by Nicola Marsh
Mason had a worldliness she had no hope of emulating and a small part of her wondered if he’d taken pity on the hick country chick when he’d asked for her help in decorating the bakery’s expansion. In reality, Betty probably had more to do with him wanting her onboard than any confidence in her skills, but whatever the rationale, she wanted to ensure she did a great job. The fact she harboured a surprising crush on the handsome baker had nothing to do with it.
She picked up a nice lean shoulder of lamb and popped it into her trolley. But as she headed in the direction of the vegetable section at the supermarket, her trolley collided with another, pushed by her mother. Jane’s spine stiffened as it always did when she ran into Gladys, an old habit from countless lectures on the importance of posture in attracting a man.
Gladys looked immaculate as usual, wearing a designer suit in the deepest plum, with an ivory silk blouse underneath and patent pumps that would have cost enough to feed a farmer’s family for a month.
‘Hello, Jane.’ Her mum’s well-modulated tone was so familiar yet held a world of secrets. Jane had only heard Gladys lose her cool once, her screeches as she divulged the truth about their family a far cry from this practised façade. Her mother had never given a damn about her but almost eleven years had passed since she’d heard the proof that Gladys was nothing more than a soulless drone.
‘Hey, Mum. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
Gladys glanced into her trolley, saw the lamb, and wrinkled her nose in disapproval. Jane knew what her mother would say before she opened her filler-injected lips.
‘Meat is fattening. You know that.’
Jane resisted the urge to ram her trolley over her mother’s feet. ‘Everything in moderation.’
The nose crinkles increased. ‘I can’t understand why you refused to convert to veganism when I did.’
‘I was sixteen and liked hanging out with my friends, who all liked burgers.’
‘What’s your excuse now?’ Gladys arched a perfectly etched brow. ‘From what I hear, you don’t have many friends.’
Jane gritted her teeth and composed a more suitable response than eff off.
‘It seems this needs reiterating, even though I’ve told you several times before.’ Jane lowered her voice when a septuagenarian carrying an overflowing basket of fennel and carrots cast a curious glance their way. ‘I gave up caring what you think of my dietary habits, my choice of wardrobe and anything else involving my life a long time ago.’
Hating how the old familiar hurt spread outward through her chest, she disengaged her trolley and backed up a few steps. But she knew Gladys would get a last barb in. She always did.
‘Apparently you’re sniffing around the Woodley boy.’ Gladys’s upper lip curled in a sneer. ‘He’ll tire of you like all the rest once he realises you’re only good for one thing.’
It never failed to amaze Jane that her own mother believed the rumours circulating about her. Not once had her mother asked about any of her relationships. Instead, she chose to believe the worst. Jane had been tempted to come clean to Gladys once, to tell her why she deliberately played into people’s wrong opinions of her, that it was a stupid warped way to punish her mother. But what would be the point? Gladys only heard what she wanted to hear and if she’d had a little faith in her daughter they never would’ve reached this stage of their relationship, where insults were the norm and they rarely saw each other.
Tired of all the bullshit, all the years of passive-aggressive putdowns, all the disappointments at the hands of this callous woman, Jane said, ‘At least my life’s real, Mum. Pity you can’t say the same.’
As a comeback, it didn’t have the vitriol Gladys deserved, but it made Jane feel good. As did her childish angling of her trolley so it ran over her mother’s pinkie toe as she sailed past.
However, the encounter had soured her mood and as she selected veggies for the roast lamb, she contemplated sending Mason a text and calling off dinner. She hated the way Gladys looked down her snooty nose, like Jane was a mound of cow dung she’d stepped in.
She’d had many years to deal with what she’d learned that fateful day twelve months after she’d finished school, years to try to rationalise the lengths to which her mother had gone. But going by the churning in her gut as she paid for her groceries, it still bothered her more than was good for her. The townsfolk assumed their falling out had been because of Jane’s behaviour, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Gladys had virtually killed Jane’s dad and Jane would never forgive her for it.
After paying for her groceries, Jane pushed her trolley through the sliding glass doors and almost ran over Louise.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, flashing a tentative smile.
Louise didn’t return it but she glanced at the recycled bags filled to the brim in Jane’s trolley. ‘Roast lamb for one? If I didn’t have to feed my hungry horde I’d be over in a jiffy.’
‘Actually, Mason Woodley’s coming over,’ she said, regretting it when Louise’s eyebrows shot up.
‘To discuss business,’ Jane said, but she could tell Louise didn’t buy her clarification. ‘He’s expanding the bakery with his mum and they want my input for the interior.’
‘Sounds like a fun job. Better than cleaning motel rooms for a living.’
Jane didn’t know what to say to that. If she said the wrong thing, Louise would think she was being patronising or condescending. She had to change the subject, fast.
‘Did you end up ringing that lawyer?’
‘Yeah. He was really helpful. But I need to get my ducks in a row before I kick Ed out.’
‘It’s a start,’ Jane said. ‘Don’t forget to text me when you want to have a coffee, okay?’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
They lapsed into an awkward silence Jane felt compelled to fill. ‘Better get home to start dinner,’ she said, pointing at the groceries in her trolley.
‘Yeah, and I better buy half the store to feed my ravenous lot.’
Jane smiled and moved forwards an inch before Louise laid a hand on her trolley to stop her.
‘I appreciate you being honest with me about what happened with Ed. It helped me take the next step in getting rid of him. So … thanks.’
‘My pleasure,’ Jane said, grateful that they were taking small steps to renewing their friendship after so long.
‘It got me thinking about how I misjudged you. How a lot of others have too. So I want you to know I feel really bad about believing what your mum said, because I know you two were estranged at the time and she’s got some weird vendetta against you.’
Jane froze, her fingers gripping the trolley so tight her knuckles stretched the skin taut. ‘What did she say?’
Louise flushed, her gaze darting sideways before she spoke. ‘I bumped into her after we had that argument over Ed in the main street. She heard it all and wanted to “apologise” for your behaviour.’ Louise made inverted comma signs with her fingers. ‘She said you were jealous of my marriage and had always got whatever you wanted so if you’d set your sights on Ed, I’d better watch out.’
A wave of nausea swamped Jane at how low her mother would stoop to discredit her. They’d never been close but to say that stuff about her … it defied belief.
Louise grimaced. ‘I’m really sorry, because we’d been friends for a long time and I shouldn’t have believed her. I think I already knew my marriage was in trouble at that point and it was easier to blame you than look in the mirror.’
‘It’s okay, Lou.’ She reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘And thanks for telling me.’
‘Do you think you and your mum will ever reconcile?’
‘Not bloody likely. Heads up, the she-devil’s in the supermarket, so beware.’
Louise laughed, the unique snorting chuckle bringing back a host of memories: the two of them, along with Bec, sleeping over and watching rom-coms, or borrowing daring romance novels from the library and snic
kering over the naughty bits. She’d pretended not to miss their friendship over the years, but that was the old, stupid Jane.
Here went nothing. ‘Hey, when you text me for coffee, maybe we could invite Bec too? I really miss you girls.’
‘Me too,’ Louise said, so softly Jane had to lean forwards to hear it. ‘It’ll be good for the three of us to get together again.’
‘It’s a date,’ Jane said, smiling. ‘I better go. Take care.’
‘You too.’
And despite the nasty confrontation with Gladys and hearing about the awful lies she’d told Louise years earlier, Jane felt lighter than she had in ages.
Eternally grateful her father had set up a trust fund that enabled her to come home to her own cosy slice of Brockenridge every day, Jane pulled up outside her cottage and lugged her groceries inside. She loved every inch of this place, from the tiny ornamental Japanese garden leading to her front door, to the hot tub on the elevated back deck that had views of the Murray River if she squinted hard enough.
She’d bought the cottage at a steal and had redecorated the interior with polished ash floorboards, pale mint green walls and ivory plantation shutters. The white, grey and green theme continued throughout, with artfully arranged pictures on the walls, throw rugs over the suede sofas, and lush indoor plants. She liked to think of it as her private oasis, a shelter from the prying eyes of folks who only saw what they wanted to see. She could’ve left judgemental Brockenridge far behind a long time ago but with every run-in with Gladys, no matter how unwelcome, she was reminded of the reason she stayed: to ensure her mother, who thought she had an entire town fooled, never forgot Jane knew the truth.
Popping an antacid to stop the churning in her gut, Jane set about prepping for dinner. Slow-cooking the lamb would ensure it fell off the bone, just the way she liked it. She hoped Mason appreciated a good roast.
Once she had everything in the crockpot she took out her portfolio and lost herself in planning for the new bakery, only looking up an hour later when the tempting aromas of garlic and rosemary filled the air. She had plenty of time to shower and get ready, but found herself reaching for her laptop to do an online search.
Feeling a little stalkerish, she typed ‘Mason Woodley, patissier’ into the search engine. Her research had everything to do with being professional, and nothing at all to do with womanly curiosity about a guy she’d once hated who she might now fancy a tad. She kept telling herself that as she clicked on the first few hits, which showcased his work in an upscale patisserie in Paris, praised him for catering an exclusive event for a prominent European royal family and labelled him one of the most eligible foodie bachelors in France. Ooh la la. The rest of the links were more of the same and proved what she already knew.
Mason Woodley was way out of her league.
She attributed her battered self-esteem to Gladys but she’d always been insecure. She’d hidden it well, behind designer clothes and immaculate make-up and snarky putdowns. It’s why she’d gone after Ruby in high school: Ruby had been smart and when she stared at Jane, she felt like Ruby saw beneath her poised surface to the quaking girl inside. Mason had seen right through her too, and she pushed him away to ensure he never got too close.
Her residual lack of confidence was silly, really, because she shouldn’t need the validation these days. She was thirty, owned a house, secretly donated money to a lot of charities and liked where she lived. She didn’t harbour grandiose plans or pie-in-the-sky dreams. She was … content.
So why did she care what her mother said or getting Gladys to own up to what she’d done?
Annoyed at herself for dwelling, she closed her portfolio and laptop and headed for the bathroom. But not even a long, hot shower, a leisurely application of subtle make-up and dressing in her favourite casual sundress could shake off her funk.
The sooner Mason got here and they got down to business, the better.
She set the table, uncorked the wine and had just finished making the gravy when the doorbell rang. After a quick wipe down of the surface she’d been working on, she rinsed her hands and dried them on a tea towel. The bell rang again. Ridiculously flustered, she slipped her bare feet into low-heeled wedges and headed for the door. After dragging in a deep breath that did little to steady her nerves, she opened it.
And her mouth went dry. Mason stood on her stoop, freshly showered, by the look of his wet hair curling around the collar of his sky-blue polo shirt, faded jeans elongating his legs, and golden stubble accentuating his strong jaw. But it was what she spied in his hands that really had her salivating: the signature silver-embossed Betty’s Bakery paper wrapped around a rectangular box.
‘Dessert as promised,’ Mason said, holding the box out to her.
‘I love everything your mum bakes, so thank you.’ She took the box and stepped back to let him in. ‘I’m there practically every day, as you can probably tell from my waistline.’
‘Your curves are beautiful,’ he murmured, his fingers brushing the dip of her hip for a second, sending heat streaking through her body. ‘But Mum didn’t bake any of that, I did.’
The way to her heart was definitely through her stomach and as she kicked the door shut, their gazes locked, sending another sizzle through her.
‘Come in,’ she said, her voice a tad squeaky as she led the way to the kitchen. ‘I can’t wait to see what you’ve made.’
‘A little of everything. Mini chocolate croissants, apple strudel and plaited pastry dusted in cinnamon sugar.’
‘Sounds divine,’ she said, placing the box on the counter and tearing a corner of the paper to take a peek, blown away by the detail of his pastries. ‘Wow, they look amazing.’
‘What can I say? I’m good with my hands.’ As if to emphasise the point, he waved them at her while wriggling his eyebrows suggestively, making her laugh and dissolving some of the tension she’d been harbouring all afternoon.
‘That’s good to know, considering you’ll be holding up a lot of swatches and colour samples in the new bakery.’
His smile faded. ‘Speaking of the new bakery, there may be a problem.’
Her heart sank. She knew this whole thing had been too good to be true. He didn’t want her designing the interior; had probably found some upmarket firm in Melbourne to do the job.
‘Apparently the owner is reneging on the deal.’
‘Why?’
‘Mum’s been negotiating through the real estate agency in town and assumed the sale would go through easily, seeing as the place has been empty for years. But the owner’s stalling before signing on the dotted line.’
A long-buried memory surfaced of her parents arguing about the deed to one of the shops. Jane knew her father had owned a few shops in Brockenridge, along with extensive land holdings and factories in Melbourne. When her dad had been alive, he’d sold most of the Brockenridge holdings and she assumed her mum had sold the rest. Was Gladys the owner of the empty store beside the bakery? Could she be deliberately stalling on the sale because she thought Mason and Jane were involved? Gladys rarely did anything by chance, and now that throwaway comment about Jane sniffing around Mason made sense if Gladys wanted to sabotage this deal to make her look bad by association. Could her mother really be that petty?
She couldn’t say anything, not until she’d confronted her mother. Presenting a professional front to Mason did not include airing her family laundry, so she settled for, ‘That’s weird.’
‘It’s bloody annoying, because if we can’t secure that extra space I can’t see the patisserie idea taking off.’
And he’d leave town ASAP. It shouldn’t bother her. They were nothing more than work colleagues who’d flirted a little. But it did, because for the first time in a long time, she felt something beyond attraction and, once the redecorating was done, she wouldn’t have minded exploring exactly what that was.
Maybe it was for the best. She craved a stable, secure relationship and a guy likely to return to France once his pro
ject was complete wasn’t a good bet.
Tell that to her stupid, impressionable heart.
‘When will you know?’
‘Mum was meeting with the agent as I left so I’m expecting a call when she’s done.’
‘Shouldn’t you have been at that meeting?’
‘And miss out on having a beautiful woman cook for me? Not bloody likely.’
She laughed. ‘So what’s the real reason?’
His lopsided grin made her heart leap. ‘I’m an outsider so it wouldn’t bode well for me to blow into town and try to negotiate. Mum’s much better equipped to handle the locals than I am.’
Jane didn’t point out that he seemed pretty darn adept at handling the locals himself—at least, one of them, and he was looking straight at her.
‘Something smells amazing,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘I hope that’s roast lamb.’
‘Sure is. You sit and I’ll dish up.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘Pour the wine, please.’
As she plated up the lamb and veggies, Jane couldn’t ignore a niggle of worry. How far would Gladys go to prove how little she thought of her?
‘Here you go,’ she said, injecting gaiety into her voice as she placed a plate in front of Mason. ‘There’s gravy and mint jelly coming up.’
‘Thanks.’
When she placed the condiments on the table between them and sat, he raised his wine glass. ‘To our design collaboration.’
She clinked her glass against his and forced a smile, but that nasty thought about her mother’s vindictiveness had wheedled its way into her brain and she couldn’t dislodge it. She’d confronted Gladys once, a few months after her dad had died, hoping her mother would reveal the truth. Rather than being honest her mother had completely withdrawn, before steadily undermining her every chance she got. That’s when she’d stopped caring what her mum thought of her. She’d retreated behind a brittle shell of faux cheerfulness and overt brashness, not giving two craps about anybody, yet hoping her mother would make some kind of overture to broach the gap between them. Instead, the gap had widened and Jane lamented the loss of both parents.