by Jennie Jones
‘Sex must have sealed the love process—’
‘—except that one wants to stay and one wants to leave—’
‘—which stalemates the entire deal—’
‘—until one or both come to their senses.’
‘What is it with you two?’ Gem asked, slapping her hands on the table to stop the tide of … of truth. ‘Honest to god, I pity the McWade boys. They’re not going to be able to take a step out of line without you two sussing them out.’
Gem’s mobile chimed in her pocket. She fished it out, trying to gather her calm self again while Jillian divided the last of the wine between their glasses.
‘Maybe things’ll spark up again at the wedding,’ Jess said. ‘You know what weddings do to people. If they’re already married they go home and have a lot of steamy sex, and if they’re not married, they start proposing to their partners after a lot of steamy sex. Josh and Gem will get it together at the wedding.’
‘Not going to happen, Jess,’ Gem said.
‘You don’t know that,’ Jillian said.
‘Oh yes, I do. Josh won’t be here for the wedding.’ She looked down at the screen, the phone trembling in her hand.
Have arranged for toy shop sale to go through via trustees at a value approximately seventy thousand below the original asking price. You can speak to them about anything you need. Ethan will oversee farmhouse. Have told him if you want it, it’s yours, otherwise it’s to stay closed up. I’m leaving Saturday. JR.
JR. Josh Rutherford. Love of her life.
Four days to get over him.
Twenty
Josh put the lonely mug he’d just washed onto the draining board in the kitchen, leaned his hands on the scrubbed pine bench and looked out the uncurtained window at the darkened night as he went through his mental list for anything he might have missed.
Trustees up to date with the current scenario: check; lawyer in place for all legal issues: check; suitcases packed: check. Loose ends: Gemma Munroe—get over her. Check that box as fast as you can.
‘I’m doing my best,’ he said to no-one. He moved to the old fridge that still worked but ticked like a time-bomb, and pulled out the makings of a sandwich: butter, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato and Gem’s favourite pickle.
At the table, he shoved the notebook to one side, his exasperation almost knocking it to the floor, and pulled a loaf of bread towards him. He was sick of the notebook. Tired of the clinical messages written so neatly. All he wanted to do was sit down and write a real note. Darling Gemma, I love you. Will you please come away with me? Will you please give me time to get my head around …
Around staying.
He shook the stupidity of the note out of his head and slathered butter onto slices of bread, spreading it thickly over his pieces and thinly over Gem’s. They’d got themselves tied up in tricks to keep their distance, yet still, most nights, either he or Gem—whoever was in the kitchen, whoever had organised food—left half of the meal for the other: Gem brought home a Chinese takeaway and somehow it included Josh’s favourite chicken noodle soup; Josh got chilli mussels from Kookaburra’s but always a got an order of chill con carne for Gem. Now here he was, waiting for her to come home and making her a late-night sandwich in case she was hungry. In case she’d forgotten to eat all day.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it wasn’t on silent. It wasn’t and there were no text message. He slipped it back in his pocket. Gem had spent every possible hour away from the farmhouse: in the shop with Marie, then at Kookaburra’s with the twins. What she didn’t know was that Jess or Jillian always sent him a text message when she left Kookaburra’s, on foot, making her way to the farmhouse. He’d wait in his room, listening for the door and never relaxed until he knew she’d got home safely.
He’d offered her the hire car in one of the few conversations they’d held. ‘No thanks, Josh. I’m fine. Thank you for the generous offer though.’ Thank you, Josh. You’re a good man, Josh. That’s thoughtful, Josh. He slapped ham on the bread, ripped off a couple of lettuce leaves, then grabbed the knife to slice the tomatoes. He was sick and tired of being Mr Nice Josh. He wasn’t. He was a heel. Why the hell couldn’t he just stay?
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
She just got your text. We’re buying her more wine. Will run her back in an hour or so. Will keep the table setting for you at wedding. In case. Jess xxx
He couldn’t stay forever, that was the problem.
Leaving the sandwiches, Josh wandered up and down the hall, head bowed, hands in his pockets, the dark invading his soul and pricking his conscience.
What had he done while he’d been here? Nothing except string people along. Okay, so he’d been able to set wrong things right, like making Mrs Tam believe she was paying top whack for his mother’s house, when Josh just wanted to let it go and couldn’t care less about the price. He’d practically given it to Mrs Tam and he was delighted he’d done so. His mother would have given the house to her if she’d still been alive, Josh had no doubts.
What other good deeds had he done? He paused. Nope—he couldn’t think of anything else.
He took up his pacing again. He hadn’t done much for the Grangers, had he? Befriended Edie, shook Ethan’s hand, fallen in love all over again with earth-mother Sammy, but nothing that would give them an opportunity in the future to say: Hey, remember what Josh did? What a difference he made to our lives, huh?
He pushed out a hard laugh at the end of the hall, turned and started back towards the other end, rubbing his fingers together in his pockets. Yeah, he felt agitated. It had got him by the throat. He was in its stranglehold. Four hours ago he’d sent a text to Ethan—hadn’t even had the guts to speak to him—and told him he was leaving:
Got to go. No idea what to do with farmhouse. Leaving it in your hands. Have told Gemma it’s hers if she wants it. If this happens, contact my lawyer. Thanks for everything. See you sometime. Josh.
‘Shit!’ He pulled his hands out of his pockets and gave the wall at the end of hallway the brunt of his frustration with a punch that cracked the plaster.
Ethan would know he was running. Sammy would know. Gem would certainly know, and although he should probably spend the rest of the night deliberating, a big part of him couldn’t wait to run.
A half-hour later, having practically worn away the thread on the hallway rugs, Josh moved into the room Grandy had used as a study.
He opened the door and stepped inside, switching on the overhead light. He hadn’t been in here before, but Gem had. He glanced around the room. The curtains—Gem had washed them, and must have hung them herself. He stepped further into the room, looking around for the bureau Gem had said needed fixing. A wobbly leg? No, a stuck drawer.
There wasn’t a bureau in the study. He turned on the spot looking for it. Nothing but a writing desk set up against the window with an old leather captain’s chair, so he headed for that.
He pulled out the chair and the metal wheels clunked against something beneath the desk. He hunched down and bent his head to see under the desk.
Would you look at that? He recognised it straight away. He took hold of the wooden cabinet tucked up against the wall and inched it towards him. It slid easily, although it was heavy. Jarrah. How the hell had Gem found this? And why hadn’t Grandy’s children or his grandkids taken it?
Perhaps because they knew Josh had made it when he was eighteen. Gem knew. She’d sat with him as he worked on it. A mini bureau Josh had designed. He’d wanted it to represent a treasure chest while retaining the look of a sturdy, solid, and somewhat secretive, piece of furniture a gentleman might keep in his study. He’d mixed reproduction inspiration with modern ideals, thinking he was creating something new.
He couldn’t help smiling as he lifted the piece off the carpet and hefted it up onto the desk. He had created something never before produced. It wasn’t his best work as a carpenter but he forgave himself as he pulled open the top drawer. He’d only
been learning the trade for a year when he’d put this together, and the only grand thing about it had been his imagination.
He ran an eye over the dovetails as he pulled the drawer out. Not bad. He put his hand into the hollow the drawer had left behind, searching for the depression he’d carved. Had he put it on the right or the left? Right. He depressed it.
He gave the spot another sharp jab with his finger, but it didn’t budge. Stuck. That’s why the other drawer wouldn’t pop out. This is what Gem had meant when she’d said the bureau drawer was stuck. She must have remembered the secret drawer. His treasure drawer, she’d called it. He’d told her not to tell anyone it was there and she’d drawn her index finger across her throat, telling him she’d slice the palm of her hand to make a blood oath if he wanted her to.
He lifted the piece up, held it against his chest, both arms around it, and shook it. A few bits and bobs rattled inside. Maybe pencils or an old box of matches. Something popped.
He put the bureau back on the desk and depressed the secret button.
The box slid out of its nook with hardly a squeak. Josh took it between his index finger and his thumb and pulled it out. Maybe he’d be able to persuade Gem to take this bureau after all. If he had time, he’d polish it up, but the least he could do was make sure the drawers and the pull-out writing platform above them were in good working order.
He stared at an envelope in the secret box. Folded, whoever it might be addressed to obscured in the inner crease. He picked it out and held it.
His skin prickled. The paper was crisp, as though new, yet it must have been in the drawer for years. He raised it to his nose. No smell, apart from wood. He turned it over and opened it out.
Private & Confidential.
Josh Rutherford
(For his eyes only.)
Grandy’s writing. He scanned the bureau, opening drawers, pulling out the writing tray, but all he discovered was a blue biro and a box of matches that had to be fifteen years old.
He stuffed the envelope in his trouser pocket, then pulled it out again and put it on the desk. He stepped back from it.
It had to be a note or a letter from the old man, but what did it say? Could it be the reason for Grandy leaving Josh his farmhouse? An almighty gesture. He was going to open it, of course he was.
‘Shit.’ He picked the letter up.
The envelope flap opened easily, without ripping the paper. This letter must have been stuck in the secret box for years, untouched, not even the air getting to it, but the gum had dried on the seal. His fingers shook as he slid the letter from the envelope.
He saw the date first: eleven years ago. He was still in town, only twenty-two. Dan was running Kookaburra’s, not yet a hotel. Josh was doing carpentry for Ethan and working nights for Dan. He was also looking after the art and craft centre, and he’d had to ask for a lot of time off from each job in order to drive his mother into Cooma for her hospital checks. Josh took a breath and held it.
Dear Josh,
If you’re reading this you’re back in town. Got a feeling it’s been a while since anyone saw you and that some might not be too keen on you being back, so I’ll say my bit now: Welcome home, boy. We sure did miss you.
There, that’s that over with and now I need to find the words to do some explaining. If Pat left this world before she had a chance to say anything, I know she’ll be happy about me giving you the news in this letter. She asked me to.
If you know the truth, you’ll know why I left you Piralilla Farmhouse. I’ve tried to do the best for mine wherever I could, spreading it out and giving where it’s needed, not necessarily always where some think it’s due.
And if you don’t know the truth. Here goes. Hope you’re sitting down.
He wasn’t. He couldn’t move. His muscles had petrified and his heart had stopped.
If you haven’t been told by your mother, this news is going to be hard for you to take. But I’m trusting you have a lot of me inside you, Josh, and that you’ll take it and not break. The man concerned doesn’t know anything about this. He doesn’t have a first clue, and that’s the way your mother wanted it.
Ethan is your father.
Gem turned the handle on the farmhouse kitchen door, knowing she wouldn’t need the key. Josh always left it unlocked for her.
It would be a relief to get inside tonight. Jess had insisted on driving her home when usually Gem walked. She enjoyed the darkness and the bracing night air, even when it was snowing, although some nights she felt as though someone was with her as she walked up the farmhouse’s long driveway. It might have been Grandy, watching out for her, but was probably nothing more than her overwrought senses as she went through the events of the day, trying to ease down into the night and the prospect of bed, where sleep came remarkably easily. She was downright exhausted.
She stepped into the darkened kitchen, her thoughts on that comfortable bed in the guest room. She paused only a moment, her eyes already accustomed to the darkness. She closed the kitchen door with a soft hand—the damn thing creaked like an old sailboat tied too long to its mooring—and reached out to the light switch next to the doorframe, her hand finding it quickly. A glass of water, check the table for any notes, not that she expected any after the text Josh had sent her two hours ago, but the habit had formed. She flicked the light. Its brightness stung her eyes. She blinked, turned—and gasped. A second later her brain registered the man at the table.
Josh sat, one hand on the table top, his head lowered, as though he were looking at the scratch marks along the surface and wondering how they’d got there. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t turn his head to look at her. Even in the wash from the overhead light it was as though the shadows from the darkness still surrounded him. He must want to be alone. There weren’t many nights left in the farmhouse; he’d be feeling so much …
She turned and put her hand on the light switch to turn it off.
‘There are ghosts in this house after all, Gem,’ he said quietly, halting her movement.
They’d hardly spoken since last Wednesday except to impart news on the situation with Nigel Munroe. Gem couldn’t form words to speak to him now. If only his voice didn’t hold such a deep, sensual timbre. If only his physique was inferior, and his soul—Oh, dear god, why did you do this to me?—if only Josh’s soul wasn’t so precious to her.
‘I suppose there are always ghosts,’ she managed, then took her eyes off the man who had been the everything in her life who was now, somehow, the nothing.
Twenty-One
Josh had spent three days in a haze of indecision. He’d purposefully kept out of sight and hadn’t been into town. He’d made sure he didn’t catch sight of Gem. Even without talking to each other, Gem would know something had hit him.
What a fool to have sat in the kitchen on Monday night. What had he been expecting? To open his heart to Gem and tell her what he’d discovered? She must have thought him mad, sitting in the dark with no explanation for doing so. She’d switched the light off and had left him to his brooding.
He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and stared at the mess on his bed. Two opened suitcases, a pile of his clothing. Some books, his laptop, paperwork for the sale of his mother’s house, documentation on the all-time shit, and a mountain of socks he couldn’t be bothered pairing.
His gut hurt.
He bent his head and focussed; something that had been difficult to achieve these last few days. It was their final night in the farmhouse. Tomorrow, Gem would move back into the flat above the toy shop and Josh would leave.
He ought to check each room, make sure they were neat and tidy, except that he couldn’t face the living room. He hadn’t been inside that room since—since he’d been naked with Gem, kissing her and holding her and loving her.
He didn’t move and the hurt in his gut didn’t disappear.
He had two sisters and a brother. He had a father and a grandfather. Did that make Grandy’s kids his uncles and aunts?
His grandkids would be Josh’s … what? Cousins? But he didn’t belong on any family photographs. You were a blip, mate. A mistake. A slip of the brush.
The thing that hurt him most was the thought that Ethan might have suspected, regardless of what Grandy had said in the letter. Josh had been over it all, every memory of being with Ethan as a trainee carpenter. Every memory of his mother and what had happened when Pat had met up with Ethan, or with Ethan and Sammy in Josh’s presence. Nothing. No clue. He didn’t even look like the man. It wasn’t possible. It was a mistake. Grandy had got it wrong. His mother had got it wrong too—each time she’d refused to tell him who his father was. A good man. Good enough that he’d suspected but had refused to acknowledge it? It. Jesus, that’s all Josh was: an it.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and started flinging his gear into one of the suitcases. Ethan couldn’t have known. He was a good man—better than his bastard son. Look what Ethan had done for Swallow’s Fall. He’d more or less taken Grandy’s place as patriarch, although he never threw his opinions around, never even offered them without a smile and a persuasive conversation about what might be right and what might be wrong. Ethan was a chip off Grandy’s block. Ethan was Grandy’s bastard son, and now Josh was Ethan’s … Talk about the apple not falling far.
He looked at the ceiling. ‘Look what you started,’ he said to Grandy’s ghost.
He put the heels of his hands to his eyes. There were only two people he could trust. Two women who would listen and he needed desperately to tell someone, but he was leaving one, and the other was his father’s wife.
Ethan hadn’t known Grandy was his father until he’d been about to marry Sammy. Grandy and Ethan’s mother had had a fling, a one-nighter. Ethan had dealt with the truth. The townspeople had dealt with the truth. If Josh said anything now, he’d ruin it for Ethan and for Sammy and for his half-siblings. Gossip would fly faster than an arrow and split the bullseye.