Sweet From the Vine

by Jacquie Underdown

  ‘Oh, that is toasty and warm,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t go outside six months of the year if I didn’t have them.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Please, take a seat. Wine?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He poured them both a glass and sank onto the seat beside her. The chirp of crickets filled the otherwise silent night.

  ‘I’m still at that stage of city recovery where I am in awe of the space and solitude in the country,’ she said. ‘How peaceful it is at this time of night.’

  ‘Some people can’t handle the silence, it’s louder than a busy night in Melbourne to ears that aren’t used to it.’ He was going to mention how Rachel couldn’t sleep when she first moved out here. And when he stayed in Melbourne at the little apartment she rented, he couldn’t sleep there either—there was always some noise blaring past at all times of the night and day.

  She smiled. ‘My very first night back here, I was staying at Mum and Dad’s, I will admit, I was a little jumpy. I had forgotten what it was like to hear the house settling or the odd animal scuttling across the roof.’

  ‘And you’re still happy you’re back?’ he asked. Maybe an unnecessary question, but she had left once before because this town wasn’t enough, it could happen again.

  She nodded emphatically. ‘I love my job. It’s challenging and creative, which is perfect for me. I love my new home. I walk around room to room some nights looking at it all with awe. And I’m enjoying getting to know you again.’

  He released a long outbreath, relieved by her ability to truly say what she was feeling and what was on her mind. ‘I’m glad, Mati.’

  ‘It’s a lovely home you have here,’ she said.

  ‘I forget you haven’t seen this house yet.’ Except for that one afternoon when she handed in her resignation, but he wasn’t going to bring that up again. ‘I had it built when I was twenty-one. I was well and truly over living with my parents by then.’

  She giggled. ‘A man at that stage in his life would need his privacy.’

  Half his mouth curled upwards into a grin. ‘Not only for that reason. I was overdue to be independent. If anything, I was ready to be out on my own before I finished school.’

  She nodded. ‘Remember when we would look through the local rental’s list and imagine moving out together? The thought of that back then was so exciting.’

  ‘But Dad emphatically talked us out of it. He knew how difficult it was to make ends meet in the real world. You only had your newsagency job, and I was putting in, at most, ten paid hours on the vineyard. We would have drowned.’

  ‘That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You don’t realise your parents actually know what they’re talking about until about fifteen years too late.’

  He laughed. ‘Very true.’

  ‘We got there in the end,’ she said.

  He nodded. If she had have said that to him as little as three months ago, he may not have agreed with her. He didn’t wholeheartedly now—still felt like most days he was wandering around with a blindfold on.

  ‘How hungry are you?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘Very.’

  ‘Good. Me too. How about I get this dinner going?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  He led her to the kitchen and she stood at the bench beside him. Before Matilda arrived, he had prepared everything—the fried rice was warming in the oven, the beef and fresh vegetables were sliced and a sauce was mixed, ready to throw in the wok; it was all sitting on the bench in little containers with a tea towel thrown over the top.

  He grabbed out the wok and placed it on the gas flame.

  ‘Chinese?’ Matilda guessed.

  ‘An Aussie fusion version,’ he said with a chuckle.

  She lifted up onto the bench, sitting beside the ingredients.

  There was something bold about that move and it hinted at how comfortable they were with each other still.

  He adored bold. He adored confidence.

  The way her backside, covered in black leather, was right there before him, along with the curve of her body from the way she sat side-on, legs crossed as they hung over the edge of the bench, sent a shot of arousal through him.

  He was all at once imagining spreading those thighs of hers open and standing between them, their faces at the perfect height for kissing.

  She sipped from her wine glass. ‘You need a hand with anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘All prepared. Just got to quickly stir-fry the ingredients.’

  ‘I’m quite happy to watch.’ Heat blared in her gaze. A sultry smile lifted the corners of her lips, highlighted by the bold red lipstick.

  As a teenager, she was sexual, but in a reserved way. He had to coax it out of her in many instances by ensuring she knew that with him, she had a safe space to be herself.

  To see Matilda like this, a grown woman, embracing her sexuality, expressing herself in this way, was irresistible. It spoke to his primal side—a side that had been suppressed so much these long months. But going by the dream he had last night, this side of him was going to be heard.

  He didn’t uncover the food, turned the flame off on the stove, and stood in front of Matilda. Gripping her knees, he spread her legs apart and positioned himself right there, snug between them.

  That slow sultry smile appeared on those sexy lips again.

  ‘You remember what works me up,’ he said in a deep, low voice.

  She giggled but nodded. ‘Pretty much everything if I remember right.’

  He laughed, but even he could hear the desire in that deep, raspy sound. His thumb brushed over her fleshy bottom lip. ‘It’s this colour. I’m like a bull.’

  ‘You sure feel like one too,’ she said wiggling closer to him. ‘How does the colour taste?’ she asked, eyes never leaving his.

  He didn’t need to be asked twice. He leant in, his aching need to taste those lips deepening the nearer he was to her mouth until he couldn’t wait any longer and pressed his lips to hers.

  She parted her lips, permitting his tongue to slide against hers. She tasted like everything he wanted right now. Hand to her waist, he settled in closer between those leather-wrapped thighs until his hardened member was firm against her. The sensation of that rigid contact, after all this time of nothing, seared his body like lava.

  His kiss deepened in response to his growing arousal. This arousal was like a wild beast; it had stalked up on him unnoticed, then sprung, launching its full arsenal upon him.

  Towards that burning flesh of her stomach, he crept his fingers under her jumper. He sighed against her mouth as her warm skin met his fingertips. He was desperate to sneak higher, to rip her jumper off and throw it away, but he restrained and dampened down the raging fire within him.

  Too early in the night for this. He hadn’t even fed her.

  Using every ounce of control he possessed, he slowed his kiss until he was able to pull away. He looked deep into her eyes as he took a shuddering breath inwards. ‘You taste incredible, but if I don’t stop, we won’t be eating.’

  She arched a brow, an exquisite grin finding her mouth. ‘I see.’

  He kissed those red-as-lust lips one more time, then stepped away. His breaths were thin in his throat. His heart was racing.

  The leather and the red lipstick were his kryptonite, and he hadn’t even known until tonight.

  He distracted himself by busily moving around the kitchen: turning the gas back on and shifting all the little containers to beside the stove, so they were within arm’s reach once he started stir-frying.

  All he seemed to do when it came to Matilda was restrain himself. It scared him to think what would happen if he let himself go.

  He knew the answer to that—he’d enjoy it.

  But taking it further with Matilda here in the home he had shared many happy years with his wife, was another line to cross.

  A sense of betrayal shifted inside him, clouded his thoughts.

  He shook his head, blew out a long breath. Ge
t it together, Mitch. You’re allowed to keep living.

  That old familiar grief bubbled up to the surface of his skin like thick sticky tar—hard to wash off once it arrived. But he blinked, breathed deeply. You’re a fucking mess, Mitch. Snap out of it.

  He wondered if this intimacy with Matilda had moved too fast. He wondered how great it would feel to take it further.

  He was in a prison made by himself. The keys to the prison door were clipped to his waist. On the outside was Matilda. On the inside was every imaginable hard-to-bear emotion. All he had to do was open the door and walk through, yet he chose to sit with betrayal and grief and confusion.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Tender hands crept around his waist.

  ‘Hey,’ Matilda whispered. ‘Everything okay?’

  He slowly turned to face her, only managing a half-hearted smile. ‘Yeah. I’m … fine.’

  She wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. A slight hesitation before he allowed himself to cuddle her.

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ she said, voice so soft it was almost a whisper. ‘But I’m here, okay? And we just take it slow. One kiss at a time if you need.’

  He heard the smile in her voice with that last statement, and it pushed the heavier of emotions back—emotions he was feeling simply because he was trying to hide them from her.

  But he should know by now, Matilda didn’t miss much. Her emotional intelligence was high.

  ‘I don’t want to burden you with it. I know—I mean you said—it doesn’t make you feel great.’ He pressed his lips to the top of her head.

  She shook her head and looked up at him. ‘No, I said you not making up your mind about us was what hurt. I’m okay if you hit up against your grief, just as long as you don’t run from us because of it.’

  His next inhale was wringing with his relief. There was that ability of hers to communicate so well. What a skill in this world to have. Life must be so much easier when you can say what you mean so easily.

  He leant down as though it was the most natural expression in the world and almost kissed her again, but he stopped before their lips touched and stood back up straighter. ‘Ah … thank you.’

  She smiled, but disappointment stole its strength. No more words as she slowly untangled from his arms, went back to the bench and sat on top.

  But the atmosphere was too thick now like he was breathing in heavy fog. He had gone from excitement to pleasure to defeat in a matter of an hour. And what made it worse was that he didn’t know how to pull himself out of it. He didn’t know how to open the cell door.

  He had always had a good ability to be social when it counted and put on that happy mask even if he didn’t feel that way underneath. But when there were the demands of grief always present, he no longer had the wherewithal to do that anymore.

  Sure it meant that he was more genuine, but not everyone appreciated the company of a sad sack.

  Mitch added the beef to the hot wok, followed by the thinly cut vegetables and sauce until they were cooked. Matilda helped him carry bowls and dishes outside.

  And as much as she attempted to open him up again with conversation, he was long gone, and he felt something a little like self-hatred for it.

  ‘I’m going to head off, Mitch,’ Matilda said soon after they had finished their meals. She stood before he could object and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal.’

  His heart sank all the way into the pit of his stomach.

  She deserved more than this, than him. Whether she understood what he was going through or not, and was willing to take it slow, this unshakable funk he fell into complicated something that should not be at all complicated.

  ‘I’ll walk you down to your car,’ he said.

  She pressed his shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later. Have a good night.’ And she strode away.

  A part of him was urging him to race after her, but it was so quiet compared to all the other noise that he could scarcely hear it.

  He didn’t tidy up. He barely made it into bed without collapsing under the weight of his confusion.

  He laid back in his bed and looked up at the ceiling. He had moved too quickly. Sure, his body wanted one thing, but he wasn’t ready emotionally.

  Only when he was given perspective like tonight did he even realise how broken he was. It was terrifying because he didn’t know if healing was possible. But he didn’t want to stand trapped inside this prison forever. No way.

  He released a long groan, scrubbed his hands through his hair. What was he to do about Matilda now?

  Chapter 19

  Sunday morning, Matilda arrived at her parents’ home for breakfast. She hadn’t planned it, but they always had something delicious in the fridge that they could fry up. Mostly, she needed company and an ear.

  Yesterday, she had tried her hardest to forget about the disaster that was her date with Mitch. But he had always been so prompt with his texts after a date, and yet, here she was, Sunday, and she still hadn’t heard a word from him.

  After their kiss on Friday night, it was like he had a complete brain snap. Mitch disappeared and in his place was this sombre zombie, who was, in all honesty, mindless. She had attempted to coax some kind of response from him, but she got nothing but one syllable answers.

  To be honest, he had scared her. She had seen a couple of his low points, but he had always shown some kind of emotion—sadness, guilt, shame even. But to have been met with a man who had completely locked himself away, sent her bolting.

  Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do, but she didn’t have anything in her arsenal to help him. How could they even think a relationship was possible when he was like this?

  ‘Mum?’ she called, pushing through the front door. She spied her mum on the back porch drinking a cup of tea, the morning papers spread out before her.

  ‘You’re here early,’ Mum said when Matilda pushed through the back door onto the porch.

  ‘I’ve not slept all night.’

  ‘Go make a cup of tea, and we’ll have a chat.’

  Matilda did so, then joined Mum, sitting beside her, a cup of tea in hand and looked out to the view. The backyard was filled with fruit trees—various citrus and a myriad species of apple—planted sporadically and, beyond that, paddocks of long-haired Highland cattle.

  Dad’s ute was parked in the very distance, obviously out tending to some task.

  He worked the farm. Mum wanted nothing to do with it other than to admire it from a distance and occasionally get a kicker in their bank when they sold a few cattle. The arrangement worked for them and had done so for the last thirty-five years.

  Just being in Mum’s presence eased Matilda’s anxiety. While overseas, she had missed her terribly. She had always had a great relationship with her mother—open and non-judgemental. She never went through that rebellious stage. Never ever felt embarrassment to go places with her in public or say she loved her, not like some of the other kids.

  Mum was still in her dressing gown—a Sunday morning ritual that had existed for as long as Matilda’s memory would allow.

  ‘So what’s going on with you?’ Mum asked.

  Matilda sighed. ‘I had a third date with Mitch last night and when I thought we were really connecting again, he withdrew. Completely. I mean, he was no longer even there. I got up and left.’

  Mum nodded thoughtfully. ‘He has had a tough time of it. You’re going to need to be patient with him.’

  As much as it hurt her heart to admit it, patience wasn’t going to help in this case. ‘I don’t think so, Mum. I don’t think I’m strong enough. I know I shouldn’t take his refusals personally, but every time he withdraws, I feel so rejected. If I were what he needed and wanted right now, we could make this work, but, just when I think we’re making progress, he drops back further than ever.’

  ‘Grief isn’t linear, Mati. It doesn’t start out at a high intensity then gradually drop off over time
. Grief punctuates a person’s life in varying degrees, depending on anniversarys, unexpected reminders—’ she looked to Mati and frowned, ‘—developing feelings for someone else.’

  Matilda reached for her cup, to buy her some time to take that in and to give her bubbling emotions a chance to retreat. She sipped her tea. ‘You think I’ve triggered his grief again?’

  Mum nodded. ‘I think that’s a strong possibility. But like every other time he’s been triggered, he’ll find a way to work through it. But that sometimes takes time.’

  Matilda exhaled noisily. ‘I have such strong feelings for him, but I keep butting up against this wall and it hurts.’

  Divorce was nothing like bereavement, but it was still painful. Even if she was the one to have ended it with her ex, the heartbreak from walking away from the only adult life she had known and from the man she had loved, had nearly broken her.

  Then there were the self-abasing thoughts of guilt and selfishness that followed her for a long while after. So many times she had wondered if she was innately destructive—too willing to break men’s hearts. All in all, she had done it to Mitch. Then again with Oscar.

  For many many months after she broke it off with Oscar, and they worked through their settlement with lawyers, and she lost friends and her comfortable way of life, it had made her fragile. And perhaps she still was.

  Perhaps that’s why she didn’t feel strong enough to deal with Mitch’s pain and rejection when she wasn’t at her strongest herself.

  Knowing he was worth fighting for and being tough enough to keep fighting weren’t one and the same.

  ‘Have a talk with him, honey. Find out what he really wants.’

  ‘What if it isn’t me?’ she whispered, her throat tight from imminent tears.

  Mum frowned and rubbed Matilda’s arm. ‘Whatever happens, you’ve got my and your father’s support. And I promise you will get through it.’

  ‘Again,’ she sighed.

  Mum’s smile was sympathetic and warm. ‘Yes. Again.’

  Matilda spent the day shopping for groceries, cleaning the house and planting a few fruit trees in a long row down the side of her backyard. Out the front, she planted a row of lilly pillies that would hopefully grow up tall and block the view of her living room from the road above.