Her Christmas Homecoming

by Shirley Wine

  ‘Christophe?’

  Joe watched her, intent on her reaction.

  She listened and her gaze swivelled upward and locked with his, her expression for once easy to read: shocked disbelief. She finished her call and stood there, staring blankly at the black phone screen.

  Joe damped down his impatience. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He wants you and me at Chez Christophe tomorrow morning at nine for a dress rehearsal. Are you okay with this?’ Marta started to laugh. ‘You offered to be my musical backup, Joe—why?’

  ‘Why?’ He stepped closer and caught her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Because you need the work,’ he said, unable to keep the husky note of longing from his voice. ‘You need someone reliable and not given to letting you down over petty grievances.’

  ‘The death of a cousin isn’t exactly a petty grievance.’

  ‘If their boycott was aimed at your brother, then no, but aimed at you, it’s exceedingly petty.’

  He hoped this would satisfy Marta. He didn’t want to disclose Christophe’s suspicion that it was someone with a grudge against Marta who was stirring up the musicians, and this worried Joe.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, his voice soft as slowly, inexorably he drew her closer, ‘we’re friends and always in the past, we’ve protected each other’s backs during the tough times.’

  Their lips met and their bodies meshed and then there was no more time for thinking.

  ***

  As they stepped in through the back door of Chez Christophe, Marta’s mood swung between exhilaration and nervousness. She couldn’t remember being this nervous, even for her very first Sydney audition. She felt so far outside any zone that resembled comfort.

  Joe caught her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Stop worrying, it’ll be a breeze.’

  ‘We’ve never worked together publicly.’ She stopped mid-stride and looked up at him. ‘Can you imagine what your mother will say if she hears about this?’

  Remembered fear hit Marta. A chill slip-slid like a block of ice melting down her spine—what if Adele Marshall does learn her protégé, her boy wonder, is playing for me?

  Joe’s lips firmed and he squeezed her hand again. ‘My mother can think what she bloody well likes, she has absolutely no say about any facet of my life, whatsoever.’

  Looking up into his face, her fears were allayed by his certainty.

  ‘Just imagine we’re at the old piano in your mother’s lounge room,’ he said quietly. ‘We work well together, Marta, we always have.’

  They did, and once performing together like this had been a dream they both shared. A dream where Joe played the piano and she would sing, and together they would set the cabaret scene on fire—until his mother made it impossible for me to stay.

  She shrugged the thought away.

  ‘Morning, Christophe,’ Joe hollered as they entered the restaurant. ‘You decent?’

  ‘Just a moment, I need to find my pants.’ Christophe’s voice rang out from somewhere deep in the bowels of the restaurant.

  ‘He’s naked?’ Marta asked, her voice strangled as she goggled at Joe.

  Joe let loose a great belly laugh, put a finger under her chin and applied pressure until her mouth closed. ‘Don’t worry, he’s decent, it’s just a standing joke between us.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she muttered, but she lagged a step behind Joe—just in case.

  ‘Take no notice of them two, Marta.’ Nico said, his voice deepening with disgust, hot colour flooding his cheeks. ‘They’re just jerking each other’s chains.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so. I don’t do strip-tease.’

  Christophe arrived in time to catch her comment. He looked at Joe and the pair of them laughed like loons. Marta eased out a soft breath when she saw the chef decently attired in crisp whites, complete with a perky chef’s hat.

  Nico, after another disgusted look at his boss and Joe, turned his back and began prepping vegetables, whacking at an onion with far more force than necessary.

  Joe, still grinning, leaned back against the huge stainless steel work bench, muscular arms folded across his brawny chest, his ankles crossed. ‘So this piano, is it tuned?’

  ‘The bloke who brought it said so.’

  ‘You’ve put in a piano?’ Marta looked from one man to the other unable to conceal her surprise.

  ‘I decided to rent one for the summer,’ Christophe said in an offhand manner. ‘If this trial pans out, I’ll look at buying one.’

  Marta looked from the chef to Joe, a frisson of excitement fizzing through her bloodstream. This sounded more than promising, but catching Christophe’s eye, caution surfaced. What has gone down between these two men?

  ‘It will depend on Joe. Can he play well enough to accompany you?’ Christophe asked, his look measured.

  Joe chuckled when Marta stared at the chef, her jaw loose with shock. She needed to swallow hard so her voice worked. ‘And here’s me thinking you two were good friends.’

  ‘We are.’ Joe grinned and winked at her.

  ‘Joe, Christophe—’ she stressed Joe’s name as she looked from one man to the other, ‘—turned down a full five-year scholarship to study at the Juilliard School in New York. I’m sure he can make the most derelict piano sound magical.’

  ‘Alors—’ Christophe broke off, staring at Joe and shaking his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. ‘If this is so, why are you growing vegetables?’

  Marta gave a derisive snort. ‘Have you been talking to Joe’s mother?’

  ‘No, why?’ Christophe turned to her, his mobile eyebrows almost reaching the chef’s hat perched across his forehead.

  Marta narrowed her eyes, and pitched her voice in perfect mimicry of Adele Marshall. ‘It’s inconceivable for you to squander such a God-given talent scrabbling in the dirt growing vegetables. Leave such work to the country hicks. You’re made for a much better life, son.’

  ‘Leave my mother out of this.’ Joe winced, his expression pained. ‘And for the record, I’m more than content with my life, thank you.’

  Christophe stared, his shrewd gaze darting from her to Joe. ‘Tell me, did your mother exaggerate?’

  Joe coloured, his discomfort plain, and Marta was quick to leap to his defence. ‘Joe can make a listener weep. He is far, far better than merely good.’

  ‘Then let’s try out this piano and see if it will suit.’ Christophe led the way out to the dining room, adding under his breath, ‘Maestro.’

  To Marta’s surprise, Christophe had installed an elegant upright piano on the dais, along with top of the line mics. She walked across to the piano, lifted the lid and ran her fingers across the keys executing a swift scale.

  The instrument had a pleasing mellow sound, and delighted her discerning ear.

  ‘You play?’ Christophe’s tone conveyed his astonishment.

  ‘I’m a journeyman, and just testing the tone and key. Joe is the pianist.’ She stood and held out a hand to Joe. ‘Show him.’

  Joe sat on the stool and ran his hands across the keyboard in a few warm-up scales. ‘What mood do you want, Christophe? Jazz? Classical? Modern? Country?’

  ‘I want people to be entertained, but not to the point where they lose interest in food or nod off.’

  ‘Okay, lively and upbeat it is. Don’t fret, Chef Christophe,’ Joe drawled in an exaggerated ocker accent, ‘I won’t put your patrons to sleep or put them off their tucker.’

  Christophe winced.

  Marta chuckled and cuffed Joe lightly on the shoulder. ‘Leave off the hillbilly act, Farmer Joe. Act like the professional you are.’

  Christophe scowled and looked pointedly at Joe’s well-worn shorts, scuffed thongs and dirt-stained feet. ‘One other thing, mate: we enforce a strict dress code here.’

  Marta touched his arm and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Joe may look shaggy and unkempt, but he does scrub up well.

  Joe struck a chord on the piano. ‘Okay you two, knock it off.’ He looked a
t Marta and hit a note, his expression serious. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  Marta stood, one hand on the piano, her eyes on Joe as he played warm-up notes for her, and when he nodded and segued into a love song made famous by Edith Piaf, she lifted her mic and sang.

  Time stood still.

  Everything faded except Joe’s direction and the music.

  Joe understood her style as no one else ever had; his repertoire was wide and varied; and together, they lost themselves in the music. He effortlessly segued into a musical segment to allow her voice to rest, then with impeccable timing, segued into a bracket of sixties songs, jazz interspersed with golden oldies with a toe-tapping beat.

  Clapping and whistles broke into their absorption.

  Marta turned to see Christophe, Nico and Flick, the new pastry chef, and other casual staff standing around the empty restaurant gawping at them and applauding wildly.

  She bowed—the applause renewed.

  Christophe came forward, beaming from ear to ear, and clapped Joe on the shoulder. ‘You should be making music, not growing vegetables, mon ami.’

  Joe stood, his smile soft and genuine. ‘But I do make music, Christophe, every day. And my vegetables respond.’

  ‘You play music to your plants? Really?’ Christophe took off his chef’s hat and slapped it against his thigh.

  ‘I do indeed.’ Joe laughed softly. ‘You need to come visit my gardens and see and listen for yourself.’ He looked at Marta and lifted a hand. ‘Don’t say it,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m happy with my life, just as it is. I have the best of both worlds. The land my father loved and left to me, and the freedom to really enjoy the music that feeds my soul, but without the intolerable pressure.’

  Marta blinked tears from her eyes. Joe really meant what he said. He’s here in Marandowie to stay, so where does this leave me?

  She couldn’t see her making Marandowie her permanent home.

  She turned to Christophe, desperate to divert his attention from Joe; he would hate this to sink into morbid sentimentality. ‘Will we do? For entertainment that is.’

  ‘I’m sure my clients will love you. I’ll probably have to enlarge my restaurant so we can provide room for more covers. Xander will be delighted. Do you want me to go ahead and draw up a contract right now?’

  Marta looked at Joe and caught the infinitesimal shake of his head.

  She turned to the chef. ‘Let’s leave arrangements as they are for now and wait and see how your patrons react. After Christmas, and a few trial gigs, we can all decide then if we want this to become a regular item.’

  Christophe sighed and spread his hands in a flamboyant Gallic gesture. ‘C’est bien. You two will come tomorrow night?’

  Joe stood and closed the lid on the piano. ‘We’ll be here.’

  The chef looked Joe up and down. ‘The dress code, your footwear—’

  Marta laughed. ‘Joe does own respectable duds; he just prefers to dress like a yobbo. I’ll make sure he won’t lower the tone of your establishment.’

  Christophe still looked uncertain, and eyed Joe’s shabby thongs. ‘About those?’

  Joe clapped him on the shoulder, his grey eyes filled with devilish laughter. ‘Don’t fret; I won’t embarrass you, or your fancy-schmancy clientele.’

  Delicate colour suffused the Frenchman’s cheeks. ‘I didn’t think it, not for one minute.’

  Joe’s belly laugh deepened the other man’s colour, but before he could answer a shout came from the rear of the restaurant. ‘Vegetable delivery, Christophe.’

  ‘You delegated the delivery?’ Christophe looked at Joe, clearly surprised.

  ‘I did. I considered our rehearsal more important.’ Joe looked at Marta, and she nodded. ‘That’s the signal for us to make ourselves scarce. We’ll see you Saturday night.’

  Once they were outside the restaurant, Joe turned to Marta. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling damned dry. Let’s go get a coffee.’

  They headed to a café right on the waterfront, and after they’d ordered and were seated, Marta turned to Joe. ‘Why didn’t you want us to commit to a contract then and there?’

  ‘It won’t hurt Christophe to sweat a little.’ Joe grinned and spooned sugar into his coffee. ‘You don’t want to appear to be too eager, either.’

  Startled, she stared at him, her brows raised in question.

  ‘Christophe is a good bloke, but first and foremost, he’s one shrewd businessman. He was ready to kick you to the kerb in favour of those dweebs in the band, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, he was.’ Her excitement dimmed; she had overlooked this detail.

  ‘You know we’re good, and so does Christophe.’ Joe’s tone was gentle. He leaned across the table and caught her hand. ‘He’ll be much more willing to cut you a decent deal, if he scents you could be tempted away by any opposition.’

  ‘You think other establishments here could be interested?’

  ‘Chez Christophe isn’t the only restaurant at the cove. Sure, it’s popular and at the moment, the only restaurant within the resort complex.’ Joe tapped his fingers on the table-top. ‘This will change. The redevelopment McIntyre is doing here at Rainbow Cove has spurred development and growth in all the surrounding areas. Joe’s is fielding calls on a daily basis from other eateries in the area wanting produce, and more places are coming on stream every week.’

  ‘Are they as exclusive as Chez Christophe?’

  ‘Not as yet, but this can change, and quickly. Look at the explosion of eateries clustered in places like Coffs and a dozen other resort towns. With the development already in the pipeline, this will happen here, sooner rather than later.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘This, after all, is why the bank financed the huge expansion I’ve done at the gardens.’

  Marta sat back in her chair, and stared at Joe. ‘You think this will happen here?’

  ‘McIntyre is no dummy, and neither is Christophe. McIntyre has sunk one hell of a lot of dosh into redeveloping this area, Christophe likewise at his restaurant.’

  Is there a chance I can find full-time employment near here? She drummed her fingertips on the table-top as she mulled over Joe’s observations. If she could obtain sustainable regular employment, she could be here for her mother, and for Ben—unless I run into more difficulties because Ben is my brother.

  A shadow preceding his arrival, a man loomed out of the bright sunshine and clapped Joe on the shoulder. ‘Joe, Marta, I didn’t expect to see you two here today.’

  ‘Xander.’ Joe stood and the two men shook hands.

  Xander nodded to Marta, and smiled. ‘How are things shaking down with your mother? Is she settling into the rest home?’

  ‘She is, and her health has improved markedly now she’s getting good quality, full-time care.’

  ‘That’s great to hear. Rest Haven has a good reputation.’

  ‘It always has.’ Joe sat down. ‘Would you like to join us for a coffee?’

  Xander glanced at his watch, black brows beetling in a dark frown. ‘I’d love to, but I’m on my way to a board meeting. I saw you two here and wanted a quick word with Marta.’ He looked directly at her. ‘After considering your request to work fewer hours when Eve goes on maternity leave, I’ve employed another part-timer. I’ll send you her contact details and you can work out what days you each want to work. If you need to, or if the workload becomes too heavy, I’ll look at putting on another part-timer.’

  ‘So, you think it needs three people to do the work of one pregnant woman?’ Joe asked facetiously.

  Xander grimaced. ‘That’s about to change. When Eve returns from maternity leave, I will employ whatever permanent staff she requires.’ He looked directly at Marta. ‘I’ll give preference to the part-timers, if you’re interested.’

  Marta smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you,’ he said, giving her a harried smile. ‘I’ll catch up with you both sometime.’


  With a brisk wave, he continued on his way. Joe watched him leave, his expression thoughtful. ‘Unless he slows down, he’s a man heading for burnout or an ulcer.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know.’ He laid a hand across his belly. ‘I came too damn close to dying from a bleeding ulcer not to recognise the signs.’

  Marta stared at him and whispered, ‘You have a stomach ulcer.’

  ‘Not anymore. Less pressure, good living and scrabbling in the dirt healed me.’ He leaned across the table and caught her hand, holding it tightly. ‘That’s the major reason I turned down that scholarship to Juilliard. I buckled under the pressure.’

  Anger fizzed through Marta’s bloodstream.

  Adele Marshall had one hell of a lot to answer for. She’d driven Rebecca to the edge of suicide and now, to learn Joe had come close to dying with a bleeding ulcer—

  How any mother could do this to her own children was beyond belief.

  ‘Joe,’ she breathed. ‘I didn’t know.’

  He grimaced and his grip tightened. ‘I was damn good at hiding things. Dad’s death was a wake-up call for me, in more ways than one.’

  ‘Becky never said anything about this.’

  ‘I don’t think she knew.’ He looked down at their joined hands then he glanced up at her, his expression sober and searching. ‘I will never allow anyone or anything to put me under that kind of pressure ever again.’

  The inherent warning in Joe’s statement chilled Marta to the bone. Joe stood and looked down at her a moment. ‘While we’re here, do you want to visit with your mother?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  As they drove away from Rainbow Cove, Joe’s comments played on a continuous tape through her brain. Is there any future for me here? she wondered.

  No matter which way she turned it, Marta couldn’t see Joe being there as her accompanist for the long term. She eased out a despairing sigh—she knew herself well enough to know that after working with him, she would find it difficult to work with anyone else.

  Chapter 10

  Marta stood on the verandah of her mother’s house and watched Joe step from a late model Range Rover. She eased out a breath she was unaware she was holding, her joking words to Christophe Duval a drumbeat in her blood—‘Don’t worry, Joe scrubs up well’.