Secrets of Silvergum

by Mandy Magro

  ‘No.’ As much as she tried to, Emma couldn’t hide her playful grin.

  ‘Mum, you have to.’ Riley folded her arms, her foot tapping.

  Emma matched her stance. ‘Why.’

  ‘Because.’ Riley broke into a smile.

  ‘That’s not an acceptable answer.’

  ‘Okay then. Here’s the deal.’ Riley stepped in front of her, hogging the mirror and spinning from side to side. The mermaid cut swirled at her feet and the lace bodice accentuated her long, elegant neck. ‘If I have to get a new dress to wear to this stupid ball, then you have to as well, so we can both suffer in femininity together.’

  Emma sucked in a breath, paused, and then held out her hand. ‘Deal.’

  Riley shook it with vigour. ‘Good, now let’s go eat. I’m hanging out to tuck into a green goddess bowl topped with crispy salmon and black sesame seeds.’

  ‘Oh, yummy, me too.’

  * * *

  With a watermelon, mint and apple mocktail each, they were sitting at a table on the footpath, devouring their salads. Deep in girly conversation, they looked up as a silhouette suddenly blocked out the glorious sunshine.

  ‘Dad.’ Riley leapt up and wrapped her arms around Michael’s waist. ‘What a surprise.’

  Emma stifled a groan and forced a smile as she tilted her head to greet her ex. ‘Michael.’ She placed her fork down before she gave in to her urge to use it to stab him in the ribs. ‘You didn’t tell us you were coming to town today. I thought you were holed up in Cairns for the week.’ Although a simple statement, it was laced with condemnation.

  ‘Yeah, it was last minute. I had to drop off some paperwork to Dad’s solicitor here.’ He straightened his tie, something he always did when he was about to lie. ‘I was going to pop out to Serendipity to surprise this one.’ He gave Riley a smile, her arms still wrapped around his waist. ‘But now you’ve saved me the trip.’

  ‘Would you like to join us for lunch?’ Only thinking of Riley, Emma forced out every single word.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I have to be back to meet with a client in just over an hour.’

  Emma wondered whether he was lying about the visit to Serendipity, or the need to meet a client, because he wouldn’t have had time to do them both.

  Riley pouted. ‘Oh, but I haven’t seen you since Grandad …’ She stopped. Her smile all but faded as she sunk back into her chair.

  Momentarily thrown off centre by the mention of his father, Michael cleared his throat and recomposed himself in the blink of an eye. He reached out and stroked some flyaway hair back from Riley’s face. ‘I know, and I’m sorry. It’s been a tough week, for all of us. We’ll see each other in two days, though, at the funeral.’

  ‘That’s not really quality time, Dad.’ Unable to look at him any longer, Riley pushed what was left of her salad around in her bowl.

  He heaved a sigh. ‘I’ll make sure I’m at horse sports next weekend, okay?’

  Riley didn’t even look up at him. ‘You promise?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  Emma choked back a sarcastic laugh. She’d heard that line a million times over, and rarely did he ever follow through with his promises. For Riley’s sake, she hoped to god he did this time, and she’d be making a phone call to him later, to tell him so.

  ‘Right, well, I best be off.’ He leant in and kissed Riley on the cheek that she turned to him. ‘Love you, button.’

  ‘Yup, love you.’

  ‘Emma.’ He gave her a nod.

  ‘Michael.’ She nodded back, feeling ridiculous in doing so.

  His mobile ringing, he grabbed it like he was expecting the most important call in the world, and then plodded off down the footpath.

  Emma’s heart ached. ‘I’m so sorry, Riley.’

  ‘Don’t you dare apologise for him, Mum. He’s the one who should be saying sorry, not you.’ She forked in a mouthful of avocado and rocket. ‘It’s his loss,’ she garbled through her mouthful.

  ‘It most certainly is, sweetheart.’ Emma bit back tears. ‘I love you.’

  Riley reached across the table and gave Emma’s hand a squeeze. ‘I love you, too, so much.’

  Her guilt almost crushing her, Emma forced a smile.

  CHAPTER 8

  Feeling a little out of whack driving on the opposite side of the road, Zane dug his hand into the lolly packet and grabbed another. Behind the wheel of the four-wheel drive, after almost forty-eight hours with hardly any sleep, and with the bright lights of Cairns now far behind him, he was fighting to stay awake. Tuning in the radio to the local country station, he flicked the air-conditioner off and wound the window down, the balmy breeze laced with the salty scent of the ocean helping to revitalise him.

  Arriving at Cairns International Airport to no welcoming arms had been exactly how he’d wanted it. Keeping to himself would be the only way he’d get through the funeral and back on the next plane out of here, somewhat unscathed. He wondered how Emma was going to act around him – like a long-lost friend or a stranger? The latter would be the safest bet, for both of them. If he had the opportunity to revisit the past, even though it had landed him in deep water last time he was here, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself trying to kiss her again. He had no self-control when it came to Emma. Like a drug, she was a sweet addiction he’d never stopped craving; one he found almost impossible to resist. He wondered if she secretly still felt the same as she had the night she’d torn his clothes from him and taken him to places he’d never been before, or again. But he doubted it. She’d made it very clear where they stood – he could still feel the sting of the slap across his face and see the look of disbelief in her striking green eyes. And rightly so, she was a married woman at the time. But now, with Michael out of the equation, would it be any different? Did he want it to be? Or did he crave her because she’d always been just out of his reach? Was it a case of wanting what he couldn’t have? With his track record, that was a possibility. He was man enough to admit his faults and own them.

  Angry at himself for even fantasising about going there again with Emma, he shook the images from his mind. There’d be no going back there, regardless of what he felt. It would only spell disaster. He was home for the funeral, to pay his respects to a man who never really showed him an ounce of it, and then he was out of here, never to return. If only that fateful night hadn’t happened, maybe he wouldn’t feel the need to keep running and would make a go of it here now Peter was gone. So many maybes, so many unreachable possibilities – it was the story of his goddamn life. Bull riding was the only constant he had, the only thing he was really good at. He hated to think about what he would do when he was too old to keep bucking it out in the arena. He heaved a weary sigh and shook his head. What a tangled web they’d woven that night, Emma, Michael, Peter and him.

  Sighing again, he ran a hand through his hair and over his five o’clock shadow. He knew he looked like death warmed up, and he didn’t give a damn. He had no one to impress. It had been three long days since the phone call and since then he’d scarcely had time to look in a mirror, let alone enjoy an unhurried hot shower with a razor in his hand. Not long now and he’d be there, back where it all began. His whole body aching from all the sitting, the endless hours on the plane making him want to climb the walls, he fidgeted in his seat and gave the seatbelt a frustrated yank. He sucked in a deep breath and forced it to the bottom of his lungs. Even with open paddocks on one side and the ocean on the other, he’d never felt so boxed in.

  The radio station began playing one of his favourite songs, ‘If You’ve Got the Money, I’ve Got the Time’ by the late Merle Haggard. A small smile curled the corners of his lips. He’d twirled many a southern woman around the dance floors of honky tonks to it. Turning it up, he sang the lyrics out loud, his thumbs tapping in time on the steering wheel. Spotting the half-eaten bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, he grabbed one and tossed it into his mouth, savouring the mixture of sweet chocolate and peanut butter.
He had to give it to them, the Americans knew how to create flavour sensations from the strangest concoctions; their ribs, steaks, fried chicken, and pecan pies were to die for. Doing anything and everything to try to take his mind back to the US, he sucked in another deep breath and huffed it away. With nothing but bad memories, bar all the times he’d spent with the beautiful Miss Emma Kensington, he seriously didn’t want to be here. This was going to be tough, and something was telling him there were going to be some bombshells – there always were when Peter Wolfe was involved. For everyone’s sake, he hoped his instincts were wrong.

  On a long, straight stretch of highway and with a lone oncoming car finally passing him, he flicked the headlights of the hire car back to high beam, keeping a keen eye out for any roos with a death wish. A colony of flying foxes soaring across the sky, illuminated for a few brief seconds, reminded him of the time Emma had lost her dearly loved horse to the Hendra virus – a deadly disease spread by the flying foxes. She had been distraught, taking almost six months before she could welcome another horse into her life, and he’d been by her side the entire way, comforting her, encouraging her and supporting her – his heart breaking every time he felt her tears on his shoulders.

  He caught the scent of rain, then it started to fall on the car roof. The few drops quickly became a steady drum as the sky opened up and thunder crackled and roared in the distance. It was typical tropical weather – a monsoonal storm arriving with hardly any warning. Quickly winding his window up, and with the windscreen wipers now going like the clappers, he sat forward and strained to see a metre in front. It was usually a jaw-dropping view from this vantage point; he’d just have to jog his memory to imagine the expanse of ocean and the long jetty extending from the western rock wall, where he’d spent many hours fishing. Other than on the back of a bull, that had been his happy place, with a fishing rod in one hand and a nice cold beer in the other. And the mud crabs he used to catch in his selectively placed pots were to die for – his mouth watered with the thought of tucking into one.

  He was very close now; the urge to hit the brakes, turn around and go back to what he now considered his home, the United States of America, was strong, overwhelmingly so. But he couldn’t run like he had all those years ago, at least not for now – his return flight was locked in for six days’ time. Clutching the steering wheel, he sat up straighter; the confines of the seatbelt, the closed windows, and the foggy windscreen were almost suffocating. He tried to rub some life into his eyes and strained to focus on the white lines of the road, rather than the burning emotion rising in his throat the closer he got to Silvergum. Before hitting the sack in his hotel room, and after a nice long shower, he knew he’d be in desperate need of a whisky at the downstairs bar to calm him.

  Reaching a T-intersection, he came to a stop and indicated to turn away from the coast. His heart took off in a wild gallop as he drove on. Now shit was getting real. Just up in front, the familiar sign announcing he’d arrived in Silvergum Shire lit up like a Christmas tree in the high beam. His stomach tumbled and backflipped. His breath quickened, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. The headlights cut a narrow swathe through the darkness, showing nothing but open paddocks on either side. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was driving along suburban streets, towards his destination. Only minutes down the road, and after passing shopfronts so familiar he felt as if he’d never left, he’d arrived at Silvergum’s oldest pub, and his old watering hole, The Railway Hotel. On many a drunken night, he’d somehow got on his horse, which he’d tethered to the hitching post hours earlier, and followed its lead back home from here. He’d probably be booked for drink driving now if he even dared it, no matter that he wasn’t behind a wheel.

  Seeing the car park full and cars parked the length of the street, he groaned. There must be an out-of-town band on, drawing every man, woman and their dog here. Heading around the corner, past the drive-through bottle shop and the well-lit ATM, he looked up. Other than a fresh lick of paint and new latticework railings around the verandah, the old building looked exactly the same. Parking where he always used to, away from the drunken louts who would roll out the doors at closing time – he didn’t want to foot a repair bill because some idiot had sideswiped the rental – he killed the ignition and pushed his door open. Unfolding like a pocketknife, he groaned gratifyingly. It felt dang tootin’ good to stand up and stretch his arms above his head.

  He grabbed his wide-brimmed hat from the dash, his luggage from the back seat, blipped the LandCruiser keys to make sure it was locked, and then headed towards the back door, which he knew led straight to the check-in counter. He wasn’t in the mood to run into anyone he knew just yet – and round these parts, with half the town packed inside, that was most certainly on the cards. Mumbling a g’day then holding his breath, he sidestepped a bloke sucking on a cigarette like his life depended on it. Kicking any dirt off the bottom of his boots, he pushed the door open with the toe of one and strolled in. Riotous laughter and the thump of a bass carried from the front of the historic building, while the aroma of chargrilled steak and tap beer smacked him in the face. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of a decent counter meal. Greeting the young German backpacker at the desk, her hair bright pink and her face with more piercings than he had time to count, he paid for the next five nights, accepted his keys, and headed upstairs – thank Christ he’d been lucky enough to get a room with an ensuite.

  Later, after he’d dumped his bag onto the single bed, showered, shaved, eaten a mouth-watering meal of steak, chips and salad – the 500 gram slab of medium-rare rump doused in plate-licking béarnaise sauce – and washed it down with an icy cold beer, he was feeling a little more human, albeit still exhausted. Wandering out of the family-orientated dining room and into the much rowdier front bar, he scanned the sea of faces for any he wasn’t keen to run into – planning to make a wide berth to avoid them. Eyes fell upon him as he made his way towards the bar. As he said his g’days in passing to the couple of blokes he’d gone to high school with, he could almost hear their whispers about the fact he was back – not that he gave a shit what any of them thought.

  All four pool tables were taken, and the five-piece band was pumping out an old Midnight Oil tune to a packed, gyrating dance floor. Pulling up a stool at the end of the bar, he rested his forearms on the mahogany counter and waited his turn to be served. He needed a whisky on ice, swiftly followed by another, and another, so he could drag himself back to his room and hopefully get some sleep. He’d give almost anything to escape reality and his thoughts for just a little while. Maybe a romp between the sheets with a hot-blooded woman would help him out with that. There were plenty of them in here, but none that fitted the bill like the captivating Emma Kensington would – memories of her lingered everywhere and he couldn’t think of anything but her.

  Thanks to the breakneck speed of the barman, Zane sculled his first whisky and then sat with a second in hand. Taking sips while watching a couple almost undressing each other on the dance floor, he chuckled to himself. With his thoughts wavering between the pleasures of the alcohol warming his throat, to the pleasures of flesh warming his single bed upstairs, his gaze snagged on an attractive woman over the other side of the room, her long legs making her stand out above the rest of her group. She flashed him a come-hither smile and he flashed her one back. Although humouring the thought of noncommittal sex, he decided he was too tired to put the effort in tonight. So, he turned in his seat, tapping his boot in rhythm as he watched the band rocking it out on stage.

  CHAPTER 9

  Grinning at the way almost every bloke cocked his neck to gawk at her gorgeous friend, Emma watched Renee disappear into the thick of it all. The old Railway Pub was packed to the rafters; almost everyone, apart from a few ringers huddled around the pool tables with beers in hand, was decked out in their good, going-to-town clothes. Of the three pubs in Silvergum, this was evidently still the one to be seen at. Texting ‘Goodnight and I love you’ to Riley, E
mma then shoved her mobile in her bag so she’d stop checking it every five minutes. She just couldn’t help herself. Knowing Riley was happy and enjoying her night with Granny May, despite the fact she had a bellyache from the entire tub of ice-cream she and Granny had gorged themselves on while watching Dirty Dancing, made her relax a little. Sipping the last of her vodka, lime and soda, she gazed around the rowdy crowd, not seeing one bloke she would make a beeline for, that was, if she were on the prowl. Which she wasn’t. Men were too much like hard work.

  Waving to a familiar face, she curled her legs up beneath her in the booth. She was pleased they’d nabbed the last table in the place, in a dark corner, away from drunken louts who’d grab her butt or try to chat her up, while spilling beer down her top. From when she was a young single woman, she’d always loathed men who behaved that way. It took a lot more than an offer of a free drink, and possibly a shag in the back of someone’s ute at the end of the night, to win her over. She liked her men tall, dark, witty, and handsome, a little rough around the edges but with a solid gold heart; someone who kept her on her toes but was there to catch her when she fell, and most definitely chivalrous. Not too much to ask, was it? With most of the crowd much younger than her, she felt a little like a fish out of water, but tried not to dwell on it. Tonight was all about spending time with her bestie, and to hell with the rest; as they both led hectic lives, times like these were few and far between.

  Renee arrived back at their table with four shot glasses balanced between her fingers and a very mischievous grin on her face. Carefully manoeuvring into her seat, she shoved two in front of Emma. ‘I give thee a Horny Southerner and a Buttery Nipple.’

  ‘Oh, yay, just what I need after a year and a half of no sex – a horny bloke and slippery nipples.’ Emma cracked a sassy smile as she held up one of the glasses, inspecting the neatly layered contents. ‘What’s in this one?’