Her Christmas Homecoming

by Shirley Wine

  She had a mountain of work to accomplish—her world no longer revolved around Joe Marshall. Her mother needed her to be strong and for the woman who had sacrificed so much for her children’s happiness, Marta would face down a hundred bitter, unforgiving ex-lovers.

  Chapter 2

  Joe drove from the cemetery back to the gardens, thoughts of Marta riding along on his shoulder, her jabs front and centre. How long had she been back here, and why hadn’t he heard the merest whisper of her return?

  The questions threatened to drive him nuts.

  He pulled in and parked, frowning at the rooster-tail of dust in his wake. He got out of his old ute and walked into the staff room. Kev Wade, his jack-of-all-trades cum handyman, was already there, frowning over the job sheets Joe had filled out after everyone else had knocked off last night.

  ‘Kev, can you spray down the driveway? There’s too much dust and there’ll be delivery trucks in and out all day.’

  ‘Onto it, boss.’ With a jaunty salute, Kev walked out the door and after a few moments, Joe heard the tractor start up and move away.

  It was impossible to keep the dust at bay, but with judicial spraying of the driveway with a waste oil and water mix, the hazard could be minimised.

  Joe walked into the first of the specialty insect-free, sun-screened growing houses. These represented a huge capital outlay—and a darn scary gamble—but a gamble that was now paying off, handsomely.

  Now, he and the bank could breathe much easier.

  The vegetables he produced in these houses were in high demand, and were by far his biggest income stream.

  The French chef at Chez Christophe out at Rainbow Cove featured Joe’s Gourmet Vegetables on his menu. A fanatic exponent of the paddock to table movement, Christophe Duval only used produce he could source from the land and the sea within a two hundred kilometre radius of his restaurant, and Chez Christophe was the place to dine—the place where the upwardly mobile went to be seen.

  And Joe wasn’t slow to grasp this opportunity—word of mouth advertising was the very best kind, and Christophe Duval was doing a damn good job of it for Joe’s produce. By the time he’d located and fixed the water leak, the satisfying sound of delivery trucks arriving at the packing shed filled the hot air.

  While Joe happily delegated most deliveries, he made a point of personally delivering vegetables to Chez Christophe; whistling cheerfully, he loaded crated vegetables into the chiller unit of his small customised truck. He conferred with his foreman and, happy everything was under control at the gardens, he set off for Rainbow Cove.

  He treasured his friendship with Christophe and looked forward to the time they spent together. Besides, Christophe, through his restaurant, was closely involved with the whole Rainbow Cove redevelopment, and this enabled Joe to keep a blunt-tipped finger on the pulse of progress, and abreast of anything new as it happened.

  Joe regarded the Frenchman as one of his best contacts and an even better friend, but man, the guy was one laid-back dude. They enjoyed many an argument over a beer about French versus Australian cultures. Christophe relished winding him up. He was firmly convinced that while Australians were laid-back and casual, they were prudes about sex and nudity, and he loved nothing better than to poke fun at Joe.

  Christophe reckoned that life was so laid-back at Marandowie he could cook naked—if he chose—and no one would bat an eyelid.

  Joe shook his head; he was never sure if his mate was joking or not, but the thought made heat scorch his cheeks. Jeez—to find the guy naked would embarrass him no end—he never chanced it and made damn sure he yelled to let Christophe know whenever he was around.

  ‘Yo! Christophe! Vegetable delivery.’ Joe hollered as he shouldered open the screen door and stepped through the back delivery entrance of Chez Christophe.

  ‘Entrez!’ Christophe’s voice was muffled and distant.

  Joe responded to the summons, and walked into the gleaming stainless steel and white kitchen, but saw no sign of the chef.

  He glanced at the big clock on the wall, and grinned.

  The clock depicted a sad-faced chef crying as he chopped onions; the whimsical element seemed out of place in the midst of such streamlined efficiency, but Joe appreciated the chef’s quirky sense of humour. The Frenchman was not only dedicated to producing good food, and running the best restaurant, but he also possessed a deep vein of fun, and an even deeper vein of compassion.

  ‘Morning, Nico. The boss around? Can you get the cold-room door for me, mate?’ Joe manhandled the heavy vegetable crate through the rear entry door and into the large walk-in cold room adjacent to the back door.

  ‘Sure. The boss’s getting cooled off sorting the contents of the fridge.’

  The youth was one of the chef’s protégés. Thin to the point of emaciation, Nico was caught by Christophe stealing food from the restaurant dumpster. Christophe promptly brought him inside, fed him, bought him some clothes, and employed him as a kitchen hand.

  Nico thought Christophe walked on water; Joe was inclined to think the Frenchman a trifle nuts taking in a stranger off the streets, and didn’t hesitate to question his wisdom.

  Christophe had just looked at him before saying, ‘I can’t change the world, Joe, but if I can change one person’s life then the world around me is a better place.’

  Joe hefted the heavy crate onto the bench. ‘Nico, will you check off the vegetable order or does Christophe do it?’

  ‘I’ll just check with the boss.’ Nico disappeared in the direction of the huge walk-in refrigerator.

  Joe heard the murmur of voices before Christophe appeared rubbing his hands on his apron. ‘Morning, Joe, you’re early.’

  ‘Got a heap of deliveries to do, mate, business is booming and we’re run off our feet. We’ve got some new lines of produce coming on, here’s a list for you.’ Joe handed the chef an up-to-date flyer and picked up the empty crate in exchange. ‘I didn’t plan on expanding so soon, but I’m fast getting to the point where I need more staff. You got your next order ready?’

  ‘It’s right here.’ Christophe ripped a sheet off the order pad hanging above the bench.

  Joe read it, nodding. ‘Rightio, then. I’ll get this to you Friday. I’ll be seeing you.’ He hefted the empty crate onto one brawny shoulder and whistling cheerfully turned to leave.

  ‘Joe? Before you go,’ Christophe called after him.

  Joe paused and rested the empty crate against the wall. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  Joe froze. ‘Not a lot, why?’

  ‘I can’t take the time off to fly home to France to be with my family like I did last year.’ Christophe rubbed a hand down the side of his face. ‘And this breaks me up, so I’m thinking of hosting an orphans’ Christmas dinner for any of our friends or workmates who for some reason or other can’t share Christmas with their family. Would you be up for it?’

  Joe winced. What with his father’s death, Becky running away, and his mother’s chilly incivility, Joe didn’t do Christmas. Holidays like that were non-events, and it had been this way for years.

  ‘Still scrabbling in the dirt, Joe?’ he recalled Marta’s mocking words.

  He enjoyed what he did, dammit, but even he realised his life was so predictable as to be in a thigh-deep rut—perhaps it was time for a change.

  ‘Sure, Christmas won’t happen for me otherwise. Who are you thinking of inviting?’

  ‘There’s you and Nico for starters—life kicked him to the kerb, but he’s made a good go of it since. Then there’s my mate Jago, he has no family here in Australia.’

  ‘So this Chrissie bash, it will be all men, no sheilas?’ Joe asked, eyeing the chef curiously.

  The Frenchman was warm towards everyone, but impartial as to whether they were male or female, and Joe was beginning to wonder if the Frenchman was batting for the other side.

  ‘Of course there’ll be women, my friend.’ Christophe shook his head chuckling. �
�There’d be precious little fun without any ladies.’

  ‘So what sheilas do you know who’ll be spending Christmas alone?’

  Christophe glanced across at his kitchen hands busy doing food prep for the evening, his brow furrowing in a frown. ‘There’s Flick Ardmore, our new pastry chef. She’s having a rough time with her family, and Mandy, one of our waitresses, her family’s back in the UK—’ the chef twisted his wrist from side to side, ‘—although she’s now tight with her new man and may visit with his family. Then there are a couple of our restaurant regulars who are loners, Freya Cooper for one, and there’s sure to be others I’ve overlooked.’

  ‘What about Zoe Russell, McIntyre’s accountant? I know Zoe and her sister Jade have had a major falling out with their family.’

  ‘Jade, is she the one who’s just come out?’

  ‘Yeah, and according to Zoe, their parents refuse to acknowledge Jade even exists.’

  ‘Narrow-minded bigots, but that’s their loss.’ Christophe’s lips thinned. ‘The dinner would be for any of our friends and colleagues who’ll be alone for Christmas, for whatever reason.’

  ‘That’s a lot of people when you add it up.’ Joe rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘I didn’t realise there were so many.’

  ‘Christmas can be a very lonely time and I’d like to do something about this for the people around us.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you.’

  ‘I love Christmas, and I miss my family.’ Christophe shrugged and spread his hands in a wide flamboyant gesture. ‘So will you be on board? The restaurant closes for three days over the holidays, so I thought I’d host it at my house at Marandowie.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan to me. How about I supply the fresh produce? Regard it as my contribution towards the tucker.’ Joe grinned when he caught Christophe’s wince. ‘You let me know what you want and I’ll pick it fresh on Christmas morning.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’ Christophe clapped him on the shoulder.

  Joe turned to leave, then recalled his early morning encounter with Marta. ‘Hey Christophe, is it true or just goss, but I heard you plan some live entertainment over the summer?’

  ‘How the devil did you hear about that?’

  ‘A little birdie dropped a whisper in me ear, mate.’

  Christophe stood there, staring at him frowning and scratching at his head. ‘I take it you know Marta Field?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. I saw her early this morning, and she mentioned she had a gig at a restaurant here at the cove, and I wondered.’

  For a moment, Joe was tempted to tell Christophe not to give Marta the time of day, not to have her near his restaurant, that the woman was trouble. He dismissed the uncharitable impulse; guilt still niggled at him over his nasty comment to her earlier when he’d surprised her visiting his father.

  For all her faults, Marta was fiercely loyal to her family and friends—and once I numbered among them.

  He pushed aside the bleak thought, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was family troubles that had brought her home to Marandowie. And I’m damn sour because she didn’t come home for me.

  ‘Is she any good? Do you think my patrons will take to her singing style?’ Christophe asked, his expression intent.

  ‘Without a doubt, Marta’s blessed with a fabulous voice. She’s a true contralto and professional to her fingertips.’

  Christophe stared at him, clearly startled, his eyes wide. ‘Contralto?’

  Heat scudded up Joe’s cheeks, and he shrugged and turned away. The man was too bloody fly not to pick up on that slip. Jeez, man—shove your foot right up to your ankle in your big gob, why don’t you?

  ‘You have musical training?’

  ‘Some,’ Joe admitted grudgingly. ‘Years ago now though.’

  ‘And you know la belle Marta?’ The chef looked at him, his head on one side, his eyes as shiny as black buttons. ‘You’re just full of surprises.’

  Meeting that bright, curious gaze, Joe felt heat surge up his neck and face. Hell yeah, I know Marta as only a lover can.

  Christophe chuckled, a wicked, knowing and worldly sound, a sound that separated the men from the boys, a sound that hit Joe smack in the belly.

  ‘Sure, Marta grew up in Marandowie.’ Joe turned and picked up the vegetable crate. ‘Hard not to know everybody in such a small place.’

  Christophe laughed again. ‘Back to your earlier question, I’ve decided to trial live entertainment over the holiday period to lighten things up for that crowd, and if I open up the back verandah and deck area there’s room for more tables.’

  ‘A win all round.’

  ‘I think so, and using a local entertainer adds spice, an extra oomph, to going local. You know me, shop local, source local, employ local all the way. It works. Besides, Marta is so very charming …’ Christophe smiled and kissed his fingertips with Gallic flair.

  ‘Sure.’ Joe scowled and his jaw clenched.

  He resisted the urge to punch something, preferably the man grinning at him. He stifled the impulse to tell Christophe to keep his worldly French eyes off Marta—and that answers my earlier question.

  Decidedly uncomfortable, Joe turned away. ‘Got to go, let’s know in plenty of time what you want in the way of veges for the tucker for this Chrissie bash and I’ll pick them fresh on the morning.’

  ‘I create food, I don’t do tucker!’ Christophe yelled, his voice echoing down the alleyway. ‘Je crée de la nourriture sublime, je ne fais pas de tucker!’

  Joe laughed at the barrage of outraged French that followed him.

  Unsettled by that encounter, he fired up his truck and headed back to the gardens. It wasn’t really out of his way, but he was headed down the road past the Fields’ place before he accepted that this was his destination all along. This was why he insisted on personally delivering produce to Chez Christophe, such deliveries gave him the option to pass Marta’s old home. Am I a sucker for punishment, or what?

  When the dilapidated place came into view, he braked.

  The place sure looked tired and neglected with paint peeling off sidings and a broken window boarded over with plywood. Rank grass had overtaken the once lovely garden.

  Jesus, all that dry grass and rubbish is a fire waiting to happen.

  A cold shiver rippled up and over Joe’s skin—further north, firies were battling a dozen out of control bushfires razing everything in their path—and this was a real worry so early in the fire season.

  But someone had been making a half-hearted attempt to clear away the overgrowth, and that someone now sat on the verandah steps, drinking from a water bottle, an ancient weed-whipper propped against the railing.

  ‘If you want things to change, make it happen.’ He heard his dad’s testy words clearly. Do I want things to change between Marta and me?

  This was a no-brainer, and he braked and pulled into the overgrown driveway.

  Marta saw him and stiffened—he could feel her animosity even from this distance.

  He ignored her scowl, alighted and walked up the overgrown path to the steps. ‘You’ve got a big job on your hands here.’

  ‘Sure, but I’ll get there. Eventually.’ She blotted sweat from her forehead with a grubby handkerchief.

  Joe looked from Marta’s hot face and dishevelled hair, to her worn and dirty overalls and the piddly machine resting against the steps. ‘Do you want me to bring the tractor and slasher over this evening and help you get this under control?’

  She stared at him so long, he grew uncomfortable. Her eyes narrowed until they were a mere gleam between her thick eyelashes. If looks could kill, I’d be dead meat.

  Finally, she said, ‘I would really appreciate it, but why would you make such an offer?’

  Her hesitancy and wariness increased his guilt.

  ‘Public safety.’ He was unable to keep a grim note out of his voice. ‘My place is ten kilometres from here as the crow flies, and you and I both know a fire with a decent wind behind it can travel tha
t distance in a matter of minutes, or maybe you’ve been gone so long you’ve forgotten?’

  Marta stood. ‘I’ve forgotten nothing. And as much as I’d love to tell you to take yourself, and your concern for public safety, for a long, mind-bending, exhausting hike, I’m not stupid enough to turn down your offer. I accept and appreciate any help you want to give.’

  He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Clear around anything with the weed-whipper that you don’t want munched with the tractor.’ He sketched a hand at the overgrown borders. ‘I’ll bring the gear over after work and get this done.’

  Chapter 3

  The sound of a vehicle turning in the driveway made Marta straighten up and stretch to ease the kink in her spine. She swiped a forearm across her sweaty forehead. Clearing her way through this jungle of overgrown weeds and garden beds was hot, dirty work, and tough on her city-soft body.

  Joe’s ancient ute stopped a few feet from her; another ute towing a low trailer loaded with machinery pulled in behind his. Joe got out, the slam of the ute door echoing in the hot air louder than a gunshot. He crossed to her side in long, easy strides.

  ‘I’ve brought a couple of blokes with me to help us get this job done. Is that okay by you?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘Sure, any help is appreciated.’

  Beyond him, she saw two men unloading a tractor mower with a huge grass catcher, and an assortment of tools that looked capable of doing serious damage to anything growing in the wrong place.

  ‘Have you decided what you want to keep?’

  She surveyed the garden that had once been her mother’s pride and joy, and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I remember—’

  ‘—how it was. And you know keeping it that way is impossible.’

  Joe had always possessed the unnerving ability to cut right to the heart of a problem, and this, it seemed, hadn’t changed. Disconcerted, Marta rubbed at her forehead and fought down tears of remorse and guilt, perilously close to a meltdown.

  ‘Gardening was Mum’s thing and it’s not like she’ll ever return here.’ Sorrow edged her voice.