by Margaret Way
Not only that, the bottle arrived nicely chilled.
Troy poured. “You’re going to drink this whole bottle by yourself?” he mocked.
“If that’s okay with you.” She gave a uncaring shrug. “I’ll have as little or as much as I like. Who the heck asked you to join me, may I ask?”
“No use glowering at me,” he said. “I was rescuing you from Dee. You come on real strong, don’t you McGuire?”
“Hasn’t stopped you coming back for more. And who said you could call me McGuire?”
“I distinctly recall your calling me Connellan. What’s good for the goose, etc., etc. What do you say we call it a truce while we polish off the barramundi?”
“Fine. I plan on going to bed early.”
It wasn’t to turn out that way. The main course was so delicious they followed it with a chocolate mousse then coffee.
“Who’s paying, by the way?” he asked.
“You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to take a rise out of me.”
“I just can’t make out if you actually smile or not.” He looked boldly into her eyes.
“Wouldn’t you just love to tell me it’s just like McIvor’s.”
“Jock McIvor was renowned for his sexual prowess,” he said. “Part of the appeal was his flashing smile.”
“He must have exercised it a lot,” she said contemptuously. “Don’t look for it from me. I had a tough childhood.”
“Really?” He leaned closer. “Turns out so did I. Maybe we can compare notes? Let’s order another coffee seeing you’re paying.”
She nodded. For one reason only, or so she told herself. The short black had been very good. She’d only had two glasses of wine, so she’d take the rest of the bottle up to her room. Maybe have another drop to help her sleep. Alcohol wasn’t going to be her downfall. She could take it or leave it.
Five minutes later Dee descended on them again. This time wearing elaborate spectacles. She seemed tremendously excited. “I’ve waited and waited,” she announced. “But now you’re finished. There’s a young man here with a guitar. Says his name is John Denver. Joking of course. He said he’d lend you his guitar if you would sing. I’ve spoken to the publican. Such a nice man! He said his customers would love it.”
Casey hoped her smile was okay. “Fact is, Dee, I don’t usually sing after a meal.” She had numerous times but not professionally.
“If I were you,” Connellan chipped in. “I’d get it over.”
“Why can’t you just keep out of it?” Casey fired.
“I’d lurve to hear you,” he drawled. “Never let it be said I don’t enjoy the finer things in life.”
“Oh, please, please,” Dee added, for good measure putting her hands together in a little clap. “Look here comes Johnny with his guitar.”
“Wonder it’s not Elvis,” Connellan murmured, giving her a gold-gleaming glance full of humour. “Clearly you’re caught!”
Casey took the tiny stage to much applause and more than a few loud whistles. She’d been so engrossed crossing swords with Troy Connellan she really hadn’t registered the amount of interest she’d been getting. If people whispered among themselves at Cullen Creek, at Koomera Crossing speculation was rife. The consensus of opinion. “Got to be one of Jock’s!”
Dee, electing herself compere of the night, took it upon herself to make the introductions.
“Please make welcome, Casey McGuire, all the way from Brisbane. You’re in for a treat, folks.”
More applause. More loud catcalls.
Casey took a minute to fine tune the guitar. Perfect pitch was quite rare she’d found and she had it. She decided on a sad ballad. One she had written herself. Most of her songs were sad. This one was some kind of memorial to her mother. Someone had turned on a spotlight and it shone on her. She didn’t need the mike but the publican hurried to switch it on, while someone else drew up a high chair for her to play sitting down if she wished. Anyone would have thought she was a rock star, she was getting so much attention.
“Song for Marnie,” she said, simply, looking out into the now crowded dining room. Where had everyone come from? The dining room had only been a little over half full.
Totally focused, she sat on the high stool unconscious of the image she created, strumming the introduction. Then when all was perfectly quiet, she began to sing….
Troy Connellan, rebel with good cause, found himself almost unbearably moved. She had a beautiful voice. He didn’t know what category. Mezzo, contralto, it wasn’t soprano. It was coming from some sad place deep inside her. Low and melodious, filled with emotion. She had wonderful control. Not only that, he had never heard the guitar sound so darned good. Her long elegant fingers caressed the strings, really made them sound. She was a true musician. Confrontational with him—he had to admit he’d gone out of his way to cause a little friction—when she sang of this Marnie her voice was heartbreakingly sad. She couldn’t be lesbian could she? He rejected that. He’d had enough experience to know there was something sexual going on beneath their sparring. The lyrics seemed to tell him tragic Marnie could be her mother. She’d said she was an orphan and he’d mocked her. He was sorry now.
He began to think of another star-crossed woman. His own mother, Elizabeth. Of the great love between them. But his mother was dead. She and a family friend had been caught in a flash flood on the station. Rumour had it his mother and their friend, his godfather, had been having a forbidden affair. His mother had been so beautiful who wouldn’t have fallen in love with her? His father was a very jealous man. Jealous of his beautiful mother. Jealous of him. He saw his only son as a rival and directed very real conflicts his way. It was all done on purpose. His father knew perfectly well what he was doing to Troy, at the same time as he heaped lavish gifts and affection on his sister, Leah. A new twist on the Oedipal dislocations.
This McGuire woman was simply stunning though she didn’t seem to know it. Okay, she was very tall. Too tall for a woman, six feet, but not too tall for him. In the spotlight her magnificent Titian hair glittered like fairy gold. She had flawless milky-white skin. No freckles. He wondered how she’d missed out on them. Her long lithe body was decidedly feminine, incredibly fluid and infinitely sexy. And the length of those legs! They could have stretched to Cape York. He remembered as intimidating as he might first have appeared to her, she was ready and able to fight back. Unfortunately he’d made the huge mistake thinking she was some young guy snooping around. The battered old ute had given him a bum steer. What woman in her right mind drove such a bucket load of trouble?
What terrible times had Casey McGuire seen? What had provided the basis for the song? He was convinced she’d suffered to be able to sing with such depths. She’d told him she’d had a tough childhood. That made two of them. It had taken him forever to realize his father had been jealous of him even as a boy. It had much to do with his mother’s special love for him and he for her.
After Casey finished there was total quiet in the room. It lasted for long moments as though the audience was unwilling to let the singer and the song drift away. Then the room erupted.
“More…more!”
A thunder of applause, this time no whistles perhaps out of respect, a muffled drumming of the feet, others stood up. A tourist with a plummy Pommy voice shouted, “Bravo!”
The singer, herself, seemed to come to, slowly as if breaking out of a trance.
Troy for his part was still trapped in the song’s power and the sad memories it evoked.
Nothing could be clearer. Casey McGuire had many songs to sing and many stories to tell. No wonder she was heading for McIvor country. He’d take a bet on it. That’s where she belonged.
Casey started into an encore. Upbeat, hand clapping, exciting. It drew a big response from her audience.
Casey McGuire, Goddess of Song.
CHAPTER TWO
Murraree Station
THE PEACE of that hot, languorous afternoon was disturbed by quite a commot
ion. An early model utility covered in red dust had entered the main compound, making speedy, ear splitting progress up the drive. By the time it rattled to a halt at the base of the homestead’s front steps they were all standing wondering who the heck it was. Darcy and Curt were at the balustrade, Marian and Peter out of their chairs, Adam standing tall at Courtney’s side startled by something in her expression.
“What’s wrong?”
Shaken by premonition, Courtney put a hand to her throat. “I have a feeling this is serious,” she said.
“Serious? In what way?” Adam stared down at her golden head.
“We’ll soon find out.”
Typically Curt took charge. He called out to the driver using only enough authority as was necessary. “Hello there! What do you want?” It wasn’t usual this kind of charge to the front door. No one they knew drove such a vehicle, either. For one thing it looked like it should have been in a wrecker’s yard, but at least it hadn’t caught fire.
In front of Courtney’s mesmerised eyes a very tall young woman slid from the driver’s seat, banging the door rigorously. Probably she had to, to make it shut.
“Which one of you is Darcy?” she demanded to know in a rich caustic voice. She moved towards them sweeping off her wide-brimmed cream Akubra. Immediately a magnificent unbound fiery mane tumbled down her back. She had eyes the colour of sapphires.
Four people saw the resemblance at once but no one said a word. They were temporarily struck dumb. Darcy, Courtney, their mother Marian, Curt, Darcy’s fiancé, the love of her life.
Some things in life one couldn’t evade, Courtney thought.
“Cat got your tongue?” The young woman addressed Darcy, who stood frozen. She flashed a familiar brilliant smile that held a world of challenge. “Hi, I’m Casey. Jock McIvor was my dad. Now are you going to let me up?”
Courtney looked quickly at her elder sister, waiting for Darcy to respond.
Darcy did, keeping the tremendous shock from her voice. “By all means, join us, Casey whatever-your-name,” she responded levelly. “Looks like you’ve come a long way?”
Casey gave the dark haired young woman on the verandah another smile. “Indeed I have. Thanks a lot.”
What should they do now, Courtney wondered, looks passing quickly around. Once on the verandah the statuesque red-head made a bee-line for her. “And you couldn’t be anyone else but Courtney, the younger sister. Hi, there, Courtney. You’re as pretty as a picture.” She put out her hand and Courtney, feeling very odd took it, thinking she’d have to check her fingers afterwards. That was some grip for a woman.
“You have proof you’re Jock McIvor’s daughter?” Adam spoke for the first time, using his smooth dispassionate lawyer’s voice.
“Hell, do I need it?” The goddess fixed him with a blue stare.
She sounded so much like Jock, looked so much like Jock, Marian sat back down in her chair, feeling a light sweat break out over her body. Just how long had Jock been faithful to her? Answer. Never. Jock had made quite a sideline out of sleeping with other women.
“And you must be Marian, McIvor’s wife?” Casey advanced on Marian who was looking a bit pale.
“She was.” Darcy did the answering. From the expression on her face, Marian was marooned in a sea of unhappy memories. “As you correctly deduced, that’s my mother.” For the first time a flicker of anger showed in Darcy’s voice, but she made the introductions. “My mother’s husband Peter Owens, my fiancé, Curt Berenger, and our friend and family lawyer, Adam Maynard.”
“In short, everybody,” Casey said, sounding brisk and assured. “So will someone offer me a drink?”
“Why not!” Darcy shrugged, finding for all her air of challenge she somehow liked this strange young woman who might or might not be her half sister. She was shockingly like Jock. She even talked like him. “Perhaps a meal?” Darcy suggested.
“That would be lovely.” Casey broke out another smile, drenched in sunshine. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. That was at Koomera Crossing. I’d have been here a lot earlier, only I had a few problems with the ute I had to fix.”
“You fixed it yourself?” Courtney who had no talent for fixing anything mechanical was amazed.
“Who else?” The goddess shrugged carelessly. “I take pleasure in keeping it running.”
“So why have you come here, Casey?” Curt asked, suddenly in Guardian mode.
She flashed that startling blue glance at him. “Why, to get to know my family of course.”
“But Casey,” Adam said gently, “we don’t know that you are family. Despite the remarkable resemblance, Darcy and Courtney have to have proof. We all do.”
“Sure, you’re a lawyer,” Casey said. “Just wait till you hear my story.”
They did over dinner. After their visitor downed a cold beer, Darcy had shown her to a recently refurbished guest room, leaving her to get the dust and the grime of her journey off her and settle in.
“I always knew this was going to happen,” Darcy confided to Courtney. “It has an inevitability about it. Dad had so many affairs. The only thing I got wrong was I thought it would be a son.”
“Watch out, there’s still time,” Courtney warned. “Any number could pop out of the woodwork. If Casey has waited until now, she probably read about Dad’s death in the papers. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Sure.” Darcy didn’t sound worried. “She wants money. But she has to prove her identity first.”
“She looks pretty authentic to me,” Courtney said. “Fact is, I kind of like her though she’s not the sweetest young woman I’ve ever met. And that handshake! For a minute I was frightened she was going to toss me over her shoulder.”
“She could do it, too.” Darcy’s aquamarine eyes looked into the middle distance. “I have the feeling Casey has done it hard. But she’s never let anything stop her. I figure she’s a fighter.”
“So do I,” Courtney agreed with some feeling. “You don’t think she’s here to threaten us?”
“Let’s wait and see,” Darcy advised.
“Sorry I couldn’t run to a dress,” Casey said, eyeing the other women. Pretty as a picture, Courtney had on something ultra-feminine in a lovely shade of violet. It floated on the air. Darcy, who was unmistakably a beauty, wore an outfit not unlike her own. A silk shirt over lean designer jeans. Casey loved the way Darcy carried her tall slender body with confident grace. She looked as at home in her body as Casey was in hers. Marian, the mother—probably Courtney would look just like her at the same age—hardly looked old enough to have two grown up daughters. She, too, was a pretty sight, calm and gentle with tender blue eyes. As a type she wasn’t unlike her own mother. A cloud drifted over Casey’s face. Her mother, too, had been a very pretty woman before poverty, unhappiness and the drugs she couldn’t live without had changed all that.
As for the men! Berenger, the Outback aristocrat. Very impressive. Maynard, the lawyer, suave as James Bond. Peter, the second husband, a nice man but beside McIvor in his prime, hardly worth looking at.
It surprised Casey little five-feet-two-and-a-bit Courtney was the cook. And a very good cook as it turned out. They ate well and deliciously. Casey didn’t peck at her food daintily like Marian, who seemed to her a fragile person. She tucked in because she was hungry. She was always hungry since she’d made her escape from The Home. At any time she led a very active life. Her long journey into the Back O’Beyond had been exhausting. They left her alone until the main course of melt-in-the-mouth spiced loin of lamb with pine nuts served over a bed of spinach was taken away and little strawberry jellies with ice cream were brought in. Then the inquisition started just as she expected.
“When did you first find out Jock McIvor was your father?” Maynard asked, his keen dark eyes sweeping over her. “Did your mother tell you?”
“No, she didn’t,” she said briskly.
“You have your birth certificate?”
“I didn’t think I needed one s
ince I’m so obviously here,” she answered facetiously.
“You need your birth certificate for many things, Casey,” Darcy intervened quietly. “Why don’t you tell us your story in your own words.”
Casey finished her strawberry jelly first. It was very refreshing. “It’s not a pretty story,” she said.
Nothing was pretty around our father, Courtney thought.
“You don’t need Peter and me here,” Marian spoke in a wobbly voice, looking uncertainly around the table. This stunning-looking creature might well resent their presence. Casey McGuire had a combative air about her. Marian was much more at home with a sweetness of manner like her beloved Courtney.
“Mumma, please stay.” Courtney put out a staying hand.
“Very well, dear.”
As she spoke Casey could see their faces change. She told them about her early life in far North Queensland. She spoke about her mother with a tightened throat. She could see that upset them. She skimmed over The Home, her voice emotionless. She told them how she’d set about getting an education. Of the courses she had taken, the jobs that included waitressing, cleaning, drawing beer in pubs, unloading trucks, working in nurseries where she’d picked up quite a lot of information about horticulture, finally her career as a singer-songwriter.
“Is this your future? Is this what you want to do?” Courtney asked, sparked by interest. Listening to her speak, there was no doubt Casey McGuire had a voice.
“Maybe.” Casey shrugged. “I’m getting to like the writing more than the singing.”
“So when did you find out Jock was your father if your mother didn’t tell you?” Curt asked, disturbed by her story. Especially what she hadn’t said about the orphanage. That in itself spoke volumes.
“An old friend of my mother’s,” Casey answered. “It seems she’d been suffering from the guilts for years. She knew of my mother’s affair and her leaving home in disgrace. Some time later she saw my mother and Jock McIvor together. A few days after that she saw him again on television, being interviewed about something in the bush. She put two and two together. It must have cost her a big effort because she took years and years before she decided to track down my mother. By then, of course, my mother was dead.”