She noticed him staring. Not recognising his expression, she huffed and shook the dirt free from the auger’s steel cylinder. When she lowered it into the hole for a second go he grabbed it from her with the less than romantic words, ‘Here, my turn.’ Their fingers touched and her expression told him she was feeling just as tingly and weak-kneed, and not from the digging. He felt like dragging her off into his cave, or the bushes – anywhere.
But being a fierce, independent one, she put up a fair struggle before eventually huffing in defeat and letting go. Mm, sweet surrender, Damien thought. But there was hunger in her eyes like he hadn’t seen in their few nights together. It was an expression somewhere between playful egging and lusty daring. If her father wasn’t here he’d … Can you die of frustration? Damien wondered.
Meanwhile, there was a heap to do to ease his torture. After a few minutes of testosterone-induced labour he straightened his back and caught her staring.
‘More coffee?’ she asked, running her tongue tantalisingly around the rim of the cup.
Jeez, don’t do that. He’d never been seduced before, and he liked it. Well, apart from the fact he’d rather just rip her clothes off and get on with it.
The only other women he’d been with had been wham, bam, thank you ma’am, roll in the hay types. Damien thought it lucky for Jacqueline that Philip was only a metre away working on the other hole because old habits were hard to break.
‘No thanks,’ he said, winking. Two could play that game.
‘I’ll have another one,’ Philip chirped, and the spell was broken.
‘Yeah alright, Dad. Coming up.’
The finished sign looked great, especially the contrast between the pale treated pine of the main sign and the aged patina of his father’s old one hanging beneath:
McAllister Animal Welfare Farm
esperance
Next it was into the farm to put the final touches on the first two enclosures.
Ethel turned up right on time with the buck, which was safely confined with its legs bound and wrapped in a sheet. Poor bastard, Damien thought. It wouldn’t have a clue what was going on. He hoped it would realise it was worth all the trauma.
Damien, Jacqueline, Philip, Eileen, Tina, and Ethel were congregated behind the first enclosures, around two hundred metres from the ruins of the house and nearby sheds, and about the same distance to the top of the rise where he’d found the kangaroos. Hopefully, if the buck didn’t want to go home he’d know he could come back there. It was the best of both worlds, Damien reckoned.
He was excited and a bit sad. It signified a new beginning for both of them, but also a reminder of what had gone on, and not just the fire. If Jacqueline hadn’t come to town, if he hadn’t had the guts to go see her, if he hadn’t found Squish … Jeez, far too much analysing going on here, Damien told himself. This is bloody excellent and I couldn’t be happier, end of story. Well, a home would be nice.
The buck was a little unstable once he’d shaken himself free of the sheet, but after looking around he was off, bounding up the rise towards his original home in a group of native cork trees. For Damien it was a breathtaking moment and he found himself choking up, thanks to a massive rock-hard lump making its way up his throat.
Jacqueline moved closer and, without consciously deciding to, he reached out and pulled her to him and stared into her bright welcoming turquoise eyes. He reckoned he could have asked her to marry him right then, it felt so right. And it was definitely love and desire he saw staring back. The sound of approaching vehicles broke the spell and they reluctantly parted and turned.
Jeez, Damien thought, there’s not that much to do. It looked like the whole bloody district was rocking up. Probably half of them were just there for a gawk, but even so. A convoy stretched back to the boundary line, and not just cars and utes but trucks as well, and not just little eight-tonners.
But what the hell was a flatbed with a loader and tipper doing coming to help put up a few fences? Damien got a tight, weird feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
He looked at Philip and Jacqueline who were standing just behind him. They beamed, like they were very pleased with themselves and knew something he didn’t. Why did he feel like he was the last to know something?
He went slack-jawed when the first vehicle pulled up. It was Stan Richards, the only builder in the district – a man definitely not known for his generosity. What the hell was going on?
Damien didn’t know if his expression had changed, but suddenly he was thinking it ridiculous and bloody funny having a qualified builder turn up to construct shelters for furry little creatures. Then he was grinning like crazy, because behind him was Barry Davis, the plumber, and behind him David Crawford, the local sparky. Just what sort of place did they think they were building? But something didn’t feel quite right to Damien.
Stan parked beside Damien, pulled out a wad of large yellowed pages from a tube, and rolled them out onto the bonnet of his four-wheel drive. Damien’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened like a Venus flytrap. What he held were the original plans to his dad’s house. What the …?
‘We’re building you a house, and I just need to know if you have any changes. You’ve got two days to decide while the site is cleared,’ Stan told him.
Damien was gobsmacked, while Stan retained his trademark gruff businesslike persona, with the addition of a slight cheeky twinkle in his eye that suggested he was enjoying being the bearer of good news.
‘What? Who? How?’ Damien looked at Philip and Jacqueline. They were grinning like Cheshire cats.
‘Surprise,’ Jacqueline said, and clapped her hands. The smaller vehicles were now parked around them every which way in a motley semicircle, with around forty people standing around kicking the dirt.
‘But how? The money …? Where …? How …? Who?’
Donald Stening, mayor and self-appointed town spokesperson on all matters, stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘All these good people are donating their labour,’ he said, indicating the group, ‘and Bert McDonald here’s been good enough to provide a loan for materials while the insurance comes through.’
‘Bert,’ Damien breathed, ‘thank you.’
Bert materialised as a gap in the crowd opened and people gently pushed him forward. A shy type, Bert nodded and mumbled, ‘My pleasure. Least I could do, mate.’
The crowd gave a round of hearty applause and Bert, blushing and with his head shyly dipped, was again sucked back into the mass.
‘As for the shelter,’ Donald continued, ‘Council decided at Friday’s meeting we really do need a decent pound facility and that it was the perfect project for some of the funds raised from the sale of the caravan park years ago. There are still some details to work out, but since it’s on farmland you don’t need the usual building permits and guff. So, I declare the project open,’ he concluded, dramatically sweeping his arm around.
Damien was glad everyone was whooping and clapping, because he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? What really amazed him was how so many people had kept it a secret.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ he mumbled, suddenly overcome with shyness and emotion. Seconds later he could only nod; his throat was in a vice and the floodgates deep behind his eyes were opening. Then he had the urge to laugh at his latest thought, but he’d probably drown: Did this unrestrained show of emotion mean he was officially a sensitive new-age guy?
Jacqueline, again at his side, reached for his hand. Accepting her warm, firm grip, he noticed a tear making its way down each of her cheeks, and leant over and caught them between his lips before they marked her perfect face. Smiling through sodden lashes, she reached for him.
A Note to Readers
Depression is more than just feeling sad and down. It is a serious disease suffered by many in our community. Thankfully there are a number of great organisations ready to help sufferers and their families. Please seek help if you or a loved one is suffering depression. You are not alone – t
here is help available.
Getting help in Australia
Lifeline 24 hr crisis support: 13 11 14
Beyond Blue Info Line: 1300 22 4636
www.lifeline.org.au
www.beyondblue.org.au
www.youthbeyondblue.com
Getting help in New Zealand
Lifeline Aotearoa 24 hr telephone counselling:
(09) 5222 999 (within Auckland)
0800 543 354 (outside Auckland)
www.lifeline.org.nz
Enjoyed Wattle Creek?
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another great story.
Fiona
McCallum
nowhere Else
Chapter One
‘Me, me, me,’ Nicola yelled into the pillows, beating them with her fists, the announcer’s words bouncing back and forth between her ears.
Leaning back into the plush pillows, hands clasped behind her head, she couldn’t wipe the grin from her face. Not that she was trying to. Stuff being humble, she thought. I deserve this.
Steam drifted from under the ensuite door, rolling towards the end of the bed like a fog, accompanied by the damp musky smells of masculine body wash and shaving foam. She could hear the heavy beat of water on the glass screen, the occasional stomp of wet feet and squelch of a soap-filled sponge rubbing briskly on skin.
‘And the winner is … Nicola Harvey,’ Nicola whispered. A Walkley and a Gold Walkley – could life be more perfect?
She could hear Scott padding about on the smooth, damp Carrara marble, the opening and shutting of vanity cupboard doors, the buzz of his electric toothbrush. Scott always followed the same routine. Soon would come the brief roar of his hairdryer – there it was. And finally the slap, slap of hands as he applied aftershave.
Nicola imagined the astringent stinging and wondered why you’d bother every day. But it did smell damn good, she thought, as it accompanied Scott past the wardrobe and around to his side of the bed.
She rolled over for a better look as he bent to retrieve his Tag Heuer watch from the bedside table, admiring the muscles of his smooth, toned back and strong shoulders. Damn he was in good shape; almost forty and not an ounce of fat in sight.
Nicola fixed her gaze on the section of olive skin that disappeared under the roll of white towel around his waist, licking her lips hungrily. God she wanted to tear his towel off. What better way to celebrate than to make love with the man you loved?
She sighed. How long had it been? Nicola had tried to coax him when they’d got home from the ceremony, but he’d said he was too tired. And she really had been too drunk.
Though as he inspected himself in the mirrored door of his wardrobe, she saw that he hadn’t been too tired to hang up all his clothes.
Of course he hadn’t, she thought, feeling a little annoyed.
In the early days, Nicola had questioned whether two people with such diametrically opposed views on tidiness could happily cohabit. When they’d moved in together Scott had stated that as long as everything was out of sight he could put up with her untidy ways. Compromise; that was what love was all about, right?
She was impressed the first time she saw his carefully ordered wardrobe.
The mirrored doors hid carefully lined up rows of shirts in blocks of stripes, then checks, and then all the solid colours in ascending order of brightness like a rainbow. A bank of dark grey suits separated business and casual wear. Highly polished brown and black pairs of shoes were lined up in neat rows beneath, and belts and ties were rolled up in sets of timber boxes above drawers of carefully folded socks and jocks.
She’d pushed aside her concerns about what it potentially revealed about him as a person, telling herself she was just jealous, and that it was actually quite adorable. Well-ordered, controlled people were reliable and good with money, weren’t they? They’d certainly done well with their property and share portfolios.
By contrast, her own wardrobe held jumbled piles of clothes, and shoes stuffed into shelves wherever they would go or on the floor when they wouldn’t.
Nicola regularly marvelled at how ordered her work life was by comparison; it certainly went against the tidy mind, tidy life concept. Anyway, results were what mattered, and she’d won a Gold Walkley!
Scott finished re-adjusting the already impeccable Windsor knot of his navy and gold striped tie. He patted his side-parted, glossy black hair into place, and turned back towards her.
‘Aren’t you getting up?’
‘I think I’ve earnt a sleep in. Why don’t you come back to bed,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and pushing the thick down-filled quilt back slightly to reveal a hint of breast. She patted the plush thousand thread count sheets and beckoned to him with an expensively manicured nail.
‘I have to get to work.’
‘Aw come on, it’s not even seven-thirty. Surely they won’t mind you being a little late …’
‘I mind, Nicola.’
‘But it’s not every day I win …’
‘I’m pleased for you. I really am.’
‘This might never happen again.’
‘All the more reason to keep it business-as-usual.’
With his charcoal pinstripe suit jacket now hung in the crook of his elbow, Scott walked over to the bed and bent down to peck her on the lips.
‘Pleeeeaaaase,’ Nicola groaned, clasping her hands behind his neck while she kissed him, trying to part his stubborn lips. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he laughed, pulling away after a brief struggle and instinctively wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and smoothing his shirt and tie with the other.
‘Whenever that will be,’ Nicola muttered under her breath.
‘If you get bored you could always sort my shirts – Carmel is still ignoring my instructions.’ He paused in the doorway and shook his head.
‘Right,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
She hadn’t really expected him to pause, rip his clothes off and ravish her – she knew him too well – but there was that human desire to want what one couldn’t have.
Nicola sighed deeply. She’d just have to hope his golf went well on Sunday. A bad round would see him disappear upstairs to sulk and work on his swing. A good one and she might have a chance. She had learnt early in their relationship that replacing pouting with encouragement was the better course of action.
Nicola lay in bed listening to the coffee machine downstairs – the grinding of the beans, and then the gurgling and spurting as it finished Scott’s double-strength latte; his answer to breakfast. She knew she should join him for the few moments before he left, but still felt a little miffed at his rejection.
She glanced around the large, white painted room with its charcoal grey short pile carpet, sleigh-style bed and pair of chocolate coloured leather tub chairs. They were entirely decorative; not for sitting in, and Scott certainly hadn’t intended hers to be a clothes horse. But she hadn’t been able to resist draping her clothes over them, much to his annoyance.
There lay horrendously priced black lacy Victoria’s Secret underwear, stockings, dainty black Manolo Blahnik high heels with diamante straps, and a slinky black Alex Perry evening dress, all of which she’d stepped out of less than four hours before.
At the far end of the room was the expansive ensuite decked out in charcoal and white marble. It was the warehouse conversion’s main bathroom, and had a shower, a huge central freestanding bath, and a large vanity with double basins. Maybe I’ll take a bath.
The thought was interrupted by the downstairs front door clicking shut, and the hum of the automatic garage door opening.
Damn. Not even a goodbye kiss?
That was another thing that had stopped in the past few months; they were usually so caught up in their morning routines.
Feeling a twinge of sadness, she rolled over, pulled Scott’s pillow to her, breathed in his comforting musky scent, and tried to ignore the ache of frustration.
>
But she really shouldn’t complain; you couldn’t have everything all of the time, could you? Life itself was a compromise. Didn’t people say the romance slowed down over time?
No, she really was truly blessed: she had a wonderfully successful stockbroker fiancé, a gorgeous sparkling solitaire diamond engagement ring, a fantastic warehouse conversion, Mercedes convertible in the garage, and a comfortable, stable relationship.
And now, after years spent slaving over dodgy plumber stories, miracle diets and anti-ageing potions; her very own pair of Walkleys! No one could dispute her journalistic credentials now. Never again would she be considered just a pretty face. No siree!
ISBN: 9781460810071
TITLE: WATTLE CREEK
First Australian Publication 2012
Copyright © 2012 Fiona McCallum
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills & Boon®, Locked Bag 7002, Chatswood D.C. N.S.W., Australia 2067.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Wattle Creek Page 31