It was dark when I arrived this morning, but by six o’clock when I close the barn doors, the sun peeps over the treetops and the ground is draped in mist. Footsteps crunch on the gravel. I haven’t seen Blake since we sat on his sofa five days ago. Kissed on his sofa five days ago.
‘Prim.’ Ruffled hair. Shirt hanging out of his jeans. A three-day growth.
‘It’s a … Scotch mist.’
His expression softens. ‘You’re early.’
‘Thanks for taking the horses out of the rain yesterday.’ Excellent word choice. Brilliant pronunciation.
‘Would you like to come in for breakfast?’
Can I climb into your body instead? I button my coat, blow on my fingers. ‘Billy has a … weekend pass to go home. I’m taking him halfway to meet Tom.’
‘Later?’
‘I’ve got a job that’ll take all afternoon.’
He grasps my hands and rubs them warm. He kisses a thumb, looks up through serious eyes. ‘Dinner?’
‘You said yes to Rowena’s invitation to the pub. You’re already booked for dinner.’
‘You were invited too.’
‘I said no.’
A half-smile. ‘I was hoping you’d say yes.’
‘We could meet earlier.’
‘What time?’
‘Assuming I come straight from … work …’ I count on my fingers. ‘Six?’
Like he did the last time we said goodbye, he rests his cheek against mine. How long do we stand like that? Two touch points. Ten trillion nerve endings.
‘I’ll see you at six,’ he says.
The rotunda shimmers under a streetlamp as I pull off the road behind cars, utes and four-wheel drives. I wiggle my toes. They’re cold and damp after trudging through knee-high grass at an alpaca farm this afternoon, but the only other footwear I have are gumboots that got waterlogged while chasing ducks at the dam this morning. I consider my hands on the wheel. Nails varying lengths, a broken thumbnail, a graze on my knuckle. At least they’re clean. I pull out my ponytail and retie it before stepping outside.
A shiny blue shoebox sits on the passenger seat. After unclipping the seatbelt, I carefully take the box into my arms, lock the car and follow the footpath to the hotel. One of the old timers is leaving as I walk in. He holds the door open.
‘Thank you.’
‘Can’t bloody well hear myself think in there,’ he grumbles.
When I called Jock an hour ago to ask a favour, he told me Mrs Nash wasn’t available until seven, so the girls would be here too. The table where they generally sit is the one closest to the fireplace, but Douglas Farquhar and Rowena, facing each other, are sitting there instead. Rowena’s loosely tied bun shifts as she shakes her head. When Farquhar jabs a finger, emphasising a point, she shakes her head again.
‘Prim!’ Lacie, taking my arm, jumps up and down on the spot. ‘Daddy said you had a surprise. Can I see?’
‘Wait for me!’ Thomasina darts around chairs as she crosses the floor.
Jock lifts a hand in salute from behind the bar. Standing in front of the bar, his gaze fixed on me, is Blake.
‘Daddy said you need a heat pad.’ Lacie tugs my arm again. ‘How come? What’ve you got in the box?’
When Thomasina joins us, I open the lid. The yellow duckling, two days old and nestled in a bed of woolly alpaca fleece, looks up.
‘Hello, little one.’
‘He’s so tiny,’ Lacie whispers. ‘Where’s his mum?’
‘The duckling is a female,’ I say. ‘Her mum couldn’t look after her.’
‘Daddy looks after lots of birds.’
‘My friend’s duck will look after this duckling, as well as her own. I’ll take her there when she’s stronger.’
Lacie touches the duckling’s tiny wing. ‘What’s her name?’
I smile. ‘She doesn’t have one yet.’
Blake stands back to let an elderly couple pass. Then he weaves around tables like Thomasina did. My heart skitters.
‘Prim.’
‘I guess you’ve met Thomasina and Lacie.’
When Blake extends both hands, the girls, with far more enthusiasm than accuracy, slap their palms against his.
‘Prim’s got a duckling!’
‘I get to name her.’
‘I want to!’
‘I saw her first!’
Blake glances into the box. ‘Do I have another tenant?’
When I smile, his eyes go to my dimple.
‘We’re sitting over there.’ Thomasina points. ‘A man took our table and Daddy said we can’t get it back until tomorrow.’
Farquhar, now standing, yanks his jacket off the back of the chair. Rowena, as if exasperated, lifts her hands. But then, as if sensing my gaze, she turns and, with a slightly forced smile, she waves me over.
‘Prim! Can I see you for a moment?’
I hand the box to Blake. ‘You can help the girls think up a name.’
Farquhar and I avoid eye contact as we take circuitous routes around the tables. Rowena is smiling brightly now.
‘This pub is becoming a favourite,’ she says as I sit. ‘What a transformation.’
The background noise is high; I push my chair closer. ‘Jock has worked really hard.’
‘You’re not here for dinner, are you? Something else on? Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No, thank you. I’m on my … way home.’
‘I saw you with our Dr Sinclair. You two seem very friendly.’
‘He’s helping … with my animals until I find another property.’
‘Which is why, to be honest, I wanted to speak with you.’ Rowena smiles again. ‘When you applied for a job at the zoo, your dealings with Douglas were strained. Forcing you out of your home can only make things worse.’
‘As an HR professional, I’d rather prevent potential issues than deal with repercussions.’ She picks up her glass, a spirit on ice. ‘It was wrong of him to do what he did, and I told him so directly.’
‘You know him … well?’
‘We met at university.’ Her brows disappear into her fringe. ‘You don’t become wealthy like he is without a brutal streak, but he’s supported my promotions at the zoo.’ She raises her glass. ‘I’m thankful for that.’
‘I hope you … weren’t arguing about me.’
‘Not at all.’ Her smile falters. ‘We were talking politics.’
I’m not sure exactly what I imagined when I agreed to meet Blake, but it didn’t involve sitting with him and two children in a noisy, crowded bar while arguing about names for a duckling.
‘Jemima?’
‘Fluffy?’
‘Daffy?’
Blake’s eyes are on me. ‘Daffodil.’
‘Yes!’ the girls shout in unison.
Blake cuts up Thomasina’s rissole. When Lacie tells him she hates broccoli, he tells her he hates it too and, when Jock isn’t looking, he wraps it in a napkin. He thanks me with a smile when I bring a carafe of water and glasses to the table. Jock and I resettle the duckling in her box with a heat pad.
‘The regulations in this country are ludicrous,’ Jock complains. ‘In the pubs where I grew up, the publican’s dogs were part of the furniture.’ He winks. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about bringing Daisy to work.’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think sheep can be housetrained. Anyway, I was hoping Daisy might join a herd.’
‘Not at the farm you rescued him from!’ he says in horror.
‘I’d only give him to a farmer who treats their stock … well. Gus Mumford would do that.’
‘I won’t have him eaten.’
‘As he’s a merino, his value is in his wool.’
‘Terrible things happen on farms,’ Jock mutters. ‘Daisy’s dear mother died in childbirth.’
Blake smiles. ‘It’s known as lambing.’
‘If I’d been called out earlier,’ I say, ‘she might not have died.’
‘Daisy is perfectly happy with us,’ Jock says. ‘I’m not sure a herd would suit him.’
‘And I’m not sure how long,’ Blake indicates the menu board, ‘slow-cooked lamb will be on offer.’
When Mrs Nash appears at the door, the girls hug me goodnight and say goodbye to the duckling. Blake holds out his hands and they slap them.
‘Come along, my lassies,’ Jock says as he herds them around the tables. ‘It’s well past your bedtime.’
After stacking the girls’ plates, Blake shifts his chair closer to mine. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You accepted an invitation.’ I open the lid of the box and check the duckling again. ‘Anyway, I have to feed my animals.’
‘I could—’
His words are drowned out by a flurry at the door as a group of six, all from the zoo, are greeted by shouts from elsewhere in the bar. Serena scans the room before making her way towards us. Her glossy blonde hair catches the light as she drapes an arm across Blake’s shoulders.
‘I haven’t seen you since Monday night,’ she says. ‘You were freaking brilliant, by the way. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve heard that.’
Blake shrugs. ‘It was a good turn out.’
‘You were unfashionably late.’ She narrows her eyes, pretending to glare. ‘But your speech was worth waiting for.’
After glancing at me, he shrugs again. ‘Thanks.’
‘You weren’t there, were you, Prim?’ Serena says. ‘I had no idea anaesthesia could be so fascinating.’
I can’t quite meet Blake’s eyes. ‘I didn’t know you … were giving a … speech.’
‘Conservation programs for elephant, hippo, rhino, numbats and northern quolls.’ Serena ticks words off on her fingers. ‘It was the best fundraiser we’ve had in years.’
‘Blake!’ Robbie, one of the barmen, is holding out a beer. ‘This is for you. Jock said it’s on the house.
As Blake waits behind others at the bar, Robbie calls out again.
‘Prim? What can I get you? Lime and soda? A cup of tea?’
Serena laughs. ‘How about a proper drink?’
The bar is filling up. There are too many people and way too much noise. Why didn’t I leave when the children did? I search for Blake. If I call out, he might hear me. I open my mouth. Shut it again. Nothing.
‘Prim doesn’t drink!’ Robbie shouts out.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I open them again. The shoebox sits on the table. I open the lid. The duckling’s eyes are closed. I put my hand on her side; her tiny heart flutters. I check the heat pad buried under the wool. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right. Like ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’. Happily ever after. A fairytale.
Swallowing hard, I take a direct route to the coat stand and door. When I get to the car, I’ll send Blake a text: Sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.
My feet are numb and cold. But the ducking is warmly cocooned in her shoebox. I pull out the keys and the car beeps.
‘Prim!
Blake’s footsteps are loud on the pavement. His hands are pushed into the pockets of a smart woollen coat. I focus on the duckling, settle the shoebox on the passenger seat, pull the belt across it and click it into place. ‘It’s not far,’ I whisper.
‘Prim.’
I straighten and turn, shut the door behind me. Blake is closer than I thought he’d be. ‘I … was going to text.’
‘Why did you run?’
I rise on the balls of my feet before lowering my heels. ‘My feet are cold.’
‘Tell me why you left.’
‘My boots leak.’ I wrap my arms around my middle. ‘S … s …’
He pulls up the collar of his coat. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’
‘You’re supposed to stay for dinner.’
‘Prim!’
‘Over there? The rotunda?’
His chest lifts and falls as he holds back a curse. ‘Do you have other boots?’
‘They’re even wetter.’
‘Wait here.’
His four-wheel drive is on the other side of the road. The boot opens and slams shut. He tucks a pair of gumboots under his arm and runs across the road.
Three steep steps lead to the circular interior of the rotunda, which is lined with timber seats. I walk up the steps and push back my hood. As Blake wipes his face on his sleeve. I sit and link my hands neatly in my lap.
His knee cracks as he crouches at my feet. He puts something into my hands. ‘Hold these.’
He curses over my laces as I unravel the bundle. They’re not ordinary socks or even hiking or trekking socks. They’re soft and thick and—I hold them up to the light. Hand spun wool. Chocolate brown with white flecks.
‘Are they handknitted?’
‘No idea.’
‘Are they from … Scotland? Do you use them when you … work there?’
‘I never work there.’
‘You did … when you stayed … with your grandfather.’
His hands still and he looks up. ‘Yes.’
‘W … when do your parents arrive?’
His lips firm. Then, ‘I’m picking them up from the airport tomorrow.’
‘Dubbo?’
‘Sydney.’
‘Will they visit you here too?’
‘No.’
‘How long will you … stay in Sydney?’
‘We’ll have dinner on Wednesday, lunch on Friday. I have commitments on the other days, as do they.’
‘But …’ I push my hand into a sock. ‘Don’t they … want to see more of you?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You don’t care?’
‘Can we forget them?’
‘You … were in your early twenties when your grandfather died. How did you get on … with your parents before that?’
He tugs at a boot. ‘Hold on to the seat.’
When I do as he asks, he tugs harder, freeing one foot then the other. ‘Blake? How—’
‘I don’t want to think about them.’
He creates cuffs at the hems of my jeans, rolls down my socks and peels them off. I shouldn’t let him do it. And I shouldn’t feel like this, hot with need and fidgety with lust.
My feet are pale against the boards. Drawing them up to the seat, I rub my toes to warm them. ‘Thank you. I can do the rest.’
He stands back as I pull on a sock. Attempt to pull on a sock.
Muttering under his breath, he yanks the sock away. ‘Let me.’
‘My feet are wet.’
He holds the sock against his thigh and rolls it up, as you would with a stocking or bandage.
I blow on my hands. ‘I should’ve thought of that.’
He crouches again to pull on the sock. It’s much too big, so the heel juts out at the back of my ankle. He smooths the bump before handing me one of his gumboots—the gumboots he wore when he rescued my horses.
‘Take the boots off before you drive.’
‘You like to give advice, don’t you?’
‘I care about you.’
As I push my foot into the boot, he rolls on the other sock. His touch, through a sock that might or might not be handknitted and might or might not be from Scotland, warms not only my feet but the rest of me too.
He sits next to me, close but not touching. ‘What upset you?’
I pull on the other boot. ‘Do you always tell the truth?’
He considers the question. ‘I hope so,’ he says seriously.
‘You … set a high bar.’
He half-smiles. ‘Tell me why you ran.’
‘It’s another long … story.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Deep breath. ‘I’ve already told you I … wanted to fit in at uni. Parties. Boyfriends.’ Pulling down the cuffs of my coat, I bunch up my hands and hide them. ‘I went to bars, picked up … strangers, had one-night … stands. It was years ago, but bars bring back memories.’
‘How old were you?’
‘You drank too much?’
‘When I … woke up, I couldn’t remember anything.’
Silence. Has he lost his words now? Bunching my toes so my feet don’t slip in the boots, I stand.
He does the same. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I tell you too much. I don’t … want to be judged.’
‘I’d never do that.’
The lump in my throat expands. ‘Please, Blake. Go back to your friends.’
‘You say I don’t know you, but …’ He leans in close. ‘You listen. You care. You’re sensitive, Prim. You feel others’ pain.’
‘You can’t know that.’
An exasperated sigh. ‘I don’t lie.’
I shake my head, unscramble my thoughts. ‘I’m … sorry I ran.’
‘I don’t want sorry.’
‘What do you … want?’
He searches my face. ‘You.’
Firm jaw, bright eyes. Soft breath, hard bristles. Nothing matches. We don’t match. Yet…
When I close my eyes and lean against him, he wraps his arms around me. Through layers of clothing, I feel his heart beat in the same way he feels mine. I lift my face, find his mouth. A deep kiss, a quiet kiss, a mind-numbingly tender kiss. I sink into him as he sinks into me. An impression. He impresses himself on me.
He pulls back a fraction. He puts words on my mouth. ‘Every night, I think of you.’
I find the skin at his neck, put my lips against his throat. ‘Yes.’
Another kiss, this time an exploration, a finding of secrets. Every single secret that I’ve ever had. My stomach tingles, my breasts ache, my thighs burn. I open his coat, burrow under his sweater. His abdomen is hard and ridged. His skin is warm.
‘Blake?’ My voice is raspy.
He threads his fingers through my hair and tugs my hairband free. ‘Primrose.’ He trails kisses down my neck and up to my chin. He lifts his head and, touch feathery light, he puts a finger where my dimple would be.
‘I think about this all the time.’
I want him to rip off my clothes. I want to go back to his car so he can take me home to his bed and—
‘Oh.’
‘Prim?’ A whisper between us. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I left her in the car.’
‘Who?’
I smooth down his sweater. ‘Daffodil.’
With a groan, he kisses my neck. Then, muttering curses, he runs his hands across my shoulders and straightens my coat. He trails kisses from my cheek to my nose.
‘I could come with you.’
‘If you don’t go back, they’ll think you’re … with me.’
‘I don’t care what they think.’ I’m not sure what he sees on my face, but he sighs. ‘You do care what they think.’
‘It’s just …’
‘I’ll go back if that’s what you want.’ He dips his head and talks against my mouth. ‘When can I see you again?’
If I lean against him, he’ll pull me into his arms and …
‘It’s you who’s going away.’ Taking my time, I button up his coat. ‘When are you back?’
‘Friday evening.’
‘I’ll leave your boots at the Coach House.’