by Fiona Lowe
To head off any questions about why she’d been at an unscheduled gym session, Tara hid her bag inside the washing machine before walking into the kitchen. Jon was standing at the bench, which was covered by so many different sandwich fixings it gave Subway a run for its money.
‘Hi,’ she said.
He glanced up from the roll he was buttering and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Hi.’
‘Did I forget you were coming home for lunch?’
‘No. I’d planned to take you to Bert & Bears, but when you didn’t come into work I thought I’d bring lunch to you.’
She checked his expression—no sign of criticism that she hadn’t been at the store. Her heart rolled at his thoughtfulness and she almost moved in to kiss him when the memory of Saturday’s rebuff slammed into her, staying her feet.
‘No onion, please.’
‘I know.’ He squirted Dijon mustard onto the bread. ‘Did you see the car in the drive of the orange eyesore?’
‘No.’ She poured herself a glass of water. ‘Do we have new neighbours?’
‘Not sure. But if we do, the good news is the car’s not a paddock bomb. In fact, it’s less than ten years old and recently detailed.’
‘Fingers crossed then. Sorry about not making it into work. How are things?’
‘Yeah, good.’ He layered slices of roast beef on top of the mustard. ‘I’ve got a job for you this afternoon if you can manage it.’
Disappointment oozed through her, thick and black like an oil slick. Lunch wasn’t an olive branch after all, but a schmooze. ‘What is it?’
‘The community garden wants us to donate some equipment in exchange for advertising space.’
‘Boolanga has a community garden?’
‘Apparently. Might be good to be linked in with them if the big boys arrive in town. Bit of good will.’
She scanned the piles of neatly sliced tomatoes, capsicum, grated carrot and spied a packet of her favourite cheese—Mersey Valley Original. She opened the pantry and pulled out a new jar of pickles.
‘Oh good. I thought we were out.’ Jon picked up the jar and clamped his big hand around the black lid.
She opened her mouth to say, ‘Can I help with lunch?’ but heard instead, ‘I want to talk about Saturday.’
‘The end-of-season footy thing?’ He grunted, unable to break the seal on the lid. ‘I didn’t think you wanted to go. Bloody hell, did they glue this lid on?’
Jon usually popped a lid in two seconds. Tara was the one who needed to use a rubber glove or lever a knife to break the seal.
She handed him a glove and stayed on track. ‘Not this Saturday, last Saturday.’
He was gripping the jar so tightly his knuckles gleamed white and a tremor rode up his arm. ‘What about last Saturday?’
Seriously? He was making her do all the work and her heart kicked up.
‘Are you having an affair with Rhianna?’
The jar tumbled from his fingers. He jumped back as glass, vinegar and cucumber pickles smashed against the black and white tiles, spraying glass and liquid across the kitchen. He stared at her, his body trembling and his eyes wide and frantic like a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of a gun.
‘Christ, T.’
The shaking started in her toes, racing quickly up and across her body. ‘Is dropping the jar a yes or a no?’
‘What the hell sort of question is that?’
‘Given the circumstances, a perfectly reasonable one.’
He bent down and, with trembling hands, picked up shards of glass. ‘What circumstances?’
‘You and Rhianna looked pretty cosy in the kitchen. She had her hand on your arm.’
‘And when I was four she used to watch me pee. It doesn’t mean I’m having an affair with her!’
‘Is it someone else?’
His jaw clenched. ‘No.’
‘Then why aren’t we having sex?’
‘Not this again!’ He dropped the glass he was holding and stood up, pressing his palms flat on the bench. ‘We’re not twenty-five any more.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘We have the same amount of sex as any other couple married with two kids, a business and a mortgage.’
‘Come on, Jon. You know things have changed. You’ve changed.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Tara. I’m an average almost forty-yearold bloke who falls into bed most nights already half asleep. You’re the one who’s changed. Ever since you started this insane exercise routine, you’ve become sex obsessed.’
‘I’m not obsessed!’
‘You are. You’re wearing all that scratchy lace in bed instead of your soft cotton PJs. After the awards dinner you did a Pretty Woman impersonation, and on Saturday you wanted to have sex when we had guests on the other side of the wall!’
‘I only did those things because you’ve been turning your back on me for months. I thought you’d like them!’
His face tightened. ‘Well, I don’t. I want a partner, not a porn star.’
Hurt slammed her so hard tears stung the backs of her eyes. ‘So what are you saying? That me making the first move is a turn-off? I’m the reason you can’t get hard?’
‘Not always …’
It hurt to form words. ‘But?’
‘But lately …’ His gaze slid away. ‘It’s a lot of pressure, T.’
Shame, anger and confusion swirled, clouding her thoughts. She craved intimacy and Jon saw her need as pressure? Fear punched her. How had this happened? For years they’d tumbled together without a second thought and now … Was this why he’d lost his erection the last few times they’d tried to have sex?
‘I didn’t mean to pressure you,’ she said. ‘I just miss us.’
‘We’re still us.’
Are we? It wasn’t just the lack of sex. He’d stopped cuddling her in bed, stopped sneaking up behind her and copping a cheeky feel of her breasts, and his kisses were mostly perfunctory pecks on the cheek. But if she mentioned any of that, he’d accuse her of being sex obsessed. Was she? If she was honest, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Dreaming and fantasising about it. Flirting with Zac.
‘Are we still us?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
He walked around the bench and wrapped his arms around her. It was the first time he’d really touched her in a long time. Despite the confusing spin of emotions, she gave in to temptation and laid her head on his chest, loving the reassuring lub-dub beat of his heart.
He kissed her and she felt his love in the tremble of his body. Then his erection stirred, pressing against her. Hope soared.
She returned his kiss—deep and hard—then remembered ‘too much pressure’. As difficult as it was not to grab his hand and hustle him down the hall, she held back, waiting for him to walk her backwards to their bedroom, lower her onto the bed, pop the buttons on her blouse and bring his hot wet mouth down onto her aching breasts—
He pulled his mouth from hers and stroked her hair. ‘You know what I think?’
It took a moment for her lust-soaked brain to catch up and for her eyes to focus. All she could manage was a shake of her head.
‘With both the kids at school, you’ve been struggling all year to work out who you are and what you want to do. You need a real challenge, T, and it’s not losing weight you didn’t need to drop or a PB at the gym. And it’s definitely not our sex life.’
Annoyance added more waves to her already choppy sea of emotions. Something about the glint in his eyes made her tense. ‘Let me guess. You’ve got a solution?’
His smile was pure indulgence. ‘There are plenty of things to challenge your big brain at the store and make you feel good about yourself again. I’d love it if you took your great eye for design and expanded the paint section into an interior design service.’
‘I’m not a qualified interior designer.’
‘Pfft! Look around. You’ve got an eye most designers would kill for. Why not formalise what
you did for Shan and Chris and what you’re currently doing for Vivian Leppart? It will be good for you.’ He radiated excitement. ‘Let’s set up an appointment system and get Hoopers Interior Design off the ground. We’ll offer ten per cent off any decorating stock clients buy. It gives us another niche over the big boys. The personal touch.’
I want a partner. His words hammered her. Not a wife or a lover, but a partner. A business partner. Jon wanted her at work but not in bed. Her already grazed heart lost another layer and blood bubbled freely.
‘That’s quite a challenge.’
But Jon missed the tartness in her voice and smiled at her. ‘You’ll ace it.’
Once she would have floated on the compliment, but not now. Not when it put her firmly in the role of an employee.
‘The first challenge is the community garden,’ she said. ‘Interior design will have to be the second.’
But it was a lie. She knew exactly what her next challenge would be and it didn’t involve Jon or interior design.
She walked into the bathroom, closed the door and texted Zac.
Hey partner! I’m all in for Project M. Tx
She stared at the x, surprised to see it there—all her previous texts to Zac she’d signed TH.
What are you doing?
Justifying to herself that as marathon training wasn’t part of their client–trainer relationship and no money would be changing hands, she was just signing off like she did with any friend, she pressed send.
A second later her phone pinged. Awesome! Planning meeting this afternoon?
Great!
Delight lifted the heaviness that had settled over her during her conversation with Jon. For the first time in a long time she felt like a woman and she hugged the sensation close, never wanting it to fade.
Exhilaration tangoed with resignation as Tara parked outside the community garden. Her mind was full of her upcoming meeting with Zac and she really didn’t want to be here. She was still pinching herself that he believed she could run a marathon, and now she’d committed she didn’t want to waste any time—she wanted to start now! But she’d promised Jon she’d come to the garden and Zac wasn’t free until three so …
She sighed and picked up the post-it note Jon had given her with the name of the woman she was to meet. His handwriting had never been good, but even by his standards this was more chicken scratchings than words. She couldn’t decipher it. ‘Great going, Jon.’
Forcing herself out of the car, she was walking towards the ornamental gates when she heard a female voice calling out, ‘Hello.’
She turned. ‘Helen?’ She didn’t really know Helen beyond exchanging pleasantries on the few occasions she caved in to the kids’ pester power and bought fish and chips. She glanced at the post-it and realised the scrawled I I e I e I could be Helen if Jon had connected the letters. ‘Am I supposed to be meeting you?’
The older woman smiled. ‘If you’re Mrs Hooper as well as Clemmie and Flynn’s mum.’
She shot out her hand. ‘Call me Tara.’
‘Thanks for coming, Tara. I really appreciate your time. Can I give you a tour and introduce you to the women?’
‘That sounds lovely, but I’m a bit pressed for time. How about you tell me what you need and show me where we can hang some signs.’
Helen frowned. ‘We could reschedule to a more convenient time.’
Tara didn’t want to be here now, let alone returning another day. ‘That would only slow things down and I’m sure you want the stock sooner rather than later.’
‘If you’re sure … We’ve got a needs list and a wish list.’
‘Give me your entire list in order of priority.’
‘Gardening gloves, soaker hoses and connectors, shovels, spades, trowels, rakes, hoes, weeders, two wheelbarrows, timber or recycled plastic for bed borders, compost bins, blood and bone, soil conditioner, seaweed liquid fertiliser, secateurs, seedlings, a shed, a propagating greenhouse, water tanks, an irrigation system …’ As Helen talked and Tara typed on her phone, they walked away from the ornamental gates. ‘We were thinking here for the sign.’
Tara looked up. They were standing in front of a fence that was below the sight line from a car. Tara cast a practised eye around the area. It had been years since she’d been here—not since she and Jon had installed the pool and removed any reason to swim in the river. It didn’t look like a lot had changed. Cattle and horses still grazed on the old experimental farm and the road remained unsealed. Whenever there was a work experience student at The Standard, the editor always sent them to interview the councillors about plans for the land. Inevitably, an article was written with the headline What’s Next For Riverfarm? Then a flurry of letters followed before the topic fell silent again.
Tara pointed to the intersection. ‘Could we erect a sign on that corner? I’m thinking two metres by one and a half resting on one-point-seven poles. It would catch the eye of passing traffic.’
‘As well as on the fence?’
‘Instead of on the fence.’
‘That’s bigger than I thought.’
Tara squashed the urge to say, do you want our help or not? ‘I promise the sign will be tasteful. It will have our logo and say Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel is proud to sponsor the Boolanga Community Garden. The garden logo can be there too. If that’s something you can live with, we’ll happily fill your basic needs list and give you a shed.’
Helen stared at her, silently blinking behind her glasses.
‘If you want, I’ll send you the artwork so you can discuss it with your members?’ Tara added.
‘No. I mean, not no … I don’t need to discuss it. I … I never imagined … We’re just so grateful!’ Helen threw her arms around Tara.
For a moment Tara stiffened, uncomfortable by the unexpected display of emotion, and then grief rushed in so unexpectedly, her knees sagged. It was exactly the sort of hug her mother would have given her and she found herself returning it just so she could remember.
‘It’s our pleasure,’ she said. ‘But just so you know, we get samples that our staff use in the garden section so most of the stock will be pre-loved but still in good condition.’
‘We’ll happily accept whatever you can spare.’
‘What’s your email and phone number?’ Tara typed in the details. ‘I’ll pull the order together then give you a call to set up a delivery time.’
‘And then I’ll call you to arrange a time when you can come to the garden so we can thank you properly.’
The thought of losing half a morning standing around making polite conversation with a group of old women she didn’t know when she could be training didn’t appeal in the slightest. ‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘Oh, but it is. Please allow us the opportunity to show our appreciation.’
There was a hint of rebuke in Helen’s tone and Tara got another flash of her mother. It’s not always about how you feel, Tara.
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said.
Except the only thing she was looking forward to was meeting with Zac and planning her marathon preparation. She sent out a wish that the community garden members would be so excited about their new equipment they’d forget all about hosting a morning tea.
CHAPTER
9
The gardening gloves had been taunting Jade for days. It didn’t matter where she put them in the unit, they reappeared, their dirty leather, clumped wool and tatty red edging accusing her of theft. She hadn’t stolen them—not deliberately anyway. She’d forgotten she’d dumped them on top of the pram and when she’d pushed back the cover they’d become hidden in the folds.
When she’d found them the next morning, her guts had gone all wobbly. She’d pushed Milo to the farmers’ market just so she could return the gloves to Helen, but when she’d got there, the only person at the community garden stall was an old bloke in a hat who actually looked like a farmer. As she couldn’t afford to buy anything, she’d walked home.
That afternoon, Milo had spiked a temperature and Jade had been stuck inside for four days holding a screaming baby. Corey must be out of mobile range because he hadn’t replied to any of her texts. She’d almost lost her mind. She’d definitely cried.
Thankfully, Milo had woken up happy this morning and without a fever, so she’d bundled him into the pram and escaped. Now, she and Milo were peering through the decorative gates of the community garden looking for Helen.
An old biddy stared back, her mouth doing that thin-line thing Jade was used to from the receptionist at the medical centre and the bitch at the supermarket checkout. The look that said useless bludger teenage single mother.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ the woman finally said.
‘Is Helen here?’
The woman’s mouth puckered so tightly it almost disappeared. ‘No.’
‘Do you know when she’s coming?’
‘I do not.’
The bloody gardening gloves were harder to return than a boomerang. Jade wondered how many more times she’d have to walk the one-and-a-half kilometres to the garden on the off-chance Helen was here. She was tempted to just give the gloves to the woman so she was free of them, but that lemon-sucking mouth did nothing to reassure her. The witch would probably throw the gloves in the bin instead of giving them to Helen and she’d be blamed for stealing.
Jade wasn’t a thief—when she stole, it was only necessities like tampons and baby food and only when she had no other choice. She shouldn’t care, but for some reason she didn’t want Helen thinking she’d nicked these half-dead gloves.
‘Try the cottage,’ the woman said before turning and walking down the garden.
‘What cottage?’
The woman’s arm extended in the general direction of the river.
‘Useful,’ Jade muttered.
She passed the orchard where she’d eaten lunch with the refugee women and kept walking until she reached a rusty gate. It had beautiful metal swirls and curls at the top and Jade pictured how elegant and lah-de-dah it would have been back in the day.