by Trish Morey
But at least now she didn’t have to worry about falling asleep.
After that little heart starter, she was wide awake.
Caleb didn’t have to work at giving Ava space. A call out to a fire in a massive pile of recycled building material and timber offcuts at a recycling facility took care of that. A worker who’d attempted to put out the fire with a garden variety fire extinguisher before it had engulfed the pile and sent him fleeing for his life claimed it had been sparked by an electrical fault on his tractor, and in no time at all the fire quickly took hold, spreading to a nearby stockpile of tyres before the first of the firefighters had arrived.
By the time Caleb’s crew had been called in a couple of hours later, the fire was already the size of a city office block, the flames shooting tens of metres into the sky.
It was the biggest industrial fire ever seen in the city, crews from all over the metropolitan area involved, and the only blessing was it was in an area fringed with open land so it couldn’t spread into the suburbs. For three days and nights more than one hundred fireys battled to contain the fire, the heat generated by the flames so intense it seemed to absorb the retardant and water poured onto it before they could act to cool the fire down, while the thick pillar of black smoke that snaked upwards into the sky prompted the health authorities to issue warnings to people in the surrounding suburbs with asthma and other chronic conditions to get the hell away or stay inside. Even despite their breathing equipment, more than a dozen firefighters had to be hospitalised for breathing difficulties.
Eventually the fire had burned down enough that big earthmovers could be brought in to shift the burning material into smaller piles that could be tackled separately, but it would be days before the fire was completely mopped up.
It was a weary and filthy crew that headed back to the station after being stood down the final day but Caleb was proud of each and every one of them and the way they’d performed. Mike came out to greet them. “I’ve been hearing stellar reports about you guys.”
“The crew did well, all of them,” Caleb said, “and this guy –” he patted Matt on the back – “did an awesome job. That was a tough gig for an experienced officer, let alone a rookie. Talk about a trial by fire.”
“Thanks,” the still teen-aged rookie said, and Caleb would swear he was blushing under the grime on his face.
“I look forward to hearing all about it. Now go get cleaned up, you lot. There’s pizza in the kitchen.”
“Do you mind if I don’t stay for pizza?” asked Matt. “Only my mum—” He stopped there, biting his lip, clearly thinking he’d said too much.
“Your mum will have been worried sick about you,” Mike said. “Go set her mind at rest that you’re okay.”
Right now Caleb wondered if he’d ever be able to smell anything but the stench of burning tyres again. Bone weary now the adrenaline rush of fighting the fire was past, he hit the showers, managed to inhale four pieces of pizza and hefty chunk of garlic bread, and was home within the hour.
The lawn under the tree out behind the carport – frangipani, she’d called it – was white with scattered petals of fallen flowers, and he thought of Ava then, as he climbed from his car. He rubbed his aching head. Well, she should be happy. She sure couldn’t accuse him of overstepping any boundaries lately.
He was zoning out in front of the telly when the text came. He picked up his phone, and blinked when he saw the message was from Ava.
Were you at that fire?
Yes.
Are you okay?
I’m fine.
Two minutes later came the response.
That’s good.
Are you busy?
Dead on my feet.
Of course.
Sleep well.
He stared at the messages until his screen went blank and then he let his hand and the phone flop onto his chest.
Interesting.
Ava circled slowly around her studio, a mug of ginger tea cradled in her hands. She knew not to feel disappointed, but it was impossible not to feel relieved. She’d seen the thick, black column of smoke rising for days from the industrial area near the swampy saltbush land of the port, and she’d wondered whether he’d been caught up fighting it.
But he was okay and knowing that was enough. Sure, it would have been nice to share this moment with someone, especially someone who’d seen this collection develop and knew how much work had gone into it. Especially someone who’d been part of its inspiration. But after the way they’d parted the other night, maybe this was better. She didn’t want Caleb getting the wrong idea.
All around her, on the walls of the studio on the floor and sofa were displayed the thirty artworks she’d be exhibiting – everything else, the also rans, the unfinished works in progress and the picture she’d done in a frenzy of rage and turmoil on the night she’d learned her parents had died, put to one side. It was the first time she’d arranged the entire collection together. The first time she’d been able to assess if it worked as a collection or needed something added or subtracted or tweaked. But all around her was colour and texture, the lushness of plump ripe fruit against the bold colours of bowls and jugs, the richly textured midnight blue velvet remnant that she’d pulled from a suitcase and even the rustic terracotta tiles of her floor. And then there were the stunning charcoal renditions of Caleb’s sculpted body.
And without a shred of false modesty, and she knew they all worked brilliantly together – and that was here, scattered around the walls of her studio. Adorning the walls of Evan’s gallery, they’d look even better.
No wonder the blood in her veins almost fizzed. Now she only had to work out a name for the collection. She’d been intending to call it Harvest because of the fruit and vegetables that featured so predominantly in her work – but then there were now the pictures of Caleb too, to consider.
She moved in front of the series of four – of him standing with his back to her right here in this studio, of him in the shower under a stream of water, and one of him pulling on a shirt over his shoulders, and finally, the one of him lying satiated and spent across her rumpled bed – and she could feel the irresistible tug of his physicality, the tight bunches of his muscles, the corded strength in his neck and the sculpted washboard of his abs, and it surprised her how much they reminded her of making love with him and how much she wanted to right now.
And it came to her then, the only name the exhibition could be.
Texture.
And she picked up her phone again to call him up to tell him, when she stopped herself short. And she called another number on her phone, and waited impatiently for it to be picked up.
“Evan,” she said, when it was, and because she’d needed to tell somebody, “I’ve got great news.”
The next day at the station was filled with routine upon routine. There was a shit load of stuff that needed cleaning and restocking after the huge fire, and Caleb spent what felt like a heap of time filling out reports too, all of which some desk jockey at head office would collate and pull together so the industrial waste fire and response could be analysed and picked apart so they could learn what worked and what didn’t and do better next time. And while it was a bit of a pain doing the reports, getting the results was another one of the things about this job Caleb loved. You never stopped learning. You never stopped getting prepared for the next incident.
And routine felt pretty good right now. It had been an exhausting and testing few days after which routine was a welcome change. It was luxury to have time to catch up and think. And Ava’s texts were part of the mix, and every now and then they’d do another lap around his head. Had she seen the smoke and the reports in the news, to reach out to him that way? Had she heard some firefighters had needed to be taken to hospital and she’d been worried about him?
Had she’d gone away to think like he’d asked her to?
God, so long as he lived, he’d never understand women.
Mike came looking for C
aleb right about the time he was getting changed to knock off.
Mike leaned up against the door frame of the change room. “Couple of things I’ve got to tell you,” he said, his face serious. “I’ve had word from above that this investigation into the Victorian bushfires might be coming to an end. Looks like they’ll be making a report in a couple of months or so.”
Caleb’s ears pricked up, searching Mike’s words for any hint of optimism, finding none. “And?” he prompted.
“That’s all I’ve got.”
“There’s no word on any preliminary findings yet?”
“Not that anyone’s telling me.” He sighed. “Sorry, Caleb. I know how wrong it is – Leonard Knight was a bloody legend, for god’s sake. To go out with this hanging over his head...” He shook his head.
Caleb nodded. Yeah, well, they’d waited this long for a result already. It would be worth the wait if their grandfather was cleared.
He stood up to go. “Thanks Mike. See you when I’m back on deck.”
But Mike wasn’t going anywhere. He shuffled on the spot where he stood. “You might want to sit down again. There’s something else.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve had a call,” he said, the creased lines around his eyes looking that bit deeper. “From Dave O’Dwyer – the husband of that crash victim you cut out the wreck. He’s ready to meet you now.”
Caleb sat down on a long sigh. So it was going to happen then? Because sometimes people said they wanted to meet up afterwards – after the formalities and sometimes the funeral – and then they got on with life, and they either forgot or they didn’t want to go back. It didn’t bother Caleb whichever it was because it was their loss, their grief and if they wanted to leave it there, that was fine. He’d just happened to be there on the day when their lives had unexpectedly intersected. He’d just been doing his job and it hadn’t just been him. There’d been a whole team working to save lives.
“What about the rest of crew?”
Mike rapped his knuckles on the door frame. “I know, I know. But he just wants you apparently. Got something to talk to you about, one-on-one. He wants to set up a time for tomorrow.” Mike looked a bit sheepish then. “I did warn him that you were starting four days off...”
Caleb sighed, knowing it was going to be heartrending whenever it happened, so the sooner the better as far as he was concerned. “If it suits, I can be there at ten.”
Which was how Caleb found himself the next morning, knocking on a door next to a dying pot plant on the front verandah of a tiny terrace house in the inner suburb of Norwood.
A barefoot, frazzled-looking guy opened the door wearing shorts and a messy T-shirt with a tea towel slung over his shoulder. He looked weary, like he hadn’t slept for a month and Caleb knew he had damned good reason.
“You’re Caleb Knight?” the man said, and for a moment he just stood there and stared at Caleb, and in the man’s eyes Caleb saw a world of pain and loss. Then he gave a bittersweet smile while he wiped his hands on the tea towel before thrusting out his hand. “I’m Dave. Thank you so much for coming,” he said, before pulling him into a stiff man hug.
Caleb knew he was in trouble. He was already choking up and he hadn’t even got inside the door.
“Come and meet the little guy,” Dave said, leading Caleb into a family room peppered with shoes and abandoned toys while on the table sat a basket piled high with laundry.
In the kitchen in the corner the remnants of breakfast were littered all over the bench. And there, on the other side of the room stood the bassinet.
Dave rounded the basket, his hands on the side of the bassinet, gently rocking it. “He’s sleeping now, thank god. Took me ages to get him settled after the school run, but finally he’s asleep and I can get something done.” He looked around the room. “Sorry about the state of the place,” he said. “I’m not too good at keeping house.”
Caleb shook his head, not bothered in the least, and staring down at the tiny creature in the bassinet, the cupid bow of his mouth, the nub of nose and the even tinier fingers wrapped around his turned down sheet.
“He was three weeks prem, but he’s doing well. He’s a tough little bugger, that’s for sure.”
Caleb nodded, searching for something to say. “I don’t know much about babies, but this one looks pretty good.”
“You don’t have kids?”
“No.” He’d always imagined he’d have a clutch of kids by now.
His mum had been hoping for grandchildren from the day he and Angie married. But those dreams had turned to dust with his divorce, and with neither him nor his brother looking like hooking up with someone permanent, their mum was going to have to go on hoping.
“We’ve got three,” Dave said. “Sylvie’s six and Anthony’s five and just started school. Makes for some interesting mornings,” he added, with a hollow laugh that ended with him blinking his eyes and reaching for his tea towel as he turned away.
It was excruciating. God only knew how the man coped.
“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat as he moved to the mantelpiece nearby and picked up a picture.
A smiling woman looked out of the photo. Caleb barely recognised her, he’d been concentrating on getting her out and the ambos had had her all masked up while he’d worked, but the brunette hair – yeah – he remembered that. And he remembered the ambos talking urgently to each other. He remembered their desperate, “We’re losing her.” He remembered wielding the Jaws of Life like it was his own loved one – his own wife – trapped inside the mangled wreck, battling the twisted metal. Battling time. He remembered the, “She’s gone,” and Caleb’s gut descending to the depths of despair. Caleb closed his eyes. There were some things you should be able to forget.
Dave smiled down at the picture. “Sally was such a great mum. She loved the kids so much. And, boy,” he said, looking around again, “she’d sure go ape if she saw how I’ve let the house go—”
His words stalled. This time he didn’t bother trying to hide the tears. Carefully, almost reverently, he put the photo back on the mantel and placed his fingers on another, of his wife, with their two children in her arms and sitting on a horse drawn tram. Victor Harbor, he recognised, with Granite Island behind. His folks had taken Dylan and him there once for a family holiday when they were kids. Happy memories, only now there would be no happy family shots of the five of this family. No more pictures of Sally with her arms around three kids this time.
“Oh, god, sorry,” Dave said with a sniff, returning to the bassinet. “I didn’t ask you over so I could cry all over you.”
“It’s okay,” Caleb said, his throat suddenly two sizes too small, cursing himself for not being able to save her.
Cursing a drunk nineteen-year-old who’d got his girlfriend to drive and who’d subsequently been charged with two counts of manslaughter, but that was hardly going to help this man now. He watched Dave return to the bassinet, his fingers stroking the sleeping baby’s brow, his grief palpable.
“Anyway,” he said, smiling down at the sleeping baby, “Sally and I had the name picked out. We knew it was a boy. We’d spent entire evenings going through all the baby name books until we finally settled on one we both liked. Harry Alexander O’Dwyer.
“We were all ready for the big day. Sally could hardly wait. And then – well you were there, you know what happened. And the silly thing is, she shouldn’t have been there. She only went out for milk. I’d had a couple of beers with dinner and she wouldn’t let me go. Joked that it was her last chance to drive while she could still fit behind the wheel.”
Caleb closed his eyes against the sheer dumb luck of it all. He hadn’t known that bit. Imagined being in his place and didn’t know how this man would ever forgive himself for that. The baby sighed in its sleep and Caleb sighed with it. Damn straight.
“Anyway,” Dave continued, “I know Sal’s somewhere up there smiling down on the kids and no doubt scowling at me for being such a shit housek
eeper, but when the doctors operated on Sal and when they let me see him in the crib for the first time, and he wrapped his tiny hand around my finger – I knew she’d be with me one hundred per cent agreement on this.”
A tear fell on the baby’s cheek, its long eyelashes twitched in slumber, and his father quickly brushed it away with the pad of his thumb and turned his tear streaked face up to Caleb. “He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, I could have lost them both that night. I would have, if you hadn’t got her out in time to save the baby. So we’ve called him Caleb, after you. Caleb Harry. It’s a good name.”
Caleb had trouble with his vision after that. Somehow he managed to blunder his way back to his car, and turn his head towards the roof, needing time to think. The man had lost his wife, and he was thanking him.
And he needed – he needed...
He reached for his phone, punched Ava’s name, impatient for her to pick up. He knew it wasn’t too soon. Her texts told him it was okay to call. Her voice was husky when she picked up, like she’d been working late last night and sleeping in, like she often did.
“I need to see you.”
“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “When.”
“Now.”
“Okay.”
“And Ava?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t bother getting dressed.”
This was what she wanted from him, she thought, her fingers curled in his hair as he tripped every nerve ending in her body with his clever tongue, this passionate whirlwind of sexual pleasure. He’d arrived less than half an hour after his call and torn off his clothes and promptly buried his face between her legs and sent her senses and her heart rate soaring.
This was how things should be.
And then she stopped thinking, and gave herself up to the wave of pleasure that rolled over her, higher and higher as it approached the shore, until it crashed on the sandy beach, leaving her gasping for air. He kissed his way up her humming body then, raining kisses over her sweated skin, and, with a cry half victory, half anguish, buried himself deep inside her.