by Shirley Wine
What an understatement—he was a knockout.
And he obviously owns a better vehicle than his battered ute.
It was a very long time since she’d seen Joe dressed for a night out.
Tonight, he was dressed in a grey suit that fitted him like a second skin, the starkly plain white shirt and black bow tie emphasising the glowing good health of a man in his prime—‘I nearly died from a bleeding ulcer’.
Fresh anger thrummed through her bloodstream.
If she ran across Adele Marshall any time soon, Marta would struggle to keep her anger in check. The memory of talking Rebecca down off the dangerously close ledge of suicide was still raw, and to know Joe had come so close to death—it didn’t bear thinking about.
He strode up the path and it took all her self-control not to salivate.
‘You all set?’ he asked, his deep voice touching a tender chord.
As he stepped up onto the verandah beside her, she caught the faintest whiff of mothballs.
‘Farmer Joe,’ she drawled softly, her gaze skimming him from head to toe. ‘You look stunning. No thongs or work boots?’
‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass a classy lady like you.’ His eyes sparkled with devilment. ‘It would never do for me to get chucked out of Chez Christophe for not meeting their dress code. I would never live it down.’
‘Are you sure you’re not intent on winding your friend up.’
‘That too, Marta, that too,’ he drawled, his voice dropping to a husky register. ‘Christophe is so sure he knows me well.’
She held her head to one side and studied him. ‘Maybe he knows Farmer Joe,’ she said, her own voice suspiciously husky. ‘He’s yet to meet Yousef, the concert pianist.’
Joe flinched and visibly paled, his whole body recoiling. ‘You want me to go home and change?’
‘No,’ she whispered, clinging to his arm. ‘Forget I even mentioned it.’
‘Shit, Marta, promise me you won’t breathe a word of that to Christophe, or anyone else. Promise?’
His mother, in one of her more grandiose dreams, was determined to have Joe change his name. Marta recalled her strident voice berating Joe—‘You need a name much more elite. Whoever heard of a concert pianist with a pedestrian name like Joe Marshall?’
And the woman had even gone so far as to obtain the forms for him to change his name by deed poll, despite Joe’s adamant protests that this wasn’t going to happen.
Marta laid a hand on his arm, and felt its subterranean tremble. ‘Rest easy, Joe, I would never do that to you.’
He huffed out a ragged breath that shook his sturdy frame. ‘I’ve left that life behind, forever, and I’m never, ever going back.’
‘I can’t say that I blame you.’ She pulled her filmy wrap a little closer, chilled despite the late afternoon warmth. Deep inside, a sense of unease continued to niggle. Marta tried to shrug off the sensation, with little effect. ‘We need to get going.’
‘We do,’ he said softly, and drew her into his arms, ‘but not before I get a welcome kiss.’
Without hesitation, she lifted her face to his.
After a few breath-stealing seconds, he raised his head and touched his fingers to her lips. ‘Now I’m ready to get this show on the road.’
They drove in companionable silence until they reached the cove; Joe was a good driver, the background music he favoured discreet. As he found a parking space near the restaurant, he turned to her. ‘Are you nervous?’
She grinned. ‘Always.’
He sighed softly and released his seatbelt. ‘Me too, but that’s all to the good.’
‘I’m pleased to share,’ she quipped, trying desperately to lighten the mood.
She’d learned a long time ago that all performers were subject to nerves, especially on the opening night of a new show or gig. Anyone who claimed otherwise was either no good as a performer, or a bare-faced liar.
Joe opened her door and held out a hand to assist her down from the high vehicle. She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her short black skirt.
With a hand under her elbow, Joe escorted her into Chez Christophe.
The place was abuzz with the sound of a dozen discreet conversations. A Christmas tree, elegantly decorated in blue and white, graced the foyer. As they stepped through the door the maître d’ looked up from his podium and smiled in greeting. ‘Good evening sir, madam. Do you have a booking?’
The man, dressed in a bright blue suit that toned with the Christmas decorations, looked down his long nose at them, his expression snooty.
Marta struggled to repress a giggle.
‘We’re not here to dine, Ambrose.’ Joe’s voice matched the other man’s starch. ‘We’re here to entertain.’
The man’s expression grew more reserved. ‘Ms Field and Mr Marshall?’
‘Marta and Joe will do nicely, Ambrose.’ Joe winked at Marta. ‘We’re colleagues after all.’
The man seemed to stand a little taller, his chin a little haughtier. His voice was clipped as he replied, ‘Through this way, sir, ma’am.’
He led them through a side door so they skirted the main dining area and reached the raised dais without disturbing any patrons. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Bring me a beer,’ Joe said crisply and looked at Marta.
‘I’ll have iced water, tap water not the bottled stuff, in a jug please, with a glass.’
‘Certainly, a waiter will bring your drinks presently,’ Ambrose said through thinned lips, before he turned away and walked back to his post in the foyer.
‘Ever get the feeling we’re plebs?’ Joe asked.
Marta grinned and whispered in his ear, ‘He’s just a stuck-up dweeb. Don’t take it to heart. Let’s correct his impression, shall we?’
Joe sat at the piano, lifted the lid and began to play, and soft delicate notes echoed on the hot air. Marta felt the change in vibe as she picked up the mic, took a deep breath and began her practised spiel.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Marta Field and my accompanist tonight is the very talented Joe Marshall. We both hail from Marandowie, a little country town someway north of here. Christophe has requested that we include one or two Christmas songs in our line-up tonight. We are open to requests, if you have a particular favourite, hand a note to your server.’
Joe segued into the carol ‘It came upon a midnight clear’ and Marta’s rich voice echoed throughout Chez Christophe.
They performed for half an hour before taking a break. Marta switched off the mic and immediately the lights over the dais dimmed.
Joe took a swig of beer. Marta poured herself a glass of iced water, the chill soothing her dry throat as she drank.
‘How’s it shaking down, do you think?’ he asked, his voice a husky murmur.
‘So far, so good.’
Mandy, one of the waitresses, appeared at their side. ‘Christophe would like you to step through to the kitchen for a few moments.’
Joe and Marta looked at each other in silent communication, and stood.
‘It’s a bit strange, me being on this side of the business,’ Joe murmured, bending close to her ear as they followed the waitress through the half door into the kitchen where they were greeted by a rich mix of savoury and sweet scents.
‘Evening, Marta.’ Christophe looked past her at Joe. His jaw literally dropped and he went bug-eyed as he stared, shaking his head. ‘C’est toi, Joe?’
‘Nah, it’s not me, it’s the local yobbo.’
Christophe walked around Joe, muttering, ‘If I didn’t see this incredible transformation, I’d never believe it possible.’
‘I told you he scrubs up well.’ Marta laughed, delighted to see ruddy colour bloom under Joe’s tan.
‘Knock it off you two.’ Joe’s voice was testy with embarrassment. ‘It’s me, just trussed up like a bloody penguin. I knew this was a mistake.’
‘Never, Joe.’ Christophe suddenly sobered and laid a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘
Mandy tells me the patrons are delighted with your performance.’
Marta eased out a soft breath. ‘That’s music to our ears.’ She touched Joe’s arm. ‘We need to get back.’ She lifted a hand to Christophe. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘We will indeed.’ His voice echoed behind them as he turned back to his pans.
‘He’s really pleased.’ Marta gripped Joe’s arm.
He stopped mid-stride and stared down at her. ‘I wish I could say the same. I should never have agreed to this.’
‘You’ve always been talented, and you love music.’ Her grip on his arm tightened. ‘There’s no shame in sharing this love with others.’
With a distant expression, he said, ‘As long as you realise our collaboration is a one-off, and goes no further than here. I will not be drawn back into that world.’
‘Performing here is a far cry from the world of a concert pianist.’
‘I hated that life with every fibre of my being,’ he said vehemently, his voice filled with corrosive bitterness. ‘Always on show, always dressed up like some bloody overgrown stuffed penguin. All those elitist, stuck-up snobs looking down their aristocratic noses at me, this uncouth country bumpkin who could make a piano talk. They didn’t see me, the person. They only saw the talent. I was a thing; their sole interest lay in what prestige my talent could give them.’
The hurt, the anger, the bewilderment in his voice lodged like a stone in Marta’s chest and she found it a struggle to breathe.
‘And my mother was the worst of them all.’
And she did this to her own child—children. Rebecca had suffered just as much as Joe.
Marta leaned forward and hugged him, holding him tight against her, wanting to ease his pain, pain that set off the deep-seated tremors she felt coursing through him.
‘I would never do this to you. Never,’ she whispered, for his ears alone. ‘I like you, Joe, just as you are.’
His arms tightened around her, and for several long moments they stood there in the busy corridor between kitchen and dining room, oblivious to everything and everyone bustling around them.
Chapter 11
Joe whistled a catchy tune under his breath as he walked out of Christophe’s house. The delicious smells that permeated the Frenchie’s kitchen made his salivary glands run and his belly grumble, and stimulated his more base appetites, too.
He was more than eager to get back to Marta.
He’d left her sleeping when he left before dawn lightened the eastern horizon and headed to the gardens to harvest the choicest of vegetables for Christophe’s Chrissie bash.
It held the promise of a great day.
And for the first time in years he was actually looking forward to Christmas.
He swung up into the driver’s seat of his delivery van and caught a glimpse of Emily Brighton pottering in her backyard garden, and he frowned. Surely to God Christophe knew his next door neighbour would be spending today alone.
What the hell was the deal with Emily and Christophe anyway? Christophe said she was impossible, but Joe considered her a much younger friend who had had some tough breaks.
He could scarcely believe his ears when his mate admitted he hadn’t invited Emily to Christmas dinner. The whole idea behind the day was to bring Christmas cheer to friends who would otherwise spend the day alone. The kid had had a tough time, and Christmas Day had to be the roughest day of the year for her.
After Lisa’s death, Emily was more isolated than anyone Joe knew.
God knows, it was hard enough to lose a sister, but for it to happen on Christmas Day—Joe shook his head—what had Christophe been thinking? Living next door, he had to know this. How could he invite everyone else around who was alone, and not invite Emily? Disappointed, Joe had laid it on the line.
Now, he could only hope Christophe did the right thing, got over whatever the hell was bugging him, and invited his neighbour over for Christmas dinner.
Joe wound down the van window; the rush of warm air on his face matched his buoyant mood. He was pleased with himself, pleased with life in general and damned pleased to no longer be living in a state of perpetual frustration.
Would Marta be awake yet?
His blood was still thrumming from last night, their second gig. They had put together a terrific performance at Chez Christophe and already Joe was running through a new music set for their next gig.
To his relief, he hadn’t felt so much like a fish out of water.
Requests from patrons had come in thick and fast, and finally he’d relaxed and enjoyed the music, the rapport they created with their audience, and the intimate setting.
They were a hit.
Marta wowed the restaurant’s patrons and Christophe was more than eager to make her gig there a permanent fixture. If he does, will Marta stay in Marandowie with me?
When they had finished for the evening, Christophe had shared a glass of bubbly with them and this capped off a great experience. And still on a high when they reached Marta’s place, they’d tumbled into bed to celebrate their success.
Later, after that satisfying encounter, Marta finally agreed to spend Christmas Day with him at Christophe’s house.
Joe pulled into Marta’s driveway and used the key she’d given him to let himself in. He was so comfortable here, more than he’d ever been in his own home. That place held far too many memories and most of them were bad.
A pang of embarrassment stung him. Why had he spilled his guts to Marta? I thought I’d purged all that negativity years ago.
The quiet was enough to let him know Marta was still sleeping. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed; putting a hand on her shoulder, he gave her a little shake. ‘Rise and shine, sleepyhead.’
She muttered something and buried her face deeper in the pillow.
‘Marta, wanna see what Santa left for you under the tree?’
She rolled over and opened one eye. ‘Santa’s a fairy tale for kids.’
‘Maybe, but unless I’m mistaken he’s paid you a visit.’
‘And are there unicorns playing in the garden too,’ she grumbled and buried her head back under the pillow.
Joe laughed and grabbed hold of the duvet and yanked it off her recumbent form. ‘Come on, sleepyhead, rise and shine. We have a Christmas party to go to, don’t forget.’
Marta jerked upright and looped her arms around her knees. ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘Yes you do,’ he said softly, leaning down and feathering a kiss across her lips. ‘You promised, remember.’
She twisted upright and buried her face in her upraised knees.
‘How can I enjoy Christmas knowing my mum is in that place, and doesn’t know one day from the next? Or that Ben has been incarcerated so long he’s forgotten what freedom tastes like?’ she asked, her voice muffled with tears.
‘I know, and I’m sorry for it.’ His hand was gentle on her shoulder. ‘After dinner at Christophe’s do you want to drive down and see your mum?’
She looked up at him and hesitated, then shook her head, but to his relief, the threat of tears faded. ‘Her care nurse said not to visit too often in the beginning, it will unsettle her.’
‘You shower and dress and I’ll go make coffee.’ Whistling, he strode jauntily out to the kitchen.
***
Marta watched his retreating back and buried her face once more in her upraised knees. Joe was trying so hard—too hard.
It seemed to her that he already considered them a couple.
From that first moment she’d seen him across his father’s grave, Joe was there, extending one of his capable hands in help. Single-handedly, he’d rescued her singing gig at Chez Christophe.
And here, in the house where she’d grown up, Joe’s presence was now entrenched.
The house reeked of his personality.
Clothes and toiletries mysteriously appeared, flowers now bloomed on the table on the back terrace and in the big planter pots, and a state-of-th
e-art coffee machine enjoyed pride of place on the tired Formica bench in the outdated kitchen.
These changes occurred seamlessly by natural progression.
Yet, to her dismay, she still possessed this annoying kernel of doubt. This is all too easy; I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The rich aroma of coffee permeated the air, but it was the more homely scent of hot toast that made her stomach grumble. She walked into the kitchen. Joe stood with his back to her, slotting more bread in the toaster.
She walked up behind him and rested her head against his arm. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
He stiffened and turned around, slowly, his face scrunched in a frown. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Where are we heading, Joe?’
He chuckled. ‘To Christophe’s for Christmas dinner; he was already cooking up a storm when I dropped the veggies off earlier.’
This wasn’t what she meant and she sighed, frustrated. ‘I mean us, Joe.’
‘I know what you meant,’ he said quietly, his expression serious. He put a finger under her chin and lifted it so he could look into her face. ‘I don’t have any magic answer—so much is up in the air: Ben, your mother, your long-term employment prospects, even your decision to sell this house.’
She sighed again. ‘I know.’
‘We can’t magically pull answers out of a hat, so why not put it all aside for now, and let’s concentrate on enjoying the day?’
He was right and she knew this, but it didn’t mean she liked this state of being in perpetual limbo. It was foreign to her nature. She’d always liked to plan, and to be unable to do so, left her as directionless as a yacht with a broken rudder.
The toast popped and caught his attention. He added it to the tray. ‘Let’s sit outside and have breakfast.’
Marta followed him outdoors, stopping in the doorway and staring in surprise at the rustic wooden porch swing suspended from the rafters by chains and strewn with colourful cushions. It nestled close into the alcove where she’d put their Christmas tree.
‘Where did that come from?’