What Rosie Found Next

by Helen J Rolfe

  ‘You look like you’re getting the hang of that.’ Owen cast a shadow over her as he walked up behind her.

  ‘Your mum left clear instructions,’ she answered without looking up.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder whether she loves those roses more than anything else in the world.’

  The undertone of his remark failed to convey the flippancy Rosie suspected he’d intended. She thought about Jane’s email again, how she was keeping something from Owen.

  Rosie sat back on her ankles. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. It was wrong of me to blame you for us losing the apartment. You bought it fair and square.’

  They both turned at the familiar sound of the ice maker in the fridge-freezer whirring into action because a glass had been pushed beneath it.

  ‘Apology accepted, Stevens.’ He looked up at the dark clouds congregating above their heads. ‘I doubt you’ll need to water the grass.’

  She smiled at him before he disappeared inside. Adam waved to her from the kitchen, glass of water in hand, before he disappeared back upstairs.

  Refocusing on the roses, Rosie picked up dead leaves from the ground around the base of the plants. She dropped them into the bucket beside her and, using a small trowel, dug out a couple of weeds that had poked their way through the soil. When one stubborn weed remained, she dug deeper to prise it out, but it wouldn’t move. She thrust the trowel in again but this time she hit something hard. She jiggled the trowel to work what she assumed must be a rock out of the soil, but it was bigger than she’d anticipated.

  She wiped the back of her arm across her brow as the first few spots of rain were unleashed from the clouds above, and this time used her gloved hands to scrape back the earth and see if she could prise out whatever was buried with her hands. But when she peered more closely to see the size of the thing, the deep grey colour definitely wasn’t a rock. She hooked her fingers around the outside of what appeared to be a metal box and let a giggle escape as she tried to pull out whatever it was. It was like finding buried treasure, like the magical fairy party when she’d turned six and a fairy lady had visited their garden and hidden treasures all around: silver beads in the heads of plants, glitter sprinkled round the bottom of a gum tree, a silver-coloured pencil found in the cubby house, a beautiful gold trinket box buried beneath a pile of leaves.

  But this tarnished grey box didn’t look much like treasure. There was no lock on it, and with a bit of wiggling the lid came off easily enough. All that was inside was a see-through bag containing papers of sorts. She opened the bag to find a photograph of a girl Rosie estimated to be in her late teens, possibly early twenties, and another photograph of the same girl in a faded newspaper article with the headline ‘Young Woman Killed in Tragic Sailing Accident’. Rosie read the article, taking in phrases such as ‘no suspicious circumstances’, ‘alone’, ‘survived by her parents and sisters Jane and Sarah’.

  Rosie’s chest tightened when she realised Jane had lost a sister before now, before the funeral she’d travelled to the UK for. But why hide all this beneath a rose bush in the back garden?

  Rosie looked up to check neither Owen nor Adam had come out onto the deck and that she wasn’t being watched from Owen’s window upstairs. Then she rummaged through the bag again and this time pulled out two magazine articles, one in full colour and the other much older, faded. The coloured article was scrunched as though it had been balled up for rubbish and then flattened out again.

  Crouching down, she skimmed over the first article, a story of a school truant and dropout turned businessman, Gregory Falmer, who was the man behind the set-up of a lucrative, thriving holiday home development in Victoria. Rosie’s heart sagged when she read about Gregory Falmer’s wife, Jane, and son, Owen. The words described a family man as well as a successful businessman, and the photograph told a story of happiness. The story of Owen’s life before his dad had died.

  When Rosie moved to the second article, the feelings of sadness gave way to curiosity. This article talked about another businessman – this time Declan Roberts, who had two young sons with his partner Claire. But it only took seconds for Rosie to make the connection. The man in the second photograph was older than the man in the first, his hair was silvery grey and thinner and he had a pronounced paunch. But they were the same man, no doubt about it.

  She looked at the dates of both of the articles. The first was written many years ago, but the second was dated recently, less than six months ago. Her eyes darted up to the house and the upstairs window as she eagerly digested what was before her now. These had to be the personal items Jane had mentioned, the items she didn’t want Owen to see.

  Rosie pulled out the remaining contents of the bag. A bundle of papers unrolled to reveal a bank statement with highlighted payments to a C. Gilbertson alongside a description of ‘roofing repairs’, all twenty thousand dollars each … five of them in total. Her next find was the most disturbing of all: a photograph of the same man – Gregory Falmer, Declan Roberts or whatever he called himself – in his younger years, semi-clothed, in an office, all over a girl who looked young enough to be his daughter.

  There was one more thing lurking at the bottom of the plastic bag and, hiding as much as she could to the side of one rose bush, careful not to let the thorns poke her in the eye, she pulled out a letter addressed to Jane. She hesitated. This was more personal than anything else, but she had to read it.

  The letter was written by Natasha, the sister who’d died, and the words begged for forgiveness, pleaded with Jane to believe in her.

  A voice from the kitchen startled Rosie as the rain started falling more heavily. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Adam shouted. ‘It’s raining, come inside!’

  She pushed the items back in the bag and hid them in the box before shoving it back into the hole in the ground. She frantically covered the box with soil and then ran towards the house, her clothes clinging to her as the rain unleashed its full force.

  That was the thing about secrets. Those who didn’t know wanted to know, and those who knew sometimes wished they didn’t.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘What’s for dinner tonight?’ Adam pulled Rosie to him as she emerged from the bathroom. Even after a long shower she hadn’t been able to wash away the secret she’d found in the dirt outside.

  ‘Earth to Rosie,’ he teased when she didn’t answer. ‘You’re working too hard in that garden. If they wanted to have their flowerbeds worshipped, maybe they should’ve hired a gardener, not a house-sitter.’

  ‘It’s all part of the job.’

  ‘No it’s not, I saw you out there’—he indicated the garden—‘digging away in the pouring rain for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘Come on, why don’t you get dressed? I could take you out for dinner?’ He moved towards her, toying with the damp strands of her hair.

  She snuggled against his chest and stayed there for a while, her mind anywhere but dinner. ‘I’m happy to stay in.’

  ‘Come on, Rosie, I’m trying here.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I eat out all the time, but I know you don’t.’

  ‘I’m tired. Honestly. Staying in would be perfect.’ She kissed him and then tipped her head upside down to dry her hair. As the hairdryer whirred in her ears, she remembered Owen was supposed to be cooking every night following their race into the ocean, but perhaps he’d feel that Adam’s presence rendered their deal invalid.

  When she was ready Rosie went downstairs and rifled through the fridge for something to cook. Luckily, along with the pantry, it was well-stocked, so there were enough ingredients to pull together a lamb curry. She lost herself in the task of cooking, anxious to avoid thinking about what she’d found and stressing about whether to mention any of it to Owen. She knew more about him and his family now than she suspected he did. He’d grown up believing his biological father was dead, and she now knew he was anything but.

  *

  Owen appeared as the curry simmered on the stov
e.

  ‘Whatever you’re making, Stevens, it smells great.’ Glad Adam didn’t seem to be around, he dropped his helmet onto the bench top and peeled off his leather jacket, relieved by the air circulating his torso now he was out of the summer heat. He lifted the lid from the pot, unleashing the smell that had already snaked out of the open windows at the front of the house and pulled him in the second he got home.

  ‘It’s lamb rogan josh with vegetable pilau rice.’

  ‘What happened to our deal? I’m supposed to be cooking every night this week. You beat me fair and square.’ He looked heavenward when she pulled a spoon from his hand, not wanting him to test the curry before time. ‘I’m not one to renege on a deal.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  He liked it when she went all coy. It showed her femininity.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s all in hand. Just make sure you’re here in an hour and that’s about it.’

  He pulled open the fridge and moved a block of cheese, then a basket of strawberries. His last two remaining beers had to be here somewhere.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ She leaned closer and pulled the white wine from the door of the fridge, and her hair fell against his arm – softly, yet with as much power to make his heart race as fast as a Dodge Tomahawk.

  ‘I could’ve sworn I had a couple of beers left.’ He rummaged in the crisper at the bottom of the fridge in case she’d shoved them in there.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Adam’s voice sounded from the sofa, where Owen hadn’t looked since his return. He’d been so taken by the smell of food and the sight of Rosie that he hadn’t even wondered why Rosie had the cricket on the television as she cooked when usually she’d be humming away to upbeat music.

  ‘I had a couple this afternoon watching the cricket,’ said Adam sleepily as he sat up. ‘I’ll go out and replace them. Where’s the nearest bottle shop?’

  Taking another bloke’s beer was almost like taking his woman, although when you thought about it like that, Owen knew the time he’d been spending with Rosie – cosy dinners, trips to the shops, picnics and swims – was far less innocent than Adam’s crime. If another man did the same with a girlfriend of his, well, he’d probably have him up against a wall with a serious warning and a smack in the mouth for good measure.

  ‘There’s a small bottle shop at this end of the shopping strip,’ said Rosie, not turning round from the stovetop. Owen felt the ripple of loyalty and suspected she hadn’t been the one handing out the drinks.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Owen. ‘I can pick some up.’

  ‘No, no, I insist.’

  Owen felt bad when Adam picked up his wallet. But his guilt was probably more to do with his feelings for Rosie than his forgiveness over the beers.

  ‘How was your day?’ Rosie asked after Adam kissed her and headed off to the bottle shop. She stirred the curry, her other arm wrapped around her middle in a comforting gesture.

  He leant against the kitchen bench. ‘Not bad. I fixed a table in the café for Bella, then helped her with the website for the fire station.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  ‘I’m a nice guy.’

  His comment hung in the air along with the smell of the rogan josh as Rosie refused to look at him. Yesterday she would’ve had some rebuke, some comment to make about what he’d said, but today, nothing.

  ‘Are we okay?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at me, Stevens.’

  ‘I will if you stop calling me “Stevens”,’ she teased. She turned to look at him. ‘Of course we’re okay.’

  Owen busied himself washing up the pots in the sink, and when Adam arrived home he decided to make a concerted effort to make the man feel welcome. It was the least he could do when Rosie could’ve very easily kicked him out of here, and then he’d never be able to have a good search of the house without being interrupted.

  Owen got Adam talking about cricket and all things sport, and found himself relaxing in his company. Adam was a reasonable guy once you got to know him, and really, the only thing Owen didn’t like about him, he realised, was that he was the one who had Rosie.

  ‘My company paid for some of us to go to the Australian Motorcycle Grand Prix on Phillip Island this year,’ Adam told him.

  ‘I’ll bet it was amazing.’

  ‘It was awesome. We were on the viewing deck and could see the starting grid, the finish line.’

  Owen twisted the top off a beer.

  ‘So, Rosie tells me you’re a property investor,’ Adam continued.

  He gave Adam a brief rundown of the properties he owned already, his intentions to head over to Europe.

  When Rosie put the cutlery on the table, Adam pulled her to his side and hugged her close. Owen felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to have a bigger house as an investment?’ Adam asked, his arm holding Rosie in place. ‘It’d be far less hassle, easier to manage.’

  This was why people fell at the first hurdle when they thought they could invest in property and get rich quick. Like any career, property investment took work, it took know-how, and if you weren’t savvy you risked hefty financial loss.

  ‘Rosie asked me the same question.’ He returned her smile, as though they were both in on a secret Adam knew nothing about. ‘Having smaller properties spreads the risk.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Sounds like you know what you’re doing.’

  Rosie wriggled away from Adam’s side and went to check on the rice as Adam responded to Owen’s question about what he did for work.

  As Owen listened he wondered whether he’d sounded this dull when he spoke about property. The guy didn’t do concise, that was for sure, but Owen politely nodded in all the right places. He thought about Rosie as he zoned out, sipping his beer. Usually she’d join him for a drink and a chat, giggling about inconsequential things, but tonight she seemed intent on avoiding sitting with them. A few nights ago they’d drunk beers beside the pool together, laughing at the poor gecko trying desperately to clamber out of the water, slipping on the tiles every time. Owen had eventually fished it out with the pool net and let it scamper off in search of its freedom.

  A blunt question from Adam dragged Owen back to the present. ‘So, Owen, why didn’t you want to be a real firefighter?’

  ‘Adam!’ Rosie glared at her boyfriend.

  ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean any disrespect. Wrong choice of words.’

  You don’t say.

  Adam sat forwards on the stool, his beer resting on the kitchen bench. ‘But volunteer firefighting isn’t really the same, is it? I mean, do you train in case there’s a fire, spending most of the time rescuing cats stuck up trees for little old ladies?’

  Was the guy trying to piss him off? Maybe he’d caught Owen’s eyes straying over to Rosie one too many times.

  ‘We did have a call to rescue a cat the other week,’ he answered. And when Adam looked smug, he added, ‘The lady who answered the phone explained to the caller that we don’t do that, and the crew were, at that very moment, out fighting a grassfire forty kilometres away. Had the fire not been stopped it would’ve spread to nearby towns, maybe even Magnolia Creek.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And the fires on Black Saturday were pretty real too.’ Owen was enjoying having the upper hand again. ‘One hundred and seventy three people lost their lives, entire towns were wiped out, thousands of homes destroyed.’ His gulp of beer didn’t slide down as easily as he’d expected as his mind flashed with the memory of a heavy, vicious orange glow that had accompanied those fires back in 2009. It was as sobering as plunging into an ice bath.

  ‘It doesn’t get much more real than that, Adam,’ he concluded as he helped Rosie bring the dishes over to the table. ‘This all looks amazing,’ he told her, anxious to change the subject.

  ‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.’ Adam had the grace to look sheepish.
‘Rosie’s da—’

  ‘Adam, enough,’ Rosie snapped again, and Adam stopped talking.

  Owen wondered what he’d been about to say. It was clearly something Rosie didn’t want shared. He thought about probing some more but sensed Rosie wasn’t enjoying this situation as much as he was right now, and she didn’t deserve a dinner filled with tension and petty point-scoring between two men. Quite frankly, he couldn’t really be arsed with it either.

  He scooped up a forkful of curry. ‘So when do you go back to Singapore, Adam?’

  ‘I’ve got one more full day here, then I’ll be off.’ Adam hesitated and then added, ‘I’m in line for another promotion.’

  Rosie’s forkful of curry lowered down to her plate. ‘You didn’t mention anything.’

  ‘I was going to wait until it was definite.’

  Owen concentrated on the hearty meal in front of him, wincing at the conversation going on beside him. So much for a dinner devoid of tension. Rosie’s words were congratulatory, but her face said something else entirely and Adam didn’t seem to have picked up on it.

  He knew he was stirring things up but couldn’t resist asking, ‘So when do you think you’ll be coming back to Australia for good?’ It was the question Rosie should demand to know.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Adam shovelled in another mouthful of curry and took his time chewing, presumably so he didn’t have to answer the question.

  After dinner Rosie and Adam went outside onto the deck and Owen stayed in the safety of the house to clear up. A heady summer evening carried in on the breeze and segments of their conversation drifted in as murmurs, but with the clank of saucepans against the drainer and the swooshing of the dishwasher, Owen couldn’t follow it. He kept busy wiping down the inside table, the cooktop and the benches, and when he couldn’t pretend to be Mr Domestic any longer, he decided a swim was in order. He needed something to awaken his senses, something to get him away from Adam and Rosie, who didn’t look to have resolved anything.