Tom cracked his knuckles and rested his fingertips on the keys. He hammered out a gush of words on the old Remington – no annoying buzzing computer for him – and then frowned at the mess he’d made. Hell, what was wrong with him? Wooden dialogue, stilted action. And a heroine whose true motivation continued to elude him.
Ripping the paper from the drum, he mashed it into a ball and flung it at the window. ‘Useless crap!’
An itch took up residence on his ankle and he groaned. Grabbing his wooden ruler, he slid it down inside the plaster cast, probing for the right spot, unable to quite find it.
He rubbed his eyes. Outside, the sky was brewing a storm, but the lush green shadows beneath the trees in the garden were calling to him. He could almost feel the cool grass tickling his sweaty toes. He had bought the house back in January, and finally moved in three weeks ago. Rotten timing, his publisher said – with a book deadline looming, his tree change was madness. Tom couldn’t agree. He needed the isolation to think, to let his creativity unravel. He needed to get away from people, from distraction. From the past.
Besides, Ravensong was his dream house.
During his initial inspection of the place, his jaw had dropped. It was like walking into a movie set. A cavernous library overlooked the front garden, its wall-to-wall books gathering dust under the crystalline teardrops of a titanic chandelier. The hallway that led to the library was a gallery for six huge gilt-framed watercolours. The other end of the house opened into a once-grand lounge and dining area, and then through to an Art Deco kitchen. Upstairs he had found a warren of rooms, all furnished with quilt-covered beds and large wardrobes. One room held a collection of personal items – eyeglasses and a manicure set, and a rack of clothing that included a moth-eaten army uniform from the Second World War – apparently abandoned by whoever had lived here before.
The overgrown garden was even more spectacular – or at least, had been once. Wide brick pathways wound between shimmering pittosporums and overgrown flowerbeds. There was a sprawling veggie patch, and a pair of old galvanised tanks full of pristine rainwater. At the back of the house grew a magnificent magnolia tree, and in a grassy orchard he had discovered a quaint vintage caravan, home to a nest of swallows. Even more intriguing was a massive wrought-iron aviary buried beneath a rampaging mountain of ivy. The icing on the cake was the vast timber shed, inhabited by a half-feral black tomcat.
But more than all that, it was the views that had finally sold him on the property. Ten minutes’ walk from the house, the land sloped down into a deep, forested gully, which he suspected was the start of Deepwater Gorge. Years ago, he’d been obsessed by the murders committed there, and haunted by the young victims. For a long time he’d dreamed of writing a novel about their story, and so finding Ravensong had seemed like an omen. What better place to write about the murders than a remote old house that overlooked the wilderness where they had occurred? The gorge itself wasn’t visible from the property; that was miles away, closer to town. But when he toured the house, he’d discovered a spectacular view of the river from the upper-floor windows.
Which, in a roundabout way, was how he’d ended up in hospital. A few days after moving in, he’d been gazing up at the back of the house and had spied a tiny window under the roofline. No glass windowpane that he could see, just a row of bars. He didn’t recall seeing the window on his tour and hadn’t been able to locate it from inside the house, so he’d grabbed the shonky old ladder from the shed to investigate. Too caught up in his mission to notice the cracked rungs.
The phone began to shrill, yanking him back to the present.
‘Whoever you are, you can bugger off,’ he shouted at the ringing phone. ‘I’m trying to write a bloody book here.’
Trying. And failing dismally.
The clock was ticking. After ten days in hospital, and now a week at home, he still hadn’t written anything decent. The painkillers fogged his brain, but without them his broken bones complained so loudly he couldn’t concentrate. His ribs were knitting well, hip hip hooray, but his lower half was still a mess. Broken ankle, smashed tibia, and what felt like half a ton of plaster encasing his lower leg. The other knee with a grade-three ligament tear; the steel brace he wore to keep it still turned walking into a nightmare. He was three months away from his book deadline and fast approaching certain catastrophic failure.
‘Writing is easy,’ American journalist Gene Fowler once quipped. ‘All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.’
Tom sank his face into his hands. It wasn’t just the meds. He’d been sweating blood for months – hell, for over a year – and had still failed to produce anything worthwhile. He’d lied to his agent and publisher. Sixty thousand words, he’d told them. All going well. Should have some chapters ready in about . . .
Never.
He was screwed. His career was over. When the truth got out, they’d wipe their hands of him, never let him publish another word. He couldn’t even give back the advance. He’d written a big fat cheque for Ravensong, and the renovation work he’d had done to make the place liveable had chewed up the rest.
The phone stopped shrilling, but his stomach began to rumble. Breakfast had been a non-event. The effort of leaving his chair and dragging himself to the kitchen – not to mention the ordeal of assembling a bowl of cereal – seemed Herculean.
He pictured them finding him here, months in the future. Or rather, finding his remains. Hunched over his typewriter, his finger bones still poised hopefully on the keys. The black tomcat, who he’d christened Poe after his childhood idol, would pick clean his bones, leaving just a sad old carcass . . .
The phone started again, and he groaned.
Probably his agent checking up on him. She kept nagging him to get a housekeeper. A glorified babysitter, more like. He was already paying a mint for a guy to deliver his groceries, not to mention shelling out big bucks for a physiotherapist to home visit – but still his agent nagged.
What if you fell again, Tom? Couldn’t get to the phone? Had to spend another night hurt, unable to call for help? What if, heaven forbid, you perished out there? Your fans are expecting a big book, do you really want to let them down?
Of course not. But how could he make his agent understand? He liked the solitude of living in the bush. Craved the fresh air, the wide-open spaces. Needed the peace and quiet. He wouldn’t cope with a housekeeper. How would he get his book written with some annoying busybody poking about the place?
The phone had stopped, but his stomach was now gurgling like a drainpipe. He needed to eat. Grappling with his crutches, he hobbled out to the kitchen. It was a bombsite. Empty beer cartons, the remains of last night’s dinner in the sink, a mountain of unwashed dishes. How had he sunk so low?
He’d once done a stint in the desert in a tin humpy to research a historical story – digging for his own water and baking yams on a campfire, his only company a mad dog and an albino kangaroo. He’d done it tough, pushed his own boundaries, and survived. He’d be damned if a couple of broken bones were going to hold him back now.
He’d show his agent. His publisher. He’d show the whole damn lot of them. He didn’t need a housekeeper. With some serious effort he could have the place shining again. His boxes unpacked, his gear sorted, his meals made. Hell, he’d even get the damn novel written. He’d cope alone. Even if it killed him.
But a job that should have taken twenty minutes dragged to nearly an hour as he lumbered about on his crutches. He collected the beer bottles he’d left strewn around the place and stacked them on the bench to recycle. Grabbing a rubbish bag from under the sink, he stuffed it with the worst of the mess, and somehow got it through the back door, along the verandah and into the bin. Exhausted, he headed back inside.
As he opened the screen door, thunder boomed in the distance. Poe streaked along the verandah and then shot between his legs and into the house, knocking him off balance. As he grabbed the door handle, one of his crutches slid out from under him and walloped his damaged knee on the way down. With a howl he pitched backwards, slamming the door in his own face and coming down hard on his bad ankle.
His vision greyed. Sweat chilled his skin and his throat went dry. The world tilted on its axis and when he surfaced through the fog of pain, he found himself clinging to the doorknob, quivering as both legs threatened to buckle under him. If someone had tried to prise off his kneecap with a screwdriver it couldn’t have hurt more. And the ankle he’d come down on so hard . . . well, best not think about that. Just get yourself inside, man, and numb it all with your meds. But when he tried the handle, the door didn’t budge. He rattled the knob and shoved, but it stayed shut. Remembering the dicky latch, he groaned.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
He looked over his shoulder along the verandah. The kitchen window was propped open for the cat, but Tom would never make the climb. There was only one way back inside, and that was through the door. Good thing it had a glass panel. Turning his face away, he struck the armrest of his crutch hard against the pane. It shattered inwards, leaving an outline of jagged shards. Reaching in as carefully as he could, he felt around for the latch. Somehow the deadlock had engaged. He’d need a key. And the key – he now saw – was right where he’d left it on the kitchen table.
He withdrew too quickly and caught his arm on one of the jagged shards. Blood welled from the cut; it inscribed a perfect red line around his forearm and then began to drip.
Was this some sort of cosmic joke?
He swayed forward, gripping his remaining crutch for balance. As lightning flickered in the distance, another image of the future popped into his mind. This time they’d find his skeleton curled against the back door in the foetal position, desiccated by wind and rain, his bones gnawed clean by Poe, those blasted swallows nesting in his rib cage.
He glanced back along the verandah. He would have to brave the kitchen window after all.
Then he heard a car engine in the distance.
‘The delivery guy, thank God.’
But as the sound droned closer, he remembered that the grocery van had been two days ago. Pressing his bleeding arm against his side, he tried to staunch the steady trickle. Was it Monday? Was he expecting anyone else? Lord, his brain was a fog.
‘Whoever you are,’ he rasped, glaring up at the stormy purple sky. ‘I hope you know a thing or two about breaking and entering.’
• • •
‘Dammit,’ he muttered under his breath, watching the woman approach. She was hurrying along the brick path that cut around the side of the house and through an unruly jungle of camellias, and she was on a mission.
She had to be his new housekeeper. Seemed his agent had gone ahead and hired someone, after all. Though she didn’t look much like a housekeeper.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail from an oval face that immediately caught Tom’s interest. He took a mental snapshot and filed it away for future contemplation. High forehead wrinkled in a frown, wide-spaced intelligent eyes, lush mouth; perfect fodder for one of his trademark sassy detectives. She was wearing a blue Indian-style tunic that skimmed her curves, teamed with navy pants and a moss-coloured cardigan.
Tom shook his head. Who wore cardigans any more?
Her long legs covered considerable ground as she clomped along the pathway in high, impractical shoes. She paused at the foot of the verandah steps to peel off her cardigan, exposing pale slender arms. When she finally saw him, her eyes widened. She hesitated, or rather, appeared to freeze, only for an instant.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just dandy,’ Tom told her impatiently. ‘Who are you?’
She climbed the steps and hurried over. ‘I’m Abby Bardot. I tried to call earlier.’ She put out her hand, eyed his bleeding arm, and then withdrew. ‘Looks like you could use some help.’
Tom pointed along the verandah to the kitchen window. ‘Don’t suppose you could climb through and unbolt the deadlock? The key’s on the table inside.’
She didn’t bother looking at the window. Instead, her cool gaze shifted from his face to his arm, then his ruined shirt, before lingering perhaps a little too long on his track pants. Probably taking in the knee splint and plastered leg, but awareness prickled through him all the same. She was way too easy on the eye for a housekeeper. Way too distracting. He was almost sorry she wasn’t the prying busybody he’d imagined.
Almost.
She retrieved his fallen crutch and handed it to him, then dug in her shoulder bag and pulled out a battered iPhone. ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’
He tucked the crutch under his arm, wincing as he resettled his weight. ‘Good luck getting reception. Anyway, the ambulance is an hour away. By the time they arrive I’ll have bled to death.’
She made a scoffing sound, then gave up on her phone. ‘Yeah well, whatever. But you need something around that arm or you will bleed to death.’ Pulling an enormous hanky from her pocket, she flapped it open and stepped up to him.
He blinked. The greyness was sliding back. Spots clouded his vision. He wasn’t aware that he’d swayed forward until she was there in front of him, her hands firm on his shoulders.
‘All right there, Tom?’
He blinked away the dizziness and glared at her, intending to bite out a few choice words – I’m not a freaking geriatric – but the sentiment died on his tongue.
Close up, she was something else. The ivory skin dusted with minuscule freckles, the full, determined mouth, and her grey eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. And something fierce in her gaze that made him think of a vixen he’d once seen at the mouth of her den, fangs bared as she safeguarded what lay within.
He drew a breath, then wished he hadn’t.
Her scent. Sunlight and flowers. Damp skin and talcum powder. Beeswax and . . . God, he was drowning in deliciousness. His nostrils flared to drink in more, and for a moment he floated. He forgot the dead ache in his legs, forgot his throbbing arm. Was even oblivious to the nagging loneliness that had dogged him these past few years. There was just the scent of sunlight and wildflowers.
And her.
But then she moved away and left him swaying by the door, his head reeling. Wondering what in fury’s name had just happened.
• • •
He was staring at me bleary-eyed and for a moment I thought he was going to slither onto the decking boards in a dead faint. But then he blinked and seemed to collect himself, frowning at me as though trying to figure out what I was doing there. And why I was still standing so close. I should say something, anything, to break the awkward silence after almost having hugged the guy, if only to keep him upright. I should at least move away. But like a deer in headlights, I could only stand transfixed by his nearness. By the broad cheekbones and arched nostrils, the strong whiskery jaw and intense eyes. Eyes that were, at close range, a pure deep river-water green.
Gulping a breath, I regathered my wits and shook the folds out of my hanky. ‘Please, will you hold out your arm for me?’
He swayed forward, leaning hard on his crutches. ‘Can’t you just climb through?’
‘You’ve a bit of weight on you, Tom. If you pass out from blood loss, I don’t fancy breaking my back trying to drag you inside. Now hold out your damn arm.’
He glared a moment longer, then held out his arm.
I bound the hanky around the wound and knotted it. The thin fabric was soon saturated, but it would stem the flow for now. I tried not to look into his face again, but as I stepped away, his gaze caught mine.
He frowned. ‘You’re here for the job, right?’
‘Job?’
‘You’re my new housekeeper. My agent sent you . . . didn’t she?’
‘I’m with the Gundara Express. I was hoping you might agree to a story.’
He jerked to attention. ‘Oh wait, what? You’re a journalist?’
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to ring you. I want to interview you for the paper and I thought—’
‘I don’t do interviews.’
‘Look, I’ll give you final say in what gets printed. We won’t publish anything you don’t authorise – you’ll have full control.’
Colour rushed into his cheeks. ‘That’s what you say now. But once you get what you want, you’ll leave me in the dust and print whatever you please.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘You’re all the same, you journos. Twisting the truth to suit yourselves, not giving a damn how many lives you ruin in the process, as long as you get your precious bloody story.’
‘Won’t you think about it? It’d be great morale for the town—’
‘Just leave, okay? Get off my property. Go back to whatever devious little corner of Hicksville you climbed out of and leave me the hell alone.’
We glared at each other for what seemed a full minute. Then with a shrug, I spun away. Loser. No interview was worth this amount of grief. I’d find another way to get my Deepwater feature in the paper. My heels thudded on the decking as I made for the steps.
Tom cursed softly. ‘Wait.’
I looked over my shoulder.
‘While you’re here—’ He gestured towards the window.
I lifted a brow, feigning puzzlement.
He sighed. ‘Won’t you help me get back inside?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush. Hicksville’s calling.’ I hurried down the steps. Birds were chirping up a storm in the camellias, and a black lizard darted under a shrub. Thunder grumbled in the distance and the first spots of rain fell on my bare arms. I had gone halfway along the path before he called out.
‘All right.’
I bit my lips to stop a smile and looked back. He was hunched heavily on his crutches, swaying again, his face in the shadows.
‘I’ll think about it, okay?’
‘Plus photos?’
‘Absolutely freaking not.’
I turned to go.
He growled. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll think about that too.’
‘Great!’ I skipped back along the path and up the steps. Dumping my bag and cardi on a wooden chair, I went to the window, silently giving thanks to whatever unseen force had landed me in the right place at the right time. The stars aligning, my brother liked to call it. Blind luck, my dad would have said. I didn’t care what it was. I was almost home. All I had to do now was find a way to convince Tom Gabriel he needed that interview as much as I did.
I surveyed the window. It was thigh high, easy entry, except for the cluttered sink on the other side. The kitchen benchtops were a combat zone of unwashed bowls and plates and mugs. A battalion of empty beer bottles stood in rows beside an overflowing compost pail. What a slob. I glanced back at Tom, who was leaning on the door, eyes half-closed. He had sagged onto his crutches and his T-shirt was riding up, revealing a glimpse of hairy abs above the waistband of his track pants. He looked exhausted, his face greyish and unshaven, a lock of gingery-fair hair falling into his eyes. It can’t have been easy to cope alone out here with both legs out of action.
He noticed me looking and waved his good hand at the window. ‘I leave it open for the cat. He likes to come and go as he pleases.’
‘Right.’
My attention went back to the window. Good thing I’d decided against the mini-dress and leggings in favour of trousers. Hoisting myself up onto the ledge, I went in headfirst. Going feet-forward made more sense, but I wanted to avoid kicking over the plates and bottles. Once inside, I gripped the edge of the sink and jumped onto the floor.
My mouth gaped. Wow. Despite the chaos, the house was dazzling. Soaring ceilings, heavy timber frames around the windows and doors, and a black slate floor like a glossy river of molten glass under my feet. Double doors led into a vast lounge room. The dark floorboards needed a sweep, and a mountain of packing cartons leaned against one wall. A tower of books sat gathering dust on a blackwood sideboard, and under the window was the most gorgeous big leather sofa I’d ever seen.
‘All right in there?’ Tom called from outside.
I unlocked the back door and let him in. ‘Where do you keep your first-aid kit?’
He pointed to a cupboard by the sink and I retrieved the box and followed him into the lounge room. His face was greyish-pale and sweat beaded his brow as he lowered himself onto the sofa. I offered painkillers, but he shook his head and eyed the first-aid kit in my hands.
‘I thought you said Hicksville was calling.’
‘Yeah, it’s taking all I have to ignore it right now. Let’s get you sorted first, and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
In the kitchen I filled a clean container with Dettol and hot water from the tap. When I went back to Tom, he had taken off his blood-soaked T-shirt and was using it to mop himself down. Having grown up with a brother, I was used to seeing the male torso in various states of undress, but I caught myself lingering. Tom was fleshy rather than a muscle-man, but there was definition in his arms when he moved them, and under the soft gingery fuzz of his chest hair.
I took his shirt and placed it on the floor by my feet, then dragged a chair over to the sofa and sat beside him. I gestured for him to give me his arm, and he stretched it out, palm-up. The cut was ragged, though not deep. My hanky had placed enough pressure to slow the bleeding to a trickle. I dipped a wad of cotton wool in the Dettol water, and mopped his arm, sponging away the blood from the wound.
Tom watched me. ‘Done this before, have you?’
‘Hmm. My dad liked a drink or two, back in the day. Had his share of falls.’
‘Not any more. He’s dead.’
Tom looked at me sharply. ‘God, I’m sorry. What a dickhead thing to say.’
I glanced up, intending to quip something witty like, That wouldn’t be your first, then, would it? – but the words died on my lips. He seemed genuinely mortified, his face rumpled and his green gaze fixed on me in concern.
I shrugged. ‘You weren’t to know.’
‘You must miss him?’
‘I guess.’
Tom made a sound in the back of his throat, a clearing. ‘I cried for months when I lost my dad. We were really close. He was my big hero guy. I still miss having him around.’ He must have noticed my bug-eyes, because he added hastily, ‘And no, you can’t use that in your damn interview.’
I tore off another piece of wadding. ‘Does that mean there’s going to be an interview?’
He rotated his arm, inspecting the cut. ‘We’ll see.’
I rummaged in the tin for sticking plaster and scissors, hiding my smile as I snipped plaster off the roll. Inside I was high-fiving myself. Already I could see my byline on the front page of the Express as my Deepwater feature circulated all over town. But then, as if to mark the hugeness of the occasion, a thunderclap exploded overhead. I jerked to attention and dropped the scissors.
Tom collected them and passed them back to me, his brows drawn.
‘A bit jumpy, are you?’
‘Just not too keen on the rain.’
Right on cue, the sky split open and rain started hammering down. Outside, the day had darkened even though it was barely ten o’clock. The camellia bushes danced back and forth in the wind.
I doused Tom’s cut with Betadine and dressed it with gauze and a firm bandage, then out of habit, patted gently along the dressing to smooth the creases, the way I had done a thousand times with my father.
‘Good news is you won’t need stitches.’
‘The bad news?’
‘You’ll have a nasty scar.’
Tom settled back into the sofa, the age-worn leather creaking under his weight. ‘That I can live with.’
Taking the bundle of bloodied gauze to the kitchen, I threw it in the bin, along with my ruined hanky. I found a dustpan and broom and swept up the broken glass, then collected my things from the verandah. Pulling on my cardigan, I returned to the lounge room. There was no hope of an interview today, and anyway, my stomach was starting to lurch and roll. The drive home would take an hour or more and I’d spend the whole time hunched over the steering wheel, trying to navigate the potholed road as I gagged on the smell of mud leaking through the vents. Might as well get it over with.
I was deciding how best to say my goodbyes and encourage another meeting, when the rain began to roar down. My shoulders jerked up around my ears and I tugged my cardigan so tightly around me that a button popped off.
Tom frowned down at the button, and then at me. ‘Hell of a drive back to town in this weather. You know, that bridge washes out in heavy rain. Not sure I like your chances of getting home today.’
The rain grew louder. Outside, the camellias had vanished behind a grey haze. The ghostly white arms of a naked birch swayed as if the tree was in anguish. I wiped a damp palm on my trousers. Of all the places to have a panic attack, why here, why now? I’d travelled to Ravensong hoping to convince Tom Gabriel to agree to an interview. But I’d never persuade him now, not like this. Not while I was a trembling mess who might blurt something stupid, or say something I’d later regret.
Taking a roll of mints from my pocket, I offered him one. ‘They’re sugar-free,’ I told him over the din.
He peeled one off and handed back the roll, and we chewed for a while, listening to the rain. The pulse in my throat began to slow. The knots in my shoulders loosened. I went to the window and squinted through the haze to where I had parked my car in the driveway. A huge grey puddle was spreading across the gravel. It already looked deep.
‘Your driveway’s flooding,’ I said, my voice strangely robotic.
Tom turned to me, his eyes serious. ‘I don’t mean to rattle you, but that road will be unsafe to drive by now. It doesn’t take long in weather like this. And in the forty minutes it would take you to reach the bridge, I’m guessing it’ll be well under water.’
‘Jeez.’
‘You know, there’s a ton of rooms upstairs. You’re welcome to pick one.’
‘It’s the least I can do. You really helped me out today, climbing through that window. Playing Florence Nightingale. I dread to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t arrived when you did. There’s lots of food, plenty of DVDs. Don’t worry about me, I’ll stay out of your way.’
I retrieved my button and tucked it in my pocket. ‘It’s really pissing down, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, not a good sign. If the bridge goes under, you could be stuck for a couple of days.’
A couple of days? Marooned out here with him in the middle of nowhere? Perhaps I should take my chances on the flooded road. But my skin grew damp at the thought and my pulse began to skip. Maybe staying here wasn’t such a bad idea? Tom might be more inclined to give me that interview.
‘You get internet out here?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got a satellite connection, but it’s limited to sunny days.’
‘You’re isolated, aren’t you?’
Tom picked at the dressing on his arm. ‘No one else around for miles.’
‘You don’t get lonely?’ I hadn’t meant to ask such a personal question, but Tom didn’t seem fazed by it. He settled back against the cushions.
‘I’m too busy to feel lonely. No rest for the wicked, and all that.’
Was it my imagination, or did his voice hold a twinge of regret? Intrigued, I took a step nearer. ‘One of the upstairs rooms, you said?’
He nodded. ‘Take your pick. The upper wing has its own outside entrance, but it’s got inside access too. It’s private. There’s even a bathroom, although I suspect the plumbing’s dodgy. Just a shower. The bath, should you want one, is in the washhouse outside.’
He lifted a brow as though expecting me to baulk at this, but I just nodded as if bathing outside was an everyday occurrence. ‘Mind if I check it out?’
‘Be my guest.’ He pointed to an oak sideboard. ‘Keys are in the top drawer. The hallway’s through those double doors. There’s another door at the far end of the hall that leads upstairs.’
Pocketing the keys, I headed along the hallway to check out my new digs.
The three upstairs bedrooms had soaring ceilings and windows that overlooked the garden. All had double beds and huge wardrobes full of jangling coat hangers. Halfway along a tight hallway I found a fourth room. Not quite an attic, but it was narrower than the other rooms and oddly shaped. A single cast-iron bed huddled under a dusty patchwork quilt. Opposite the bed was a small wardrobe and a wicker chair. Going over to the window, I pushed aside the faded gold curtains and squinted through the blur of driving rain. Beyond the garden was dense bushland that formed the northernmost tip of Deepwater Gorge Reserve. The landscape here lacked the wow-factor of the parklands closer to town, so hikers and campers rarely bothered making the trip. Yet its wild beauty hummed in my veins. Rolling mountains slept beneath their dark blanket of trees, oblivious to the rain. Steep gullies dipped down to the river, where the water boomed along craggy banks.
Below me in the garden, wide brick pathways meandered between overgrown trees and disappeared into the shadows. In places, the red bricks were already submerged under a muddy skim of water.
I returned to the lounge room.
‘Well?’ Tom said. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘It’s a lovely room. And to be honest, I hate driving in the rain.’
Tom collected his crutches and got to his feet. The colour had returned to his face and, though he didn’t smile, the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth that were there earlier had melted away.
He put out his hand. ‘Right then, Abby. Welcome to Ravensong.’
His fingers were large and warm, so gentle around mine that my muscles unwound. Time slowed. The room shrank, he was very close. So green, his eyes. I imagined diving into deep river water and going under, unable to breathe, maybe even starting to drown, but – for an instant – not caring. Tom’s brow creased and his eyes narrowed, a fleeting look of concern. Was I gripping his fingers too tightly, gazing at him too intently? I broke contact and drew away. Great. Now he’d spend the day worrying that he’d just invited a crazed stalker woman into his home.
To cover my gaffe, I said, ‘I’d kill for a cuppa right now. Want one?’
While the kettle boiled, I stood at the kitchen window. Rain pooled along the pathways outside and bogged the grass. I wouldn’t be out in it for quids, but neither did I fancy being cooped up all day. I’d be stir crazy by lunchtime if I didn’t keep busy.
Back in the lounge room, I passed Tom his mug, and then sank into a big, comfortable chair opposite, blowing on my tea. ‘Place is a bit of a mess,’ I said casually. ‘I’m wondering if you’d be open to an exchange.’
Tom took a gulp of tea and winced. ‘Exchange?’
‘You look like you could use some help unpacking. Tidying up.’
‘In exchange for?’
‘That interview you said you’d think about.’
I waited for him to explode again, the way he’d done on the verandah. But he only blinked at me, then scratched the stubble on his cheek and sighed.
‘You’re right, the place is chaos. It bugs the hell out of me. Since the accident I’ve been useless. I thought I was coping. But I’m under pressure to finish my new book, so . . . I guess it all got away from me.’ He frowned down at his knee brace for a moment, then fixed his cat-green gaze on me. ‘You make a pretty decent cup of Darjeeling.’
‘Wait till you try my toasted sandwiches.’
His lips curved, not quite a smile. ‘You’ve no idea how good that sounds.’
‘Then we’ve got a deal?’
‘Sure, why not.’