by Shirley Wine
‘I heard she’s not too good, and I’m sorry.’ He glanced at the overgrown garden. ‘This didn’t happen overnight.’
This time, she knew exactly what he was thinking, nor could she mistake the distinct edge to his voice. Guilt dug its remorseless talons ever deeper. Had I not relied on phone calls, I would have known Mum wasn’t coping, that she was losing her grip on reality.
‘I am aware of this.’ She looked away, unable to meet his shrewd, assessing gaze.
Joe stood with his thumbs tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. ‘Your mum, what’s going on with her?’
‘She has advanced stage dementia and needs full-time care.’
She heard his swiftly indrawn breath a moment before he gripped her arm, his grey eyes softening with concern. ‘That’s not good. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘No one did and it’s not like she’s elderly either—she certainly managed to keep her deteriorating health from me.’ She shook her head, grief battering her. ‘And I talked to her at least twice a week.’
He stood there silent and frowning. ‘I called on her several times this past year, offering help with this. She refused, but had I known …’
‘Don’t feel bad about it.’ Marta spread her hands in an expansive gesture. ‘Mum never was one to broadcast her troubles. And let’s face it, I would still be in the dark had a social worker not contacted me.’
His expression softened, his grey eyes seemed to reach out and offer her wordless comfort. ‘That’s rough.’
‘It is.’ She looked at the derelict yard, resigned and sad. ‘Now it’s up to me to get this place into some semblance of order. It will never sell in this state.’
‘You’re selling?’ He pushed his ancient hat back on his head and scratched a hand through his dark hair. ‘Why?’
‘I can’t see me living here permanently and it’s not like Ben will ever come back here to live.’
Joe’s stillness unnerved her. She’d forgotten this about him, his ability to stand motionless, at one with his surroundings. The sounds of the other men talking, the clank of tools and machinery being unloaded faded into the distance. Marta was only conscious of the man standing there, looking down at her. What is he thinking?
‘You don’t intend to stay,’ he said at last, breaking into her turbulent thoughts.
‘Not here, I don’t.’
‘Why not?’ Hands on his hips, he surveyed the old brick and cedar board house through narrowed eyes, before he turned that penetrating gaze on her. ‘The house is sound enough. It just needs some basic maintenance.’
She scuffed her foot on a thick clump of dried grass, the dull sound heavy in the hot stillness. ‘I need to work, and there’s very little of that going around Marandowie.’
‘If I can make a suggestion?’
Surprised by his hesitant tone, she nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I have already been down this path and I decided the only way forward was to put aside sentiment and consider what would work for me. And selfish as it sounds, it was the right approach,’ Joe said, his voice soft but decisive. ‘Our place was in a bigger mess than this when Dad died.’
‘I had no idea things were this bad, or that my mother didn’t use the money I sent her on maintenance.’ She looked around with something close to despair. And I still have to deal with what Mum did spend the money on.
‘If you do sell, where will you go? What are your plans?’
‘My position at the Rainbow Cove resort as the relief events coordinator starts when Eve goes on maternity leave in January, and I have a gig two or three nights a week at Chez Christophe. It’s just not practical to commute from Marandowie to Rainbow Cove.’
He frowned at this. ‘That’s a heavy schedule.’
‘It is, and to me, selling this place is the most practical option.’
‘You could do what Christophe does, and keep this place as a weekend retreat.’
She snorted, a loud, unladylike sound. ‘Dreams are free, Joe, but it takes money to buy whisky. Haven’t you figured this out yet?’
He laughed, the earthy sound sending delicious little tremors through her.
‘Sure.’ He rocked back on his heels, grinning. ‘So what shall we do here? The boys are chomping on the bit to get started.’
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Sentiment aside, this place needs a complete clean-out. What would you suggest?’
‘You want easy-care?’
‘Do bees like honey?’
Joe chuckled and turned his attention to the job at hand. Slowly, he turned in a full circle surveying the yard through narrowed eyes, his brow furrowed.
She took advantage of his concentration to study him.
He had filled out; his sleeveless grey singlet displayed his impressive, sweat-dewed muscles to their best advantage. Grubby jeans, one knee ripped out, hugged his slim hips. His scarred work boots were planted firmly on the earth, his hands still on his hips, as he assessed the scope of the job.
He was rugged, down to earth and powerful, and in complete harmony with this landscape; the light embraced him, made him part of it. Instinctively, she knew that when he did make a suggestion, it would be considered, well thought-out and helpful.
He fits here—her heart did a little one-two skip in her chest—Joe, laid-back and casual, is at one with this land.
In a moment of clear insight, Marta knew this was a state she would never reach.
This calm, considered man was light years removed from the impetuous, often temperamental younger man she remembered—Joe owned his destiny. He was no longer subject to the demands of the pushy mother who directed his every move.
Disconcerted but intrigued, Marta was eager to get to know this older, mature version of the man she’d left behind.
‘Why not leave the lilly pilly, the mulberry tree and that big jacaranda.’ He turned to her to explain. ‘They’re all back far enough from the house not to pose too much of a fire danger, and they’ll give you shade and privacy, and retain the country feel your mother worked so hard to achieve. The trees do need to be limbed up a little and the debris cleared from under them. If we cut and mow the remainder of the yard, will that work for you? It’s drastic but practical.’
Marta stared at the messy yard, took a slow, deep breath, and nodded. ‘Okay, let’s do it.’
‘Are you happy for me to direct the guys?’
‘Yeah, I’ll leave it in your capable hands. I’ll go and organise some cold drinks.’ She turned towards the house, taking off the heavy leather gardening gloves, then the thin protective cotton ones as she went. She bent her head to study her nails, relieved to see them all intact.
‘Marta?’
She paused and looked back over her shoulder. ‘Yeah?’
He crossed the space in two strides, one massive hand gripping her shoulder. ‘Are you sure about this?’
She looked up into his concerned eyes, and nodded.
‘You do realise I’m talking about total destruction of garden beds and just leaving lawn and a few of the surrounding trees?’
‘Yes, I do understand this.’ And she did, but was unable to keep the emotional quiver out of her voice. She lifted a hand and touched the one on her shoulder. ‘I can’t keep it up. Besides, I’ll always have great memories of how it looked under my mother’s care, but you’re right. This isn’t the time to get sentimental. I need this place neat and tidy.’
‘You always did like everything neat and tidy, no loose ends, nothing to look back at.’ His expression and tone turned grim. ‘Do you have regrets? Think about what might have been?’
Suddenly, the past was there between them, laid bare in all its ugliness.
She shrugged his hand off her shoulder. ‘Looking back is a waste of time and energy. We both made decisions then, now we have to live with them.’
A deep scowl marred his handsome features. ‘And you were always so sure you were headed in the right direction—no need for second-
guessing.’
‘I was offered a great opportunity. One it was in my interests to accept, and I’m not going to apologise for doing so.’ Her jaw clenched, the skin on her forehead tightened and tension sent anger licking through her veins. ‘Just because you decided to stay here in Marandowie doesn’t mean that was the right decision for me. Had I stayed here, I would have been trapped in a time warp.’
She turned and walked away, resisting the urge to run.
Behind her, she heard Joe’s deep voice as he issued orders to his men, the murmur of their responses drowned beneath the cacophony of machinery kicking into life, the rowdy noise destroying the country quiet. Parrots roosting in the nearby gum trees flew off, their raucous cries drowned by the scream of a chainsaw.
Marta paused in the darkened hallway and watched the activity.
Joe, wielding the chainsaw, started in on the overgrown hedge of grevilleas usually swarming with nectar loving birds. Another man pulled the branches out onto the grass verge and began feeding them into an industrial-sized shredder—did Joe own all this machinery?
A crimson callistemon succumbed to the chainsaw, and she winced. As clear as yesterday, she recalled her mother’s joy, the hours she spent on the verandah watching the birds that came to visit her garden.
Resolutely, Marta turned her back and retreated to the kitchen.
She looked neither left nor right, concentrating instead on negotiating the narrow walkway between the piles of newspaper, plastic cartons and other miscellaneous junk piled up against walls in the hallway, and every other room of the house. When did my mother turn into a pack-rat?
There were literally mountains of junk.
Marta was convinced her mother had not thrown away so much as a plastic bread tie since the day her daughter left for Sydney.
Shall I get Joe to bring his machinery indoors—if he thinks the yard a fire hazard what would he make of this?
She swallowed a hollow laugh.
In the small space she’d cleared in front of the sink bench, she washed her hands, taking care not to waste a drop of water—and that’s something else I need to check.
After so long living in the city, she took things like water, kerbside collections and lawn maintenance for granted.
Guilt weighed heavily—why didn’t I realise that despite her relative youth Mum was no longer coping with reality?
She had sent her mother money, but Marta was learning the hard way that nothing made up for the lack of personal time spent with a parent. Not until she had received a call from the social worker did she realise the severity of her mother’s condition, or that dementia had robbed her mother of the ability to make good choices.
‘Looking back over your shoulder is pointless, you need to live looking forward’—she could hear her mother clearly.
Marta lived by her mother’s maxim.
She kept looking forward and missed out on that precious time with the very person who had encouraged her to follow her dreams, to step outside her comfort zone, to take advantage of the opportunity opening up for her. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead on her folded arms on the bench.
‘You okay?’
She jerked upright. Joe stood in the doorway staring at her and the crazy mess, his eyes bugging out of his head.
‘Scary isn’t it?’ She shrugged and spread her hands in an expressive gesture.
‘Shit, Marta, I had no idea.’ He walked through the narrow passageway of stacked newspapers until he reached her.
‘You and me both. It took me two days to clear out my bedroom so I could sleep without being terrified I’d smother if I closed my eyes.’
‘Is every room like this?’
‘More or less.’ She shrugged again, and tried for a lighter note. ‘Perhaps you should bring some of that machinery of yours indoors.’
Joe turned and his elbow hit a stack of newspapers that reached almost to the ceiling.
‘Careful!’ she shrieked. ‘Dislodge that lot and we’ll both be buried and never get out of here alive.’
‘Shit, this is freaky. Where the blazes did all this come from? Surely your mother never read this many newspapers, or had them delivered for that matter?’
‘From what I can gather, she collected unread newspapers from all the shops in Marandowie and brought them home. She told people she needed to pack up all her china and according to one woman who contacted me, people saved them for her to collect.’ Marta shrugged once again. ‘Mum’s paranoia had become extreme and according to the social worker, this type of hoarding is quite common with people who have progressive dementia.’
Joe looked at her and shook his head before he turned and scanned the room, his gaze darting all over the place. She could see his mental processes working.
‘When are you starting work out at the cove?’
His voice was level and calm, and she could hear no censure or judgement in his tone. Something about him, his stance, eased the burdens weighing her down.
‘I have three weeks to get this sorted.’ A tremor crept into her voice. ‘That’s when the resort’s events coordinator is due to go on maternity leave. God forbid that anything crops up with her health in the meantime and they need me earlier.’
She turned away and looked out the window, struggling to control her emotions.
Joe gripped her shoulder, turned her to face him and said gently, ‘Marta, you can’t manage this alone. Will you let me help, even if only for your mother’s sake?’
‘Why would you make an offer like this?’
‘Your mother was the one person who took the time to listen to me, and she was the one who encouraged me to follow my heart.’ He dropped his hand and stood there shaking his head. ‘And I’m guessing this was why she refused to let me step inside whenever I stopped by.’
‘I’m not too proud to accept help.’ Marta dashed a hand over her eyes. ‘I confess to being totally overwhelmed and not at all sure about where to start.’
‘And so you decided to tackle the yard first?’
‘Yeah. Out there I wasn’t terrified of suffocating.’ She waved a hand at the stacked piles of newspapers. ‘I’m sure I’ll have nightmares about all this for years to come.’
‘Tell you what.’ He rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful. ‘Let me and the boys get the yard under control. If you arrange for a skip to be delivered, I’ll get them to help you tackle clearing all this stuff inside.’
His pragmatic practicality made her want to hug him, but she resisted the impulse.
‘I’d much prefer no one else saw this mess.’ She didn’t want her mother, or her dementia, bandied about Marandowie, the butt of macabre jokes.
‘You want to protect your mum’s memory?’
‘I do,’ she said, relieved by his quick understanding. ‘Can you imagine the gossip if anyone else got wind of this? As far as anyone knows, Mum has become reclusive, and I’d like to keep it that way.’
‘Fair enough. Your mother has always been a very private person, but Agnes—surely she’s too young to have advanced dementia?’
‘Dementia can strike at any age, as I’ve discovered.’ Marta combed trembling fingers through her already dishevelled hair. ‘And I know Mum would absolutely hate to become the subject of dinner table gossip. She endured enough of that when everyone talked about me and Ben, and our lack of a father.’
Joe winced, unable to meet her eyes. And she knew he was remembering his mother’s tirades about Agnes Field and her bastard kids. Ben, now, that was a whole other story.
‘Mum held her head held high then, and she protected my brother and me. The very least I can do is protect her now.’
‘Okay. Let’s deal with the outdoors first. You get the skip organised, and I’ll come over in the evenings and help you get on top of this.’
‘Why are you offering to do this?’ She wasn’t quite sure about this older, quieter man, the one who seemed to be totally in control of his emotions and his life—in st
ark contrast to her own state of indecision.
‘Because I admire and respect your mother, and she’s always been very kind to me.’ His mouth settled into a grim line. ‘And by helping to conceal all this, it will protect your mother’s memory. For no other reason.’
Marta didn’t flinch. I did ask. What did I expect—his undying love?
She turned away, recalling a more youthful Joe, a man who had worn his heart on his sleeve, ready to grant her least wish—until I turned my back on him and walked away.
A loud call from outside broke the tension.
‘Coming,’ Joe bellowed and strode outside without a backward glance.
Marta stood there, her hands pressed to her cheeks. Joe wanted to spend his evenings here, helping her clear all the clutter her mother had taken ten years to hoard?
Despite her reservations, a little fillip of excitement coursed through her.
Alone with Joe, and working together—is it possible to bridge the chasm between us?—the thought excited and frightened her in equal measure.
Joe had broken her heart once before. Dare she trust him again?
Chapter 4
Marta put the large jug of lemonade, some stubbies and glasses on the verandah table, along with a couple of packets of store-bought biscuits, and stared at what was once an overgrown mess. Three men and their machines had done in a couple of hours what would have taken her months to achieve.
Joe saw her, waved and jogged across to the man feeding tree branches into the industrial-sized mulcher. The man nodded and switched off the noisy machine.
The sudden silence seemed to echo.
Joe spoke to his men and led the way to the side of the house where her mother had installed a hand-washbasin. Marta could hear the murmur of their voices as they washed up, and when they walked around to the verandah, water droplets glistened in their hair.
Joe introduced his men. ‘Marta, this is Kev and Bart who work for me. Guys, this is my friend, Marta Field.’
With shy murmurs of greeting, the men plonked themselves down on the wide verandah steps, the overhang shielding them from the late afternoon sun.
‘Lemonade or a stubby?’ she asked.