by Trish Morey
Right on the esplanade stood a grand old double-storey stone building overlooking the jetty that had once served as the Customs House. A German mine from World War II that had washed ashore on the beach sat in pride of place on the front lawn. ‘The wedding is to be held in the local church but the reception will be here. I just have to work out a few details for the order. Why don’t you take a walk out along the shore? I won’t be too long.’
‘Given I’m supposed to be working, I’d prefer to tag along.’ He was curious to see her operate away from her beloved vines, and dealing with customers one on one. From what he’d heard the few times he’d visited the town, a kind of folklore had built up around Holly Purman, and as far as the locals were concerned, it seemed she could do no wrong. ‘I’d like to see how you deal with customers who are lucky enough not to be cursed with the Chatsfield name.’
She drew her shoulders up at that, no apology to be seen in eyes the colour of glacial meltwaters, more a note of resignation. ‘Suit yourself.’
Inside the building the happy couple was already busy with the function manager comparing lists and making notes, and the next sixty minutes were spent considering menu choices and matching them with wines.
An hour later, Franco had to admit that Holly was more than good at what she did. She had a passion about her wines that she brought with her—a passion that shone right through those boring khaki work clothes.
Yet more boring khaki work clothes.
And he wondered as he watched her—given she’d changed before they’d started out—did she ever wear anything else other than her polo shirts, work pants and boots? Anything else that made something of the curves he knew she had hidden away under those oh-so-practical layers?
If he had to sum up her wardrobe in two words, it would be designerless drab. And if he could nominate one area where she had no gut instinct at all, this was the one.
Because otherwise, whether out in the cold morning air whispering to her vines, or dealing with clients face-to-face, she was supreme. Today she had listened to what everyone had to say, paying special heed to how the bride and groom wanted their wedding to be. She’d made suggestions when there were none forthcoming. She’d sorted out problems that were foreseen and made provision for uncertainties and things that might go wrong.
And she’d smiled.
And that smile and those eyes were a killer combination. It made everyone in the room feel good.
Including him.
And that was the biggest revelation of them all.
An hour later the order was complete and they were heading back to the car when he saw the sign for the takeaway shop down the road. His stomach rumbled and he remembered they’d missed lunch in the rush to get away.
‘Why don’t we grab something to eat while we’re here?’
She followed the direction he was looking and asked, ‘Fish and chips?’
And after more than a dozen years living in Italy, the very idea of fish and chips sounded exotic. ‘Why not?’
So they bought fish and chips with wedges of lemon all wrapped in paper from the café and found a bench overlooking the rocky beach to the marina and breakwater beyond.
The sun was warm when it peeked out from behind the odd cloud, the wind too lazy today to neutralise the effect, and the fish and chips were so good they were content to just sit and eat and watch the fishing boats bobbing on their lines. How long was it since she’d had the chance to sit and eat fish and chips at the beach? She couldn’t remember the last time.
And never in a million years would she have believed it possible today, not with Franco Chatsfield for company.
So maybe her stomach had been rumbling up a storm and the smell of frying fish and salty chips had been too much to resist, but still she wondered what kind of seismic shift had occurred that they could sit like this so companionably together.
‘That was good,’ he said on a sigh, screwing up his paper in his hands and leaning back, hooking his elbows over the back of the seat and stretching out his long legs in front of him.
She tried not to notice. She did her best to ignore the hand resting lazily just inches from her shoulder and to focus on what was left of her fish. She did her best to look at the boats. The birds. The clouds. But, God, his legs looked so good in moleskins and boots it was hard to stay focused on anything else.
The young girl serving in the fish and chip shop hadn’t looked for distractions, even before he’d opened his mouth and that unique mix of English/Continental accent had emerged and she’d all but swooned. With his long wavy hair and drop dead gorgeous looks, the girl had stared at him like one might admire some kind of exotic butterfly that had somehow accidentally fluttered into your orbit, and Franco hadn’t seemed to either notice or mind the open adoration one little bit.
She wiped her hands and stretched out Francolike on the seat and realised she envied the fish and chip shop girl.
Because it wouldn’t be half bad not to know or mind that he was a Chatsfield.
It wouldn’t be half bad not to have to care.
And then you could just concentrate on his good looks and his sexy voice and the way he turned the contents of a bush outfitters catalogue into sex on legs and then the rest of it wouldn’t matter.
She might even like the man then.
She might even find herself wanting to share a park bench with him.
But he was a Chatsfield and she had to care.
Still, it was nice sitting here overlooking a beach and feeling impossibly full in the thin sunshine even if it was with him. She’d just never figured him for a man who might possibly enjoy the simpler things in life.
‘You know,’ she started cautiously, still looking out to sea because it was much easier talking to the shifting sea than looking him in the eyes, ‘I never figured you for a fish-and-chips-wrapped-in-paper-at-the-beach kind of man.’
‘No?’ he said, sounding as relaxed and content as she felt. ‘What kind of man did you figure me for?’
‘Lobster and caviar. Truffles and foie gras. Maybe a gamey meat with some kind of fancy sauce—not too much, mind, just enough to be drizzled artistically around the plate.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because you’re a—’ she stopped herself just short ‘—so wealthy.’
‘Because I’m a Chatsfield,’ he said, and she could just about hear the smile in his voice. ‘That’s what you were about to say.’
Holly screwed up her nose. She hated it that he was right. She hated that he made it sound so unjust on her part. But he didn’t sound angry or even accusatory, just stating a fact, so maybe he really was enjoying the same post-fish-and-chips glow that she was. ‘Same thing, really.’
‘We get special dispensation, of course.’
‘For what?’
‘From eating all that lobster and gamey meat with fancy sauce all the time. It’s written into the Chatsfield family rules. We’re allowed one day off a month to slum it like normal mortals.’
And she couldn’t help it. She laughed, his reply as unexpected as the discovery he had a sense of humour. ‘Then you’re in big trouble, Franco. Because corned beef sandwiches aren’t exactly haute cuisine.’
‘There goes the inheritance,’ he said with a wistful sigh. ‘Easy come, easy go.’
If they’d been on good terms from the start—friendly terms—she would have laughed some more.
But they hadn’t been on good terms ever—so maybe there really was something in the combination of fresh fish and crunchy chips at a winter beach blessed with the sun that gave her the courage not to laugh, but to hesitate a moment and ask, ‘Why are you being so nice?’
‘Am I? I just see two people sitting on a bench, talking.’
‘But one of those people is me, and I haven’t been entirely welcoming.’
She caught his shrug out of the corner of her eye. ‘You have your reasons. Maybe over the time I’m here, you might feel differently.’
She shook her head, suddenly weighed down by the reality of the situation again. The impossibility of the situation.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t see how that’s possible. I mean, I know that it’s almost inevitable that once the pruning is completed, you’re going to get those signatures on the contract that you wanted. But how can I forget all those stories I’ve read? How can I trust that Purman Wines won’t be dragged into such a scandal or merely charged as guilty by association?’
‘Those stories you might read while at the dentist, you mean? The ones that show my family in all its faded glory, parading themselves shamelessly in front of the media every scandal-ridden chance they get?’
Now she was looking at him, the sea and the boats forgotten. Something about the way he’d said those words alerted her that maybe he wasn’t so proud of his family’s media coverage after all.
She nodded. ‘Yeah, those stories.’
He turned his grey eyes upon hers. ‘And the ones you’ve tarred me with, using the same brush.’
‘Well …’ And she wavered, thinking back, remembering those articles and searching her memory for any that featured Franco—there must have been at least one—and she looked back at him and was immediately rewarded with the sight of him and his film-star looks with his long limbs stretched out easily as if he were staking a claim, and she was glad he looked as good as sin, because it flashed warning lights that reinforced the whole Chatsfield brand loud and clear.
Entitled. Flashy. Trashy.
And even if that assessment sat uncomfortably with what she’d seen of Franco and his work ethic in the past couple of days—still he was part of that same tribe, and part of the biggest stumbling block she had against this deal. How could he not see that? How could she make it plain?
‘You’re still a Chatsfield, aren’t you?’
A frown tugged at the skin between his eyebrows. ‘Ouch. That hurts.’
‘That’s what I say when I’m at the dentist.’
‘Maybe you should ask for pain relief.’
And she wasn’t sure if they were still talking about the same thing any more or whether they were talking cross-purposes, but pain was something she knew about.
Pain was something she’d experienced and survived.
‘I think pain can be good, if it teaches you not to do stupid things.’
If it reminds you not to go there again.
Like a niggling voice was reminding her now.
‘So you still believe doing this deal with Chatsfield would be stupid?’
She tilted her head towards the sea, watching the boats tugging back and forth on their moorings, thinking how strange it was to discuss these issues without heat or rancour. But what point was heat or rancour now when the deal had been struck and it was up to Franco to fulfil his end before they would sign?
‘At the very least it would be reckless. We’re a young business, if not in years of operation, then in terms of our success. It wouldn’t take much to shake the industry’s confidence in us and lose the goodwill we’ve built up.’
‘Reckless doesn’t always have to be negative. Reckless can be exciting. Sometimes you just have to take a risk. A leap of faith if you like.’
‘Not if you’re dicing with your entire business, you don’t. Because then reckless becomes dangerous, maybe even borders on irresponsible. No, I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can ever believe this is a good deal for Purman Wines.’ She stopped herself then. ‘Damn. And you were being so nice.’
‘It wouldn’t have lasted,’ he said, and if his unexpected humour had surprised her, he surprised her even more when he hauled her up by one hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOLLY HAD NEVER liked jetties. It was crazy. She knew it was. She’d lived in the Coonawarra all her life and this was as close to a local beach as the district had and she loved the coast, but there was something about the creaking timbers and the cracks between where you could see the sea surging and foaming below that she’d never felt comfortable walking out on a groaning timber platform. It felt uncomfortably like the ground was constantly shifting beneath her feet.
She didn’t like the ground shifting beneath her feet.
And every now and then there would be a patch of new timbers, where the old rotten beams had been replaced, but always in a patch, and she’d always wondered how they’d worked out that those timbers needed to be replaced or whether they’d waited for someone to fall through first.
She avoided the old worn beams where she could. She didn’t want to be the reason for the next batch of running repairs.
But she wasn’t about to admit that to Franco. Stoically she shoved her hands in her jacket, and not just because she was afraid he might grab her hand again anytime soon. She kept her eyes on her feet and where they were placed, favouring the newer beams, or finding a path along where timbers had been bolted onto supporting beams below, avoiding anywhere where the gap between timbers was more than a centimetre.
And staying right away from the side that had no safety fence. Right away.
And while she was conscious of every nail-biting step, Franco meanwhile was oblivious to the dangers, maybe because his feet were so big there was no way he could fall between the cracks, or maybe because he knew no jetty in its right mind would dare dump a Chatsfield into the briny depths.
A beam creaked and gave a little under her foot and a stomach full of fish and chips flipped over.
A stomach that didn’t right itself until they’d reached the end of the jetty and the handrail she could cling to while she took a few calming breaths.
Franco made small talk with a couple of the locals dangling lines over the side, asking if they’d caught anything and checking out the fish they were proud to show off.
Holly wasn’t interested in the catch of the day. She turned her face into the wind and breathed in the salt-kissed air, knowing that for at least a minute or two she was safe. She closed her eyes and sucked in air and let the calls of the gulls remind her she was still alive while the blustery wind at the end of the jetty buffeted her worried brow.
She could do this.
She was wound up tighter than a fisherman’s reel. He’d put her lack of conversation on the way out here down to her still feeling uncomfortable about the way that last discussion had gone, but right now she looked ill as she clung white knuckled to the handrail.
He put one hand to her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ Her shoulder jerked back as her eyes flew open. Turquoise eyes spiked with fear.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you?’
A moment’s hesitation. That pink tip of tongue flicking at her lips once more. Before teeth nibbling at her lips gave way to a weak smile. ‘Of course I am.’
‘You don’t look fine.’
Her eyes looked everywhere but at him. ‘Okay. So maybe I’m not a big fan of jetties,’ she confessed. ‘That’s all.’
‘You what?’
‘I don’t like the gaps and how you can see the sea moving underneath and the creaking timbers and the rusting bolts and the feeling that if I drop something it’ll tumble into the ocean and I’ll never see it again.’ She paused, breathless, her turquoise eyes beseeching, begging for his understanding.
‘Can’t you swim? Is that what you’re afraid of?’
‘Of course I can swim! It’s this thing, creaking and shifting. I don’t like it, that’s all.’
‘Do you want to go back?’
Her eyes flared with fear. One hand flew from her handrail long enough to make a stop signal before finding the rail again. ‘No! Not just yet. Just give me a minute or two. I’ll be fine.’
He hunkered down on the railing alongside her, looking out to the breakwater that blocked the worst of the angry sea to protect the fishing fleet. Who would have thought it? His wine-whispering nemesis and the woman who’d defended her precious wines like a pit bull was afraid of something as simple as a jetty.
‘Why did you
agree to come out here, if you feel this way? Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I didn’t want you to know.’
‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t want you to think I was pathetic.’
‘I don’t think you’re pathetic.’
‘Yeah, right. Fully grown woman afraid of a little beach infrastructure. Nothing pathetic about that. Nothing funny about that.’
‘I’m not laughing, Holly.’
She looked at him then, almost as if to check, to examine his eyes for a telltale glimmer of humour before she swung her head back out to sea. It was a full minute before she could bring herself to talk. ‘Nan and Pop brought me here once, when I was little. I had my favourite teddy by the hand, swinging it in my hand like Pop was swinging mine. Then there was a sudden gust of wind and the teddy fell free and bounced and skidded over the planks and landed in the sea. And as I watched it float away, I wondered why nobody jumped in to rescue it.’
‘Is that when you started not liking jetties?’
‘No. I don’t think I liked them before. All those gaps between the timbers. All that ocean right there below your feet, sucking at the pilings.’ She shivered. ‘But that day proved I was right to be wary.’
And because he thought a change of subject might be a good idea and because he wondered, he asked, ‘How long have you lived with Gus?’
She shrugged, still looking out to sea. ‘Since I was three. Since Mum and Dad were killed in a car crash.’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘I wondered about your parents. I didn’t want to ask.’
‘It’s no secret. And I had Gus and Esme, at least until Esme died. The worst part is not remembering my parents.’ He watched as a frown creased her brow. ‘You know, I see photographs and I see the hospital ruins where my dad worked—the ruins on the crater by the lake where we stopped on the way …’ She watched him, waiting for his nod before she continued. ‘And I know they were my parents, but they’re almost an abstract concept. Does that make sense? And yet a teddy, I remember the grief I felt at watching my teddy drifting away on the sea like it was the most important thing in the world.’