by Jennie Jones
She picked up a piece of chalk and drew an off-centre line down the board. Jamie’s chalked notes about additional lifting tackle and the types of dowels and clamps he intended to use on the veterinary surgery now took up a quarter of the space, with Kate’s section taking up the remaining three-quarters.
Things for review, she wrote as a header, then drew another line down the board so she had two columns. Things to go without, she wrote as a header in the second column.
‘That’s a small area of my chalkboard?’ he asked.
‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking. You see, I have to strip down…’
Oh, please.
‘…and get to the earthy side of me. Then I can rebuild myself, being true and all that.’ She stood looking at her columns for minutes. Then wrote under the Things for review heading: country vs city (big change!), my life (a mess), my business (and you know what), my sudden desire for a masterful man (could just be the country air).
Jesus. Why couldn’t women figure things out by nipping down to the local pub, throwing a few darts and talking sport?
She raised the chalk in her hand to column two and Jamie held his breath. What things would she go without? The Chardonnay might a good idea. Or the pyjamas.
High heels (don’t need them), she wrote, then, Lipstick (hard but necessary). The need to control (probably impossible).
‘There.’ She plopped the chalk onto the board holder and turned to him with a smile that pronounced she’d been successful. ‘It’s a start. What do you think?’
‘Do I have to answer?’
‘Yes, you do. Unless you’d prefer to play Exasperation again and get your hide beaten. Again.’
Chances were she’d cheat, again, and do it so well he didn’t notice. Again. ‘Okay,’ he said, sounding as reluctant as he felt. ‘How does the Things for review column relate to what you’re going to try to go without?’ What the hell did it matter if she wore lipstick or not? And what about the heels? Did she mean go without them forever? He’d sort of miss them. Like a lot.
‘Jamie, Jamie, Jamie,’ she said, shaking her head with every utterance of his name.
She walked over to the Chesterfield and sat, legs pulled up to her chin, feet on the seat. She contemplated the chalk board as though God himself had written a new commandment. One only for Eve, obviously. Poor Adam, Jamie thought. The man hadn’t stood a chance in a paddock with a naked woman and an apple. If Eve had looked anything like Katie Singleton and Adam had had anywhere near the appreciation for Eve that Jamie had for Kate, why the hell had anyone dithered over the apple?
‘Don’t you get it?’ she asked.
No. Hadn’t got a goddamn clue. And neither could he focus. He was caught in how she looked. Trapped in her soft sensuality. She had eight days. He wasn’t going to last forty-eight hours.
Chapter 7
Kate stuck the tip of a fork into a cold potato in last night’s lamb casserole, pulled it out and bit into it. Mmm. Delicious. A man who could cook.
She put the lid on the casserole dish and slid it into the pre-heated range oven. It had taken a while to work out how to operate the range, but she’d done it. Her housekeeping skills hadn’t stopped there either. She’d found her long-lost homey side earlier this morning. Although she preferred to think that her natural ability to multi-task had risen to the fore in order to vanquish boredom. Everyone around her knew her predilection for orderliness. But today, she’d played house. What a great game. No deadlines. No-one interfering.
Jamie had gone by the time she’d got up and showered. Superman was a hit in the kitchen, the do-it-yourself department and with the gentleman qualities he displayed but he was after all, she’d discovered, a typical man. Cushions needed to be plumped and straightened, picture frames realigned where they’d tilted out of whack. A pile of paperbacks and trade magazines had needed to be put into order on the beechwood shelving in the dining area. And everything above floor level had to be dusted.
Her mobile sang with the birdcall she’d chosen to make her feel more at home in the country. She picked up the phone from the bench where she’d placed it next to the breadboard and the bread she’d unfrozen and warmed in the heating stove. The aroma of dough hitting her nostrils created an overwhelming hunger within her the like of which she’d never given into before.
Fat Jacques Burch, the ID told her.
She put the phone down, unanswered, her appetite waning fast. She didn’t want the scumbag disturbing the peace and happy-go-lucky enjoyment she’d eventually found today as she sauntered through Jamie’s house, tidying up and feeling like a real, ever-present, ever-loving country householder.
However, after the conversation with Grandy, the fun evening playing games with Jamie, and the initial chalkboard sort-out of the goals she needed to achieve, Kate had dreamed all night. One dream after the other and each as abstract and absurd as a dragon with two heads breathing fire in her face.
Jacques’ and Sahra’s faces had loomed at her within the psychedelic world of her dreams. Shouting demands, screaming for business recognition in the world Kate no longer felt she belonged to. Voices admonished her about lost goals and financial wreckage if she didn’t sign the paperwork and help lead Sensations into the future. A future that she’d accepted in her dreams. Signing the documents that saw Jacques take control and relinquishing her personal endeavours to remain sassy and creative, and foreclosing any chance for her young designers to stay true to themselves and what they created.
She’d woken soaked in terror, with a pounding headache. So much for the lie-in. Two extra hours sleep had wrung her emotions through a mangle.
She’d devoted herself to the art of fashion and helping young designers, beginning her career as a fashion artist, just like the job she’d hired her friend Sammy for, and leading herself forwards to a damned remarkably good position and an industry presence. She’d brought Jacques into the business as a co-partner only last year, and only because she’d been at a point where she’d needed a financial bump-up in order to keep her desire to be straight and sincere in the fashion world going. To keep her designers employed. But Jacques had turned her business into an industry-gossip, celebrity-kow-towing nightmare. He’d already fired six of her designers and brought in what he termed were fresh talent with avant-garde flair.
Sensational bullshit. No truth. No eye for what women wanted or needed in order to remain feminine yet functional. Just money-making nonsense. Fashion no woman on today’s street would dream of wearing, let alone be able to afford.
And then, in New York, a mere week ago, he’d hit her with his bombshell. Bastard.
She switched on the timer sitting to one side of the oven range and set it for one hour. Then chewed on her thumb. Decide or stew.
Difficult to believe she was hesitating by taking a huge twelve-day break. But this was the dilemma that had found her wishing on a shooting star.
Twelve days. Deals were made and broke in twelve minutes but here she was, in the country. Looking for…something. Thank God for Chardonnay.
She’d had another nap this afternoon. Had lain on the Chesterfield, closed her eyes and waited for more sleep to cover up the lack of decision making. What was it with the air around here? She’d never felt more exhausted in her life.
But eventually she’d risen, showered the smell of cleaning fluids and dust from her body and assembled the sensible parts of Kate.
And here she was making dinner and planning on a fruit platter for dessert. Outside, on the patio maybe. Kate — under the stars with nothing to do but relax. How cute. How so not Kate Singleton. Would she ever fit in here? Probably not. But it was a nice picture. For those who wanted that sort of thing.
Every way she looked at it, Kate wasn’t in that country picture.
She pulled her shoulders back and her thoughts into order. Jamie would be home soon, a little weary from his day. Wanting sustenance and a quiet evening.
Okay. Kate could do that for him. What a guy he was
turning out to be. God bless the country; even if it wasn’t to be her field in life she recognised that it was Jamie’s. It embraced him. It had sunk into his skin and his clothing, that summer-dry aroma of stone and earth. And she’d promised Sammy to be cheery around him.
She pulled butter out of the fridge and unwrapped it. She used a spoon to pull lengths off the pat, creating butter curls which she placed in a bowl. You got through the nights, and here you are in on the evening of day five. You’ve still got time.
Rise and shine, Katie. Smile. Put on the glitz.
****
As soon as Jamie stepped through his front door he noticed the difference. The aroma struck him first. Lamb casserole and warm bread. He swallowed the mouth-watering need to eat and closed the front door. He stood awhile, taking in the changes. Atmosphere, he decided. He wasn’t alone. The house had a friend. He couldn’t quite figure out what was different about the hallway as he studied it. Nothing had changed, nothing out of place but it felt as though it had been used today, not just walked through as a means of getting in or out.
He put his keys on the hall table, walked to the door of the kitchen cum dining room and paused.
There she was. His house guest. Tonight she wore ivory-coloured linen slacks that clung to her delectable bottom and a midriff-hugging pale green strappy top. Suitable clothing for a hot summer’s night. Most unsuitable for a man who already had trouble not envisaging her naked.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She spun around, and smiled. ‘Hi. How was your day?’
Such a positive, energetic yet warm, homey feeling pervaded the space, Jamie half expected the cat to appear.
‘Can’t lay claim to having slaved over your dinner,’ she said, lifting a glass of white wine from the bench. ‘Since you cooked it. But I’m heating it up. Hope that will give me points.’ Another smile.
Jamie responded with a smile of his own. ‘What else have you been doing?’ He turned a slow, full circle, taking in the neatness of his usual clutter. ‘You’ve been tidying.’ Hell. Had she felt the need to clean up his mess? Was it a mess, his usual way of living? He cleaned, he cooked but…yeah — he hardly ever tidied up. Had a habit of stacking things where he’d last used them instead of putting them back in their proper places. Unlike his truck or his working gear and equipment in the shed where he knew where every damn screw or trowel was.
He turned back to her. She had a hand on her hip, and the smile still bounced on her features. ‘You look rested,’ he told her, although her eyes were a little over-bright.
‘Jamie, I’ve been playing house with your home. I hope you don’t mind. You have some fabulous pieces of furniture and art. Are they all yours? Or did you inherit them from the previous owner of the house?’
Jamie turned and picked up one of the renovation magazines she’d stacked on the bookshelves. ‘Mostly mine,’ he said, absently flicking through the pages so he had something to occupy him. ‘Some of it was my father’s.’ He hadn’t kept any of Megan’s things when he’d closed up the family home, not that she’d had much. Mostly just her bedroom furniture and a few pieces her mother had left her. Megan’s stuff was in storage, waiting for Megan to want it.
Jamie looked up from the magazine. Kate obviously didn’t feel the need for further enquiry because she began flitting around the kitchen again, pulling dinner plates and side plates from the cupboards. Slicing bread, setting the table. Looking at home in his kitchen. Looking damned good in his kitchen.
‘I’ll go shower,’ he said, taking a step back from the cosiness she portrayed in case he suddenly sank onto the Chesterfield, hands behind his head, feet crossed on the arm and asked her to fetch him a beer.
‘Okay.’ She looked up, knives and forks in her hand. ‘I’m not going to mention the glass-cleaner squeegee tool I found in your vanity unit, because of course, it isn’t my bathroom and therefore I’m in no position to ask you to use it after you’ve finished in the shower.’
Jamie grinned. ‘Ouch,’ he said, and took another step back. ‘I think you just grabbed the landlord by his Bojangles.’
She laughed. ‘Nice one.’ She’d kept her hair loose tonight. It fell neatly over her shoulders. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes to clean up,’ she told him. ‘And if you’re a really good landlord and use the squeegee tool, there’ll be a cold beer waiting for you.’
‘I’m outta here.’ Jamie held his hands up in defence and left the room before he succumbed and laid himself out flat on the Chesterfield.
****
Even though he’d assembled the lamb casserole and shoved it in the oven yesterday, having it served by Kate this evening made it feel like she’d hunted, shot, skinned and cooked for her man. She’d set the table to perfection. Knives and forks aligned, water glasses and wine glasses to one side of the dinner plates. And a mat for his bottle of beer which dripped condensation.
‘Beautiful, Kate,’ he said, putting his napkin onto the table and pushing his empty plate to one side. ‘Thank you.’
‘There’s fruit for dessert. Would you like some? No cream though.’ She wagged her finger. ‘Just as well. Don’t want us getting fat.’
‘Are you having fruit?’
She shook her head and put her hands onto her stomach. ‘Couldn’t fit anything else in.’
Jamie smiled. ‘So what are we doing now? Fancy a game?’
She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. ‘I’d only beat you.’
‘You mean you’d only cheat and beat me.’
She laughed. Then sighed. ‘I’m tired.’ She looked away. ‘I don’t know why I’m so tired, Jamie.’
The use of his name held an appeal. One that had him wanting to put his arms around her and give her a warm sweet hug. She looked rested alright, but there was also an aura of mental exhaustion around her. The same one he’d seen when he first met her in the paddock. Her flapping emotions seemed to have settled down somewhat, but perhaps they’d only turned into something deeper and more expressively meaningful for her.
‘Want to come outside?’ he asked, standing.
She looked across at him, questioningly. ‘I’d planned on maybe having the fruit salad outside on the patio.’ She sighed and looked away. ‘I think I’ve lost my hunger, Jamie.’
Jamie knew she didn’t mean for food. He picked up the ice bucket with her wine in it and his bottle of beer and walked to the patio doors. He opened them, letting the night invade the kitchen. ‘Come on, Katie. Let’s go sit under the stars and you can tell me your story.’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘You want to hear it?’
He nodded and stepped outside. ‘Come on.’
She followed him. He held the door open for her. ‘Amazing,’ she said, lowering herself onto one of the sun loungers on the patio, sprawling flat out and staring up at the sky.
‘Isn’t it?’ Jamie answered as he sat on the other lounger. He lowered himself a little more cautiously to a lying position and crossed his feet at the ankles.
‘The ceiling of the country,’ she murmured.
Jamie had to agree, although he said nothing. The night sky spread above them, an endless summer-blue shadow. Not a cloud in sight, the stars dusting the sky like a gentle snow storm in a glass bowl.
‘So what’s the story, Katie?’
She breathed deeply and put her hands behind her head. Maybe the dusky night and the meal she’d eaten had softened her senses. The way she was sprawled, so casually, so contentedly, made Jamie want to leap the distance and take hold of her. Put his arms around her and ask her softly to tell him what her troubles were.
‘I did a stupid thing, Jamie. I allowed the industry I work in to slip by me. I lost it.’
‘Lost what, exactly?’
‘My love of it.’
She quietened then, probably contemplating, and Jamie let her be, waiting for her to continue.
‘I had this dream from a young age. A dream that I fulfilled.’ She looked across at him, her eyes darkened in the
evening light. ‘I was good.’
He nodded, had no doubt she would be. But she’d said was. ‘How good were you?’ he asked, and hoped the question would lead to why she no longer felt she was good enough.
‘I know things.’ She sat up on her lounger, suddenly vivacious and alive. ‘I know what women today need. I know how they think. I know what they can and cannot afford. I know how hard it is to want to look great but to know that something has to be given up before you get that one little item…’ She hunched her shoulders slightly and put her index finger and thumb together. ‘That little gem of a piece of clothing — whether it’s a pair of shoes or a skirt, or a scarf. That one thing that makes a woman feel like she’s rewarded herself.’
Her enthusiasm caught a hold of him. He could practically envisage her in her office. At her desk. Designing. On the telephone. Laughing and coercing. ‘Go on.’
‘The trick is not to be super-matchy.’ Her eyes sparkled, lit with eagerness. ‘It’ll look like you’re trying too hard. And it’s quantity over quality if you’re going through a rough financial patch.’
‘Is that why you’ve got so many outfits in my bedroom wardrobe?’
She laughed, and leaned back to the lounger, hands behind her head, all reflective again. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, Jamie. The woman of your dreams is going to want a big wardrobe because eventually, she’ll fill it. And if she doesn’t fill it, she’ll be happy while she’s intent on filling it.’
‘Just as well I don’t have one then.’
‘Well I know you don’t have a big enough wardrobe,’ she said, glancing over at him with a coquettish grin.
Jamie rumbled a cough in his throat and frowned at her. ‘I think everything else I have is big enough for any dream woman that might walk into my life.’
She raised her brow and tilted her mouth in an oh-so-saucy manner. ‘Are you being dirty-minded?’
Yes. Oh, yes. Somebody save him, yes. He smiled, and allowed the devil inside him loose. Just this once.
She shot up to a sitting position and slapped her hands on her knees. ‘You are!’ she proclaimed. ‘This is great. You’re loosening up.’ She paused, and gave him a challenging look. ‘Tell me a dirty joke.’