The rehearsal began. The priest was short, round, and balding, but he had a warm smile and spent several seconds facing the lake with his arms spread, no doubt remarking on the view. Bonnie stood with two women who Rachael recognized from the hens’ party, and Yvette sat to one side, perched on a chair while a black-suited security man held a parasol over her. Antonio appeared to be having a disagreement with Evonne, who kept pointing in one direction while Antonio shook his head. Everyone else was watching from a respectful distance, or ignoring the rehearsal altogether as they drank and sought out seats for the performance of Les Misérables.
Despite the fact Yvette raised the end of her lit cigarette in Rachael’s direction, Rachael knew when she wasn’t needed. She went searching for Sammy. After two trips around the terrace and the lower bar, now filled with a noisy crowd, she found Sammy leaving the bathrooms on the far side. Sammy’s black dress made her face unusually gaunt, though she’d styled her hair into short waves, just like at her own wedding four years ago.
Rachael approached with trepidation. “Sam.”
Sammy’s face flooded with relief. “Rach. I’ve been looking for you. I’m really sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to know that you’re all right.”
Sammy glanced around, then led Rachael to a quiet corner of the terrace, where the woodland encroached on the chalet. “It’s been a bad week,” she admitted.
“It’s more than that,” Rachael said. “Is it Marty?”
Sammy’s face wobbled, and she took a breath that was clearly a stopper on a flood of emotion. “Things . . . things might be a bit worse there than I told you.”
“How much worse?”
“Bad. Like so bad I can’t see how we get out of it.”
Rachael was aghast. “But back home you said you were going to counseling.”
“We should have done that a year ago.” She shook her head, a single tear escaping. “I love him, Rach, and I’ve been trying to find ways to hold it together, but he’s just not engaged with me. No matter what I do, he’s just drifting farther away. We don’t even really talk to each other anymore. Every time I’ve called this week he’s made an excuse after five minutes.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t realize. And now you’re here without him. You should have said something.”
“It’s given me time to think,” Sammy said, straightening her back as if regaining control. “This is my problem. Shall we get a drink?”
“I guess.”
They took glasses of wine to one of the high tables, Sammy attempting to steer the conversation onto more neutral topics, and both of them working on reconnecting. But Rachael didn’t want to mention anything about seeing the dressmaker’s showroom, or her solo adventures in Paris. It seemed too much to set her own hopes alongside Sammy’s turmoil.
Eventually they sat in silence, until Sammy said, “I saw you down there with Matthew before.”
Rachael gave her a furtive glance. “You remember what I told you about the other night?”
“Drunkgate?”
“Yeah. So, we were standing up there before and I got the feeling he was going to say something important.”
“Like what?”
Rachael blushed. She didn’t want to say it out loud. “Like something about us,” she mumbled. “Then he was interrupted, and I can’t stop thinking about what it might have been.”
She tried not to show her despair, to pull herself together.
Sammy squeezed her arm, a little too hard. “People get cold feet before weddings all the time, and when it’s this big and involved it’s probably worse. It’s probably just that. Rach, really, be careful. You shouldn’t give him opportunities to throw you like this. You came to see him get married, to get over him. Let him get on with it.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Rachael said, hoisting her spirits with great effort. At the end of the week, Matthew and Bonnie would go home to their plush Sydney life with its parties and opportunities, and Rachael would go back to the farm. Unless she was careful, she’d end up with a freshly broken heart. But the tiny kernel of hope that had been watered by Matthew’s attention was still persistently sprouting.
“Now, do you want to stake out a seat for this Les Mis show,” she asked, “or go exploring? I heard there’s a bridge across to the other island.”
“Unless you want our heels sinking into the ground, I vote the show,” Sammy said. Then she put a hand on Rachael’s arm, her expression grave. “Rach, I want to talk to you about something. Later on, okay?”
“Of course. What about now? There’s lots of time.”
Sammy shook her head emphatically. “No, later. After dinner. I want to enjoy the afternoon.”
* * *
The professional cast did an amazing job of Les Misérables without their usual sets and a limited live band supporting them. Rachael teared up during “I Dreamed a Dream,” and by the final rousing chorus she and Sammy had agreed they simply had to go and see every show the West End had to offer.
On a postshow high, they followed Evonne’s direction to move into dinner. The round tables had gold candlestick centerpieces with streaming ribbons, and a giant projection screen was set up at the front. Rachael and Sammy ended up at a table with Bernie, Rodney and Jeanette, and Matthew’s parents, Greg and Evelyn, who’d been circulating and seemed tired. There was also a couple from Bonnie’s side of the guest list, and Beverley, who sat herself next to Rachael.
Everyone was jolly, ordering cocktails and gushing over the immaculate duck pâté that arrived first. Bernie kept trying to fill Bev’s wineglass across the table, which she refused with unaccustomed politeness.
“Don’t look so amazed,” she said when she caught Rachael staring. “Bernie’s finally agreed to listen to my arguments about not moving the bakery, that’s all.”
Rachael’s own drink sat untouched, and she ate only half her food. Once, she saw Yvette across the room, but didn’t quite have the courage to approach her. Every time she thought she might, one of the sideshow acts that were circling around the tables would get in the way, producing a dove from a hat, or tearing money into pieces before making it whole again, or juggling the silverware. They created a festival atmosphere, full of goodwill, but the conversations were so loud that Rachael didn’t hear half of what Beverley was saying to her.
By the time the final plates were being cleared, Rachael had calmed down. She could only see the top of Matthew’s head from her table, so she didn’t have to worry about catching his eye, even when Peter stood and tapped a fork on his wineglass.
“I’ve been asked to introduce the formal part of the evening,” Peter said, making air quotes as he said “formal,” which generated a smattering of laughter. “My little brother is a pretty slick and successful guy, but I think you’re about to see that he came from some humble roots. We were sheep farmers, after all.”
More guffaws. Rachael sat up straighter.
“And, Bonn, don’t think you’re getting away with it either, because I’ve been assured that fashion sense of yours wasn’t always so developed! I think we’ll be presenting some evidence, so prepare yourself.” Peter tipped his head toward the projector.
The crowd was laughing with anticipation now as Bonnie covered her mouth in mock embarrassment.
“So, without further ado, I give you the gorgeous Bonnie—oh, and this guy right here, what’s his name?” A mock scuffle with Matthew ensued, which drew an “awww” from the crowd. “Just kidding. My little brother, Matty.”
A round of applause swelled as the lights dimmed, and over the top of the clapping, “Baby Love” began playing, and the screen showed a dimpled baby with a pink jeweled headband smiling from a high chair. The screen flipped to another baby, this one clearly Matthew, his face serious as he destroyed Christmas wrapping paper under a tinseled tree. The photos kept rolling, all with the washed-out look of age, showing Bonnie and Matthew growing up separately, obviously worlds apart. He appeared in landscapes around the farm—as a six-year-old on an ATV, as an eight-year-old wearing oversize gumboots and a cowboy hat and attempting to drag a sheep. Bonnie’s surroundings were much more sophisticated—lounging in a tiny bikini beside a blue pool, wearing a Madonna-esque costume for an eighties’ party, holding her grandmother’s hand on the catwalk at age ten. Rachael glanced in amazement at Yvette, who looked nearly the same in the photo as she did now, except for deeper hollows in her cheeks.
This wasn’t so bad. The dread Rachael had been anticipating wasn’t real. But the moment she thought it and let go of her protective tension, a punch slugged her in the soft center of her heart. Gradually, as they moved into the teenage years, she noticed she was missing from Matthew’s photos. She caught sight of herself in a few group shots, but in this critical period of their lives, when she and Matthew had been inseparable, there was no evidence of her.
The song switched to “Hound Dog” as Matthew flashed up in an Elvis suit, caught mid–crazy legs at the Parkes Festival. Then in his school formal suit, but without Rachael. There was one shot where she was sure she had been cut out, carefully and professionally. Interwoven were dozens of photos of Bonnie on the arms of various boys, but no one watching this show would have any idea that Matthew had even known Rachael.
She could accept that she was no longer in his life, that she had to find a way to move on. But this complete denial of her existence cut deep. Not only had she lost the last ten years of her life, but the two before it as well. That defining time, when she’d understood who she was and what she wanted because she was with Matthew, had vanished with the click of a mouse. Feelings of inadequacy, insignificance, of simply not mattering slammed through her like bullets. She was so ashamed of how she’d clung on to her memories of that time, and her heart shrank like cellophane under a hair dryer, cracking and crumbling to dust.
She couldn’t watch any more. Especially not now the pictures had moved on to their early twenties, when the lives of the bride and groom had collided. The music changed to “Chapel of Love,” and now Matthew and Bonnie were skiing together, hiking, diving on a reef. Matthew stood proudly in a gown and mortarboard, Bonnie beside him.
Rachael pushed out of her chair. That was the life she and Matthew were meant to have. She couldn’t bear it.
Sammy caught her eye, mouthed, Are you okay?
Rachael headed for the bathrooms, which meant squeezing down the side of the room so she didn’t block people’s view. The photos moved on to this week in Paris, but she held up a hand to avoid seeing Bonnie and Matthew posing with their friends before their hen and stag parties. She didn’t look back, didn’t stop, until she was through the doors and into the quiet outside.
The deck was deserted now, but for the floating lanterns and party lights that made bubbles of soft color between the shadows, and the silhouettes of lurking security guards patrolling the perimeter of the complex.
Rachael swore as only a true Aussie farm girl could. Of course she would have to be on an island. In a red dress.
She slipped off her shoes, which were clacking with every step, and flopped down on a patio seat, pretending to rub her feet as she looked for a way out. The ferry that had brought them across had disappeared, and as desperate as she was to leave, she wasn’t stupid enough to swim. The flounces in her skirt would be a death trap, and besides, these James Bond security men looked extremely capable of rescue, which would create an even bigger scene, completely defeating the object of leaving.
On the way over, she’d seen a bridge to the other island. She didn’t know what was over there, but maybe there would be a boat—
Wait a minute.
She stood, shoes in hand. Yes! The rowboats were still pulled up along the bank on the far side of the dock, where trees grew almost to the water’s edge.
Rachael padded toward the outside bathrooms, but as soon as the security man in view discreetly turned his back, she slipped through the gap between the pavilion and the terrace and trotted down the slope through the trees. The air rushed coolly past her cheeks, and the smell of greenery and muddy water meant liberation. She’d made it. And this time she wouldn’t go back. She’d take a train to London and get on a waiting list for a flight home if she had to.
The party was a receding collection of lights, an island within an island, Rachael an escaping shadow. She made for the farthest boat, reasoning she’d be better concealed, hissing as she stumbled over rocks and sticks on the path.
Fumbling with her shoes in her hand, she shoved the boat. It didn’t budge.
“Shit,” she muttered, leaning all her weight against it. It slipped an inch and she nearly ended up facedown in the water. Great. That would be the perfect way to end the night—dripping wet and ruining her dress.
She threw her shoes into the boat and climbed after them, her skirt rustling. The oars were long and sturdy, so she planted one against the bank and pushed. The boat creaked and rocked on its axis. Rachael swore again, especially as she could now see a suit coming down the hill between the trees. She’d been spotted.
She gave the oar one last heave, straining as all the blood rushed to her face, and the boat lurched another inch. Not far enough. James Bond was nearly on her now.
She flopped miserably back on the seat, ready to accept her fate. Maybe she could appeal to him to take her across. But then she lifted her eyes and saw short-cropped brown curly hair in a shaft of moonlight.
Worse than James Bond. It was Matthew.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“What does it look like?”
“Did something happen? I saw you run out.”
“Oh, no, I just fancied a nice little row down the river,” she hissed at him, furious. She’d wanted only to get away, and now here he was again, making her legs weak and her pulse race just by looking at her.
Leave me alone, she wanted to yell, but she couldn’t quite make her tongue form the words. How was it possible she could be so drawn to him and so repulsed at the same time?
She stared across the water, reconsidering the idea of swimming.
“Why don’t you come back?” he said. “There’s going to be dancing.”
She rounded on him. “When have I ever liked dancing?”
To his credit, he paused. “You never did, not really. You pretended to, though, sometimes, just to please me.”
Rachael’s anger cooled a few degrees. “I’m not going back in there. It’s humiliating having to watch all that.”
“What? Those stupid photos?”
Tears welled in Rachael’s eyes. “They’re not stupid to me, Matthew. You were my life for those years. Those photos made it look like I never even knew you. And then I have to see photos of . . . of . . .”
She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say of you and her.
Matthew gripped the edge of the boat and said, “Hang on.” The craft rocked as he easily swung himself over the side.
“Now what are you doing?” Rachael’s voice was shrill, her knuckles white around the oar.
“Rowing you across,” he said, extracting the oar from her grasp. He planted it in the bank like a javelin, and with two shoves the boat slipped from the bank.
“I loosened it up for you,” she muttered.
Matthew grinned, his teeth shining in the low light as he slid the oar ring back into its keeper.
Oh, don’t do that, Rachael thought. That smile melted her insides. It transported her instantly back to the time when Matthew’s hand seemed perpetually in hers, his lips were always available for kissing, and their future was uncharted but bright and exciting. Now, in the dark, those memories were cruel.
Matthew sculled slowly away from the bank. Out on the water, the air was alive with croaks and gentle lapping, the earthy smell was more pungent, the sky a great ceiling of stars. The chalet lights burned brightly on the island, plunging this part of the lake into an even greater darkness.
As they reached the middle, Matthew stopped rowing. The boat glided to a halt.
“What is it?” Rachael asked.
Matthew gently stowed the oars. He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples before he straightened again.
“I think I’ve made a huge mistake,” he said.
For a brief moment, Rachael thought he was talking about the boat. That he couldn’t reach the other side, or he’d remembered something he was supposed to be doing back at the party.
“What do you mean?” she said, her voice wavering.
He looked wretched, as though he might be sick. “This wedding . . . it’s a huge mistake.”
Sammy’s voice was loud in Rachael’s head. “You’ve just got cold feet,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He laughed, then gave her a crooked smile, full of anguish. “I still love you, Rach.”
Rachael’s heart stopped. “What?”
“I didn’t realize until I saw you again this week. I was so jealous of that goddamn photographer, all over you today. I wanted to hit his smug face.” Matthew leaned back, as though having to restrain himself.
Across the lake, the bright lights of the party seemed mocking. No one over there knew. Everyone, including Bonnie, was preparing for a wedding. Bonnie’s father had poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into this week—he’d flown the cast of a West End musical out here just for an afternoon’s entertainment, not to mention guests from Australia—and all of it hinged on the willingness of two people. And now here was one of them saying he wanted no part of it. The magnitude of that turned Rachael inside out. Right up until this moment, she’d been able to convince herself that she was only imagining his feelings for her. That safety net was now gone.
“But you haven’t seen me in years,” she said, her heart thumping in her chest. “You didn’t even come to Mum’s funeral.”
“I felt awful about that. I was at a conference, but I could have come. I got caught up. In this life, I mean. Like I said the other day. Living in Sydney for so long, I forgot what it’s like back home. What you’re like. You were right what you said the other morning about Sydney not being what I wanted. It’s not. I want what we talked about in that wheat field—being together, staying near Milton.” He shook his head. “You’re as beautiful as I remember. You look amazing.”
“It’s just the new clothes,” she whispered.
“No, it isn’t. You are amazing. When I think about what you did for your mum, how calm you were with Nicholas the other night, I can’t believe I forgot. Bonnie thinks you’re wonderful.”
Rachael was simultaneously buoyed and nauseated. “What about Bonnie?”
“Bonnie is . . . great,” he said carefully. “Really driven. I admire her a lot. But we’re both so busy working we hardly spend any time together anymore. We don’t want the same things. She loves the big-city lifestyle—events and parties, working around the clock, flying overseas. It’s all so intense.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think it’s been real love between us for a long time now.”
Rachael hugged herself. Her fingers were freezing against her arms. He was saying all the things she’d wanted to hear. But she’d never imagined they could make her so . . . unhappy.
He picked up the oars again and began rowing toward the opposite shore. A tiny part of Rachael was relieved, vindicated that she hadn’t been crazy to still be in love with him. For the first time since the invitation had arrived at the farm, the crushing sense of being left behind and unwanted, of being lonely, lifted away.
Soon, the bow ran up on the shore. Matthew sat staring at her.
“What happens now?” Rachael asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, and looked over his shoulder at the chalet jeweled with lights. “I have to go back.”
“I guess so.” Rachael clambered out of the boat, her skirts rustling.
For three heartbeats, they shared a lingering look, past dreams and present reality stoking both longing and regret.
“Rach . . .” Matthew began. Rachael’s heart broke as he closed his eyes, controlling himself. Finally, he spoke again, his voice choked. “At the dock just down there you’ll find one of the security guys. He’ll organize a car for you.”
He rowed away on the gloomy water, and was soon too distant to see.
In desperation, Rachael nearly called after him, I love you too! She hadn’t told him. And now she might never get the chance.