Hold On to Me

by Victoria Purman

  ‘Oh, yes I do.’ She found a smile and drew strength from her own words. ‘I know what to do. I’m going to be completely fine. And anyway,’ she waved a hand to brush off his concern, ‘you look like you’re about to go to work. Surely there’s a client with a human resources issue that needs mediating. Though, why are you working on a Sunday?’

  Duncan straightened his shoulders and his lips formed a thin line. ‘You have no idea what I do, do you?’

  ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘Still don’t.’

  He shook his head, turned to go. ‘Okay. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?’

  She ignored the frustration in his voice. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ He sounded hurt and Stella had a rush of the guilts. All he’d been trying to do was help, even if it was a little cloying. ‘Hey, Duncan.’ She walked to him and rested a hand on his forearm. He looked down at her fingers and then she wished she hadn’t done it. She whisked her hand away.

  ‘I’m just a little … I don’t know … all over the place like a dropped pie.’

  When he looked at her, she could still see it in his eyes. The way he felt about her. She wished he would stop.

  ‘If you need to debrief over a glass of wine, you know where I live.’

  Stella forced a laugh. Of course she knew where he lived. Right next door to her. ‘Thanks. That’s very kind. I’ll see.’ She couldn’t bat away the feeling of relief when he left.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Luca Morelli veered his HiLux out of the three lanes of bustling Monday-morning traffic that were negotiating their way around one of Adelaide’s city squares and parked in front of the house with the For Sale sign out the front. He looked again at the big red Sold sticker plastered across it and grinned from ear to ear.

  He turned the key and the engine powered off. It was a busy part of the city but that was exactly why he’d bought the property. Cyclists rode by on the footpath and a business couple strode past in their power suits and runners, earphones firmly wedged in their ears. A woman in fluoro fitness gear waggled her hands ferociously as she jogged. Two young blokes with beards sauntered past, looking to be on their way to the vegetarian café across the square. This was life’s rich tapestry and he was smack bang in the middle of it in his new house.

  His first house. He was the owner of a house. The words sounded good in his head. He’d lived in a variety of rentals up until then but was so ready to put down roots of his own. And he liked the idea that the fashionable café, with tables and chairs on the footpath and, he hoped, decent coffee, would be his local now.

  Four weeks before, he’d turned up at the auction and won the place against two other bidders in a fierce competition. Half his family thought he was crazy to buy a historic two-storey bluestone terrace that could only be described as a renovator’s delight. Or, as Anna had wittily described it when she’d accompanied him to one of the open inspections, a renovator’s nightmare. (Luca hadn’t been crazy enough to imagine he could buy a piece of real estate without his big sister’s inspection and imprimatur.)

  ‘This place is a wreck, little brother,’ she’d said as her stiletto heels clickety-clicked across the pitted wooden floorboards in the dusty hallway. Then she’d slapped him on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Buy it. You’ve got the skills and what you can’t manage yourself we’ll get the relatives to do. Buy it and do it up and make money on it. It’ll be fantastic when you finish.’

  ‘I might want to stay; you never know,’ he’d said.

  She’d grinned wickedly and knowingly at him. ‘C’mon. I know you. When you make a tidy profit you can move back to the ‘burbs to a proper family home. With a backyard where your kids can run around.’

  ‘I don’t have any kids.’

  ‘I know that. But you will one day. You’re not the best uncle in the world for nothing, you know. And when you have those bambinos you’ll want to be closer to Mum and Dad and Nonna. Right in the belly of la famiglia.’

  She was joking and they both knew it. While she and Joe and their baby Francesca lived in the suburbs, they spent every weekend down at Middle Point where Joe had grown up and where they had a house. His big sister had managed to escape the place she’d grown up and that was his plan too. When he’d told his parents that he’d bought a house, Sonia and Paolo had almost burst with pride, although his mother had complained it was a little too far away from the family home for her liking. Thirty minutes in peak hour traffic. Just far enough away to avoid the accidental, we-were-driving-by-and-saw-your-light-on visits from his parents. He loved them like crazy, but please. After renting with mates for years, it was about time he had his own place. He was twenty-nine years old, for fuck’s sake. That was way too old to be sharing a bathroom with the slobs he played soccer with.

  He glanced out the window and up to the first-floor balcony, edged with intricate wrought iron. ‘I’ve got a balcony,’ he said to himself as he slid out of the car, slammed the driver’s door closed and strode to the front gate.

  Just as he reached his hand out to the latch, a hand covered his.

  ‘Mr Morelli.’

  ‘Hello, Amy.’ His real-estate agent slowly removed her hand from his and stretched it out towards him. ‘Congratulations.’ If he wasn’t mistaken, and he never was about women, she let her hand linger just a little longer than was strictly necessary. When she pulled back, he considered her invitation. She was blonde and her body was wrapped tightly in a business suit, the neckline plunging a little too low for discretion. He glanced down at her legs. She would have been considered tall without the sky-high heels she was wearing. When his gaze drifted back to her face, there was a knowing smile on her lips.

  ‘All yours.’ She opened the gate and ushered him into the small front garden. She jangled a set of keys in the space between them and he held his open hand underneath so she could drop them into his palm. When she finally did, she brushed her fingers against the muscled pad of his thumb.

  ‘Thank you.’ The metal was warm in his grasp.

  ‘Pretty exciting day, huh?’ Amy’s smile was flirtatious and she raised her eyebrows. ‘You sure have a lot of work ahead of you.’

  They both turned to the tall brush fence. The half that was left standing had slumped inside its wire supports and there was a gaping hole at one end where someone had clearly tried to set it on fire.

  ‘That’s exactly why I bought it.’

  She studied him. ‘Remind me. Are you turning it over for a quick sale or will this be your forever house?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered politely but coolly.

  ‘Living in the city sure has its perks but you might want the quarter-acre block one day, when the kids arrive.’ She glanced at his left hand.

  ‘Maybe.’ Maybe not. He held out a hand and shook hers, trying to delicately end the conversation without looking like an arsehole. ‘Thanks for dropping by to give me the keys. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Sure. Not a problem.’ She held on to his hand. ‘I know where you live. Might drop by to see how the renos are going.’

  He chuckled, slipped his fingers out of hers.

  ‘If you do flip it, let me know. I’d be really interested in selling it for you.’

  Luca waved a hand goodbye as she stepped on to the footpath. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He didn’t wait for her to drive away before stepping up onto the tessellated tile veranda and studying it once again. It was set in geometric patterns of black, bone and pale green, and inset with decorative tiles at even distances; he was happy it had survived one hundred and twenty years of foot traffic. Once the front wall and veranda had been painted, and the brush fence filled in, the old place would start to shine.

  Luca slipped the key into the door and pushed it open. He knew that an enticing entrance was the easy part. It was what was inside that made this place a challenge. Light streamed in ahead of him, a spotlight down the long hallway in which motes of dust floate
d in slow motion. He was now officially, finally, the renovator of this renovator’s delight. He wanted this project, had saved up every dollar he had and searched for months until he’d found just the right place. He liked working with his hands, could fix almost anything and, if he couldn’t, Anna was right. They had an extended family and community of tradies who could help him.

  Pride swelled his chest. This was going to be the real beginning of Morelli Constructions. His business. His training as a carpenter had sat him in good stead for his successful application for a builder’s licence and now he wanted to get stuck into bigger projects. He’d worked like crazy for near on twelve months and planned ahead so he could spend the whole of December working on his house. From floors to ceilings, it needed everything.

  ‘Congratulations, Morelli,’ he said to himself, craning his neck to look up at the decorative plaster ceiling, which was bowed and looked dangerously like falling on his head. ‘You’ve bought a dump.’

  And he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He turned left into the front room. The carpets were threadbare, but his earlier inspections had revealed that the aged pine boards beneath were the colour of dark honey. The glass in the windows was intact but the sashes needed replacing. One of the four walls—why just one, he wondered—was covered in garish 1970s wallpaper and he didn’t have a clue what was underneath. More wallpaper? Calcimine coating that was such a bastard to get rid of? He had no doubt he’d find out soon enough. He stepped back into the hallway and passed the imposing wooden staircase on the right; it featured a runner like an ascending red carpet, which he was planning to remove so he could re-stain the wood and restore the balustrade. It only took a dozen steps to reach the back of the house, which was a shabby patchwork of lean-to rooms comprising a small kitchen and a basic bathroom.

  He could whip up a meal with the best of them, but he wasn’t fussed that the kitchen was pokey and simple. He’d replace it soon enough and open it up to the small backyard. And anyway, he was close enough to Gouger Street, one of Adelaide’s best restaurant strips, to sate his hunger, and he went to his parents’ house every Wednesday night for dinner with Nonna, his younger sister Grace, and Anna, Joe and Francesca. It was a ritual he was happy to take part in because he got to see the little girl who adored him. Francesca was loved by everyone in the family but he knew, without a doubt, that she loved her Uncle Luca best of all.

  His phone vibrated in the pocket of his work shorts and he dug it out.

  ‘Ciao, Anna.’

  ‘Well? Did you get my message about the fire and Stella’s shop? Did you ring her already?’

  ‘Hello to you too. How’s that baby of yours? Is she missing me?’ Luca’s voice echoed in the high-ceilinged space.

  ‘Stop avoiding the question. Did you call her or not?’

  ‘Yeah, I called her yesterday. Left a message. I haven’t heard from her.’

  He could hear his sister’s gasp down the line. ‘She hasn’t called you back?’

  Luca walked out the back door and stood in the handkerchief-size backyard. An old cement laundry trough filled with dirt and a few spindly weeds was the only hint of greenery. High brick walls on either side provided some privacy and there was a driveway at the back. He wondered again if his truck would fit in the small space. ‘Give her a break, sis. I reckon she’s got a shitload of things to do and calling a tradie right now is probably not high on her list.’

  ‘You don’t know Stella like I do.’

  ‘Maybe she’s called someone else instead, huh? I’m a little busy myself, having just bought a house that needs renovating. While I appreciate you putting a good word in for me with this woman, I’ve got a lot planned for the next four weeks. I won’t have the time.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do this for Stella?’ Anna demanded. ‘When exactly did you call her?’

  ‘Yesterday. Exactly three seconds after you called me the first time.’ Luca ran a hand through his hair. He had to be glued to his phone—it was crucial for business—but the downside was that the women in his life could get him at any time of the day or night. And when they called him—his mother, his little sister Grace or Chief Nagger—his big sister Anna—he always took the call. No matter what. It was a blessing and a curse to be loved so much by them all.

  ‘Well?’ Anna’s excitement level rose down the line. ‘Did you call her again? Luca, this is important. It’s Stella we’re talking about. Her shop is stunning. It’s the best boutique on the south coast. Did you know that she gets stilettos in especially for me? In every colour you can imagine. She’s worth her weight in gold and she’s one of Julia’s oldest friends.’

  So this woman Stella whatever-her-name-was was obviously smart. She’d sussed out Anna’s weakness for high heels and was probably making a killing.

  ‘Anna, don’t you reckon she might be a little caught up at the moment, seeing as her shop nearly burnt down?’

  ‘Sure. Probably. But you don’t know Stella. She’ll be wanting to reopen as soon as she can.’

  ‘It’s almost summer and she’s in a beachside tourist town. I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Hey, where are you? You sound kind of echoey.’

  The smile spread across his face again. ‘I’m in the house. Today’s settlement and I got the keys.’

  ‘Oh damn, I forgot it was today. You, a homeowner. How Italian of you.’

  ‘Damn right. I’m on the property ladder.’

  ‘I’m glad you started early. Look at me.’

  Luca chuckled. ‘Yeah, look at you. You’re a GP. Reckon you’re pulling in way bigger bucks than me.’

  ‘I am now, but not for long, little brother. You wait and see. The skills you have, you’ll be beating back work with a stick.’

  Luca glanced to the sky, a small square of blue above him. ‘From your lips to god’s ear.’

  ‘Get Nonna to pray for you. That always works. Look, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate but promise me you’ll help Stella.’

  Luca let out a weary sigh. He knew he was beaten. ‘Tell me again where this shop is?’

  ‘On the south coast. At Port Elliot. On The Strand.’

  Luca wondered if he’d heard right. ‘What the hell is a strand?’

  ‘It’s the name of a street. Drive down to Victor Harbor, turn left at the big roundabout and then in a few clicks you drive through Port Elliot. It’s on the right. You can’t miss it.’

  Luca looked around his new house. He had so much work to do. He’d been on the tools seven days a week so he could clear space in his calendar to get cracking on his new house. But he’d gone ahead and made a promise to his sister that he couldn’t break. It had nothing to do with Italian family honour and everything to do with the prospect of being nagged for an eternity.

  ‘I’m hanging up now, sis.’

  ‘Thanks, Luca. Love you.’

  ‘Yeah yeah.’ Luca ended the call, found his keys and flipped them in the air. Before he did anything else, he was going to try out the coffee at his new local.

  Stella spent the first part of Monday morning on the phone and online. She spoke with her insurance company again to see where her claim was up to. Talked to her bank. Called every single supplier and each customer on her loyalty program to tell them the news. She’d been smart enough to back up everything to the cloud from the computer system in the shop, so fortunately she hadn’t lost any accounts, files or data. Once she’d updated her Facebook page with a brief update about the shop, she went into the back end of her website and posted a photo on the homepage of the boarded-up shop, with a message:

  Dear friends of Style by Stella,

  My lovely little shop in Port Elliot has taken a hit. The café next door, run by my dear and wonderful friends Ian and Lee, burnt down yesterday, and my shop was water damaged. But the big clean-up has begun! I’ll be reopening as soon as I can. Thank you for your support over the past four years—it’s meant the world to me.

  I’ll keep you posted.

  Stella xx<
br />
  She read it back three times to make sure it conveyed exactly the right kind of disappointed confidence. Truthfully, it sounded much more positive than she felt. Even if she’d taken a beating, she had to put on that face, that Style by Stella face, and let her customers know she would be trading again as soon as she possibly could.

  Which reminded her that she hadn’t returned Luca Morelli’s call.

  She’d been meaning to; she honestly had. But she was still in insurance limbo and was a little wary of lining up tradies when she didn’t know where she stood. Ry Blackburn and Dan McSwaine had offered their help and she was still thinking that over in great detail, as she did with any business decision. Things could get complicated between friends—she knew that better than anybody—and she’d been wondering if it might be better all round if she engaged a stranger to assess the damage and undertake the work. Luca Morelli might be a good compromise—not a friend, but recommended by someone whose judgement she trusted.

  That decision would take a whole lot more thinking. Stella pulled on a pair of old jeans and a black singlet top, and stepped into her runners. She tied a scarf around her head and knotted it at the top to keep her hair from her face, and packed a bucket with rubber gloves, garbage bags and the shovel from her shed. She headed off down the street like an urchin—all she needed was a gingham bundle tied to a broom handle over her shoulder.

  When she reached her shop a couple of minutes later, a lump swelled in her throat at the sight of Ian and Lee, arm in arm on the footpath out the front of their café. Stella dropped what she was carrying, ran to the couple and threw her arms around them.

  ‘Oh no.’ It was all she could say through her tears. Her friends hugged her back fiercely. ‘You got my message?’

  ‘Oh, Stella, we did and we’re so sorry,’ Ian said. ‘We’ve been so tied up with the police and our insurance company and about a billion different bits of admin.’