by Karina Bliss
The “girl” came into the kitchen at that moment, a large, round woman in her fifties, with the no-nonsense briskness of her former profession as a charge nurse. Pocketing her key, she looked at the teapot. “Tea hot? I’m gasping.”
Nan sent Jo a pointed glance, which Polly caught. “Uh-oh. I’m a servant today, am I?” she said cheerfully. Taking off her coat, she hung it with her bag on a peg by the back door. “You might want to get dressed, Rosemary. We’ve got visitors this morning.”
“Visitors?” Nan put on her glasses and checked her diary. “Alec and Elaine for morning tea. Jocelyn, why didn’t you remind me?” She left the kitchen abruptly.
“Well, birthday girl,” said Polly, pouring herself some tea. “How are you celebrating?”
“Birthdays are overrated.” Jo took her plate to the dishwasher.
“As I thought. Well, I’m taking Nan home with me as your birthday present, so plan on going out tonight and having some fun.”
“No, Polly, you already do enough. Besides, I should spend it with Nan.”
“Rosemary won’t remember and you need a break. When did you last have time to yourself?” Mug in one hand, Polly helped clear the table with the other. “All your waking hours are spent either running the Chronicle or looking after your grandmother.”
“My two great loves.” Knowing where this was heading, Jo disappeared into the laundry, where she transferred an overnight load from the washing machine into the dryer.
Polly followed her. “Honey, this isn’t what she wanted for you.”
“We’re not discussing this on my birthday. Anyway, haven’t you noticed? I’m bouncing with energy these days.”
“Uh-huh,” Polly said skeptically. “Living on adrenaline overload more like.” The older woman went and got Jo’s briefcase. “Go out tonight,” she ordered her. “I don’t want to see a light on this hill until past eleven, you hear me? And don’t think I won’t be watching.”
Flashlight, then. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll check in later.” Jo went out to the mailbox. Bills mostly. Which reminded her that she’d forgotten the earrings. She’d return them on the way to work. She had the same arrangement with all the stores. Nan could buy anything she wanted; Jo would return it and the retailer got a discount on their Chronicle advertising.
Walking into the house, she flipped over a square silver envelope and smiled as she recognized Dan’s scrawl. He never forgot to send a birthday card, which depending on where he was stationed, would sometimes arrive weeks late. Checking the postmark she blinked. Auckland. Yesterday. He was already in the country? She ripped it open, looked at the cover and laughed out loud.
“What’s funny?” Polly poked her head out from the laundry.
“Private joke. See you tomorrow.” Jo picked up the jeweler’s box from the kitchen table and left the house remembering her conversation with him last month when he’d phoned from Kabul.
“You’re coming up for thirty-three, Swannie. We still on for that wedding?”
His troop mates’ deaths had hit him hard; it was such a relief to hear him joking again.
“Relax, you’re off the hook. To quote Katharine Hepburn, ‘Why give up the admiration of many men for the criticism of one?’”
“What about all those kids you wanted?”
“The Chronicle’s the only baby I need.”
Dan snorted in disbelief. After all, she’d talked about having kids forever. “So I thought I’d use the beer mat we signed our pledge on as the wedding invitation.”
“Really? You’ve still got that?” Jo played along. “Well, I don’t want to be sued for breach of promise so I guess I’ll have to marry you. But let’s make the invitations tasteful. I’m thinking a picture of a bride hauling her groom to the altar by the hair…maybe a camouflage pattern as a nod to your military background.”
“And the text?”
“Hey, this is a partnership,” she joked. “It’s your turn to come up with ideas.”
“Okay, mate, you leave it all to me.”
She looked at the wedding invitation now and laughed again because he’d replicated every detail. Opening it, Jo skimmed over Dan’s name to the bride’s. As expected. Hers.
The day was shaping up to be fun.
Chapter Three
It started raining as Jo drove her VW Polo down the rolling hills that protected Beacon Bay—squally autumn rain with sun laced through it. The harbor town sprawled around a sideways bite out of the land—estuary on one side of the peninsula, sea on the other. When Jo’s grandfather had settled here, he’d been the first in the valley.
Now it was a mass of roofs and aerials, the houses increasing in size and grandeur the closer they got to the water. Oceanside, the sea was a sullen gray—no swell today for the surfers to skip work or school for. A couple of fishing trawlers dotted the horizon.
Checking her cell, Jo saw she had seven messages already. Well, that was to be expected. The Chronicle hit letterboxes on Friday. Which meant Monday was complaints day. She started returning calls on her handsfree speakerphone.
“No, Bob, I don’t think I quoted you out of context. Before you were elected you said you’d fight to prevent developers making Beacon Bay a weekend playground for Aucklanders. Now you’re saying the only way to beat the recession is to make it easier for developers.” Jo maneuvered the car into a tight parking space outside the jewelers. “Well, that’s an interesting suggestion but I don’t think my body contorts that way.”
She returned the jewelry, dialing the next number as soon as she returned to the car. “You approved the ad, John. If you don’t like the font now it’s printed, you still have to pay for it.”
“Clive, I’m sorry you’re disappointed but I did tell you last month that we’d have to temporarily decrease our funding of the surf club.” For a moment Jo considered telling the disappointed fundraiser how much it pained her to do this, but stopped herself.
When her grandfather’s death put her at the helm of his business at the age of twenty-three she’d evolved strategies to cope. Always act like you know what you’re doing. Be decisive. Never apologize; never explain. At the time she couldn’t afford to show weakness, not when so many jobs depended on her.
She still couldn’t afford it.
“I hope the Chronicle will be in a position to increase sponsorship in another couple of months,” she said brusquely. Unfortunately challenges in her personal life had coincided with the economic downturn. The paper’s revenue had suffered. But four months ago, Polly had increased her hours, freeing Jo to rebuild her neglected business. Each month’s figures were improving.
Kevin was the only person in the office when she arrived at seven-thirty. They’d started at the Chronicle the same year, Jo twenty and fresh from a degree in journalism; and Kevin, forty-five, a disillusioned English teacher from the city looking for a lifestyle change.
Thirteen years later, the paper’s chief sub still looked like a scholar with his rounded shoulders, an intellectual’s deep groove between his bushy eyebrows and a total indifference to fashion. With the weather cooling, he wore socks under his Birkenstocks.
He was doing the crossword and looked up over his reading glasses. “You kept this mighty quiet,” he said and tossed the wedding invitation across his desk.
“I’ll kill him,” Jo replied without heat. Of course Dan would make the most of this. “It’s a joke, Kev. Isn’t that obvious from the picture and the camouflage pattern?”
“I did wonder,” he confessed, “but you two have a warped sense of humor. “And the text is played straight.”
Jo flipped the wedding invite open and read it through for the first time. “That boy has no imagination,” she complained. “You’d think he could have added a few jokes… Anyway, enough distraction. I need to prepare for this meeting with CommLink.”
Kev wrote temsik in one of the crossword squares before looking up anxiously. “And you’re definitely saying no? Even if they make you a brilliant offer?”
“Even if they make me a brilliant offer.” She rearranged the upside-down letters in her head. Kismet. “I’ll say they caught me in a weak moment, but on reflection I couldn’t possible sell the Chronicle.” She’d expected relief but Kev was still frowning at her. “What?”
“That wasn’t a weak moment—it was a rip in the fabric of society. You, the people’s champion, selling out to a soulless corporate conglomerate that only cares about maximizing profit? It’s like Michael Moore joining the gun lobby. Okay, you had that shoulder injury and Rosemary’s illness grinding you down but—”
“Kev,” she interrupted him. “Can you please move on?”
When CommLink came a-wooing she’d been under intense emotional pressure and desperate for a relief valve. Unable to do more than pay lip service to her business, it had seemed sensible to investigate options, particularly with the economy playing havoc with sales.
“I don’t think you should tell them you had a weak moment, either,” he added. “Maybe I should come with you.”
“No.” Jo stared him down. “I’ve got systems in place to manage Nan’s dementia and my shoulder’s fully recovered. I promise, no more weak moments.”
There was a piercing shriek from the door and Delwyn rushed over, waving the wedding invitation she held in her manicured hand, her acrylic nails flashing. Jo’s heart sank. Exactly how many invitations had Dan sent out?
“Oh. My. God!” Her brown eyes sparkled. “Jo, how could you not have told me this! I could have given you my countdown-to-conjugals calendar.”
The bubbly young sales rep was getting married in July. For the past year, she’d been planning her nuptials with the kind of single-minded intensity normally associated with the invasion of small countries.
As usual Delwyn didn’t wait for a response. “It’s been so long since you dated I’d even started to wonder if you’d changed teams. Especially when you got your hair cut so short.”
Flicking her glossy brown hair from her face, Delwyn frowned as Kev frantically shook his head. “Did I say something wrong?”
* * *
Shaker’s Bar & Grill was a Beacon Bay institution on the estuary, only a sprawl of lawn separating it from the sea.
The yeasty mimosa of local specialty beer all but permeated the walls, but on a cold day nothing beat a table near the fire gazing out through the salt-kissed glass to the seabirds hovering over the broad sweep of estuary.
Having spent the morning fending off wedding congratulations, Jo was in no mood to appreciate the view. Dan was so going to pay for this.
About to go in, she saw her ex Chris Boyle getting out of a Mercedes with CommLink’s financial controller, Grant. The sight dismayed her, not because she felt uncomfortable around an old boyfriend, but because if the company’s bigwig was here, CommLink had wanted the Chronicle badly. Well, it couldn’t be helped.
Grant looked nervous as they approached. Sandyhaired and shy, he and Jo had gone to school together. He’d introduced her to Chris at Jo’s first publishing conference. Maybe he was feeling the awkwardness of that now. Giving him a reassuring smile, she held out her hand to Chris. “What’s it been…four years?”
“And you’re still the same.” His smiling gaze slid over her slim curves.
When she’d finally realized his self-assurance-cloaked arrogance and broken it off—a first for Chris—he’d retaliated by called her a ball-breaker. “Afraid so,” she said genially. “Shall we go in, gentlemen?”
Grant raised his water glass as soon as they were seated. “So, congratulations! I got your wedding invitation this morning.”
This bloody joke was losing its humor fast. Jo hesitated. She didn’t want to explain in front of Chris who’d inspired her pact with Dan in the first place. “Thanks,” she said and retreated behind her menu. She’d tell Grant privately when she got the chance. “The chicken pie is particularly good.”
“I always thought you and Dan belonged together,” continued Grant earnestly. “Even at school he was the one person you couldn’t man—” Realizing he was about to insult his boss, he picked up his menu. “The chicken pie you say?”
Manage. Jo finished his sentence. As affable and easygoing as Dan was, he went his own way, not just with her but with everybody. And she’d never worked out how he did it. Which annoyed her. And made her laugh. The wedding invitation extended a long tradition.
“So, Chris,” she changed the subject again, “how many kids do you have now?” He’d married six months after they’d broken up. Someone sweet and compliant.
“Two and another on the way.” Proudly, he pulled out pictures of his girls and became a much nicer man. “I remember you always wanted three yourself. You and Dan planning a family?”
“Still under discussion.” Maybe a bathroom break would kill this subject. “Would you two excuse me for a minute?”
Ten minutes later as Jo returned through the lunchtime crowd, she heard a familiar drawl. Abruptly, she stopped. For a moment she couldn’t see him, then a gap opened around the bar and Dan came into view, talking to the manager, Anton.
The desert sun had tanned his skin and lightened his hair to the streaked gold it used to be when they were kids. You could tell he’d been away from civilization awhile—his hair flopped over one eyebrow and curled over the collar of his flannel shirt. Jo became conscious of a deep thankfulness.
Steve and Lee’s deaths had destroyed her belief that Dan’s crack troop was invincible. Even now the memory closed her throat. And they’d come so close to losing him, too. But now she would never have to worry for him again. Never have to dread the daily news feeds. She forgave him for making their private joke so public.
Anton gesticulated to make a point and a beer bottle toppled off the counter. Dan caught it, looked up and smiled at her with all the old lazy affection. Of course he’d known she was there. Even in the dimly lit bar, his eyes were piercing.
“Here comes my bride.”
“Great joke.” She stepped into his hug. “Really hilarious.”
His arms tightened. “I told you I’d find you a husband.”
Jo tilted her head to look at him.
Dan’s eyes gleamed. “Miss me?”
“No.” She broke free only to be pulled into Anton’s embrace.
“Congratulations, Jo. Sheesh, you’re a dark horse. Why the hell didn’t you tell your old gang?”
“Because it’s a joke.”
Dan pulled a beer mat out of his jean pocket and handed it to Anton. “I have a contract.”
“Give me that!”
Fending her off, Anton read it with a grin, then returned it to Dan. “Looks legal to me.”
“If it makes you feel better, Swannie—” Dan repocketed it “—I’d warmed to the idea anyway.”
“Gee, thanks.” Jo relaxed. “What are you doing here?”
“Paying the deposit for the wedding breakfast.”
“You always did like to labor a joke, Jansen. You know I mean in New Zealand. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home today?”
“I wanted the element of surprise.” Under gold-tipped lashes, eyes as blue as the Mediterranean gleamed. Oh, yes, she’d missed him. “You know, Jo, it’s kinda humiliating that you’re the only one not taking me seriously here. I’ve already had a dozen RSVPs. Speaking of which…” He held out his hand to someone behind her. “Grant, hey, buddy. And Chris. Long time no see.”
Jo shifted uneasily as the men exchanged handshakes. She wanted Dan to concede the joke, just not right now.
“You guys here on business?” Dan looked at Grant.
“We hope so.” Chris had always liked to answer for other people. “You farming now?”
“Trial run…could be permanent. Depends on whether Jo shows up for the wedding.”
Jo forced a laugh. “Always a kidder.” She put a hand under Chris’s elbow. “Let’s return to our table. I know you movers and shakers work on a tight schedule.”
Chris resisted. “I hav
e to say I’m surprised, Dan. I never knew you were interested in Jo romantically.”
“Obviously I had to wait for her to drop her standards,” said Dan. “Let other guys disappoint her into having more realistic expectations. So I guess I have you to thank in some small way.”
Jo caught Anton’s eye, saw he was enjoying this as much as Dan. She bit her lip. At any other time she’d have loved having Chris put in his place but not when she was about to reject CommLink’s offer. She wanted the atmosphere amicable. She flashed a quick frown at Dan, who interpreted it correctly.
“Still, I hear you’re achieving great things in your career.”
Some of the stiffness went out of Chris’s posture. Jo realized she was still gripping his elbow and released it.
“Thanks. I hope your farming venture’s as successful.”
“You and me both. Anyway, I have an appointment so I’d better get going. Jo…? I’ll be at Barry’s when you’re done.” The menswear shop downstairs from the Chronicle. His lips brushed hers and she blinked in surprise.
Dismissing a prickle of unease, Jo sat down with Chris and Grant over chicken pie. “About the paper.”
“Always impatient,” Chris said. “But before we present our offer let me tell you why it may be lower than you had hoped.”
His comment intrigued her. Jo finished a morsel of creamy chicken and flaky golden pastry. “Go on.”
“The situation’s changed since you and I talked.” Grant’s tone was apologetic as he put down his fork and reached for his water glass. “The economic downturn’s decimating revenue for all of us in community publishing.”
“What my colleague’s saying,” Chris interrupted, “is that the Chronicle’s books showed a sharp drop for the six months ending in December.”
“And a steady recovery this year,” Jo pointed out.
“Not to anywhere near the previous year’s levels,” Chris countered.
Give me time. “How about we skip the preamble and go straight to your offer?”