Bittersweet

by Jacquie Underdown

  Dad had planted this expanse of Merlot grapevines many years ago. Since his death, these vines had gained such sentimental value to Tom and his brothers. He wasn’t sure any of the family would ever be able to replant them.

  These vines gave a ripper harvest year after year, even stronger since their father died, so there had never been the need to replace them. Tom and his brothers all believed that their father still looked over the vines, ensuring the grapes ripened and tightened to their delicious best.

  ‘All right, Dad. What do you reckon?’ asked Tom, stopping to inspect the grapes. In these fields, he still felt a connection to his dad more so than at the cemetery where his bones rested.

  Tom examined a bunch. They were plump and round with a great colour like a ripe blueberry. He picked off a grape—it was soft, but not shrivelled, and had just a little resistance when he squeezed it. He popped one in his mouth.

  Still a little acidic.

  ‘Not too much longer, and it will be time to harvest. You agree, Dad?’

  Tom shifted along the rows picking samples he could test back in the lab for pH, acidity and sugar content.

  Dad would scoff at such methods—he was always one to go by taste, feel and sight, not fancy schmancy modern methods. Tom, on the other hand, quite liked having hard science to back him up, especially this year with Mitch waylaid in Melbourne.

  On The Mathews Family Vineyard, they grew four varietals: Cabernet Sauvignon, Riesling, Merlot, and Shiraz. Each variety had their own location on the property, dependent on the way the sun shone upon them, the slope of the land, the soil type.

  Tom drove to each of the vineyards, taking samples for each, then carted them back to the lab. His tests confirmed his suspicions that they were getting close. He prepared a spreadsheet with the results, emailed it through to Mitch then waited for his call.

  His phone rang a short time later.

  ‘Hey, Mitch.’

  ‘So how long are you thinking?’

  ‘I reckon we’re about a fortnight away,’ Tom said.

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘I’d like to get some pruning done, though. It’s a little cooler this year, I think some of the vines could use some more exposure to the morning light. The Riesling’s bunches are tight, I’d like to start on those to avoid any rot.’

  ‘Yep. I agree,’ Mitch said. ‘Get the team onto it. And no watering from here on out. Let’s dry these vines out.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tom bit back his snarl. The year Dad died, Tom hadn’t foreseen a freakish rainy period. The vines had become waterlogged resulting in the worst harvest in the vineyard’s history.

  He’d found it difficult to forgive himself, and every year he still tried to make up for it, particularly to Mitch. ‘You need to trust me.’

  Mitch groaned. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I do trust you. I’m … not myself at the moment.’

  Tom pursed his lips and winced. ‘Everything’s under control here. You just concentrate on Rachel and the baby. I’ll get Sam to do an inspection when he gets back on Sunday too.’

  ‘Sounds good. In the meantime, get those workers onto pruning. You’ll need to step them through each yard with what needs to be done. And start organising a team of seasonal pickers. They need to be ready to go on our word.’

  ‘Yep. Will do. How’s Rachel?’

  Mitch sighed. ‘The medication isn’t as effective. We’re trialling another lot today.’

  ‘Shit. Keep me updated.’

  ‘Yep,’ Mitch said.

  ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow to let you know how I get on.’

  ‘Ok. Talk soon.’

  Tom ended the call and headed towards the main office. Looking off into the distance, his thoughts drifted to Amy. His chest warmed and that jittery, excited feeling he remembered when he was a teenager and crushed on girls, swirled through his limbs.

  For the rest of the day, it was as if she were there with him. When briefing the pruning team and showing them how he needed the vine leaves picked, her shadow was there listening, watching. And later, when he was checking on last year’s vintage, assessing its readiness for bottling, Amy was working alongside him.

  He could imagine her lips as they curved over the rim of the shiny wine glass and tasted the ruby vintage.

  Tom had so many more duties to keep his mind occupied, and he did try his hardest to concentrate, but he couldn’t get Amy out of his mind. I’ve got it bad.

  Later that evening, Tom showered as soon as he arrived home to wash the day’s sweat and dust from his body. It took all his strength not to imagine Amy in there with him, but it was a futile attempt. She had been with him all day long; she wasn’t going to vanish because he was taking a shower.

  Yep, there she was, naked, flesh flushed from the hot water, watching him as he lathered himself up with soap. His body pulsed with longing, the deep muscles in his lower abdominal tightened.

  Perhaps Rachel had intuited who he desired before he did himself.

  He shook his head and laughed.

  Get a grip, lover boy.

  After dressing, Tom found a beer in the fridge and went outside to hand hose the roses. A weariness niggled at his muscles. It wasn’t like the fatigue he felt out at the mine after a twelve-hour shift, where he was so dog tired he managed a meal and a couple of beers before face planting his pillow.

  This was pleasant almost. On days like this, he had to wonder why he put himself through that type of work when he had all this at his fingertips. But then that good old resentment would burn up his throat like heartburn after dodgy Indian food reminding him why.

  Gravel under tyres sounded in the distance as Tom was turning off the tap and winding the hose away. He looked up to see Amy’s car heading towards the house. The broad grin on his face and quickened heartbeat were a reaction to Amy he came to expect now.

  Tom waited on the front step for her to park the car and climb out. She carried a box in her hand and a smile on her face.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, meeting her blue eyes and returning his happiness through his own grin.

  ‘Hi.’ She handed him the box. ‘I don’t want to break any traditions while I’m here.’

  Inside the box were four cupcakes, all topped with decadent frostings. He closed the lid and licked his lips. ‘No, we don’t want that happening. Thank you.’

  Her shrug held a nonchalant air. ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘You want a beer?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Sure. Why not.’

  Tom led her inside to the kitchen. ‘How was your cheese sandwich?’

  ‘Non-existent.’

  Looking closer, there were definite signs of tiredness around her mouth and eyes. He wasn’t going to let her say no to a good feed tonight. ‘It’s a good thing you’re here then. I’m making—’ he swung the fridge door open and scanned the shelves, ‘—margarita pizza.’

  A shadow of a smile flittered across her face. ‘Sounds delicious. You’re cooking, I assume?’

  He grinned. ‘I may need help with the pizza base. I get an inkling you might be good at baking.’

  Amy nodded, looked off into the distance. ‘I once thought I was.’ Her voice was so soft he barely caught it.

  ‘Sit,’ he said pointing to the stool lining the bench. He retrieved a beer from the fridge, unscrewed the cap and placed it in front of her. Before he asked his next question, he waited for her to have a long swallow. ‘You wanna talk about it?’

  She shook her head, loose strands of feathery blonde hair floating around her face. ‘But it’s so damn boring, Tom. I opened a restaurant, it failed. Blah freakin’ blah.’ Her nose wrinkled and lips twisted as she spoke.

  So she’d reached the stage of anger. Understandable. And progress. One step above sadness.

  Tom pressed both palms on the bench and leaned forward. ‘Let me have it.’

  She shook her head, gulped at the beer. ‘Won’t achieve anything. Won’t change a damn thing.’

  Silence settled between
them. Amy looked away.

  Tom nodded. Okay, so she still wasn’t ready to talk about it. And he wasn’t one to push. He went to the fridge, collected tomato paste, mozzarella, basil, eggs, and loaded them onto the bench.

  He swung by the cupboard for the flour, then pushed it across the bench towards her. ‘There you go. Show me how it’s done.’

  She looked at the packet and shook her head. ‘I’ve been baking all day.’

  ‘Then you’re warmed up. I expect a great pizza dough.’

  Amy looked at him, a defiant grin on her lips. ‘I know what you’re doing, Tom Mathews.’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’ He pushed the eggs in her direction. ‘But you better get to it because I’m starving and this stomach waits—’

  ‘Yeah yeah, waits for no-one.’ She grinned as she stood. ‘You’ve told me already.’

  Tom laughed and cleared a space on the bench.

  Amy settled in beside him. She smelled sweet: sugar mingling with perfume. ‘Have you got sea salt flakes?’

  A cheeky smile lit his face. ‘Bit demanding, aren’t you?’

  With hands on her hips. ‘Do you want me to help or not?’

  He lifted his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, I’m not the one barking diva orders around the place. But, you know me, I try to accommodate. I think there’s some salt in the dark depths of the cupboard somewhere. I don’t mind trying to find it for you.’

  Amy snickered. ‘You do passive aggressive well.’

  He roared with laughter as he grabbed the salt flakes from the cupboard. ‘Some people do bring out my better qualities.’ He placed the flakes on the bench. ‘Anything else, sugar?’

  Amy stretched her arm towards her beer that sat at the other end of the bench out of her reach. She wiggled her fingers. ‘Could you? Seeing as you’re so accommodating.’

  He arched a brow. ‘As long as I’m not blamed for getting you drunk.’

  ‘Distracted,’ she corrected.

  His laugh was loud in the room. ‘Good to see you’re learning.’

  Amy cleaned the bench, poured a pile of flour onto the surface. She cracked in eggs with bright orange yolks, added sea salt, then used her hands to mix the concoction. Fast, precise movements. Once the flour had formed a ball, she began to knead with vigour.

  Tom looked on. He didn’t know what is was about watching Amy cook. Her cheeks had a flushed glow, her arms flexed and relaxed as she sunk her palms into the dough. Her lips were slightly parted as she drew in breaths, and those amazing ample breasts wobbled with her movements.

  Mesmerising.

  Action down below.

  He glanced away before he embarrassed himself.

  I’m one twisted primal animal.

  ‘Can I have a big bowl please?’ she asked.

  He retrieved one from the cupboard.

  Amy placed the perfect ball of dough inside and covered it with cling wrap. ‘There you go.’

  He smiled. ‘Thank you. You’ve saved the night.’

  ‘Let’s just wait to see how it tastes before you start making such claims,’ she grumbled.

  Tom frowned. No, this was not the Amy he remembered from Christmas time who commandeered the kitchen and prepared the best Christmas dinner the family had eaten since their mother was in good mind.

  He held her gaze for a long moment. ‘You’ll find your confidence again, Amy. These things take time.’

  She nodded and looked away. A long groan. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being such a … an arsehole.’

  He offered a warm smile. ‘You're not an arsehole.’

  ‘I am. I'm a cranky, whiny arsehole. And I promise to stop right now. Someone as …’ she peered into his eyes for a long moment. Her voice softened. ‘Someone as kind as you doesn’t need to make allowances for me.’

  He stepped closer, frowning. ‘Amy, please—’

  She raised a hand, it hovered inches from his chest then drifted closer until it pressed against him. Her gaze travelled from his face down to her hand; he stayed focused on her, watching the way her eyes and face softened; her lips relaxed. She swallowed. ‘Um …’

  Tom leaned into her hand. He was tingling. That sensation of her touching him at his centre made him want to close his eyes. His heart rate quickened; she’d be feeling that against her palm.

  Amy licked her lips and lifted her gaze to his. An ocean of blue. She shook her head and dropped her hand. The air left his lungs like he’d been punched. He dragged in a breath, attempting to replace her touch and the stamp of sensation that was no longer there.

  A wry smile. ‘I’ll be on better behaviour,’ she whispered.

  He shook his head, cleared his throat. ‘No need.’ He wasn’t the behaviour police. He dictated nothing. Another deep breath. ‘So how long does this dough need to rest?’

  ‘About another beer’s time and it should be good.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Now that’s a measurement of time I can understand.’

  On the way outside, he grabbed two more beers, and they sat on the front steps to drink them. A cool breeze blew across his flesh as he watched the setting sun soak the clouds with vibrant hues. Colour-tinged shadows crept across the land, mingling with rolling ground-level mist.

  ‘It’s beautiful here, Tom.’

  He nodded, kept his focus on the landscape.

  ‘And you grew up here?’

  ‘Yep. Dad planted the first vine here over thirty-two years ago. Just after he and Mum married. The main office was their house.’ When he chuckled, there was a deep sadness in that sound. ‘Neither of us could bear to live in it once Mum had to go to a nursing home.’

  She nodded. ‘Rachel mentioned your mum wasn’t well.’

  He scoffed. ‘That’s the irony. Physically, she’s as fit as a fiddle. But her mind, well, she hardly remembers much anymore.’

  ‘That must be tough.’

  His chest ached. It was tough seeing the woman he loved so fiercely showing lessening recognition when he visited. The blankness and confusion that filled her eyes brought him to tears every damn time. ‘Yep.’ He straightened up, had a swallow of beer, attempting to loosen his throat. ‘So, tell me about your family.’

  He didn’t miss the rigidity that overcame her. ‘My dad is a Queen’s Counsel. My mother is a surgeon. My brother is a barrister and my sister a professor of mathematics. Me … you know where I am in life.’

  Tom winced. ‘Ouch. So they don’t approve of your career choices?’

  ‘To put it bluntly, not at all. They laughed when I told them I was going to culinary school. They thought it was a big joke.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never quite measured up. But that’s okay. I don’t need their approval.’ Her last words were sodden with bitterness and filled with little conviction. Judging by this reaction, their approval was actually important to her.

  He understood that more than he would allow her to know.

  As the youngest of three brothers, he was always at a size disadvantage because his major growth spurt didn’t occur until he was seventeen. Sure, he was always taller than other kids his age, and he towered over most men now, but he couldn’t catch up to his brothers—not when it counted.

  Tom and his brothers were football mad and after school, boys from neighbouring farms would walk from the bus stop together to the makeshift park, which was really just a big, cleared field on his mate’s property, and have scrap matches.

  The competition was fierce. Injuries were inevitable. One day he slit the skin above his eyebrow open. By the time he’d walked home, his face was covered with blood, and he had needed seven stitches. Another afternoon, he broke his thumb. Fractured his ankle. Not to mention the almost-daily scratches and bruises. God knows how Mum coped.

  Tom and his brothers were always on the same team, and that filled him with pride—the Mathews boys against the world. And Tom always thought he had a rightful place on that team until one afternoon, after a full week of losses, Tom was replaced by Gareth—the new kid in town. Ga
reth was taller, faster and stronger. And Tom was benched.

  As Tom watched from the sidelines, his own inadequacies stood out like nuts on a bull. And he saw it everywhere after that. On races across the vineyard where he’d pump his arms and legs as fast as he could, but could never outrun his brothers. When Dad would ask Mitch to carry the heavier tools or planks of timber. Or when he was left behind altogether while Sam and Mitch went with Dad to prune the vines.

  He was tired of living in the shadow of his brothers. So, yes, he understood Amy’s predicament well.

  Amy dusted her hands on her pants and pointed back inside. ‘I think that dough will be ready now.’

  After dinner and cupcakes for dessert, Tom stood with Amy on the front porch. The crickets chirped. The silence stretched out in all directions. Tom was always aware of the expansiveness of this place and his small position within it at this time of night.

  Such a contrast to the mine where he was crammed into a tiny makeshift donger surrounded by thousands of workers. You couldn’t see the stars at the mine for the constant bright orange glow from the iron ore plant. Here, the blinking night sky was endless.

  He felt the hollowness left by Sam, Rachel and Mitch’s absence, and was grateful Amy was here. The dim porch light spilled gauzy light over them as they stood face to face. He peered into her blue eyes, not wanting her to leave, needing to spend as much time with her as he could. ‘What are you doing tomorrow, Amy?’

  ‘I wanted to go see Rachel, but she told me to take the weekend off.’

  ‘Spend the day with me.’ Nothing more than a fling would ever transpire, he knew that. But if that was all he could get, and she was equally willing, he’d take that without blinking.

  ‘I thought I should visit her regardless of what she says. We could go together?’ She shook her head, chewed on her bottom lip. ‘But her parents will be visiting. Might be a bit much.’

  ‘Let me show you around the vineyard,’ he said.

  Her eyebrows raised. ‘Like a date?’

  Unsure of where this bravery had come from, he stepped closer, reached for her, taking her hand in his. Darts of warm sensation tingled up his arm. He was tired of tiptoeing around this attraction—he needed some forward momentum. Meeting her blue gaze, he said, ‘Yes.’