She opened the wardrobe door and smiled at the neat picture in front of her. She knew it wouldn’t last – Jamie found her tendency to dump clothes on the floor or at the end of the bed infuriating – but right now it did look rather nice. Maybe she’d try a little bit harder to keep her living quarters tidy. Flicking through the outfits she’d bought to wear in the pub, she chose a knee-length black skirt and a short-sleeved checked shirt. She shook her head, ran her fingers through her hair and then finished by shovelling it all into a high ponytail. She washed her face and smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she slapped on a layer of foundation, a swipe of mascara on each eyelash and then a little gloss across her lips. Professional but not overdone. Excitement kicked her stomach over as she thought about the evening ahead.
Imogen would be the first to admit she’d been a bit of a recluse since Jamie had died. Apart from work nights, she could count the number of times she’d been out in the evening on one hand. At first she hadn’t been able to summon the enthusiasm to dress up, and then, staying in and dreaming of happier times became a habit. When Jenna had finally conned her into attending her work Christmas party a year ago, she spent the whole evening sick to the stomach with guilt that she was out enjoying herself (or at least trying to) when Jamie would never spend a night out with friends again.
She hated the guilt. It took over the grief for a while there, ate at her insides so that she couldn’t physically stomach food if she wasn’t at work or at home. It made her angry and aggressive. She’d been dragged to more parties since that first one, cringing every time someone tried to talk to her and spending most of the evening staring at her watch. She hated that everyone looked at her with pity and sympathy when they spoke. She’d got to the stage where she’d had to actively refrain from throwing glasses of wine at genuinely nice people, people she and Jamie had once considered good friends.
But the kicker had been when people stopped talking about Jamie, stopped looking at her with pity and started looking at her as potential. Potential dates. Or worse, potential for matchmaking. Friends who had given up on trying to find Jenna a partner now transferred their attentions to her. They seemed to forget she’d already found her life partner. Just because he’d died didn’t change the fact Jamie was The One.
Every time she thought about those nights, her skin crawled.
She shook her head, shaking off the memories. This was a new adventure, no one here was privy to her unfortunate past. She’d be the ballbreaker publican, too busy, too ambitious for romance and love, and she’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Holding her head high, she switched on the bedside lamp so she could see her way in the dark later and blew another kiss at Jamie’s photo.
‘Wish me luck, good-looking.’
As she descended the stairs she could already hear the combined noise of Aussie rock music and blokes raising their voices to be heard. Mouth-watering aromas wafted up from the kitchen. She rubbed her rumbling stomach, hoping she’d get the chance to steal a bite to eat. Trevor’s burgers were apparently to-die-for, and she wouldn’t have many more opportunities to try one.
At the entrance to the bar she paused and took in the scene. According to local legend most country pubs struggled to lure a crowd these days, but The Majestic had no trouble tonight. At almost six o’clock the place was crammed with men in every available nook and cranny. Some played darts (she hadn’t seen a dart board in a city establishment for years) and the two pool tables were heaving. She was positively dressed up compared to all the patrons, most of whom appeared to have come straight from work. Would they put a bit of effort into their appearance if there were women here as well?
Imogen’s thoughts were sidelined as her gaze snapped to the bar. Old Charlie looked knackered as he shuffled back and forth pulling schooners of beer and taking money. She rushed to his aid, brushing past a couple of guys as she did so.
‘Wa-hey, what have we here?’
‘Nice skirt!’
She ignored their comments and launched straight into action. ‘Hey Charlie,’ she said, waving briefly in greeting. ‘Who’s next?’
Charlie grinned at her, ancient smile lines evident at the corner of his eyes. She’d got to know him better since arriving and already knew he had a heart of gold. He’d spent much of their time together telling her exactly what the town had been like in its ‘heyday’, as he put it. He made it sound magical.
‘Him,’ he said, gesturing with one thumb towards the other end of the bar.
Imogen spun on her heels and it took less than a second for her body to recognise the guy in question: the guy Jenna had gushed over the day they’d visited. Imogen’s green eyes locked with his dark scowling ones, and liquid heat almost floored her. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she’d just been blasted with the lust bug, but it had to be something else. The way he looked at her, like he had a personal vendetta against her, made her mouth go dry. Did he have to be her first customer?
Refusing to be put off by a mere male – and deciding she’d like to be the one to make the guy who never smiled smile – she summoned her most saccharine grin and spoke. ‘Hi there. What can I do for you this evening?’
Although he didn’t reply, he raised his eyebrows and she wanted to kick herself for her unfortunate choice of words. Did he think she was flirting? The nerve of him.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes and instead stretched her smile until her jaw ached. ‘I mean, to drink?’ She hoped he detected the patronising tone beneath her sickly sweet demeanour. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘Just an OJ, thanks. I’m not staying.’
Dammit. First night on the job and instead of buttering up the customers she’d managed to alienate one of them. Vowing to pick up her act, she glanced down the price list in front of her. ‘Three dollars sixty, thanks.’
He handed her a five-dollar bill and she took it, careful not to touch him in the process. He’d no doubt assume she’d done it on purpose. She stashed the money in the till, gave him his change and was happy for the ten-second reprieve from his intense gaze as she turned away to grab a bottle of juice from the fridge. She couldn’t help studying his reflection in the glass.
Despite her annoyance, she was woman enough to admit he had handsome down to a fine art, if you liked that brand of handsome. She could certainly understand what Jenna saw in him. He was just her type: tall and tanned with muscles bulging beneath his slightly-too-tight work shirt. His dark hair was a tad too long; Jenna would say perfect to rake her fingers through, Imogen would say scruffy. Jenna would also like the fashionable two-day stubble, whereas Imogen had always thought such a look signalled a man’s laziness and nonchalance towards personal hygiene.
Jamie was as masculine as they come, but he’d always taken the time to shave, and she’d never had to worry about getting stubble rash when she kissed him.
Not that she’d have to worry about that with this man either.
He cleared his throat. ‘Having trouble finding it?’
Argh, caught. She scowled a scowl she hoped he couldn’t see in the reflection of the glass and summoned the plastic smile. Refusing to bite his grumpy bait, she turned back towards him. ‘Would you like it in a glass?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Not at all.’ Her face would crack if she held it like this much longer, but she would not give him the satisfaction of flummoxing her. This was her pub and if he didn’t like it, she’d be more than happy to show him the exit. She stood right in front of him as she twisted the lid off the bottle and poured the contents into a cold schooner glass, all the while praying she wouldn’t spill any. ‘There you go.’ She placed the drink in front of him and barely waited to hear his ‘Thanks’. Hopefully his grumpiness wasn’t indicative of the rest of the clientele.
Ten minutes later, she’d served at least ten more men, all of whom she’d willingly given genuine smiles and friendly service. They’d offered their names and returned her smiles with goofy g
rins and promises to show her round Gibson’s Find any time she wanted. Although she wouldn’t take any of them up on their offers, each warm welcome reassured Imogen that she’d made the right decision in moving here.
There seemed to be a lull, so she told Charlie she’d go and clear a few tables. Grabbing a tray, she began weaving through the men, collecting glasses and pausing every now and then to meet someone new and answer questions. Her feet already ached but her heart felt light and happy. Everyone was just so friendly. Well, almost everyone. As long as Mr Grouchy made good on his promise to leave after the juice, she’d have an enjoyable first evening.
At the thought, her head swivelled, as if of its own free will, to where he’d been leaning against the bar. She bit her lip; no matter how dismissive he’d been, she wondered why he was drinking in solitude when everyone else appeared to be part of a group. He turned, caught her looking and glowered.
Well fine, that’d be the last bit of human sympathy she wasted on him.
‘No point wasting your time lusting after Gibbo, honey.’
Embarrassed that she’d been caught looking, Imogen followed the voice to a middle-aged man sitting on a chair nearby. ‘I … I wasn’t.’ She hated anyone thinking she was lusting after anyone – that was sacrilege to Jamie. About to tell him exactly this, she bit her tongue at the last moment. New start, fresh slate.
‘Right.’ The man obviously didn’t believe her.
Torn between having it out with him and trying to distract his misled thoughts, she chose a combination of the two. She put the tray with the empty glasses on the table and held out her hand. ‘I’m Imogen Bates, the new publican. Thanks for the advice, but it’s really quite unnecessary.’
‘Tom Davies.’ His grip was firm and warm as he shook. ‘My missus cleans the rooms for you.’
‘Oh yes, Karen. I’m looking forward to meeting her. I’m hoping she might be interested in some extra shifts.’ She wanted to talk to her about taking on the pub cleaning as well as the rooms. The poor old building didn’t look like it’d had so much as a dusting in the last decade.
He nodded, pleased. ‘Anything we can do to help you get settled in, just holler. It’s nice to have a new face in town.’
‘It’s good to be here.’
Before they could get further into conversation, the lights went off and the music stopped dead. Was this a power cut? She’d heard the electricity could be dodgy at best out here in the sticks. And dammit, Trevor hadn’t shown her how to work the generator yet. She didn’t want the locals to think her incompetent.
The lights flashed back on seconds later and Imogen let out the breath she’d been holding. She blinked as she noticed everyone staring at her. Trevor and Cathy were making their way over with a massive cake laden with sparklers.
Warmth rushed to her cheeks, no doubt turning them as red as the ghastly vintage carpet upstairs. She’d never liked being the centre of attention.
The previous pub owners arrived beside her. Someone swiped her tray from the table and Cathy put the cake there instead.
‘I thought you had book club,’ Imogen hissed as she gazed at the cake and read the pink scrawl. GIBSON’S FIND WELCOMES IMOGEN.
Her heart swelled and tears prickled at her eyes. She’d never anticipated such a welcome. Smiling faces focused on her from every corner of the pub and, gazing back, she felt completely at a loss for words. This was so much more than she’d expected. Just when she thought she might combust from the emotion, someone up near the bar cried, ‘Speech!’
Gibson should have downed his juice and walked out the door the moment Imogen started talking. Better still, before the lights went off and the cake came out and her eyes lit up in delighted surprise. Those deep-green eyes – the colour of grass you hardly ever saw in this part of the country – had sparkled and her lips had curled, proving the smile she’d given him earlier, had been one hundred percent fake.
He should have walked out long before she started talking and definitely before she’d taken a bite of Trevor’s deadly moist chocolate cake. But Charlie had reached across the bar and placed his palm against Gibson’s arm. ‘Stay,’ he’d pleaded. ‘Just a bit.’
Gibson had never been able to say no to Charlie. So he’d listened as she gushed over her surprise cake and thanked Trevor and Cathy for making her feel so welcome. ‘Look around,’ he’d wanted to shout. ‘You’re the one doing them a favour.’ But he’d held his tongue. He’d watched as the other men in the pub – his neighbours, his old primary school mates, blokes who’d worked for him at one stage or another, even bloody Charlie for goodness sakes – stared open-mouthed and goggle-eyed as she spoke about her desire for a tree change. There were plenty of dry plains, salt lakes and the odd bush out here, but a tree change? He’d felt the orange juice churning in his stomach.
And they’d all been falling all over each other to ask her questions. He supposed he could sort of understand, because she was undoubtedly pretty and did have a sweet kind of voice, but what she said only got his shackles up more.
How she’d been bored and disillusioned with life in Perth. How her job in a city wine bar had been demanding but not rewarding. How she’d come into some money and wanted to do something meaningful and worthwhile with it. Apparently she had a ‘vision’ for the old place. If she hadn’t already won everyone’s hearts, she stole the last few when she mentioned wanting to become a part of the community. ‘To get involved and give back.’ He’d actually rolled his eyes then and earned a disapproving look from Charlie. But he’d heard it all before.
His mum – who’d spent over twenty resentful years in Gibson’s Find before leaving for the coast – loved reading rural romance novels. Women writers who had no clue about outback life made out it was all homesteads the size of castles and farmers with time enough on their hands to be Prince Charming. He’d bet Imogen had read one of these books and decided it was the perfect way to catch a man. These so-called authors had a lot to answer for.
‘I could watch that all night.’
Gibson didn’t need to turn to the voice beside him to know where his mate Guy was looking. Imogen had stopped talking for five seconds and was finally digging into the cake. Cathy had cut her a ridiculously huge slice and she had to hold it in two hands while she nipped off tiny bites and licked her lips every few seconds to get rid of the icing smudges. You’d think she was eating in the nude the way everyone was carrying on.
He turned to Guy. ‘Not much on the box tonight then, is there?’
Guy shook his head derisively. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Still intent on playing Oscar the Grouch?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Guy snorted. Gibson knew his friend thought his bitterness about happily-ever-afters was all down to Serena. Guy, head of the local State Emergency Service team and a keen footballer, also managed the farm next to Gibson’s, and they often helped each other with tasks that were easier with more than one person. He’d said on more than one occasion that it was time for Gibson to move on and look to the future. But Guy didn’t know the half of it. No one did.
Their friend Wazza sidled up, wearing a goofy grin identical to all the other men in the pub. Just because an apparently single woman had bought the local watering hole, they’d all gone soft in the head and hard in the pants. Half of the men he hadn’t seen in the pub for years, yet they’d all flocked in tonight to check out the new publican.
‘So, are we taking bets on who can bed her first?’
Gibson groaned at the predictability. He’d gotten marriage out of his system after Serena, but most of his mates were still bachelors, pining for their chance at the Aussie dream. If it were just sex he could understand it, but he’d bet every available man in this room had his sights set on Imogen for more than just a quick tumble on the back of his WB ute. If it weren’t so sad, it’d be funny.
One new woman and fifty single men in their twenties and thirties – it just didn’t add up. And just because that one woman
was talking the talk didn’t mean she’d last the distance.
Wazza dug his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it up to reveal a wad of cash. He slapped a note on the table; this was the last time Gibson would listen to him complain that the crop spraying business paid badly.
‘Ten bucks says I get closer than you do, Guy,’ Wazza wagered.
‘I’m in.’ Guy fished a note out of his pocket and laid it on the bar. ‘Fifty says she’s mine within a month.’
Gibson loved Guy like a brother, but he’d always been a cocky sod, not to mention a Casanova whenever they took a trip into the city. And this kind of thing felt so high school.
‘A month?’ Wazza guffawed and theatrically pressed his hand against his heart. ‘You must be losing your touch.’
Guy glowered and leaned over the bar. ‘Can I get another one of these, please, Charlie old boy?’
Charlie refilled Wazza and Guy’s glasses, and as the boys turned back to their gutter-level banter, Gibson tried to get Charlie’s attention. They’d barely spoken since he’d arrived and Charlie was the only reason he’d ventured in here today.
Unfortunately, his granddad had already headed to the other end to serve someone else. ‘Charlie,’ he called.
Either Charlie was getting deaf in his old age or he was ignoring him. Gibson glanced at his watch and couldn’t believe it was almost nine o’clock. How the hell had that happened? It appeared time could fly whether you were having fun or not.
Cathy approached him with the biggest smile he’d ever seen on her face. Obviously, selling the pub and the prospect of freedom agreed with her. ‘Didn’t your mother ever read you the story about the wind changing, Gibson Black?’
‘You mean the one where the little boy grumped and his face stayed like that?’
Man Drought Page 3