Cross My Heart

by Pamela Cook

  As they talked, the heavy clouds of doubt lingering in her mind parted, leaving nothing but the bright light of certainty.

  ‘Jeez,’ he grinned, ‘you’re pretty smart for a city chick.’

  She gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘And you’re pretty smart for a horse whisperer.’

  ‘Equine-assisted-learning practitioner, thank you very much.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot.’ Of course she hadn’t forgotten. How could she? She rested a hand on Mitch’s arm. ‘And a very good one. If I hadn’t done the sessions—if you hadn’t pushed me to join in with Grace …’ It was hard to find the words. ‘I wrote in the journal you gave me, that first day. Everything came pouring out onto the pages. It gave me the courage I needed to go to the police, to press charges. And if I hadn’t done that Harrison would still be out there.’ She huffed. ‘Shit, he could even have been elected to state government. What a joke.’ She shook her head. ‘So, thank you. So much.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He was so close. Those green eyes. The strong, angular tilt of his jaw. That spicy, sexy aftershave. She leaned in, a tiny fraction, letting her eyes fall shut. His lips against hers were warm and soft. Then the slick, smooth slide of his tongue inside her mouth. That old familiar electricity sparking between her legs.

  She jumped back. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

  Mitch sat up. ‘Don’t be.’ He grinned. ‘You can thank me any time.’

  ‘I don’t know what just happened.’ Her cheeks were on fire.

  ‘It’s called kissing.’

  ‘Smart alec.’ She could easily slap him. And kiss him again at the same time. ‘I’m trying to apologise for being inappropriate.’ She stood, needing more distance.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise, Tess. In case you didn’t notice, it was a two-way thing.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but you’re my …’ She was about to say ‘therapist’, even though she knew he wasn’t.

  ‘Our sessions are finished. Unless you want them to continue.’

  ‘No. I’m done. I mean, they’re finished.’ This was crazy. What was she even trying to say? She took a deep breath, crossed her arms, uncrossed them again. ‘I’m not saying that kiss wasn’t great, Mitch.’ She was still blushing, her body still humming. ‘I’m just not really in the right place to get involved with anyone. I have to focus on Grace. Getting the two of us sorted. We’re getting there, but there’s a way to go and I …’

  ‘Tess, I get it.’ The slight downturn of his mouth belied his words.

  She reached out and took his hand. Rough and sturdy hands. ‘But I could really use a friend, if that’s okay?’

  He grasped her fingers, nodding. ‘Totally okay.’

  They sat on the bench, sipping their beers, hand in hand as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He was a good man, kind and gentle, yet with an inner strength that radiated out through every pore. He wasn’t like any man she’d ever been attracted to before, but then again she wasn’t the person she used to be, either. Right now, although she wasn’t quite sure exactly who she was, she was definitely on the way to finding out. And when she did, when she and Grace had well and truly bonded, she might be in the market for someone.

  And who knew? Maybe Mitch could be that someone. One day.

  ‘Tess, can I go to school?’

  Grace’s question dragged her out of the daydream she should not have been having as she drove home. She turned to her passenger, who was looking right back, her face earnest.

  ‘Can I go to school? Like Toby.’

  ‘Wow … I …’

  ‘They do all this totally cool stuff, he was telling me about it. Running races, and painting, they have a choir and a vegetable plot. And sheep and pigs.’

  This was completely out of the blue, but Grace seemed to be deadly serious. ‘Do you think you’d like it?’

  ‘Yes, I really, really do.’ She sat back against the seat, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. ‘And I could have friends.’

  A sharp ache echoed inside Tess’s chest. Grace was lonely. It was there in the wistful gaze as she stared out the window, in the way she relished every minute spent with Toby and the other kids she’d met in art class. She was safe. If there’d ever been a legitimate reason to keep her under lock and key, it was gone. Skye had chosen to homeschool for a very good reason, but this was Tess’s call now. For the time being, Weerilla was where they needed to be. ‘I’ll call the school tomorrow and make an appointment to see the principal.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ The idea of whole days at the cottage without Grace made her stomach turn. But she already had another idea forming about what she might do with herself. School would be good for Grace. It was what she wanted.

  It was time for them both to move on.

  It was a perfect day in the middle of November and the buzz in the gallery was electric. So many people. All crowded into the small building, champagne glasses clinking, chins wagging. Skye’s paintings hung on every wall, the larger canvases forming the bulk of the exhibition, which Jules had titled ‘Catharsis’. True to her word, she’d managed to entice some wealthy Sydney collectors out for the opening and a number of the paintings had been sold already. It was easy to see how people would be drawn to them, in awe of the raw emotion they portrayed, but Tess, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the images, could only see her friend’s pain. The sooner they were sold the better.

  ‘Nice dress.’ Mitch’s voice was low, and rumbled against her ear.

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled. It had been forever since she’d glammed up. Her mother had brought some of her dresses up and this one, a simple black knee-length with a touch of lace on the bodice, was one of her favourites. Her bare arms were lightly tanned from days spent sorting out the garden, and her hair, almost to her shoulders now, had been given a tidy-up by the local hairdresser.

  ‘Heels, too.’ Mitch’s eyes travelled down her legs to the black patent leather slingbacks.

  ‘Nice to be out of the jeans and jumpers. Not looking too bad yourself.’

  ‘Max made me spruce up.’ He fiddled with the collar of his dress shirt. It was a light-blue-and-white check, a nice contrast to his eyes. ‘Even had a shave.’

  ‘So I see.’ Her fingers itched to reach out and stroke the smooth edge of his chin. She resisted. They were friends. Mates.

  ‘In case you hadn’t guessed, art galleries aren’t really my thing.’ His eyes roamed the walls. ‘These paintings are pretty …’

  ‘Disturbing?’

  ‘Yeah, that. No offence, but I don’t get why anyone would want them hanging in their lounge room.’

  ‘None taken, I agree. Talking pieces, apparently. Better on their walls than mine.’

  ‘All ready for your big speech?’

  The butterflies in her stomach launched themselves into overdrive. ‘Ready to get it over and done with.’

  Metal dinging on glass cut through the noisy chatter. Jules was getting the official part of the day underway. ‘Looks like that’s my cue.’

  He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Blocking out the murmur of the crowd, she made her way to the podium.

  ‘And, here she is.’ Jules looked lovely as usual, her hair long and loose, wearing a touch of makeup and a deep-crimson kaftan topped with a gold scarf. As Jules welcomed the guests, Tess steadied herself by looking around the room. Lots of unfamiliar faces, well-dressed types from the North Shore and Eastern Suburbs, mingled with the more casual locals. Max, stunning in a long khaki jumpsuit, her hair arranged into an impressive up-do, gave her a wink as she did the rounds with the finger food. Leela and Raj had done the catering and the smell of coconut, curry, chilli and garlic would have made her hungry if her stomach hadn’t been such a twisted mess. Peals of laughter floated in from outside, Grace’s amongst them. She’d been at school for over a month now and had fitted in surprisingly well. The huge front lawn of the gallery made a perfect playgr
ound and it was good the kids were out there playing, good that Grace wouldn’t be hearing her speech.

  ‘And so I’d like to welcome Tessa De Santis to say a few words about the collection.’ Jules’s introduction was met with a round of hearty applause.

  Whatever else her friend had said was a mystery. Now it was her turn to take the stage. She gripped her notes as she took the two steps up to the lectern. A sea of expectant faces greeted her as a hush fell over the room. Most, if not all, would know the backstory, would know the part she’d played in Harrison’s arrest. But today was all about Skye. A celebration of her life.

  ‘Thank you for being here.’ The silver bracelet she’d gifted Skye all those years ago, repaired and polished, jangled on her wrist. ‘Skye Whittaker and I were childhood playmates and even though our lives took different paths we remained best friends all our lives.’

  She paused. It was a truth she’d taken too long to realise.

  ‘Skye was a natural artist. You’d always find her in the art room at lunchtime, creating amazing sculptures and paintings. But then life took her in a different direction.’

  Her eyes fell closed, a slow tear tracing the curve of her cheek. Murmurs in the crowd and there at the back of the room, a good head taller than most, was Mitch. He poked out his tongue, gave her a thumbs-up. Silly man.

  She checked her notes before starting again. ‘But here in Weerilla, with the encouragement of Jules Starkey, she found her art—and herself—again. The pieces you see today in the smaller rooms are witness to the happiness Skye found living here with her daughter, Grace.’ She scanned the works hanging on the walls, her eyes shifting from one image to the next. ‘And the self-portraits you see here are a reflection of the enormous pain Skye suffered at the hands of her abuser.’

  Like a symphony audience in the seconds after the conductor taps his baton, the room held its breath.

  ‘When I first found these canvases locked away in Skye’s shed, I was horrified because I knew what they meant. At that point, I couldn’t have contemplated showing them to anyone. But what I have come to understand, as the title of this exhibition reflects, is that by doing these artworks Skye was able to set herself free. By capturing the darkness, she was able to walk from the shadows and into the light.’

  She gave herself a moment, sipped water from her glass.

  ‘Sadly, Skye is no longer with us, but I am sure she would have been proud to have her paintings displayed here today. Half of the proceeds from sales will go into a trust fund for her daughter and the other half will go to 1800Respect, an organisation that supports victims of sexual assault.’

  She scanned the room. Only a few of these people had known Skye, or thought they did, the woman who kept to herself, the gifted artist who may or may not have committed suicide and left a legacy of amazing artworks. But they didn’t know the real Skye. The sweet, funny, serious girl who somehow found the courage to conquer her demons, who would live on through her paintings and through her daughter.

  ‘Skye Whittaker was a beautiful woman. Not just in the physical sense, but in her heart, and in the depths of her soul, and I am proud to call her my best friend.’

  She stepped down into a round of applause, making a beeline for the door. She needed space, she needed fresh air. Most of all, she needed Grace.

  I miss you Mumma.

  We went to the creek today and scattered your ashes. Tess said that’s what you wanted, that you’d written it in your will.

  It was a warm spring day, your favourite kind, and on the way we saw the echidna. You remember him? He was shy, turned his back to us and started burrowing into the leaves at the bottom of a gum tree. We weren’t going to hurt him, but I guess he didn’t know that.

  Tess carried the urn.

  A whole family of black cockatoos were in the old banksia tree when we passed. They took off in a rush, their wings stretched out like giant fans as they flew into the sky.

  It was quiet when we got there. Just the noise of the water tumbling over the rocks, like the day we found the baby bird.

  We sat on the sand for a long time with the urn—and you—between us. Tess looked at me after a while and I nodded. She carried it to the edge of the bank and we crouched down. It was heavy, so she kept a hold on it, too. When she took off the lid she looked at me again and tried to smile. She was trying to be brave, but I could tell she was sad. Together we tipped it up and your ashes fell into the creek.

  And then the urn was empty, and you were gone.

  We stood there for a long time and watched the sun dancing on the water. I closed my eyes and saw your face, and I remembered what Tess had said about the ashes just being your body. That the most important part, your soul, was in the place you loved the most and with the people you loved the best.

  The creek.

  Tess.

  Me.

  If you or someone you know is impacted by sexual assault, domestic or family violence, call 1800RESPECT on 1800 737 732 or visit 1800RESPECT.org.au

  People affected by sexual assault, domestic or family violence can access support 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The services are available to people experiencing violence and abuse, as well as their support networks including family, friends and frontline workers.

  Acknowledgements

  There was a time when I didn’t think this book would ever be seen by anyone but me. If it wasn’t for the encouragement and support of my writing friends, my family and my readers it would still be sitting in a word file on my laptop, so please indulge me while I thank everyone I need to thank.

  This is my fifth published novel and my first foray into the world of independent publishing. In so many ways it is a product of everything I have done in my writing career up until now, and I would like to thank Vanessa Radnidge and the team at Hachette for giving me the opportunity to have four rural fiction novels published with them over the last six years. I am so grateful for everything that experience has taught me.

  It’s hard to know where to start in thanking all those who have helped me birth this particular book baby. As always my first reader, Carrie Green, thank you for your unwavering support and honest feedback. When you said you couldn’t put it down I knew I had to get it out there to a wider readership. Chrissie Mios, thank you for your thoughtful comments from both a reader and writer perspective.

  Without my writing buddies I wouldn’t be writing. That’s a fact. To Monique McDonell, Joanna Nell, Penelope Janu, Angella Whitton, Terri Green, Laura Boon, Michelle Barraclough and Rae Cairns, thank you for being there every fortnight in the flesh and every day online to provide feedback, toss around ideas, nut out marketing strategies, share pages and generally make this whole writing business so much more manageable. And fun!

  Special thanks to: Laura for your heartfelt encouragement—I’m so glad I made you cry on that first reading. Michelle, your insightful comments on my manuscript helped so much with revisions. Rae, thank you for always being on the other end of that phone line to help untangle plot lines and sort out characters. Your feedback has been crucial to creating the final version of this novel, and to keeping me sane. Sharon Ketelaar, thank you for your pick-ups during the almost-last revision stage. It’s so good to have fresh eyes at a point where nothing much is registering anymore. Krystina Pecorari-McBride, thank you for all the writing chats over the years, for always being on hand to read my words and give honest feedback. I’m looking forward to holding your book in my hands one day soon. Lisa Hall-Wilson, even though we have never met in person, your wisdom and feedback helped me take my writing up a notch (or hopefully two) and I am indebted to you for taking the time to read and comment on my manuscript.

  Over the years, I have made some amazing friendships in the writing community, and I am so grateful for the interest many of those friends have taken in me publishing this novel and for being there on the sidelines cheering me on. Your kind words have been so encouraging. Rachael Johns, Jennie Jones, Annie Seaton, Mel Hammond, Tess
Woods, and so many more: thank you.

  Meredith Jaffe, my Storyfest partner in crime, and Kel Butler, my dynamo Writes4Women partner, thank you both for always being there to listen to my woes and inspire me.

  Natasha Lester and Kelly Rimmer, thank you for reading the manuscript at a very late stage, for your support and amazing endorsements. Your kind words for the cover brought me to tears. Thank you so much!

  Jenn J. Mcleod, our writing careers have had many similarities and it’s so lovely to be travelling down this road together. Thanks for our Friday afternoon ‘info swaps’. I look forward to continuing the journey with you, both on the road and between the pages.

  Kim Kelly, you have been my inspiration in publishing this book. Thank you for your wisdom, your insights, your guidance and for always being happy to answer any crazy question I throw at you.

  To my agent Jeanne Ryckmans, thank you for supporting me in this venture and having my back in all things publishing.

  Quite a bit of research was undertaken in the writing of this book and a number of experts were called on. Thank you to Lyn Jenkin and Pam Seccombe at Horsanity. The ‘Seeing With Fresh Eyes’ workshop I took with your herd gave me a direct experience with equine-assisted therapy. I’ll be back. Thank you also to Sarah Ferguson for your advice and clarifications on aspects of equine-assisted therapy. Thanks to my fourth daughter, Liz Reid-Philip, for answering my medical questions and for making enquiries on my behalf, not to mention being part of my cheer squad. And my gratitude goes to my friend Robyn Flewin for helping with some of the legal/police questions.

  Pulling this whole thing together in practical terms was a huge learning curve. Thank you to Joel Naoum from Critical Mass for coordinating everything and for answering all my questions with grace and patience. I am indebted to my cover designer for her beautiful work. You know who you are—thank you. I hope we get the chance to work together again. And thank you to Alexandra Nahlous for your superb and insightful editing, and for putting up with all my ‘buts’ and assorted errors. Working with you was a dream.