by Nicola Marsh
Her eyes held so much hurt and it pissed him off, because he was the injured party here, not her.
‘Tell me something. Is my name even on Isla’s birth certificate?’
She flinched, before tilting her chin up. ‘You’re her father—of course it is.’
‘Guess I should be grateful for that,’ he said. ‘This whole situation is doing my head in, thinking about how much I’ve missed out on.’
‘I’m so, so sorry. And I know an apology doesn’t cut it, but I need you to understand I never intended to hurt you. I was in a tailspin when I discovered I was pregnant and I didn’t want you to sacrifice your dreams for me—’
‘I should’ve had a say!’ he yelled, making her jump. He hated himself for it. But his latent resentment didn’t take much to ignite. Damn it.
‘You’re right,’ she murmured, and when she gave the barest of nods and a tear trickled down her cheek, something inside him broke.
They were both hurting for different reasons but all the rehashing in the world wouldn’t change facts. He had a choice to make: wallow in the past, caught up in regret and retribution, or learn to forgive her and move forwards. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but he wanted to have more friendly moments and not have to watch what he said every second around her for fear of exploding.
‘We need to find a way to make this work,’ she murmured. ‘For Isla’s sake.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Weary to his soul, he rested his forearms on the table. ‘My foul mood isn’t all about you. I spoke to Yanni earlier, told him about Isla and how I’m still avoiding music of any kind. It’s got me in a funk. He thinks I should get professional help too.’
She nodded. ‘Can’t hurt.’
The thought of opening up to a stranger left him cold. But maybe seeking help would be different now? He couldn’t see things changing unless he got a handle on how to deal with the debilitating guilt from the accident and all his bottled-up bitterness against Tash.
‘How is Yanni?’
‘Okay. Him and the rest of the boys are in Melbourne, waiting for me to get my shit together.’ He straightened. ‘He was bloody surprised to discover you were his neighbour.’
‘I bet.’ She managed a rueful chuckle. ‘I can’t believe I’ve lived here for so long and didn’t know he owned this place.’
Curiosity about Isla’s early years prompted him to ask, ‘How long have you lived on Wattle Lane? Since you came back from Melbourne?’
She snorted, but sadness clouded her eyes. ‘Next door isn’t my parents’ house, if that’s what you’re asking. They lived a lot further out of town.’ She made inverted comma signs with her fingers. ‘“Away from the temptations” in town apparently.’
From the few trips he’d made through Brockenridge, the only places where a person could be led astray were the run-down pubs.
‘You didn’t talk about them when we were together. They were super religious?’
She nodded and glanced away. ‘They met in Shepparton through one of those churches that spring up overnight. Got married, bought a cheap block of land here, had me. They taught outback kids online.’ She barked out a harsh laugh. ‘But they saved their special brand of fervent teaching for me. I was the dutiful daughter but I worked my arse off to get good grades to do nursing in Melbourne. So you can imagine their reaction when I returned home pregnant …’
She bit her lip and he scooted his chair around next to hers, unsure whether to hug her or pat her shoulder. Her upbringing was obviously a sore spot and he wished he’d never brought it up. He knew the feeling. It made sense now, why she’d never spoken about where she came from and why she’d accepted his reluctance to do the same.
‘I knew they wouldn’t be happy but I never imagined they’d disown me. They sold up and left town when I was about seven months pregnant.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘I thought after Isla was born they might come around. I didn’t know where they were living so I texted them photos and an invitation to come see her. They changed their mobile numbers.’
He reached for her, unable to bear a moment longer of the pain radiating off her, and hauled her into his arms. She stiffened, tough and unyielding, until he stroked her hair and murmured, ‘It’s okay, Tash.’
The sobs started then and as he held her, gritting his teeth against the urge to bawl with her, he wondered if they’d ever resolve the pain of their pasts and find a way to move forwards, together.
CHAPTER
23
Jane sulked for an hour after Mason left. She muttered under her breath like a crazy woman while she ladled leftovers into containers and stacked them in the fridge, calling him some not-so-nice names he thoroughly deserved for misjudging her. She then overloaded on sugar by cramming the mini chocolate croissants, apple strudel and plaited pastry dusted in cinnamon sugar into her mouth in quick succession. It didn’t help her mood. If anything, with every bite of the delicious flaky pastry, with every burst of perfectly stewed apple and cinnamon on her tongue, she cursed him a little more.
She’d never tasted anything like it. The guy could bake. The buttery, melt-in-the-mouth pastry, the rich, dark chocolate, the tartness of the apple perfectly combined with the sugar and spices … He created magic with an oven and a few ingredients. If she’d thought Betty was good, Mason was in a league of his own—if this was the kind of fare he intended on serving to the good folk of Brockenridge she’d be first in line every day.
But that might not happen now, courtesy of her witch of a mother, and Jane knew she wouldn’t sleep until she confronted Gladys.
With sugar making her blood fizz and her head spinning with the implications of why she cared so damn much what Mason Woodley thought of her, she drove ten minutes out of town to her childhood home.
After her father died, she’d expected Gladys to leave Brockenridge in favour of Melbourne or Sydney, to live her fake life in a glamorous city better suited to a phoney like her. She should’ve known better, because Gladys needed the adulation of those around her and it would’ve taken her too long to build up an audience of minions in a new city. Here, she could lord it over everyone: hosting the best book club; donating the most to local charities; opening her famed garden to the public to raise money for drought relief. Revered, adored Gladys Jefferson, a pillar of the Brockenridge community.
What a crock.
Jane pulled into the circular driveway of her old home with a spray of gravel, quashing the childish urge to do a few burnouts. The only thing stopping her was that it wouldn’t affect her mother anyway, she’d just get one of the staff to clean up the mess in the morning.
She’d barely parked and stepped from the car when the ornate front door opened. Anger made her shake as she stalked towards her mother, silhouetted in the doorway like some villain from a classic movie.
‘It’s awfully late for dropping in—’
‘Cut the crap, Mum. We need to talk.’
As Jane caught a glimpse of Gladys’s smug smirk, she knew this was her mother’s intention all along: to get her to come home, on her terms.
Jane stalked into the nearest room, a lavish library that housed floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves filled to capacity. She’d always considered this room her dad’s space because she’d often find him in here, behind the desk, poring over something on the computer. She later wondered if it had been his coping mechanism, a way to hide from Gladys, some much needed me-time. Whatever his rationale, it hadn’t worked, because her dad had been compelled to find the ultimate way to escape Gladys. And the suspicion surrounding the lack of skid marks before his car slammed into that tree at one hundred and forty kilometres an hour told Jane all she needed to know. Her dad’s death hadn’t been an accident. Gladys had driven him to it.
‘What’s this all about, Jane?’
Gladys perched on the edge of a brown Chippendale sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, her smile serene. It didn’t surprise Jane that even at this late hour her mother wore a designer pantsuit in the p
alest of pinks. Gladys never let anyone see her as anything other than polished and perfectly made-up. Jane couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother without make-up, or in pyjamas for that matter. Every morning Gladys would appear in the kitchen fully clothed and made up, and would maintain her façade until she closed her bedroom door at night.
Jane had once done everything in her power to present the perfect image Gladys wanted in the vain hope it would get her mother to acknowledge she actually had a daughter; it hadn’t been enough, so she’d stopped caring about her mother’s aloofness towards her. She’d put it down to the lack of a maternal gene or two. While her mother’s indifference hurt, it hadn’t mattered as much because her dad had adored her and they’d been a tight-knit twosome.
Bitterness tightened every muscle in her body but Jane had to relax. She needed to get this sorted out. ‘Why are you stalling the sale of the shop next to the bakery?’
‘Oh, that.’ Gladys waved her hand like she was shooing a bothersome fly. ‘I’m an astute businesswoman so there’s nothing wrong with wanting top dollar for my investments.’
‘It’s been empty for years. Why not settle quickly?’
A glint of smugness lit Gladys’s steely blue eyes. ‘Why would I do that when this is so much more fun?’
Jane had known this was about her mother yanking her chain all along, wanting to see her grovel or dance to some warped tune, damn her.
‘Mason and I are not involved. He’s hiring me to assist with the interior design. That’s it. So whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not going to work.’
‘Yet you’re here.’ A self-righteous smile spread across her mother’s face and Jane’s hand itched with the urge to slap it.
‘If all you wanted was to get me to come home, Mother, you could’ve asked.’
‘I could have, but I doubt you would’ve responded because you persist in this weird vendetta.’
‘No vendetta, Mum, I’m just tired.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose; it did little to ease the pressure building between her eyes. She never got migraines but any clash with her mother always resulted in a headache. ‘During our last conversation many years ago, I gave you the option of salvaging something out of our broken relationship. Instead, you chose to pretend nothing was wrong, then proceeded to make my life miserable.’ She tilted her chin up, defiant. ‘Newsflash, Mum, I’ve wasted enough time trying to get you to acknowledge me let alone open up to me, and I’m done.’
A flicker of remorse flickered in Gladys’s eyes before she blinked, and Jane wondered if she’d imagined it. ‘During our last confrontation, that day when you yelled at me and wouldn’t hear reason, you made it more than clear what you thought of me.’ Her lips thinned. ‘You said you wanted nothing to do with me and if you know me at all you know I never grovel to anyone, least of all my spoilt brat daughter.’
Jane could say so much but what was the point? The yawning gap between them was growing wider every day and it would take a miracle for them to reconcile.
‘I’m not the one with hidden motives, never have been.’ Jane eyed the door, desperate to escape. ‘Stop toying with decent people in this town. Betty’s Bakery is an institution and she’s a good woman.’ And more of a mother to Jane than Gladys had ever been. ‘Their proposed expansion can only be good for Brockenridge, so why would you want to interfere with that?’
Gladys stood slowly, poised and elegant and poisonous. ‘Because I heard you were involved in the revamp and I knew this would get your attention.’
Confused, Jane shook her head. It did little to clear it. ‘Why? You could’ve picked up the phone to do that.’
‘Would you have answered?’
‘This is ridiculous. What’s really going on, Mum?’
Gladys waggled a finger in Jane’s direction. ‘That’s always been the problem with us. You have no idea what makes me tick when I know you better than I know myself.’
Jane glared at her mother, who regarded her with that infuriatingly serene gaze. A small part of her wondered if this was some warped cry for attention. Her mother had already said she’d never grovel. Was this her way of wanting to thrash out their problems after all this time?
‘You need to stop believing the worst about me, Jane. I wish you could understand I’m not the bad guy here.’
Jane had given up trying to figure out what went through her mum’s head a long time ago so she had no hope of understanding what had motivated her mother’s latest showdown. For now, she wanted Betty’s plans to come to fruition and that meant Gladys needed to back down and butt out.
‘Get that sale done,’ she said, her tone frigid.
The woman she’d once idolised stared at her with indifference, then had the audacity to chuckle. ‘Or what?’
Jane could say so much but she swallowed her threats. Antagonising Gladys was not the way to go. ‘Please, Mum, it’s important.’
By her haughty expression, Gladys thought she’d won this round and Jane let her have her victory. If it meant Betty got to build her new bakery, it was worth it.
Jane should’ve waited until the morning to speak to Mason but she wanted to sit down with him and Betty and convince them she’d had no knowledge of her mother’s tactics. Before she could change her mind, Jane parked around the back of the bakery, in front of a quaint cottage where widowed Betty lived. She assumed Mason would be staying with his mum. Nobody returning home would choose to bunk down at the hotel over the pub or the motel behind The Watering Hole. Local folk valued family. Pity her mum had never got the memo.
She marched to the front door, shaking out residual tension like a dog drying off after a bath, and took a deep breath before stabbing at the doorbell. She hoped Betty would answer the door. But when it swung open, Mason stood there, wearing nothing but a towel.
She shouldn’t look, not when she’d come here determined to set things right between them, but she had a pulse and the sight of the tall, blond baker wearing next to nothing pretty much ensured she couldn’t not look. He wasn’t buffed or overly muscly but his chest, covered in a smattering of hair several shades darker than on his head, had definition. His shoulders looked broader without clothing and the strength in his arms was testament to many hours spent kneading. As for his legs, she didn’t go there. She had no intention of glancing below his waist, considering the heat surging through her body.
‘Uh … sorry to interrupt your evening—’
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘To let you know I’ve tried to fix things.’
Wariness flickered in his eyes, as if he didn’t trust anything that came out of her mouth. She didn’t blame him. She felt the same way about her mother.
‘Can it wait until morning?’
She shook her head. ‘I want to set your mum’s mind at rest.’
‘She’s gone to bed already.’
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t taken into consideration that bakers were up before dawn to prepare and would go to bed earlier than most. But she wouldn’t be deterred. ‘Then can we talk?’
A deep, disapproving groove slashed his brows, his glare formidable as he edged the door shut. ‘I’m tired.’
‘It’ll only take a few minutes. Please.’ Jane hated how needy she sounded but she had to make him understand she had nothing to do with her mother stalling on the sale. In the past, it wouldn’t have mattered what he thought of her but she believed they’d moved past their tense teen years, and if she was serious about reinventing herself, she didn’t want to revert to not caring. When he’d accused her of still being a game player like she was in high school, she’d been too mad at him to consider his insult. But now she really wanted to know what he meant. She’d been uppity and condescending to him back then, but they hadn’t interacted all that much. They’d never liked each other and she preferred kids who enjoyed having a laugh, not ones like Mason, who stared at her like a speck of dirt. He was looking at her now in almost the same way. But school finished long ago—what had she done t
o make this guy dislike her so much?
After what seemed like an eternity, Mason stepped back and opened the door. ‘Lounge room is on the left. Wait there while I get dressed.’ When she hovered on the doorstep, he stomped away, leaving her with a rather impressive view of shifting glutes beneath the towel. Hot damn.
Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she entered the cottage. With a little luck, Betty might wake and save her a guaranteed unpleasant confrontation with Mason.
After closing the door, she wandered into the lounge room and took a seat on a bottle-green velvet armchair. Betty had always been lovely to her and Jane had occasionally offloaded to the older woman when she’d visited the bakery, but she’d never been inside the cottage. It channelled the warm-hearted baker perfectly: floral rugs over red gum floors, comfy sofas covered in vivid throw rugs, oversized cushions and bookcases stacked with cookbooks warring for space alongside novels of every genre. The entire room exuded cosy warmth, far removed from the pristine frigidness of the home she’d grown up in.
Before she had a chance to check out Betty’s literary tastes, Mason entered the room. He hadn’t lost the formidable glower but she could handle it better now that he’d put some clothes on. In fact, he looked almost normal in navy trakkie pants and a grey cotton T-shirt. The few times she’d seen him he’d been immaculately dressed, which she’d attributed to his time in Paris. Funny, in the past that would’ve mattered to her, but after learning the truth about her parents she’d realised that appearances meant nothing.
He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, keeping as far from her as possible. ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait till morning?’
‘I wanted to explain about the shop you’re trying to acquire—’