crouched nearby with her hand on his rump, tears staining her cheeks. The breeze ruffled his fluffy black-and-white coat. If not for the blood leaking from his nostrils and staining the grey limestone, Patch could be asleep in the sun.
Callie knelt by his head and stroked his silky fur, holding her hand over his chest in the hope of a breath or heartbeat, but she felt nothing. His glazed eyes had already revealed the truth. The Range Rover was a heavy vehicle; his body soft and fragile. From the first crush there’d been no hope.
Though she wanted to bawl and howl, Callie’s eyes refused to moisten. The dull lump around her heart sucked all emotion except resignation. This was the price for not heeding the first sign. Fate had tried to steer her toward the right path but she’d lacked the courage to take it.
‘He’s dead,’ she said, unnecessarily confirming what they all knew. ‘I’ll have to bury him.’
