The House at the Bottom of the Hill Page 12

  The guy grunted, his face split in pain from the pressure but his resolve strengthened as he stared Josh in the eye.

  ‘Arm wrestling you wanted, was it?’ Josh asked. ‘Why didn’t you say?’ He slammed the guy’s arm onto the bar, the crunch of a possible broken thumb making the guy squeal, the thud rattling the glasses in their wire trays on top of the counter.

  Ethan hissed in a breath. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘You lost,’ Josh said steadily, unfazed. He released his hold of the man’s arm. ‘Twenty minutes till closing, gentlemen,’ he called to guy’s mates. ‘And I’m no longer in the mood for games.’ He picked up the glass cloth on the bar and pulled the wire tray closer to him.

  Dan picked us his bottle of beer, took a swig and grinned at Ethan. ‘Thank God we still have a set of guys in this town who won’t take shit from donkeys.’

  Ethan nodded at Josh. ‘It’s good to see him handle himself that way.’

  ‘He’d take them all on, if he had to.’

  ‘I know that. Just saying I like it when a man doesn’t feel he has to until he has to.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dan didn’t condone roughness in his bar, but it sent a spark of pure joy up his spine on the occasions it happened. Nothing like a good tackle or a brush against imminent danger to make a man feel like he still had robust health and the balls to take on a troublesome situation.

  ‘Okay,’ Ethan said. ‘So let’s get back to this lie you sort of got yourself tangled up in.’

  ‘If anyone’s likely to figure out what I’m up to, it’s Charlotte. That’s what worries me.’

  ‘You’d best go see her then. Make some appeasement and sort it out now, before it trips you up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ There wasn’t time to dawdle either, things were moving too fast. He took a last swig of his beer. He could leave Josh here with the loudmouths. Ethan wouldn’t go anywhere while they were around.

  ‘Charlotte’s smart, Ethan. She’ll think I’m taking business out of her hands.’ Which he would be, and the raw feeling of being accountable for that scoured his conscience.

  ‘Knock knock.’

  Charlotte turned. Oh, great. Hotshot. The denouement of the day.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked tersely. She’d downed three gallons of water, felt sick after eating a bread and butter sandwich for supper, could do with a strong flat white and still hadn’t managed to make a start on the peony wallpaper due to Mrs J’s potato wine-fuelled interrogation.

  ‘Got some news.’

  ‘I’m more in need of coffee.’

  ‘You okay?’

  She checked him out. Nothing in his hands—no bottle of home-brewed cyanide. ‘Come in. Everyone else has.’

  Mrs J’s visit had left her slightly tipsy, starving, and overly concerned about how much information Clarissa would eventually extricate about why Charlotte was in town. Her questioning hadn’t been specific, more of a fact-finding mission and possibly just genuine nosiness.

  ‘The committee have accepted my decision about the picket fence,’ Daniel told her as he stepped inside. ‘You can apply for shire approval.’

  ‘Your decision?’ She moved towards him but was pulled to a halt when the steam pad hose stretched to maximum length. She shook the pad in his direction. ‘It’s my fence. My decision. They can’t dictate to me—’

  ‘Whoa there, Red. Careful with the hot stuff, eh?’ He nodded at the steamer. ‘Why don’t we switch it off for a minute? What the hell are you doing with it on at this time of night anyway?’

  ‘Trying to get it done!’

  He took the hot pad from her hand, hooked it on the rack and bent to turn the steamer off. He straightened and sniffed. ‘You been drinking?’

  Charlotte stifled a groan. Surely this amount of attention qualified for a public holiday? Even the twins had waved in unison as they stopped to pet Clarissa’s pig. ‘Does the fence have to be pink?’ she asked.

  ‘White. Just as you wanted. Aren’t you going to thank me?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, brow furrowed, gaze to one side. ‘Although I’m not sure what to think about this yet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She had her word-association paint colours mentally listed, which should appease the most colour-blind of citizens, and she was on good terms with the pig who’d eaten her afternoon tea. She had a faithful dog, she’d shared blackberry and potato wines with the important women in town, and even though Clarissa hadn’t exactly put out a hand of friendship, some sort of boundary had been jumped with the handshake. Not leaped, but jumped. ‘For sticking your nose in my business,’ she said, folding her arms and deciding on a fried egg sandwich for supper.

  ‘Come on, Charlotte. I’m doing the best I can here. If you keep fronting up with your prickly attitude—’

  ‘Prickly?’

  ‘—you’re going to get a big fat no slapped on your wishes.’

  ‘Well as it happens, I’m forging ahead. And I’m doing it without your assistance. Your mediation skills are no longer required, so go away.’

  ‘I’m trying to do what’s right for you. And for me.’

  ‘What do you mean, for you?’

  ‘There are things you don’t … I mean, there are a couple of things I haven’t …’

  ‘Haven’t what?’

  He hung his head and sighed in exasperation but Charlotte didn’t know if it was because of her ‘prickliness’ or because of whatever it was he hadn’t been able to voice out loud.

  ‘Nothing,’ he ground out. ‘Bad timing. I shouldn’t have come over.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m going.’ He pinned her with a look of indignation. ‘I’m just trying to do the best thing for the town and everyone in it.’ He pointed at her. ‘Including you!’

  He stormed out of the door and thundered down the path into the night, the epitome of pissed-off male: jaw squared and chest forwards, the set of shoulders stiff and his backside looking absolutely taut and terrific.

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘You’re still here?’ Dan asked. ‘Haven’t been called home by the wife?’

  Ethan’s mouth moved to a slow-forming smile. ‘That bad, huh?’

  Dan pulled a cold beer out of the fridge behind the bar, unscrewed the lid and drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to spark up like that.’

  Ethan laughed. ‘You didn’t tell her about the hotel plans.’

  ‘Didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘But you made the effort?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He winced. ‘No.’ God, the woman confused him with her cascading emotions. ‘I can’t do that until I know she won’t go telling people about it—and she practically threw me out of her house so I didn’t get a chance to say anything, but if news gets out about the hotel—it ought to come from me.’

  ‘So tell them.’

  ‘I’m figuring out how to do that.’

  ‘You’ve got a hell of a lot to do before the wedding then.’

  Dan allowed his smile to form and took another opportunity to ask his friend a question. ‘You and Sammy. You don’t bicker or anything.’ He’d watched them together, loving each other, loving Lochie, but he wanted to know how it worked between them. Really worked. ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘I don’t do anything. I just love her.’

  How had his parents done it? Dan tumbled back to his childhood, looking for moments where the air between his parents had been less than warm. Times when they argued. None came.

  ‘You’re getting tangled in something bigger than a white lie,’ Ethan said.

  Wasn’t he just? ‘I’ve no doubt I’ll find a way out of it.’

  Ethan put his ale down and stood, grabbing his coat from the stool next to him. ‘The lie?’ he asked. ‘Or the wedding?’

  Charlotte stepped outside the front door and breathed the cooling night air. Here she was, up too late and standing alone. What a strange and unexpected day. Were the to
wnspeople coming round to her? How had that happened?

  The street lamps threw pockets of light down Main Street. A light shone from behind the curtained windows of the Tillmans’ place. They must still be awake. On the other side of the street, Kookaburra’s blinds were down, indicating it was closed but the lights were still on inside. Daniel must be cleaning up. He was lucky, being patient enough to wait seven months to paint one wall. He must love it here. Had settled for this type of lifestyle because he wanted it.

  She walked along her veranda and looked towards the east and the hillside, then turned for the door and paused as her eye caught the outline of foliage. A plant pot sat next to one of the rocking chairs.

  She bent to the plant and lifted the label on the stem, twisting it so she could read it. A wisteria. A pink-flowering wisteria.

  She dropped the label and straightened. One more reminder the townspeople wanted her to keep the house pink. Ted? No, not Ted—he was still confined to bed for some reason.

  She stared at the plant in its terracotta pot and for a second was overcome with unwanted tenderness. This little house, sitting in its orderly spot at the beginning of Main Street, could be a true success story as a business and a wonderful home for whoever ended up buying it. Why couldn’t the townspeople see what was in front of them?

  A glint of white caught her eye. An envelope had been tucked into the pot. She withdrew it, knocked off the potting soil clinging to its edges and opened it.

  Dear Miss Simmons,

  It is with a spirit of generosity, which we hope will be reciprocated, that we write to advise you of our most civil yet resolute request that you keep the weatherboard on our grand little B&B pink.

  Civil?

  It is our preference that all remain calm and well-mannered during the necessary but possibly difficult mediation process before us. We are aware of your strength of character and courteously request you use self-control when evaluating the situation. We feel sure that with some astute and well-meant persuasion by our chosen mediator, coupled with an attempt from yourself to put a halter on your obviously resilient nature …

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  … that a satisfactory result can be gained for all concerned.

  Yours sincerely,

  Swallow’s Fall Community Spirit committee members, one and all.

  PS We thank you kindly for offering our B&B as a suitable, yet short-term, accommodation facility for our much revered and loved patriarch, Mr Edmond Morelly. We feel sure our thanks will find you amenable to changing your opinion and mindset regarding the colour of our B&B.

  Their B&B!

  Charlotte screwed the letter up and threw it onto the plant, more steam emanating from her than from the wallpaper steamer she’d been switching on and off all day.

  Ted had written this—from his sick bed, no doubt. The air in his bedroom must be suffocated with his animosity. The entire committee had probably been sitting in Ted’s stuffy little bedroom watching him write it. Egging him on while Grace served tea, giving him tidbits of advice: ‘Tell her this’ and ‘Don’t forget to mention that’.

  Pink. Bloody pink.

  One moment they appeared to be grudgingly accepting her and the next … What game were they playing? She had a good mind to paint the weatherboard neon green and snub the pig next time she met it. Cruise up Main Street in her 4WD doing seventy kilometres an hour and hopefully run Ted down.

  She cradled her head in her hands. What was this place doing to her? She was here for a purpose. To see Ethan and get herself sorted so she could return to Britain and start her life anew— without the torments and dreams. Who cared what colour the bloody house was? It wouldn’t be her looking at it every day. She’d got herself involved without meaning to.

  She spun around and gulped the night air. Where was the businesswoman? The one who carried lists, and wore a neat little frown and neutral colours? Not the one who’d dug out a rosecoloured skirt earlier this evening, slipping it on and teaming it with a soft white jersey top, then stood admiring herself in the mirror. Pink. She was even wearing pink

  ‘You are getting soft.’ She was planning on decorating the house and furnishing it with old-time ornaments and paintings as though it were her own. That wasn’t business—it verged on being interested. Teetered on the brink of caring.

  A drink was in order. A real drink. And given her frame of mind, a damned good bickering wouldn’t go amiss either.

  There was only one place she was certain she’d find both.

  Ten

  ‘I’m closed.’

  ‘I know that. Do you think I’d come in here if you had customers?’ Charlotte pushed through the doors and stepped inside Kookaburra’s. ‘Your doors aren’t locked.’

  ‘Just got rid of the last punter.’ Daniel cocked his head, making no move to hide a judgemental assessment of her. ‘And I had to lift him and throw him out so you can imagine my mood. What can I do for you?’

  Charlotte rolled her stiffened shoulders. It was less than a minute’s walk down Main Street from the B&B to the Bar & Grill but her annoyance had lessened with each step. Damn that soft moonlight and the gentle beams from the street lamps, making the street look homely and magical and softening her heart. ‘I need a drink. A real drink.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This is the stubbornest town I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘Yeah. You fit right in.’

  Charlotte thanked God for the bickering. Something she could handle. ‘I knew being in your company would return me to myself. Keep going. Tell me something awful about me.’

  ‘Be my pleasure.’

  She slid onto a bar stool and leaned her chin in the palm of her hand. ‘They’re getting at me again.’ The misery of this problem made her head heavy in her hand. ‘They put it in writing this time. It’s official when it’s been typed on the town’s letterhead.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet it is. So what can I get you?’

  ‘Someone left a plant on my veranda.’

  ‘Nice of someone, giving you flowers.’

  ‘It’s a pink-flowering wisteria.’

  ‘So it’s a commiseration drink you’re after?’ He tipped his head. ‘Or just my company?’

  His company? Well, she couldn’t deny she’d sought him out. ‘I’ll have a Cosmopolitan, please.’

  ‘That’s a pretty serious drink. Can you handle it?’

  ‘Yes.’ If she could handle potato wine, she could handle a martini.

  ‘Don’t want to have to scoop you off the floor.’

  ‘No heroics necessary. Can I have a Cosmopolitan or not?’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Fine.’ She got off the stool. ‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.’

  ‘Okay, stop. Sit down.’

  Charlotte sat, sighing her impatience out.

  Daniel pulled a bottle of vodka and a bottle of Cointreau off the shelf behind him. He poured a measure of each of the spirits into a silver cocktail shaker, added cranberry juice, and squirted in the juice of a lime. He screwed the lid on the shaker and shook it. ‘I think they’re genuinely starting to like you,’ he said.

  ‘Or trying to kill me off with kindness.’ And alcohol.

  ‘How?’ He poured some of the cocktail into a martini glass.

  ‘They’re playing good-cop, bad-cop.’ She pulled the glass towards her. ‘I met the pig.’

  ‘Oh-oh. That’s a sure sign. They’re coming round.’ He tapped his chest. ‘And you’ve got me to thank for that. Your gorgeous, sexy mediator.’

  She almost smiled. He was back to being Hotshot. She sort of respected this side of him. It was almost like having a friend. She sipped her sweet red martini. ‘You haven’t heard anything yet. It gets worse. Mrs J told me to call her Clarissa.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s her name!’

  ‘Is it? Man—even I didn’t know that.’

  ‘See? It’s scary. Why are they doing it? Next thing you know,
Ted’ll be asking me to stroke his gavel.’

  Daniel spurted a laugh. ‘That isn’t gonna happen. Not while Grace is around, anyway.’

  ‘It’s not funny.’ She banged her hand on the counter. ‘I’m in trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, you are. You’re coming around too. You’re starting to like us.’

  The truth of it nearly choked her. She swallowed the last of her drink without tasting it. ‘Is that why I offered to let Grandy stay?’

  ‘Could be.’ He took the empty glass off her.

  ‘I’ll have another please. It’s thirsty work, being misunderstood.’

  ‘Your choice but don’t forget I’ll kick you out if you cause a scene.’

  ‘I don’t get drunk. I’ve proved that by drinking home-brewed wines all day long.’

  ‘Whose wine?’

  ‘Mrs Tam’s and Clarissa’s.’

  ‘You didn’t get a visit from Ray Smyth? He makes the best home brews.’

  ‘No, who’s he?’

  ‘Ray runs the farm the other side of the hill. Top Field. He’s a top guy too. Got a little thing going on with Clarissa.’ He grinned.

  ‘A little thing as in …’

  ‘Exactly what you’re thinking, Red.’

  Wow. Clarissa was doing the naughties with farmer Ray? There was hope for this town yet.

  Daniel poured another Cosmopolitan from the shaker into a clean glass. This time he topped it off with a cocktail cherry.

  ‘The sun’s yellow, and the sun’s always happy,’ Charlotte said bringing the conversation around to what she really needed— justification of why she was feeling so upset about the possibility of being liked, and why it mattered so much if she was wrong—and wasn’t liked.

  ‘But the sun’s not pink,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Flamingo pink.’

  ‘Puke pink.’

  She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes, humour penetrating the gloom. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  He gave her a smug grin. ‘That’s my job. I’m a bar owner. I know how to make people feel better.’

  ‘When you’re not kicking them out.’

  He put the drink in front of her. She took a slug and was surprised to find she’d downed most of it. They didn’t make martini glasses as big as they used to. ‘They’re only coming around to me now because I’ll be housing Grandy.’