I’m not sure what I dread most, the almost four-hour drive—even though Hugo insists it’ll only get dark after we reach the suburbs—or dinner with my father and Jacqueline. I hope her twin sons will be there too, but as they’re only six years old, they might be in bed.
I glance at the broomsticks lying side by side on the workbench in the flower room. They’re roughly the same size, but one is made from a branch of an ironbark tree and the other from a red gum branch, so the colours and grains are distinct. Gus suggested I use willow for the brush, and gave me so many twisted sticks I could’ve made broomsticks for two Quidditch teams. I’ve adjusted the lengths of the branches for Atticus and Alex, but in other ways the broomsticks look much the same as those described in the books and seen in the movies.
I run my hands over the timbers, sanded satin smooth and lightly varnished. ‘If they don’t like Harry Potter, I’m in trouble.’
Sitting on the bench next to the broomsticks is the crown I’ve made for April to wear at her wedding. Next week, we’ll work out the best way to attach it to her head without messing up her hair. I glance at my watch as I pull out my ribbon, combing through my hair with my fingers until it falls smoothly down my back. My overnight bag is sitting at the door. I’m dressed in a clean white shirt, new jeans and my best brown boots, and the broomsticks are ready. Hugo is always late. I should have time to work out where the pins should go before he arrives.
I walk to the mirror that hangs against the wall near the bookcase.
Jet had been sitting on a chair at the workbench as I was laying a crown of jonquils, freesias and daffodils on her long blonde hair when I mentioned I should buy a full-length mirror from the hardware store. ‘That way, brides could look at their dresses and hair together,’ I said.
‘What?’ She laughed. ‘Get them to admire their reflections in the water trough.’
Jet resembles a young Elle Macpherson, but is unlikely to have spent long enough in front of a mirror to make the connection.
‘What do you mean, “them”? You appreciate you’re about to be a bride?’
She raised a hand to the crown. Her smile faded away. ‘I want flowers for my hair. Finn wants a wedding ring. That’s what we care about.’
The next time Jet came to the farmhouse, she had a mirror in the back of her ute. ‘You like old things,’ she said. ‘And you’re obsessed with your garden.’ She’d bought the mirror from an antique shop in Dubbo. The frame is faded gold leaf with a design of flowers and vines and is so heavy that it took the two of us to carry it inside. She hammered fittings to the wall and we hung it up. ‘What do you think?’
I hugged her tightly. ‘I love it.’
I peer into the glass as I turn my head this way and that, attempting to see the crown at all angles. The twelve crepe roses are fixed from ear to ear on a narrow wire base, hidden by ribbon that’ll match the bridal gown. The roses are cream.
Eggshell, vanilla, seashell, magnolia.
The varieties are old-fashioned.
Hybrid Tea, Bourbon, Floribunda, English.
Each type of rose has a different formation of petal and shape. Some are dense with scores of petals, others are simpler with only ten or twelve. Scattered among the roses are different-sized leaves, emerald, moss and forest green. I walk carefully back to the workbench, pushing aside crepe as I search for the bowl of pins.
‘There you are.’
I secure the first few pins. But then I’m distracted by the buttonhole arrangements I’ve made for Gus and the father of the bride. Last week, I collected gumnuts from the park and used a hot glue gun to attach them to the stems. The crepe for the flowers was white, but I stained it with peppermint tea. I examine the tiny flowers closely. The stem and pod are wrapped in floristry tape. The flowers started out as long strips of crepe, cut myriad times to make a fringe. I wrapped them around the pods to create the delicate feathery blooms. I smile. Gran would be proud of me. And they smell lovely.
When I lay the flowers gently back on the bench, April’s crown shifts. I reach for more pins, carefully finding places to hide them. April’s version of a bridal waltz is an energetic folk dance and her hair is curly and short. Will the crown survive the turns? I find the old radio under a coil of wire I used for the broomsticks, pull up the antenna and switch it on.
I sing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ with Frankie Valli as I twirl around the bench. I spin near the window on the toes of my boots. I waltz towards the bookcase, one arm to the side and the other at shoulder height, as if I have a partner. I pirouette in front of the mirror and glide across the floor. The room spins around me, a blur of colour and—
‘Oh!’ I’m moving so fast that it takes a few moments to stop. Ma Hargreaves and Matts are standing at the door. Ma smiles and clasps her hands to her breast; Matts leans against the doorframe, one foot in front of the other.
Frankie continues to sing.
‘Don’t stop on our account,’ Ma calls.
My face is warm. I’m puffing quietly. My feet are frozen to the floorboards in the centre of the room. The song comes to an end. Beeps sound over the radio. The announcer’s voice: ‘It is precisely three o’clock.’
‘I …’ I focus on Ma. I lift my hair and twist it. ‘I didn’t want the crown to fall off in the dance.’ My words come out in a rush.
‘It’s for April, isn’t it?’ Ma says. ‘What a wonderful wedding gift.’
I glance at Matts. He’s not laughing. Or angry. Or smiling. When our eyes finally meet, he peels off the wall and nods politely as if nothing has happened. He looks around.
‘You make these flowers?’
It’s only as I follow his gaze that I realise how many flowers are in the room. A garland of crimson chrysanthemums hangs above the door. Bottlebrush and grevillea in vibrant shades of saffron and ruby spill out of a basket near the window. Giant gerbera flowers I made for last year’s high school formal are propped up in a corner and reflected in the mirror. The Remembrance Day poppies I’ll give to Gus and his friends in November are lined up on the shelves of the bookcase.
‘I—yes.’
‘Sapphie’s grandmother taught her how to do it,’ Ma tells Matts. ‘It’s a family tradition.’
I walk quickly to the bench and switch off the radio. ‘That’s right.’ I take one pin out of my hair, and then another. ‘Matts? What are you doing here?’
‘I arranged to meet Gus,’ he says. ‘I also wanted to settle our itinerary.’
‘Your expedition is only two weeks away,’ Ma says happily. ‘Matts was telling me all about it.’
Matts watches closely as I take another pin from my hair. ‘I’ll have a look at the details,’ I say. ‘I’ll message tonight.’
‘I was in the store when Matts found me,’ Ma says, ‘about to leave for the farmhouse. I told him you’d be here.’
‘I didn’t expect you either, Ma. Hugo will be here soon. He’s giving me a lift to Canberra, remember?’
She limps over to me and touches my arm. ‘Are you all right, love?’
I force a smile. ‘I’m fine. Your knees are playing up again, aren’t they? Can I help with anything before I go?’
‘Only the lemons, love. I promised Mike I’d make tarts for Warrandale’s fete. You said I could have a bucket from your orchard.’
‘I forgot, Ma. I’m sorry. Of course you can have them, but—’ I glance at Matts. ‘—it’s not my orchard yet.’
‘Only a matter of time, love.’
My hand is unsteady as I pull out another pin. ‘I’ll take this off and find the stepladder.’
‘I’m not in a hurry.’
The next few pins pull out easily. Another I can’t get hold of. ‘Ma? Could you give me a hand?’
When a car door slams outside, Ma looks out of the window. ‘Hugo’s here.’
‘He’s hardly ever on time.’
‘Pa’s worried about you going all that way. I’ll ask Hugo to help with the lemons while you get sorted out here. Turn around, love. I’ll see to the pins first.’
‘Let me,’ Matts says.
Ma beams. ‘Thank you, Matts.’ She pats my arm. ‘Won’t be long.’
Matts is far taller than Ma. He stands close while I take deep breaths, trying to steady my heartbeats. He smells nice.
‘Try not to touch the flowers,’ I say quietly.
Moving methodically from left to right, he pulls out pin after pin and puts them into the bowl.
‘Why are you really here?’ I ask.
He rests a hand on my shoulder as he feels for pins behind my ear. He hasn’t shaved today. Maybe not for a few days. My skin warms.
‘I’ve already told you,’ he says.
‘You won’t have long with Gus, because Freddy won’t get him to the pub until after five, and trivia starts at six.’
‘I wanted to see you too.’
‘You could have called.’
Another pin drops into the bowl. ‘That’s all of them.’ He takes a step back. His hands drop to his sides.
‘Thank you.’ I raise my arms slowly, taking the crown by the frame, lifting it from my head and placing it gently on the bench. I smooth my hair. When I turn again to face him, he’s closer than he was. Our eyes meet. His gaze slips to my mouth.
‘It’s beautiful, Sapphie,’ he says.
We’re the only two people in the room. The nation. The world. The universe. I’m not sure who moves first, but all of a sudden my hands are on his chest and my face is in his hands and our mouths aren’t quite touching but our breaths are all mixed up.
‘Matts?’
‘You shouldn’t have kissed me again,’ he mutters, as his hands slide to my shoulders.
‘It was you who started it last time.’
His hands move down my arms and link loosely around my body. ‘Forgive me, Sapphie,’ he says, before taking my bottom lip between his teeth and drawing it into his mouth. I moan and he releases it.
I take a shaky breath. Rest my head against his chest. ‘I couldn’t see past my own hurt to yours.’
When he pulls me closer, I don’t think he cares that his arm is on the side of my breast and his erection is pressed firmly against my stomach. He knows I understand.
We are not who we were.
He traces a path with his lips from my nape to my ear to my temple. ‘Too beautiful,’ he mutters, his breath soft and warm on my cheek. I pull his head down and kiss him, sighing in relief when I find his tongue and stroke it with mine. He tastes of peppermint.
He didn’t like cakes or sugary food but he liked to eat peppermints. Mum used to keep a packet in her handbag and wouldn’t let me touch them. ‘No, Sapphire. They’re for Matts.’
Our lips are wet and sweet, curious and impatient. My hands explore his chest. They press against his abdomen and cling to his hips. Aching warmth pools in my stomach and seeps to my thighs.
Hugo laughs loudly.
Ma Hargreaves calls out, ‘Sapphie!’
The stepladder clangs shut.
When I bunch my hands against Matts’s chest, he loosens his arms. ‘When are you back?’ he asks gruffly.
‘Late tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Will you stay with Robert and Jacqueline?’
I shake my head. ‘At a motel.’
He picks up a lock of hair from my shoulder, kisses it and lays it down my back. He cups my face again, lifting my chin with his thumbs.
My hands open and close. Should I bring him closer or push him away?
‘The farmhouse,’ I blurt. ‘You said you didn’t know what my father had done. Was that the truth?’
‘I don’t lie.’
‘Sometimes you only tell me what you want me to know.’
He kisses me again, short and sharp. ‘Trust me, Sapphie, then you get more.’
I smooth his sweater over his chest before I pull away. ‘It’s not easy.’
When we face the bench, our arms touch. He picks up Gus’s buttonhole and examines the flowers. ‘Your grandmother,’ he says quietly. ‘You blamed me for that too.’
Bending my knees, I take a shoebox from under the bench. When I place April’s father’s buttonhole on the tissue paper bed, Matts puts Gus’s buttonhole beside it.
‘What happened with her was messed up with other things.’
‘I’ll be away for two weeks—until the day before we leave. We have to talk before then.’
‘I don’t want to talk about Gran.’
‘Then we talk about the wetlands.’ Without touching me in any other way, he kisses my mouth again, a whisper on my lips. ‘It’s a start.’
The front door slams against the wall. Hugo shouts, ‘Sapph! Get your arse into gear!’
‘Coming!’
I put my hair behind my ears with shaky hands. Cutting a length of twine from a reel, I tie the broomsticks together and put them into a cotton drawstring bag, securing it tightly around the sticks but short of the wire that binds the willow. I pull another bag over the top.
Matts watches every move. When I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss his cheek, his bristles are rough.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Queensland, WA.’ He runs his fingertip down my nose to my mouth. He traces a line along the crease between my lips. ‘Call me tonight.’
We are not who we were.