The Country Girl

by Cathryn Hein

  Two messages remained. The first simply read ‘Bye, gorgeous’ while the second said ‘I’ll dream of you’.

  Tash closed the conversation box. Time to stop talking to Fred. As much as she liked him, he was becoming too attached and she’d learned from experience it was better to cut these relationships earlier rather than later. She’d thought the mention of a date might have put him off but it didn’t seem to have registered.

  She’d have to be careful how she let him down in case he turned nasty. Not that she thought he would, but the internet was full of people who could turn weird at the drop of a hat. Although the internet didn’t have a monopoly on people turning weird, as real-life Brandon had proved.

  She and Thom stayed up until midnight running over shop designs and other plans. They met the following morning over breakfast, yawning and bleary-eyed.

  ‘So what’s on the agenda for today?’ asked Thom, forking up the pancakes Tash had made him.

  ‘Markets early, then a meeting, then hairdresser. After that I’m meeting Marrtje for a late lunch. Then I’m going to raid the shops.’ Tash didn’t mean clothes shopping; she had providores and chef’s supplies in mind. The cupboards at Castlereagh were looking more than a bit bare but, more importantly, she had seduction food to make and that called for specialised shopping.

  ‘I have indoor cricket tonight, don’t forget.’

  Tash shrugged. ‘No prob. I can amuse myself.’

  Thom returned home from cricket to find his flat steaming like a laundry, the kitchen in chaos, the music channel blasting on the telly, and Tash singing loudly as she stirred salt into a giant pot of soup. She’d been horrified on arrival to find Thom’s freezer and cupboards full of pre-packaged meals and intended to leave him well stocked with healthy, hearty homemade food.

  ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ he said as he passed the kitchen to dump his gym bag in the laundry.

  ‘I have. Thanks. Have you had dinner?’

  ‘Grabbed a chicken burger at the kiosk.’

  ‘Eww,’ said Tash.

  ‘Don’t be a food snob.’

  ‘Ewwing chicken burgers is not being a food snob. I bet it wasn’t even made of chicken.’

  ‘Still a food snob.’ He ducked away from her tea-towel flick and headed off for a shower.

  When he returned, Tash handed him a beer and steered him to her computer. Thom had promised to give it an update and go over her security. ‘Do your thing, maestro.’

  Tash was ladling soup into single-serve containers when Thom turned the television volume down and regarded her seriously. ‘This Farmer Fred …’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s been messaging ever since I sat down.’

  ‘Ignore him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just some dairy farmer from Tassie. I’ve chatted to him a few times. He seems nice enough.’

  Thom regarded the screen with his lips tight. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What?’

  But he shook his head and resumed clicking and tapping. With a mutter he reached for his own laptop and fiddled for a moment, his expression intense as he returned to Tash’s computer. A few minutes later he looked up. ‘Tassie, you reckon?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s from Tassie, Tash.’

  She slid the last container in line with the others to cool and carried the stock pot to the sink. ‘So he lied. Hardly unusual.’ When Thom didn’t speak again she looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Tash, I think he’s local. As in Emu Springs local.’

  Alarm had her almost dropping the pot. ‘Local?’

  Thom nodded.

  Tash turned the tap off and stood back with her hand to her throat. This was dangerous territory. If he was local, then who was he? Her eyes closed as she mentally replayed their conversations. There was nothing to indicate anyone she knew or any malicious intent.

  ‘But who could it be?’

  Thom focused on the screen again and clicked some more. Then he leaned back with his hands behind his head and grinned.

  ‘What?’ said Tash.

  ‘I know who it i-is,’ he sang.

  ‘Who?’

  Thom kept grinning.

  Tash balled up the tea towel and launched it at his head but it fell well short. She stalked from the kitchen and tugged on his ear. ‘Who?’

  ‘Ow!’ said Thom, batting her away. ‘Jesus, Tash, who do you reckon it is? It’s Patrick. Who else?’

  ‘Patrick?’ She planted her hands on her hips. ‘No.’

  ‘IP address is the same. It’s him.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘What did I just say?’

  Tash pulled out a chair and flopped down. ‘Bloody hell.’ She stared blankly at the wall for a moment then shook her head. ‘Why?’

  Thom shrugged.

  She snapped her hands around the laptop. ‘Gimme that thing.’

  He snatched it back. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He sighed. ‘Because you’ll make him feel like a dickhead, that’s why.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ That was the point.

  ‘Come on, Tash. Give the man a break. He probably felt like he couldn’t talk to you properly as himself.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ This was a man who’d come to her when he was falling apart, who she’d seen at his worst, who’d told her his secret feelings, exposed his raw insides. How could he possibly feel like he couldn’t talk to her properly?

  ‘I’m serious. Just leave it.’

  Tash studied him for a moment. ‘You’re being very forgiving of someone who’s been taking me for a ride.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Thom rubbed the back of his neck.

  Tash’s eyes widened. ‘Have you done the same thing with Ceci?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he mumbled, not looking at her. ‘It’s just a way to see how’s she’s going without coming across as too needy or like a stalker.’ He looked up, embarrassment pinking his neck and ears when he caught Tash’s incredulous expression. ‘Where’s the harm? It’s not like I’m leaving love hearts everywhere like that other fucker did.’

  ‘It’s still a form of lying.’

  ‘Only if you get caught. And unlike Patrick, who clearly knows jack-shit about covering his tracks, I don’t intend to be caught.’

  Tash threw up her hands. ‘So what am I meant to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  Thom nodded. ‘Nothing. Until after you get laid.’ He grinned. ‘Then you can go your hardest.’

  Chapter 34

  Leaving Melbourne proved bittersweet. The short stay had made Tash realise how much she missed her friends, the markets, shops and restaurants, the hyperactive buzz of an ever-wakeful city. But on Wednesday, when the place turned miserable with winter drizzle and the footpaths and roads smelled dirty instead of washed clean, and the traffic crawled as she headed across the Westgate Bridge at the beginning of evening peak hour, Tash couldn’t help a surge of relief that she was heading home.

  Home. Funny how she still thought of Castlereagh that way. Maybe humans had some sort of homing instinct, like those tropical turtles that hatched on remote beaches and paddled out to travel the oceans, only to return years later to breed at the same place they were born.

  The miles to Castlereagh gave Tash plenty of time to contemplate the future, about where she felt happiest. Thom’s warning about not being able to have both love and her business was a niggle that wouldn’t stop. It was dumb to be thinking so far ahead when she and Patrick had only shared a kiss, but she couldn’t forget how lovely he’d been as Farmer Fred. He’d called her gorgeous and amazing, and made her feel that she truly was, and he’d been funny and cute and like the Patrick of old, in the years before tragedy split his soul.

  It wasn’t until she passed from rolling hills into the flat border country of the far western districts that her heart began to truly sing louder. Even through the eve
ning dark Tash could feel the pull of the land. This was her home. Lush and productive, and blessed by nature. The place her forebears had chosen to plant roots and grow a family.

  She almost laughed as, on cue, the clouds parted enough for a full moon to beam gloriously on the rain-slicked highway, as though lighting the path to her future. It wasn’t a sign—Tash wasn’t given to that kind of superstition—but it sure as hell felt like one.

  Tash was carrying her Melbourne booty into the flat when her parents appeared to help.

  ‘Went a bit wild, didn’t you?’ remarked her dad as he hoisted a heavy box from the boot and lugged it inside.

  ‘I like to shop,’ said Tash.

  He pulled out a tin of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce and peered at it, then at an expensive tin of anchovies. ‘Normal girls buy shoes and dresses.’

  ‘Pfft. Normal-schnormal. Besides, shoes and dresses are boring. This,’ she said, holding up a new round-bottomed copper zabaglione pan, ‘is exciting.’

  With the car unpacked, Tash unloaded the cold produce from her esky into the fridge. She pointed her dad to one of the boxes of wine and told him to open a bottle of shiraz. When everything was stowed, Tash opened a pack of dark chocolate and handed her parents each a piece.

  ‘Not bad,’ said her mum, straight-faced, before smiling at Tash’s appalled expression. ‘It’s good, darling.’

  Tash blew out a breath. The chocolate had cost a small fortune. It was also to be at the heart of the dessert she planned to make for Patrick. ‘Not bad’ simply wouldn’t cut it.

  ‘I like your new do,’ said Liz.

  Tash touched her hair. She liked it too, the way it sat feathery on her shoulders and framed her face. It made her feel pretty. ‘Thanks.’

  Peter pulled out a stool and sat next to his wife, opposite Tash. ‘So how did it all go?’

  ‘Really well. The shop’s definitely a goer. The branding people said the opportunities are enormous. Now I have to work out how much I want to invest and what product range I want to start with. My gut feeling is to start small and build, but Thom reckons that with my numbers I can be a bit more ambitious.’ She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. ‘It’ll be a lot of work, which means less time for my core business. That worries me.’

  ‘Can’t you outsource?’ asked Liz.

  ‘Yes, but outsourcing means relying on others to do the job properly. I want to keep hands-on with my business and fans. It’s how I built my brand and what they expect from me.’

  They debated the topic, Liz gently teasing Tash for her need to be in control. Finally, when their glasses were empty, her parents shared a glance before looking at Tash with excitement.

  ‘We have news too,’ said Liz.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your father and I are actually going on a holiday.’

  ‘Mount Buffalo,’ said Peter. ‘After the Prime Beef Growers conference in Albury next month. Your mother and I are going on piste, or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘You’re going to ski?’

  ‘God, no,’ said Liz. ‘We’d probably break something. We’re just going to look around for a few days, see the snow and mountains. It’s one of those email deals—accommodation with breakfast and dinner thrown in. We were going to be nearby anyway for the conference and it sounded fun, so I booked it.’

  ‘Without telling me,’ said Peter.

  Liz poked her husband. ‘If I hadn’t booked, you would have ummed and ahhed and contemplated your navel, and we would have missed out.’ She mock-glared at him. ‘Again.’

  Tash smiled at their good-natured ribbing. Her dad fake-grumbled in return about the cost but Tash could tell he was secretly pleased.

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said, hugging them both. ‘You could take a few days more and drive through the King Valley on the way back and visit the wineries. They do great cheese there too. And smallgoods. Milawa’s not far either, or Rutherglen. Pa and I are perfectly capable of keeping an eye on things here.’

  ‘Trust you to think of food,’ Peter teased.

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s my job.’

  It was late when Tash collapsed into bed. Her body sagged so heavily with fatigue she felt she was melting into the mattress. A morning trawling her favourite chef’s supplies, then lunch with friends from her uni days, then a meeting with a promotional clothing firm followed by the drive home, had left her exhausted. Sleep though, refused to come.

  She stared at her sparkly ceiling. Tomorrow evening she’d see Patrick and find out whether Saturday night had been a dream or real. Tash wanted badly for it to be real, for him to love her, but she also didn’t want to base her future on fickle emotion. Whatever decision she made about keeping The Urban Ranger at Castlereagh had to be because it made the best business sense, not because she’d fallen in love.

  What she prayed for was both.

  Tash caught the sweep of lights through the window and glanced at the clock. She smiled. As she’d anticipated, Patrick was early.

  She wiped her hands on a tea towel and cast her gaze over the flat. Everything was ready. The kitchen was tidy, the bench arranged with a single place setting, and the rich chardonnay she’d selected was coming to optimum temperature in a rustic terracotta cooler. Main course was prepared and would take little cooking. The chocolate sauce for dessert was set aside, covered, in a bain marie; the churros dough was also covered and on the bench, a piping bag alongside.

  Tash had turned off the lights over the lounge and the space was comfortingly pretty with the soft glow of the combustion fire. A new playlist of easy-listening music filled the background. She was showered, her hair styled, her clothes chosen for their casual sexiness. Fresh sheets covered her bed, a packet of condoms hidden in the bedside drawer. She would have liked to have added candles but decided that was making things a bit too obvious.

  Her heart leaped when she saw Patrick at the door. She slid it open, smiling as she stood aside to let him in and then quickly shutting the door behind him. He was smiling too. Smiling and holding eye contact like he never wanted to break it.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Hey,’ said Tash, wondering what she was meant to do. Kiss him? Patrick’s hands were full and he seemed as uncertain as she was. She reached out for the bottle he held.

  Instead he passed her a jar. ‘Dad and I were in Hamilton. I spotted this and thought of you.’

  It was a jar of locally produced honey and better than any gift of flowers or chocolate. Tash stood on tiptoes to kiss him lightly but Patrick bent into her and the kiss became lingering and tender.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said.

  ‘I missed you too.’ She stared at him for several breaths, smiling goofily, before shaking herself out of her dreaminess and indicating the kitchen. ‘Come on.’

  She walked slightly in front but angled her gaze sideways. A fleecy, hooded jacket covered his broad shoulders but she could see that beneath it he was wearing the long-sleeved blue T-shirt she’d admired once before. The jeans he wore were, like her own, comfortable old favourites.

  ‘How are your ribs?’ she asked as he removed his jacket and laid it neatly aside.

  He pushed the sleeves of his top up. Tash stared at his arms. How could arms be so sexy?

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Are you just saying that or are they really better?’

  ‘They’re fine. Just don’t go poking me.’

  Tash bit her lip against making a smart reply about poking. It was too early in the night for that and she had a far more interesting seduction plan in mind.

  Patrick cleared his throat. ‘Your hair looks nice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She picked up the wine he’d brought and her eyes widened at the label, then at Patrick.

  He rubbed his mouth and shrugged. ‘The bloke at the bottle-o said it was a good one.’

  ‘It is. A very good one.’ And very expensive. She put it back down. ‘Do you mind if we have it later?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever you l
ike.’

  ‘Thanks. There’s chardonnay in the cooler. Help yourself. Dinner won’t be far away.’

  Cooking at least gave Tash something to do with her hands. Since kissing Patrick at the door all she’d wanted was to touch him, the urge made worse once he’d removed his jacket and pushed up his sleeves.

  He poured two glasses and brought hers over to the stove where Tash was watching a pot of salted simmering water. ‘How did it all go?’ he asked.

  ‘Really well.’ She told him about the meeting with the brand consultant and Thom’s revelations about her website.

  He took a sip, watching her over the rim. ‘Glad to be home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He touched her face gently with his finger. ‘Good.’

  The water came to a boil. Tash took his hand. ‘Do something for me?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Sit down and face the other way?’

  His mouth lifted in one corner. ‘Not quite what I was expecting.’

  ‘I know, but I want you to experience something.’ She smiled. ‘It’s something you’ll like, I promise.’

  ‘All right.’ He went to move away then bent to kiss her lingeringly instead, making Tash, who was already feeling steamy from the boiling water, flush hot all over. ‘Don’t make me wait too long.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Tash made sure he was facing the door before uncovering the ingredients she’d hidden under a clean tea towel. She lifted the plate of delicate tortelli di zucca and carefully tipped them into the water. She’d made them to camera that morning, relishing the pleasure of kneading and rolling the pasta dough, preparing the delicate pumpkin and amaretti biscuit stuffing, and forming the square parcels.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ said Tash. She set a shallow pan on another hob and lit the gas to low, then tipped in a large block of butter. ‘Are they closed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now I want you to listen closely. Concentrate on the sounds and the aroma.’

  ‘I can hear the pot and something else—a pan?—but I can’t smell anything yet.’