by Stella Quinn
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Are you Mister Vet? Have you got my dog?’
Josh nodded. ‘I reckon I might. You got a parent with you, son?’
‘My mum. She’s looking for a park that isn’t gonna get her in trouble.’
Josh looked through the smashed windows to where half a dozen vacant car parks adorned the street. ‘These ones out front no good, Parker?’
‘She’s in the big truck, on account of her little car shat itself, and she’s not so hot at squeezing the big truck in between those little white lines. Last time she drove it into town, the cop chick said she’d give her a parking ticket next time.’
‘Uh-huh.’ His lips twitched. Parker the seven-year-old was all kinds of cute.
A woman walked down the path from the corner of Salt Creek Flats Road, a tiny figure in steel-capped boots and faded overalls that had been ironed with the same military precision as Parker’s jeans. ‘This your mum?’ he asked.
Parker shot a glance over his shoulder. ‘Yep.’
Josh blew out a breath. Here goes, he thought. He walked over and held the tarpaulin back so she could step into the carnage that had once been the Cody and Cody Vet Clinic, then held out his hand. ‘Josh Cody.’
She had a clear, no-nonsense look about her. ‘Sonya,’ she said. ‘I’m Parker’s mum. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get to town, but we’ve had some transport trouble.’
‘So Parker’s been telling me.’
She looked around at the burn scars still visible on the walls. ‘Seems like you’ve been having some trouble of your own.’
‘Yeah.’
She frowned at Parker. ‘Hey. How about you save some of those jellybeans for the other people who come visiting. How many have you had?’
He pulled his hand out of the jar and his shoulders wilted. ‘Just a couple, Mum.’
Sonya surprised Josh by shooting him a wink. ‘Okay then, why don’t we see this dog you’ve found, Dr Cody, and we can get out of your way.’
Josh cleared his throat. ‘About that.’
Sonya looked up at him. ‘There a problem, Dr Cody? Because if this is about boarding fees, we pay our way, don’t you be getting your knickers in a twist about that.’
‘No, Sonya. That’s not it.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘The answer sort of depends on your definition of problem. We’re going to need to walk a block over to the Hanrahan Pub, if you don’t mind. We had to clear all the animals out of here during the fire.’
It became clear within a bizillionth of a second that Parker and his mum had differing views on what constituted a problem.
‘Puppies,’ breathed Parker, on a long drawn-out ecstatic breath, before he dived over the low gate and buried himself in the pyramid of plump, squirming fur.
‘Puppies!’ winced his mum.
Josh unclicked the latch on the gate and Jane Doe tottered over to him with her usual expression of feed-me-love-me-feed-me. Parker had dropped a casual pat on her head as he raced past to the furballs. ‘Mum,’ he said, and Josh could have sworn he heard tears in the kid’s voice. ‘We’ve had baby doggies!’
‘I can see that, Parker.’
He met Sonya’s eyes and shrugged. ‘I delivered them by C-section. I didn’t know your dog’s name, so I’ve been calling her Jane,’ he said.
‘Rosie, you fool dog,’ Sonya said, without heat, as she bent down to stroke Jane’s ears. ‘Ran off in a storm. Parker nearly cried the freckles off his face when she didn’t come home.’
He nodded. ‘A farmer found her in his barn, her fur full of fleas, and her belly full of pups. She’s had some adventures, all right.’
Sonya sniffed. ‘And not all of them PG-rated.’
He chuckled. ‘So, what do we do now? She’s still feeding the pups. I’m happy to keep them with me until the pups are weaned, maybe another couple of weeks … unless you want to take them all?’
The woman let out a breath. ‘That’s kind of you. Thing is, Dr Cody, I’m in a bit of a bind.’
‘How’s that?’
‘My husband’s laid off with a back injury. He can’t drive. He can’t seem to do much more than lie on the couch in front of the television snapping out orders for beer and party pies. I’m working nights down on the highway resurfacing project, and I don’t think I have any more to give at the moment, if you see what I’m saying.’
‘I understand. What about Parker?’
They both looked at the boy, who had all eight pups on his lap. He was busy telling them a story about how their brave mummy dog didn’t get snacked on by drop bears after all.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we convince Parker that Jane—I mean, Rosie—is needed here a little longer so she can feed her pups. You bring him back in a couple of weeks when the pups are on solid food, and maybe you’re a bit less busy, and we can both make a better decision. I’ve had plenty of takers for these pups, so don’t feel you need to worry about them, too.’
‘Dr Cody, you’re being a good sport about this.’
He felt Jane settle herself over his boots. ‘Call me Josh,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, Sonya, I’m in no hurry to say goodbye to them just yet.’ Understatement of the year. With Poppy away at school, Vera pretending he didn’t exist, Jane being taken from him too would be too damn much.
Sonya nodded. ‘You ever need some fresh honey, you drop on by the Cooma markets one Saturday. My stall’s always there, and there’ll be a jar waiting for you, okay? We’ll see you in a few weeks.’
He shook the calloused little hand she held out to him. ‘See you soon.’
He wandered back to the clinic after saying goodbye to Parker and his mum, and as he cut through the park, his gaze was drawn to the pretty picture windows of The Billy Button Café. He paused when he saw Graeme coming out of the doors and crossed over to greet him.
The printed sign that had been there all week like a punishment was still taped to the glass. Closed due to family bereavement. Vera had made her point very clear: family didn’t include him.
‘You’ve got a frown on your face that explains how Old Regret got its name,’ said Graeme.
‘My shitty week just got shittier.’
‘Yeah? Vera rang you, did she?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘No. A kid arrived and turns out he’s Jane Doe’s owner. Why, was Vera trying to call me? Did she say something to you?’ He’d not missed a message, had he? Maybe she rang the clinic. Maybe Sandy had lost the sticky note. Maybe—
‘She bit my head off when I told her you’d dropped by the café to see her the other day, that’s all. I figured there was trouble brewing.’
‘It’s brewing all right. You know, she’s not said a word to me about her aunt. The only reason I know about Jill passing away is because Marigold rang me to see how soon the hall would be ready.’ Not Vera. Vera had just slipped away mid phone call a few hours after they’d spent the night together, and left him wondering where on earth she’d gone.
‘Funeral’s day after tomorrow,’ said Graeme.
‘Yeah. It’s going to be touch and go whether I get the ceiling finished in time. I’ve done a little fancy plasterwork in my day, which is lucky, because there was quite a lot of damage.’
‘Bog and paint, mate.’
He snorted. ‘Any more of that cheek from you, Graeme, and I’ll be handing you a paintbrush.’
‘So hand me one.’
‘Seriously? You’d give me a hand?’
‘Of course. When are you planning on painting?’
‘I’ll finish the cornice work tonight if I get stuck into it after dinner, give it the day to dry, and we paint tomorrow evening. You up for that?’
‘With two of us on the job, we’ll get it done in no time.’
‘Thanks, man. I mean it.’ That was one problem solved. If only he knew what to do about the others. He hesitated. ‘Does Vera seem okay to you? I thought we’d reached a point where she trusted me a little, but she’s not answering my calls. I�
�ve been to her apartment, and no answer there, either. I’m worried about her. I don’t think she’s as resilient as she pretends to be.’
Graeme looked him over. ‘Josh, my friend, girl trouble is not my special skill, but if you need a beer and an ear, I’m your man.’
Josh considered. ‘That new place round the corner serve double cheese and pepperoni?’
‘The Feldmark Cellar serve pizza?’ Graeme gave a deep and theatrical sigh. ‘Some days, I wonder how we ever became friends. We’ll go to the winery, and we’ll have a cheese platter, with some quince paste, grapes, bruschetta. Maybe some of their olives stuffed with goodness and deep fried in a crumb so thin and crispy you’ll forget pepperoni ever existed.’
‘Lead the way.’ Beer, heart-to-heart, then plasterwork. Yeah, single life in the country was turning out to be pretty much as he’d expected.
The olives were great. As was the platter of fruit and cheese the waitress conjured up after a lengthy and spirited discussion on the merits of every item on the menu with Graeme. He layered a wedge of double brie onto an oat cracker and gave it a try.
‘Okay,’ said Graeme. ‘Now you have a beer in front of you, you want to tell me why you’ve got a hangdog look on your face?’
Josh sighed. ‘You picked it before. Girl trouble.’
‘With my boss.’
‘Like you and the whole town don’t know, man.’
Graeme nodded. ‘Good point,’ he said, and swirled the red wine in his glass, before tipping his nose in and inhaling as if he was a beagle after a sausage. ‘You know the difference between a young cabernet and an aged cabernet?’
‘Are you using a wine analogy to explain my love life to me?’
‘Roll with it, mate. Do you know the difference?’
‘Time in the barrel? Rainfall while the grape was on the vine? Southern versus northern growing slope?’
‘All good suggestions, but no. The difference is the volatility.’
Josh took a deep sip of his beer. ‘Clear as mud.’
‘When a person is young, he’s content to drink a young cabernet. The colour is bright, the flavours are bold, the taste is typically intense and high in tannins. The young person can afford this wine, it’s sunny and warm and uncomplicated, and he’ll enjoy quaffing it.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘A bit like the legendary Josh Cody might have enjoyed himself dating the netball team back in high school.’
Josh rolled his eyes.
‘But when the guy gets a little older, his palate changes. It’s time for something a little more complicated, where the flavours and colours have had time to settle into something unique, softer, with a rich and nuanced quality. Something that requires a little patience to find.’
‘I can be patient. I’ve been patient.’
Graeme lifted his glass and clinked it against his. ‘Hang in there, champ. Vera’s got the hots for you so bad, she’s not going to care that in my wine analogy you come in just slightly above vinegar.’
Josh shook his head. He didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.
‘How do you know she’s got the hots for me?’
Graeme shook his head. ‘Maaaate.’
CHAPTER
33
The Friday in November on which she was to farewell her aunt brought with it a bleak, grey-skied afternoon, and rain had darkened the granite of the old headstones scattered about the cemetery. Overhead, leaves shivered in the breeze, and Vera gathered her coat about her. This was all so wrong.
Jill had loved colour, and sunshine, and fun. Not drooping flowers, and grass running with rivulets of mud. The coffin she could barely recall choosing spilled dull sheets of water as it was lowered into the hole in the ground.
Marigold had organised everything, from holding Vera’s hand while she sat by Jill to say goodbye, to bossing around everyone at the funeral home and announcing herself celebrant of the service.
Vera had just … stopped. Everything, every goal she’d pursued since leaving the city, had hinged on Jill being alive.
Finding a new and peaceful aged care home for Jill: that had brought her to the Snowy River district. The need to find a way to earn income if she lost her case and was incarcerated? That goal had resulted in her opening a café in Hanrahan, hiring a manager who could run it in her absence, making enough profit to employ a replacement cook, and working dawn to dusk to make it all happen.
And the other goal … the secret that had been at the heart of every decision she’d made except for that mad, foolish, night with Josh … was to never get hurt again.
She’d screwed up, and now Jill was gone, and what did all her plans matter now?
She was like a knife with no blade, an oven with no heat. The only thing tethering her to the world was a criminal charge that she felt too exhausted to fight.
‘May your passage be swift,’ said Marigold, addressing the mourners who lingered in the rain.
Graeme had come, his partner Alex by his side in full fireman’s uniform. The café was shut. Baking, usually her go-to solace for every malady, had been more than she could face.
Kev stood by his wife, dapper in a corduroy cloth cap and suede coat, holding a misshapen orange golf umbrella over his wife’s head.
Mr Juggins was there, and Wendy from Connolly House; Sandy, the vet clinic receptionist, who she barely knew other than the fact she ordered a take home box of raspberry jam donuts every Friday for her sons’ afternoon tea. The woman who ran the op shop, the couple from the cinema who’d been so happy to promote a dinner and movie deal, and half a dozen faces from the weekly craft group all stood, solemn faced, by her aunt’s graveside.
They’d come, so many of them.
Marigold had volunteered the community hall for a cup of tea after the funeral, its doors now open to the public once more, and Vera had shaken her head. ‘There’s no need, really,’ she’d said. ‘Jill was a stranger here.’
‘Funerals are for those of us that are left behind,’ Marigold had said firmly. ‘Not for the departed.’
She still hadn’t thought a service was necessary. She wasn’t a local. And, after the notoriety of having her private shame splashed all over the community page of the Snowy River Star, she wouldn’t have been surprised if nobody showed up: to the funeral, or to darken the doorstep of her café ever again.
Her gaze wandered of its own volition over to Josh, who had turned up at her café and apartment more than once, only to be met with her stony silence.
She should never have slept with him. He’d been open and honest and asked her for her assurance that them being together was the beginning of something more … but her courage had failed. She’d scratched her way out of the mess she’d made of her last relationship with her self-esteem in tatters. She’d done it once, and it had broken her.
She couldn’t risk that again. She was a woman who made dumb choices, and he was better off finding a decent woman to hold in his arms on moonlit nights.
Not her.
She’d never seen him in a suit before. The coal black cloth, the white shirt … his hair combed so neatly it could have been cartoon hair, if cartoon did sexy. His face was drawn, though, and held none of the easy smile she’d grown so used to seeing.
He could have been a stranger, in that outfit, with that remote expression … but then, when she looked at herself in the mirror, was there not a stranger standing there, too? A chicken-hearted woman who’d had the stuffing plucked out of her.
Jill, she realised on a sob, would not recognise this pathetic worm of a woman she’d become, either.
‘May you know wholeness and peace,’ said Marigold, in a deep calm voice.
Oh, how she wished that for Jill. Her eyes burned with the simple truth of Marigold’s words. Wasn’t that the most anyone could wish for?
‘And now, our Vera is going to say a few words.’
It wasn’t until a dozen sets of eyes were looking at her expectantly that Marigold’s words sunk in.
She sent the celebrant a speaking look, which was ignored.
‘We’ve not known our Vera long,’ Marigold continued, ‘and sad to say, we didn’t get a chance to know Jill De Rossi, but we would have liked to. Come now, Vera. Tell us a little something about your aunt. It’s just us and the gum trees here.’
Vera bit her lip. She felt a hand pat her back, just briefly, one quick touch of support from Graeme.
She dragged her eyes away from the rain-drenched coffin. She used to wield words to make a living … surely she could find the right words now for dear Jill.
She moved forward a step and was surprised to see Poppy standing tucked into her father’s side. Her hair was tied back in a braid, there was none of her usual eyeliner framing her eyes, and she wore a prim, old-fashioned dress that a librarian might have worn back before librarians became funky.
Poppy had tears on her cheeks, but managed to give Vera a little smile, and the sweetness of it caught at Vera’s breath. Her eyes dropped to Poppy’s feet, and there they were, those disreputable boots, and their incongruity with the dress pierced the hold she had over her emotions.
Jill would have adored Poppy. She took a deep breath as a memory she could share popped into her head.
‘There is a De Rossi family story,’ she began, ‘that when Jill was about thirteen, she told her parents, my grandparents, that she was never going to have children. Instead, she was going to be the cool, rebel auntie.
‘She was definitely a rebel. She was older than my mother, who predeceased her by nearly two decades, but she never let age stand in the way of her love of adventure. Camel trekking in the Northern Territory. Hot air ballooning over Kangaroo Island and getting blown out over the Southern Ocean. Jill could knit a tea cosy and change a spark plug in an outboard motor before breakfast.
‘But if there was one thing she loved more than adventure, it was cooking. She passed that love on to me, and …’ She paused and waited for the squeeze in her throat to ease. ‘Jill wasn’t demonstrative. She didn’t hug and pet and kiss, but she showed me she loved me when she taught me how to bake a crème caramel. Toasting coconut under a grill to sprinkle over hummingbird cake? I love you, Vera. Buttermilk pancakes with a vanilla pod scraped into the batter? I care for you, Vera. She deserved the world and she got it, mostly.’