‘She can sleep in the bed in her old bedroom.’
‘What? When Matts insists on staying and has offered to take the couch?’
‘I’m warning you, lad,’ Pa says, ‘Hugo hates that couch.’
‘I can sleep anywhere,’ Matts says.
‘It can’t be too uncomfortable,’ Ma says. ‘Or Hugo wouldn’t keep coming back.’
‘We have two spare rooms, Fiona. I can’t see why they can’t both bunk with—’
‘Come along, Bob. It’s past time we went to our own beds.’
I shout through the door, ‘Thank you for everything. Sorry to worry you and to keep you up so late. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Sleep tight, love.’
On my third attempt to push my bandaged foot through the leg of my pyjama shorts, I miss completely and my heel hits the floor.
‘Damn!’
‘Sapphie.’ Matts taps on the door. ‘Can I come in?’
I sigh. ‘Yes.’
He opens the door and glances at my shorts. He kneels in front of me and takes my hands. ‘You’re tired, kultsi. Let me do it.’
‘What does “kultsi” mean?’
‘Gold.’
‘Why would you call me that?’
‘It’s a name.’
I look at him suspiciously. ‘What type of name?’
He lifts a shoulder. ‘An endearment.’
‘Oh.’ I study our hands. ‘Kultainen means golden, doesn’t it?’
‘You remembered that?’
Tumbleweed walks through the door. ‘Did you meet my housemate?’
When Tumbleweed sits next to Matts and looks up at him adoringly, Matts scratches under his chin. ‘He likes me.’
‘He’s cross with me because I went away.’
‘He’s old, isn’t he?’
‘I found him before I left Canberra.’
When I fish for my shorts with my good foot, Matts picks them up. Without looking at me once, he eases the legs over my feet. When the shorts reach my thighs, he helps me to stand on my good leg so I can pull them up.
‘Thank you.’
He turns away. ‘Can I use the shower?’
‘There are clean towels in the rack near the sink. The toilet is outside at the end of the path.’
He rubs around the back of his neck. ‘Mrs Hargreaves showed me.’
His shirt is hanging out of his pants at one side. He grasps the fabric and pulls, freeing the rest.
CHAPTER
37
I’m lying on my bed facing the window when he walks out of the bathroom. I don’t need to turn around to know he’s standing between the door and me.
‘Sapphie?’ His voice is gruff. ‘Should I turn out the light?’
‘You can fit here too.’
‘No.’
I roll onto my back and, taking care of my bandaged foot, push myself into a sitting position. I stretch out my sore leg, bend the other and lean against the headboard. I look up.
Swallow.
His hair is wet. His T-shirt is black and sticks to his skin. His chest is broad, his hips narrow. His boxer shorts are darkest blue.
Prussian, indigo, dusk, cobalt.
Steel.
I pull my gaze away. ‘If you won’t sleep here,’ I say, ‘I’ll take the couch. That’s what I usually do with Hugo.’
‘You don’t sleep together.’
‘No way.’
He takes a deep breath and sits on the end of the bed. ‘Only with strangers.’
‘I want …’ I blow out a breath. ‘I slept with you when we stayed at the pub.’
His eyes narrow. ‘So you do sleep with friends?’
‘Only you.’
He wraps his fingers around my ankle. ‘You’re not good on the phone, are you?’
‘No.’
‘But I am your friend?’
I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. ‘Yes.’
He looks pointedly at my foot. ‘You’re hurt.’
The doona cover is white with a floral pattern woven into the fabric. I trace around the flowers.
Parchment, cornsilk, antique, vanilla.
‘I’ll go straight to sleep.’
He stands and walks to the door. I see the tension in his shoulders and his fists.
‘Matts? I promise.’
As he turns, he grabs the hem of his T-shirt and yanks it over his head, folding it in half before rolling it into a ball and throwing it into the corner of the room.
‘This is how I sleep.’
His nipples are flat and brown. His abdominal muscles are clearly defined. He switches off the light and slams the door with his heel. He lies flat on his back as I wriggle down the bed from the bedhead. I hold my arms close to my sides and count slowly to ten. A breeze whispers through the leaves of the gums in the playground.
‘Do you remember when we looked at the leaf through your microscope?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told me how levels of evaporation let some trees survive better than others.’
‘Drought-tolerant plants release less moisture.’
‘The roots have a role as well, don’t they?’
He turns his head on the pillow. ‘Why are you asking these questions?’
‘Do you know the answer, or not?’
‘Roots can shrink and lose contact with the soil to minimise water loss.’ He bends his knee and then lays it flat. ‘In drought, some plants form an embolism.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a bubble of gas. It stops water flow and allows the plant to live longer.’ He bends his knee again. ‘Is that enough?’
I roll onto my side and face him. ‘You said you’d like me to talk.’
He grunts. ‘Go to sleep.’
I washed the curtains after I moved to the schoolhouse and they shrank in length and width. During the day, sunbeams stream through the gaps. Moonbeams and starlight filter through at night. Matts’s profile is clear. A lock of hair has fallen on his forehead. His nose is straight, his jaw is strong. When I walked from the farmhouse on the night he arrived, there was a half moon hidden by clouds.
I smother a gasp but not quickly enough.
‘Sapphie?’ Matts comes up on an elbow. ‘Do you need a painkiller? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s …’ I clear my throat. ‘The farmhouse. I have to work things out.’
He touches my shoulder. ‘Wait, Sapphie. Next week I’ll see Robert.’
I press my hand over his mouth. ‘Not now.’ My hand slips to his jaw. When he leans against me, I feel the movement of his chest against my breasts. He smells of my soap, but the scent is different on him. His hair near his ear is damp and cool.
When I lift my head off the pillow, he puts a hand behind it. His other hand trails over my shoulder and down my side to my hip.
My body warms. I ache with need. And, even in night’s monochrome, I see colours. The darkness of his lashes when he closes his eyes. The warm hints of gold in his hair. The blush of his mouth. His skin glows silver in the moonlight.
At first our kisses are tender, as if we’re afraid that we’ll lose what we’ve found. But as the heat builds, our tongues search more deeply. I’m breathless with need. He shakes with restraint.
I trace the line of his shoulder and the ridges of his sternum and ribs. I feel the strength in his muscles and the texture of his skin. I try to pull him closer. He resists.
‘Please, Matts.’
‘I want you, Sapphie. So long.’
I lift my bandaged foot and rest it on his thigh. ‘Yes.’
He lifts his head. ‘Fuck.’ His arms stiffen. He swallows. ‘Can’t.’
He’s drawing away when I push with all my weight and roll him onto his back. My leg drapes over his hips; his erection presses against the inside of my thigh.
‘Define “can’t”.’
‘You know what I want.’
I lay my head on his chest. ‘Trust?’
‘I told the Hargreaves I’d
look after you.’
I tighten my arm around his body. ‘You think Ma would mind this?’ When I look up, he gently pushes hair from my face. ‘She didn’t give you sheets for the couch, did she? She didn’t offer you a pillow?’
‘Hospital.’ He runs a finger under my eye.
‘Are you sick?’
When he doesn’t respond, I push against his chest until I’m sitting.
‘You promised,’ he says gruffly.
‘I promised I’d go to sleep and I will.’ I straddle him, take his wrists and press them down on the pillows. ‘After you’ve kissed me goodnight.’
‘Sapphie …’
‘If you try to get free you might hurt my foot or my fingers, and you’d never do that.’
‘You know me this well?’
I release his arms. ‘We’re friends.’
His erection is long and hard against my back. When I sit a little straighter and wriggle, he moans. He holds my hips tightly. ‘Not fair.’
‘Your sentences are very short.’
He pulls my head down and kisses me, looping his tongue around mine and stealing my breath. He runs his hands up my thighs. He follows the hemlines of my shorts with the tips of his fingers.
‘Sapphie.’
I stretch out my legs so I’m lying on top of him. ‘I like that name much better.’
We roll onto our sides with our heads on one pillow. I stroke his hair, the stubble on his jaw, his mouth. He traces my lips.
‘Beautiful,’ he says.
When I hold his thumb and gently bite the pad, he groans and runs his hand down my arm to my waist. He lowers his head to my breast but when I stiffen, he hesitates.
‘Only this one,’ he mumbles.
‘Yes.’
He plays with my nipple through my top, stroking and teasing. I arch my back; sink into the warmth of his touch and the heat of his body. He puts his hands inside my shorts and undies and cups my bottom.
‘Sapphie?’
I draw back a little. ‘Matts.’
His voice is not quite steady. ‘We can stop now.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want to …’ He shudders a breath. ‘You aren’t …’
‘What? Experienced enough for you?’
‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘Fuck.’
I put a hand against his face. ‘I haven’t done this for ages, and even when I did … I’m not on the pill or anything like that.’
He growls as he rolls me over, laying me on my back. He looks over his shoulder to check where my foot is before pinning me down with a leg. He kisses me again while he strokes my stomach and hips. He draws shapes on the insides of my thighs—circles and ovals and paisleys. When I press against his hand, moaning my need, his fingertips slip inside my shorts. He’s gentle and teasing then firm and possessive. His breaths become harsh as he nuzzles my neck and kisses my breast. He licks and sucks through the fabric.
‘Sapphie?’
‘Mmm.’
He frowns as if he’s lost his train of thought. And then he remembers. ‘I want more.’
‘What does that mean?’
He pulls off his boxers and throws them onto the floor. ‘Long term.’
Helsinki?
Geneva?
Horseshoe?
‘But—’
‘Long term.’
I smooth the crease between his brows. ‘Yes.’
When I lift my bottom, he eases my shorts and undies down my legs. His chest is firm, his stomach flat. I stroke his erection and he groans. He covers my hand.
His voice is strained. ‘You’re sure?’
You asked me to trust you.
I love you.
‘Yes.’
He rummages in his toiletries bag before coming back to bed. We sit side by side, arm against arm and thigh against thigh, as he rolls on a condom. He glances uncertainly at my foot before lying on his back and positioning me carefully on top.
He runs his hands over my shoulders. He cups my breast over my pyjama top. ‘You’re beautiful, Sapphie.’
I push back his hair. Trace the contours of his face.
He looks into my eyes as he plays where we join. I rock slowly back and forth as I take him in. His skin is slick, he clings to my hips.
I grasp his arms and his shoulders. The slide of our bodies. The press of our tongues. Desperate, caring, tender and rough. It’s new and frightening, wild and fierce. Our breaths are harsh as we search for release.
The tightrope snaps.
Our colours explode.
Orchid, fuchsia, cherry and ruby.
I moan and taste salt on his skin. He follows my lead in a shuddering rush.
Afterwards, his kisses are lazy but deep. I lie against his body and he drapes a leg across my back. He pushes hair off my face and twists it around his wrist. He holds me up by my shoulders as he studies my mouth.
‘What?’
His lip lifts. ‘Beautiful.’
I slump against his chest again. ‘Mmm.’
He shadows me when we walk to the outhouse, but scoops me up and carries me on the way back. I rub my cheek against his shoulder. ‘You can do this just this once.’
When we go back to bed he strips off again before pulling me into his arms. He runs his hands over my body and kisses my head. ‘Long term,’ he mutters.
I sink into his body. The hardness and softness. The colours and shades. The scent of his skin and the deep steady beats of his heart.
CHAPTER
38
Matts lies on his side behind me—his arm warm and heavy on my waist. His forearm is between my breasts and his hand is held tightly in mine. Moonlight casts shadows on the walls and in the mirror that stands in the corner of the room.
Long term.
I haven’t had relationships that last much more than a weekend. Does long term mean the months that he’s here—or something else?
I love him.
He breathes gently against my back. I lift his hand and kiss his thumb. ‘We’ll sort things out when you wake up,’ I whisper.
He nuzzles through my hair and kisses my neck. ‘Sapphie,’ he mumbles.
‘Shh.’ I stroke the soft hairs on his arm and he goes back to sleep.
My foot aches. I should ice it.
When I slip out of his arms and wriggle to the edge of the bed, he mutters, but then he quietens again. I don’t think he’d mind if I stared at him naked, but I draw the sheet over him and pick up my pyjama shorts.
‘I’ll be back soon.’
He rolls onto his back as I hop to the door, but by the time I peek through the crack, he’s fallen asleep again.
As I hobble across the living room, Tumbleweed uncurls from the couch. He follows me through the kitchen door and waits by the fridge, rubbing against my legs as I take out the milk and fill his bowl. I sit on a stool at the kitchen bench and rest my foot on another stool, positioning the icepack on my instep. My phone is on the bench.
Cassie has sent a message.
From: Cassie
To: Sapphie, Chambers, Luke, Gus, Matts
Confirming Sapphie is back in Horseshoe. I’ll circulate draft blog posts and press releases by the end of the weekend.
There’s a text from a number my phone doesn’t recognise.
Dear Sapphie. I hope that you are well. Did you receive my email of two days ago? Regards, Gabriel Garcia
My heart flutters nervously as I open my laptop.
Dear Sapphie,
I have been called to give evidence to the inquiry into the Hernandez group of companies. My legal representatives inform me it is likely I will be questioned about the deposit box linked to your parents. If this is the case, I will be forced to reveal more about this matter than I would wish.
As I have returned to Argentina, could we speak by video call? May I call at 8pm on Monday evening (Sydney time)?
I request that, for now, communications between us remain confidential. Involving others, specifically your father and M
atts Laaksonen, would complicate matters and could cause harm. You will understand my dilemma after we speak.
Kind regards,
Gabriel
By the time I’ve read the email for the tenth time, Tumbleweed is sitting on my lap and the icepack has softened. I hold my cat to my chest as I hop two steps to the freezer and open the door.
Tumbleweed settles back in my lap as I sit at the bench again.
Gabriel,
Thanks for you messages. It’s early Saturday morning here. Could we talk earlier? If not, I’ll speak to you on Monday night.
Sapphie
He responds immediately.
Dear Sapphie,
This is the earliest time I can arrange. I’ll call by Skype on Monday. Kind regards,
Gabriel
When I silently open the door, Matts, still lying on his back, looks directly into my eyes. Dawn creeps through the gaps beneath the curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the sheets. A rooster crows the morning.
‘Sorry. Did I wake you?’
He sits and holds out his hand. ‘What’s wrong?’
Matts has a sixth sense about Sapphire.
I push the thought out of my head, aiming for a smile as I sit on the side of the bed. I take his hand. ‘You always think something is wrong.’
You will understand my dilemma after we speak.
My father has blamed Mum. If I tried to defend her, things could get worse. Sending a child to pick up drugs. There’s no defence to that. I can’t turn my back on the one person who hasn’t condemned my mother. I owe it to her to listen to what Gabriel has to say.
After that, I’ll tell Matts everything.
‘You loved Mum too, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He puts hair behind my ear. ‘You were a long time.’
‘I iced my foot.’
He hesitates. ‘I heard you typing.’
‘I checked my emails.’ I sandwich his hand between both of mine. ‘My foot’s a little stiff.’
‘But that’s not what’s worrying you. What is it, Sapphie?’
‘You didn’t approve of what my father did, did you? Talking to the media?’
He turns his hand and captures both of mine. ‘They’re not likely to clear Kate. You know that?’
I pull my hands free. ‘Even if she did take a bribe, I want to know the truth.’ I inch away when he reaches for me.
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