A Case For Trust

by Gracie MacGregor

  ‘I’m coming!’ she yelled, scrambling into the threadbare dressing gown she’d promised herself she was going to replace as soon as she won her next decent landscaping contract. She chanced a quick glance in the mirror and rolled her eyes at the spaghetti mess of red-gold curls and the panda rings of mascara under her eyes. Not much she could do about how she looked now; but whoever her visitor was, she needed to get rid of them quickly so she could shower and dress for the wedding.

  She wrenched open the front door and immediately cursed herself for not looking first through the lace-draped window beside it. Matt Mason was on her doorstep, and he wasn’t happy. His eyes flickered contemptuously from her sleep-mussed head to her bare toes, which curled under his inspection into the hardwood timbers as if they could dig an escape route through the floor.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he drawled, looking not the least bit sorry. ‘Are you finished with my brother yet?’

  ‘Your brother? You mean Justin? What makes you think Justin is here?’

  ‘His car. Parked outside your house.’ Matt’s tone was soft, reasonable, without inflection, but a shiver roiled up Pippa’s back at the menace in the glare he’d fixed on her. She peered around his massive shoulders; sure enough, Justin’s car was still parked where he’d left it the night before. Oh, hell.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Matt snorted at her denial, grasped her shoulders beneath his capable hands and lifted her out of his path as he strode into her house and down the hallway, Pippa squawking as she chased close behind. He threw open one door after another until he found her bedroom; paused at the doorway staring at the empty bed before moving into the room and tugging open the wardrobe doors.

  ‘Matt, this is ridiculous,’ Pippa protested, but he ignored her, brushing her aside again as he headed for the bathroom. ‘You have no right—!’

  ‘So sue me,’ he threw over his shoulder, thrusting aside the old floral shower curtain and finding nobody. ‘Justin!’ he roared. ‘Have the guts to face me, dammit. Who are you calling?’

  ‘The police,’ Pippa told him, as calmly as she could, though her fingers trembled on the phone buttons. ‘You have no right to barge into my home and throw your weight around. Who the hell do you think you are?’ She’d misdialled. With a curse, she cancelled the call and started again, but found the phone removed peremptorily from her fingers and shoved into the pocket of Matt’s chinos.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’m going. I told you what would happen if you messed with us.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Justin! When you get your clothes back on, get your arse home immediately! There are things you and I need to sort out.’

  ‘I told you, Justin’s not here. Give me back my phone, please.’

  He regarded her steadily, silently; Pippa barely breathed as she waited. Around them, the only sounds were the muttered groans of the corrugated iron roof as it stretched and twisted under the late morning sun.

  ‘Explain the car.’

  ‘Look, I’m not some bloody miscreant you’re interrogating in court! You can’t—’

  ‘Explain the car.’

  Pippa thrust a frustrated hand through her curls. She didn’t have time for this! Damn the Masons and their high-handed sense of entitlement. But Matt Mason was not budging, and she had a wedding to perform.

  ‘Fine. He was here. He came over last night. He was here a couple of hours, he had a few drinks, and I made him leave his car here and take a cab home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? So he wouldn’t drink and drive, of course!’

  ‘Why was he here?’

  ‘To get my advice.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘A personal matter.’

  ‘About what?’ The tone was clipped, impatient, demanding. But Pippa had already divulged all that she could. Still shy about his new hobby, Justin had made her promise to tell nobody about his photography course; equally she’d sworn not to share with anybody his plans for winning back Lucy. She had nothing more to offer Matt Mason.

  ‘It’s really none of your business, Matt,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve given an undertaking to Justin to keep his confidence. You’re going to have to ask him yourself. But do you really think it’s necessary to micromanage your brother’s business like this? He’s a grown man, making his own choices, his own mistakes—’

  Her tirade choked off abruptly as Pippa found her mouth effectively closed by another, which overwhelmed, invaded, dominated. She tried to wrench her head away, found it clamped in place under the assault by one vice-like hand around the back of her head. The hard lips had gentled, seeking now instead of plundering; the plunging tongue was sweeping now, tasting out the faint trace of blood that had lined her bottom lip when his mouth had mashed it against her teeth. The grip at her head relaxed, the hand gently sliding to her nape, caressing, tugging the curls there as Matt deepened the kiss again, thrillingly, and this time, when his tongue slid on hers, she met it with a tentative touch of her own, her toes curling again against the bare timber floor boards, warmth pooling at the juncture of her thighs.

  And then she bit him.

  Abruptly she was free, and she couldn’t tell if she’d pushed him away or the reverse. The metallic taste in her mouth was his blood now, and her eyes flew, horrified, to his curiously blank face.

  ‘What did you do that for!’

  She was never again sure if her blurted demand was meant for him or for herself, but he examined the finger he’d pressed against his tongue then looked at her.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ The blank expression had turned quizzical momentarily before returning to its usual hard lines. ‘But it was a mistake. I apologise.’

  He strode to the front door and stopped, ran his hand feelingly up the timber panel as if it held some secret his fingers were determined to uncover. Unaccountably, Pippa shivered. He didn’t look at her again, but his low voice carried with a tone she thought almost regretful. ‘You might be less enamoured of Justin if you knew what he was really like. And if you were smarter, you’d be more interested in preserving your own business than worrying about his.’

  And then he was gone.

  Pippa closed the door behind him and slumped against it, drained. Between them, the older Mason brothers had wrecked her Saturday morning. But she had no time to stand around reflecting. She had a wedding to get to!

  She showered, dressed, made up her face and styled her hair in record time; grabbed her briefcase and checked to ensure it contained everything she needed, then hurried out to the ute. She grimaced at the mud coating its back tyres—she’d meant to hose those down this morning, before her sleep-in turned her plans to dust—then climbed up into the cabin, eased her silk skirt crease-free over her knees, pumped the accelerator twice and turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing.

  No cough, no choke, no reluctant sputtering followed by familiar rattles and hums. Pippa’s heart seemed to lodge itself somewhere in the lower reaches of her entrails. She took a deep breath, held it, turned the key again.

  Nothing.

  Don’t panic. There was still time. She’d call roadside assistance, plead an emergency and be on the road quickly, all being well. She dragged her handbag into her lap; rummaged with increasing impatience through the pockets. Where was her goddamned phone?

  Oh no. Oh no no no no no no!

  Of course. It was in Matt Mason’s goddamned pocket.

  For the first time, she regretted her decision to do without a landline phone at home. When she’d first moved into her house the telecoms company had said it would take six weeks to connect her; in the intervening time, she’d discovered she could manage perfectly well without a landline and cancelled the phone order to save money. She’d never needed another phone—until now.

  She bounced her head on the steering wheel in time with her fist, as if the movement would remind the engine what it was supposed to do. She tried the ignition again, but knew even as she clicked it over it was pointles
s. The car was dead. For a minute, she wished she was, too.

  She could not miss this wedding. She would beg Mr Bates next door to use his phone to call for a taxi. The ceremony was in the beautiful bayside suburb of Cleveland, the better part of an hour away, and the return fare would virtually wipe out her afternoon’s payment, but so be it. She would not let her clients down.

  Loading herself up with her gear, she was halfway through the front gate when the sight of the black Audi pulling up in her driveway brought her up short. Now what? She didn’t even wait for Matt Mason to uncurl his lean length from the car, exploding in a fury of frustration and anger.

  ‘Whatever it is, you can forget it! I don’t care about your petty family squabbles! I’m late! Leave me alone!’

  It took Pippa a moment of breathless heaving following her outburst to notice: Matt was holding out her mobile phone. She snatched it out of his open palm. ‘Thank you.’ Her mutter was just loud enough for him to hear as she turned away and searched for the number of the taxi company. She ignored his continued brooding presence as she dialled; swore as she heard the engaged signal; disconnected the call and dialled again; swore again when it was still busy.

  ‘Having trouble?’

  Oh dear god, why wouldn’t he simply leave her alone? It seemed the universe was conspiring against her and this wedding, and while Pippa was determined to keep her cool in front of the head of the Mason family, she could feel control of herself and her situation slipping from her trembling fingers. She dialled the taxi company one more time—still engaged—and choked back a sob before she fumbled through the contact list for the roadside assistance number.

  With relief she heard her call answered, and conscious of Matt behind her, still loitering, listening in, tried with minimum words to convey maximum urgency. The radio operator was sympathetic, but couldn’t work miracles: the earliest available mechanic was an hour away. With a deep breath and a murmured prayer, Pippa tried the taxi number again then flung her phone to the ground, covering her telltale face with her hand as the irrepressible beep-beep-beep of the busy signal echoed mournfully from the gutter where the phone had landed.

  A tanned, long-fingered hand retrieved it and pressed the end button, stopping the torment, then tossed the phone casually to and from the other hand as those indigo eyes regarded Pippa’s disconsolate figure.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what the problem is.’

  Pippa shook her head stubbornly. ‘You’re not going to help, and I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to think.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Fine. My car won’t start, I can’t get a mechanic, the taxi company’s not answering, and if I don’t get to Cleveland within the hour, two beautiful people are not going to get the wedding they’ve waited sixty years for. Now will you leave me alone?’

  At last, at last, he was leaving. He’d turned back to the car and Pippa let go the breath she’d been holding with a sigh, picked up the briefcase she’d leaned by the fence and straightened to see him, his hand holding the Audi’s passenger door open, looking expectantly at her. She felt very stupid, but the panic of the past few minutes had not yet cleared. What did he want? Had he said? The confusion must have been plastered all over her face, because he used a slow, even voice, like he was addressing a young child.

  ‘You said you were late. I’ll take you to Cleveland. Get in the car.’

  Oh no. No. She was not getting in that car with him again. True, as yet he was her only certain option for getting to the wedding, but after an hour in the car with him interrogating and berating her, she’d be in no fit state to conduct the ceremony anyway. He was drumming his fingers impatiently on the rim of the door, his dark eyes daring her to take up any more of his precious time. Their silent optical duel lasted an eternity—at least ten seconds—before with a slight shrug he slammed the passenger door closed and rounded the car to the driver’s door. The finality of the slam woke Pippa from her frozen stillness; that was her last chance, about to drive off, and a berated interrogated celebrant was surely better than no celebrant at all.

  ‘Wait!’ She hurried to the car, its low-throated hum sounding assuringly reliable, and Matt leaned across to open the passenger door for her. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, ‘I appreciate this.’

  ‘Address?’

  She told him, and watched those long, capable fingers enter the details into the Audi’s sat nav system before they gripped the gearstick and negotiated the car out of the driveway. The robotic, British tones that started up their clinical directions covered the early awkward silence, and Pippa began to relax into her seat and scan the Audi’s luxurious surrounds.

  The cockpit felt like she imagined a racing car felt; not cramped, exactly, but nevertheless very … cosy. She became aware of Matt’s hands, moving competently between the leather-hugged steering wheel and the gearstick, occasionally brushing dangerously close to her knee, and had to remind herself to stop staring at the softly curling hairs that caught the light as his wrist flexed and straightened on the gearstick. Instead she turned her attention to the gadgetry on the dashboard, which was suitably intimidating in its complexity. If they hadn’t been moving, she might have wondered if the engine was even running, so quiet and insulated was the interior. The soothing, mellow sax music from the sound system was crystal clear. Funny; she wouldn’t have picked him for a jazz connoisseur. She’d have thought he’d be more a contemporary classical type. Arvo Pärt, perhaps, with all those screeching, sophisticated, relentless violins.

  She felt disconcertingly close to the ground, and as they came to a stop at some traffic lights, looked up into the admiring eyes of the driver of the towering four-wheel drive beside them. He winked at her and she blushed, turned her head away, found another set of eyes regarding her from the opposite direction and was suddenly carefully examining her fingernails below Matt’s impervious gaze.

  ‘Tell me about this wedding you’re doing,’ Matt ventured. ‘Or is that breaking your client confidentiality?’

  Pippa inhaled deeply. It sounded like a neutral question; was he calling a truce?

  ‘The soon-to-be Mr and Mrs Jackson were childhood sweethearts,’ she began. ‘They wanted to marry, but they were from different religions, and Lily’s parents wouldn’t hear of her marrying outside her own church. They planned to elope but were discovered, so her parents shipped her off to Perth to separate them. They each ended up marrying someone else, but they never forgot each other. She returned to Brisbane only a few months ago, after her husband died, and in one of those wonderful coincidences that never seem like coincidences at all, she ran into Patrick at the library. He was also widowed, and he carried her books for her and bought her a cup of tea, which turned into lunch, and they picked up as if they’d never been apart. They’re the most delightful couple, both nearly eighty, and when you see them together you can’t help but believe they’re soulmates, that they were put on this earth to complete one another …’

  Pippa stopped mid-thought; she’d suddenly remembered where she was, who she was talking to. She chanced a glance at Matt’s face; caught the remains of a frown smoothing forcibly into his customary severe blankness. He said nothing, and the silence following the cessation of Pippa’s voice seemed to her to bounce around the leather confines of the car.

  ‘Anyway,’ she started again breathily, ‘they’ve waited a long time to be married, which was why I was so upset that I might not get there on time. I mean, of course, I’m always worried about being punctual, but it’s extra important today …’

  She trailed off again. She was gabbling. He’d think her even more of an idiot, if that were possible. Heavens, his stony silence was as uncomfortable as his impertinent questions. She deliberately focused on her breathing, on calming her agitated nerves, on the wedding ceremony ahead, and was startled when he finally spoke.

  ‘Why did they choose you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The old couple. How did they come t
o choose you? I’d have thought they might have wanted a more … mature … celebrant, somebody closer to their own age, their own experiences.’

  Pippa shrugged. ‘Word of mouth. Patrick’s granddaughter attended a wedding I did a couple of months ago. That’s how I get most of my wedding business: word of mouth. My style isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I do get quite a few recommendations.’

  ‘You’re good at what you do.’ It wasn’t a compliment, or not the way Matt said it. He made it sound like a simple statement of fact, but still, Pippa felt her cheeks flush with pleasure.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem much like a career. Is it very lucrative?’

  The pleasure faded as quickly as it had emerged; she bristled at his dismissive tone. ‘I don’t do it as a career. I don’t do it for money. I do it for pleasure, for the pleasure of helping people make their special day, their wedding day, beautiful and memorable, of making it the happiest day of their lives.’

  ‘Are you that hard-up for friends? That you have to muscle in on other people’s weddings?’

  ‘I have friends! I have a lot of friends—’

  Pippa bit back the retort, aware even before she saw his amused eyebrow just how like a petulant six-year-old she’d sounded. But it was an old and tender point. At school, and then at uni, she’d had no time for friends, no money for friendship outings, no happy home to bring them back to. Mostly, after class, she’d cut and run. And now her life was about building her business. She had no energy for Friday night drinks or Sunday barbecues, even if she’d still been receiving invitations.

  ‘And all these friends you have—none of them live close enough for you to call them when you couldn’t get a taxi this morning?’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me to ask them. Anyway, you offered.’

  ‘So I did. I may have been mistaken but it looked to me like you were all out of options.’

  ‘You were mistaken.’ The twist of his mouth irked her. ‘Impossible though that might seem.’