‘Well, bugger me, Dad,’ he said.
‘Son,’ Charlie said.
Sam picked up the will and looked at Charlie. Perhaps for the first time, he saw a man instead of his father. He saw a man who knew his life was in its final stages. A man who’d lost his wife and a son and would soon lose his memory of them. He was a man who’d struggled his whole life to make a decent living and had crutched more sheep than Sam could bear to think about. He was a man who’d known drought and despair and debt.
But he was also a man who roamed the island as a child. He was a man who’d fallen in love with his wife the first time he laid eyes on her, and had loved her well and long. He’d been lucky enough to work with his hands in a beautiful place. His night-time entertainment was the Milky Way and he’d breathed a lifetime’s worth of clean air. He’d enjoyed million-dollar views of the ocean every single day of his life from his humble front veranda.
All those stories, all his life’s joys and sadness were there in his craggy, tanned face and in his eyes. The eyes that Calla’s brother Jem had captured so skilfully in his painting. The eyes Sam knew he’d inherited.
And now he had another kind of inheritance to deal with. All this would one day be his. He would be the king of a castle comprising an old brick house and some paddocks on a property on the windswept and wet Kangaroo Island. At the end of an unsealed road and a dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He would be the patriarch of precisely nobody.
He smiled, picked up the will. ‘It’s all written in here, I take it.’
‘Yep. And I’m staying until I drop, Sam. You can’t make me go anywhere.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
Charlie upended his Scotch and slammed his glass down on the table with a laugh. ‘Pour me another one.’
Sam poured the liquor and they swallowed it neat.
The next morning, Sam cooked bacon, eggs and sausages for the two of them. They sat outside on the front veranda, ignoring the cold and taking in the clear view of Antechamber Bay in the distance and lush green paddocks as far as the eye could see.
Charlie tossed a bit of sausage to each of the dogs, which they gulped down in a nanosecond.
Sam sipped his coffee. He had a throbbing head and didn’t feel much like talking. They were at peace and it was a strange feeling for Sam. He’d been butting heads with this father for so many years that it feel unfamiliar to be sitting quietly, enjoying the old man’s company. They’d come to an understanding the night before. Charlie didn’t want to move and Sam had agreed with him. Even after Sam had laid out all his concerns about his father’s health, Charlie couldn’t be moved. So be it. Sam resolved to ask Ben and his family to keep a closer eye on him and to come over himself at least once a month for a weekend. Charlie reckoned that’d do him. Sam hoped he was right.
‘What happened to that girl?’ Charlie chewed his bacon. The dogs sat at his feet, silent and transfixed.
‘She’s back in Adelaide.’
‘What you gunna do about her?’
‘You trying to run my love life now?’
‘I liked her. She was a nice lass. Not like your wife.’ Charlie had stopped referring to Christina by name when she’d left Sam.
‘No, turns out getting married was a mistake.’
‘You gunna see her when you go home?’
‘Calla? I hope so. I need to thank her. And … maybe apologise.’
‘That makes you just like every other man alive. What did you do?’
‘She told me I should stop bossing you around and listen to what you wanted to do with Roo’s Rest.’
Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘Very smart girl you got there. You should marry her.’
‘Jesus, Dad. I’m not getting married again.’
‘Why not?’
‘Look what happened last time.’
‘You picked the wrong one.’
Sam laughed.
‘I reckon she thinks you’re all right, you know.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I may be old but I remember what it was like to have a girl look at me the way she looks at you. Your mother looked at me like that. Did you know your mother hated that bloody ferry to Adelaide? She was sick as a dog every time we went to see you when you were at university. And, you know, when you were in hospital. After your accident.’
Sam straightened up. ‘I never knew that.’
‘She made me swear not to tell you. But she put up with it because you were her son and she loved you. Did I ever tell you the story of how we met, your mother and me?’
Sam could only describe the glow in his chest as peace. ‘I’d love to hear that story, Dad.’
‘It was 1963. I fell in love with your mother the first time I saw her.’ Charlie laughed and slapped his knee. ‘Maybe it had something to do with the bloody bikini she was wearing.’
CHAPTER
40
It was Monday morning, early. Calla had one week left before she had to be back in the classroom and she didn’t want to waste a minute of it. She bounced out of bed at seven, scoffed down some toast with Vegemite, and hurriedly pulled on her painting clothes.
She opened the door of her spare room and looked at it with a critical eye. It was medium size, a door on one wall, a fireplace on another, and a window facing north, which would mean good light. She hadn’t touched anything in there since she bought the house nearly eighteen months before. She’d used her share of her father’s estate as a big deposit on the small cottage, and it was somewhere she felt safe and secure. There’d been a healing symmetry in being able to create a happy home out of her inheritance, in spite of her unhappy childhood. She’d painted her bedroom and the rest of the house a neutral off-white before she’d moved in. It was a good base colour on which to showcase her collection of art on almost every wall in the place. It was mostly other people’s, pieces from other artists that she’d collected along the way. But this room had remained untouched. She’d always thought of it as her junk room. Its walls were a bright pink she’d always hated: it was time it was banished. Matching curtains on the windows were almost as inspiring and Calla decided they would have to go too. Thankfully, the floorboards were original, shining honey-brown and glossy since she’d had the ancient carpet torn up.
There wasn’t much in the room. A sofa bed in case a friend ever needed to crash after a drunken night out. An old wooden desk. A lonely exercise bike that hadn’t had exercise of its own in a very long time. A fake Persian rug she’d found on the side of the road when she was a student and had dragged to every house she’d lived in ever since. In the corner, stacked in plastic tubs, were her most precious things. Her paints and brushes and painting supplies. They would be the star of this room once she’d finished with it.
Calla docked her iPod, chose a playlist, and got to work.
She hauled the exercise bike out to the kerb. Someone would take it, most likely Harry the Hoarder in the next street. She piled everything else in the centre of the room, climbed her ladder and removed the curtains, rod and brackets. Light from the northern sky streamed into the room.
Calla loved that painting could transform a room so quickly. She checked the colour of the paint she’d bought. It was the palest of greens, which would offer her no distractions while she created. But first a base coat to hide the strong colour on the walls.
She cranked up the music, dipped her paint roller into the paint tray, and neutralised the room. Soon this would be her studio. Her very own room in which to paint and draw and create. She had the luxury of such a space because she lived alone. There were bonuses to her romantic misfortunes, she decided with a wry smile.
It wasn’t just the room that was changing.
She was changing, too. And it was all happening because of Kangaroo Island.
Calla was transformed forever, in the best possible way. By simplifying her life, she had created the space to remember who she really was and what she really wanted to do with it.
Paying the bills
was important. She hadn’t turned into Pollyanna. But it was time to try again. All the self-doubt and excuses were gone.
Thanks to an island and a firefighter.
The muscles in her upper arms tensed and ached as she reached high to press the roller onto the wall to squeeze every last drop of paint from it. She lowered it, rolled it in the paint again and the wall began to change.
This was her new life. It had taken her so long to get here that she wasn’t going to waste another minute.
Sam sat in the small kitchen at the fire station, staring into his cup of coffee. It had just gone eight a.m. and he was about to head home after his fourteen-hour night shift. He was well and truly back in the real world. After his conversation and resolution with Charlie, he’d caught the next boat back to Adelaide and swapped shifts with a mate to get back to work as soon as possible. It had been a busy night. A bad night. Their first job was a house fire. An old man had fallen asleep while smoking in bed. He was alive, but only just. And then an hour later his crew had been called out to a bad car accident. Three joy-riding teenagers had to be cut out of their smashed-beyond-recognition vehicle and were now in intensive care.
He’d come back to the station, debriefed, written up his reports, showered and changed into his blue uniform, the one firies wore when they weren’t out on the trucks. Its short sleeves were a relief after the heat and heaviness of his heavy operational gear.
He pulled out his phone, checked for messages. He’d texted Calla an hour before and she still hadn’t replied. Not that he was checking.
‘Yo, Crash. You on that dating app again?’
Rowdy. Sam slipped his phone into his top pocket and shot a finger at his best mate. They’d been recruits in the same intake and had been shooting the shit ever since.
‘Fuck you. And before you ask, I am not cooking you breakfast,’ Sam said.
Rowdy flicked on the kettle. ‘Oh, c’mon. I could fade away from hunger. I mean, look at me.’
Sam didn’t turn his head. Rowdy’s idea of fun was a ten-kilometre run followed by a swim between the Henley and Grange jetties.
‘What’s with the phone?’ his mate asked. ‘You hanging on a booty call?’
Sam shot him another finger.
‘You? And a woman? You’re kidding?’
Sam sipped his coffee. Damn it. He’d been staring at it so long it was stone-cold. And stone-cold coffee reminded him of Calla.
Rowdy studied his friend. ‘You getting laid? This is news.’
Sam sat silently.
‘Not going well, huh? A cat lady? A nutbag? A princess? A good one who got away?’
Sam lifted his head to shoot Rowdy a sullen glare.
‘Oh, shit. A good one who got away. That’s the worst kind.’
The kettle whistled and Rowdy made himself a black coffee, shooting the shit the whole time. ‘You poor bastard. A blonde?’
Sam shook his head.
‘A brunette? I know you’ve got a thing for brunettes with big—’
‘Nope, not a brunette.’
Rowdy broke into a grin, planted a palm against his heart with a dramatic flourish. ‘The Holy Grail.’
Sam couldn’t stop the grin. How had that happened? He’d barely said a word and Rowdy had figured out the whole story. Well, the headline at least.
‘Yeah, a redhead. With long legs.’ There weren’t enough words to describe Calla Maloney. He thought about her. She had a smile that made you forget your name. She could taunt you in a way that made you want to laugh and then tease her right back. She had a fierce loyalty that didn’t waver, even in the face of anger and hurt and rejection. She had a way with Charlie that was completely unexpected and warm and kind. And she seemed to love everything about KI.
There were other things about her too. The way he felt when he held her, stroked her silky hair and caressed her soft skin. The way she’d whispered his name when they were making love; the way she held him all night and had still been there, spooned up against him, in the morning. It’d been worth every ache in his sore back to feel her there.
Rowdy drank his coffee down in a quick gulp. ‘You’re off shift. You don’t have to be back here for twelve hours. What are you waiting for?’
That was a good question.
Sam pushed back his chair and walked to the dishwasher, jammed his coffee cup in on the crowded top shelf. Then he walked to the doorway.
‘Hey,’ Rowdy called after him. ‘I’m happy to be best man at your wedding. Again.’
Sam shook his head and laughed.
He had somewhere to be.
CHAPTER
41
When Calla opened her front door, a full-gushing fire hose couldn’t have knocked the smile from his face.
‘Oh. Hello.’
God, it had been too long since he’d seen her. He took two steps and planted his lips on hers, bending her backwards. Her mouth had never felt so soft or so sweet. He would have lifted her off her feet if his hands hadn’t been full of flowers and wine.
She pulled back. It wasn’t welcome. Shit.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked and there was a nervous hitch in her voice.
‘You didn’t get my text?’
Calla shook her head, swept the curls off her forehead. ‘No, I’ve had the music up really loud and I can’t have my phone around me when I’m painting. I’d probably drop it in the tin.’ She was wearing a plain white shirt, and it must have been missing a button or two because he got a good look down her cleavage where it gaped open. The sleeves were bunched up her forearms and it and the old jeans she was wearing were splattered in a rainbow of colours. Her curls were pulled up in a messy pony-tail on the top of her head. Her freckles were uncovered by make-up, her pale lips natural.
‘You’re painting? That’s great.’
She blushed. ‘Oh no, not that kind of painting. I’m changing the colour on the walls in my spare room.’
Sam handed her the gifts. ‘These are for you.’
Calla wiped her hands on her shirt, took them in her arms. ‘They’re lovely. And wine.’
‘I know you like wine.’
‘Er … yes, I do.’ There was a split second of hesitation that Sam noticed but didn’t want to see. ‘Come in.’
He closed the door behind him and followed her inside. It was a nice place. An old stone single-fronted cottage in Adelaide’s west, about half an hour from where he lived across town. There was a hallway down the left side, with a carpet runner on the floorboards, and two rooms off to the right. He could smell paint and a quick look inside the second room revealed plastic drop sheets and a ladder. At the end of the hallway, the house widened to an open-plan living area with two sofas around a TV and a small, neat kitchen. Big windows overlooked the backyard and the sun shone into the house.
Calla unwrapped the flowers, sniffed them, and slipped the stems into a vase. She carried it carefully and placed it in the middle of the dining-room table, checking to see if it was centred. She looked so at home in her place. He realised it was really her. A riot of colour, from the paintings hanging on the walls to the cushions on the sofas. The rugs on the wooden floor were colourfully striped too, and yet the place didn’t feel like a bombardment of noise. It felt peaceful. Quiet. A haven. He was crazily proud of the colourful bouquet he’d chosen. He’d figured that plain white roses wouldn’t suit her. His choice of orange and yellow blooms had been just right.
Calla turned to him with a jittery smile. ‘Thanks for the flowers. They really are beautiful.’
It hit Sam like a fire flash. Nothing would ever be as beautiful as Calla. No view. No spray of flowers. No sunset. No meal or bottle of wine. No other woman.
He went to her, lifted her off her feet, crushed her against him and, judging by the way she gasped, he might have squeezed the air out of her lungs.
She looked at him with wide, confused eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve missed your mouth and I’m going to kiss you.’
Her lips parted and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She didn’t blink but stared at him. And then he kissed her, fierce, hot, filled with all the loneliness he’d felt being away from her. She tasted sweet as a summer day. Her body was lush in his arms and her fingers were hot on the back of his neck.
‘Where’s your bedroom?’ he murmured into her throat, nipping the sweet nape.
‘Not a good idea,’ she whispered. A hand teased through his hair.
‘If you want me to stop, I’ll put you down right now. But I want to fuck you, Red. I’ve missed you and I want you.’
She sighed. ‘Well, when you put it like that …’
‘The bedroom?’
‘Second on the left.’
Sam strode up the hallway, pushed the bedroom door open gently with her body. All the while, Calla had her hands in his hair, her lips on his mouth, was kissing him and nibbling his bottom lip. He lowered her to the edge of the bed and she fell backwards. He stripped off his jumper with a quick flick over his head and then his jeans were crumpled on the floor. He climbed over her, tore the buttons of her art smock open and pulled up the skimpy singlet she was wearing underneath. He couldn’t see a bra, just two hard nipples. He took one in his mouth, laved it with his tongue, sucked it into his mouth and watched her shimmer and arch her back. That’s what he’d missed. The way her body reacted to his: intuitive, primal. They didn’t have to think, didn’t have to intellectualise anything about the way their bodies fitted together and pleasured each other.
‘Sam,’ she moaned. He performed an encore on her other breast and then she bucked him off, pulling at her old jeans and knickers, shucking off her clothes, and then they were skin to skin, mouth to mouth, breath to breath. He was hard already and she pulled him closer. When he was safely protected, he pushed into her and, fuck it, she opened for him. She was hot and ready and he was at home, safe. He came in a rush of wanting and needing, and her name fell from his lips again and again as he rode the wave.
When he opened his eyes, her shining eyes were looking into his. Was he the luckiest man on earth?
‘You are spectacular,’ he said.
Only We Know Page 25
