Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance

by Carla Caruso

  Plus, it was better than recalling Alex’s disbelieving stare after she’d lopped off his ute’s side mirror. Luckily, the work car’s mirror only ended up with a minor scratch. Even so, she’d driven her Echo to the interview in the end. Baby steps, baby steps.

  Once the bucket was full to bursting, Mrs Mannix climbed down from the ladder. Up close, Winnie drank in the woman’s sky-blue eyes and steel-grey hair, wisps puffing free at the sides. Despite her unfortunate dress sense – bar a rather pretty gold fish pendant with a red-stone eye – Mrs Mannix had a kindly look about her.

  Setting the bucket down, Winnie dusted her hands. ‘So I guess we should look at those heirloom roses and veggies then.’

  ‘Oh, plenty of time for that, dear. I need tea first. Aren’t you parched from the searing sun?’

  ‘A little . . . I guess.’

  Clearly, it wasn’t going to be a quick interview. Moments later, Winnie sat across from Mrs Mannix at a dining table laid with a floral-print tea set and platters of homemade biscuits. A red-and-white striped model lighthouse sat at the table’s centre. The scene was a little different from the busy cafés in which Winnie often interviewed Sydneysiders, with one eye on their iPhone clocks as they sculled their espressos.

  Sunshine spilled onto Winnie’s bare shoulder through a window as she sipped home-crafted peach tea. There was a definite marine décor theme going on – she spotted a porthole-style stained-glass window featuring an image of an old ship.

  ‘So, you live alone here?’ she prompted Mrs Mannix.

  ‘Yes, I have done, dear . . . for the past fifty years.’ The elderly woman’s voice wavered as she set down her teacup with a clink. ‘My husband, Peter, died young. In his thirties. But Kingston’s a great place for keeping busy and keeping your mind off things.’

  ‘Oh.’ Winnie felt a pang of sorrow for the woman, but didn’t want to intrude further by asking how he’d passed on.

  The old woman’s features brightened again, knocking off a few years. ‘So, have you seen many of the sights since arriving?’

  Winnie shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’ve been too caught up with work. I have seen the Big Lobster and the beach, of course, and I had a drink at the Crown Inn and I’ve been to this interview.’ Oh dear. Why did she even mention the pub?

  ‘The Crown Inn – oh, yes. Did you know it used to be known as the Ship Inn in 1862? They ran the mail from there. That was before it was renovated and renamed the Crown Hotel in 1878, of course.’

  ‘Wow, I didn’t realise the pub had been around so long. You certainly know your stuff.’ If only the walls could talk. Maybe she hadn’t been the only woman to drunkenly dance to the jukebox – and make a fool of herself – in her first week in town.

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Mannix swallowed a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Facts and figures are my thing. I’m a member of the local historical society and this town is full of wonderful history. You might not know that it’s named after Sir George Strickland Kingston – the politician, surveyor and architect – while the township of Kingston-on-Murray was named after his son, Charles. Actually, speaking of history, that reminds me . . .’

  Clambering to her feet, Mrs Mannix turned to rummage in a cupboard drawer behind her. Colourful glass bottles tottered on several wooden shelves above. Returning to the table, the old woman handed Winnie a mauve flyer. ‘You should come to this event, dear. Might make a good yarn for your magazine.’

  Winnie skimmed the flyer. It was an invite to a launch of the local museum’s refurbished maritime wing that Friday. The theme was ‘ghost ship’. Ho-hum. She wondered if washing her hair would fly as an excuse.

  ‘There’ll be speeches,’ Mrs Mannix continued. ‘Plus plenty of hors d’oeuvres and local wine doing the rounds. And I’ll be there, so you won’t be alone. Although all the locals are friendly, anyway.’

  ‘Um . . .’ Winnie looked up, immediately trapped by the woman’s earnest gaze. Puffing out a breath, she tried to muster up enthusiasm. ‘Well, uh, of course, I’d love to come. Thanks for thinking of me. It sounds . . . wonderful.’

  Mrs Mannix beamed, and Winnie tried not to think about how quickly her life had changed – going from upper-crust soirees to crusty museum launches in a snap. But it wasn’t like she had anything important pencilled in her diary for, oh, the next two months. And she did need to be seen around town, at least in a more respectful manner.

  Two months. Right, time to push on. Whisking her empty teacup aside, Winnie emitted a small cough. ‘Now, about those heirloom roses and veggies . . .’

  Back at the office, Winnie typed madly against the drone of Ready Steady Cook and Olive sawing her nails. The ad manager had had the brainwave of installing a TV to kill boredom in their lunch break. To be fair, there were only so many times you could stroll the scant shops on the main strip without looking like a streetwalker. But so far, the idiot box had provided a constant hum. Winnie got the feeling Olive was a bit of a TV addict. Still, she couldn’t work in silence either.

  Despite knowing Christa would have reservations about the Mrs Mannix story, Winnie was pushing ahead with banging out the interview notes. Somehow she’d been pulled in by the sweet, badly dressed old widow; she’d work out how to spin the yarn in the best possible light to her boss later. And Alex could do photos for the spread by himself. They didn’t have to do every assignment hand in hand – something he should be particularly happy about. At least they’d gotten past the whole kiss thing with the driving lesson. It had been a relief when he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

  Struggling over a shorthanded word in her notepad that resembled an Egyptian hieroglyph, a shadow fell across her desk, accompanied by a vanilla fragrance. Looking up, Winnie found herself staring at a girl about her age with power-red lips, almost white face powder and black hair scraped into a ponytail. To make a dramatic arrival, the woman also had the apparent ability to make the sun go behind a cloud on cue.

  She extended French-tipped fingers in Winnie’s direction. ‘I’m Eden. I gather from the window sign you’re Winnie?’

  Winnie shook the girl’s hand and smiled, being slightly clawed in the palm in the process. ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘I heard you were looking for local stories,’ Eden continued in a hushed tone, tightening the belt of her beige trench at the waist. ‘Well, I have an exclusive.’ She dropped into the chair opposite with a flourish – and without invitation. ‘I’m getting married and it’s going to be the wedding of the millennium.’

  ‘Oh . . . wow,’ Winnie said, more appropriate words escaping her. Apparently Eden hadn’t heard of a humble pair named William and Kate tying the knot.

  Olive’s response from her side of the room was more succinct: a snort. ‘Sorry,’ the ad manager said, holding a hand to her nose, ‘coffee went down the wrong way.’ The liar. Her eyes flashed humorously.

  Winnie tried to keep a straight face as she gazed back at the bride-to-be. ‘How exciting – uh, excuse me a moment.’ Feeling slightly unprofessional, she turned to mute the TV with the remote, not missing Olive’s quiet groan of dismay. At the same time, an idea began to take shape in Winnie’s mind, like a kaleidoscope pattern falling into place. ‘Actually, it’s perfect timing you should come in – we’ve, uh, been planning a bridal section for the back of the magazine. Your wedding will be perfect for it.’ She shot a pointed look at Olive. ‘Advertisers just love that sort of thing.’

  Olive duly squirmed in her seat. It was about time the redhead sold an ad. Time was a-ticking. Grabbing her notepad, Winnie gave Eden her full attention. ‘So tell me – what have you got planned for this dream wedding of yours?’

  Eden sat back in her seat, somehow maintaining her stiff, ballerina-like posture. ‘It has a Snow White theme.’

  Another muffled snort erupted from Olive’s side, which quickly morphed into a cough. ‘Darn coffee,’ the ad manager moaned in a hoarse whisper. Thankfully, Eden didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in her own fantasyland.

  ‘The recept
ion is going to be at a friend’s sprawling cattle property,’ the bride-to-be continued. ‘Decorations will include gilt frames hanging from the trees, thousands of red roses, birdcages and fake reindeers. I’m also going to have three dress changes.’ Eden held up a trio of digits to emphasise her point. ‘Including a full-skirted formal gown for the ceremony, a more slimline dress for the reception, and flippy dance wear for the choreographed bridal waltz.’

  ‘Three, wow.’ Winnie let out a low whistle. ‘Even Lady Gaga doesn’t always get so many.’

  Eden looked like she’d bitten into a poisoned apple à la Snow White as she chanced a smile – it came out more like a grimace. The wedding was obviously a serious business for her. ‘As well as a crystal tiara,’ the bridezilla pushed on, ‘I’ll be wearing a cathedral-length veil and Mary-Kyri glass slippers for a touch of Cinderella.’

  Winnie gaped. ‘Actual glass slippers?’ What was a girl with such fantastical ideas doing in a small town like Kingston?

  ‘Not glass exactly.’ Eden smoothed her coat collar. ‘The sequins and sheer material will just provide that illusion.’

  ‘And the groom?’ Winnie pressed. He seemed an afterthought. ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘His name’s Flynn Hilton and he’s in livestock sales,’ Eden said primly. ‘We grew up together in Kingston, but both moved away. I’d always secretly fancied him in high school, but was reluctant to say anything at the time. A few years ago, though, when I saw on Facebook we’d both be in town visiting family, I dropped him a line. We wound up going to dinner together and,’ she shrugged, ‘that was it. Kingston’s since become our home again.’

  Winnie was impressed. Eden had clearly Facestalked the lad. The princess had balls. ‘How lovely. And when’s the wedding?’

  Eden rattled off a date in just under two months’ time. It would be cutting it fine for the magazine’s deadline, but could just make the launch edition, so long as the other pages were already laid out and space was left for the final images to drop in.

  ‘Perfect. Well, we’d love to cover it,’ Winnie gushed. It sounded like the Kingston equivalent of a Posh and Becks wedding – ridiculous enough to make a great spread. ‘Oh, will you have a professional photographer taking snaps we could use?’

  Eden nodded. ‘Of course.’ Hell’s bells, the girl was probably flying in celebrity snapper, Annie Leibovitz. Eden dabbed at the side of her mouth, though not a smudge could be seen. ‘Uh, perhaps you could also drop by my house sometime soon – for an extended interview. I can take you through my wedding folder and fabric swatches, so you get a full picture of everything before you begin the article.’

  Winnie held in a sigh, instantly longing for the ten-minute interview slots she was granted with celebrities in Sydney. Drawing stories out suddenly seemed more painful. Clamping her teeth together, she grabbed her diary anyway. ‘When suits?’

  Eden fished a diamante-studded, gold-look phone from her handbag. Tapping on the screen, she named a day and time the following week.

  Nodding, Winnie pencilled it in her diary, the other days around the entry dismally blank. She still had a lot of ground to cover. ‘Oh, and where’s your place?’

  ‘Thirteen Buckingham Avenue.’

  Naturally.

  Soon after, Eden swept out again like the Queen of Sheba and Olive was able to let forth a rip-roaring, ear-splitting laugh. Finally containing herself, she grinned. ‘Didn’t think it’d take long for you to cross paths with Eden Delaware. She’s Mrs D’s daughter – the one who signed you up for netball your first day. Everyone’s related around here. You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘The pair certainly have pushiness in common,’ Winnie mused.

  ‘Mrs D’s claim to fame is once helping Kingston win a Tidy Town Award, and her husband’s on a heap of local committees. The whole family’s pretty well known around here.’ Olive adopted a sweet tone. ‘And we’re just so lucky to have Eden back on home turf.’

  Winnie giggled. ‘Small doses definitely seem recommended.’

  Olive crossed her eyes. ‘Well known, of course, doesn’t necessarily mean well liked. Just picture what the poor bridesmaids will have to endure.’

  ‘I can only imagine,’ Winnie said, shaking her head.

  Chapter Six

  ‘So who was that lass you were dancing with the other night?’

  Alex appraised the nosy fish processor and stuffed his hands in his pockets. This was his last stop, dropping off the morning’s catch ready for live export to China. The Chinese were prepared to pay the steep prices for the seafood, unlike the Aussies. The southern rock lobsters were even more expensive than those from the west coast, since they were generally bigger.

  ‘I don’t dance,’ Alex muttered. ‘And she’s just a work contact. To do with my photography sideline.’ Winnie was already in his head since she’d emailed him some boring photo assignment with old Mrs Mannix. Thoughts of irksome city blow-ins aside, it had been a good morning’s fishing, and he and the skipper had doubled their catch from yesterday. Their crustaceans now jostled with the other local fishermen’s in the shed’s massive water-storage tubs.

  The ruddy-faced fish processor quirked an eyebrow at Alex. ‘Well, she looked pretty easy on the eye.’

  Alex narrowed his gaze. ‘Last time I checked, you were married.’

  The processor put up meaty hands in defence. ‘A guy can still look, can’t he? Besides, I meant she’s a good one for you. Isn’t it time a young bachelor like yourself got a girlfriend? One that lasted longer than a night?’

  ‘Footloose and fancy-free is more my style,’ Alex murmured. The guy was walking a fine line. Declining the processor’s offer of a beer to celebrate the end of a hard day’s work, he headed for his ute, parked near the sand. He nodded at his skipper, Walker, who was chatting to another fisherman beside his four-wheel drive, to let him know the last job was done. Walker tipped his hat in return.

  In his ute, with Kasabian blaring, Alex checked his rear-view mirror and pulled out. The ocean glittered alluringly, even though he’d already spent the morning there.

  He felt a bang against his door, the shock punching the air from his lungs. Hitting the brakes, he turned to find Kirk astride his motorbike, one hand on the side of the ute – thankfully in one piece. Alex wound down the window.

  Tugging off his helmet, Kirk spiked up the front of his dark hair. ‘You almost sideswiped me, man. That’s why I had to give your ute a warning wallop.’

  Alex blew out a breath. ‘Shit, man. I didn’t even see you there. Sorry.’ To think he’d had the cheek to curse Winnie’s driving skills.

  ‘Clearly. Still, I don’t fancy being road kill.’ Kirk leant on Alex’s window ledge, a teasing glint in his black eyes. ‘You distracted thinking about that girl? From the magazine?’

  Alex tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Not Kirk, too. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever you say.’ Kirk trailed his gaze down Alex’s ute. ‘Hey, what happened to your side mirror? No wonder you didn’t see me coming.’

  Of course. It was all her fault again.

  ‘You really don’t want to know,’ Alex said, his teeth clenched.

  Winnie walked into the office on Wednesday morning and found Olive whispering into the phone. Again. She threw her handbag on the desk. She’d had enough of Olive’s personal calls and her apparent lack of interest in work, as amusing as her banter as a coworker could be. At least Winnie was trying to get some articles in the pipeline.

  Winnie’s mood wasn’t aided by the state of her back, which ached from the coffin-like camp bed, or being bleary-eyed because the mangy, collarless cat had returned at the crack of dawn to mew outside her window.

  Fixing herself a peppermint tea in the kitchen – a local brew by Robe’s Mahalia Coffee, apparently – Winnie violently swirled her spoon in the mug, waiting for Olive to hang up. When she did, Winnie marched back to her desk, plonked down in her seat and eyeballed the redhead. ‘Morning, Olive. Wh
o was that on the phone? A potential advertiser, I hope.’

  The ad manager had the grace to blush. ‘No, my – my psychic.’

  ‘Your psychic?’ Winnie shook her head. ‘The office line is not for your personal use, you know.’ Wow, she almost sounded like Christa. So chilling. She might even make a good head-kicker herself in future.

  Olive narrowed her gaze, her blush dissipating. ‘What about the call you made to that Sydney friend of yours yesterday? What was her name – Bruna? Interstate calls aren’t cheap.’

  ‘That was one call – not one an hour,’ Winnie huffed. ‘Really, Olive. We’ve got just two months until the magazine hits the newsstands. I’m sorry to play hardball, but I am the editor, which means I’m in charge. I’m disappointed you haven’t set up one advertising appointment yet.’

  Olive stared at her for a long, loaded moment, then suddenly tipped back her head and laughed. Not quite the reaction Winnie had expected. Finally, Olive wiped her eyes of tears. ‘No need to get all high and mighty. I make more in commission in one day than you make in one week. That’s the difference between advertising and editorial.’ Turning, the redhead opened her desk’s top drawer and silently handed Winnie a typed list.

  Winnie glanced down at the paperwork. ‘Right, what’s this?’

  Olive crossed her arms, squashing a green bead necklace against her tiny chest. ‘All the local advertisers I’ve got on board already. Who else do you think I’ve been emailing and calling? The psychic aside, of course. It’s called networking, Winnie. I put in some groundwork before the office opened, so I’d be ready ahead of time. And Christa’s certainly seemed happy with everything thus far.’

  Winnie stared at the lengthy list of business names, her jaw slack. ‘Huh.’ Her two potential stories now looked pretty paltry in comparison. And they’d walked in off the street.