What Matters Most

by Dianne Maguire

  ‘Better now,’ she answered, her eyes scanning the bottle’s label, the cheeses and finally resting on her favourite brand of chocolate. ‘We’ll let this breathe, shall we?’ she said immediately opening the bottle.

  Declan’s footsteps echoed along the timber passage towards the bedrooms. He returned seconds later, barefoot and without his overnight bag. ‘Smells good,’ he said watching Mia replace the lid and slide the casserole dish back into the oven. ‘What are we having?’

  ‘Slow-cooked lamb shanks. But first … beer or champagne to start?’

  They were halfway though their meal when Declan dropped the news. ‘Steve Wheeler rang me from Perth today,’ he said, totally unaware that his words had been like upending a bucket of cold water over her. He concentrated on teasing a portion of succulent meat from the bone with his fork.

  Mia ceased chewing, her conscience pinging at remembering last night’s call and the three more that followed this morning. She hoped Declan was not about to use his silken tone to draw information out of her. She was far too confused to discuss how she felt about Steve. She could not explain the earth-shattering dread she felt every time she recalled the deep timbre of his voice … she did not want to explore her confusion over what she should or should not say if they ever spoke again. ‘Really. What did he want?’ she asked nonchalantly.

  ‘He’s beside himself with worry — thought you may be lying dead in a gutter somewhere because you’re not returning his calls.’

  Mia snorted softly. ‘For Pete’s sake, Declan, don’t be so melodramatic.’

  ‘That’s what he said,’ Declan retorted, both eyebrows shooting up. He cleared his throat. ‘Um, he had that uniquely primal tone men get when they have become particularly, um … fond … of a woman.’

  ‘It’s none of your business, Declan,’ she said, her eyes challenging his before she took another sip of wine.

  He pursed his lips, as though grudgingly withdrawing. ‘No, I guess not,’ he said.

  ‘Shall we open another bottle of wine?’ she said, standing and lifting the empty bottle from the table, her tone intentionally more mellow.

  Mia and Declan had a history of wordlessly and effortlessly helping each other clean up whenever one of them had hosted a meal. It was an age-old assumption for them both, as comfortable and as reliable as a beloved old overcoat.

  ‘Declan … I can’t discuss Steve just yet. It’s too early and I’m too confused,’ she said softly as she stacked the dishwasher,

  ‘I understand,’ he said, handing her another plate.

  Mellowed by the good wine, the hearty meal, the sight of a storm brewing over the sea outside and the embracing warmth of the fire inside, Mia smiled wordlessly as Declan topped up their wineglasses. She snuggled into the blue settee, tucking her feet under her body as Declan lowered himself with a satisfied groan into one of the striped armchairs large enough to seat an elephant.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said jumping up from her seat and making her way to the kitchen bench.

  He shook his head and smiled as she tore the cellophane wrapping off the box he had brought and chose a chocolate, relishing its melting exquisiteness even before she had returned to the settee. ‘Would you like one,’ she said, unashamed, through a mouthful of chocolate ganache as she placed the box on the coffee table between them and curled up again in the corner of the settee.

  He shook his head with a disgusted frown and lifted his hand. Glancing at his watch he suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘I know this is antisocial, but would you mind if I watch a bit of today’s game on television? The Cats are playing. They’re looking pretty good for the Grand Final, even if I say so myself,’ he chortled as, without awaiting her response, he enthusiastically pointed the remote at the television.

  Totally uninterested in the Cats, or in the other team for that matter, Mia lay her head back against the settee and closed her eyes, belligerently determined to suppress the staccato tones of the football commentators to concentrate instead on the muffled crashing of the waves outside.

  The moment she was aware of having fallen asleep, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. Opposite her in the big striped armchair, Declan seemed oblivious to anything other than the game, his legs stretched out in front of him as he studied the television with absurd intensity. The frequent sips taken hurriedly from his wineglass were the only telltale sign of the nervous tension the game was generating. Almost against her will, Mia’s eyes travelled to the patch of dark hair peeking over the top button of his polo shirt. Then they moved slowly down to his flat belly and finally rested on the vee shape between the top of his legs. There she allowed her eyes and her thoughts to linger. What the hell is wrong with you, Mia? She immediately averted her eyes to the view outside the window and tried to breath normally, supremely grateful Declan had been too enthralled in the game to notice her attention, but now mulling over astounding new insights into his popularity with women.

  She lay her head back on the settee again, thinking if Eric were here now he would be jumping out of his seat, punching the air, swearing and yelling criticism and advice. Declan on the other hand sat perfectly still and quietly rubbed his chin, one leg now crossed over his knee, concentrating on the game as though analysing every move and occasionally sitting slightly forward to sip his wine in the more tense moments.

  ‘Did you phone Debra Illingworth?’ he said without warning.

  She glanced at the television to see the game was only at quarter time. That and Declan’s surprise question instantly rankled with her. She lifted her wineglass from the coffee table. ‘No, Declan. I did not. Will you please stop asking? I shall ring Debra if and when I decide that’s the best thing to do and not before.’

  ‘Oh. So you want Eric to take all this, do you?’ he said, waving his arm around.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This place has been in my family for years.’ She sipped her wine and lifted another chocolate from the box.

  ‘He’s entitled to half, Mia. You could lose it, unless you can afford to buy him out. And if this Lucinda person is as wealthy as you say, chances are she will buy you out. Why don’t you just float it past Debra?’ Declan shot back.

  ‘Oh, you are impossible, Declan. You know I would fight to the death to keep this place. But there’s no point in complicating matters this early.’

  ‘What do you mean this early? It’s over, Mia. You need to face it.’

  She jumped to her feet, her fists clenched into tight balls. ‘How do you know it’s over?’ she screamed, rushing to the refrigerator and withdrawing a bottle of sparkling water, wordlessly throwing the cupboard open, withdrawing two glasses and filling both.

  Sighing, he slowly rose from the settee and walked over to where she stood at the sink, sipping her water with her back to him.

  ‘I am only thinking of your welfare, Mia. That is my priority. You must remember that,’ he said softly behind her.

  ‘I know. I know that, Declan.’ She stared through the kitchen window at the back lawn edged with fruit trees and red geranium bushes. Remembered the domesticated hours she and Eric had spent in the garden together. Threw her head back as though gravity would be enough to control her tears and focussed her thoughts on the ceiling. Sobs filled her chest. His hands felt warm on her shoulders. He turned her to face him. Pulled her close. The sobs flowed then, deep and wracking. ‘I don’t want it to be over, Declan,’ she gasped, aware both tears, and nose, were running. ‘I know it is over. I know that. But that doesn’t mean I want it to be.’

  ‘My darling Mia. You do not deserve this. I only wish there was something I could do to help.’

  ‘You are helping just by being here,’ she said, pulling away and plucking a tissue from the box on the bench at her side. She blew her nose. Wiped her eyes. And slipped back into the intimately safe warmth of his arms and chest. While he hugged her tight, her sobs gradually abated and she wondered what he was feeling at that moment. Was he possibly thinking of the pleasure that could come fr
om allowing themselves to be even closer. Just this once. She closed her eyes. Willed him to bend and kiss her, knowing that if he did she would not stop him.

  As though reading her mind, he looked down and shook his head gently, almost indiscernibly. ‘Mia — I love you. I always have,’ he said softly. ‘You must know that by now. But I want our friendship to survive into old age, no matter how tempted we may both be to change it.’

  The unmistakable sign of his arousal puzzled her as he squeezed her even closer for a moment before dropping his arms to his sides.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, smiling down at her fondly, ‘you are so terribly vulnerable at the moment.’ He lifted the glass of water to his lips and sipped briefly. ‘I would be an absolute cad to do what I suspect would be very easy for both of us right now.’ His smile broadened, reaching his eyes. ‘Especially since you are currently packing a skinful of wine.’

  She burst into laughter as he hugged her, but she was not certain if she agreed with him that just this once would be an impossibility.

  Mia lay in her bed after waking and listened to the sound of the wind, noting the lack of any birdsong this morning, apart from the distant screeching of gulls over the sea.

  Moving quietly and slowly she pulled on cargo pants and a red windcheater and crept in bare feet to the kitchen, closing the passage door behind her to avoid waking Declan. She stretched and yawned softly before the glowing embers and tossed another log into the fireplace before lifting the blinds and staring out at the morning sun lasering through dull skies. Shrubs and trees swayed and danced in the wind. Out to sea, angry waves crashed their way onto the shore, sending rolling and bouncing balls of foam the colour of milky coffee across the sand. Suddenly, all was still … until, with angry deep howls, the wind began to hurl sheets of rain against the window. Mia watched, feeling safe and warm indoors, and realising that Declan had been right when he had urged her to consider her reality and to move forward. But how could she move in any direction while Eric persisted in his refusal to articulate anything about what was happening at this time — let alone his future intentions?

  ‘Good morning,’ Declan’s voice crooned behind her, causing her to flinch. He bent and placed an extraordinarily chaste kiss on her cheek.

  ‘What’s for breakfast, I’m starving,’ he said, grimacing when he noticed the layer of water streaming down the window to pool on the deck.

  Conversation over a breakfast of fresh fruit, croissants and coffee was light and comfortable. Mia found herself wishing Declan would raise the matter of last night’s event. But to him it was as though nothing of any significance had happened — while she was left churning with even more confusion and turmoil than before. In the sobering light of day, though, Mia realised that making love with Declan, no matter how comforting, how safe, would probably only add to her confusion. But also in the sobering light of day, she knew she still craved the next level of intimacy with her best friend. And to her — that was the most confusing of all.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she told him later, as they stood beside the open door of his car. Mia watched Declan toss his overnight bag onto the leather seat before he pulled her into a tight hug. ‘My pleasure. Sure you’ll be okay?’ he lisped softly in her ear.

  For some inexplicable, irrational, inexcusable reason Mia’s tears balled in her throat as Declan’s car roared away and eventually disappeared from view leaving the narrow strip of bitumen along the coastline desolate. Wrapping her jacket around her, she swallowed hard and turned to go inside when a large black and chrome ute cruised past. Not taking particular notice until she glanced up and noticed the driver, she watched the ute crawl along the coast road, eventually pulling to a stop about 100 metres past her house. The driver jumped from the car and energetically removed a bundle of fishing rods and a bucket from the back, before striding through the dunes and onto the beach. Now certain that it was Tim Hooper, she was immediately thrown into a quandary.

  Earlier, when the weather had calmed after breakfast, Mia had applied all her persuasive powers to coax Declan onto the beach for a walk, but he had remained frustratingly, unrelentingly, of the opinion that he had no time for such senseless activities. Mia was desperate to take her daily stroll — had been ever since the moment she had opened her eyes this morning. So in the face of his persistent lack of interest she made up her mind she would walk, perhaps even run, the length of the beach the moment he left to return to the city. After accosting Tim in the street yesterday, Mia felt she could not crash in on his privacy yet again. Mia, you are being a fool, her inner voice snapped. It’s a public beach for everyone and anyone to share.

  The thought of walking in the cold wind, possibly being rained on, only made Mia’s resolve to take her walk now even stronger. The warmth of the house brought back memories of blustering winter walks along the foreshore with Eric, followed by shared steaming showers. She zipped up her jacket, slipped into runners and wrapped her red scarf tightly around her throat, stepping out into the howling chill of the wind and picking her way carefully across the dunes before running onto the sand.

  She and Tim were the only souls on the beach. With the silently introspective air of a Queen’s guard he stood back from the water’s edge, a large fishing rod held with both hands. He wore only a thin windcheater and board shorts, exposing beefy calves and bare feet. She wondered how he stayed warm on a day like today.

  Mia was not certain if Tim was aware of her approaching, but he flinched when she said hello. ‘I feel a bit like a stalker,’ she added, still feeling as though she should apologise for cornering him yesterday. His smile mesmerised her again, even though he seemed blissfully unaware of its potency.

  ‘You don’t seem the type who would need to stalk anyone,’ he said, blushing lightly under his brown stubble.

  She knew her own colour was rising as well and hoped he hadn’t noticed. Given their age difference there was no sense in being physically attracted to Tim Hooper. In fact, it could be considered more than a little creepy if she was. ‘Is this a good time to fish?’ she asked in her most grown-up voice. ‘I would have thought the storm would put them off biting.’

  He lifted his index finger under the clear line to check the tension. ‘Yeah. It’s a really good time. We had a king tide yesterday so there may be a few salmon biting this morning. Anyway, even if the fish don’t bite, I like thinking when the beach is peaceful like this.’

  Countless conversations with young female nurses who complained about their boyfriends dumping them on weekends for male-dominated activities came to mind. ‘Does your girlfriend feel neglected if you spend too much time down here?’ she said, instantly realising that it sounded as though she was doing a bit of fishing of her own. She wished with gut-wrenching regret that she had not asked the question.

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment,’ he said, flushing again. An awkward silence followed.

  ‘Is your place one of those along the front?’ he asked flicking his head in the direction of the esplanade.

  ‘Yes. A friend came for dinner last night,’ she said. ‘By the time he left this morning he had said a million times, what an idyllic spot we have in Ackland Bay. As a local, you must feel the same way.’

  ‘I guess when you can leave any time you want, it would seem like paradise,’ he said a little sadly. ‘Was that your friend who passed me in the black Merc?’

  Mia nodded, wondering if she should say something about Declan being purely a friend. She wondered why it should matter what Tim thought.

  ‘He has a cool car,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t forget what I said about Rachel,’ Mia reminded him before moving off, acutely aware she was taking up his thinking time.

  She walked along the road for the return journey home, noticing as she passed that Tim was still in the same spot, his fishing line still dangling determinedly in the water.

  He turned and waved as though sensing her presence. She waved back. I wonder what goes though his mind during
the hours he spends down there.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tim’s line slackened and tightened with the waves’ gentle movement. He turned towards the bluff where Mia Sandhurst strolled in the distance, grateful she had stopped for a chat, but unsettled by the mention of Rachel’s name and the reminder of how dire his sister’s circumstances had become — one disaster on top of another, Monnie’s death just one of the latest.

  He pushed the hated memory away and thought instead about the way Dr Sandhurst had blushed when they had been talking. Felt the first signs of his arousal. She’s smoking — and she’s smart as well, he thought, not averse to the occasional fantasy about hot, older women during his more isolated and lonely moments.

  But his concerns about Rachel would not be suppressed. He reeled in his line and freshened the bait. And still the maudlin memories of when they had found Monnie’s heartachingly still body pushed their way into his mind. He had eventually prised Rachel away from Monnie, slowly and gently, of course, and had practically carried her home. And since that day she had not risen from her bed, despite his strong suspicion that she was not sleeping, given her dazed demeanour and the dark stains under her lifeless eyes. And he was certain she was not eating.

  By the time the thud of the back door and the sound of Peter slapping his Akubra against his thigh had signaled that he had finally arrived home that fateful night, it had been much later than usual. He had padded into the room in his socks and slipped into the laundry without a word to anyone while Annie had pulled herself up from the dinner table and shuffled over to take his tea out of the oven, the only other sounds being those of the water running in the laundry and the muffled voices on the television. Annie had shuffled back and placed his tea on the table, with Peter wiping his hands down the sides of his overalls as he had followed in her wake.

  Peter had sniffed deeply, swallowed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Where’s Rachel?’ he’d said, picking up his knife and fork, surveying the plate of sausages with onion gravy and mashed potatoes set before him.