by Lisa Walker
Stepping onto Mac’s verandah was like climbing out of a pool. I breathed deeply, squeezing my hair to stop it dripping down my back. A blanket was draped over the hammock. Picking it up, I wrapped it around me. His door wasn’t locked. The thunder of the rain lessened only slightly as I stepped inside, shutting the door. The noise was a good cover — he wouldn’t hear me unless I did something stupid.
Mac’s house was much the same as mine, only in better nick: the lino and wall paint wasn’t cracked and peeling. In a narrow circle of torchlight I padded down the hallway, towards the kitchen — that’s where everyone keeps their stuff, isn’t it?
Like my house, the kitchen ran off the lounge room. I shone my torch around the lounge, looking for clues to the mystery man’s life. No family photos or paintings decorated the walls. A couple of copies of a magazine — Australian Zoologist — lay on the coffee table. That was no great insight — I already knew he was into animals. An empty beer bottle beside them was also no surprise. A small guitar — a ukulele, actually — was propped up on the sofa. I imagined Mac strumming a Hawaiian melody. A dusty bookshelf next to the sofa housed a small collection of paperbacks. I flicked my torch beam over them — he seemed to favour thick books by Russian authors. I would have liked to investigate further, but knew I should move on.
There were a few dishes on the sink in the kitchen. A small jug of fresh herbs on the bench gave off the bewitching scent of basil and rosemary. A bowl of eggs stood next to them. I remembered the chickens. Compared to my kitchen, with its empty packets of Lean Cuisine and noodles, this one seemed used … inviting. I felt a strange urge to make an omelette.
I opened drawer after drawer, carefully sliding them out to minimise noise. Top drawer — cutlery; next drawer — knives; third drawer — screws and a hammer; fourth drawer — aha … There were no photos, but sitting in the bottom drawer was a white lump of plaster. Pulling it out, I ran my finger over the raised lumps in the block — it looked like an animal footprint. Could this be the evidence I was after?
A sheet of paper had fluttered out with it. Placing the plaster on the bench, I picked the paper up. A few words were scrawled on it, some scribbled out.
Lavender
You appear from the sun ghostlike pale in the twilight
Inhabit my mind dream
Sabotage my senses
A strange feeling came over me as I read it — like my mind had slowed down. I read it again. Lavender — it was about me. It had to be. Mac had written a poem about me. No-one had ever written a poem about me. I’d been given Valentine’s Day cards with rhymes on them, but he’d made this up himself … I didn’t know anything about poetry — I mean it was probably total crap …
No, it was nice. Even if it was crap, it was nice. I hadn’t realised — poetry was so powerful. Just to think of him, thinking of me, writing that …
I stared at it in bemusement. It was a total revelation — he had the hots for me? He’d done a pretty good job of hiding that. I read it again. It made me feel all, I don’t know, deeply romantic and sexy at the same time. And the man who’d written that poem was in bed just down the corridor …
I remembered his face when I’d touched him in the car — the way his eyes had flashed. My instincts had been right — it had been desire. And now, just thinking of his eyes, his hands, his voice, I felt a deep pull starting in my stomach and radiating up and down my body. My cheeks burned. I ached with longing; I wanted him bad. The poem had started a fire in my head that was rapidly setting my whole body alight.
Clutching the poem in my hand, I drifted on a tide of arousal towards his bedroom, not stopping to think that maybe he wouldn’t be pleased to see me — he’d written the poem hadn’t he? Sabotage my senses — he wanted me, all right. Pulling open the bedroom door, I coughed.
‘Mac?’
There was no answer. I walked towards his bed. It was so dark, I couldn’t see a thing. ‘Mac?’ I said louder.
Sitting down on the bed, I patted it.
He wasn’t there.
Chapter Fourteen
A cat set loose
I sat on his bed in the darkness, wondering where he was. Where would you go on a night like this? Time passed slowly. Shivering, I waited, my clothes clammy against my skin, the blanket off the hammock still wrapped around me. All thoughts of getting back to fill Simon in on my discovery were forgotten. That didn’t seem important anymore.
Mac’s bed was unmade, the twisted sheets and blankets hung down over one edge, trailing onto the floor. I eyed the pillow hungrily. It wasn’t so much the comfort I craved as the intimacy of lying where his head had lain. At last I couldn’t resist and, dropping my blanket to the floor, I climbed in. His smell surrounded me — the same one I’d smelt on my shawl. What had he been doing with my shawl? Breathing him in deep, I cocooned the covers around me, imagining they were his body.
The rain and the wind howled outside — I felt like I was on a tiny boat at sea. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself sailing to a distant shore. And on that shore was Mac. My heart fluttered at the thought, the possibilities crowding around me so thickly I could barely breathe. It was like an illness, this longing. But in its own way it was also delightful. It was painful, but I didn’t want it gone.
I ran my hand across my stomach, imagining it was his. I craved his mouth, his chest, his belly against mine. Sometimes the anticipation can be as good as the act itself. More often, unfortunately, it is better …
The front door opened. I jumped out of the bed and peered around the corner, into the corridor. A weak torch beam shone my way, fading into darkness before it reached me. Why didn’t he turn the light on? He walked quietly as if he was trying to surprise someone. Me? Did he know I was here?
I waited. He didn’t see me in the darkness of his bedroom. I could have touched him by the time I said his name. ‘Mac?’
He stopped. ‘Cassandra?’
I stepped towards him, reaching out my hand; it met his chest. His heart was beating fast. Did he still hate me? I didn’t care really.
My fingers ran up the side of his face, wiping away raindrops as I went.
He didn’t touch me. He didn’t move away. He didn’t say anything.
I hesitated, suddenly unsure. Had I misjudged this? Was the poem for someone else? Was I making a fool of myself? I let my hand drop.
He caught it. Held it. Wound his fingers through mine.
For a few moments I heard only the sound of his breathing. His thumb traced an arc across my palm. ‘We shouldn’t do this,’ he said, but his hand was saying something else. His hand was saying the same thing as mine — I want to touch you so badly it hurts.
I dismissed his words; his body was speaking much louder. Curving my hand behind his head, I pulled him down towards me. I kissed him.
He wasn’t reluctant. Not at all. He returned my kiss fiercely, almost bruising my lips. His hands were inside my dressing gown and sliding down my body. I shivered as his rain-wet fingers touched my legs. Pulling my dressing gown off my shoulders, he kissed the side of my neck. I moaned, my stomach turning over. His wet shirt pressed against my breasts. He slid his arms around my back and pressed his cheek to mine. I felt like I hardly knew where I ended and he began.
‘I really shouldn’t do this,’ he whispered into my ear like a love song.
I believed only the tone, not the words. I licked his cheek, pressed my lips against his ear. ‘I really think you should,’ I breathed.
He let out his breath in a long sigh, as his hands ran down my arms, taking my dressing gown with them.
Then we sort of collapsed onto the bed and — well — it was … just the way it should be.
Crawk.
What — you want more details? All right …
There was just enough light in the room to see each other’s faces. We touched noses, rubbed cheeks, gazed into each other’s eyes. He rolled over, pulling me on top of him, stroked my face, my hair. He smiled, a long, lazy, wicked smile, his
teeth white against his face.
My stomach flip-flopped. I leaned closer, caught his lip between my teeth, bit it lightly, traced the line of his mouth with my tongue.
He closed his eyes, exhaled, murmured something.
I didn’t quite catch it. It sounded like ‘I give up’ but that didn’t make much sense. I ignored it, which seemed the right thing to do as he didn’t speak again.
My swimsuit vanished, like it was made of rice paper. Mac’s clothes were there, and then they weren’t. It was dreamlike, the kind of sex you have inside your head but never in reality. No, it was better than the sex I have inside my head.
That had never happened before. Usually the reality failed to live up to the fantasy.
You can learn a lot about someone when you make love. It makes you vulnerable, to be naked, to lose control. Some men resist that, the light goes out in their eyes and they give you their body, but not their mind. Mac wasn’t like that. He never took his eyes off mine. Never. Not once. He didn’t hide and he didn’t let me hide either. It was almost scary, like falling into each other.
It was somehow completely … pure. No masks.
That’s the way it was for me anyway. That’s how it seemed at the time …
After we finished — landed — we lay in silence, legs and arms intertwined, our chests rising and falling against each other. I pressed my forehead to his skin, listened to the rain, my mind fluttering here and there like a butterfly drunk on nectar.
Mac didn’t say anything, but I assumed, like me, he was sunk so deep in blissful torpor that he couldn’t form the words. He expelled a deep sigh, then, extracting his arms and legs from mine, rolled over on his side and turned the bedside light on.
I blinked, shocked, wanting him back beside me. It was too sudden. I was still in the airlock from our journey. I wasn’t back on Planet Earth yet. All I wanted was to wrap myself around him.
‘I was just over at your place.’ His hand was back, resting warm on my waist, but his voice had an edge to it.
A shot of alarm went through me. ‘Why?’
‘I wanted to know what you were going to do.’
I knew what he meant.
‘There was a message for you while you were out. On your phone.’
Simon. I couldn’t read his expression — the light was shining in my eyes — but his voice wasn’t exactly warm. Not cold, but not warm either — neutral. You don’t expect neutral at a time like that.
‘A message?’
‘Simon’s got approval from his editor, you’re not to give the story to anyone else, he’s going to look after you and you’re to search my house for proof.’
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. He was just so — God — gorgeous, and I’d done the one thing — the one thing he’d never be able to forgive.
He has the most beautiful eyes; have you noticed, René? No, I suppose he’s not your type. But his skin — it’s so soft. You wouldn’t think it would be, but it is.
Crawk.
Yes, I know you prefer green, but we’re talking about Mac here.
‘I’ve totally blown it, haven’t I?’ I said.
He shrugged. He was back to unreadable.
How could he do that? Now. After what we’d just done. My body was still ringing like a symphony. Why wasn’t it like that for him? I wanted to shake him, slap him about the head, pull him down and make love to him until he admitted there was something astonishing between us. Something miraculous even.
I hate the way men shut down like that. How hard can it be to say how you feel?
But violence was no solution — I was in the wrong, not him. ‘What can I do to make it better? I can call Simon, tell him it was a hoax …’ My voice trailed off. Simon would never buy that — if anything it would just make him keener.
‘There’s nothing you can do now — you’ve opened the box, Pandora.’ His hand slipped off my waist.
‘So, why did you — why did we …? If you knew …’ I shouldn’t do this. He’d known, but he’d still made love to me.
He propped himself up on his elbow. I was acutely aware of the space between us. My eyes lingered on the tattoo on his shoulder.
‘I’d have to be crazy not to want you, Cassandra. Turns out I’m not.’ He gave a lopsided almost-smile. ‘Not in that way anyway.’
My heart jumped with pleasure at this crumb, thrown my way. ‘But don’t you hate me?’
He took a deep breath, expelling the air slowly. ‘No. I tried to, but I don’t.’ Rolling on his back, he looked at the ceiling. ‘How long do you think it’ll be before he gets here?’
‘Simon?’ I thought about it. ‘If he can charter a plane he’ll be here any minute. If not, first plane tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t have done it if you’d just been a bit …’ I paused, ‘… nicer.’
Mac smiled briefly. It was a long way from his heart-melting sunburst in the forest. ‘I’m not too good at nice. Sorry.’ The whole time the rain was getting louder and louder. ‘He won’t be getting in here tomorrow. Rain like this, he’ll be lucky if any planes are running, and even if they are, the roads will be cut.’ He rolled over to face me. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
I stared at him. What did he mean? ‘Time for what?’
He smiled again; properly this time.
It had the same effect on me as before — a hot flush swept over my face.
‘I love the way you do that,’ he said.
‘I hate it.’ I did hate it — it was a relic from the shy Cassie I’d been unable to get rid of.
He touched my cheek. His hand felt cool. ‘No, it’s very cute. I meant, we’ve got plenty of time for whatever we want to do.’ His meaning was unmistakeable.
‘I didn’t even know you liked me. I thought you wanted to get rid of me.’
‘Who said anything about like?’
I winced, but Mac continued in a low voice. ‘I wanted you from the moment I saw you …’
‘I thought you were dead.’ I remembered the way he’d hung in the hammock.
‘Mmm, I was pretty out to it … You got all mixed up in my mind with dreams about Tasmania. It was only when you turned up in the office the next day I realised I hadn’t dreamt you.’
‘Why Tasmania?’
‘That’s where I’m from. And your smell, the lavender … My parents grow it on their farm.’
‘So, why the grumpy act, the snake …?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We’ve got all night.’
He smiled again — another burst of sunshine, such riches — and pulled me in to rest against his shoulder. ‘Let’s not talk about that now…’
We woke to thundering rain.
I curled into Mac’s body. I wasn’t used to it yet; I’d forgotten how thrilling it was, this intimacy thing. It really is everything you imagine it might be. That first flush of being with someone new; I’d leap mountains for it.
The crash of the downpour lent an air of unreality to the morning, like we were in a bubble, surrounded by water. I wondered if I should write a message in a bottle and throw it out the window — it’s me, Cassandra, help, help! No, I had everything I needed right here.
‘Do you think Frog Hollow is getting flooded?’ I murmured to Mac as he stirred.
‘Should be okay. You worried about it?’
I briefly considered my possessions, left behind in the house — clothes, magazines, iPhone, camera, my car parked outside … ‘No, there’s nothing there I need.’ The thought was liberating.
‘It’ll be cut off, though. Looks like you’re stuck here for now.’
Turning my head, I drank in Mac’s profile. It’s funny how a face can seem like the answer, even when you don’t know the question. There was still something impenetrable about him, though. I needed a can opener to get inside that man’s mind.
‘You still haven’t explained the grumpy act,’ I said.
‘Haven’t I?’ He yawned and met my eyes.
‘No.’
He sighed and rolled over to face me. ‘You really want me to, do you?’
I nodded.
‘Really?’ There was an edge to his voice.
I wasn’t sure if I did anymore, but I nodded again.
‘You have no idea how out of place you are here, do you?’ He sounded exasperated.
I bristled. How could he go from hot to cold in an instant like that? ‘Yes, I do.’
‘No, you don’t. You think you’re the city slicker in Hicksville —’
‘No, I —’
Mac continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘What you don’t realise is that Beechville, in its own way, has as much going on as Sydney. More, probably.’
‘It has? You could have fooled me.’ Part of me was hurt by his attack, but the other part rose to the challenge. That’s what I’d wanted, wasn’t it — someone to stand up to me? If he wanted an argument, I’d give him an argument.
‘You just turn up here … There you are — shiny hair, shiny nails, sparkling teeth. I’d never seen anyone so well groomed — horses maybe at gymkhanas, but not people.’
I blinked, tears rising to my eyes at the scorn in his voice. No, I didn’t want to argue with him after all: he punched below the belt. I turned my back. I had no idea who he was. Why did I even care what he thought? Pulling my hand up, I looked at my nails. It wasn’t even true anymore — the varnish was chipped and mud had lodged beneath my cuticles.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Cassandra. I don’t mean to be cruel; I’m just not used to women like you.’ There was a long silence.
I didn’t say anything.
‘You could probably leave off those last two words,’ he added. ‘I’ve spent too much time with men. I just say what I think and that’s not always the best thing.’
I rolled back over and met his eyes. ‘Have you always been like that?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess so. That’s just me. I’m not like you. I’m a country boy at best; more of a wilderness boy, really. Especially lately — a year in Antarctica, two years in the desert — Beechville’s about as cosmopolitan as it’s got for me recently.’