Michelle Vernal Box Set

by Michelle Vernal

  From my personal experience of long-haul flights, I can only hope yours wasn’t too horrific and that despite the jet lag you are managing to be a responsible aunt. On the home front, I’m impressed by Kate, as she’s very keen. She came to the office on Saturday morning and this afternoon to help me get things straight before I head away in the morning. Don’t you worry your head about work (as if) because she’s more than able to keep on top of things.

  There’s one area where she’s not up to speed though, and this is through no fault of her own. Given that she is about ten years younger than you, she’s only got a vague familiarity with the 1980s. She can’t help me with number 33: “What band did David Coverdale sing with before forming glam rock band Whitesnake?”

  I will be taking my laptop with me to Galway so your swift reply to my email would be appreciated.

  Love, Ciaran

  Rebecca leaned back in the chair. She stared at the computer screen, her irritation at reading of Kate’s “keenness” and ability to “keep on top of things” passing as two words loomed out at her: Love, Ciaran. Not quite the norm when it came to signing off one’s emails to one’s PA. Mind you, e-mailing your PA with non-urgent information while she was on holiday wasn’t the norm either, even if they did have an amicable working relationship. Mind you, if she wanted to get into it, sleeping with her boss—while clichéd—wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence either. Still, at least, unlike her brother-in-law, Ciaran wasn’t married.

  She flashed back to that morning when she’d woken up in his bed and sitting up in fright had found herself staring down at her boss. He’d been snoring his head off but even with his mouth hanging open, he’d looked gorgeously vulnerable. Instead of lying back down and snuggling into him, though, like any normal woman would have, she’d panicked. She was frightened as to what his reaction to her being there in the cold light of morning would be and so, she’d gotten quietly dressed and let herself out before he stirred.

  Sighing, she put the memory back where it belonged: in her box of mistakes. What did it matter? Ciaran had never once alluded to what had happened between them and now here he was about to head off on holiday with the Queen of Lycra, Pariah. Cow!

  And as for Love, Ciaran, well, she had to face facts. The man had tried it on with over half the female employees of Fitzpatrick and Co.; she was already just another notch on his bedpost. It was time to let that night go and move on. She would not think about the rapport he had with Jordy and the way he made the little boy’s face light up. Nor would she dwell on the time he had couriered a hamper stocked with a box of cold tablets, a packet of tissues, some lemons, and a pot of honey to her apartment. She had been home with a stinking head cold at the time. Stop it, Rebecca! Dragging her gaze away from the screen, she glanced down at her watch. What would the time be in Ireland now? Mentally calculating the eleven-hour time difference, she concluded it must be about 11:30 p.m. on Sunday night. Ciaran would be tucked up in bed by now and wouldn’t get her email until he checked his messages in Galway. She hit the Reply button because she couldn’t help herself.

  To: Ciaran Cahill

  Subject: One More Sleep Til Galway

  Dear Ciaran,

  Thanks for your concern regarding my flight. May I just say that flying economy is a truly horrific experience at the best of times but throw in an obese travelling companion with flatulence issues and, well, you get the picture. I survived the ordeal, and it was great to see the family, albeit briefly. My parents have swanned off on their cruise, and my sister and her husband are currently working through things on the Sunshine Coast. So, that leaves me with Hannah and Jack. They have survived one evening and one morning in my care. And I have survived one evening and one morning of running after them. Why did I ever think I was capable of being responsible? My biological clock is no longer ticking.

  My friend Melissa, who was also supposed to be coming to Galway, surprised me by announcing that she was coming home with me instead. My apologies on Melissa’s behalf for letting you down at the last minute, but apparently she felt I needed a hand holding (not enough to travel in economy with me, though). Remember I told you that she was Tamara Lewis’s personal assistant? Well, Tamara pulled some of her pop star strings and got Melissa upgraded to first class. I don’t know how much help she is going to be over the next fortnight, either, because she has been sitting in the sunroom reading magazines all morning, and I fear she has taken root there.

  So there, you have it, my news to date. I am pleased the office of Ciaran Cahill will not grind to a halt in both our absences, thanks to the capable Kate. I’m not sure I appreciate being reminded that I was around for Madonna’s debut, though.

  Love Rebecca

  P.S.: Your apology for not seeing me off in the style I deserve is duly noted and to prove I don’t hold a grudge, here’s the answer to number 33. David Coverdale was Deep Purple’s front man. He had such fabulous hair and “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake is a musical gem.

  She hit Send before she could chicken out and type yours faithfully or yours sincerely and, refusing to dwell on him any longer, opened the next email. It was from Nicola. Her wedding plans were a welcome distraction. She happily banged out her newsy reply before catching up with Emma, who was obviously not the letter writing type, judging by her short message that read:

  “Back in Brisvegas. It hasn’t changed. Still can’t believe you and spotty James. Ha, Ha-Ha. Grrrowl!”

  Rebecca took great delight in sending her friend an equally informative reply of “Sod off.” Her eyes dropped back down to her watch again. Hmm, she still had three-quarters of an hour left before she needed to collect Hannah. Maybe she should wander down to the cooking school and say hi.

  Strolling along the garden path, she paused to admire the view. She had to admit that her sister had waved a magic wand over this property. Thick trees formed a line at the base of the section. Glimpses of blue were visible through their foliage and on a sunny day, the water would be a vivid blue dotted with white sails. Today, however, the sea mimicked the murky sky.

  The property was two-tiered on a sloping section with the house and garden sitting on the top tier and the cabins and cooking school neatly laid out below. She could still hear Jennifer’s self-important voice as she’d told her, “I am going to offer boutique accommodation,” referring to the newly renovated cabins. What did boutique mean? she had wondered, not wanting to give her ignorance away and deciding that it was probably just a more exotic word for expensive. She’d been right; fancy rooms paid off. Once Jennifer had gotten the web page up and running, the school took off internationally as well as nationally and these days it was permanently booked out months in advance.

  The garden leading down to the second tier was like something out of a magazine. Even in winter, thanks to Colin the gardener, who, in Rebecca’s opinion, strongly resembled a garden gnome. Over to her left was the herb garden, the school’s lifeblood, and Rebecca wandered over to it, bending down to pick a sprig of what she was fairly sure was rosemary. It was confirmed as she held it up to her nose and inhaled.

  It smelt gorgeous, conjuring up images of a succulent roasting lamb. She was just as passionate about food as her sister was; it was just that Jen had gotten the actual cooking gene while she, who could just about boil an egg, had been gifted the eating gene. It wasn’t very fair, she mused, letting the rosemary fall from her fingers. Her gaze swung to the far corner of the section where, virtually hidden by a flowerless profusion of Camellia shrubs, nestled the vegetable patch.

  It was Jen’s pride and joy because it enabled her always to use the freshest seasonal vegetables in the classroom. It was out of bounds for Colin, as Jennifer insisted on tending it herself, saying the hands-on approach helped her come up with new ideas for Cuisine with Carlton’s menu.

  The cottage garden over to her right was bare this time of year, but come the summer it would be a riotous bed of colours all vying for attention. Behind her, the gnarled limbs of the ro
se garden stood sentry.

  The “Cook’s Quarters,” as the house was known, was almost Cape Cod in style. Painted white with a pretty blue trim, it still had all the original lace fretwork in place. The wide veranda, running down the right-hand side of the house, afforded a magnificent view out over the surrounding hills. It was impressive, she thought, squinting up at the stately pile, remembering how daunting the initial renovation job had been for Jen and Mark.

  They’d wanted the house to retain its original charm that, over the years, had gotten lost under layers of peeling exterior paint and an interior harking back to the 1960s. She smiled, remembering how it had been all hands on deck as the whole family pitched in for weekends of wallpaper stripping. The highlight of which had been the ceremonial ripping up of those heinous worn, floral carpets. What a thrill it had been, rolling them back to find that the original timber boards underneath were in excellent condition.

  That was the last time she could remember them all having fun together. It had been fun, too, camping out in the cabins. They had shared dinners in the makeshift kitchen Jen had set up in the old dormitory building. They were waiting for the new kitchen to be installed up in the house. Rebecca had even found herself warming to her swine of a brother-in-law as she watched the way he supported her sister in her new venture. It had been so good to see Jen come alive again, and she had been genuinely caught up in the excitement of what her sister was creating. In turn, Jennifer had been grateful for her younger sister’s enthusiasm. For the first time in years, they forged a tenuous bond, but since then she’d gone away, and now it seemed like they were back to being strangers.

  Coming out of her reverie, Rebecca noticed that the roses had been pruned back for the winter, but she could see tiny buds beginning to form on their knotted limbs due to the mild weather. As she carried on down the path, she inhaled, imagining she could smell their perfume on the breeze. Caught up in the moment, she found herself singing, “I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me.”

  “What’s that tune you’re humming, dear? I recognise it. Was it on a Flake chocolate bar advert?” A sprightly woman in her mid to late seventies startled her by appearing on the classroom steps. Thankfully, Rebecca was spared having to confess she was singing a song by a one-hit wonder called Charlene. The woman waved the lighter she had clenched in her hand and announced, “I’m just off for a sneaky smoke, but you’re just in time for morning tea. Go on in.”

  “Oh, goody.” Rebecca sniffed appreciatively. “It smells delicious; what is it?”

  “Rhubarb and apple cake with caramel sauce.”

  “Yum! That doesn’t sound much like a Thai dish, though.”

  The woman’s chortle turned into a wheeze, but she managed to gasp out, “No, it isn’t; we were feeling a bit rebellious this morning after last night’s green curry. When you get to our age, dear, spicy foods go right through you, if you get my drift.”

  Rebecca got her drift and, not wanting to be put off her helping of cake, she let Smoky the Bear tiptoe down the path. She watched with a smile as she ducked furtively behind an old oak tree.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “EVERYBODY!” BETTY CLAPPED her hands together, her grey apron emblazoned in black with the words “Carlton’s Cuisine” secured tightly around her waist. She was standing at the narrow end of what looked like an upside-down T-shaped room. Despite being a functional room with its four built-in wall ovens down one side and commercial-sized sink, dishwasher, and espresso coffee machine down the other, Jennifer had still managed to create a country cottage ambience.

  Leaving the walls in their natural timber state, she’d strung polished, copper-bottom pots, along with bunches of dried herbs and strings of garlic bulbs, from the heavy beams supporting the pitched ceiling. Lined up and down the centre of the room in four neat rows were the gas hob, state-of-the-art kitchen workbenches. Each housed a complete set of cooking utensils in the cupboard space below. Perched on tall wooden stools around these benches were members of the Timaru Branch of the Nifty Knitters, a veritable sea of tight perms. At the very back of the room was a wide alcove. It was home to the handmade twelve-seater kauri dining table that David had been commissioned to make. Rebecca gave an involuntary tremble at the thought of his hands lovingly shaping what had once been a hard lump of raw wood.

  The table was currently laid out in anticipation of morning tea, and the espresso machine was doing overtime as two old dears elbowed each other.

  “It’s my turn, Gwen; you did it yesterday.”

  “Yes, but everyone said what a good job I made of it.”

  “Excuse me!” Betty clapped her hands again and, apart from the hissing of the coffee machine, a sudden hush settled over the room. “Thank you, ladies. I’d like to introduce you to Rebecca Loughton, our hostess Jennifer Carlton’s sister. As you know, Jennifer was called away, and Rebecca here has come all the way from Dublin to hold the fort.”

  “Hello, Rebecca,” the ladies dutifully chorused.

  A rotund woman with a chest you could rest a plate on somehow managed to ease herself off her stool. Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder how she’d gotten up there in the first place. “I’m Maureen, the president of the Nifty Knitters Timaru Branch,” she boomed.

  Rebecca smiled. “Hi, Maureen.” Then, directing her gaze to the room, added, “I hope you are all enjoying your stay at Cuisine with Carlton’s.” Enough of the pleasantries already, she thought, her eyes alighting on the main event. Cut the cake and pour that caramel!

  “We are indeed enjoying ourselves, aren’t we, girls?”

  There was a mass of bobbing curls as the “girls” chanted in unison, “Yes, Maureen.”

  Oh great leader, Rebecca mentally added, thinking back to the debacle outside cabin one last night, some of you are enjoying yourselves more than others.

  “Righty-ho. Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. Rebecca, we’re going to sample our wares over coffee now! You’re more than welcome to join us.” Betty winked at her and indicated the spare stool next to Maureen.

  “Come on, dear. There’s room for a little one.” Maureen patted the stool, and Rebecca reluctantly squished in beside her.

  “This is amazing. If I pop down here every morning, I’ll have gone up a dress size by the end of the week,” she stated a moment later, dunking her forkful of cake into the artfully poured sauce with gusto.

  “MS LOUGHTON, YOU WERE supposed to pick Hannah up twenty minutes ago.” Anna’s malevolent expression clearly indicated that she didn’t think Rebecca was up to the job of primary caregiver. “We have a teacher-to-pupil ratio, and it is strictly adhered to and by being late, you jeopardise the welfare of all the children here.” She gestured around the roomful of little cherubs who, as if on cue, all gazed accusingly over at Rebecca.

  Talk about laying it on thick, she thought guiltily.

  “I’m so sorry, Anna. We had an emergency at Cuisine with Carlton’s. The, um...” She flung about wildly for an excuse. Ah yes, Lois! “One of the students didn’t extinguish her cigarette properly and, well, I had a small bush fire to contend with before I could get here. It was a blessing I spotted the smoke, or the whole school could have gone up.”

  She hoped she hadn’t overdone it with that last bit, but Anna was looking slightly mollified as she replied, “Yes, well, I always maintain smoking is bad for one’s health.”

  By the time, Rebecca had finished with, “I won’t be late again, I can assure you,” the preschool teacher was almost smiling as she handed Hannah over.

  “NO REST, NO REST, NO rest!” There was an ominous thud. An even louder crash followed. It was 1:00 p.m. Hannah had been in her room for fifteen minutes and was not resting.

  “What is going on?” hissed Melissa from the bottom of the stairs up to where Rebecca was standing outside her niece’s bedroom door, anxiously biting her nails.

  “Jen said Hannah might like a little rest when she gets home from preschool,” she offered lamely.

&n
bsp; Melissa raised two disbelieving eyebrows. “Does it sound like she’s having a little rest to you?”

  “Er, no.”

  Both girls jumped as a particularly loud thump resonated from the room. “Oh, I can’t stand it, I’m letting her out!”

  Rebecca marvelled at the devastation a three-and-a-half-year-old could wreak. In the space of ten minutes, Hannah’s pretty pastel green room looked like a tornado had ripped through it. The heavy children’s blackout curtain festooned with yellow daisies was lying at an odd angle, having been half tugged off its track. And with the superhuman strength of a preschooler in a tantrum, she’d gone on to yank the yellow drawers of her tallboy out. The contents of which now lay strewn around the room. The bottom shelf of her bookshelf stood empty while the bright picture books it normally housed had been tossed into the melee of clothes.

  The star of the show herself had donned a sparkly tiara and was hiding amidst the sea of pink tulle that was her fairy outfit. Clutching her magic wand, she pointed it at Rebecca and screamed, “You naughty!” before collapsing in a sobbing heap. Rebecca instantly felt like the big bad fairy and, racked with guilt, she began doing what it was she did best: grovelling. “I’m sorry, Hannah. Mean old Auntie Becca won’t put you to bed tomorrow; I promise.” Sensing an opportunity, her niece hiccupped and upped the volume. Tiptoeing through the debris and crouching down to rub the little girl’s trembling back, she asked, “Would you like me to snuggle buggle you on the couch with a choccie milk and a Wiggles DVD?”

  Hannah didn’t hang around. She tossed the fairy dress aside and thundered off down the stairs to throw herself onto the couch in anticipation of her promised movie and milk deal. Feeling decidedly manipulated, Rebecca half-heartedly opened a tin of tuna for her and Melissa’s lunch. Hannah appeared to have put the trauma of being asked to have some quiet time well and truly behind her as she slurped happily on her chocolate milk and gazed adoringly at Captain Feathersword.