by Lilian Darcy
‘Yes, but come early and eat first.’ Freddie gestured at the lasagne on the stove. ‘A proper meal. Kit and Helen, will you stay?’
Aunt Helen shook her head. ‘We’ve got Sandra and Mike and the kids coming over.’ Kit was relieved that she’d answered for both of them.
‘And I can’t,’ Gian answered his mother. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got work to do at the office.’
‘It could wait,’ his mother suggested hopefully.
He smiled again. ‘No.’
‘He does what he wants,’ Freddie said to Helen and Kit and the room in general, raising her hands. She added, ‘Which is just as it should be.’
‘Could I help unpack, Gian?’ Kit offered, out of politeness and, if she was honest, a desire to speed his departure.
His presence seemed to fill the room, commanding the attention not only of Freddie and Aunt Helen, but of the little princess with jam and cream on her mouth. She was holding out her arms to him.
‘There’s only a few more bags,’ he said to Kit, then picked Bonnie up out of her chair and got a sticky kiss which left a dab of cream on his cheek. He felt it and rubbed it off with the back of his hand.
Kit was conscious of every movement he made, didn’t know whether to look at him as the others were—Bonnie was also pulling his ears—or to try and hide her face by staring down into her tea. Both responses seemed to give away far too much. She had no idea how to go about behaving as if she didn’t feel this way. It was…painful.
To her relief, he put Bonnie back in her chair and disappeared out the door, to return a minute later with the rest of the bags, which he put down on the bench beside the double sink.
‘That lasagne does look good,’ he said.
‘Six, then?’ Freddie suggested, recognising his capitulation.
‘No, more like six forty-five. Can’t get here any earlier. Bonnie can watch me eat after you’ve gone, Mum. Bye, Kit, Helen.’
Outside, the boot banged shut, then the car door. There was the rev of an engine and a spit of gravel, and he had gone.
Kit felt stupidly, ridiculously flat. Just that one taste of his presence and she was starving for more. She had to fight to stop it from showing. While Freddie complained to Helen that Gian worked too hard, Kit gulped the rest of her tea, picked up her last mouthful of scone and asked, ‘Could Bonnie show me the garden? Would she go with me?’
‘Want to show Kit the veggies, love?’ Freddie asked her little granddaughter.
Bonnie nodded and climbed off her chair. ‘’Matoes. Puntins. ’Kini.’
‘That’s right, sweetheart. Tomatoes, pumpkins and zucchini. Show Kit all of those. Pick anything you like, Kit. We have too many yellow zucchinis, and the silver beet is going to seed. Masses of tomatoes. The basil is rampant this year. Take some, and make pesto. Gian puts it in Thai curry, too.’
‘It all sounds wonderful.’
It took fifteen minutes of pottering around the vegetable garden with Bonnie before Kit could put Gian out of her mind, and when they wandered back to the house and found Freddie and Aunt Helen clearing up the afternoon tea things, she strongly suspected that she had been their chief topic of conversation, and that her name had come up in the same sentence as Gian’s more than once.
She wasn’t sorry when they left at five-fifteen. She hated the feeling that she was under a microscope, no matter how loving the scrutiny.
Feeling a little remorseful about his lightning visit and abrupt departure, Gian arrived back at the farm at twenty past six, in time to sit and eat his mother’s delectable lasagne, along with a salad of fresh greens from the garden, while Bonnie and her grandmother were still finishing theirs.
‘Office work caught up?’ Mum asked.
‘Just about.’
He waited for her to reiterate that it could have waited. That he could have stayed earlier, instead of making the double journey between here and town, but she didn’t. She was pretty good, most of the time. Meddled in his life far less than she would probably have liked to do, and never tried to tell him his business when it really counted.
Urging a second helping of lasagne upon him was one thing, and acceptable, but she had sense enough never to touch on what was painfully important. She listened, on the rare occasions when he felt like talking about difficult patients, hospital politics or his divorce, but she never told him what he should or shouldn’t do about any of it. He valued her wisdom in that area.
He also appreciated that at times she was quite subtle…
‘Kit’s lovely,’ she suddenly said, when he was halfway through that second helping.
He swallowed. ‘Yes. I think we agreed on that several weeks ago, didn’t we?’
‘Well, but she hasn’t disappointed on further acquaintance. Some people do.’
‘True.’
‘Gian?’
And at other times she wasn’t subtle at all.
This was one of those times. He could tell by her face.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘You’re interested, aren’t you? In Kit.’
He controlled a sigh. ‘Remember when Ciara ran off to that friend of hers in Sydney, and then phoned you three days later in tears, telling you to send me up there straight away to come and get her?’
‘Of course! As if I could forget that!’
‘And remember how you didn’t ask me one thing about what she said when I got there, or what I said in reply, or what had gone wrong in the first place?’
‘I thought you’d tell me if there was anything you wanted me to know.’
‘Exactly! Same rule applies now. I’d tell you if there was anything I wanted you to know. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Is it? Good. Then there’s nothing left to say.’
He ate the rest of his meal in silence, deliberately not looking up to see if she was still watching him.
CHAPTER SIX
‘LOOK, I wanted to let you know,’ James said on the phone. It was almost four weeks after Kit’s visit with her aunt to the Di Luzios’ farm.
‘Well, thanks, yes.’ Kit’s mouth felt numb and her legs were shaking. She had known that the baby was due now, but she hadn’t expected James to call her himself, with news of the birth.
‘Because I knew you’d be bound to hear from someone, and I thought…Yeah. That it would be better coming from me,’ he went on.
‘Yes,’ she answered, hardly knowing what she was saying.
‘She had a beautiful baby boy. We’re calling him Luke and, of course, we’re jazzed about it. I—You know, Kit, looking back, I’m surprised we lasted as long as we did, you and I.’
‘Are you?’
‘It was nothing to do with the baby thing. With your endometriosis, I mean. Your infertility.’
I get the point, James.
‘And the thing is…’ he went on.
He’s just going to go on and on until I say something, she realised. Until I let him off the hook and tell him it’s OK, he’s done the right thing. And every word he says gets worse, so I have to say something. Just to stop him. Before I scream.
‘Of course, James,’ she finally got out, in a voice so tight and hard that it burned her throat. ‘Of course. Congratulations.’
‘Yeah, thanks. I knew you’d…’ He stopped and tried again. ‘You’re such a great person, Kit. Really. Seriously. I wish you’d learn to believe that.’
She wanted so badly to say something obscene, to let fly with a torrent of bitterness, but had just enough sense left to understand that anything she said would haunt her forever, long after James himself had put it down to the ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ syndrome and shrugged it off.
Just a tiny bit more control, and she could at least save herself that regret.
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ she said. ‘Look, James, I have to meet some friends.’
‘Of course.’ She could hear the relief in his voice. ‘Sure. Sure. Just wanted to let you know.’
‘Thanks. I’m
glad you did.’ And she was, because now that particular, painful hurdle was behind her and was therefore one less thing she had to dread. ‘I really have to go. Bye, James. And I hope it all goes well. With the baby. And everything.’
She put down the phone and went out into the yard, where it was as sunny as it had been during her first few days here back in March but colder because it was the middle of May now. The sounds and scents of the farm did their slow, gentle work, pushing the confronting pain of James’s phone call a little further away.
She loved it here. She could happily breathe this air for the rest of her life.
Aunt Helen was over at the rotary clothesline, hanging out a load of linen and towels, fighting a billowing breeze. Kit crossed to her and began to help.
‘Was that the phone?’ her aunt asked.
‘Yes, just a friend from Canberra, catching up on news.’ She hid her face behind the damp towel she had begun to peg up.
‘I can do this, love. Don’t you have someone coming?’
‘Emma. But I’m ready. We’re going on a wine-tasting tour with a couple of her friends.’
Aunt Helen paused with her fingers holding a sheet in place and a peg pressed open. ‘Really? An actual tour?’
‘Yes, in a mini-bus, with a tour guide and a brochure. The works.’ Kit grinned, appreciating her aunt’s bemusement.
‘Are they friends from out of town, then?’
‘No.’ Kit laughed. ‘You look as if I’ve suddenly grown two extra heads.’
‘Well, you know we always think of those things as being for tourists. You can stop in at Glen Aran any day of the week, never mind about a guide and a brochure.’
‘Emma’s idea. I think it’ll be fun, actually. She feels as if she’s in a bit of a rut, despite everything she’s done on the house. I admire her for getting out and doing something about it…And here she is.’
‘Have fun, love.’
‘Planning to.’ Aggressively planning to, after James’s call, even if it meant she had to grit her teeth and force it every step of the way.
Emma was planning to have fun as well, it seemed. She had her unruly hair up in a twist on the top of her head, pearly eye make-up on her lids and a slash of lip gloss on her mouth. She looked good.
‘Now, Kit, I’m not intending to get sloshed,’ she said earnestly as she drove out to the road, ‘But I am celebrating, so I hope you’re in the mood to keep up.’
‘Celebrating, Emma? Oh, what’s happened?’ The prospect of some good news was like the stab of a healthy appetite when good food was in view. Kit was impatient for it, hungry for it.
‘You’ll have to wait.’ Emma gave a maddening smile. ‘Nell and Caroline are meeting us at the information centre, but I’m not going to tell any of you until we’ve each got a glass in hand.’
When they reached the town’s modern, airy tourist information centre, Emma made introductions. Kit hadn’t met Caroline before—she worked in Glenfallon Hospital’s pathology department—and knew Nell only as the rather formidable Dr Cassidy, head of the hospital’s accident and emergency department. All four women were around the same age, give or take a couple of years.
Nell had a perfect figure, hidden beneath conservative casual clothes, and mouse-blonde hair looped back from her face with combs. Her eyes were a piercing blue, which could look like pure ice when she chose. Her mouth would have been full and sensual if she’d allowed it to be. Instead, unless she was speaking or smiling, she kept it firmly closed.
Dark-haired Caroline was warmer and far more maternal looking. A little overweight, too, although not as much as she apparently thought. She had an eleven-year-old son from a long-ended marriage, and he was with his grandparents this afternoon.
Kit was the new recruit in the group, the other three having been friends or neighbours on and off since school years spent together at GLC—Glenfallon’s private girls’ school.
The fourteen seater mini-bus was full, with a mix of tourists from several state capitals and from overseas and a guide-cum-driver who had obviously delivered his standard patter many times before.
‘If we enjoy this, we should take a wine appreciation course,’ Caroline suggested. ‘Not that I need—’ She broke off, glanced down at her well-padded figure and frowned. ‘Actually, Weight Watchers is probably a better option in my case.’
‘So is learning not to obsess about it, Caro,’ Nell said.
She was known in her department for these crisp lines, and worse. Her nickname—IQ, short for Ice Queen—suggested both her bright mind and her cool temperament. Kit wasn’t sure what to think of her, but Caroline only smiled at the comment, easily dismissing the barb in it.
‘You’re right of course,’ she said.
‘Wouldn’t it be nice if it was as easy to fix your own life as it is to give advice to your friends on how to fix theirs?’ Nell commented.
Both women laughed, and Kit relaxed a little. They were obviously used to each other.
The mini-bus headed out of town, toward some vine-covered hills several kilometres from Aunt Helen’s farm, and the driver announced that their first stop would be Creston Estates, the district’s biggest winery. It was a gracious old place, and the tasting cellar was dark and cool. Emma waited until all four women had a splash of golden chablis in their glasses, then raised hers high.
‘I’m taking three months of accrued leave, everyone,’ she announced. ‘I’m blowing my savings, and I’m going to Paris to learn to cook.’
Kit and Caroline both shrieked and exclaimed and started asking questions. Nell drawled, ‘I think you can get cooking lessons closer to home, Emma,’ but no one took any notice, and even Nell herself was smiling broadly.
‘When?’ Caroline demanded.
‘Two weeks. I’ve been superstitious about it, and haven’t said a word. Didn’t want to say anything until it was all set in stone. Jane Cameron is coming back early from maternity leave, so she’ll fill in for me. The real-estate agent thinks he’s got a tenant for the house. I’ve booked my course, and I’ve rented a studio apartment that’s about the size of a cardboard box, but I don’t care, because I don’t plan on being in it very much. So can someone please toast to the success of my adventure?’
To Kit’s surprise, Nell was the one to oblige. She stepped forward, cleared her throat and came out with a clever little speech that made them all laugh. It had its usual sharp edge to it, however, and Kit found herself thinking, She’s not happy. Even in the company of friends, she can’t let go. I’m not surprised she has a reputation in her department…
But Nell gave Emma a warm hug, and the excitement was contagious. Aware of her own limited capacity for alcohol, Kit sipped cautiously at each wine, but it was hard to keep track of how much she’d had, and people kept saying to her, ‘Did you try this one yet?’
She was relieved when the driver summoned them back to the bus…and not so relieved when he took a winding back road to their next scheduled stop—the Glen Aran winery across the road from Federica di Luzio’s farm.
This time, they had a tour of the production facilities, which were filled with the powerful aroma of barrelled wine and the noise of machines at work. The tasting room was modern and bright with sunlight, and there was nowhere to sit down. The slight dizziness behind Kit’s eyes turned into the sharpness of a headache, and her queasy stomach went out on strike in sympathy.
Emma hadn’t noticed, and Kit didn’t want her to. She deserved this afternoon of celebration and anticipation with her friends.
‘Vin blanc,’ she was saying, under the tutelage of winery owner Rick Steele, whom Kit remembered from dinner at Kingsford Mill with Gian, two months ago. ‘Appellation contrôlée. Is that right? I’ve been listening to lots of tapes. First time I’ve ever appreciated Madame Sauvage’s teaching efforts at school. I’ve remembered more of it than I expected to. Vin blanc. Cabernet sauvignon. Try this one, Kit.’
‘Mmm. OK.’
‘Don’t,’ Nell said, snatching K
it’s glass from her hand. ‘Go outside. Now. Get some fresh air before it’s too late.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Oh, Kit, has it gone to your head?’ Emma was instantly remorseful and concerned.
‘’S OK.’
‘Just leave her, Emma,’ Nell said. ‘Don’t make her talk.’
Kit managed to get herself outside.
Just.
Fortunately, she was alone, and there were garden beds and orange trees and shade, and when she’d recovered—a little, not nearly enough—she found a water tank with a tap and could splash her face and rinse her mouth.
She was still crouching beside the gushing tap when she heard Gian Di Luzio’s voice. ‘Kit, what on earth…?’
She turned off the tap, straightened up and immediately felt her head pound as if it were cracking open, while the remaining contents of her stomach churned like a washing-machine. Gian was, at once, the person she least and most wanted to see in the whole world.
‘Wine tasting,’ she said. ‘Not my thing…in the middle of the afternoon…as it turns out.’
She gave a watery smile.
‘No, I can see it isn’t,’ he agreed bluntly. His black eyes studied her in detail. ‘You’re green.’
‘Not surprised. Be kind, please, and tell me it’s reflected light from the citrus leaves.’
‘I will be kind.’ His face softened, and he smiled. She wanted to cry. And she wanted him to hold her. ‘I’ll run you across the road to the farm and tell my mother to find you some headache tablets and make you some tea. I’ve got the truck parked just around the corner.’
She opened her mouth.
‘Planning to argue?’ he asked, with a dangerous light in his eyes.
She shook her head.
‘Good. Who should I tell?’
‘Emma. Inside.’
‘Come on. Here’s the truck.’ He helped her to the passenger seat, with a hand falling briefly here and there as he did so. On her shoulder, on her hip. If he was letting his touch linger a little longer than strictly necessary, she was still too ill to reach a definite conclusion on the issue. She sat in the truck, breathing very carefully, while he ducked back into the crowded tasting room.