by Shirley Wine
‘Santa came to visit,’ he said, his breath hot against her ear. ‘Do you like?’
She turned in his arms, her hands snaking up around his neck. ‘I’ve always wanted a porch swing.’
‘I remember. Happy Christmas, sweetheart, the first of many, I hope.’ He gave her a swift kiss and then pulled out a chair at the table. ‘Breakfast, ma’am.’
I am too well aware of your hopes, Joe—me, I’m not so sure.
Before she sat down, she leaned under the Christmas tree and extracted the box she’d hidden there yesterday. ‘This is for you, Joe. Happy Christmas.’
He sat on the chair next to her, and held the box, rattling it, his expression curious. ‘What’s this?’
She gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘It’s a Chrissie present, doofus.’
He ripped open the paper and stared at the distinctive box for designer shoes for a few moments before he gave her a quick, bland look. ‘Trying to smarten me up?’
She looked pointedly at the dilapidated thongs on his feet, patched with twine and bike inner tyre rubber so often they possessed little of their original manufacture.
‘Those thongs are well past their use-by date. They’re totally disreputable.’
The dry observation made him laugh. He opened the box lid, and frowned.
Marta inhaled a slow breath—how will he react?
He lifted out a layer of tissue paper, and his hands stilled as he stared at the box’s contents. He ratted among them before looking directly at her.
‘Where did you get these?’ he asked, his voice harsh and cracked in disbelief.
These were old VHS tapes and audiocassettes, obsolete as technology but these particular ones were special. They held recordings of Joe and his mates, and their band, back in the day when they’d cherished dreams of becoming the next hit rock band—dreams his mother had ruthlessly smashed.
‘Here and there,’ she said, her voice husky. ‘Mainly in junk shops and occasionally, I’d find a video or cassette in a second-hand music store.’
Joe didn’t need to know that she spent hours scouring such places in Sydney searching out these old tapes.
‘They made it into music stores?’
Marta caught his incredulous tone, and she understood. ‘They did. You and your mates were beginning to make it on the pop music scene, Joe.’
He laughed, and she winced at the cracked, broken sound.
‘I don’t have any of these.’ He sifted through the old VHS tapes and cassettes. ‘Mother eradicated mine. It’s as if that part of my life never existed, that I’d never belonged to an up and coming rock band, or cherished dreams of making it on the pop music scene.’
‘I remember.’ Marta moved closer and gripped his shoulder, supportive, silent, and sympathetic.
And suddenly, Adele Marshall was there on the sunny porch, right between them, an evil miasma clopping around in Tony Bianco shoes—and in a moment of insight, Marta understood Joe’s mother still held power, and threat.
People like Adele—obsessive, destructive and manically ambitious—didn’t just go away.
Then Marta heard it, a soft, definite sound—a shoe hit the ground somewhere.
Chapter 12
Marta felt the sting of nerves as they walked through Christophe’s front door. Drawn by the sound of conversation and laughter, they walked down the corridor and poked their heads into the kitchen on the way.
Christophe greeted them with a beaming smile. ‘Joyeux Noël, Joe, Marta.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ Marta and Joe said in unison. Joe stepped forward and the two men hugged briefly.
The Frenchman looked Joe up and down, grinned wickedly, kissed his fingertips and blew an extravagant air kiss in his direction. ‘Showing real class!’
‘Cut it out,’ Joe muttered, a ruddy glow creeping up under his tan. ‘Did you expect me to turn up in a bloody monkey suit?’
‘And have all the other guests collapse comatose with shock?’ Christophe laughed, a deep rumbling belly laugh that rippled through the hot air. ‘They’ll be shocked out of their ever-loving minds as it is.’
Marta choked down a laugh at the expression on Joe’s face; he looked adorable when he blushed, and more than a little desperate. She took pity on him and changed the subject. ‘Is everything going to plan, Christophe?’
The chef’s smile dimmed. ‘Yeah, everything’s on track, except there’s no sign of Sam yet. He’s supposed to be bringing oysters.’
‘Want me to have a look out back?’ Joe’s eagerness to escape his friend’s ribbing was comical.
‘If you wouldn’t mind. Help yourself to drinks; they’re keeping cold in the eskies on the terrace just outside the family room.’
‘Will do.’ Joe tugged on her hand and she knew he’d endured enough of the chef’s teasing.
They walked through the family room where guests clustered around Christophe’s Christmas tree, a towering six foot artificial blue spruce decorated entirely in silver and blue, and spilled out through the French doors onto the covered terrace beyond.
‘Wow, that’s some tree.’ Joe walked around it looking at it from all angles. ‘Do you reckon he decorated it or had an interior designer?’
‘Interior designer,’ Marta answered without hesitation. ‘Decorating a tree like this is a real time-suck.’
Joe nodded. ‘Makes sense, he works long hours. He told me that in France, Christmas is a lavish celebration, and they go all out with their public displays, and in their homes. Looking at this tree I can believe it.’
‘And family means everything to Christophe or he would never have offered to play host to an orphans’ Christmas.’
Joe paused and looked down at her. ‘His liking to tease aside, Christophe is a damned good bloke, and a great friend.’
Marta caught the thread of genuine emotion in his voice, but before she had a chance to answer, a trill of laughter from the terrace drew their attention and they gravitated towards the open doors.
‘I love the way the family room flows straight onto the covered terrace,’ Marta said softly.
‘It creates the illusion of space in what used to be a really cramped area.’ Joe indicated the extensive grounds. ‘And the landscaper carried the theme on outdoors.’
Through the French doors Marta could see that beyond the covered terrace was a series of terraces, each more expansive than the preceding one and ending in a set of wide shallow steps that led down to a flagstone and grassed area surrounding a Balinese style swimming pool, its crystal blue water partially screened by an elegant vertical timber lathe fence and clipped hedges. The hot noonday sun and a brisk eddying wind set the surface of the pool shimmering.
The only detracting element was the crumbling fibro-cement wall between Christophe’s and the neighbouring property.
‘A pity about that.’ Marta aimed a thumb in the direction of the broken wall. ‘It completely spoils the ambience.’
‘Yeah well, Emily and Christophe are fighting over that. Hopefully they’ll see sense and reach an amicable agreement sooner rather than later.’
‘Emily?’
‘Emily Brighton, not sure if you know her. She’s a few years younger than us, and has had a few tough breaks.’
‘Can’t say that I do.’
Another peal of laughter turned their attention to the people clustered near the family room door under the shady patio, all of them strangers to Marta. And by the looks of it, wine was already flowing freely.
‘Let’s go see what Christophe’s put in the eskies,’ Joe murmured.
Together they stepped through the wide-open French doors onto the terrace. ‘Gotta love these.’ Marta flicked a finger at a bauble suspended on strands of tinsel on a huge potted palm, and set it swinging. I wonder if Christophe found mistletoe; even the fake stuff would do.
She itched to catch Joe unawares and kiss him senseless, surprise him as he’d surprised her.
After delivering the vegetables to Christophe, he’d showered and, desp
ite vowing he wasn’t getting ‘trussed up like some damned bush turkey’, he did change—into the rural Aussie uniform of fawn shirt and trousers. With his dark hair still damp and slicked back, dark designer stubble, he was so handsome, he stole her breath. She’d been too taken with his face to look at his feet, but glancing at them now, she grinned—well damn me, he’s wearing a brand new pair of thongs!
‘Look at the dinner table,’ Joe breathed in her ear. ‘Have you ever seen the like?’
They walked over to the lavishly set table, decorated with silver-coated sprays of eucalyptus and gum nuts.
‘I wonder what tree he picked those off.’ Joe reached out and touched one of the gum nuts. ‘I’ve never seen a gum tree with silver nuts.’
Marta elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Behave yourself.’
‘Spoilsport, where’s your holiday spirit? Look at all these dishes and glasses. Who do you reckon will end up on dish-duty?’
Marta displayed one manicured hand and grinned at him. ‘Count me out.’
‘Ah, here are the eskies; can I get you a drink?’ He stopped beside one of the ice-filled coolers, stooping to investigate its contents. ‘There’s beer, wine, soft drinks and cans of pre-mix vodka, rum, Jack Daniels and other spirits.’
‘A beer will do. I don’t want to be legless before we even get started.’
Joe pulled out a stubby and held it up for her inspection. ‘This do?’
‘Sure.’
He flicked the cap off and handed it to her then rooted among the ice cubes and found a bottle of his favourite brew.
‘Ah, Christophe knows my tastes well.’ He twisted the cap off and took a swallow. ‘That wets me whistle. Tell me, Marta, what do you think of Christophe’s rural getaway?’
‘It’s certainly very restful.’
‘He’s done a great job of resuscitating a tired, rundown property. This place was ten times worse than your mother’s when he bought it.’
‘True?’
‘Yeah, I’ve spent quite a bit of time here helping him. Properties like this are in hot demand with folks like him, townspeople who want secluded getaways to escape their frenetic lifestyles.’
She frowned over this. ‘You really think I should hold off selling Mum’s place?’
‘Once it’s sold, Marta, it’s gone. This place was an ordinary cinderblock and brick house on an average block when Christophe bought it.’
She scanned the elegant area, and sighed. ‘And it’s been created with serious money, something I lack.’
‘It need not happen immediately, all you need is a plan, and do it as you can afford.’ Joe held her gaze, his expression serious. ‘Consult with Ben. He may happily settle here and work for me, and help you do up your mum’s place.’
‘Maybe.’ Marta sipped her beer; she understood what Joe wasn’t saying. Already, elbow grease and a few nice touches had changed the ambience of her mother’s house. ‘Nice as this place is, it’s still a long commute to Rainbow Cove; why else is Christophe only here on weekends?’
‘Just think about it, okay?’ He touched her arm.
‘I’m not looking forward to the daily commute. Three nights a week for gigs is okay.’ She shrugged. ‘It makes more sense to live closer.’
‘Moving is a drastic solution for what may well end up as a temporary position.’
‘Xander intends to hire more permanent staff when Eve returns from leave, and you heard him say temporary staff would be given first option. And Christophe is eager to formalise our gigs at the restaurant.’
‘McIntyre is as hard-nosed as they come, Marta. Don’t sell your home if you intend to rely on working for him.’
She stared at Joe, sudden tension tightening the skin on her forehead. ‘You really do have a grudge against Xander; what I don’t understand is why?’
‘He’s not a stayer,’ Joe muttered, his brow scrunched in a black frown. ‘He arrives in a place with a great fanfare of publicity, gets the public all excited. He makes a creaming then he’s gone, he’s moved on to the next place all ready to repeat the process.’
‘He gave me no indication he was thinking of leaving when I met with him last week.’
‘Stands to reason, he wouldn’t, would he? He’s an astute businessman, and he’s already committed to leaving Rainbow Cove in the new year.’
‘What? You’re kidding me.’
Joe’s dark brows lifted. ‘One of my employees knows the manager of the resort, who told him.’
The beer in Marta’s belly solidified into a cold lump. ‘Xander gave me the impression he was here for the long haul.’
‘McIntyre never made his money by standing still.’ Joe drained his stubby. ‘And management aren’t obliged to follow through on the developer’s promises, long term.’
The dry observation chilled Marta. ‘I see.’
And she did. If there was little chance of a permanent position at the resort, she could not afford to sell and buy a place nearer Rainbow Cove, and provide Ben with his share. She was still digesting this when Xander walked through the family room doorway. ‘And here’s the man himself.’
‘You want to ask him about his plans?’ Joe’s soft voice was brim-full of challenge. ‘No time like the present.’
‘Not here,’ Marta muttered and rolled her eyes. ‘That would be the best way to ruin Christophe’s party.’
‘Coward.’
She scowled and hunched an offended shoulder. ‘I refuse to get into this here, in someone else’s home. You may consider this acceptable behaviour, I don’t.’
Joe gripped her arm, his brows lowered in a ferocious glower. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
She looked at him, her eyes narrowed and her mind working feverishly. God! I am so thick!
‘I can see right through your outrageous ocker behaviour, and your tatty dress code.’
And she could—why have I not seen this before?
‘What do you imagine you can see?’ Joe’s voice was dangerously quiet, his grey eyes dark, and a muscle ticked in the side of his jaw.
‘It’s long past time you got rid of that massive chip on your shoulder and matured from living in the time warp of teenage rebellion. It’s time you grew up, Joe; the crass attitude you’ve perfected doesn’t suit you.’
‘You have one hell of a nerve.’ His face paled beneath his tan.
With a lift of her eyebrows, she looked at him for long pregnant moments. ‘Or did I hit a very tender nerve?’
Before he had a chance to answer, Xander approached, smiling. ‘Joe, Marta, season’s greetings.’
He held out a hand, and the men shook hands, both of them smiling broadly.
Hypocrites, both of you—Marta managed a strained smile and a nod. It’s alright for Joe; he’s not relying on employment with Xander to meet his living expenses.
‘I thought Flick was coming with you. Have you run her off already?’ Joe’s obnoxiously cheerful greeting was a blatant attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
Marta gave him an oblique glance and saw ruddy colour flush his tan. She had definitely struck a raw nerve, and was surprised she’d not picked up on this sooner.
Xander’s eyes narrowed, his gaze skimming between her and Joe. ‘Flick’s just taking a phone call.’
Marta looked past him and saw a pretty, slender blonde, dressed in a floaty, flower-patterned dress step through the French doors of the family room dabbing at her eyes. She walked across and joined them, leaning up to kiss Xander.
Marta blinked—she really looks the part, a rich man’s arm candy—and immediately regretted the snarky thought. It wasn’t Flick’s fault Xander was moving on from Rainbow Cove.
Xander drew her forward. ‘Have you met Flick?’
‘Sure, we’ve met at Chez Christophe.’ Marta couldn’t keep the edge of frost from her voice. Have you told Flick you’re moving on, or do you just love them and leave them?
Joe held out a hand, his greeting effusive. ‘Merry Christmas, Flick. You’re looking beauti
ful today, I hardly recognised you out of your kitchen whites.’
Xander scowled at Joe, put an arm around Flick’s shoulders and pulled her close to his side, the move unmistakably possessive, and an unsubtle brush-off.
Christophe appeared in the family room doorway. He carried a large silver tray and breezed up to them. ‘Joe, just the guy I was looking for.’ The chef handed him the tray. ‘Would you and Marta please pass these hors d’oeuvres around while I finish up a few last minute things in the kitchen?’
His presence diffused the screaming tension, and Xander quickly guided Flick away.
‘Of course, these look gorgeous.’ Marta selected a vol-au-vent and took a delicate bite. ‘Mmm, scrumptious, chef.’
‘I aim to please.’ Christophe rubbed his hands together.
Before he could disappear, she asked. ‘Do you need any help in the kitchen?’
‘No, I’ve roped Nico in to help, but thanks for the offer.’
After he left, Joe peered at the tray’s contents. ‘What are these? I suppose they have unpronounceable French names too!’
‘Mini-quiches and vol-au-vents.’ Marta glared at him. ‘They’re hors d’oeuvres, Joe.’
He glared right back. ‘At least there’s plenty of food, even if the company’s lacking.’
‘The only thing lacking here is your attitude.’ Her voice was tart.
‘Let’s circulate and offload these horse-thingies.’ He deliberately exaggerated his flat ocker accent, his grin mocking her.
‘For God’s sake, Joe, they’re hors d’oeuvres,’ she hissed.
‘If you say so.’ He grinned, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He offered the tray to a hugely pregnant lady. ‘Freya, isn’t it? Have some of these horse-thingies and lighten the load.’
As she stretched out a hand to take one, a gust of wind flattened her floaty dress against her belly. ‘Oops, sorry.’ She laughed and tried to loosen the garment over her baby-bulge, rich colour creeping up under her pale skin.
‘No worries.’ Marta pasted on a bright smile and whisked the tray of hors d’oeuvres from Joe with an impatient huff of breath, and approached a cluster of guests near the edge of the terrace and proffered the tray. ‘Try one of Christophe’s delectable morsels, they taste divine.’
