by JD Nixon
“The Fullers have always been a musical family,” explained Dad. “Tessie’s mother sang like an angel. Better than Tessie even.”
“And Dad plays the violin like a rock god,” I teased fondly.
“Used to play, love,” he reminded me sadly. He wasn’t nimble enough to play anymore. I leaned over to kiss him on the forehead consolingly and took the tambourine from him, stowing it back on top of the piano.
“That’s why I don’t understand why you can’t learn the guitar better, babe,” puzzled Jake. “You play the piano so well, why not the guitar?”
I shrugged. “I dunno, Jakey. I guess I’m only good at specific things. It’s like when you tried to teach me to surf, remember? I’m a strong swimmer, but couldn’t learn to surf for love or money!” I paused deliberately. “But there are plenty of things I’m very good at, aren’t there, honey-boy?” And our eyes locked in one of those loaded secret couple glances that make everyone else in a fifty metre vicinity gag uncontrollably.
“There sure are, baby doll,” he agreed, his nostrils flaring and pupils dilating, and then repeated mindlessly, “There sure are.” Instant but unsatisfied sexual desire crackled around the room, as live as electricity. Oh, for an hour alone with my honey-boy in my bedroom right now, I thought longingly. Scrap that, all I’d need would be twenty minutes with him on the lounge. Hell, I’d even settle for ten minutes on the floor, here in this room, with both our phones ringing and someone knocking on the door.
Reluctantly dragging my focus away from below my belt, I suddenly remembered that we weren’t alone. I glanced over at the Sarge. Thankfully he’d managed to hold his dinner down but was regarding me silently again with those unfathomable eyes.
“We really need another guitarist or a drummer. We’re forever having to adapt songs to compensate. I don’t suppose you play the drums, do you?” I asked him optimistically.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, not entirely regretful.
“Thank God for that,” exclaimed Dad under his breath, making me giggle.
The Sarge continued. “Unfortunately my musical gene must be defective. I’ve no talent for any instrument at all. And neither do my parents, as far as I know.”
“Never mind,” I soothed. “You’re probably very good at something that none of us are. Besides guitar playing and surfing, I’m also completely hopeless at dancing.”
“You sure are,” agreed Jake, grinning. Dad nodded his head in teasing concurrence, grinning hugely as well. “She’s embarrassingly bad at dancing. Every time I see her dance I think of Elaine in that Seinfeld episode.”
I thumped him gently, remembering that episode and Elaine’s awkward, jerky movements. “I’m not that bad!”
Jake merely grinned again and I spent the next five minutes trying to tickle him into a retraction, both of us laughing madly. Realising that we were alone, the other two drifting away during our high-jinks, I moulded myself against Jake, looking up at him.
“Do you want to stay the night anyway, honey-boy?”
“Better not, beautiful. Otherwise you’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find me on top of you and inside of you.” He kissed the top of my head.
“That sounds like a good plan for tomorrow night,” I smiled up at him. “Where will you stay?”
“I’ll go to Mum’s place. I haven’t seen her for a while. It’ll be nice to catch up with everyone.”
I didn’t comment, moving away from him. There was nothing I could say about his family that wouldn’t start an argument. Even if I said something innocuous like asking him to give his mother my regards, it would only make him accuse me of being a sarcastic bitch. He’d be right too. I hated his mother and the feeling was mutual. It was best to stay silent sometimes.
We joined Dad and the Sarge in the lounge room and spent a pleasantly quiet evening watching a police procedural on TV that made the Sarge and me chuckle with amusement. Police officers and detectives on TV were always so glamorous – it was far removed from my reality. None of the characters on that show ever had someone throw up on their boots or had to fend off randy dogs. I was keen to see the end of the improbable plot, where the crim confessed easily when confronted with the convoluted, high-tech forensic evidence. But the lack of sleep the night before and the two glasses of wine caught up with me. Comfortable leaning against Jake, inhaling his familiar masculine scent and enjoying his gentle stroking of my hair, I fell asleep at a ridiculously early hour, sprawled gracelessly across the lounge.
I struggled to consciousness some time later, Jake gently shaking me and calling my name. “Wake up, Tessie. Time for bed. I’m going now.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” I mumbled in protest. “I was just resting my eyes for a second.”
“Sure you were, babe. Come on. Up you get.” And he hauled me up into his arms. I leaned against him and closed my eyes again. He led me to the front door, eyes still shut and propped me up against the hall wall, kissing me awake in farewell.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jakey?” I said sleepily.
“Course you will, Tessie darling. Sweet dreams, babe.”
I didn’t even wait to wave him goodbye, but stumbled to the bathroom and brushed my teeth with my eyes shut, leaning against the wall. I forced my eyes open to rinse, spit and gargle, and noticed the Sarge reflected in the mirror, patiently waiting at the door for his turn. He courteously moved to one side to let me exit, grabbing me gently by the arm as I passed him. I stopped and looked up at him in weary surprise.
“Your boyfriend told me you’ve been working for over a month straight. Is that right?”
Damn Jake. I sighed wearily. “Yeah. Des was kind of occupied.”
“That won’t happen again either,” he said seriously, then released me. We stood there for a moment, our eyes fixed on each other. I didn’t know what to think. It sounded too good to be true.
“Thanks Sarge,” I said finally and escaped. I kissed Dad goodnight and slipped into my nightie before falling into bed, patting my knife comfortingly and sleeping solidly until seven the next morning.
Chapter 6
I had a great sleep and woke up refreshed and looking forward to my jog. It felt disloyal, but I was secretly glad that Jake hadn’t stayed over because I never got much sleep when he was sharing my bed, even if he did leave me with a smile on my face that lasted all the next day. I pulled on my jogging clothes and runners and headed off down the stairs only to find the Sarge stretching, ready for a morning run himself. I did the polite thing and invited him to join me, deciding that morning to head away from the beach towards Mount Big. It was longer, harder jog than Beach Road, uphill for a significant proportion, but I decided that I needed the effort. That fun run was drawing closer.
Thinking of that, as we walked towards the gate I gave the Sarge advanced warning that I needed to take the weekend of the fun run off and explained to him why. He agreed, reminding himself that he wanted to discuss rosters with me at some point soon. Rosters! I thought hopefully. That sure sounded more promising than me being on duty every single day.
I threw his BMW a lingering covetous glance as we walked past it. “Nice car,” I complimented.
He looked over at it in surprise, as if he barely even noticed it anymore. “It gets me from A to B.”
“I’ll never refuse an offer to take me for a spin in it one day,” I hinted. “In fact, I’m positively drooling at the thought. You might even let me drive.”
“Not a chance. Especially with the way I saw you spin out the patrol car yesterday.” He sounded serious as he said that and I cut him a sharp look to see if he was joking or not. Once again, I couldn’t tell. He had a great poker face.
Romi was waiting patiently for me at the front gate. I introduced her to the Sarge and hid my smile as she fell instantly into a massive teenage crush. I glanced up at him. I guess he was sort of handsome in a brooding dark way, not like my Jake’s easy golden beauty. Romi was a keen reader and was studying Romantic literature at sch
ool at the moment. He was probably Lord Byron, Heathcliff, and Mr Darcy all rolled into one for her.
We jogged off and by the time we returned we were all entirely knackered. The incline on Mountain Road was steeper than I remembered and my calves were complaining loudly.
“Tessie, I like Beach Road better,” gasped Romi, hanging over the stair railing. I had collapsed on the grass, my chest heaving with effort. The Sarge was sweating up a storm, but was still upright, doing some after-stretches.
“I think the planet’s moved or something,” I complained breathlessly. “Mountain Road never used to be that steep before, I’m sure. It must be climate change.”
“This fun run?” panted the Sarge. “Is it an endurance event by any chance?”
I spared some oxygen to laugh, staring up at the beautiful blue sky, enjoying the cool dampness of the dew on my back. “No. It’s an easy eight kays on flat terrain. I just want to beat my last time.”
“How are the rest of the team going?” asked Romi, doing some stretches too, watching and imitating the Sarge.
“Who knows? I don’t think they’re well-prepared. I might be the only one who finishes,” I laughed again. After a while, I managed to sit up and invited Romi to breakfast. She accepted quickly, her eyes on the Sarge the whole time. He finally noticed her.
“You did well to keep up with that slave driver,” he said, complimenting her and insulting me.
She blushed and thanked him prettily. He looked down at her with a nice smile. A genuine, friendly smile that lasted longer than a second. I was annoyed about that for some reason and stood up suddenly, stalking off up the stairs to the house.
We let Romi have the first shower. She always brought along some clothes to change into, usually staying to have breakfast with Dad and me. While she showered, I busied myself in the kitchen. I had planned on making omelettes for breakfast and was busy chopping up mushrooms, ham, onion and parsley.
“Can I help?” asked a quiet voice from the kitchen door.
“You can jump into the shower after Romi,” I said cheerfully to the Sarge, dicing onion with a passion. “Then I can have a shower and we can get the omelette station moving. I’m starving.”
“Me too. That girl is taking a long time in the shower,” he replied, stretching his arms over his head. His running shirt rose up and I caught a glimpse of his taut stomach. I was immediately distracted by that flash of masculine skin and cut my thumb.
“Shit!” I cried out, wincing with pain as onion juice seeped into the cut, dropping my knife. The blood spurted from my wound. He looked over at me, questioningly. “Cut myself,” I explained briefly.
I rushed to the bathroom and banged on the door. “Get out, Romi! I need some first aid,” I yelled. She exited the bathroom hastily, fully dressed, hairdryer in hand. “Finish your hair in my bedroom,” I directed as I rushed past her and rummaged through the bathroom cabinet until I found the plasters. I grabbed one and rinsed my wound under the tap, then used a tissue to mop up, before whacking on the plaster. Then as if nothing had happened, I went back to chopping, not before pushing the Sarge towards the shower. In my own home, I was an absolute dictator.
Romi and I chatted while she sat at the kitchen table and applied some makeup at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning, her hair freshly washed and beautifully styled to fall in loose curls around her shoulders. I felt sweaty and dishevelled near her, but my heart wrenched at the trouble she was taking with her appearance. Teenage crushes – I remembered how simultaneously exhilarating and devastating they were.
Dad rolled into the kitchen then and offered to keep chopping while I had a shower once the Sarge was done. I think my overwhelming body odour was making it easy for him to be so generous with his help. To give the Sarge credit, he was speedy in the shower but still looked well-scrubbed, his hair damp and the scent of an intriguing deodorant or cologne lingering behind him in the bathroom. I liked it – it was masculine but elegant, a word I didn’t get to use a lot around these parts. I felt a bit diminished that I didn’t recognise the scent. It was probably something famous and popular. Something designer. He seemed keen on designer brands, judging from his clothes at least.
Ten minutes later I was clean and dressed in a dark blue ankle-length floaty cotton skirt and tight black singlet top, barefoot and hair loose, with my knife snug in the belt around my hips. I made my way to the kitchen, only to find absolute chaos. I closed my eyes briefly in temper before opening them again, not before catching the observant eye of the Sarge.
“What are you two up to?” I asked Dad and Romi in a friendly voice, wading into the middle of the mess. There were eggs everywhere, a whole dozen in the bowl, drenched in fresh herbs. I took a deep breath. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. Romi, you’re going to be responsible for coffee and tea. Start boiling the kettle. Dad, you’re going to set the table. Now would be good. Sarge, you’re going to enjoy being a guest and sit at the table waiting patiently for breakfast. You can even bang your cutlery on the table if you’re inclined to be obnoxious.” I gave him a half-smile over my shoulder when I said that, but if he did as I suggested I’d probably fling my knife into his skull. I guess he read that in my face too because he sat at the table obediently, hands in his lap, watching me carefully with those lovely eyes.
I turned all my attention to sorting out the mess of having twelve half-beaten eggs to turn into four omelettes. By the end of thirty minutes, I thought I'd acquitted myself pretty well and finally sank into a chair, the last omelette before me. It was tasty, light and fluffy – I’d done a good job after all. But I was so hungry by then I would have eaten a cardboard cutout of an omelette and enjoyed it as much. When finished, I carried my dirty dishes to the sink and started cleaning up, Dad and Romi long distracted by a chess game in the lounge room. A hand landed on my shoulder.
In a split second, before I could even think, I spun around, my heart thumping. I pressed my left forearm across his throat, pushing him backwards forcefully towards the nearest wall, my knife out and nudging his stomach, lips snarling and eyes fierce. It was just the Sarge, I finally registered, his eyes huge with alarm, his palms up in a signal of unconditional surrender. Exhaling heavily with relief, I relaxed and let him go, re-sheathing my knife.
“Best not to startle me,” I warned.
“Okay,” he said, regarding me with wary curiosity.
“I’ll never get used to you being here,” I admitted, shaking my head and laughing at my own over-reaction, turning back to the washing up.
“You won’t have to. I should be moving into the police house tonight,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral. Diplomatically, he didn't comment on what had just happened between us, but his eyes betrayed his desire for an explanation of my unexpected aggressive behaviour. I wasn’t in the habit of explaining myself to anyone though, and I wasn't going to start now.
“Look, if it doesn’t go to plan, then you’re very welcome to keep staying here,” I offered nicely, the perfect hostess, as if I hadn’t just tried to knife him in my own kitchen.
“I know. Thank you,” he responded with an admirable level of politeness. But who would want to stay at a crazy, paranoid woman’s house one second longer than necessary, I thought to myself dryly. Instead of running screaming for the front door though, he shoved one of my shoulders gently with his palm. “Go join your father. I’ll wash up.”
“Okay,” I agreed immediately and scooted. I didn’t watch the game though, but headed outside to give the patrol car its weekly wash. And I had to clean my disgusting boots as well. And I wanted to visit Des and Maureen before they finally left Little Town for good. And there were all those boxes at Miss G’s place to think about. It was going to be a busy Sunday, I sighed with resignation. There was nothing for it but to set to work. Sometimes it seemed as though my life was nothing but work, work and more work.
By the time the Sarge had finished in the kitchen and realised that I hadn’t done what he’d suggested, I was chamo
ising the patrol car, wiping the last streak of water from its shiny surface. I’d virtually cleaned the inside the day before, so gave it only scant attention this morning. I turned when he clattered down the stairs and smiled at him.
“There you go, Sarge. One sparkling clean patrol car for you. I guess you’ll be looking after it from now on?”
“You guessed correctly.”
“I’ll miss it,” I said regretfully, glancing over at its shining whiteness. “I can’t do burnouts in Dad’s Land Rover.”
He cut me a scathing look.
“I’m joking!” I assured him.
I tipped the dirty water on to the lawn and put everything away neatly. Then it was time to tackle my vomit-covered boots. Yuck! Thanks for nothing, Des. I went to the front door where I had left them, only to find them gone. Puzzled, I peeked in my room where they were scrubbed clean and buffed to a nice shine, sitting neatly in my cupboard. Incredibly grateful, I went into the lounge room to kiss Dad on the top of his head and fondly ruffle his thinning dark brown hair, thanking him for being so sweet. It was a job I hadn’t been looking forward to at all.
I pulled up a chair and watched Dad and Romi play chess for a while. Dad was going easy on her, teaching her how to play properly. She was a very smart girl and a fast learner and it wouldn’t be long before the student out-mastered the teacher. When the Sarge also came in to watch though, her game fell apart and she became flustered and distracted. Dad and I winked at each other over her head and he beat her easily after that.
To overcome her dismay at failing in front of her new hero, I suggested we go down to Des and Maureen’s place and watch them move out. It was a big event because Des had been the town’s sergeant for over twenty years and half the town would turn up to watch the spectacle of him moving on. The Sarge offered to drive us there in his car and both Romi’s and my eyes lit up at the thought. But I had to turn him down.