by Trish Morey
The bassinet sat in the middle of the large high-ceilinged living room, and from the door Pip could just make out chubby hands swinging at the brightly coloured toys strung across it.
‘Hey Chloe, look who’s here.’
Chloe grinned up at her mother and stuck her fist in her mouth as Tracey lifted her and swung her up against her shoulder. ‘Pip, meet Chloe. Chloe, meet Pip, my best friend from the States.’
Chloe rested her cheek on her mother’s shoulder, surveying the visitor with big blue eyes while she gummed at her fist.
‘Oh, she’s gorgeous, Trace.’
‘Yeah, she’s a poppet all right. But she has to be good. Her father threatened to sell her on eBay if she didn’t start sleeping through the night.’
‘He did not!’
‘Yep. It worked too. Four weeks from the day she was born, she slept till six o’clock in the morning. I woke up and thought my boobs were going to explode.’
The baby blinked up at Pip innocently.
‘Anyway, I better get the gravy sorted or we’ll never eat. You take her for a minute, will you?’
‘Me?’ Pip’s throat tightened as she instinctively pulled back.
‘Sure. She won’t bite. Of course, she might always gum you to death.’
‘Hang on Trace –’ She’d always wanted kids when she’d been young. Always imagined she’d have a clutch of kids by the time she was thirty, and already she was two years beyond that. But that had been before – and everything had changed since then. Even the last time she’d been here, she’d found excuses not to hold Tracey’s baby. A sniffle from the plane, a cold – she’d used every excuse not to hold baby Callan. And so, the last time she’d held a baby she’d been all of six years old and it had been her baby brother in her arms. She still had a picture hidden away in a closet somewhere of the two of them in the hospital room, Pip sitting in a chair with a goofy grin on her face and cradling one-day-old Trent in her arms. Gerald had taken the photo, and every time she went looking for something and came across it, it still had the power to tear her up.
Trent would have been twenty-six this year, a man probably married and with his own kids by now. She’d be an aunty.
Mum would have been fifty, and a grandmother.
And Gerald . . .
Only everything had changed on that December night almost exactly fifteen years ago.
The all too familiar prick of tears stung her eyes and she forced it back. Oh god, she really was strung out if she was crying at every little thing since arriving home. ‘Trace, what if I drop her. I haven’t held a baby for –’ But her friend was already handing the bundle over and telling her that of course she wouldn’t drop her, and there was nothing to do but take it. It felt awkward at first, a wriggle of squirming baby who was both stronger and heavier than she’d been expecting, and the baby knew she was a rank amateur, fussing at first with the shift from her mother. But somehow Pip got a hold under her bottom and Chloe managed to do the rest. She found her own balance and plastered herself against Pip’s chest, clutching at the ends of her hair and pulling it to her seeking mouth.
‘Hey,’ she said with a laugh, teasing the ends from the baby’s firm grip and flicking it back over her shoulder out of reach. Chloe gurgled and smiled, thoroughly delighted with herself, and somehow it didn’t feel so wrong.
The baby still felt heavy but it felt kind of good.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ she said, swaying a little and rubbing Chloe’s back, the way she’d seen her mother do.
‘I know. All you have to do these days is threaten them with eBay. Works like a charm. Anyway, come into the kitchen and you two can get to know each other while I get dinner on the table.’
Craig arrived home soon after, kissing his wife before greeting Pip and his baby daughter, and then the boys bowled back inside and set the table while Craig carved the lamb and Tracey served up the sides and Pip sat there, entertaining the gorgeous Chloe while being entertained by all of them.
And if she’d been close to tears of anguish before, this time she was close to tears of joy, because it was so good to be back here, in a busy kitchen filled with conversation and the clatter of plates and cutlery and a world away from her life in New York City. A kitchen filled with love.
She looked at Tracey, and looked at her husband and her growing boys and the plump, happy baby she was cradling, and envied her friend.
Tracey had it all, a good home, a loving family and a great marriage.
Could this have been her and Luke fifteen years on, with kids of their own? So obviously in love and with a family of their own?
No. Not a chance.
Because Craig was a good man. A solid man.
She’d bet her last dollar he wasn’t the kind of man who’d keep secrets from the woman he loved.
Chapter Seven
Luke fixed the fence and let the sheep back in the paddock, then looked at the westering sun before heading back towards the house, Turbo trotting behind him. With any luck, Jacko from the Ag store would have dropped off the part for the harvester by now and he’d soon be back in business. The weather forecast was promising – no rain predicted for the next week – not that he put his faith in the weather bureau. He’d been stung more than once before and he took every forecast with a grain of salt, but if they did manage to be right this time, he’d have a fighting chance of getting the harvest finished before Christmas.
It wasn’t like he had big plans though. His folks were expecting him to join them for lunch at their place in Stansbury, and then it would be nice to kick back and do something else for a couple of weeks. It was about time he took himself and his swag and Turbo down to Corny Point and dropped in a line or two.
The sun slanted lower, turning the sky purple and the golden paddocks molten, while high in the sky to the east a pale moon heralded the coming of night. His favourite time of day.
Usually.
Usually he headed back to the house knowing he had twelve to fourteen hours of good solid work behind him and a solid seven or eight hours of sleep to come.
Usually he felt satisfied, even knowing he was facing another twelve to fourteen hours of work again tomorrow and every day after that until the harvest was in.
But today he didn’t feel satisfied. Today he felt restless. On edge. All because of running into a woman who’d dumped him and walked away fifteen years ago.
A woman who looked a million bucks even after spending what must have been the better part of an entire day in a plane. A woman who looked a damn sight better than she ever had, and she’d looked bloody good back then.
And now he was going to have to endure a christening standing right next to her. He snorted. Well, he could do that. He’d been blindsided today, mostly because Craig hadn’t bothered to tell him she was coming, let alone that she was staying at his place.
But forewarned was forearmed. He wasn’t about to be sucker-punched again. He could do cool. He’d be so cool, she’d think he was Frosty the Snowman.
And then she’d know he didn’t give a damn.
He pushed open the garden gate and picked up the box Jacko had left on the verandah by the front door. And he felt like yelling at the moon with the unfairness of it all.
Because he could do cool. But still he looked at the small box in his hand and cursed a harvester that had chosen today of all days to do a fuel filter.
He swung the front door open and Turbo scooted in, already anticipating dinner. Then Luke paused, suddenly remembering.
Bugger.
He’d been so blindsided by running into Pip that he’d completely forgotten to tell her about the furniture. Which he probably should check now, so his precious time tomorrow could be spent fixing the header instead of worrying whether it was okay and what she might find.
‘C’mon Turbo,’ he said, backing out of the house. The dog
stood his ground for a second before realising that dinner was delayed and giving up and padding back out the door to his master.
The corrugated iron shed had seen better days, but it was still watertight and the best place to store anything that didn’t need to be in the house. Which is why he’d agreed to store the stuff from the old house next door here.
Five years he’d kept it as a favour. Five years he’d been waiting for someone to claim it.
Waiting for her to claim it.
Was it any surprise he’d forgotten to mention it, when she couldn’t even be bothered coming home? He didn’t come out here much these days – there wasn’t much point since TV had gone digital and the old telly in the shed was useless. But that wasn’t really the truth. He hadn’t come here much since Sharon had left. He hadn’t needed a shed to escape to since then.
The big rolling door squealed in protest at being opened, revealing the room at the end of the machinery shed that he’d first set up as a teenager’s escape too many years ago to count. The man-cave had later become his haven when Sharon was on the warpath and anything and anyone standing in her way was a target and he’d concluded that avoidance was the better part of valour.
The old familiar guilt bubbled up that maybe he should have tried harder. But no, he had tried at first, tried to placate her and fix whatever it was that was hurting, whatever it was that made her mad. He had tried, until he’d worked out that there was no fixing it. That he was the problem and that she didn’t want him trying. Didn’t want him full stop. It was then that he’d taken to spending his evenings out here in the shed.
He breathed in air that smelled of hay and diesel and grease as dust motes swirled and danced in the last of the sun’s fading light. Two ancient overstuffed leather sofas formed a corner of the room he’d made out here, even older carpets lining the floor. An old gramophone and the useless telly he should throw away sat in the corner. And there, against the opposite wall, stood the tarpaulin-clad furniture he’d agreed to store because it would have been churlish of him not to when he had space aplenty. He didn’t have to peel off the covers to remember what was underneath. A kitchen dresser. An old Singer treadle sewing machine and a writing bureau.
But he did lift a corner of the tarp from the base of the dresser to see how it was faring.
All good. No swelling from moisture. No stink of rodents, the farm cats clearly having done their job.
The furniture was fine. All that remained was to tell her about it.
She was staying at Craig’s. He could call her there, tell her what he had and ask what she wanted done with it. It need only take a minute. He could do it right now.
‘What do you reckon, Turbo?’ he said, his dog looking up at him expectantly, ears pricked and ready for action. ‘Should I give her a call?’
Turbo cocked his head to one side and whimpered.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Right now probably wasn’t the best time. Tracey would be getting dinner for the kids and someone would have to run and get Pip from the B&B, and he’d be left clutching the phone, waiting.
He didn’t fancy waiting on the end of a line for someone who’d once thought nothing of dumping him and walking away. He knew all too well the feeling of being left hanging and he was in no hurry to go there again.
Chloe’s christening, he figured, as he pulled the rolling door shut on his way out. She’d be at the christening.
Why go out of his way now? He could tell her then.
Chapter Eight
Pip was so full of lamb roast and apple pie she was bursting, but a good meal and good conversation had given her a second wind and vanquished that heavy feeling of being pulled under. She’d sleep well tonight, and wake with a fighting chance of getting her body adapted to the time difference. With Chloe snug against her chest, Tracey walked her the short distance across the wide yard to the B&B where the boys had left a light on in the porch. It was barely nine o’clock but the sun had set and the heat was disappearing from the day, the air filled with the sounds of creatures settling for the night.
‘Oh my god,’ Pip said, looking up at the sky above her and suddenly stopping. She wheeled around, trying to take it all in. ‘I’d forgotten this. I’d forgotten all about this.’ For there it was, spread above her, the Milky Way in all its undiluted majesty. Nature in high definition, without the aid of electronics. Millions upon millions of stars lighting up the velvet sky, a gift for anyone who cared to lift their eyes.
‘They’re just stars,’ Tracey said with a laugh. ‘They’re always there.’
Pip shook her head and spun around some more. ‘Do you know how long it is since I’ve seen a single star? And you have millions, ripe for the picking.’
‘Maybe you should come on home, then. You can have all the stars you want and more.’
Pip stopped spinning. ‘Yeah sure. And do what?’
‘I don’t know,’ her friend said, as they started towards the B&B again. ‘What do you actually do over there?’
Pip shrugged in the darkness and fell into step alongside her. ‘I analyse markets and what’s happening in them. I check out what’s happening on and offshore and why, and then make predictions about what that might mean for international money markets and the risk for the bank’s investments.’
Tracey stopped at the door to the cottage and looked at her like she’d been speaking gibberish. Above her head moths spun and whirled around the light. Somewhere in the home paddock a baby goat bleated. ‘And you actually enjoy that?’
‘It’s a great job! I’m going for a promotion to Executive Director when I get back. It’s a fantastic opportunity.’
‘So no chance of moving back home on a more permanent basis anytime soon, huh?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t see it happening. More and more my future seems to be tied up with the bank and the sky’s the limit with how far I could go. I could get a transfer to London if I play my cards right.’
Her friend just smiled at her and said, ‘Well, I can’t say I don’t wish you’d come home for good, but it’s great you’re doing something you really love.’ Tracey pushed open the cottage door. ‘I don’t know if you remember what this looked like before,’ she said as she put on the lights in the tidy kitchen, ‘but we’ve done a bit of work on it since then.’
Pip looked around. The plastered walls had been recently painted a soft grey, and there were new lace curtains over the sash window and a breakfast table for two. Along the opposite wall, a kitchenette had been installed. ‘You’re kidding me, right? This was just a storeroom last time I was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it was originally the old workers’ quarters, but we were using it for storage. But then I read an article about the popularity of farmstays and got the idea to turn it into a B&B. It’s not finished yet – I’m still looking for some pieces to fill up a few blank spaces here and there.’ She gestured to the empty wall to her left, before crossing to a doorway. ‘But check this out.’
She flicked a switch, illuminating a traditionally tiled black and white bathroom with a very untraditional corner spa. Pip’s eyes popped. ‘You’ve got a spa out here?’
‘Yeah.’ Tracey grinned widely. ‘We’re hoping it might appeal to people who like their serenity with a touch of decadence. Birthdays, anniversaries, dirty weekends – we’ve got it covered.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Pip said, ‘for when I’m about to embark on my next illicit fling.’
‘Attagirl,’ said Tracey, flicking the switch to the last room, which was as big as the kitchen and bathroom combined. ‘And here’s your bedroom.’
‘Oh, wow.’
Pip stepped inside, blown away by what her friend had achieved. When Tracey had told her about her plans to create a B&B on the farm, Pip had imagined something far more modest, rustic even. But this was like a step into yesteryear. At one end was
a bed – big and wide with a plump mattress and lace pillow shams, and at the other was a sitting area with a sofa and coffee table and wardrobe. But the pièce de résistance was the grand fireplace, regal and imposing in timber and iron and topped by a gilt framed mirror. And all around the room were little traces of history – an old kerosene lamp on the mantelpiece, a bed warmer hanging on the wall. ‘It’s gorgeous, Trace. You’ve done a beautiful job.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s come up a treat, all right. I had to slow up a bit when Chloe put in an appearance, but finally we’re getting somewhere. And you get to be the guinea pig before we go live with bookings.’
‘I love it,’ Pip said, as she unzipped the bag the boys had left on the bed. ‘Thanks so much for letting me stay.’
Chloe started to whinge, feeling neglected. ‘Uh-oh, it’s someone’s dinnertime. Do you mind if I feed Chloe while we talk?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Okay, baby,’ Tracey said, as she sat on the sofa and unbuttoned her shirt, the baby soon latching onto a nipple. Pip was so struck with the ease with which Tracey attached baby to breast that she couldn’t help but stare. Nobody she knew in New York did that. And it wasn’t just that nobody she knew over there had a baby. She had just never seen a woman breastfeeding before. ‘Wow,’ she said, as Chloe suckled, her tiny fingers curled into the cotton of her mother’s shirt. ‘You make that look so easy.’
‘Most natural thing in the world.’
‘I guess.’
‘You’ll find out one day. Best job in the world aside, you are planning to stop climbing the corporate ladder long enough to have babies one day, right?’
‘Sure,’ she replied with a confidence she didn’t feel, wishing away the lump that had suddenly re-emerged in her throat. She’d have babies one day. Of course she would. But she’d made her choices for now. She had a good career – no, a great career – and it wasn’t like thirty-two was that old. And one day, maybe, she’d meet someone special and . . . ‘One day. Hey,’ she said, pulling a cellophane package from her case, happy to find a distraction. ‘I got this for Chloe at Bloomingdale’s. Didn’t have time to wrap it, sorry.’