Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance

by Carla Caruso

  Olive turned back to her screen and sniffed. ‘I googled that last mag you worked at, too – Slicker. It looks like more of a rag. Beach Life’s going to be a bit bigger and glossier, isn’t it?’

  Winnie silently fumed as she fired up her own PC. ‘Perhaps in size and design, but the readership numbers will be measly in comparison.’ She swiped at her mug, misjudging its location with her fingertips and knocking it over. Nice. Peppermint tea spilled all over her keyboard – and her thighs, where her skirt had hitched up. Ouch. She shot back in her seat. ‘Blast it.’

  Rather than laughing meanly at her again, Olive jumped up, plonked a tissue box on Winnie’s desk and extended a hand for her keyboard. ‘I’ve got a hairdryer in my handbag. Might save it. You mop yourself down.’

  Standing up to let the tea run off, Winnie unplugged her keyboard and passed it to Olive. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice. ‘And sorry for coming across all heavy-handed before. Things have just been getting on top of me lately – new town, looming deadline and all. I shouldn’t have accused you of being slack just now. You’ve clearly been doing a terrific job – much better than me. You were even good enough to clean up this place before I arrived and sort out newspapers for me.’

  Olive waved the keyboard in the air, and droplets of peppermint tea flew about the place. ‘No problems. And I shouldn’t have gone off like a bucket of prawns in the sun at you either. I just didn’t want your city-slicker superiority getting out of control.’

  They grinned at each other. It was their first fight and somehow they’d emerged unscathed.

  Olive rested her free hand on her hip. ‘You know, there’s this nice muntrie café nearby, called Sandy Grove. It’s set on a farm. Maybe we could go there for a bit of a brainstorming session. Drum up a few more story ideas? I know it’d be tough going it alone when you’re not from around here.’

  ‘I love the idea.’ It was too early to face the five emails from Eden the bridezilla already blinking in Winnie’s inbox – a blur of pink font and exclamation marks. ‘What kind of café did you say it was again?’

  ‘A muntrie one. They’re one of Australia’s oldest bush foods and look a little like tiny apples, but they’re actually berries. And they’re totally delicious.’

  ‘I’m salivating already.’ Winnie grabbed a wad of tissues and began drying off her thighs. ‘So why were you ringing a psychic, anyway?’

  Olive busied herself plugging the hairdryer into a nearby power point. ‘Nothing important. Just life and stuff in general.’

  ‘Okay.’ Obviously Winnie had touched a nerve, but she decided to let it go for the moment. They’d only just smoothed things over.

  With her gaze still averted, Olive gave the keyboard a few blasts of hot air, before pausing. ‘Oh, before I forget, I have to duck out to an appointment tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make up the time, though. The optometrist only visits here once a month.’

  ‘You wear glasses?’

  ‘Contacts.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘And another thing.’ Olive put the keyboard down for a moment to fish the work car keys from the desk drawer. She dangled them in the air. ‘Let me drive us to the café.’

  Winnie had to smile. ‘Sure thing.’

  Winnie sucked the creamy remnants of muntrie cheesecake from her fork. ‘So what about celebrities?’ she pressed Olive. ‘Anyone famous come from around here?’

  The muntries tasted – addictively – like a blend of spicy apples and sultanas. Nearby, the berry plants covered rows of trellis like green carpet. Unfortunately, the endless treats Winnie was enjoying in Kingston didn’t bode well for fitting into her skinny jeans upon her return to Sydney.

  ‘Kingston does have one famous daughter . . . though I don’t know she’d talk to you.’

  ‘Who?’ Winnie pressed, her stomach fluttering with anticipation.

  ‘Alice Bevan.’

  The butterflies decelerated to slow circles. ‘Sorry . . . who?’

  ‘Well, she’s changed her name to Allira Becci now. Guess she thinks it’s more exotic, like, you know, Portia de Rossi’s really Amanda Rogers.’

  Winnie dropped her fork noisily onto her plate. ‘You mean Allira Becci, the international model? She’s from here? And her real name’s Alice?’

  Olive’s vigorous nodding resembled a bobble-head doll. ‘Yup and yup. Sometimes it’s surprising how many roads lead back to Kingston.’

  ‘She’d make a fantastic cover,’ Winnie exclaimed. ‘And she seems really sweet, too. A total girl next door. I’ve heard there are some salt lakes in the Coorong that would be cool for a fashion shoot. Surely the soft spot for her hometown could be a lure? I’ll contact her modelling agency. Might even make her homesick. She could do a shoot for us on the way to visiting family!’

  ‘Yeah . . . it could work,’ Olive said doubtfully.

  Winnie was unperturbed by the ad manager’s tone. She could feel the journalistic buzz kicking in – she was finally making inroads. ‘Anyone else spring to mind who might add a bit of glam to the magazine?’ Winnie asked hopefully.

  ‘Actually,’ Olive steepled her fingers, ‘I did hear Kingston’s most eligible bachelor, Chester Wyatt, has signed on to do the next season of The Farmer Wants a Wife. Apparently his brothers put his name down without him knowing. It’s still meant to be a bit hush-hush, though.’

  Winnie thumped the table excitedly. ‘That’s brilliant. We could get the exclusive before the official word gets out. Nice one again, Olive. Your ideas have been pure gold today. I should have grilled you earlier. So, what makes this guy Kingston’s most eligible bachelor anyway?’ The title might have even gone to Alex, if he weren’t so cagey. And unkempt. So very different to media magnate Grant.

  ‘Chester’s a seventh-generation cattle farmer, and absolutely loaded.’ Olive batted an eyelid. ‘A real studmeister, and not too shabby-looking either. But he is notoriously shy – bit too quiet for my tastes. His number’s in the phone book, but he’s not the type to hang around, answering the blower.’

  A groan escaped Winnie’s lips. ‘Great. So how am I supposed to get a hold of him?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Olive drummed her fingers on a copy of the Coastal Herald, which she’d opened on the table for inspiration. ‘Aha!’ Eyes lighting up, she spun the rag in Winnie’s direction, tapping a coral-painted nail on the lower half.

  Winnie squinted. ‘Are you gesturing at the ad about the beef field day, or the phone-sex line one?’

  Olive rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘The beef field day one. They’re like shop windows for cows. This one’s at Chester’s best mate’s farm tomorrow. He’ll be there for a chinwag for sure. And that’s where you could lasso the guy and charm him into an interview.’

  Winnie gulped. The thought of being surrounded by majestic creatures destined for the dinner plate was more than troubling – it was her worst nightmare, but she had to keep in mind the magazine’s looming deadline.

  ‘I guess I could go,’ she said faintly.

  Her phone buzzed on the table, startling her. She checked the screen and all her muscles tensed when she saw it was Christa. ‘I’d better take this.’

  Roughly seven minutes later, she terminated the call, feeling as usual slightly battered and bruised from the earbashing. ‘Well, looks like we’ve got a magazine launch party to organise.’

  ‘A party – cool!’ Olive’s eyes gleamed. ‘Better start planning my outfit.’

  Winnie was less excited. Christa, naturally, would want every detail perfect. Which added another pressure on top of having a gazillion pages to fill for the launch issue.

  Resting her head in her hands, Winnie darted a look at Olive. ‘Tell me – how’ve you found working with Christa? I know you’ve only dealt with her on the phone and email, but just in general . . .’

  ‘Ah, she’s all bark and no bite.’ Olive waved a hand in the air. ‘I haven’t had any problems, though I gather you two have your history, since you worked in the same offic
e. You just need to learn to rub her tummy every now and then, I reckon.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Winnie murmured absently, though the thought of being within touching distance of Christa’s belly utterly repulsed her. ‘And, uh, what about Alex Bass? How do you find him, work-wise?’

  ‘He’s all right.’ Olive winked. ‘Bit stroppy at times, but decent eye candy . . . You keen?’

  ‘No, no, definitely not. I was just curious about him – professionally. Where he sprang from, his credentials, that sort of thing.’

  Olive hunched her shoulders in response. ‘No-one knows much about his past. He’s as mysterious as that gossipy columnist from the local rag who hides behind a pseudonym. Alex just breezed into town one day, was good at fishing – vital in this town – and no-one asked him any questions.’

  ‘Yeah, I gather fishing’s a pretty lucrative industry around here,’ Winnie remarked distractedly. She’d been hoping to find out a little more about Alex– the man himself was useless – but she’d once again hit a dead end.

  ‘It is lucrative,’ Olive agreed. ‘I’ve learned a bit about the industry since moving here. They can get about fifty bucks a kilo wholesale for their catch. Know how much it costs for a commercial licence for one cray pot alone?’

  The poor critters. ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty thousand dollars.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? For one pot?’

  Olive nodded. ‘Yup, and most of the fishermen – the ones who own the boats – have about sixty or seventy pots each. Not that they would have paid those prices back in the day. Little wonder there are only about fifteen cray fishermen working out of neighbouring Cape Jaffa and twenty from Robe.’

  Winnie whistled through her teeth. ‘Indeed. They’re like pots of gold.’

  Chapter Seven

  The sun beat down overhead. Flicking away a fly with one hand, Alex wished he’d worn a hat like the wizened farmers. He was freelancing for the local cattle breeders association at the beef field day and while there was usually a divide between the farmers and fishermen in town, he was happy to do whatever work paid the bills. Moving into the shade of a tree near the cattle yard, he nodded at a local breeder he recognised, then swivelled back to where sales were due to start. Slow-paced chatter merged with the sound of bellowing livestock. Just a few more snaps and he’d be off duty for the rest of the day.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Alex noticed a blur of colour and movement and a few heads swinging in the other direction. It wasn’t long before he discovered the object of the disturbance: Winnie, attempting to scale a fence into the farm in some sort of wedge heels, flashing a little too much cleavage as she did so. Bloody hell. Her frock and heels couldn’t have been more out of place amid the sea of akubras, check shirts and elastic-sided boots.

  Irritated that he felt protective of her again – in a purely professional sense – he powered in her direction, his camera on its strap knocking against his side. He wasn’t one to leave a damsel in distress, even a vacuous, girl-about-town type.

  Unfortunately, he was too late to extend a helping hand before her foot had landed in cow dung. She kicked her left heel up behind her for closer inspection and blew strawberry-blonde strands from her face. ‘My luck,’ she muttered darkly.

  Halting just short of her, Alex coughed and swallowed. ‘Uh, don’t think heels and field days are really a match made in heaven.’

  Her pretty head tilted upwards and her eyes met his. Instantly, her expression became pained, as though she’d just banged her funny bone – hard. ‘Oh . . . hi.’

  Alex scratched his stubble. ‘It’s probably too late to tell you there’s a gate a few metres down. Might have been an easier mode of entry.’

  She sighed. ‘It figures.’ Savagely, she wiped her heel on the grass. ‘Why are you here anyway?’ she asked a little rudely, as though it were his fault he’d caught her in a compromising situation. At least the curious eyes had slid away again.

  He gestured at his camera, bristling slightly. ‘I do work for other people, you know. Besides, I should ask the same thing of you.’

  Winnie pulled a face, which didn’t diminish the attractiveness of her features, if city social climbers were your thing. ‘I’m trying to find a farmer for a story – Chester Wyatt. Not that I have a clue what he looks like. I’ve left numerous messages on his answering machine to no avail, which is why I’m here. There was no other way around it. You don’t happen to know Chester?’

  ‘I’ve met him once or twice, but I haven’t seen him around today.’ Alex shrugged. ‘He must be pretty important for you to get your high heels dirty, though.’ He couldn’t help teasing her, even when she was down in the dumps. It was like a curse.

  ‘Yeah, the big-time cattle breeder is about to become a reality-TV star. Though he’s a total enigma, by all accounts.’ Winnie’s eyes suddenly glinted. ‘Speaking of enigmas, I had another idea for a Beach Life story on the drive over.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ he asked hesitantly. Already he didn’t like where her train of thought was headed.

  ‘Yeah, I thought a good piece would be for me to go on a cray-fishing boat and document a morning’s work – preferably your boss’s boat, seeing as he’s a contact of yours. Don’t you reckon it would make a fantastic photo spread, too? Cray fishing is a major industry of the town.’

  Alex tightened his jaw. The last thing he needed on a busy morning’s fishing was Winnie draping herself over the deck, moaning about seasickness and asking like a whiny kid when they’d be back on land. The confined space and long hours at sea together weren’t worth contemplating.

  ‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d be too busy fishing to take photos. I don’t exactly rest on my laurels out there. It wouldn’t work.’

  Winnie rested a hand on her narrow hip. ‘Well, you must have taken some pics on board already. I didn’t think you’d be able to help yourself as a photographer, with all the sunrises and marine life you’d see. So it would only mean taking a few extra pics of the skipper in action – surely that’s possible. And I’d just come along for the ride to observe.’

  Alex kneaded his shoulder. ‘I doubt my boss’d agree.’

  Winnie stuck out her bottom lip, which looked more succulent than he cared to admit. ‘But I’m desperate for stories and you’re part of Beach Life’s team. Couldn’t you at least try to persuade him? I’m vegetarian, so I’d be putting myself out on a limb, too.’

  Alex was silent for a moment, wondering how to untangle himself this time, before conceding gruffly, ‘I guess I could ask.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Winnie clapped her hands together, as though the decision was already made. She was a wily one. How did he keep getting roped into her misadventures? ‘Just think what a good day’s work it’ll be for you – you’ll get paid two times over for the morning.’

  ‘Great,’ he murmured unenthusiastically.

  Sidestepping more cow dung, Winnie leant to pat the snout of a brown and white cow that had lumbered closer behind a railing. Alex had to swallow a laugh. None of the locals treated the livestock like pets.

  ‘Winnie!’

  A whirlwind of pearls, ironed denim and vanilla perfume hurtled in Winnie’s direction. Eden Delaware. She leant in to air-kiss Winnie before pecking Alex on the cheek. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the pair were already acquainted – Eden liked to make herself known to all the ‘right’ people, including the local media.

  Eden’s fiancé, Flynn Hilton, was at her side. Alex shook his hand. Apparently Flynn, with his clean-cut, movie-star looks, had broken many a local girl’s heart when he asked for Eden’s hand in marriage. To Alex, though, Flynn was just an all-round nice guy, and pretty decent on the football field.

  Eden introduced Flynn and Winnie, then asked Winnie the same question Winnie had asked Alex: what she was doing there.

  ‘Oh, I’m actually looking for a guy called Chester Wyatt.’ Winnie wrung her hands. ‘For a story for Beach Life. Apparently he’s going to be on The Farm
er Wants a Wife. I haven’t had much luck tracking him down, though.’

  ‘Chester Wyatt?’ Eden trilled. ‘We’re having our reception on his cattle property.’ She darted glances around the crowd. ‘Oh, look, there he is. In the red-check shirt.’ Which didn’t exactly narrow things down, but she hadn’t finished, calling, ‘Chester, yoo-hoo!’

  Seconds later, the hulking farmer was striding in their direction, thumbs in his belt loops and an oversized black akubra shading his face. Winnie looked bug-eyed with excitement as he paused to nod his greeting at the group.

  ‘Chester,’ Eden purred, ‘Winnie here is new to town and would absolutely love to do a story on your reality-TV debut for the launch issue of Beach Life magazine. You’d be in fabulous company, too. Our wedding’s going to feature in the publication. Sound like something you’d be up for?’

  Chester looked at Eden and Winnie beneath heavy-set brows, assessing them as slowly as a cow might chew on grass. Finally, his gaze paused on the strawberry blonde. ‘Hi. I got your phone messages. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’m not much of one for interviews, but if you’re a friend of Eden’s, I s’pose it’d be okay.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a friend,’ Winnie exclaimed, seizing on the moment. ‘Maybe – maybe I could even ask you a few quick questions now and get Alex here to take a few snaps? Then it’d all be over before you know it – like a flu shot!’

  Chester shrugged, drawling, ‘‘Kay.’ The bloke was going to make great TV talent. Not. Even if he was filthy rich. Winking in the background, Eden slid away, her arm linked with Flynn’s.

  ‘Um, great, thanks,’ Winnie yelped, rummaging helplessly in her handbag. ‘I just need to find a pen, then we can get started.’

  Coolly, Alex reached into his jeans pocket, located a pen and extended it in Winnie’s direction. ‘Never seen a journalist without a writing utensil before,’ he couldn’t help commenting dryly.

  Winnie grimaced at him. ‘My saviour.’ Turning back to Chester, her features brightened with an encouraging smile. ‘So tell me – how did Farmer Wants a Wife come a-knocking?’