Joe whistled a catchy tune under his breath as he walked out of Christophe’s house. The delicious smells that permeated the Frenchie’s kitchen made his salivary glands run and his belly grumble, and stimulated his more base appetites, too.
He was more than eager to get back to Marta.
He’d left her sleeping when he left before dawn lightened the eastern horizon and headed to the gardens to harvest the choicest of vegetables for Christophe’s Chrissie bash.
It held the promise of a great day.
And for the first time in years he was actually looking forward to Christmas.
He swung up into the driver’s seat of his delivery van and caught a glimpse of Emily Brighton pottering in her backyard garden, and he frowned. Surely to God Christophe knew his next door neighbour would be spending today alone.
What the hell was the deal with Emily and Christophe anyway? Christophe said she was impossible, but Joe considered her a much younger friend who had had some tough breaks.
He could scarcely believe his ears when his mate admitted he hadn’t invited Emily to Christmas dinner. The whole idea behind the day was to bring Christmas cheer to friends who would otherwise spend the day alone. The kid had had a tough time, and Christmas Day had to be the roughest day of the year for her.
After Lisa’s death, Emily was more isolated than anyone Joe knew.
God knows, it was hard enough to lose a sister, but for it to happen on Christmas Day—Joe shook his head—what had Christophe been thinking? Living next door, he had to know this. How could he invite everyone else around who was alone, and not invite Emily? Disappointed, Joe had laid it on the line.
Now, he could only hope Christophe did the right thing, got over whatever the hell was bugging him, and invited his neighbour over for Christmas dinner.
Joe wound down the van window; the rush of warm air on his face matched his buoyant mood. He was pleased with himself, pleased with life in general and damned pleased to no longer be living in a state of perpetual frustration.
Would Marta be awake yet?
His blood was still thrumming from last night, their second gig. They had put together a terrific performance at Chez Christophe and already Joe was running through a new music set for their next gig.
To his relief, he hadn’t felt so much like a fish out of water.
Requests from patrons had come in thick and fast, and finally he’d relaxed and enjoyed the music, the rapport they created with their audience, and the intimate setting.
They were a hit.
Marta wowed the restaurant’s patrons and Christophe was more than eager to make her gig there a permanent fixture. If he does, will Marta stay in Marandowie with me?
When they had finished for the evening, Christophe had shared a glass of bubbly with them and this capped off a great experience. And still on a high when they reached Marta’s place, they’d tumbled into bed to celebrate their success.
Later, after that satisfying encounter, Marta finally agreed to spend Christmas Day with him at Christophe’s house.
Joe pulled into Marta’s driveway and used the key she’d given him to let himself in. He was so comfortable here, more than he’d ever been in his own home. That place held far too many memories and most of them were bad.
A pang of embarrassment stung him. Why had he spilled his guts to Marta? I thought I’d purged all that negativity years ago.
The quiet was enough to let him know Marta was still sleeping. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed; putting a hand on her shoulder, he gave her a little shake. ‘Rise and shine, sleepyhead.’
She muttered something and buried her face deeper in the pillow.
‘Marta, wanna see what Santa left for you under the tree?’
She rolled over and opened one eye. ‘Santa’s a fairy tale for kids.’
‘Maybe, but unless I’m mistaken he’s paid you a visit.’
‘And are there unicorns playing in the garden too,’ she grumbled and buried her head back under the pillow.
Joe laughed and grabbed hold of the duvet and yanked it off her recumbent form. ‘Come on, sleepyhead, rise and shine. We have a Christmas party to go to, don’t forget.’
Marta jerked upright and looped her arms around her knees. ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘Yes you do,’ he said softly, leaning down and feathering a kiss across her lips. ‘You promised, remember.’
She twisted upright and buried her face in her upraised knees.
‘How can I enjoy Christmas knowing my mum is in that place, and doesn’t know one day from the next? Or that Ben has been incarcerated so long he’s forgotten what freedom tastes like?’ she asked, her voice muffled with tears.
‘I know, and I’m sorry for it.’ His hand was gentle on her shoulder. ‘After dinner at Christophe’s do you want to drive down and see your mum?’
She looked up at him and hesitated, then shook her head, but to his relief, the threat of tears faded. ‘Her care nurse said not to visit too often in the beginning, it will unsettle her.’
‘You shower and dress and I’ll go make coffee.’ Whistling, he strode jauntily out to the kitchen.
***
Marta watched his retreating back and buried her face once more in her upraised knees. Joe was trying so hard—too hard.
It seemed to her that he already considered them a couple.
From that first moment she’d seen him across his father’s grave, Joe was there, extending one of his capable hands in help. Single-handedly, he’d rescued her singing gig at Chez Christophe.
And here, in the house where she’d grown up, Joe’s presence was now entrenched.
The house reeked of his personality.
Clothes and toiletries mysteriously appeared, flowers now bloomed on the table on the back terrace and in the big planter pots, and a state-of-the-art coffee machine enjoyed pride of place on the tired Formica bench in the outdated kitchen.
These changes occurred seamlessly by natural progression.
Yet, to her dismay, she still possessed this annoying kernel of doubt. This is all too easy; I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The rich aroma of coffee permeated the air, but it was the more homely scent of hot toast that made her stomach grumble. She walked into the kitchen. Joe stood with his back to her, slotting more bread in the toaster.
She walked up behind him and rested her head against his arm. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
He stiffened and turned around, slowly, his face scrunched in a frown. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Where are we heading, Joe?’
He chuckled. ‘To Christophe’s for Christmas dinner; he was already cooking up a storm when I dropped the veggies off earlier.’
This wasn’t what she meant and she sighed, frustrated. ‘I mean us, Joe.’
‘I know what you meant,’ he said quietly, his expression serious. He put a finger under her chin and lifted it so he could look into her face. ‘I don’t have any magic answer—so much is up in the air: Ben, your mother, your long-term employment prospects, even your decision to sell this house.’
She sighed again. ‘I know.’
‘We can’t magically pull answers out of a hat, so why not put it all aside for now, and let’s concentrate on enjoying the day?’
He was right and she knew this, but it didn’t mean she liked this state of being in perpetual limbo. It was foreign to her nature. She’d always liked to plan, and to be unable to do so, left her as directionless as a yacht with a broken rudder.
The toast popped and caught his attention. He added it to the tray. ‘Let’s sit outside and have breakfast.’
Marta followed him outdoors, stopping in the doorway and staring in surprise at the rustic wooden porch swing suspended from the rafters by chains and strewn with colourful cushions. It nestled close into the alcove where she’d put their Christmas tree.
‘Where did that come from?’
‘Santa came to visit,’ he said, his breath hot against her ear. ‘Do you like?’
She turned in his arms, her hands snaking up around his neck. ‘I’ve always wanted a porch swing.’
‘I remember. Happy Christmas, sweetheart, the first of many, I hope.’ He gave her a swift kiss and then pulled out a chair at the table. ‘Breakfast, ma’am.’
I am too well aware of your hopes, Joe—me, I’m not so sure.
Before she sat down, she leaned under the Christmas tree and extracted the box she’d hidden there yesterday. ‘This is for you, Joe. Happy Christmas.’
He sat on the chair next to her, and held the box, rattling it, his expression curious. ‘What’s this?’
She gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘It’s a Chrissie present, doofus.’
He ripped open the paper and stared at the distinctive box for designer shoes for a few moments before he gave her a quick, bland look. ‘Trying to smarten me up?’
She looked pointedly at the dilapidated thongs on his feet, patched with twine and bike inner tyre rubber so often they possessed little of their original manufacture.
‘Those thongs are well past their use-by date. They’re totally disreputable.’
The dry observation made him laugh. He opened the box lid, and frowned.
Marta inhaled a slow breath—how will he react?
He lifted out a layer of tissue paper, and his hands stilled as he stared at the box’s contents. He ratted among them before looking directly at her.
‘Where did you get these?’ he asked, his voice harsh and cracked in disbelief.
These were old VHS tapes and audiocassettes, obsolete as technology but these particular ones were special. They held recordings of Joe and his mates, and their band, back in the day when they’d cherished dreams of becoming the next hit rock band—dreams his mother had ruthlessly smashed.
‘Here and there,’ she said, her voice husky. ‘Mainly in junk shops and occasionally, I’d find a video or cassette in a second-hand music store.’
Joe didn’t need to know that she spent hours scouring such places in Sydney searching out these old tapes.
‘They made it into music stores?’
Marta caught his incredulous tone, and she understood. ‘They did. You and your mates were beginning to make it on the pop music scene, Joe.’
He laughed, and she winced at the cracked, broken sound.
‘I don’t have any of these.’ He sifted through the old VHS tapes and cassettes. ‘Mother eradicated mine. It’s as if that part of my life never existed, that I’d never belonged to an up and coming rock band, or cherished dreams of making it on the pop music scene.’
‘I remember.’ Marta moved closer and gripped his shoulder, supportive, silent, and sympathetic.
And suddenly, Adele Marshall was there on the sunny porch, right between them, an evil miasma clopping around in Tony Bianco shoes—and in a moment of insight, Marta understood Joe’s mother still held power, and threat.
People like Adele—obsessive, destructive and manically ambitious—didn’t just go away.
Then Marta heard it, a soft, definite sound—a shoe hit the ground somewhere.