by Shirley Wine
Joe caught her arm, and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Are you quite sure there’s nothing here you want to keep back?’
‘No,’ she said, her voice resolute. ‘I’ve put aside any stuff I think we should keep back to go through later. Those boxes are in the sunroom. The rest of this is just clutter.’
‘Sure? Once it’s gone, Marta, it’s gone.’
‘I’m sure; besides, I have all the stuff I’ve collected in storage back in Sydney.’
After one more searching glance, he nodded and strode out to meet the truck driver.
***
Joe stood in the centre of the lounge room.
Marta flopped down in an armchair, coughing as she disturbed dust. ‘My God, there is a floor to this room after all. I was beginning to wonder.’
Joe gave a crack of laughter. ‘Glad to see the return of the real you.’
‘I’m no longer running the risk of suffocating.’ She grinned at him. ‘Now, I need an army of cleaning elves.’
‘Do you want to hire professional cleaners?’
‘No. I need to do this, myself.’ Marta couldn’t have rationally explained this compulsion if she tried.
The room, the whole house, needed a serious application of elbow grease, but now at least the furniture was visible. The ancient upright piano in the corner sported a decent coating of dust.
Joe sat on the piano stool and lifted the lid.
The ivories, yellowed with age, gleamed dully in the overhead light. He ran his fingers across the keys, and winced. ‘Man, this needs tuning.’
‘It’s probably never been played since you last sat at that keyboard.’
He stood, swiped an arm across the dusty top, lifted the lid and extracted a tuning fork. ‘Ta-da!’
Marta curled her legs up under her, content to watch.
At the piano, Joe was in his element, and it was obvious to her that he had lost none of his skill. He tinkled notes, his head on one side, until the sound of each note pleased him. He certainly hadn’t lost his ear.
Does he miss it?
The piano tinkled again, as he replayed a little stanza; all the time he listened intently to the sound, twisting the tuning pins with the fork until each note was pitch-perfect. After each adjustment, he added a little improvisation to the stanza. The music was haunting—an echo of joy, a mourning sorrow—and it was nothing she recognised. Is Joe composing again?
His concentration was complete. Marta was sure she could drop a brick on his toe and he wouldn’t even notice. He had always possessed this ability—to lose himself in his music to such an extent that the world beyond the keyboard ceased to exist.
At last he was satisfied and he tucked the tuning fork back in its cubbyhole.
He sat down at the piano and spread his big hands on the keyboard; music flowed through the dust motes in the air.
At last, he seemed to run out of steam and the notes died away.
‘Do you regret not taking up that scholarship?’ she asked, her voice tentative, the question hesitant. She knew that this was a touchy subject.
He sat there, staring at his hands as he flexed them, his expression thoughtful. ‘In some ways yes, I regret it; in other ways, not at all.’
She frowned, trying to make sense of these cryptic words. She had never really understood exactly what had transpired within the Marshall family when his father died.
She had already left Marandowie—and Joe. Be honest: I ran, I was scared of Joe’s mother.
Sure, she had heard Rebecca’s jumbled version, but the girl had been so strung out, so frightened, that Marta was never quite sure if Becky’s home situation was as bad as she intimated. ‘Why did you turn down that scholarship? That’s something I’ve never understood.’
He sat there, silent and staring at his hands so long she wasn’t sure if he would answer. He looked up at her, his grey eyes dark with emotion. ‘When Dad died, it was so sudden, one hell of a shock.’
The anguish in Joe’s voice tugged at Marta’s heartstrings. She only knew the bare bones of this happening. Frank Marshall had died suddenly—Marta’s mother thought it was his heart—and the whole Marshall family imploded.
Rebecca ran away from home, the distraught girl landing on Marta’s doorstep in Sydney in the early hours of the morning, the day after her father’s funeral. Within a week Adele had moved out of the family home—into a Melbourne penthouse with her lover—while Joe had dropped his music studies and taken over the family’s market gardens.
And Marandowie gossips had had a field day—they were like pigs in clover.
Now, Marta stood and crossed to his side and sat on the long piano stool beside him. She caught his hand and threaded her fingers through his. ‘What happened, Joe?’
‘It was a Saturday, midsummer and as hot as blazes.’ He grimaced. ‘You know how it gets here.’
‘Hotter than the seventh level of hell.’ She did know. It got so damn hot you could literally cook eggs on the footpath.
‘We’d just finished breakfast and Becky and I were moaning about the heat. Dad said he’d take us into Marandowie, to the pools for a swim, and predictably, Mother hit the roof.’
‘Why?’
‘I had piano practice and Rebecca had her singing practice, and nothing, not even the blistering heat, was allowed to interfere with our regimen.’
‘I remember.’ And she did.
Adele Marshall’s threats were still a vivid memory. Over the years, Marta had succeeded in pushing them into the dim recesses of her brain. Reminded of them now, a shiver goosed its way up her spine.
‘For once, Dad wasn’t having a bar of it. Do you remember how quiet he could get, how his eyes would go all steely?’
Marta gave a ghost of a grin. ‘I remember. He could scare the hell out of me with one look.’
‘Me too,’ Joe admitted with a laugh. ‘Dad just looked at Mother and said, very quietly, he was taking us swimming. He looked at me and then Rebecca, and told us to go get our swimmers.’
Joe flexed his hands staring at them.
She knew he was lost in the past and, judging from his expression, it wasn’t a pleasant place.
‘Those were the last words I ever heard Dad say.’
‘Oh, Joe,’ she said, her voice a hushed whisper. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘We whooped and scarpered upstairs; when we came back down, Dad was lying face down on the floor.’ His voice faltered and he looked up at her, shaking his head. ‘Mother was standing there and told me to phone for an ambulance and sent Becky out to wait for them. She seemed so calm—so cool. I shoved her aside, turned Dad over and started CPR and yelled at Becky to dial Emergency. As I ran past I heard Mother mutter, “Typical Frank, an inconvenience to the bitter end.”’
‘You’re freaking kidding.’
‘I’m not, fair dinkum. Becky was hysterical, and she screamed at the operator, “Mum has killed Dad!”’
‘Oh my God. She didn’t.’
‘She did.’ Joe shook his head. ‘Mother snatched the receiver and slapped Becky and tried to calm things down, and all the time Becky kept screaming that Mother had killed Dad, in a voice like a fireman’s whistle. Talk about an uproar.’
Marta choked and spluttered on a gasp. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘All hell broke loose. Within minutes the house was swarming with cops and ambos.’ He raked an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘The ambos took over CPR and they zapped Dad with a defibrillator and got his heart restarted. They put him and Becky in ambulances. The police handcuffed Mother and took her away for questioning.’
‘Hooley-dooley, Joe, what did you do?’
‘That was the moment I became a man. In one split second, I discovered I was far more my father’s son than my mother’s musical prodigy. My dad was lying there and our mother had muttered about the inconvenience. I was in shock, but I was also incensed.’
‘Ever the master of understatement.’
‘Dad died later that day and the
police turned Mother loose. Later the Coroner ruled Dad had suffered a massive coronary.’ Joe turned Marta’s hand over and stroked the back of it with his thumb. ‘The day after his funeral, Mother rang the real estate people and listed the gardens for sale. She informed me and Becky that we would be moving to Europe to continue our music studies.’
‘And yet you’re still here.’
Joe looked at her, his gaze steady. ‘Yes, I’m still here.’
Marta knew there had to be a lot more to the story than the bare facts Joe had revealed. Despite his obvious reluctance, she asked, ‘And your mother?’
‘As far as I know, she’s still with her lover—the man she prostituted herself with so he would further mine and Becky’s musical careers.’
Marta choked on another gasp, expelling her breath in a wheezing cough. ‘What?’
‘I discovered Mother had slept with my music professor so he would up my grades to ensure I qualified for that scholarship. She’d been his lover for years before my father died.’
‘You’re shitting me. What did you do?’
‘What anyone with any integrity would do.’ He lifted a hand and let it fall. ‘I notified the university, turned down that scholarship and engaged a lawyer.’
‘Your mother challenged you?’
‘She did, and she tried to sell the gardens. Fortunately, Dad’s affairs were tidy, his will clear and concise. I inherited the gardens, Rebecca their holiday home at Coffs Harbour, Mother their townhouse in Brisbane. Dad’s share portfolio and cash assets were split between Becky and Mother. His life insurance Becky and I shared equally.’ He grinned at her, his grey eyes held a gleam of mischief. ‘So I rolled up my sleeves and went cap in hand, to Kev, Dad’s right-hand man, and asked him to teach me how to run the gardens.’
Marta knew, to her cost, that Joe was fiercely loyal to the people he loved, and he would find his mother’s actions unforgivable. This is far worse than ever Becky said. Did his sister even know the whole truth, or did Joe shield her from their mother’s actions?
‘And you’re content? You don’t miss your music?’
‘I love the work,’ he said simply, ‘and I still have my music. What I don’t miss is the relentless pressure. Music is now my joy, and my plants love it too.’
‘Your plants?’
‘You’ll have to come and visit my gardens sometime, and you’ll see.’
‘I intend to.’ She glanced up at him, troubled by his revelations. ‘I never knew any of this.’
‘There was no reason why you should.’
Unspoken, the rift between them lay exposed. In Joe’s eyes, I left him without even a token explanation, too afraid to reveal the truth.
Memory goosed Marta, a cold shimmer near the base of her spine.
She didn’t trust Adele any more now than she did all those years ago when, as a green girl, her own mother had encouraged her to leave Marandowie, to use her singing talent to forge a career as a cabaret singer.
‘Do you have much to do with your mother?’
‘We haven’t spoken since she left,’ he said and held up a hand, palm outwards, his voice grim. ‘Any communication between us now is through our lawyers.’
Marta took a slow deep breath. ‘And Rebecca?’
‘She talks to our mother from time to time.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘Rebecca is an adult, and she’s free to choose her own path.’ He turned on the piano stool; his hands hit the keys, creating a discordant sound.
Quick as a flash, Marta turned, and matched the sound with a tuneful echo.
Without missing a beat, he shuffled along to give her room and the years fell away—as one, music flowed from their fingertips. Effortlessly, they segued from one tune to another, improvising and adding wherever the mood took them. Music had always been the one area where they meshed, without recrimination, without hostility.
‘God, it’s so long since I’ve done that.’ Joe stopped playing and looked at Marta, memories clouding his senses. ‘We always did make great music together, and not just at the piano.’
‘We did,’ she murmured, her voice husky with desire.
‘Sing for me, Marta.’
The simple request, the earnest plea in his eyes, his cajoling smile won her over. She stood and walked to the end of the piano, and rested an elbow on the lid. Joe struck a scale, and without hesitation, she followed his direction, note for note, up and down the scale, warming her vocal chords.
Seamlessly he segued into ‘Oh Holy Night’. Marta blinked back tears—her mother’s favourite Christmas song.
Joe knew this.
When the last note died away he sat silent, his hand held out in supplication. She accepted the silent invitation, and he hauled her into his arms, bending his head and taking her mouth in a slow, sensual kiss.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you going to send me home tonight?’
‘I should,’ she said a mischievous undertone in her voice, ‘but I won’t. You can stay.’
It was all the invitation he needed and, rising with alacrity, he gently closed the lid of the piano. They had gone two steps when the silence was broken by the warble of her mobile phone.
Who is ringing me so late?
She jerked her hand from Joe’s, her heart thrumming in panic as she scrabbled in her jeans pocket for her phone.
‘Your mother?’ Anxiety edged Joe’s voice.
She looked at the phone screen and shook her head, shrugged and walked through to the kitchen to take the call, too aware of Joe’s intent scrutiny.
***
Joe stared after Marta, catching the unmistakable anxiety in her expression before she stood and walked out of the room to take the call.
Was the late call about her mother?
He heard her voice, but could distinguish nothing of the conversation. He turned on the piano stool, his hands lax in his lap as he waited for her to return. One look at her face and he knew that the phone call was not good news.
‘Your mother?’
‘No.’ She slipped the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Your good friend Christophe.’
‘What the hell did he want?’ Joe demanded. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock.’
‘He’s cancelled my gig at Chez Christophe.’
‘What? Why?’
She laughed, a hollow sound devoid of amusement. ‘Your concerns about the band were justified. They refuse to work with me and Christophe wants music more than a vocalist.’
Joe came and stood beside her. ‘Did he say why or what caused his change of mind?’
She shook her head and turned away to stare out into the dark night, her back stiff, her demeanour radiating hurt and humiliation. He walked up behind her and they were both clearly reflected in the glass, her expression flat and unrevealing.
‘What about your contract?’
‘We didn’t have one. It was a trial, and if my singing proved successful with his clientele, then we would formalise things.’
‘Did he give you a reason?’
‘He doesn’t need to.’ She shook her head, her voice laced with bitter irony. ‘He pays the piper, he calls the tune.’
Joe, staring at her rigid back, knew this dealt her a solid blow. From the little she’d let slip, he guessed she was reliant on the income from the restaurant and the resort. He didn’t know the details of her situation, but he guessed she was liable for a good portion of her mother’s care, and this wouldn’t come cheap.
‘Weren’t you due to start this weekend?’
‘Tomorrow night.’ Her lips pressed together in a thin line.
‘I’ve never found Christophe unreasonable. He must have a sound reason for cancelling at this late date.’
‘To him maybe.’ She looked around the room, her expression filled with despair. ‘But it leaves me fair and square up the creek without a paddle.’
He winced at her bitterness. ‘Would you like me to talk to hi
m?’
She fished her phone out of her back pocket and held it out. ‘Be my guest.’
He shook his head and retrieved his own phone from his hip pocket. As he pressed the call button, he watched Marta walk out through the kitchen door and disappear into the night.
Chapter 9
Joe walked out onto the back terrace, but couldn’t see Marta in the dim starlight; the moon had yet to breach the horizon.
‘Marta?’
A movement near the edge of the deck revealed her position. He walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I talked to Christophe.’
She turned her head in his direction. ‘And?’
‘He started waffling about client preference, yadda, yadda, yadda, but eventually he weakened and I got to the guts of the matter.’
‘And that is?’
Joe took a slow, deep breath, his hands tightening on her shoulders. He’d far rather not add to Marta’s distress, but she did need to know what she was up against. ‘It’s personal. It appears Mike O’Sullivan was the band leader’s cousin.’
‘Shit!’
‘Yeah, it’s a bummer, but it does explain his stance.’
‘Maybe.’ She stiffened, her lips compressed in a thin line. ‘But it’s not exactly fair to punish me because of my brother’s actions.’
‘Precisely,’ he murmured against the skin of her neck. ‘It’s also unprofessional, and I pointed this out to Christophe.’
‘What was his response?’
‘He hummed and hawed, but me calling him about you put him on the spot.’ Joe chuckled softly. ‘He spluttered a bit when I asked him if he was prepared to employ a band who held no qualms over letting him down without warning, especially as their reasons didn’t have a prayer of standing up to a challenge in an employment court.’
‘What did he have to say about that?’
‘He’s going to contact the band then if the answer is what I suspect it will be, he’ll ring you back.’
The words had no sooner left his lips than her phone warbled, breaking the night stillness. She fished it out of her pocket and looked at the screen, then winked at him.