The train’s rhythmic clickety-clack was as soothing as a lullaby. Zoe leaned into the corner, half-asleep, until a change in tempo roused her. She blinked out the window then checked her watch. Why was it so dark? She checked her watch again. Five-thirty on a September afternoon in Queensland. It should still be broad daylight. Nose pressed against the pane, she stared at the pall lying over the landscape.
The middle-aged man sitting opposite leaned forward, a helpful expression on his ruddy face. ‘Black snow, love.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Zoe.
‘Bundy’s black snow.’ He gestured out the window to the strange grey world. ‘They’re burning the cane.’
Zoe stood on the platform as the other passengers hurried away, fingers curled tight about the handle of her suitcase. First time in Bundaberg. First time anywhere in regional Australia for any length of time. There’d been a few family trips up the coast as a child, magical beach holidays that had inspired her love of the ocean. Apart from that, Zoe was a Sydney girl through and through, born and bred in Bankstown. A city girl determined to embrace this new lifestyle, this new opportunity, this new job.
Her stomach churned with excitement. She glanced around the old railway station building with its cream weatherboards and bullnose verandahs. Full of old-world charm, but she was too wound up to properly appreciate it. Zoe wandered towards the exit, momentarily startled as she caught sight of herself in a window. What had she been thinking, getting her hair cut so short? It had seemed such a good idea at the time. A bold new look, a personal statement to protest an appearance-obsessed culture. Practical too, because her new job would entail a lot of swimming and diving. But instead of sassy and stylish, it made her look like a boy with too small a head – a head that looked odd on her generously proportioned body. She’d have done anything to have her old hair back. Zoe frowned at her reflection, then moved further down the platform to avoid seeing herself. A pinhead, that’s what she was now.
She could smell fire. Cinders got up her nose, burned her throat, stung her eyes. So much for fresh country air. A man was leaning on the fence and looking at her. Young, late-twenties maybe and quite a hunk. Bridget hadn’t described who would be collecting her. Was that him? She smiled and smoothed her close-cropped hair. The man separated himself from the fence and strolled over. ‘Quinn Cooper. I’m your lift.’ He extended his hand and swept off his hat, an old-fashioned gesture. ‘Welcome to our little slice of paradise.’ Something deep in her stomach flipped over in an all-too-familiar way.
‘Zoe,’ she said. ‘Zoe King.’
His handshake was firm, just the way she liked. In fact, on first impressions, there was a lot to like about this man. Handsome in a laconic, sunburnt Tom Hanks sort of way. Lanky and tall, with a dark, close-cut beard and a hat that made him look like an actor from a pioneer movie. Honest grey eyes and a slow Queensland drawl. She started to say Nice to meet you, but a coughing fit choked away her words.
Quinn looked concerned. ‘Apologies for the smoke,’ he said, like somehow he was responsible. ‘The wind change brought it into town. Better get you a drink.’ His hand brushed hers as he took charge of the suitcase. They set off towards the platform gate, and Zoe swallowed hard, trying to quell the tickle in her throat.
An elderly station attendant stepped forward. ‘Afternoon, Quinn.’ He tipped his hat. Zoe searched in her bag. Where was that ticket? But the man waved them through to the carpark regardless. The train blew its whistle and pulled away from the platform to continue its seventeen-hundred-kilometre journey north to Cairns.
Quinn put her bags in the back of a red Jeep Wrangler. ‘In you get.’ Zoe reached for the handle but he beat her to it and opened the door for her. She was a little taken aback. Nobody ever opened car doors for her back in Sydney. She settled into the passenger seat, eyes drawn to the faded glory of an old hotel opposite. They swung right into a broad thoroughfare labelled Bourbong Street. Past buildings flanked by coconut and date palms. Past the unexpected grandeur of Bundaberg’s historic post office, with its Italianate Victorian design and imposing clock tower. Quinn pulled over in the main street and nodded towards a milk bar. ‘I’ll get something to wet your whistle. What’ll it be?’
‘Diet Coke, thanks.’
Quinn returned with two bottles of Lipton Ice Tea. ‘Coke’s no good for you.’
She didn’t like tea, hot or cold. A little peeved, she took a small sip. Despite the unfamiliar taste, the tea was oddly refreshing and did a good job of soothing her irritated throat.
Quinn glanced across and nodded approvingly as she took a bigger gulp. ‘I’ll head down Quay Street, give you a look at the river.’
Zoe’s curiosity was piqued. Bundaberg’s Burnett River was home to one of the world’s rarest living fossils – the Australian Lungfish. At university she’d written a paper on it, and was curious to see the waterway for herself, but she caught barely a glimpse of the broad, brown river across parkland, before they turned off and headed out of town.
Quinn glanced across at Zoe as she finished her drink and looked around for a place to put the empty bottle. She settled for holding it between her bare knees. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re the new dolphin trainer from Sydney.’
‘Trainer? No.’ Thank goodness her voice was working again. ‘I’m a zoologist. Majored in marine mammals: seals, whales, dugongs . . . that sort of thing. Although I do have a special interest in cephalopods. I’ll be doing rehabilitation and research.’ She wet her lips with her tongue. ‘I’m so excited about this job. Are you on staff at the Reef Centre too?’
‘Me? No, I grow cane out at Kiawa. My connection with the centre is through Bridget.’ He paused and his tone grew warm. ‘We’re getting married next year.’
Just as well she’d sworn off men. Her boss’s boyfriend was just about as far out of bounds as you could get. ‘Congratulations,’ said Zoe. ‘I’m really looking forward to working with Bridget. Such impressive research credentials. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from her.’
‘Bridget’s the absolute best.’ Quinn’s eyes shone with pride. How sweet. ‘You’ll love her. Everyone does.’
‘I’m sure I will. Where is she? At the centre? Will there be time to have a look around tonight?’
He shook his head. ‘Bridget said to bring you back to the farm. She’s arranged a welcome dinner.’
Zoe smiled and tried not to let her disappointment show. It was thoughtful of Bridget to arrange such a welcome, but Zoe would have far preferred seeing the Reef Centre tonight. It would be hard waiting until morning for her first visit.
A stiff wind had cleared the smoke haze, allowing a clear view of the scenery. At first, paddocks and macadamia orchards flanked the narrow road, but they gave way to emerald fields of cane as they drove further from town. She felt out of place in her black skirt and T-shirt. The vivid beauty of this Queensland spring cried out for colour.
Quinn didn’t offer any further conversation, and Zoe was content to stare out the window. Half an hour later he turned the car through an impressive gateway: bluestone pillars, a gracious arch with the word Swallowdale emblazoned across it. A few minutes later a white house came into view on a rise. More of a mansion, really. Sweeping lawns and subtropical gardens framed the imposing two-storey homestead. Wraparound balconies featured wrought-iron lacework, and numerous arched floor-length windows gleamed like diamonds in the late-afternoon sun. Tennis courts stretched out beside a river on the left, with what looked like stables beyond them. Close to the main house, a modern cottage nestled beside a broad ornamental lake, fringed by trees. Some sort of lookout tower stood near the water. Further afield, a sea of sugar cane stretched to the horizon, topped with feathery seed heads that wafted in the wind like waves. The only blight on the magnificent view was a dark plume of smoke from a distant cane fire. Zoe was stunned. People paid to have wedding receptions at places like this. Everything screamed of old money.
‘What a lovely home.’ A bit of an understatement, but it was all she could come up with. The only time she’d seen anything quite so grand was in a glossy magazine.
Quinn nodded. ‘Built by my great-great-grandfather, Jack Cooper, a pioneer of Bundaberg’s sugar industry. Since then, the eldest son of each generation has taken over the plantation.’ He sighed, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. ‘My father passed away last year, so the job’s mine.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Zoe. ‘I mean, I’m sorry to hear that you lost your father. I imagine you love running Swallowdale.’
‘Of course.’ Quinn swung onto the circular drive and pulled up by the homestead’s grand entrance. ‘Doesn’t every man want to follow in his father’s footsteps?’
‘Well, I suppose that depends on the father, doesn’t it?’ said Zoe.
Quinn shot her an odd sideways glance before climbing out. He walked around to her side of the car, but by the time he got there Zoe had opened the door for herself and was standing on the groomed, gravel driveway. ‘Take my dad for instance,’ she said. ‘He drives a school bus. I wouldn’t want to do that.’
Quinn gave her a tight smile and hauled her suitcase from the back. A big black-and-white border collie with a magnificent coat came bounding up to them. ‘Meet Captain.’ The dog propped himself on Zoe’s feet and trained his beautiful brown gaze on her. She knelt down to hug his neck. Captain offered a paw. ‘You’re honoured,’ said Quinn. ‘He doesn’t often take to people like that.’
Zoe caught a movement on the balcony out of the corner of her eye. Somebody was watching them. A teenage boy with dark, wavy hair. Quinn followed her gaze. Zoe waved to the boy, but he ducked from sight.
‘That’s Josh, my kid brother.’ Quinn laid an unexpected hand on her arm and glanced around as if afraid someone might hear. ‘Josh is, well, different. An acquired brain injury when he was twelve. Never been quite right since.’ Quinn glanced up at the empty balcony. ‘Cut him some slack, okay?’
‘Of course,’ said Zoe, feeling the warmth of Quinn’s hand on her skin, and wondering when he would let go. ‘Thanks for telling me. I’d hate to put my foot in it. I do that a lot, I’m afraid.’
Quinn smiled. ‘Well, so does Josh, so you’ll fit right in.’ He gestured towards the house, and released her arm. ‘After you.’
All this chivalry was going to take some getting used to.
‘Zoe tells me she’s a scientist.’ Quinn took a bite of fluffy mashed potato.
‘That’s right.’ Bridget’s voice was low and musical, pleasing to the ear. ‘I can’t believe we finally have a new research officer. Her position’s been funded by a grant from the Department of Environment.’ She smiled at Zoe, who couldn’t stop looking at her new boss. Bridget was tall, tanned and enviably slim, with the sort of luminous beauty you might expect of an actress or model.
‘So the government pays her salary, eh? That’s a good lurk,’ said Quinn. ‘But doesn’t the centre really need a dolphin trainer, not a researcher?’ A note of concern crept into his voice. ‘Don’t get me wrong – you’re doing a great job with those animals. You’ve got a gift, no doubt about it, but you’re not super-human, Bridge. I worry about you, trying to do everything yourself.’
‘Zoe majored in marine mammals,’ said Bridget. ‘She knows plenty about training dolphins, don’t you, Zoe?’
Zoe almost choked on a piece of broccoli. Her knowledge of marine mammals was entirely theoretical. She’d read a lot. She’d watched plenty of Flipper reruns on television. But the only time she’d seen a real dolphin was on a visit to SeaWorld. Zoe shifted in her seat. What to say? Both Quinn and Bridget were looking at her, awaiting her response. ‘I did receive a high distinction for my work on operant conditioning at the Sydney Aquarium,’ she said at last.
‘There.’ Bridget shot Quinn a triumphant glance. ‘I told you so.’
Zoe concentrated on her plate, hoping nobody would notice the blush creeping up her cheeks, wishing the boy from the balcony would come in and change the subject. It wasn’t a lie exactly. She had carried out a research project at the Sydney Aquarium in her second year, and it had involved training animals using operant conditioning – only they weren’t dolphins. She could see the title on the paper she’d so proudly submitted at the end of the semester: Associative Learning and Memory in the Common Sydney Octopus. The octopuses had constantly surprised her with their intelligence and problem-solving skills. She’d grown very fond of Gloomy, her main test subject. So fond, in fact, that at the end of the project she’d stolen him from his tank and surreptitiously released him under a boardwalk into Darling Harbour.
Zoe gazed out the window to avoid catching anybody’s eye. She did not want to answer any more questions. A rosy sunset shone through the bay windows of the elegant dining room. Stunning in its beauty: a picture postcard. The sun flared on the horizon. Zoe turned her attention from the window to the door. ‘Isn’t Josh joining us?’ she asked. The main course was almost over and there was still no sign of the boy. For some reason she hadn’t been able to get him off her mind and was curious to meet him.
‘My brother is as unreliable with meal times as he is with everything else,’ said Quinn, though his tone was good-humoured. ‘But he usually turns up for dessert.’
Zoe picked up her dainty crystal wine glass. She turned it gently between her thumb and forefinger, admiring the delicate gold etching. ‘This is beautiful.’
‘An antique,’ said Quinn. ‘The set belonged to my grandmother.’ He topped the glass up with shiraz. Zoe didn’t usually drink red wine, but it was all that was on offer. It would be rude to refuse. And, anyway, the more she drank the better it tasted. Her pepper steak was good too, and the dinner table conversation fascinating. She couldn’t get enough of the stories told by their lovely hostess.
‘. . . then Koko got the same idea,’ said Bridget, ‘and soon we had five dolphins doing backflips all at once. The crowd loved it.’
‘How many dolphins do you have at the centre?’ asked Zoe.
‘Six in all,’ said Bridget. ‘Three bottlenoses and three spinners.’
‘I can’t wait to meet them,’ said Zoe. ‘How far along are they in their rehabilitation?’
‘I’m afraid none of our current dolphins are candidates for release,’ said Bridget. ‘Five of them have permanent injuries and our youngest spinner, Baby, was born right here at the centre. He’ll never be able to fend for himself.’
‘What a shame,’ said Zoe. ‘That must be hard to come to terms with.’
‘It’s heartbreaking,’ agreed Bridget. ‘I’ve dedicated my career to rehabilitating animals. But it’s not all bad news. We’ve done lots of successful turtle and seabird rescues this year. You’ll meet all of our patients tomorrow.’
Zoe put down her knife and fork. ‘Imagine – getting to know the animals, living and working at the Reef Centre. It’s a dream come true.’
‘Not living there,’ said Bridget. ‘There’s been a change of plans.’
‘But I haven’t organised a place to stay,’ said Zoe. ‘I thought accommodation came with the job?’
Quinn drained his glass of wine. ‘You’ll be staying here at Swallowdale, in the guesthouse. Two bedrooms, fully self-contained and a cleaner once a week, who’ll also stock your fridge.’
‘But why?’ asked Zoe. ‘I mean, that’s very generous of you, but I was looking forward to staying at the centre. You said there was a place available next door, overlooking the beach. It sounds perfect.’
‘Oh, we couldn’t do that to you,’ said Bridget. ‘I had a good look round that old shack last week. It’s more rundown than I’d realised, so Quinn offered the guesthouse here at Swallowdale instead. It’s lovely. It has a view of the lake.’ She raised the silver serving spoon and turned to her fiancé. ‘More potato?’
‘No thanks, hon. Couldn’t fit in another thing.’ Quinn wiped his mouth with the crisp linen napkin and pushed back his chair with a satisfied sigh. ‘Never tasted beef so tender or spuds so fluffy. You’re a miracle, Bridge, you know that? Working all day and then racing over here to organise a slap-up meal? Don’t know how you do it.’
‘Yes.’ Zoe’s hand strayed up out of habit to push her non-existent hair back behind her ear. ‘Thank you. It was delicious.’
Bridget bowed her head a fraction in acknowledgement. ‘I hope you all left room for dessert.’ She stood up to take Quinn’s plate. Zoe’s eyes followed her new boss as she slipped from the dining room into the kitchen. She couldn’t stop staring. How did Bridget manage it? Mid to late twenties at a guess, not much older than Zoe was herself, yet so accomplished, so stylish. She wore her sleeveless cream blouse, skinny jeans and embossed boots with such flair that Zoe half-expected a camera crew to pop out from behind the curtains. Bridget’s mane of golden hair bounced a little as she walked, as did her gravity-defying breasts. It was apparent that she wore no bra. What a knockout. No wonder Quinn was besotted. Zoe was a bit besotted herself.
Picking up her empty plate and wine glass, she hurried after Bridget into the kitchen. ‘Thanks for dinner. You’ve gone to so much trouble.’
‘No trouble.’ Bridget gave Zoe a warm smile. ‘I love to cook, don’t you?’
‘Not exactly.’ Zoe copied Bridget and scraped off her plate into the in-sink garbage disposal. It made a low whirring sound. She’d never seen one before. ‘Back home I used to eat a lot of Macca’s.’
Bridget’s mouth pursed with concern. ‘That won’t work around here, I’m afraid. We don’t have a McDonald’s in Kiawa.’ She wiped her manicured hands on a tea towel. An enormous diamond on her ring finger caught the light and blazed silver and gold. ‘There’s a good fish and chip shop, but it’s not healthy to live on that stuff.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Zoe pushed a piece of carrot down the sink, curious to see what would happen. The InSinkErator gobbled it up. Then a stalk of broccoli met the same fate. She looked around for something else. Hmm, a fork on Quinn’s plate still held a piece of gristle.
Bridget pulled a multi-peaked lemon meringue pie from the fridge and placed it on the bench. Where had she learned to cook like that? ‘I don’t think this platter is big enough,’ she said with a frown. ‘I’d better go and find another one.’ She studied the pie, taking its measure. ‘Perhaps while you’re living here Zoe, I could show you some recipes?’
‘I’d like that.’ Zoe reached for Quinn’s fork as Bridget disappeared through the doorway. Oh dear. Her arm had knocked the little wine glass into the InSinkErator’s jaws. The whirring sound grew louder as savage, steel teeth crushed the antique crystal and ground it to pieces. Zoe looked up as Bridget returned with a china cake stand, but the shredding sound had stopped and she was none the wiser. Zoe stared at the sink. The beautiful wine glass was no more. What should she do? Should she say something? It would be too humiliating.
When she turned around, the boy from the balcony was watching her. A good-looking kid with tousled, chestnut hair and clever grey eyes: a younger version of Quinn. Where had he sprung from? Bridget looked up from rearranging the magnificent pie, and visibly started. ‘Josh, I wish you wouldn’t sneak up like that. You gave me a fright.’
The boy’s face fell. ‘Sorry, Bridget.’ The words were uttered in a kind of slow motion, like he had to concentrate to get them out. He wasn’t slow on the uptake though. He knew exactly what had happened to the wine glass.
Should she pre-empt him, confess her crime? No, a little too much time had passed. It would seem odd that she hadn’t mentioned it at the start. Zoe didn’t breathe. Would he tell? Josh held her gaze, his expression thoughtful, like he was trying to make up his mind. Then his eyes twinkled. He grinned and something passed between them. She heaved a relieved sigh and shot him a grateful look, certain her secret was safe.
‘Apology accepted,’ said Bridget, favouring Josh with a dazzling smile. His face lit up with pleasure, like a puppy that had been patted. She handed Josh the cake stand bearing the splendid pie and carefully lowered the bevelled glass lid on top, trying not to squash the mountain of meringue. ‘There. Would you do the honours, please, Josh? I’ll get the cream.’
The boy carried the dessert into the dining room with exaggerated care. Quinn applauded when he saw it. ‘Bravo. A masterpiece. I’m a lucky man all right.’
The room fell silent as they feasted on the lightest, tangiest lemon meringue pie Zoe had ever tasted, complete with dollops of fresh, clotted cream. All except Bridget, that was. She announced that she was already full.
Quinn removed the lid again and picked up the silver cake server. He raised his brows at Zoe. She was about to say Yes, please, and dig in for a second helping, but the sight of Bridget serenely sipping her sparkling water made her pause. Reluctantly she shook her head.
‘You girls eat like birds,’ said Quinn, heaping up his dish. ‘Just as well, eh, Josh? All the more for us.’
Zoe was rather flattered by the description. Nobody had ever said that she ate like a bird. Far from it. She pushed away the memory of last week’s two-for-one Big Mac deal that she had taken such enthusiastic advantage of.
Quinn and his brother ate with gusto. Josh shovelled the food in, chewing with his mouth open, unconcerned as cream dripped down his chin. He looked wild and uncivilised, like an animal feeding. Zoe poured herself a glass of water from the bottle on the table and tried not to stare. When Josh finished he started to hum loudly, tunelessly. Thank goodness Quinn had warned her. Otherwise she would have found Josh’s table manners quite disturbing.
When they’d all finished, Zoe stood and picked up her dish. ‘Leave it,’ said Quinn. ‘It’s dark enough. Come and I’ll show you how we burn a cane field at Swallowdale. It’s quite a show.’ He looked about. ‘Anybody else?’
Bridget shook her head. ‘I’ll stay and clean up.’
‘Me too,’ said Josh. The laboured effect of his speech could not disguise his eagerness to help as he set about clearing the table. He was clearly as big a fan of Bridget as his brother was.
Quinn rose to his feet. ‘Well Zoe, looks like it’s just you and me.’
Zoe grabbed the guardrail and hauled herself onto the platform at the top of the floodlit tower. Climbing the lookout’s timber ladder had left her dizzy and breathless, but she’d done it – challenged her hatred of heights. A flush of pride passed through her.
Quinn leaped nimbly up behind her, his shadow merging with hers. There wasn’t much room at the top. ‘Don’t get a fright,’ he said. ‘I’m turning off the lights.’ Zoe blinked a few times and accidentally moved against him as the world went dim. She shivered slightly in spite of the warm evening.
‘There.’ He pointed to the west, where three jeeps moved in convoy up the side of a field. Their roof-mounted spotlights cast bright, shifting circles on the standing cane. When the vehicles were evenly spaced along the length of the track they stopped. Zoe focused her attention on the nearest jeep. Two men in orange hi-vis overalls emerged, carrying containers like giant oilcans with long spouts.
‘What are they?’ A column of flame flew from the cans and engulfed the wall of cane before them.
‘Drip torches,’ said Quinn. ‘The canister holds a mixture of petrol and diesel. A wick in the spout directs the burning fuel wherever it’s needed.’ In a synchronised assault, the other men ignited their sections of crop. Soon it blazed all the way along the track. Fire climbed into the dark sky, higher and higher, towering over the men. It was a dramatic sight: orange flames dancing against the black curtain of night.
‘Why wait until now?’ asked Zoe. ‘Why not in the daytime? Or is it just because it looks more awesome in the dark?’
Quinn turned towards her. Amusement showed on his face in the reflected glow of the flames. ‘Cane fires can get pretty fierce,’ he said. ‘We wait till dusk for the temperatures and winds to drop. It’s safer.’
The fire increased in fury, roaring like an angry beast. It took off in a spectacular way across the paddock, leaping four, five, six metres high into the inky blackness. A sight equally frightening and thrilling. Zoe closed her eyes and imagined what she’d be doing if she was still back in Sydney. Eating takeaway in front of the television, perhaps, or updating her Facebook profile. Quinn took hold of the safety rail with both hands and leaned towards the inferno. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It’s quite a spectacle.’ Heat flushed Zoe’s face and an acrid smell assailed her nostrils. She pictured the scorched earth, the billowing smoke, invisible in the darkness, choking everything in its path. She pictured animals and birds and insects fleeing for their lives. ‘I read somewhere that they don’t burn cane any more,’ she said. ‘That the modern way is to cut it green. To leave the tops of the cane on the ground, like a kind of mulch.’
‘Trash-blanketing?’ said Quinn. ‘Yeah, some blokes do that. But not round here. We’re an old-fashioned bunch in Kiawa.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘I mean, if it was better for some reason to cut cane green, why wouldn’t you do it? Wouldn’t it be better? Wouldn’t mulch help keep down the weeds?’
‘You want to know why?’ An edge had crept into Quinn’s voice. ‘My father burned cane, and his father before him, and his father before him. It’s the best way. You lose too much crop cutting it green – and it costs more.’
‘I —’ she began.
He shook his head. ‘Let’s go down. After you.’
Zoe’s face was warm, and it wasn’t because of the fire. As they left the platform at the top of the tower, Quinn glanced at the flames one last time. An unreadable expression came over his face. Annoyance? No, something more. Sadness?
They reached the cool grass at the bottom. ‘You’ll do,’ he said. The edge in his voice had gone.
‘I don’t understand —’
‘A lot of people wouldn’t have climbed up there in the dark.’ A rising moon showed the admiration on his face. Zoe fought to stem the rush of pride at his approval, the rush of blood. If only she could stay at the beach instead of here at Swallowdale. It would make this impossible attraction to Quinn far easier to manage.