Her Christmas Homecoming

by Shirley Wine

  With much laughter and compliments the tray quickly emptied. Marta turned intending to return the empty tray when she caught sight of a man skulking beside the house near the broken fence.

  She turned and nudged Joe. ‘Who’s that guy hovering there by that side gate close to the house? Do you think he’s scoping out the place? There’s been a rash of opportune thefts recently, and Christophe is real busy.’

  ***

  Joe looked down the side of the house, initially only seeing the broken fence that so irked his mate. Then he caught a glimpse of a lurking shadow. ‘I’m not sure. I’d better go have a look.’

  Joe helped himself to a pastry from the tray then strode across the patio.

  Anger gnawed at his innards—what the hell had gotten into Marta? He’d only mentioned Xander’s plans in the hope that this would dissuade her from making any hasty decisions about selling her family home, and it had backfired.

  I am not hung up on the past, nor do I have a chip on my shoulder—Marta’s accusations stung.

  He pulled up short when he saw a guy almost hidden behind the pile of ice boxes he carried. He recognised the Viravaidya Oyster Farm logo on the boxes, and the man peering around the side of them. ‘Kiet! Long time, no see, mate. I didn’t know you were coming today.’ Joe opened the gate and hurried through. ‘Here, let me help you with those.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  The Thai family had settled in Marandowie and established an oyster farm in the inland coastal estuary, that long finger of sea between Marandowie and Rainbow Cove.

  Joe relieved Kiet of some of the bulky polystyrene boxes. ‘Christophe said he was expecting Sam.’

  ‘Not coming. He bloody well roped me in to bring the oysters,’ Kiet muttered, scowling. ‘The silly clot still can’t see he’s better off without the sheila who dumped him, and he got it into his head she would be here today and refused to do the delivery. Can I get to the kitchen of this place without going through that blasted crowd?’

  Jeez, Kiet, who put itching powder in your grundies?

  ‘Yeah, follow me.’ Joe led the way down the side of the house, through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Kiet hoisted the boxes he carried onto a vacant bench. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  Joe, after giving Kiet one last glance, left to rejoin the party.

  The guests were a hell of a lot more cheerful than Kiet even if Marta was in a strange mood. He hadn’t had much to do with the man since their schooldays, but he never expected the sunny-natured kid he remembered to become such a grouch.

  In the family room near the Christmas tree, he saw Christophe talking to Marta, their heads so close together they touched as they laughed.

  Jealousy knifed through Joe, and left him winded.

  Is Christophe making moves on Marta? Does she consider him more cultured, more refined and more to her taste? Is she falling for the Frenchman’s Gallic charm? As clear as a bell Joe could hear his father’s voice—‘Jealousy robs a man of reason and stokes his insecurity, son.’

  He shoved aside the jealous thought and stalked across the patio to join them. ‘Hey Christophe, there’s a delivery of oysters in the kitchen.’

  ‘Great, thanks Joe.’ The chef glanced at his watch. ‘It’s not like Sam to be late.’

  Christophe bustled off without giving Joe a chance to correct him.

  ‘Only he’s going to find Kiet Viravaidya there, not Sam.’ Joe scowled at her. ‘You and Christophe looked mighty chummy.’

  Marta’s long, cold stare sent panic shafting through Joe.

  ‘He was replenishing the hors d’oeuvre tray.’ She skewered him with a look that dared him to make something of this. ‘I’ve not seen Kiet since we were in school.’

  Joe eased out a breath, and grasped the change of subject. ‘He finished school early, remember? After his parents died in that storm, he took over care of young Sam and the running of the family oyster farm.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that.’ She picked a pastry from the tray and nibbled daintily. ‘Kiet showing up is a surprise.’

  ‘Christmas has a way of throwing up surprises, without fail.’ Joe grinned, and unable to resist, said, ‘Can I have another of those horse-thingies? They’re mighty tasty.’

  Marta scowled and turned away, only to stop mid-movement. She poked him in the ribs. ‘Who’s that chick, the one in pink who’s just arrived? Jeez, she looks like a cone of candy-floss in that get-up.’

  Joe turned as Christophe and Emily walked through the family room doorway and out onto the terrace. Pleasure spiked through him. Thank God, Christophe did do the right thing.

  ‘That’s Emily.’ Joe strode across to greet her and gripped her hands in both of his, smiling warmly. ‘You came; I’m so pleased to see you.’

  He gave his friend a meaningful glance. ‘And thank you, too.’

  ‘I didn’t like the thought of my closest neighbour spending Christmas alone, so voilà, here she is.’ Christophe made an extravagant gesture, dull colour flushing his face. ‘And here she is.’ He raised his voice. ‘Everyone, this is Emily. Joe, will you do the introductions? I need to be in the kitchen.’

  As Christophe bustled off, Joe smiled at Emily, glad she’d decided to come. It’s wasn’t healthy sitting at home alone brooding. Joe caught Marta’s eye, subtly pleased at her militant expression—see, there are others here who appreciate me, ‘just as I am’.

  He gripped Emily’s hand and tucked it through his arm and pulled her forward. ‘Emily, this is Flick, she makes all the fabulous cakes at Christophe’s restaurant.’

  Flick nodded, her smile strained—Joe gave her a squinty-eyed look before he turned to Xander, who looked just as grim. What gives there?

  Joe quickly moved on. ‘This is Xander McIntyre; he’s the guy who’s redeveloped Rainbow Cove. And the guy next to him is Jago, a long-time friend of Christophe’s.’

  The men nodded and murmured greetings.

  ‘And here’s … ah … Freda.’

  ‘Freya,’ the woman corrected in a deep cultured voice. ‘A good friend of Christophe’s.’

  Joe turned to Marta and in a voice as dry as dust, he said, ‘And this is my friend Marta Field. Emily lives just through the fence, there.’

  ***

  Marta blinked rapidly—what the hell? Joe thinks I’m his friend—the memory of their love-making earlier curdled the savoury hors d’oeuvres in her gut.

  Joe’s big tanned hand contrasted starkly with Emily’s, the young woman’s delicate and slender. He towed her around the patio, warmth and protectiveness oozing from his every gesture.

  Did this Emily and Joe share a history?

  Temper and jealousy stirred, burning Marta in its fire—who the hell is this sheila and what is she to Joe?

  Quietly simmering, she watched Joe introduce the girl around, her arm tucked through his. The chick sure as hell displayed enough flesh. Her haute couture plunging neckline dress was totally unsuited to a semi-casual Christmas party. Together, arm in arm, Joe walked Emily back to Marta.

  ‘So, Emily, you live next door?’ Marta’s voice was far too bland, and Joe stiffened.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ Emily stammered and pulled her arm from Joe’s.

  ‘That eyesore of broken fibro-cement belongs to you?’ Marta stepped a little closer to Joe. ‘It quite ruins the ambience of Christophe’s backyard.’

  ‘He’s the one with the problem about the fence.’ Emily edged further away from Joe, blushing furiously. ‘It doesn’t worry me any. If he wants it gone, then he can pay to make it happen.’

  ‘They’re negotiating over the fence.’ Joe frowned, his gaze flicking from Marta to Emily.

  Insensitive jerk, he’s all over this chick right in my face.

  ‘Negotiating?’ Emily snorted. ‘Christophe demands, and he expects me to jump, or else.’

  ‘I’ve heard he can be temperamental.’ Marta’s voice held a hard edge. ‘Most chefs are that way because they need to be.’

  Joe scowl
ed at her and she scowled right back. He has one hell of a nerve. If he thinks he can get away with acting like this with me, he has another think coming.

  Christophe appeared once more in the doorway and clapped his hands to get attention. ‘Dinner in ten, folks.’

  As soon as he disappeared, conversation started up again and people started drifting towards the dinner table at the far end of the patio, shaded by the canopy of a huge spreading jacaranda tree; its flowers were done now, but its lacy foliage provided shade, a welcome respite from the blazing summer sun.

  Christophe had set up two huge outdoor fans to complement the lazy drift of the fan set into the patio roof and these were doing a great job of stirring the heated air.

  ‘Let’s grab these seats,’ Marta said and sketched a hand at the two seats near the end of the table.

  Chapter 13

  Joe looked across and saw Emily hanging back. She stood stock still chewing on her lower lip, obviously uncomfortable and out of place among all these strangers. He wanted to erase her bleak unhappiness; after all he’d badgered Christophe into inviting her, and he felt responsible.

  If Marta took exception, it was just too bad.

  He leaned close to Marta and whispered, ‘I’ll just go and get Emily. She’s looking lost in this crowd.’

  As he approached, Emily sidled up close beside him, her delicate brow pleated in a frown, worry darkening her eyes. ‘Where are you sitting, Joe?’

  Around them, the other guests were taking their places at the elaborately decorated table. He put a hand on Emily’s arm. ‘Over there, last spot before the end. There’s no one facing me. Come on.’

  Emily hung back. ‘I should never have come.’

  ‘You needed to.’ Joe kept his voice brusque. She did not need sympathy.

  He knew she was battling loss and grief, and trying to put a brave face on it, the strain in her eyes clear to see. Today, the anniversary of her sister’s death, made her loss that much more poignant, and tougher to deal with.

  God knows, I still miss Dad, and he’s been gone for years—a shaft of grief pierced clear through to his heart—hell yeah, I know what Emily is dealing with.

  A commotion in the doorway drew everyone’s attention. Under cover of the noisy diversion, Joe said very softly, ‘Take a deep breath, sweetie, lift your chin. You can do this.’

  Tears filmed her eyes, but she managed a faint smile. ‘Does it get any better?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  She straightened her shoulders and smiled.

  ‘You’ll do.’ Joe eased out a relieved breath. ‘Come on before the seat is taken.’

  He could only hope she could keep it all together. He ushered Emily to her seat then slipped into his seat opposite and beside Marta.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Marta hissed as he sat down.

  Joe stared at her in blank astonishment. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘What’s going on with you and that sheila? You’ve been chatting her up from the minute she walked in.’

  ‘Who? Emily?’

  ‘I believe that’s her name. What the hell is she to you?’

  ‘I’ve known Emily since she was knee-high to a grasshopper,’ he whispered, anger spiking his voice. ‘We’re friends, nothing more.’

  ‘Well that explains it then.’ The sarcastic words tumbled from lips turned down in a bitter sneer. ‘How come I’ve never met her before now?’

  ‘You’ve been gone from Marandowie a long time,’ he muttered, his patience strained. ‘Life doesn’t sit still and little kids do grow up.’

  She narrowed her eyes and burned him with a scorching look. ‘And now little Emily is all grown up, and very nicely too, you’re all over her like a rash. There’s no accounting for tastes.’

  ‘You have to be kidding,’ he muttered. What the shit has gotten into Marta? Is she jealous? Of little Emily?

  ‘Shit. You insist on me coming here for Christmas dinner and all these other loners,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘Yet within two minutes you’re chatting up some other female.’

  Anger curled in Joe’s gut. He stared at Marta, his eyes narrowed and a hand clenched on his knee.

  ‘When did you become such a bloody snob? It sure doesn’t impress me.’ He made no effort to temper his sizzling anger. ‘I remember, you see, you running around barefooted, and dirt poor. You came from the same place most of these people did.’

  ‘But unlike you,’ she said, a harsh thread of scorn in her voice, ‘I have worked to overcome my poor beginnings, while you Joe, still persist in acting like some clueless country hick.’

  Hurt and anger released a rush of adrenaline into his bloodstream.

  He shook his head in bewilderment; his state-of-the-art growing houses were one hell of a long way from playing, they were a serious business. About to tell her so, in no uncertain terms, the hot words died on his tongue as she turned away, showing him her shoulder, and talked to the pregnant blonde sitting on her other side.

  Joe sat there, silently fuming and scanning the elaborately decorated table with its mind-bending array of cutlery and glassware. I hope like hell Christophe’s dishwasher is working. The thought of doing all these dishes by hand was daunting.

  As a rule, the cook didn’t clean up.

  Joe groaned under his breath—he’d been in the Frenchman’s kitchen often enough to know Christophe believed dishes and clearing away were best done by his flunkies.

  He looked at Nico, seated across the table beside Emily, but this hope died.

  Nico had already been hard at work in the kitchen, and now had his head down scrolling on his phone—he deserved a break on Christmas Day.

  And Marta would never risk her manicure.

  So he would be on his own for the clean-up—it was enough to put a man off his tucker.

  He glanced at Emily, pleased to see she’d lost that scared rabbit look. He caught her eye and winked, and was rewarded with a glimmer of a smile.

  The Brighton family was yet one more family in Marandowie to implode after the death of a family member—my family belongs to this exclusive club, a club no one ever asks to join.

  A rousing cheer greeted Christophe as he walked through the doorway holding a platter aloft with dramatic Gallic flair.

  Joe, jerked from his bleak thoughts, stared at it, trying to figure out what the hell it was.

  It looked like some trussed up parcel of whatever—hooley-dooley, are these the crisp, fresh vegetables I brought here for Christophe earlier?

  The poor things were sitting in some sort of jelly and primly arrayed around the centrepiece of—whatever the hell it was—and looking so bloody unnatural. To him, the whole thing resembled nothing more than a woman whose hair was sprayed to death with lacquer to keep it in place.

  ‘Ta-da!’ Christophe placed the huge platter in the centre of the table, and spouted off some unpronounceable French name, something about jewels in aspic.

  Joe’s gulped and stared at it in horrified fascination.

  ‘What is it?’ Marta studied Christophe’s masterpiece, her head on one side.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Joe muttered under cover of a burst of raucous applause.

  Christophe spouted off in French and Joe heard murmurs of appreciation from the others.

  ‘Pretentious rubbish,’ Joe muttered, anger flattening his accent with a rough edge. ‘Ruination of garden-fresh produce, it you ask me.’

  ‘No one asked you.’ Marta’s hand slid along his thigh, too damn close to his junk, and her fingernails dug into his flesh. ‘Cut it out.’

  Joe muffled a yelp. ‘What the hell was that for?’

  ‘Grow up or shut up,’ she muttered.

  Their testy exchange was covered by the pregnant blonde, Freya, standing to serve Christophe’s creation and commanding the chef to sit.

  Joe squelched his anger and, frowning, watched Freya take a slice of whatever the hell it was. ‘That protruding belly of hers must get in the way. Recko
n she’ll help with the dishes? She looks right at home and here’s me, trussed up like a prize goose.’

  Marta dug her fingernails into his thigh once more, and Joe caught her hand and held it just a little too tightly. He ignored her wince, his gaze steady. ‘Leave off.’

  Marta met his gaze for several tension-laden minutes, and he released her hand. He indicated the open bottles of wine and held one bottle aloft. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Why not.’ She tossed her head and laughed, a brittle, unhappy little sound.

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Tell me when.’ He poured the sparkling beverage into a long-stemmed glass.

  ‘When.’ Her eyes mocked him.

  Freya passed Marta the platter and after she’d taken a slice, she passed it to him. Joe helped himself before he handed it to Christophe. The savoury smell of spice and herbs made Joe’s belly grumble.

  He watched Christophe hold the platter so Emily could serve herself, pleased to see his friend treating Emily with kindly courtesy. He was relieved to see the lines of strain around her mouth had eased. She said something to Christophe, and Joe saw his friend’s colour heighten—interesting.

  Hell, did Marta see me looking? One quick glance, and he caught the jealous sparkle in her golden eyes. Too right, she’d noticed. He ate a mouthful—the fancy thing did taste good, far better than he expected.

  He lifted his fork to Christophe in a gesture of appreciation. ‘You’ve outdone yourself, mate. This tastes better than it looks.’ Joe winked at Emily. ‘He’s a guy with many talents.’

  Emily rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘I can see he’s an excellent chef.’ She sampled a forkful. ‘And this sure tastes good.’

  Her laughter was music to his ears. If ever anyone deserved a break, it was Emily. He turned to Marta. ‘You like it?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the food.’ The caustic barb embedded in her voice burned. ‘What gives with you and the little blonde?’

  ‘Nothing, she’s just a kid, and one having a damned rough time.’

  ‘Are you sure? You seem inordinately concerned about her, is all.’