Her Christmas Homecoming

by Shirley Wine

‘Emily doesn’t know anyone else here except me and Christophe,’ he said, his voice even. ‘And they’ve been at loggerheads over that broken wall between their houses. I insisted that Christophe invite her today, so I feel responsible to make sure she’s okay.’

  Marta eased out a breath and visibly relaxed. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Christophe wants to demolish that wall and rebuild one that matches the wooden lathe fencing,’ Joe explained quietly. ‘Emily is fighting with him over it.’

  ‘Can’t say that I blame him.’

  ‘What?’ Joe looked up as he heard Christophe mention his name. ‘You talking about me, mate?’

  Christophe looked disconcerted and Joe caught the wink he dropped Emily. ‘We were talking about the, huh, ban-jo.’

  Banjo? What the hell did Christophe say that I missed?

  ‘Oh, right. Marta’s a musician, did you know, Emily? Do you play the ban-jo, Marta?’ Joe turned to her, his voice rich with suggestive laughter. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, ‘You play well with all my other instruments.’

  Marta’s golden eyes narrowed and slowly, deliberately, she lifted a forkful of food to her lips and curled her tongue around its prongs, her gaze never leaving his, her eyes laughing at his discomfort.

  He was so turned on; heat coiled in his gut, rising up his neck and into his face—Jeez, it is hot.

  This was the Marta he had loved so desperately, the Marta who could tease him with one sultry look—the Marta who broke my heart and left me behind without even saying goodbye.

  Belated caution surfaced—the memory of his desolation too vivid to ignore.

  Now, she planned to sell and move. To her credit, she’d been open about this from the first. She will never be happy here—and I will be unhappy anywhere else.

  Desperate for distance he turned to Emily.

  She and Christophe were in close conversation, their heads almost touching—at least someone’s day was going well. Immediately, he regretted the thought. If anyone deserved happiness she did.

  At the end of the first course, Christophe stood.

  Joe took this as a signal and began to gather the used dishes. To his surprise, Freya stood and signalled Nico. He put away his phone and signalled Flick. She also stood and they all helped gather the used dinnerware.

  In the kitchen, Nico and Flick were firmly in charge. Flick rinsed and stacked and Nico fed the dishes through the commercial dishwasher Christophe had installed in his kitchen.

  Joe eased out a relieved breath. Trust the canny Frenchman to have all bases covered. ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘No we’ve got this covered.’ Nico grinned at him. ‘You just bring us the used stuff.’

  ‘You don’t want a day off?’

  ‘Helping Christophe here today is earning me a very nice bonus. Almost enough to enable me to put a down payment on a four-by-four.’

  Joe clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. ‘Next thing we’ll be seeing you cruising around in your muscle-truck showing off to the locals.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, can’t wait to move up from my Tonka toy.’ Nico turned back to the mounting pile of dishes.

  Christophe was serving out portions of turkey and vegetables onto plates spread out on the long counter, and spooning over some delicious smelling gravy. He worked with a terrifying efficiency that left Joe intimidated. This was a side of his friend he’d not seen in action before.

  Nico and Flick worked with a similar streamlined efficiency—and here’s me, spinning my tyres like some useless spare wheel.

  Disgruntled, he returned to the dining table. Marta was sprawled back in her chair, a glass of wine in one hand, gesturing expansively with the other, deep in conversation with Freya and Elizabeth, the woman who had arrived late and sat next to Jago.

  Marta turned to Joe. ‘Freya knows a great interior designer and she’s going to ask him to contact me about Mum’s house.’

  Warmth soothed his edginess. Was Marta reconsidering? His hopes rose, but before he could comment Christophe appeared in the doorway.

  Freya and the other guests hastily moved back to their places.

  Christophe stepped onto the patio, with what seemed like a hundred plates of food balanced on his hands and both arms. Startled, Joe half rose out of his seat intent on relieving his friend of his burden.

  Marta jabbed him in the ribs, hard, and hissed, ‘Don’t, you moron.’

  ‘Ooof!’ He sat down so hard his backside stung when it connected with the chair—shit, I’ll bet I have a bruise there.

  ‘Touch one of those plates, Joe, and the rest will fall. Christophe knows what he’s doing.’

  The chef overheard her and grinned. ‘All trainees at chef school learn this skill.’ He deftly off-loaded plates in front of his guests.

  Flick and Nico appeared from the kitchen area, each carrying dinners with equal dexterity.

  Joe rubbed at his ribs sure he’d have another bruise where Marta’s elbow had connected. ‘You didn’t need to do that,’ he grumbled under his breath.

  ‘I did,’ she muttered. ‘To carry plates like that is a delicate balancing act. Touch one, you idiot, and the rest would have crashed to the floor.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot, or a moron, thank you very much.’

  ‘Could have fooled me.’ Marta looked at him, her golden eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. ‘Why not try and act like a civilised human, Joe, and not like some mannerless, outback hick. You know better. For all her faults, your mother did teach you manners and class.’

  Hurt and offended, Joe showed her his shoulder and attacked his dinner. What the hell, Marta, aren’t I good enough for you?

  All the old insecurities surfaced. Insecurities he’d thought he’d rooted clean out of his mind years ago in the fallout from his father’s death. He rubbed a hand across the burn in his belly in a well-remembered reflex action.

  Freya nudged his elbow. ‘You finished, Joe?’

  Shit! Everyone’s finished and I never even noticed and never tasted a mouthful of chef’s food.

  He hastily stood and helped Freya collect plates and glasses. In the kitchen, Nico already had the dishwasher loaded and running. There was no sign of Flick, but Elizabeth was assisting Christophe to put the finishing touches to the pudding.

  Joe didn’t offer any help; he left and went looking for Marta.

  He found her talking to Freya and Kiet; the latter seemed to be in a much better frame of mind. Not inclined to join them, he mooched over to the side table where Christophe was laying out the pudding buffet.

  The cake Joe had watched Christophe roll into a log shape earlier this morning, when he’d delivered the vegetables, formed the centrepiece, but now it sported a fancy chocolate coating that looked like bark and was decorated with bits of life-like greenery and sprays of red berries—it was almost too pretty to cut. There were at least a dozen side dishes of fresh fruit, jellied fruit, fresh fruit salad and a berry-laden pavlova and other enticing goodies—Christophe sure knew how to put on a good feed.

  Marta walked up beside him and he asked, ‘Do you want pudding?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Joe, show some class. French chefs create desserts, not pudding.’ She shook her head. ‘You go ahead, I’ll settle for a glass of chilled punch.’

  She turned away and he glared at her back, hastily biting back a crude comment. Marta could damn well please herself, but he wasn’t about miss to out on this treat. Cooking for himself, he seldom bothered with pudding—oops, sorry, dessert—and he helped himself to a heaping plateful.

  More guests descended on the dessert buffet. The women ate the fruity stuff, he noticed, but the men didn’t hold back.

  Christophe saw him and grinned. ‘I never guessed you had such a sweet tooth.’

  ‘I seldom get stuff like this.’ Joe gestured to his plate. ‘I’m making the most of it. You’ve outdone yourself today, mate.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see people sharing good food and good company.’ Christophe clapped
him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy.’

  Joe watched his friend move among the other guests, sharing a word here, and a laugh there. The Frenchman was in his element acting as host and the guests were lapping it up.

  Those eating dessert sat at the table in informal groups, and the convivial buzz of conversation added to the festive air.

  Joe scanned the crowd, and eased out a relieved breath when he saw Emily in conversation with Freya over the far side of the pool. Freya held a glass of water, absently rubbing a hand over her protruding belly. The baby kicked and water splashed from her glass. Both women laughed, and Joe grinned.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Marta slid into the seat beside him.

  Joe explained, and she turned to watch the two women, chuckling as the thin fabric of Freya’s dress tented out when a little foot or elbow moved. ‘That must be a weird sensation, a baby doing somersaults inside you.’

  ‘Do you want to have a baby?’ Joe’s voice was husky with longing.

  Would Marta commit to him, commit to staying in Marandowie? Around them, the buzz of conversation rose and fell, but for Joe, his world narrowed to Marta. Her incredible eyes sparkled gold for a moment before they went flat.

  ‘At the moment, no, my life is too unsettled.’ She gathered his empty dessert plate, stood and looked down at him. ‘I would like a child one day, but not until I’m in a committed relationship. No child of mine will ever be left wondering about its father.’

  She moved away, gathering up empty plates as she went.

  Joe watched her until she disappeared into the kitchen, aware of the uneven beat of his pulse—was that a glimmer of softness he’d seen in her eyes?

  Lunch over, guests mingled and conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed. Flick was sprawled in a chair, her sloppy smile and flaccid limbs indicating her tipsy state. He swirled the beer in his can. He wasn’t enjoying himself anymore, and he fought the urge to get stinking, rotten drunk.

  Christophe stood on the wide steps that descended from the patio to the area around the pool, and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.

  ‘There are digestifs at the bar on the far side of the pool.’ He raised his voice a little so everyone could hear. ‘And chocolates and sweetmeats.’

  ‘Dee what?’ Joe asked—what the hell is Christophe on about now?

  ‘Liqueurs,’ the chef clarified. ‘They help your food digest and are just a fancy name for alcoholic beverages.’

  ‘Liquor?’ Joe grinned in sudden understanding. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so? Alcohol people, this way!’

  Marta gave him a sharp dig in ribs still painful from her previous jab.

  ‘Oww! What was that for?’

  ‘Do you always have to act the crass country hick?’ she hissed. ‘Show a little class. You and I both know you do possess polish.’

  He stopped suddenly, and stared at her through narrowed eyes, temper fizzing along his veins.

  ‘I am what I am, Marta,’ he said through his teeth, his voice lethally quiet. ‘And there’s no fucking way I’m changing, not for you, not for anyone, not for anything. I had enough of that from my mother. If you don’t like me—as I am—I suggest we fucking end this right here, and right now.’

  Chapter 14

  Joe turned on his heel and stalked to the bar, and stared, unseeing, at the colourful array of bottles.

  ‘What would you like?’ Christophe asked. ‘Brandy, cognac, schnapps?’

  ‘Brandy.’

  Christophe handed him a glass and Joe downed it in one swallow; the brandy hit his stomach in a solid slug, and the burn there exploded into fire. He ignored it and held out his glass. ‘Hit me with another one.’

  Christophe obliged and put a hand on his arm. ‘Are you okay, mon ami?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry about me.’ Joe took the drink, and turned away, sipping at it.

  Needing a few moments alone, he retreated to a shady spot wishing like hell he’d never agreed to come here, never badgered Marta to come with him. The day was fast going to hell in a hand basket.

  A country hick—Marta’s words stung his pride.

  Far better a country hick than a life stuffed into penguin suits and performing like a trained seal—and dying from a bleeding ulcer, don’t forget.

  Aware of the flare of pain in his gut, he thought better of finishing the second brandy. He was swirling the contents around in the glass when a sudden shriek made him spin around in time to see Emily land with an almighty splash in the deep end of the swimming pool, that froth of pink floating out around her like a distorted halo.

  Shit!

  He shoved his glass on a convenient ledge and ran across to the pool to help her out.

  Christophe reached her first.

  He extended a hand to her, but Emily, her mouth set in a mutinous line, ignored it and emerged from the pool, her wet dress sticking to her body, the fabric damn near transparent.

  Joe’s eyes bulged—wow, little Em has sure grown up.

  People surged forward exclaiming in concern.

  Christophe scooped her up into his arms trying to shield her near-naked body with his hands and carried her inside, her incipient struggles ceasing when he whispered something in her ear.

  ‘Get an eyeful did you?’ Marta asked tartly. ‘I saw you ogling Emily in her see-through dress.’

  Joe refused to dignify her jibe with an answer. Anger and frustration percolated through his bloodstream. ‘What is your problem?’

  ‘I didn’t accept your invitation to come here today and expect you to be all over another woman,’ she hissed.

  ‘If it is a sin to be concerned about a friend, then I plead guilty,’ Joe said, his voice extremely quiet and cold enough to cause frostbite. ‘Christmas Day two years ago Lisa Brighton, Emily’s sister, was killed in a car crash just down the road from here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on Emily, and ensure she’s okay.’

  He turned his back and stalked into the house.

  ***

  Marta stared at Joe’s retreating back. Did he have any idea just how much he sounded like his father? Then the meaning behind his statement hit her; Emily’s sister was killed on Christmas Day? Near here? Why didn’t I know this? Why the hell didn’t he just tell me?

  Joe was right; she’d been gone from Marandowie a long time.

  While it explained his protective attitude towards the little blonde, it made Marta wonder what else Joe hadn’t told her—what else did he think she didn’t need to know?

  Anger and frustration burned.

  The Joe she’d seen here today bore little resemblance to the man she thought she was coming to know. It was like he’d put on a whole new skin.

  In the privacy of her home, he was a normal country male, fun-loving, hard-working, kind and compassionate, yet here among his friends it was as if he became a whole other person.

  That veneer, acting like a classless ocker country hick, was enough to make anyone wonder if he had a personality disorder. One thing for sure, Adele Marshall would have had a conniption if she’d heard Joe talking like he’d done here today.

  Marta, stalking toward the house, stopped mid-stride, staring at nothing in particular.

  ‘Fuck,’ she muttered. ‘Am I a blind idiot, or what?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Marta’s head jerked up, and heat warmed her face when she saw the woman’s startled expression.

  ‘Sorry, I was talking to myself, not you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Elizabeth, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’ She made no effort to conceal her amusement. ‘It’s when you start answering yourself you need to worry.’

  ‘I do that all the time.’ Marta managed a strained laugh, desperate to end this encounter. She needed to find Joe, have this out with him for once and for all. She looked up and saw him emerge from the house. ‘Got to go.’

  In a few angry strides, she reached his side.

  ***

  Marta stared at him, her lips thinned, her eyes shoo
ting angry sparks, and Joe knew she was ready to annihilate him.

  ‘I want to leave, now,’ she demanded.

  ‘Suits me.’ The party had sure as hell lost its shine for him, and to think he’d actually been looking forward to the day.

  As they pulled out of Christophe’s driveway, Marta turned to him, but before she could open her mouth he held up a hand. ‘Stow it. I don’t need the distraction while I’m driving.’

  She subsided, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a blunt knife. He drove straight past her driveway and she sat bolt upright. ‘What? Where are we going?’

  He spared her one expressionless glance. ‘I want to show you something.’

  She spluttered, expelling a loud, indignant breath. ‘And if I don’t want to see this mysterious something?’

  ‘You will.’

  She muttered something he couldn’t catch and turned away to stare out of the side window, but he was aware of her grudging curiosity.

  He refused to comment further, too caught up in his own seething emotions—anger and disquiet. Is this a mistake?

  He parked on the forecourt of the home he had shared with his parents and killed the engine. He sat there, hands draped over the steering wheel, his wrists hanging limp as he stared at the house through the windscreen, silent and still.

  ‘I need to apologise.’ His voice was quiet and devoid of emotion. ‘I may be a clueless country hick, but my father did teach me not to swear at women.’ He slanted an oblique look her way. ‘I’m not sorry for my comments back there at Christophe’s, but I am sorry for swearing. Let me be quite clear: I have no intention of changing for you, or anyone else. I am who I am—accept me as I am, or not at all.’

  Marta merely nodded.

  With a rough, guttural sound, he opened the car door and got out. She hurriedly opened her door and joined him.

  ‘I have something to show you.’ Determined, he strode up the path. She could come or not. I don’t care.

  ***

  Marta, too aware of the hard, rapid beat of her heart, followed him, unashamedly curious—Joe is right, I do want to see.

  She had never set foot inside the Marshall family home.

  Adele Marshall made it quite clear that Marta wasn’t a desirable person to associate with her prodigy, who she was grooming for better things than life in Marandowie. His mother was as different from his father as chalk is from cheese. Frank Marshall was as near to a father figure to me as I’ve ever known.