Starting Over

by Susanne Bellamy

  Hayden picked up his glass, realised it was still empty, and put it down again. ‘Even if the receiver pulls off a miracle, there’ve got to be changes. We can’t go on with our livelihoods controlled by someone like Carter.’

  Control. That was why Paul had left home. Too many things were beyond his control on the farm—enough rain at the right time, but not too much, everything that had to do with the cotton gin, market prices, strikes. Opening the saddlery and making the decision to create large art pieces in leather made him master of his destiny.

  Until the mill closure, and damn if that irony didn’t turn his stomach.

  ‘You’re right. Although I’d take Carter over Frankston any day of the week.’ Not that Paul wanted either man around. The town was better off without them.

  ‘I still have to find money I don’t have until I sell our cotton, to pay fuel costs in order to sell it.’

  ‘It’s a catch twenty-two situation, I admit, but at least there are offers to transport the bales once they’re released. Look, I’ll talk to the bank manager in the morning and see what I can do to—’

  Hayden lifted a gaze so bleak and hopeless, Paul couldn’t finish his sentence. An image of their mate Al’s car wrapped around a tree crashed through the walls he’d thrown up to contain it within the deepest recesses of memory. The coroner’s verdict had left the cause of death open, but there was something in Hayden’s eyes too reminiscent of Al’s the last time Paul had seen him alive.

  Bile rose in his throat. Depression would not claim his little brother, not while he had breath in his body.

  Hayden shook his head. ‘Bro, you’ve done more than enough already. At some point the farm has to pull its weight.’

  Raised voices cut through the babble, but the disturbance broke the impasse building between him and Hayden. Mustering more confidence than he was feeling, he reiterated his promise. ‘I’ll speak to the manager.’

  Hayden’s white knuckles gripped the edge of the table. ‘You can’t keep rescuing the family.’

  Someone bumped into their table and Herbie clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Paul, did you hear what that bastard Carter said about me?’

  The short, bald mill worker had lost his usual chirpiness. He swayed, but Paul couldn’t tell if emotion or several schooners were to blame.

  ‘He’s told the cops I must have left the gas on. Me! That prick is too busy keeping up with that young wife of his to know what’s going on under his nose. You know how careful I am.’

  ‘True, Herb. You’re the most careful bloke I know. You check everything three times and—’

  ‘Four. I check everything four times. If there was a gas leak, it wasn’t because I didn’t do my job properly.’

  ‘I know, mate. I know. Hey, Herbie, this is Serena Quinlan.’ Paul indicated Serena sitting across from him. Serena’s presence would distract even Herbie, as inebriated as he was.

  ‘The designer lass from Sydney. How d’you do?’ Herb blinked owlishly before shaking Serena’s hand.

  Three sheets to the wind was way beyond Herbie’s—and Hayden’s—usual consumption and told its own story.

  ‘The cotton festival will be affected by the closure too. Tell her, Paul.’ Herbie swayed and Paul stood, ready to offer his own seat.

  ‘Herb, come back here, mate,’ called one of a group of mill workers huddled around a table on the other side of the pub.

  Herb excused himself before walking a dignified if meandering line back to his co-workers.

  Hayden stood. ‘I need to get home and let the oldies know what happened at the creditors’ meeting before they hear some garbled rubbish on the grapevine. I hate that I’ve let them down.’

  ‘Not you, mate. Carter’s to blame. Just don’t go near him. Not yet.’ Paul clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He looked older than his twenty-six years and, for the first time since Paul had left home to open the saddlery, he realised the real weight of responsibility he’d left to his younger brother. Guilt whacked him in the chest like a speed bowler’s delivery.

  He would fix this. He had to fix this.

  ‘We’ll find a solution, mate. Even if we can’t quite see it yet. Now go back to my place and catch some sleep before you drive home.’ He pulled his brother in for a quick, hard hug and thumped his back. ‘We’ll work it out. Tell Mum and Dad I’ll be out to visit in a couple of days, will you?’

  Hayden nodded before turning to shake Serena’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you—again—Serena. Wish it had been under better circumstances.’

  ‘You too, Hayden. See you around.’

  As Hayden disappeared through the pub door, Serena touched Paul’s arm. ‘So, dinner and an early night?’

  ‘Doubt I’ll be able to sleep. Too much going through my mind.’ Like keeping a careful watch over his brother and finding some way to secure funds to get the Carey cotton to market.

  And finding out Frankston’s plans.

  He sat heavily and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’ll try to think of other uses for the Cotton Bale like you said. You know, do something proactive.’

  ‘I don’t want to think any more about my problems tonight either. I’d love to brainstorm with you—if you like.’ Her smile was tentative, as though she feared she might tread on his bruised sensitivities, but her glorious green eyes shone with compassion.

  Her problems? Or something else? Or was he reading more into her gesture than existed? Her hand lingered on his arm, the pressure light and comforting, while the warmth of her body stirred an answering heat within him.

  If he’d like?

  He cleared his throat and granted himself a breathing space from reality. ‘It’s settled. Dinner, then we can retreat to my workshop for a planning meeting.’

  Above the pub noise, the wind began to howl. As the door opened to admit another couple of patrons, the cold air swirled dust in with them.

  ‘Hmm, how do you fancy staying put here? It’s way warmer than my icebox of a workshop.’ Pushing aside his worries for an hour or two in Serena’s company might inspire him to a solution. If only.

  ‘Or we could retreat to my accommodation. Trish said I was welcome to use her sitting room if I wanted to work.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go order dinner and—’

  ‘My suggestion, I’ll order.’ She slipped out of her seat, grinning as she gently pushed him back into his chair, and headed for the queue at the register.

  ***

  Serena wiped her mouth and fingers on a paper serviette and pushed her empty plate aside. ‘That was pretty good seafood considering how far we are from the coast.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Paul moved his chair and leaned closer. The Ace in the Hole was standing room only as half the town squeezed in. People needed to share their worries as rumours circulated, and the pub drew them together. A group who had been a few places behind her in the food queue stood eyeing off her table, juggling their table number, newly delivered dinner plates and drinks.

  ‘Shall we head back to the B and B? I think our table is needed.’

  Paul looked at the people she indicated with a nod of her head. ‘Hey, Shazza, table’s yours if you want it. We’re just going.’

  Shazza and friends mumbled their thanks and slid along the vinyl bench from the other end, filling the space as soon as Serena got to her feet. She followed Paul’s broad shoulders. He stopped every few feet, exchanging commiserations and goodnights. As they edged through the crowd towards the door a few people cast curious looks at her. Acknowledging she was an outsider and therefore of interest, Serena fixed a smile on her face. Once outside she shivered and zipped up her leather jacket. But the icy wind shrieking around the upstairs verandah of the two-storey building was almost a relief after the heat and noise inside. Paul stood beside her and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

  ‘Phew. Peace at last. Ironic, isn’t it? The worst week in the town’s history and this is probably the best day of trade the pub has had.’

  The wind found its w
ay through her jacket and Serena stamped her booted feet. ‘That’s life, isn’t it? Swings and roundabouts, highs and lows. Brrr. Come on. Jump in the car and let’s go find some heat.’ Her fingers were quickly losing all feeling and she fumbled her keys as she tugged her door open against a strong gust.

  Paul sat in the passenger seat as she slammed her door, his presence making her perfectly adequate mid-size car feel tiny. Their breathing quickly fogged up the inside of the windows. She turned the key, flicked on the heater and rubbed her hands together. ‘It probably won’t do much more than clear the windscreen by the time we reach my place but it’s better than nothing.’

  Or was it?

  Heated by his body and wafted by the blower, Paul’s aftershave insinuated itself into her awareness. Unable to resist, she breathed deeply, inhaling tangy pine with citrus and leather undertones. The sensory combination along with Paul’s close proximity was heady.

  While the heater slowly cleared the front window, she turned with the intention of studying Paul’s face in the spill of light from the pub.

  His dark eyes—the darkest brown she’d ever seen—were focused on her. Not even the low light could disguise the intensity of his gaze. Her body responded with a mind of its own and she leaned across the centre console. Doors slammed, a diesel engine chugged to life and twin headlights on high beam blazed into the interior of her car, breaking the spell. She pulled back as the vehicle roared off down the main road, leaving her night blind. Suddenly the idea of being cocooned with Paul in the intimate confines of the sitting room at Trish’s place didn’t seem like such a good idea. After the rollercoaster day they’d spent together, and the unexpected attraction that teased her mind into thinking about Paul—retreat might be safer.

  One day—not even a full twenty-four hours—and she was looking at the saddler with a crazy hunger. At least she was only looking. Meg wouldn’t have held back acting on her attraction. Serena ran her tongue along her top lip and swallowed. ‘Actually, would you mind if we left our brainstorming until tomorrow? I had a really early start and—’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’ He reached for the handle and cracked the door open. A soft glow from the overhead light banished the darkness, revealing his closed expression. ‘Don’t worry about giving me a lift. I’ll walk home.’

  A mixture of relief and disappointment washed through her. She must have imagined his interest, but her body still hummed at his nearness. It was crazy. Twelve hours ago she hadn’t even met him yet here she was thinking about—what? Kissing him? Without a doubt she was coming down with a bug. Sheer, stupid lust wasn’t in her nature. Fatigue, the onset of illness, and the near miss today—they were a lethal combination around an attractive man. She drew back and rested her shoulder against the driver’s side window as though the cold could put a dampener on her feelings. ‘See you in the morning, maybe.’

  Paul stepped out of the car, then turned and leaned down to face her. ‘Do you want to go for coffee in the morning?’

  ‘Can we decide tomorrow?’

  His gaze flicked away. ‘Sure. Text me if you want to meet. Night.’ He shut the door and headed off quickly, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. She watched him cross the main road and stride along Rolls Street until she lost sight of him behind the footpath foliage. With the festival in doubt and her cotton collection in limbo, what was the point of meeting him tomorrow? Paul had better things to do than waste time on a commission that would come to nothing. The same could be said about her. The festival was off her agenda, and the saddler was off the menu.

  She wouldn’t meet him tomorrow.

  Tomorrow she’d begin searching for her father.

  Chapter Four

  Damn it, he could still smell strawberry and peach in his workshop. And that reminded him of black-heeled boots and purple lace. Paul tipped out the dregs of his second cup of coffee and rinsed the mug. Leaning on the edge of the sink, he stared through the window at the skate park across the road. A lone rider hunched low on his board on a downward slope, picked up speed, spun a complete three-sixty degrees and skated out of view. Turning his back on the grey day he glanced at the almost completed leather panel. Yesterday, it had been the most important thing in his life, but poor sleep and troubled dreams had left him gritty-eyed and grumpy. The urgent need to work was missing. It was more than the mill closure; Frankston’s return consumed him. Was he up to mischief or after payback?

  Jack padded up, wagging his feathery tail, and thrust a wet nose into Paul’s crotch. He bent and rubbed Jack’s ears as he checked his phone. Nine am and still no text. The blank screen mocked him. What had he expected? That in one evening he would bowl Serena off her feet?

  ‘What does it matter, Jack? Yesterday’s events put a serious dent in my short-term prospects.’ He’d promised himself he’d avoid personal involvements until he was financially secure. In the cold winter morning, it was easy to remember his commitment to achieving his personal goal. Easy when the night wasn’t pressing in around them. Easy not to remember the light in Serena’s eyes and her consideration for Hayden, inebriated as he’d been.

  Serena was off limits.

  He tossed the phone onto his workbench and headed out, determined to run off his strange mood. As he jogged past the skate park, concentrating on keeping his pace in warm-up mode, he glanced at the skateboarder sitting on a picnic table. A pungent, cheap cigarette dangled from the teenager’s fingers. He took a half-hearted drag and pitched the butt onto the gravel surrounds before picking up his board and rolling along the footpath back into town.

  Paul ran out along Olive Grove Road towards the racetrack, took a left and circled past the golf club on the northern side of town and returned along Woodburn Road past the mill. The mill lay like a still-life painting in neutral tones, the only splash of colour the mountain of yellow-wrapped modules in the bale yard. Machines crouched in shadows, silent and defeated without the workers. Sweat ran down Paul’s nose and cheeks and he slowed as he approached the front gate. A ragtag group of workers in beanies and jackets milled around the sign and peered through the wire into the yard. Young Imogene Corder jumped up and down several times before tucking her hands into her armpits. When had she started working at the mill? Last he’d heard, she’d given up school to care for her wheelchair-bound mother.

  Snippets of disgruntled conversations were ripped away as wind gusts moaned through the sheds but two words rose clear above the crowd—Carter and bastard.

  Uncle Josh waved at him from the front of the crowd and Paul stopped and bent over, hands on knees. His ears tingled. The wind cooled the sweat on his skin and he shivered.

  ‘Hi, Josh. Something’s different. What’s going on?’

  ‘Hey, Paul, have you come to join us in a spirit of solidarity?’ Warren Leadbeater broke away from the small crowd and wandered across the bitumen access road, beating his uncle by a few metres.

  Paul straightened. ‘No, just out for a run to clear my head. What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re discussing action plans. Spread the word, will you? Tell the brethren to meet here.’ Warren was already turning away as Paul began jogging on the spot.

  ‘Sure, Wazza.’

  Uncle Josh clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hi, mate. How’s your dad taking the news?’ Identical in age and appearance to Paul’s father except for a small mole beneath his left ear, Josh had decided early on not to pursue a life on the land. Was that what gave Paul a spirit of kinship with his uncle that was somehow less with his father?

  ‘I think he’s okay. Hayden will be careful not to mention Frankston until we know more, and Mum will keep an eye on him.’

  ‘I know she will. After that first heart attack, we all trod on eggshells around him. Still do, I guess.’

  ‘Josh, we need you,’ Warren called as the group of workers formed a rough circle around the union leader.

  ‘Uh, gotta go, Paulie. I’ll call into the farm as soon as I can. Give your mum my love.�
� Josh jogged over and squeezed in on Warren’s right. Paul left the babble of voices behind and headed home. It was just past ten when he arrived back at the saddlery. He downed two glasses of water and splashed more over his head before picking up his phone.

  Texts from both Serena and Hayden appeared on his screen. Expecting she was going to say she couldn’t meet him after all, he checked his brother’s message first.

  Roast lamb dinner Saturday night. Look out! Mum says to bring Serena.

  Yeah, like that was going to happen. Reluctantly, he opened Serena’s text.

  Joe’s Café 10 am. Hope to meet you there. S.

  He read the message a second time and looked at the clock.

  ‘Shit!’ Tossing the phone on the bench, he grabbed a towel and raced out to the shower. Without waiting for the water to run hot, he dived under the spray and sucked in a breath. Just his luck Serena would turn out to be the punctual type who waited five minutes before giving up and leaving. He wrapped a towel around his hips and jumped across the small mud puddle on his way inside. Bundling his sweaty running gear into a ball, he pitched it into the corner of his makeshift bedroom. Barely stopping to dry off before pulling on his trousers and dragging on a shirt that stuck to his damp skin, he shoved his feet into socks and boots and grabbed his jacket off the hook on his way out the back door.

  Three minutes. A record even for him.

  He’d text her that he was on his way. Should he text? Of course he should. He wanted to see her again. He dug his hand into his pocket and came up empty.

  His phone was on the bench and he was late. Picking up the pace, he jogged the two blocks to the cafe and prayed she would still be there.

  ***

  Serena scraped froth from the sides of her cup with her spoon and looked out the window. Today she was beginning her search. Somewhere in town, or maybe on one of the surrounding properties, was her father, and whatever his name, she would find him. She rested her cheek on her hand. A drop of condensation ran down the side of the glass of water. Drawing a finger through the puddle at its base, she daydreamed about finding him, trying to imagine what he looked like, hoping he’d be happy to meet her. The bored-looking bleached-blonde, middle-aged waitress stopped beside her table.