For a week after Zac told her about the Montgomery buyout (that Seth insisted in interviews was actually a merger), Seth was all over the newspapers and TV. The media blitz tailed off as journalists ran out of angles to cover and now their interest in Seth had turned social.
You’d think Adelaide had never seen a handsome rich bachelor before, Remy grumped, snapping the Wednesday paper shut.
So far, she’d seen Seth photographed with the daughter of an Adelaide real estate stalwart at the National Wine Centre; in a corporate box at the Australia Day cricket match with someone called Paula; and at a basketball game with the team sponsor’s niece and her friend.
It seemed the women and the events were interchangeable. Not that she cared. She didn’t. But just let the bean-counters from Lasrey Estate try to tell her how tough times were, or that everyone in the wine industry had to tighten their belts. Every grower who sold grapes to Montgomery Wines knew those fruit negotiations were brewing. It was highly unlikely Seth would be as generous as Max.
She took her coffee out into the early afternoon heat, grabbing her hat from its hook on the wall and secateurs and gloves from where she’d left them on the outdoor table.
Breeze trotted in front, paws puffing up the sawdust paths, tail bashing a lacework of fronds and flowers that tumbled from the beds. Each whack of her tail released scents of lavender or the salvias fresh pineapple, or the sharp tang of rosemary. All of it helped cover the smell of the sheep manure she’d scraped from the Williams’ shearing shed and dumped on the garden beds. It would decompose all winter and give the plants that perfect boost leading into spring.
Spring. Her mother’s wedding. Lexie would be back from her round Australia trip with Bernie by October, and the two planned to tie the knot.
As Remy walked, she snipped, deadheaded, drank coffee, and tried not to think about how much she still had to get done to make everything perfect for the wedding. Paving. Fixing the outdoor barbecue. Fixing the brickwork where the old red quoins had cracked. She didn’t want to think about what it would cost; and not about Seth Lasrey or kisses, or bushwalks, or dolmades. Not thinking about that at all. She didn’t want to think about Seth Lasrey either, or bushwalks, or … any of that.
Breeze huffed back and forth chasing a scent or a sound. Every tiny scuttle in the undergrowth made the dog freeze, then she’d pounce on stiff front paws to where whatever made the sound had either hunkered down for dear life, or vanished.
Each time Breeze was thwarted Remy laughed because her dog looked so damn puzzled. It felt good to laugh. She’d been living in a time warp since news of the Montgomery buyout broke, caught between past and present until she felt like an elastic band.
Ailsa. Seth.
The day she grabbed the money and ran.
She’d lost count of the times in the last five years she wished she’d never taken Ailsa’s money, and double-wished she’d paid back the old harridan when she’d had the chance.
The secateurs snagged on a rose and Remy yanked the blades from the thorns, leaving a gouge in the stem, ripping her glove.
Pulling both gloves off in frustration, Remy whistled for Breeze. This half-arsed gardening wasn’t helping anyone and when half-arsed gardening didn’t do the trick, there was only one thing for it. Whole-arsed gardening.
Entering the stable, Remy left her coffee cup on the garden bench and hefted her best pair of shears from their place on the wall.
First victim was the thug of a wisteria that ruled the sunny side of the stable.
With the handles near chest-height, she thought about Ailsa Lasrey and her sparkly rings and her neat little zeros, extended her arms and started hacking at the thick shoots tangled over her head, making tentacles of wisteria whip to the ground.
Dust sloughed off the leaves and she coughed. Sweat dripped in a vee between her breasts, darkening her purple tank top. She kept cutting, shearing the canes until her arms ached and her heart raced and there was no room in her brain for worrying about the future or regretting the past.
A thick clump of green loosened from the stable gutter and fell at the same time as Remy dropped her arms to ease the muscle burn. Legs apart, shear tips low, she stood amid the carnage breathing hard.
***
Two days later official notice from Lasrey Estate came in the handful of mail Zac delivered. It was one of two letters. The other was from the bank. She ignored the latter. Bank statements never held good news.
Remy tore open the other heavy cream envelope and scanned the page.
Dear Ms Roberts
I write to confirm recent news regarding the Lasrey Estate merger (Remy nearly choked on the word) with Montgomery Wines.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with our company, Lasrey is the largest winery by value of wine produced in Western Australia and we’re committed to growing our business both within Australia, and abroad.
You should feel confident that we value your contribution toward making Montgomery Wines a favourite with wine lovers everywhere. Lasrey has always believed great wines begin in the vineyard, and with the assistance and expertise of existing and new grape suppliers, we are sure this relationship will continue.
It is my pleasure to invite you to a grower meeting at Montgomery Wines on Monday, February 2 at 8.30 am. We look forward to providing you more information about our harvest procedures at that point, and answering any questions you might have.
It was Seth’s signature at the bottom of the page but the letter wasn’t personally signed. Instead, his scanned electronic scrawl was positioned in a perfectly sized gap between the lines With Sincere Regards and Seth Lasrey, CEO.
Hell and Tommy. That was it. After two weeks of nailbiting and soul-searching, four measly paragraphs were all she got.
Remy stuffed the letter back into its envelope.
So what did she expect? A smiley face near his signature? A note on scented paper: ‘Hi, Remy, Seth here. Let’s do lunch.’
She’d been making this buyout personal and yet Seth’s letter was all business. Was it possible he hadn’t connected the dots? Could he truly not know who Ms R Roberts was? Or if he knew, maybe he didn’t care. It was all so long ago, everything that happened in Margaret River: mountains in her life, molehills in his.
He would have tried to contact her otherwise, wouldn’t he? At some stage over the years he would have tried to find her?
He hadn’t. Neither had Blake, and for Remy’s part she’d kept her side of Ailsa’s bargain.
For the first month, not calling Seth or Blake had been the hardest thing. She’d pick up the phone then slam it in the cradle before the dial tone could go through. Then when she banked the second of Ailsa’s cheques, the whole thing seemed so final.
In the second month, she dreamed she’d wake and find Seth outside the Adelaide Hostel where she was staying. That he’d ignored whatever his mother said and found her, and she could explain everything.
After the third month it got too painful to hope.
Not long after that, she’d opened her copy of Grapegrower & Winemaker magazine to find a small item in the Grapevine section announcing Seth’s engagement to Helene Bouchard.