Marriage & the Mermaid (Hapless Heroes)

by Cusack, Louise

  Wynne heard a chair creak across the polished timber floor and she forced her trembling legs into motion, keeping to the hallway runner so Baz wouldn’t hear her heels on the floor and realize she’d been eavesdropping outside. She was into the kitchen dropping the plates into the sink before she even realised Venus wasn’t there.

  Baz came into the kitchen seconds later but Wynne couldn’t face him. She stared out the window above the sink at the garden outside, willing herself not to cry. But the tears ached behind her eyes and they were far too close.

  “I’m so sorry, Wynne,” Baz said from behind her, and she could hear the frown in his voice. “Dad can be… ugly sometimes.”

  Wynne swallowed hard, but she wasn’t composed enough to turn around. “Why doesn’t he like Venus?” she asked, pretending she hadn’t heard what he’d said about her.

  “I don’t know,” Baz said. “Maybe she reminds him of someone. She reminds me of someone.”

  “Does she?” Wynne asked, to make conversation, to keep herself from crying. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Baz said.

  “It’s a wonder she stays when he treats her like that,” Wynne said, remembering the expression on Ted’s face when Venus had walked in with the tray of sandwiches. Baz had been behind her with the tray of drinks so he hadn’t seen Ted, but Wynne had. The old man had looked shocked at first, which surprised Wynne, then a cold fury had settled over him, making him still and watchful. When Venus had stepped near him to put his sandwiches down he’d flinched, then when she’d turned away he’d sniffed the air and his eyes had widened as though in recognition. Which was odd. “In fact,” Wynne added, “He acted like he’d never met her before.”

  “Well he hasn’t seen her a lot,” Baz said. “I do most of the carer work. She’s more behind–the–scenes. And he’s forgetful.”

  Wynne nodded at this, still looking at the roses in the garden, but wondering now about the tone in Baz’s voice. He sounded like he was hiding something and she wondered then if Ted had been mean to Venus before, and Baz had smoothed things over. The girl was so young. Barely eighteen by the look of her. Was that too young to be around someone with Ted’s temper? Baz had mentioned that the previous housekeeper had left recently, so maybe an older more experienced woman wouldn’t put up with Ted — maybe that’s why they’d hired Venus.

  “Wynne?” Baz said, and touched her shoulders gently. She was wearing her green halter neck top and matching shorts, and his hands felt large and warm on her bare skin. He tugged and she turned, feeling as if the threat of tears was gone. “I’m sorry,” he said again, still with his hands on her shoulders. They were standing very close to each other. “I’ve only been here ten days and I’m still coming to terms with how difficult dad can be. I think it’s dementia.”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. It’s okay,” she said and even managed a smile. When Baz was gazing down at her with such empathy in his eyes everything was okay. “I’m just not used to… fights,” she said and shrugged.

  “I don’t like them either,” he said and smiled back. “Something else we have in common.”

  Wynne felt a little tug of warmth behind her ribs. He was looking for things they had in common. That meant a lot.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said, and his eyes lit up. “Let’s relax outside this afternoon. Just you and me.” He pointed behind her to the veranda that overlooked the rose garden. “I make a mean mint julep. We can sit and talk and I can bore you with my knowledge of obscure scientific facts. I have a doctorate in Ramble from the University of Queensland. If I don’t practice, I get rusty.”

  She grinned. “Doctor of Ramble. I’m impressed.”

  “Then you will?” he said, taking her hands.

  Wynne looked into his eyes and couldn’t help pretending it was a wedding as she said the two words she’d always wanted to say to Baz,

  “I will.”

  Chapter Twenty–Three

  Shut up!” Rand snapped, then he turned back to face the monitor, adjusting the headphones over his ears, but they did little to block out the head–banging music behind him. “This is important.” But Poss just laughed and kept dancing. Stoned again.

  It didn’t help that Rand was sleep deprived. It had taken him twenty–three hours of constant vigilance to snag the moment old fart Wilson had come back online, and he wasn’t about to waste that opportunity pandering to a fucked–up fourteen year old. “I’ll give you sedatives,” he warned.

  “Bring on the drugs!” Poss crowed, dancing around the lounge in his jocks like a demented paganist.

  “I mean it!”

  A flash of yellow on the taskbar distracted Rand. A reply. He rubbed his eyes then scanned the text box, guessing at the words with missing letters. Ted had apologized for the fact that his hands shook which affected his ability to type.

  My son s a pest. I dont thin we can go to the concert now becaus of hs lady friends arrivl. hope yu havent already bought th tickets.

  Concert? Rand tracked back through his tired mind trying to find a match. Nothing. What concert was the old fool talking about? Poss wouldn’t shut up about the Big Day Out concert coming up on the Gold Coast, but Rand doubted an old–fart would be interested in Spiderbait. No, it must be some fossil concert. An orchestra probably. But perhaps he didn’t need to know.

  I haven’t bought tickets, he typed. That was fortunate. Tricky deciding which words to use. He wanted to sound older and more respectable, so he’d deliberately mimicked the tone of his primary school headmaster — pompous old bastard — and made good use of the spell checker program. So far that appeared to be working. Perhaps I could bring you up a recording of it. Would you like that?

  Rand clicked send and sat back gnawing on the edge of a fingernail. This was the hard part, convincing Ted to invite him, and confirming the address Rand had hacked. It had to be done online because that was the only time he could be sure the old fart had privacy. When Rand phoned, the son, Balthazar — stupid name — always answered. Not only that, he’d rung Rand back to warn him off with some bullshit that he had Power of Attorney now. But that would only be valid until the old man signed a new POA. It wasn’t over yet.

  Rand simply had to get himself invited, then ensure that when he got there, the old man trusted him more than he trusted his own son.

  Easy.

  The music behind him crashed to a halt and overdue silence settled just as the taskbar flashed yellow again: lovely, Rndolph. When can yu come?

  Rand thought for a moment then smiled to himself as he typed, Are you allowed to have your own guest while your son is entertaining, Theodore? I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.

  The reply came back quickly, and predictably: Its my hose! yu com tomorw. If Balthzar dosnt lik it HE can leve.

  Rand’s smile widened. “Oh I do love reeling them in,” he said.

  Poss came up behind him and slobbered on his shoulder as he looked past it to the message. “Like a fuckin’ marlin–catcher, man,” he shouted. “You’re the best.” Then he leant over, laughing, to scrabble at the keyboard and put nonsense in the message–box.

  Rand snapped. “You little shit!” He pulled off his headphones and slapped them onto the table, then turned and shoved Poss towards the lounge.

  The kid fell back onto it, hiccupping and laughing hysterically.

  “Stupid fucker!” Didn’t he realize this was for them both? “Wanker!” he spat as well, thinking he should slap the little shit for good measure, but Poss had been hit all his life, so that would only made him more belligerent. Instead Rand turned back to the computer and carefully back–spaced the gibberish off the screen. Then he typed, I accept your invitation, Theodore. If you could give me the address, I’ll organize a car and be there by noon tomorrow.

  Rand knew exactly how to set that up. Presentation. Prestige. The whole power trip.

  “You’re bruisin’ my ego, man,” Possum moaned from the lounge, trying to distract Rand with an amble down Me
lancholy Lane, Poss’s habitual return track from the stoner high–road. “Makin’ me think I’m worthless.”

  “You are when you’re shit–faced,” Rand snapped over his shoulder, feeling unreasonably snarly. He shouldn’t expect gratitude out of Poss. The kid couldn’t know Rand was working to buy him his freedom. And Rand wasn’t going to tell him that either. It would only make him feel even more worthless. But Rand was too tired to be understanding so he added, “You’re worth less than shit in a shoebox.”

  “My fuckin’ stepfather used to say that,” Poss whined, which was crap. Possum had never had a stepfather. His mother had been the town whore.

  Yellow on the taskbar. Rand refocused on the screen.

  Lunch is splendd. I’ll nsure Balthzr is busy elsewher. Dont want to embarrss yu wth his negativty.

  Did it get better than this? The stupid old fart was going to hide Rand’s visit from the nosy son. Give him half an hour to blow bullshit up the old man’s arse and he’d be signing on the dotted line.

  As you wish, Theodore, Rand typed. You give me the address and I’ll be completely in your hands.

  He clicked send then waited, breathing slowly and deeply, with Possum only a distant memory as he visualized the trembling old fool typing away in his rich man’s study. At last the reply came, and without needing to clean up the missing letters Rand could see it was a match: Saltwood Estate. A hundred acre spread with its own historical mansion fifty kilometers south of Bargara Beach, overlooking the Great Barrier Reef. Prime fucking real estate. Had to be worth millions.

  “Fuck me.” Rand hadn’t let himself believe it was true until now. Of course, he’d suspected it was this Saltwood when the old man had given him the post office box address, but confirmation was like a slap with a gold bar. This was a sting hackers would make legends about. Jesus, it was …

  Frightening.

  Was that the sensation liquefying his bowels? Rand closed his eyes. Yeah, for the first time in a long time he felt cold fear in his gut. This Saltwood was worth buckets and the son might do anything to keep it. Violence? Life in the Valley had taught Rand there was no point stealing if you didn’t live to enjoy the profits. But did that mean he should go prepared?

  Rand had no weapons of his own, not since… but he could ‘borrow’ one easily enough. He’d just have to remember it was only for self–defense, only if the plan went to shit. If that happened, he’d do whatever he had to — he could disappear down to Sydney or Melbourne afterwards, it was easy to become invisible if you knew how — but that would ruin his chance of claiming the treasure he’d earned.

  And he didn’t want that.

  So… it looked like he’d have to be smarter than Balthazar Wilson. There was a ‘lady friend’ up there, maybe Rand could use that to his advantage.

  “I hate you,” Poss muttered forlornly from behind him. “You’re just like all the rest. I’ll wake up one morning with your dick in my mouth.”

  “Are you a fag now?” Rand asked, not turning around.

  “You know what I mean. People only want me around to fuck me.”

  “I wouldn’t stick my dick in you. You’re diseased.”

  “Well thanks a fucking —”

  “I think you caught it off that sheep. It looked like a user. Old needles. You gotta watch that.”

  Poss was silent for a moment, then he hiccupped a giggle. “But I put a… rubber on.”

  “Then you’re not the dumb shit I thought you were.”

  Poss subsided into cackles on the lounge while Rand continued to stare at the computer screen, thinking about his preparations. Willing the fear to subside.

  It was going to be a long day.

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  Wynne felt deliciously satisfied. The sandwiches she’d had no appetite for at lunch had been supplemented by an afternoon cheese platter and a jug of mint julep which she’d insisted be non–alcoholic — no way was she drinking in front of Baz again. Ted had been conspicuously absent and Wynne was well past her momentary fear of him. From now on she’d be polite and charming in his presence, but that was all. It was blindingly obvious that Baz didn’t care what his father thought of his choices, so why should Wynne? In fact, she was pretty damned sure Baz would walk away from the money for the woman he loved.

  She just had to make sure that woman was herself.

  So she enjoyed the glow of basking in the attention Baz was giving her while she listened to him relating obscure scientific facts, nodding in all the right places while the late afternoon breeze caressed her shoulders and bared legs. It was a refreshingly cool change after the steamy morning and the combination of her all’s–right–with–my–world warmed interior and cooled exterior conspired to make her feel quite languid.

  Soon it would be time to go inside and dress for dinner, and Wynne planned to knock Baz’s socks off tonight with her little blue cocktail dress. Not that she intended to give any ground physically. Well, maybe a kiss. She’d dreamt about kissing Baz for so long it was excruciatingly difficult to go slowly, but if she gave it all too easily, she suspected he wouldn’t value her. Make them work for it her mother had always said. And Baz was doing just that, while enjoying the chase, if the excitement in his eyes was anything to go by.

  In the kitchen behind them Venus clanked dishes as she loaded the dishwasher, and every so often Baz would glance that way while he was talking, but Wynne wasn’t jealous. Baz treated Venus like a student, besides, Wynne knew the girl was gay. In forays to clubs Wynne had met lesbians as well as bisexual girls, and she knew the difference. Pretty golden hair and sexy accent aside, Venus Dalrymple was one hundred percent predatory butch dyke if that snuggling up beside her at the sink episode was anything to go by, but she wasn’t about to let that distract her from Baz, so to keep herself from getting sidetracked, she slipped back into the conversation.

  “… and this new particle accelerator program —”

  “Might need a drinks break,” she cut in, and smiled prettily as she raised her tumbler.

  Baz’s return smile was self–deprecating as he topped her up. “I did mention that I had a doctorate in Ramble.”

  “Yes you did, and I’m impressed.”

  He raised his glass in a toast. “To interesting conversation. Long may it rest in peace.”

  “Amen to that,” Wynne said, and grinned as they clinked tumblers to the unmistakable bell–tone of fine crystal, closely followed by a crash in the kitchen. “Do you think Venus needs some help in there?” Wynne asked, feeling quite confident enough to tease Baz.

  He blushed, which was so endearing, and said, “I’ll check. She’s new.”

  “But she looks so willing, “ Wynne couldn’t help saying. “I’m sure she’ll be just the woman you were looking for, Baz, given time and some positive attention.” She managed to say all this and keep a straight face but it was hard, especially when Baz looked as if he was going to choke on that last part: the woman you were looking for.

  He blinked at her and clearly didn’t know what to say. At last he raised a finger and pointed at the kitchen. “I’ll… check on the dishes,” he said and rose awkwardly.

  “Take your drink with you,” Wynne said. “I’ll have a browse around the garden. I love roses. Take your time.” She smiled to reassure him, then with drink in hand she headed blithely down the veranda steps, thinking I’m so naughty! The different bloom along the garden path smelt delicious and the last of the sun’s rays warmed her shoulders. After the unpleasant storm the previous day, this balmy weather seemed like God’s way of telling her things were looking up.

  Of course, the fact that Baz was concerned that she might be jealous of Venus was all the proof Wynne needed that he was taking their relationship seriously — if a little desperately. But that was okay. Far better for him to be desperate than herself. And it was all so sweetly reassuring. .

  She glanced up at the veranda and saw Baz with Venus framed in the kitchen window. Baz took that moment to look out onto the
garden and Wynne waved at him then went back to the roses, pleased that he still seemed to be worried by what she thought of Venus. “Dear insecure, boy,” she said softly to herself.

  “Pardon, Ma’am?”

  Wynne glanced around in alarm and found herself confronted by the gentle giant she’d met at the back door that morning — a tall, thickset man who was altogether too huge, but not intimidating. Wynne stuck out her hand. “Carlos,” she said.

  His large paw enclosed her little hand completely. “Miss Malone,” he said in his delightful Spanish accent. Far better than Dirk Bogarde’s, and she was just about to say how fascinating it was to know a real Spanish gardener when he let her hand go and Wynne’s came away with dirt. Her mouth formed a moue of distaste before she caught herself.

  Carlos didn’t appear to have noticed. He went on to say, “You like the roses?”

  “I love the roses,” she sighed. “Beautiful colors, and fragrances.” She waved a hand around, encompassing the garden, and spilt her drink across her shoes. Damn!

  Carlos was polite enough to turn away and glance at his garden. She hoped he wouldn’t think she was drunk. “I look after them for twenty years,” he said.

  Wynne flicked the liquid off one foot. “You’ve been with the Wilson’s for two decades?” she asked, trying to sound interested.

  “Three,” he corrected.

  “Oh. That is a long time.” Wynne mentally revising his age up towards fifty. He looked so fit she would have thought thirty, thirty–five max. “So who looked after them for the first ten years you were here,” she asked.

  Carlos blinked and turned his head away slightly. The afternoon light shone off his short hair and closely cropped beard. She saw grey then and was just starting to wonder if he could be sixty when he said, “They were Mrs Wilson’s roses. She showed me how to care… for them.” His tone and the brief falter set Wynne’s radar off, but before she could dig deeper, he added, “She left twenty year ago Saturday.”