by Stella Quinn
She eased her head back. ‘Is that what inmates do in prison? Make licence plates?’
‘That and throw bundles of burning toilet paper out of their windows.’
She took a sip of her wine, and his heart eased a little as some of the worry left her face. ‘I see movies have formed the basis of your vast knowledge of the Australian prison system. You do know Wentworth hasn’t homed prisoners since the 1920s?’
‘Come closer.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t deserve this, Josh. I don’t deserve you.’
‘I’m not some stuffed koala that you just won at the fair, Vera. I’m making my own choices, here. And I’m choosing you.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
He kissed her again, on the corner of her mouth, beneath the tiny red stone she had clipped to her ear, in the groove of her throat where her pulse beat.
‘It doesn’t have to be simple, Vera. It just has to be real. Kiss me, and you tell me if what we have feels real to you or not.’
‘God help me,’ he heard her mutter and then her lips were on his, and it took less than a second to work out he hadn’t been imagining anything back at the waterhole. Being kissed by Vera was like being doused in hot sauce and set on the grill.
She moaned and he hauled her in closer so he could wrap his arms around her and let himself feel every inch of her pressed against him.
‘So soft,’ he murmured, feeling the curve of her back, the swell of hip beneath her woollen dress.
Vera was vulnerable. Everything she’d told him—her dying aunt, her dobber boss—warned him to go slow, slower than pitch. But when her breathy little moan reached his ears, he forgot his good intentions.
She moved above him, twisted, her mouth fused to his, sending sparks of lightning into his brain.
‘Vera,’ he said, her name like a prayer.
Her hands slid beneath his shirt and swept up his back and the tide of lust that swept with it nearly blinded him.
He pulled back until her eyes, green and glittering, met his. ‘Is this real for you, Vera? Because if it’s not, if you want me to stop, now’s the time to say so, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t stop, Josh Cody.’
He bit his lip. Heaven here on Vera’s couch, his for the taking, but darn it, he wanted more. He wanted trust, and confetti, and oval-faced sons who aced cooking classes at school.
‘I’m not a one-night stand, Vera. Don’t use me to scratch your itch. If we’re doing this, we’re really doing this. Sex. Coffee dates. Holding hands in public. Listening to gossip about us until our ears bleed and promising each other to see this thing through.’
Those green eyes didn’t waver. ‘I still don’t want you to stop.’
So he didn’t. He dived back in, his heart in his mouth, and the future he’d hoped for finally within his grasp.
If heaven was a moonlit bed with a naked Josh sprawled across it, and her tucked snugly into the furnace of his musclebound chest, then she’d died happy.
Happy and full and soft.
She pressed a hand to her chest, to where the great icy chunk of worry usually lived, and it wasn’t there. All that sunshine and optimism and strength of his had somehow chiselled into her breastbone and released all the angst she’d had stored up like permafrost.
Bits of him had chiselled in elsewhere, too, she thought with a smirk.
Deliciously.
More delicious than anything she could whip up in a month of Sunday baking. How had she been so dense to not let this man into her life sooner? He’d been supportive when she’d told him her great shameful secret, not horrified. He hadn’t tried to distance himself or back out.
He’d embraced her and her shady past.
She burrowed her face into the smooth curve of his shoulder while hot tears of relief leaked from her eyes. She hadn’t known relief could feel so overwhelming. So necessary.
She’d had no-one she felt she could confide in, and bottling up all this stuff had been eating her up from the inside out. Jill’s mind was too faded to understand. Her old colleagues she’d been too ashamed to face, too worried about what nasty whispers Aaron had fed into the newspaper’s back office about her sacking.
There was her lawyer Sue, sure, but Sue sent her invoices after every confession … their relationship was based on dollars, not friendship.
A rumble sounded from within the chest she was snuggled up against.
‘Josh,’ she whispered.
‘Mmm.’ He sounded eight parts asleep.
‘I feel happy.’
‘Happy,’ he mumbled.
Make that nine parts asleep, she thought with a smile. It didn’t matter. She was here, in his arms, and tomorrow she would go and see her aunt and take the quilt project with her to finish the next section. Choose some cheerful fabric: sunshine yellow, broccolini green.
Then she’d smile at customers in the café. She’d dance with Graeme when his favourite song came on the radio. Heck, maybe she’d stun Marigold and Kev and rock up to yoga in the park.
Her future had some black spots in it, sure, but with Josh by her side?
She let her lashes flutter shut against his skin. With happiness running through her veins like liquid gold, she could face anything.
Finally, she could see a future that she could look forward to.
CHAPTER
31
The first phone call woke her in the dark. A shrill ringtone she didn’t recognise nearly tore out her eardrum, followed by a muffled oath which startled her even more.
Oh right. She wasn’t alone. There was six feet of man-cake wrapped around her like she was his jam and cream filling.
Josh.
A long arm stretched over her head and silenced the noise.
‘This better be good, Tom,’ said Josh, who kept his eyes on hers for a long moment before whatever he was being told claimed his attention.
‘When did it start? Uh-huh. Nope. Crap. Keep him still, I’m on my way.’
She fumbled for the switch on her lamp and a cone of yellow light spilled over them in the ruins of her bedding. She hoped there wasn’t a squashed cat somewhere in amongst the wreckage.
‘Hey,’ Josh said. A glancing kiss landed on her shoulder, and then he was up, hauling on his jeans and halfway into his shirt before she could remember this was supposed to feel awkward.
‘Hey,’ she said, unable to keep the grin from her face despite the hellishly early wake-up call.
‘Cricket’s got colic again. One of the breeding stock up at Ironbark Station. It’s terrible timing, I know, but I’ve got to go.’
She pushed a hand through her hair. ‘It’s fine. Go. I hope it’s not too serious.’
He sat next to her on the edge of the bed while he pulled on his boots, then rested a hand on her cheek. ‘This wasn’t the wake up I was hoping for. Let’s talk later, okay?’
She held her hand over his. ‘Sure.’
‘Promise?’
She smiled, still bemused by the glow of happiness. ‘You are one pushy one-night stand, Josh Cody.’
He pulled her hair. ‘Pushy but adorable. Kiss me quick, I’ve gotta go.’
A quick press of his lips to hers, and he was gone.
Another phone call woke her again, but the darkness had a shimmer in it this time, and the ringtone was her own. Dawn wasn’t far away.
Josh, she thought sleepily as she rolled for her phone. Maybe she could whip up a batch of pancakes before her shift started. Lashings of lemon syrup. A naughty dollop of vanilla bean ice-cream on the si—
‘Vera De Rossi?’
She sat up. Josh didn’t sound like a bossy middle-aged woman. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Dr Brown from Connolly House.’
Oh no. She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep a sob at bay. There was no good reason for them to be calling her in the cold hour before sunrise.
‘My aunt. Has she …?’
‘I’m sorry, Vera. Jill passed away in her sleep a little while ago. Would you like
to come over now and say goodbye?’
Josh slid his ute into the staff car park of the pub. He needed a shower. Maybe an hour’s sleep. If Cricket’s colic didn’t settle, he’d have another long night ahead after a busy day of Saturday home visits, and the constant driving was wearing him down. He was so not a fan of the mobile vet concept.
And somewhere in all of that he needed to find time to pick a bunch of flowers and deliver them to The Billy Button Café. Perhaps sneak in a slow burn kiss in the kitchen to tide him over until the day’s patients were seen to.
The smell of coffee caught him and he ducked his head into the kitchen.
‘Gracie?’
The pub’s elderly caretaker sat at a scrubbed wooden table, toast, coffee and a newspaper before her. ‘Josh, my love. You’ve had a long night.’
‘Unhappy horse. You seen Jane Doe? She’s fond of a piece of toast in the morning. I’m surprised she’s not sitting at your feet practising her pathetic look.’
‘If you think I’m having dogs in my kitchen, you can think again, young man.’
He clinked his coffee cup to hers. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Gracie patted his hand. ‘She’s in the laundry with her pups. Those rascals will be climbing out of that whelping box soon, Josh; maybe it’s time they had some space to run about in before they get sold on to their new homes.’
‘Yeah. I know. I’ve had offers aplenty, but I want to hang on to them a while yet. Poppy’s promised to come up one weekend, and she’d be sad not to say goodbye. Plus, some kid rang me a while back, reckoned he was Jane’s owner. I’m still waiting for him to call back.’
‘Mmm.’ Gracie’s voice was distracted. ‘I didn’t know there was a new ski lift going in up past Crackenback, did you, pet?’
He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. Graeme really had turned him into a snob. ‘I haven’t been up to the ski fields in years.’
‘Might be the spur to the sides old Bruno needs to set this old pub to rights. Be a treat to see it open again. There’s a lot of development going on and not all of it is what this town needs. Modern rubbish that looks like it wouldn’t last a decent snowstorm.’
‘I think Bruno Krauss has enough on his plate at the moment.’
‘True. Poor man, he was skinny as a stick insect last time I saw him in town.’
The pages rustled as Gracie turned the page. ‘Hello … De Rossi. Isn’t that the name of the new owner of the café on the corner?’
Josh put down his cup. ‘Vera De Rossi. That’s right, why?’
The caretaker spun the paper so he could see the page she was reading. The Hanrahan Chatter … his least favourite section of the paper, useful only for lining animal cages and recycling. He braced himself and started reading Maureen Plover’s latest article.
STORM IN A COFFEE CUP: Hanrahan’s newest business owner Vera De Rossi of The Billy Button Café appeared in court in Queanbeyan earlier this week to plead not guilty to a charge of illegally using a surveillance device. The Chatter hears recently returned local veterinarian Josh Cody has been ordering more than a few cupcakes from Ms De Rossi in recent weeks. … read the full story on Page 6.
Holy shit. He toyed with the idea of turning to page six but quashed it. His days of being influenced by gossip were so over. ‘Gracie?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I need some paper to clean out the whelping box. I’m taking this one.’
‘What? Oh, Josh, honey, I’ve not read it all ye—’
He stormed off to the laundry with the pages crumpled in his hand. Shit on a stick. As much as he loved this town, he didn’t love the stickybeak mentality that sometimes came with it.
He had to warn Vera before she saw that article. She’d be behind her counter at the café, slicing some delicate meringue concoction into precise strips, and she’d be blindsided if a random breakfast guest started blabbing about what she considered to be her secret shame over their toast and jam.
He cleaned out the pups’ box at a lightning pace, grabbed his jacket, and hit the door.
Vera felt like she would never feel warm again. A sheet covered her aunt’s face, and a hospital blanket buried her aunt’s emaciated frame. Jill, hidden behind the bland beige of a facility blanket, because her niece had been too caught up to finish her quilt.
She’d been too busy for her aunt … lost track of her goals because she’d been distracted by stray cats and late evening strolls by the lake and chocolate-eyed vets. She’d put her own needs first. Again.
The magenta swirl of Marigold Jones in caftan and beaded headscarf swooped into the room. ‘Darling Vera, Graeme called me. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Oh, Marigold,’ she said.
‘Come here, pet.’
She buried her head in Marigold’s billowing sleeve and let the tears slide unchecked. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’
‘Just cry it out.’
She took Marigold at her word, and it was many moments before she was able to look up and focus on her aunt’s still form again. ‘What do I do now?’ she said.
‘Well, there’s a question with a lot of answers, Vera. You don’t need to know it all at once. I can help you with the first ones, though. When you’re ready, the funeral home people have come for your aunt. You can trust them to take care of her.’
She crumpled against the bed. ‘I’m not ready.’
Marigold’s hands gripped her shoulders. ‘I’ll help you feel ready. Come on, now. Let’s stand back here near the window while they get your aunt settled.’
The funeral home staff worked with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Her aunt’s thin body was transferred to a gurney, the blankets tucked about her with neat precision, then she was wheeled off, rubber wheels squeaking faintly against the polished linoleum.
Jill was gone.
‘Come on, Vera. This is no time to be alone. Let’s go sit for a bit.’
But she was alone. Really and truly alone.
Marigold steered her into the garden and found a bench set where, she imagined, a score of relatives before her had faced their own sad news. How on earth had they coped?
Her friend patted her hand. ‘Do you want me to call someone for you? Relatives?’
‘There’s no-one.’
‘You don’t want to be on your own packing up your aunt’s belongings here and organising the funeral. You want me to be your someone?’
She nodded mutely, too wretched to speak. Her phone buzzed but she ignored it.
‘You want me to answer that for you?’ said Marigold.
She shrugged. Caring about anything seemed like a language she no longer spoke.
‘Vera’s phone. Marigold Jones speaking.’
The tissue in her hand was like fruit pulp, but she pressed it to her streaming eyes anyway.
‘Aha. Yes. Hang on.’ Marigold held out the phone. ‘It’s Josh. I don’t think he knows about your aunt … you want me to tell him, or will you?’
Vera shook her head but Marigold opened her eyes wide, gave her a look that couldn’t be ignored. She pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Josh, I—’
‘Vera, thank god. I’m on my way to the café to see you, but I just wanted to call and warn you … did you see the paper today?’
‘No, I haven—’
‘Shit. I don’t know how that woman found out or what idiocy prompted them to print it, but you might want to take a moment to read a copy before people start asking questions.’
Vera struggled to get a thought straight in her head. ‘I’m not at work. I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Now’s not really …’
The tears were welling again and she was all out of tissues. The phone slipped through her fingers and she let it lie on her lap, Josh’s voice just a faint rumble from far away.
‘Vera, honey.’
Marigold was still with her, but for how long? Everybody left her in the end. Everybody. And the more she loved them, the more it hurt.
Loving people did
n’t work. Not for her.
She reached down and ended the call.
CHAPTER
32
‘Josh.’
He looked up from the microscope, where a flatworm the size of a pinhead was busy invading the red blood cells of a champion sow named Iron Lady. The flatworm would explain why the pig had been out of sorts. If only it would be so easy to explain his own malaise.
‘What’s up, Sandy?’
Their receptionist had worked like a trooper since the fire, washing everything that hadn’t been dragged out to the skip bin, and moving the air filter from room to room to encourage the smoky smell to get itself gone. The back office was the only undamaged room on the downstairs level, and when he wasn’t working on the community hall ceiling for Marigold or measuring and sawing wood for the clinic’s front room rebuild, he hid himself away in the office to brood and work on his backup of pathology testing. Who said males couldn’t multitask?
‘You’ve got a visitor.’
Finally. He knew she’d come see him after avoiding his calls, he’d just had to give her time. He’d knocked on her door, he’d sent flowers, he’d visited the café only for Graeme to send him home again with a consolation brownie, because Vera wasn’t at work.
Or answering his calls.
She’d closed him out like he meant nothing and it had damn near torn his heart out.
‘There’s a kid out front, he’s been knocking on the plywood sheeting covering the front windows. Says, and I’m quoting here, he needs to see the vet real bad about his dog.’
Not Vera, then. A thought struck him. ‘Is the kid’s name Parker?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to ask, because when he saw me he scooted in through the gap and spied the jellybean jar I was holding, and that was it for conversation.’
Had to be the same kid. ‘I’ll be right out.’
He’d known this moment was coming, so there was no point putting it off any longer. Parker was wearing the scruffiest pair of jeans Josh had seen in about two decades. Rips covered one knee, oil stains that he’d bet were from a bike chain coated the hems at the ankles, but the razor-sharp ironing crease riding down the front of them told him someone was looking out for this kid. ‘Hey, Parker,’ he said.
