Her Christmas Homecoming

by Shirley Wine

  He crushed her close a moment before he pushed her away—he needed space.

  He caught her marauding hands in his, and held them tightly. Need burned in him, he was so hard his teeth ached.

  ‘Do we take this any further?’ he asked, his voice a husky rasp. ‘Your call.’

  He held her pinned on a narrow-eyed gaze. She stared up at him, her golden eyes gleaming between half-closed eyelids. And he could see the questions teeming through her busy brain.

  ‘Marta?’

  For long suspenseful seconds, their gazes met and held; then on a raspy sigh, she nodded and whispered, ‘Please.’

  He lifted her with effortless ease and stood. ‘Your room?’

  Again, she nodded, as though speech was beyond her.

  Joe needed no further invitation; holding his precious burden, he strode into the house and kicked the back door shut behind them, pausing a moment to engage the lock before striding down the hallway to her bedroom.

  Chapter 8

  The first pale glimmers of dawn rimmed the horizon just as a kookaburra’s raucous laugh broke the silence. The bird was close, chortling as it heralded a new day. The rowdy birds never mistook the time.

  Joe cracked open weighted eyelids and lay unmoving for a full minute trying to take in his surroundings—then memory crashed over him in waves. He turned his head and, sure enough, Marta’s tawny-blonde hair lay strewn across the pillow next to him.

  Her shoulders were bare and one arm lay uncovered by the sheet, and even this early, a dew of sweat sheened on her bare skin. In the half-light, her golden eyes closed, her features relaxed in sleep, the worry she wore like a cloak was temporarily banished.

  Tenderness tugged at him—she was carrying some pretty hefty burdens. Her mother’s slide into dementia and her brother set for release in the new year were each a serious challenge. Combined it was one hell of a load.

  Yet, without hesitation, she’d cut short her career, and a hefty pay cheque, and returned home to help her family in their time of need. And this showed great loyalty and strength of character.

  He wanted to lie there, to savour the pleasure of watching her sleep, but with an early meeting scheduled with the building crew foreman, he didn’t have that luxury. He needed to be up and moving.

  He slid out of bed and picked up the clothes he’d discarded haphazardly last night and padded down the hall to the bathroom. He poked around, relieved to see Marta had stocked up on men’s toiletries—for Ben, I assume—he would hate to turn up for work smelling like a daisy.

  Showered and dressed, he returned to the bedroom.

  He was tempted to let Marta sleep, but while he didn’t know where this relationship was headed, he did know leaving her bed without saying goodbye was a mistake he’d do far better not to make. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed a hand across the alluring expanse of bare skin where her shoulder met the sheet. ‘Marta?’

  She grumbled and buried her head deeper into the pillow.

  A reminiscent smile touched his lips. She had always been slow to wake in the mornings—‘You know I don’t function at all well until I’ve had coffee.’

  Joe did know and the memory left him more than a little uneasy.

  ‘Marta,’ he said with a little more force, pushing a lock of hair off her cheek, then giving her shoulder a little shake. ‘I have to leave.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ One golden eye opened and she rolled over blinking rapidly, and so obviously nowhere near ready to wake.

  Not that this was surprising given how little sleep they’d had in the night.

  Outside, the kookaburra laughed again, the harsh sound mocking a human’s desire to sleep past dawn. A distant strident caw of a crow and squabbling lorikeets in the trees outside were a jarring counterpoint to the melodious chorus of magpies and honeyeaters.

  Joe chuckled softly.

  ‘I have to leave now,’ he repeated patiently, his hand caressing the smooth skin of her shoulder.

  That brought both her eyes open. ‘It’s morning?’

  ‘It sure is,’ he murmured, seeing understanding dawn in her eyes. ‘And I’m already running late.’

  She rolled over and looked at the window. ‘It’s hardly even daylight.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart,’ he said close to her ear. ‘I have a meeting scheduled with the building foreman in an hour.’

  She nodded and rolled onto her back, and lifted an arm to cover her eyes.

  ‘Are we okay?’ he asked, holding the hand lying on the coverlet.

  She shifted her arm and looked up at him, her expression serious. ‘I don’t know. Are we?’

  The hesitant question left him unsure how to respond. He rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. Life had been so much simpler before she came home. He’d been tied in knots ever since.

  ‘Sure,’ he said quietly, more serious than he could ever remember.

  A sleepy smile curved her lips. ‘Do you have time for a kiss?’

  ‘A quick one.’ He swooped down and claimed her pouty lips. ‘I’ll see you tonight, and I’ll help you with some more clearing out.’

  A quick frown darkened her eyes. ‘I need to order up another skip.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ He leaned down and kissed her softly, thoroughly. ‘A new one arrived yesterday.’

  Her frown deepened and she opened her mouth, but he silenced her protest by the simple expedient of putting a finger over her lips. ‘Let me help you, Marta. My dad always said that a problem shared is a problem halved. I’ll come back after work, okay? Don’t you worry about dinner, I’ll organise it and bring it with me, okay?’

  She nodded again.

  He swooped down and kissed her thoroughly, then reluctantly stood to take his leave.

  ***

  Marta lay there, her elbow over her eyes listening to Joe’s tuneful whistle as he left. How do I feel?

  Contented.

  Happier and more at ease than she’d felt in a long while, and no longer so alone, but beyond this lay an irksome worry—where do Joe and I go from here?

  Now wide awake, Marta was too unsettled to lie in bed. She needed to be up and doing. God knows, there was a mountain of work still to do to make this house even halfway habitable.

  She looked around the bedroom she’d used since she was a child. It was spartan in its tidiness. In here, she could at least pretend that all the stuff and clutter outside the door didn’t exist. Even as she knew this was a delusion.

  Her stomach grumbled—when did I last eat?

  With a wry grimace, she realised it was the coffee she’d shared with Joe last night after their visit with her mother. No wonder I’m hungry.

  Poor Joe—he’d gone without breakfast.

  I’m a pretty poor hostess. Keep the man awake all night then send him away hungry.

  Showered, dressed and desperately in need of food, Marta braved the rest of the house. The kitchen floor was clear; a dozen boxes destined for charity were stacked against one wall.

  And she no longer felt at risk of being smothered—though I’ll have nightmares for years over this.

  On the bench, she found the tray they’d used covered with a tea towel. She lifted the towel and saw it set ready for her breakfast and blinked away tears. Her mother’s long-ago words surfaced—‘Joe’s a keeper.’

  Now, she appreciated her mother’s sentiments.

  Without Joe’s help, she would barely have made a dent here, but she sensed in him a deep reserve. He would help her because this was how he rolled, but he wasn’t about to trust her without reservation, and this was a sobering reflection.

  Breakfast in hand; she retreated to the back terrace.

  Here, seated comfortably—thank you, Joe—Marta was struck all over again how out of touch she’d been, then and now.

  How could I not have known? Why did I need a social worker’s call?

  Sure she’d flown up to Brisbane and visited with Ben bi-monthly, but her mother she’d visited not nearly of
ten enough. Guilt ate at Marta—why did I rely on phone calls?

  The answer was simple. She’d wanted to avoid the risk of running into Joe.

  On the drive up here, she had decided a couple of weeks would see her mother settled, the house and grounds cleared, and the house ready to be marketed—the reality was it would take weeks yet to be anywhere near done. She’d thought that the money realised from the sale of their home would enable Ben to make a start fresh, well away from Marandowie—and I could relocate closer to Rainbow Cove.

  Marta snorted at her naiveté, and startled a blue fairy wren sipping water from the leaves of the nicotiana Ben had watered before he left. Her mother would appreciate seeing these pots once again planted with profusely flowering annuals—me, not so much.

  They were a symbol of ties she’d rather not create.

  Frowning, Marta surveyed the terrace with critical eyes.

  Edged with the potted plants and furnished with comfortable furniture, it was an oasis among the dishevelled chaos. Its cleanness clearly showed up years of lack of maintenance. This house needed a ton of money and elbow grease to make it saleable.

  In real estate speak—do me up and reap the rewards.

  Thanks to Joe, she was now prey to serious second thoughts. Do I want to cut all ties to Marandowie? Is it even possible?

  If Joe was married and settled, Marta knew she would have no qualms about cutting all ties. But Joe was a free man and what’s more, he’d offered Ben a job.

  No way could Marta see her brother turning this down. She had written to him outlining Joe’s proposal, but had yet to receive a reply. If he accepted Joe’s offer of employment, Ben would need somewhere to stay. Where better than here?

  She sighed. What had appeared simple was now complex. As for last night—I should put it in a box and mark it ‘don’t disturb’ and get on with the rest of my life.

  This may be forced upon her, regardless.

  Unless she secured a permanent gig, or found a place closer to the cove, she would eventually need to return to Sydney. There was very little in her line of work within reach of Marandowie, a little country town on the edge of nowhere.

  And after just the briefest glimpse she’d had of Joe’s enterprise—she knew he was firmly planted in Marandowie soil, and going nowhere.

  Sitting here was achieving nothing and, unbidden, she heard one of her mother’s pithy sayings—‘If there’s a job that must get done, don’t idle sit and brew it, but if you wish that it gets done, begin at once and do it!’

  With a rueful laugh, Marta cleared away her breakfast dishes, donned her protective gloves, and set to work. If Joe was cooking dinner, the kitchen needed serious attention—a few cupboards needed sorting still, and all the surfaces needed scrubbing.

  ***

  The sun was low on the horizon when she heard him pull in and park near the back terrace, followed by his cheerful whistle. She was only too aware that she’d been listening for him.

  He strode around the corner of the house carrying a box. ‘You about ready for dinner, ma’am?’

  ‘For sure. What have you got there?’ She stepped closer to look in the box.

  ‘Dinner.’ He chuckled and held it a little higher. ‘I see you’ve made a dent in cleaning the kitchen.’

  ‘I have. It was necessary if you intend to cook. You won’t believe this, but I found twenty hand egg beaters.’ She shook her head. ‘Twenty, Joe, I counted them.’

  He put the box on the bench and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. ‘Your mum was sick.’

  ‘I know,’ she muttered, and blinked away grief-stricken tears.

  ‘It wasn’t necessary to clear out the kitchen cupboards.’ His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact. ‘I brought my portable barbie.’

  His pragmatism helped her regain her composure. She blinked again and he was striding back to his ute, returning a few minutes later with a nifty little barbecue. In a few deft moves, he assembled it, set it on the corner of the terrace then set the barbie on the stand.

  He stood back, his smile mischievous as he waved a hand. ‘Ta-da!’

  ‘That’s so cute.’ She circled it studying it from all angles and grinned at him. ‘It looks like some miniature flying saucer. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Sure, I have a job just for you. Let me fetch another box.’

  He strode back out to his vehicle and she went to investigate the box on the sink. It held an eye-watering selection of vegetables, red and orange capsicums, aubergines, courgettes, radish, lettuce—all the makings for a gourmet salad.

  He walked back through the kitchen door and saw her looking in the box. ‘The finest vegetables Joe’s can provide.’ His voice rang with unmistakable pride.

  ‘They look scrumptious, and so fresh.’

  ‘For sure. Can’t you hear them screaming—don’t cut me, don’t cut me.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a funny man.’ Marta let loose a belly laugh. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘See that box on the table out there—’ he indicated the other box he’d brought in, ‘—while I assemble dinner, you can assemble that.’

  Curious, she walked out onto the terrace and undid the box and stood staring at an artificial Christmas tree and decorations. Startled, she glanced at Joe, and found him watching her.

  ‘It’s a Christmas tree,’ she said before she realised how stupid that sounded.

  ‘I know, and it’s Christmas in a few days. It’s more than time that you got into the festive spirit.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ She shrugged and turned away.

  He moved with the speed and grace of a panther, caught her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

  ‘The point is that you are here, Marta. And you are very much alive. Wearing a hair shirt will not cure your mother’s dementia, or miraculously wipe out the fact that your kid brother has spent the past five years in jail.’

  ‘I know this,’ she retorted, stung.

  ‘You need to face your changed circumstances and take up the reins of living—for yourself.’

  Stunned and bereft of words, she stared at him.

  ‘You need to start somewhere and stop walking about blinded by circumstances,’ he said softly, his serious gaze never leaving her face. ‘And putting up a Christmas tree is as good a place to start as anywhere.’

  Shaken by his words and his vehemence, she swallowed hard. ‘I guess.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  She nodded. ‘Where should I put it?’

  ‘In the corner of the terrace where there is a semblance of normalcy.’

  ‘True.’ She huffed out a laugh. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to haul away all the boxes we’ve filled for the charity shop. That will clear floor space in the kitchen, dining room and lounge.’

  ‘I’m one step ahead of you,’ Joe said with a little chuckle. ‘A guy from the local charity shop will be out later this evening to collect it all.’

  ‘You contacted them? Without asking me?’

  ‘No.’ He lifted a placating hand. ‘Joe’s donates fresh vegetables to the Marandowie Community Charity for their foodbank. Today, they gave us their order for the vegetables they need for the Christmas dinner they put on every year for pensioners. I happened to mention that I was helping you clear out your mother’s house and had boxes of goods to donate and he offered to come and collect it.’

  ‘I see.’ And she did. Is there no end to the things I owe Joe for? ‘I was wondering how I was going to get all that stuff out of here, and thinking it would take umpteen trips in my little car.’

  ‘I guessed as much, and when he suggested it, I accepted on your behalf.’

  ‘Thanks for thinking of me.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He looked at her and smiled, the endearing lopsided smile she loved. ‘So will you decorate the Christmas tree while I cook our dinner?’

  ‘Sure.’ Marta could see there was no way she could refuse, and so she graciously acquiesced, even though she thoug
ht it a crashing waste of time.

  As she fossicked in the box and pulled out all the components to assemble the tree and attach baubles and tinsel, Marta found herself singing Christmas carols under her breath.

  In the trees outside, lorikeets squabbled noisily as they came in to roost, and from further away came the drifting, mournful caw of a crow. Closer to hand, she could hear Joe in the kitchen, and the wafting, tantalising smell of steak and vegetables cooking on the barbecue teased her senses and added to the surreal atmosphere.

  Suddenly, she understood Joe’s insistence—this is what life is all about, enjoying the moment and creating memories.

  And not succumbing to melancholy in times of adversity.

  She walked in through the kitchen door, standing a moment to look at him. His back was towards her as he washed salad greens in the sink. Without thinking it to death, she walked up behind him and threaded her arms around his waist and rested her face against his back.

  ‘Thank you, Joe. I needed the reminder that life is meant to be lived.’

  He turned in her arms and reached past her for a towel, then dried his hands before pulling her into a tight hug. ‘It’s okay to be sad, to grieve, but we do need to focus on taking enjoyment where we find it.’

  ‘You’ve made me see this, thank you.’

  Later, after they finished eating, they sat in comfortable silence enjoying a glass of wine in the deepening dusk.

  ‘That dinner was amazing.’ Marta lifted her glass in a silent toast. ‘You’re a great cook.’

  ‘Christophe would tell you it’s good rough tucker.’

  ‘Really?’ She stared at him, her eyebrows almost reaching her hairline. ‘I never picked Christophe as a patronising jerk.’

  ‘It’s a standing joke between us.’ A laugh rumbled from him. ‘I call it fresh tucker, he calls it peasant food.’

  ‘If that’s a sample of peasant food, bring it on,’ she quipped, laughing as she stood to gather their dishes.

  ‘He’s an alright bloke, and a damn good friend, despite his fancy tastes.’ Joe’s serious words sat between them.

  The lengthening silence was broken by the shrill peeping of a truck’s backing beepers.

  ‘That sounds like the guy with the charity van,’ Marta said. ‘I’ll clear these dishes away. You can help him and supervise the loading.’