by Shirley Wine
‘God! I hope she doesn’t decide to have that baby early.’ She looked up at Joe, tension knotting the skin between her brows. ‘You don’t like Xander?’
‘He’s okay.’ There was no mistaking his grudging tone. ‘Just don’t let the man run you ragged. You’re taking on one hell of a lot. The man’s a workaholic and he expects the same of everyone else.’
‘I do know this, but I appreciate that you care, Joe.’ She met his dark eyes, her expression and tone serious. ‘I’ve come to apologise. I offended you last night, and I never intended to. I do appreciate your help.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re right too, about letting Ben help with the rest of the clean-up.’
‘It’s okay, I need to apologise as well. I was pushy and out of line over that photo and the things we found in that trunk.’
‘You were.’ She took a slow, deep breath; apologising didn’t come easy. ‘But you were right; I do need to find out more. After I’ve finished with Eve at the resort, and run through my repertoire with Christophe, I’m going to visit with Mum and I’ll take that photo.’
‘Do you think she will remember?’
‘Who knows? The strangest things will sometimes jog loose a cascade of memories. Other times—’ she shrugged and spread her hand in wide a gesture of frustration, ‘— nothing.’
‘Are you hoping the photo will jog loose something in her memory?’ He hesitated a moment, then asked, ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
Agnes Field had always been very fond of Joe. Undecided, Marta scuffed a shoe in the gravel. Do I want Joe to visit Mum with me?
‘Would you? Aren’t you busy?’
Joe glanced back over his shoulder. ‘My staff can manage without me for a day. Do you want me to drive you there?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘No. I’m due to meet with Eve in an hour, and then I have a meeting with Christophe. I’m aiming to get to the rest home around three.’
Joe rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘How about I meet you at Rest Haven at three then? You can text me if there’s any change, okay?’
Marta nodded and sat back in her car. Joe looked down at her through the open door. ‘Drive carefully. The traffic will be brutal this close to Christmas. And talking of Christmas, have you anything planned?’
She laughed. ‘Hardly.’
‘Christophe has organised an orphans’ Christmas party for his friends who have no family to go to. Would you like to come with me?’
‘You’re not spending Christmas with your Mum or Becky?’
‘Becky’s flying to Germany next week to spend the holiday season with her partner. As for Mum—’ He broke off shaking his head. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘Look, I have to go. I’ll let you know, okay?’
Marta shut the car door, fired up the engine and backed out of the parking lot. As she drove away she saw Joe in the rear-vision mirror, standing there, hands on his slim hips, and frowning.
He wants me to join him and his friends for a Christmas party—sorry, Joe; I’m not a charity case. It isn’t going to happen.
***
Joe watched Marta drive away, and scowled. Why did she light out of here like a scalded cat? He aimed a kick at an inoffensive clump of weeds. Marta was fine until I mentioned Christmas.
He gripped the back of his neck—this was too much like a repeat of the past. Me left staring at Marta’s back as she walks away.
He kicked at the clump of weeds again, this time sending them flying across the visitor carpark. Well, he was damned if he was going to sit back and do nothing, and he was tired of seeing her back as she left.
‘So how do you plan to make Marta want to stay?’
Joe looked around, expecting to see his father, the acerbic comment a little too close to the bone. His father as usual, was right—I need to make a bold statement.
‘What’s up, boss? You look like you’ve lost your last friend.’
Joe looked into Kev’s weather-beaten face and scowled. ‘I asked Marta to come to a friend’s place with me for a Christmas party, and you’d think I’d asked her to attend a prostitutes’ ball,’ he groused, kicking at the gravel again.
Kev’s rusty chuckle grated on Joe worse than hayseeds in his grundies, and he glared at the old guy, and silently cursed his far too sharp eyes.
Nothing much got past Kev. He’d been a fixture here, since Joe himself was a boy.
‘Seems to me she has a mighty lot on her plate, and kicking up her heels and having a bit of fun probably isn’t on her radar.’ Kev lifted his battered hat and scratched at his bald head. ‘What with her brother still inside and her mum losing her marbles and all grip on reality, Christmas probably looks like a real downer for young Marta.’
Shit! Why didn’t I think of this?
Joe knew. He’d been too busy wallowing in his own shit, and not really processing all that Marta had going on in her life.
‘You need to do something real nice for her, something that will cheer her up.’ Kev’s shrewd old eyes saw far more than Joe was comfortable with.
‘Like what? I’ve cleared up her yard, and helped clear out the clutter Agnes left inside that house.’
‘Bad, was it?’
‘Ten times worse than it was outside. It was crammed to the rafters with paper and junk and anything else Agnes could lay her hands on.’
‘I guessed as much. I used to be real friendly with Agnes, but she only had eyes for that charming rascal, Sean Finnelley.’
The far-away expression in Kev’s eyes had Joe doing a double take. Kev once had a thing for Marta’s mother—no wonder he volunteered to help me clear up the yard around her house.
‘You’ve known Agnes Field for a while?’
Joe desperately wanted to ask Kev what he knew about Sean Finnelley, but he curbed his curiosity. It wasn’t his place and judging by Marta’s reaction last night, if she learned that he was asking questions, it would piss her off, big time.
‘All me life.’ Kev’s expression dared Joe to make something of this. ‘I’ve called in on Agnes a time or two, and knew she wasn’t coping. She was so damned paranoid that I contacted social services with my concerns.’
‘I didn’t know this.’
‘No reason why you should.’ That shrewd gaze held Joe pinned. ‘Tell me, son. Did you help Marta because of her mother, or did you help her because she needed help?’
Guilt slugged Joe upside of the head—‘I’m doing this for your mother. For no other reason.’—and he struggled not to squirm.
‘I thought as much.’ Kev hooted lustily and slapped Joe on the shoulder. ‘You want to make an impression on that lady, mate, you’re going to have to up your game.’
‘And what would you suggest?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been so busy playing in the dirt around here that you’ve forgotten how to sweet-talk a lady? God, you have me really concerned.’ Chuckling under his breath, Kev turned to walk away. He’d gone a few yards when he looked back over his shoulder. ‘It’s gonna take more than a few fancy flowers and chocolates. You need to think up something that Marta needs and would appreciate. That lady’s got real nice tastes.’
Tell me something I don’t already know. Joe watched Kev walk away, resisting the urge to grind his teeth in frustration. The old guy was right—damn him to hell and back.
The question was what could he do that Marta would appreciate. She’d always been prickly and that hadn’t changed one iota.
It would have to be something personal, something she would take delight in.
***
Flushed with pleasure after her interview with Christophe, Marta was still on a high when she turned into the rest home carpark.
Joe was already there, leaning against his dusty ute parked in the shade of a spreading gum tree. He had changed from his ratty work clothes into tan chinos and a dark golden brown collarless shirt, and he’d trimmed his whiskers.
He is one handsome hunk, and sure as hell cleans up nicely.
&nb
sp; He barely resembled the boy she’d left behind all those years ago. This older, mature Joe was all man, a man she was fast falling for, all over again. As if I have time in my life for personal relationships.
Marta’s heart did a little one-two skip in her chest and her mouth went dry.
He straightened up as she parked beside his ute and stepped forward to open her car door. ‘How did you get on with Christophe?’
‘Great.’ She gathered the photo and her purse, then alighted, giving him a beaming smile. ‘He’s a delight, and so easy to talk to.’
‘For a Frenchie, he’s a pretty straight-up guy. So what have you decided with him?’
‘He wants me to do a Friday and Saturday night gig until March, then we’ll reassess.’ Marta couldn’t keep the lilt out of her voice.
‘Did you sing for him? Was the band there too?’
‘The band wasn’t there; I accompanied myself on my guitar.’
Joe stood staring down at her, and frowned. ‘How do you know if you’ll gel with the band?’
‘Christophe said he’ll talk to them.’
‘Marta,’ Joe sighed softly. ‘You and I both know that may not work. Have you worked with this band before?’
She stiffened and some of her pleasure leached away. Trust Joe to highlight the flaws in this arrangement. ‘No, but Christophe assures me they are easy to work with.’
Joe didn’t say anything else, but his frown was far from reassuring. ‘I guess he knows what he’s doing. What has he arranged, equipment-wise, for you to perform?’
‘He’s installed a raised dais in the corner of the back deck; it’s really nice and should work well.’
‘So what did you sing for him?’ he asked as they walked towards the rest home entrance.
‘A classic Edith Piaf number.’ She laughed softly. ‘I thought he was going to swoon.’
‘Cunning. He’s French to his fingertips, what else did you expect?’
‘He was ecstatic, and rattled off some in French.’ She pulled a face. ‘Way beyond my school-girl French to understand, but when he calmed down we spent an hour discussing what he thought would suit his clientele.’
‘I have to hand it to Christophe, he’s got a great feel—he knows exactly what people dining at Chez Christophe expect and will appreciate.’ Joe paused on the steps and looked down at her. ‘And the resort, how did you get on with McIntyre and Eve?’
Marta grimaced. ‘Eve was okay, Xander though—’ she broke off. ‘I don’t know how Eve keeps up with the schedule he has her on. The events coordinator position is a seven-day a week one over the peak holiday season, with duties rostered between two people. Xander wants me to do five days, the other coordinator two.’
‘That’s too much for you if you’re performing at night as well.’ Joe frowned, and stared down at her. ‘How many nights will you do a gig at the resort?’
‘At the moment, it’s up in the air. Xander said it would most likely be two on alternate nights with Chez Christophe, but he’d need to consult with the band first before he made a decision.’
‘The same band that Christophe intends using?’
‘I guess so, he didn’t say.’ She saw Joe’s scowl, and said, ‘It’s what the man wants.’
‘Are you going to do it? What about your mum and Ben, will you have time for them?’
‘It’s only temporary. I can manage for three months.’
‘You’re spreading yourself too thin.’
‘The gigs are only for two hours, and I need the money.’ She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘Plenty of people work longer hours and more than one job.’
‘Singing isn’t like holding down a second job, it’s physically draining. What good will money do if you crash and burn?’ Joe looked down at her, his expression sober. ‘Tell McIntyre you’re only prepared to fill in for three days. The man can afford to employ another part-timer, he’s loaded. You need to look after yourself—unless you do, you can’t be there for your brother or your mother.’
‘I can manage.’ She tilted her chin, her voice soft, but determined.
‘You need to look after yourself.’ His expression was grave, his eyes tender and concerned. ‘Promise me?’
Marta met his serious gaze and felt herself sinking fast. ‘Okay, I promise.’
A slow smile softened his austere features, and he swooped down and kissed her upturned lips, the softest brush of lips on lips. ‘Thank you, you won’t regret it. Now let’s go and see your mother, see what she has to say about that photo.’
Caught by surprise, she inhaled a swift breath; trying hard to ignore the flutter of excitement in her gut, she pinned him with a steady gaze. ‘Chances are she might not even recognise me. I hope this won’t throw you as much as it did me.’
‘It won’t. Don’t forget I saw your mum fairly recently, and she was quite with it then.’
‘That can change, hour by hour, I’ve learned.’
‘Let’s go and we’ll deal with whatever this visit throws up. Talking out here won’t make it any easier.’
She nodded; with Joe’s steady strength at her side Marta found she could breathe much easier and the rapid race of her heart calmed. She’d all but forgotten the calming effect of his presence. Careful—he broke your heart once before, she reminded herself.
As nursing homes went, Rest Haven was decent enough. It was well run and offered health care and comfort to people who could no longer manage living alone. But the reason for its existence remained constant—it was a place where old people came to die.
The receptionist saw them, and signalled them over. Marta smiled at the woman. ‘I’ve brought a friend along to see Mum. Is she in her room?’
‘She was a little while ago, but if she’s not there she will be in the residents’ lounge. Enjoy your visit.’
As if. Marta sighed softly and led the way down the hallway.
She shivered: the air-conditioning kept the inside temperature of the building just shy of too cool. A wall dispenser pumped out air freshener, but this did little to disguise the odours permeating the walls, the floors, the very air of the place—a mix of pee and the harsh chemical odours of cleaning agents. She caught herself holding her breath, but the smell irritated the tissues at the back of her throat just the same.
Somewhere ahead of them, an old man kept crying out, ‘Help me. Somebody help me.’
The melancholy sound echoed and she looked around, but was unable to locate the source of the cries. Elderly residents roamed the hallways, some walking in crooked lines pushing walking frames and others stumping along with walking sticks sporting four-fingered floor grips. Another old woman, toothless and vacantly smiling at nothing in particular, scooted past them in a wheelchair.
‘Scary isn’t it?’ Marta looked up at Joe. ‘Just think, we’ll end up like this one day.’
He leaned close and said softly, ‘They’re clean and warm and safe, and in the end this is all they care about.’
‘Thank you for that.’ Marta paused at an open doorway and touched Joe’s arm. ‘Mum’s in here.’
Agnes sat by a window, rocking in a chair that seemed too big for her slight body, the rhythm uneven, as if sometimes she forgot how to keep the motion going.
It seemed to Marta that since her last visit, her mother had shrunk into herself. Surely she hadn’t been so stooped and withered, or her hair so thin and white that patches of pink scalp were clearly visible. The green dress she was wearing was old and threadbare, but the new, fuzzy pink slippers on her feet were the ones Marta had bought for her last week.
Her heart hurt to see her once vibrant mother like this, and she sucked in a quick, sharp breath to ease the pain.
Joe, sensing her distress, caught her hand and held it tightly, threading his fingers through hers. She clung to him without the least hint of shame, glad of his strength.
He mother gazed at something beyond the clear glass, her mouth turned up in a soft, sweet smile—as if she was seeing something particula
rly pleasing. Marta had often seen her mother smile like this when she was younger, particularly when Marta sang for her.
‘Mum?’
The rocker stopped moving. The smile slid off Agnes’s face as she turned towards the sound and stared blankly from Marta to Joe. ‘Who are you?’
Marta winced at the querulous, uncertain note she heard in her mother’s voice. God! I’m not strong enough to cope with this.
Agnes’s gaze roved from her to Joe, standing tall and still beside her. ‘Joe?’
Joe moved past Marta and caught her mother’s hands in his warm, strong ones. ‘Yes it’s me, Agnes. I’ve come to check up on my best girl.’
Agnes giggled.
Marta stared. There was no other word to describe the sound her mother made or the sudden lightening of her expression.
‘You’re a charmer, Joe. Come closer and let me look at you.’
He obediently leaned close and curved a callused hand around her cheek, his smile soft and tender as he looked into the older lady’s eyes.
‘You’re a good boy, your daddy would be so proud of you.’
‘Thank you. I try to live up to the standards he set for me.’
Her mother looked past Joe at Marta. ‘Have you brought your lady friend to see me?’
The question hit Marta with a kick as solid as any delivered by a mule. Guilt and hurt and grief writhed inside her. My mother recognises Joe—not me.
‘It’s Marta, Mum.’ She pushed past Joe, knelt beside the rocker and grasped her mother’s hands and held them firmly. ‘I’ve come to visit and see how you’re doing.’
Agnes looked at Marta for long, tense moments, then the same sweet smile lit up her face as lucidity dawned, along with recognition.
‘Why it’s my baby come home.’ She glanced past Marta to Joe, a sudden frown crowding out her smile. ‘Are you setting to break my girl’s heart again?’
The blunt, tactless words made Marta wince.
Joe merely smiled. ‘No, Agnes, I’m aiming to take good care of her.’
