by Sasha Wasley
Finn grimaced. ‘That’s a tough one. It’s not the officers’ fault, though. I imagine the guy would have been trespassing or something, and they had to do their job. Yeah, it stinks sometimes, but in the end, it’s our job to protect people by making sure everyone follows the law. We need to do it, or the justice system will fall down.’ His brown eyes were so earnest, Free had no choice but to believe every word he said. ‘If we make exceptions, then we’re opening the door to corruption. Like, if I’m allowed to make an exception for someone chaining himself to a tree, then why can’t some other officer make an exception for a violent drug dealer?’
Free turned the idea over in her mind. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But what about integrity? I mean, if you passionately wanted to save the tree, and you knew it would be cut down if you took the protester away, you’d just leave him, right?’
‘It doesn’t work that way.’ Finn gave her a half-smile. ‘I have a duty to arrest him if he’s breaking the law, no matter how I feel about it. It’s part of the job. That’s what I do – I follow the procedures of the law.’
‘Ohhhh.’ Free sat in silence for a few moments, struggling to fathom it. ‘I’d be hopeless in your job,’ she declared at last.
Finn laughed. ‘I’d be hopeless in yours. How’s your painting coming along?’
They chatted about the Talbot Gorge piece and, since Finn wanted to know about her art career, she told him about the mural work she’d done for a chain of cafés in Melbourne and the unexpected invitation to take part in a group exhibition in London – and the even more unexpected emerging artist prize at a Perth art show. But those were just the highlights, so she also told him about some of her disappointments – the failure to be selected for several shows, and the time she overheard an art critic dismiss her painting as a ‘presumptuous attempt, lacking in maturity’.
Finally, Finn checked the time. ‘I’m so sorry, Free, but I have to get ready for work.’
Free stared at him in amazement. ‘Oh wow, really?’ She checked her phone and jumped up in dismay. ‘Crap. Ten-thirty! I swore I’d change my habits and get to bed by ten during the week.’
Finn carried the serving dishes to the kitchen. ‘Hey, there’s loads left over. Do you want to take some curry for your lunch tomorrow?’
‘Oh my God – yes! My lunch was so lame compared to everyone else’s today.’ She hesitated. ‘But only if there’s enough for you to have some too.’
‘Yep. Plenty.’ He pulled out a couple of lunch boxes and proceeded to load them up with rice and curry. ‘Do you want extra for Max?’
Free repressed a giggle. Clearly, Finn had never owned a cat. ‘No, he might get a sore tummy if I give him curry. It’s probably best he sticks to his usual out-of-the-can cuisine.’
‘Okay.’ He closed a lid over the lunch box and passed it across the bench.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of you while I eat my lunch tomorrow.’
He laughed. ‘No need.’
‘I’m sure I’d think of you anyway.’
She said the words before she thought them through, and then wanted to slap herself, seeing how uncomfortable Finn looked. Ugh, way to sound like a psycho, Free. Where was her self-censor? On vacation, as usual.
‘I’m sure I’ll think of you, too,’ he said, then clamped his mouth shut again, not meeting her eyes.
She hid a delighted grin, heart hitting gallop speed. ‘Thanks again for dinner – and for your company. I hope you have a fun night at work.’
He recovered enough to smile at her choice of words. ‘Monday night. Should be quiet.’ He opened his front door. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘All three metres?’
True to his word, he walked the ten or so steps to her door.
‘Bye, Free.’
She looked up at him. She would normally hug a friend goodbye. Were they friends? Of course they were. Free dove in. Their difference in height vanished when Finn leaned down into her embrace, circling her with his strong arms. For a few moments, they fitted together perfectly. He smelt wonderful – a trace of sunscreen, a hint of aftershave and a whole lot of big, strong man. She couldn’t tell if the thumping between them was Finn’s heart or her own. Free heated up, her thoughts sliding sideways to what it might be like to kiss Finn – but then her phone made a noise that meant someone was trying to open a chat with her. Finn pulled back in a hurry.
‘I think you’re wanted,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to lock up – there have been a few break-ins around town.’
She closed the door and locked it. Max sauntered out from the bedroom to greet her as Free deposited the curry in the fridge. A shower could wait until the morning. She discarded her clothes and fell into bed, reliving that delicious hug, imagining how it might have gone if they’d been braver. He would stroke a big, strong hand down her back and, when she lifted her face to meet his gaze, he would say what his eyes had already told her.
You’re beautiful. I’d like to kiss you.
Free would curl her arms around his muscular neck and hold on, anticipating the touch of his warm lips, pressing herself close against his strong frame . . .
She spent several minutes contemplating how Finn would kiss her, before taking a detour into more sensuous territory. Then a soft sound caught her attention. He was singing as he got ready for work, all his suppressed Irish inflection coming through in the ballad. She strained to hear the words.
‘And a kiss in the morning, early,’ was all she could make out, but it still made her smile widely.
She fell asleep with the beautiful sound in her ears.
Tuesday was the day Free had been assigned to run after-school sessions with her art students. She printed A3 copies of their landscape photos and, when they arrived at the end of the school day, told them they had two options for the afternoon. They could work on their sketches or sit with Free for a walk-through of oils. A couple of kids were immersed in their sketching, but most chose to gather around Free as she dabbed paint onto a blank canvas. The quality of the school’s oil paint collection left her less than impressed. She had some new paints on order from Bostons – her favourite art supplies store – and they were due to arrive any day now. She would bring them in to show her students how decent oil paints made all the difference.
‘You can mix oils with so many different things, it’s crazy,’ she said. ‘Leonardo da Vinci was the most incredible experimenter when it came to oils. You know about his scientific inventions, right? Well, he took the same approach with his painting. Like, he worked on canvas, paper, cloth, rock, plaster – wet plaster for murals – you name it. I mean, seriously, the guy tried just about everything to see what would get the most awesome results. And he mixed his oils with everything, too. Beeswax, egg whites, flaxseed oil, tobacco oil and loads more – I can’t even remember them all. Google it. It’s insane. He was a kind of nutty professor. Can’t you just imagine him giggling away to himself while he used all that weird crap to create the best colours and consistency he could?’
The kids laughed with her.
‘I bet it drove his wife nuts,’ said Cameron.
‘My mum hates it when I bring stuff inside to mix with my paint,’ Tia added in her soft voice.
‘What do you mix?’ Free asked her, excited to find a fellow experimenter.
The girl shrank a little when the other kids turned their heads to look at her. ‘Sand. Sawdust. Crushed shells.’ Her voice had dropped to practically a whisper.
‘With acrylic?’ Free asked, and Tia nodded. ‘That’s awesome. I used mainly acrylics before oils stole my heart. I used to mix them with river mud and all kinds of stuff. My dad lost the plot when he caught me mixing blue paint with cattle minerals. Gotta say, it made a wicked purple impasto.’
Tia’s confidence rose again. ‘I used tapioca flour once. It made a smooth, thick texture.’
‘Was that what you used on your pearling boat painting?’ Cameron asked and Tia nodded. ‘Tia won the Broome Art Sho
w in our age group last year,’ he told Free.
Free stared at the girl. ‘That’s amazing!’
‘Yeah, she did this boat moored in the harbour with really chunky paint,’ another girl said. ‘It was atmospheric.’
‘It was bad-ass.’ Cameron nudged Tia, whose eyes had dropped to the floor. ‘Your grandad’s boat, right?’
‘My great-uncle’s.’ Her voice had faded to whisper level again. ‘He was a pearler.’
‘Japanese pearler?’ asked Free, remembering the girl’s last name was Kaneko.
Tia nodded.
‘My grandma was a servant to a Japanese pearler,’ another girl offered. ‘They say she was, like, his concubine.’ She gave a crooked smile.
‘My great-great-grandfather owned a station,’ Cameron said. ‘And my great-great-grandma was his servant. Jamadji.’
The discussion continued. Many of the kids in the group were able to contribute a story about immigrant or Aboriginal heritage, or a mixed ancestry. One girl told the story of why her family had emigrated from eastern Europe twenty years earlier, and a boy said his family had arrived as refugees on a boat. Free explained how her own great-great-grandfather had been a convict who’d earned his ticket of leave and had been given the Paterson Downs pastoral lease for a song.
‘They’re cool, these stories.’ Cameron was bright-eyed and wearing a grin.
‘You said it,’ Free answered. ‘Mount Clair kicks arse for diversity. Now, if you want to blend your colours, you can use a few different techniques.’ She demonstrated so they weren’t wasting their precious work time, but continued the topic of discussion as the kids watched her blend. ‘The history of Mount Clair is so fascinating. Some of it’s not pleasant. Some of it is horrific. It’s like a conversation that needs to keep happening so we don’t gloss over the pain experienced by any one group. We have a whole bunch of amazing stories, and they made Mount Clair what it is.’
Tia said something so softly that Free couldn’t hear it properly, but Cameron did. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’d be cool.’
Tia looked at Free, her eyes alight with hope.
‘What did you say?’ asked Free. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’
Tia took a breath. ‘I said that maybe our heritage stories would make a good theme for the tile wall.’
Cameron was thinking hard. ‘We could do art styles from all the different cultures. Story tiles about the Dreaming, the invasion, pearling, farming – all that stuff.’
Several of the kids were nodding eagerly. Free was almost speechless.
‘This is the best idea I’ve ever heard,’ she breathed. ‘It’s so honest and real. Tia, you’re a freakin’ genius.’
The little smile that crept onto Tia’s face was wonderful to witness. Free abandoned the canvas and snatched up a pen and paper, scribbling down ideas that poured from the students. The exciting thing was that they were unanimous in their enthusiasm for the concept. The class was immersed in the discussion and the allotted hour flew. Some of the kids had to leave at 4 p.m. but others text-messaged their parents or simply decided to stay on and take turns with the oils. Free told them about sfumato and they practised saying the word amid much giggling.
‘Seriously, I can’t wait to make a start on the tile project with you guys as soon as the concept’s approved. We’re going to create the most amazing public artwork this town has ever seen!’
They all grinned or made jokes and Free thought about how lucky she was to get this group of kids. Finally, the cleaning staff descended and the class broke up.
‘I’ll see you guys Friday,’ she called. ‘Email me if you have any more tile ideas, okay?’
Fat raindrops fell on the windscreen as she drove home, threatening a torrent. She put her car away and dashed to the front door, checking on her way to see if Finn was home. Hmm, inconclusive. He didn’t appear to own a car and she’d only seen him driving police vehicles. Maybe he walked to work? Or caught a lift. She should invite him around for a meal – return the favour. Free knew how to cook pasta. Oh, yes – that Pisan pesto dish Flavia had insisted on teaching her how to make! She could just imagine how impressed he would be as she whizzed pine nuts and basil with olive oil in her sparkling blender, smiling over at Finn’s handsome face. He would sit at her kitchen table, sipping wine, while Free glided across her immaculate house in a chic apron like a blonde Nigella Lawson, Finn’s admiring eyes fixed on her . . .
Whoops, she’d forgotten to lock the front door again. Free slipped through her unlocked door and the reality of her culinary – and housekeeping – abilities hit home. She wasn’t going to wow Finn with a gorgeous meal. If he came over now, all he would see was mess – a giant mess. Her clean clothes lay in heaps all over the coffee table and couch, abandoned there unfolded when she’d brought armfuls of washing inside before work that morning so it wouldn’t get wet. Dishes, rinsed but unwashed, were piling up. Boxes of packed items still dotted the living area. The only space that was semi-organised in the entire house was the kitchen, which Beth had done. And possibly the studio, since Free had been forced to unpack all her art supplies when she couldn’t find a tube of paint she was after.
Did she even own a blender?
Free flicked on the air conditioning and slumped onto the couch. Damn. She was too exhausted to clean or unpack. Tomorrow, she decided. She had two days off work now before taking the Year Elevens for double art on Friday. She would get the place properly sorted out.
A knock on the front door made her jump up in panic. Sure enough, it was Finn, looking tall, fresh and sexy in a T-shirt and shorts, those warm eyes sparkling down at her. Overwhelmed with a big dose of shame about her messy house, Free skipped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her.
‘Hi!’
‘Hi. How was your day?’
‘Amazing! Awesome!’
His smile grew. ‘Great! You’ll have to tell me about it. I’m heading to work soon, but, um – I did something. I hope you don’t mind. The postie came with a parcel for you but he needed you to sign for it and you weren’t here so I, uh, well, I signed for it for you because I knew you might not get home in time to collect it from the post office and I wanted to save you the trouble . . .’ He took a breath at last and held out a package, slightly red in the face.
‘Thanks! That was very cool of you.’ She took the parcel and he visibly relaxed. ‘It’ll be my new paints. I’m stoked, because the oils at school are crap.’
She attempted to tear it open but it required scissors so Free pushed through the door and headed for the kitchen.
‘Come in,’ she threw over her shoulder.
She located a knife and sliced open the package while Finn closed the door behind him. ‘I absolutely love my supplier.’ She held up the paints to show him. ‘Oh, look, they put in some prezzies! I’m a good customer,’ she explained. ‘I spend almost everything I earn with these guys, so they throw in freebies for me. I got a new spatula and some fine brushes this time.’ She inspected her gifts.
‘No art supplies shops in Mount Clair, I guess?’
‘Nope. There’s the newsagency. They’ve got a corner devoted to sketchpads, pencils and flimsy easels, but that’s it. I have more luck down the hardware store.’
She smiled at Finn and caught him examining her kitchen. Free froze. Oh good Lord, she’d completely forgotten about hiding her pigsty of a house from him.
‘Excuse the mess,’ she added weakly.
He brought his gaze back to hers. ‘Huh? Oh, I was just looking at your paintbrushes all lined up on the windowsill. It must be tough not having a proper studio.’ He swept his gaze around the living area. ‘Your place is almost the same layout as mine, just flipped. Except you have this half-wall here. What a shame they stuck it there, because this living room would be a much better place for you to paint – you know, with a sink nearby.’
He kept looking around, and even put his head around the corner to peer into the laundry. Free was silent. Was Finn serio
usly checking out her house, trying to work out a suitable studio arrangement for her? As though her art career was important . . . and her livelihood, her comfort, were his concerns? A peculiar quiet happiness stole over her.
‘Hmm, there must be a good solution.’ He glanced at her, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll work something out. I’d better get going.’ He turned for the door.
Free followed him, still lost for words. He’d made it to his front door before she found her voice again. ‘Finn, wait.’
He turned.
‘Can, um – can I cook for you?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘I thought you didn’t cook.’
‘I don’t, not really. But I could try.’
He chuckled. ‘Sounds good, in a scary kind of way. When were you thinking of?’
‘When are you free?’
‘I’m working now till 2 a.m., then a day off tomorrow.’
‘Me too. Lunch tomorrow?’ she suggested, her voice trembling a little. So weird. She couldn’t remember ever getting nervous around a guy like this before.
‘Lunch would be good.’ He hesitated. ‘Just us two?’
‘Um, yes.’
Something like caution crossed his face. But a moment later he straightened a little and threw her a quick smile. ‘Yup, that’s very neighbourly of you. See you then!’ And he was gone.
Free went back inside. Her hands were still shaking and she shook her head at herself. All those holiday romances and whirlwind affairs with guys she’d met in exotic places – none of them had made her react like this. She realised what it was. None of those guys, for all their romance and seduction, had treated her quite like Finn did – with such natural consideration and respect, and deep, irrepressible kindness.
