Joe looked across and saw Emily hanging back. She stood stock still chewing on her lower lip, obviously uncomfortable and out of place among all these strangers. He wanted to erase her bleak unhappiness; after all he’d badgered Christophe into inviting her, and he felt responsible.
If Marta took exception, it was just too bad.
He leaned close to Marta and whispered, ‘I’ll just go and get Emily. She’s looking lost in this crowd.’
As he approached, Emily sidled up close beside him, her delicate brow pleated in a frown, worry darkening her eyes. ‘Where are you sitting, Joe?’
Around them, the other guests were taking their places at the elaborately decorated table. He put a hand on Emily’s arm. ‘Over there, last spot before the end. There’s no one facing me. Come on.’
Emily hung back. ‘I should never have come.’
‘You needed to.’ Joe kept his voice brusque. She did not need sympathy.
He knew she was battling loss and grief, and trying to put a brave face on it, the strain in her eyes clear to see. Today, the anniversary of her sister’s death, made her loss that much more poignant, and tougher to deal with.
God knows, I still miss Dad, and he’s been gone for years—a shaft of grief pierced clear through to his heart—hell yeah, I know what Emily is dealing with.
A commotion in the doorway drew everyone’s attention. Under cover of the noisy diversion, Joe said very softly, ‘Take a deep breath, sweetie, lift your chin. You can do this.’
Tears filmed her eyes, but she managed a faint smile. ‘Does it get any better?’
‘Eventually.’
She straightened her shoulders and smiled.
‘You’ll do.’ Joe eased out a relieved breath. ‘Come on before the seat is taken.’
He could only hope she could keep it all together. He ushered Emily to her seat then slipped into his seat opposite and beside Marta.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Marta hissed as he sat down.
Joe stared at her in blank astonishment. ‘What are you on about?’
‘What’s going on with you and that sheila? You’ve been chatting her up from the minute she walked in.’
‘Who? Emily?’
‘I believe that’s her name. What the hell is she to you?’
‘I’ve known Emily since she was knee-high to a grasshopper,’ he whispered, anger spiking his voice. ‘We’re friends, nothing more.’
‘Well that explains it then.’ The sarcastic words tumbled from lips turned down in a bitter sneer. ‘How come I’ve never met her before now?’
‘You’ve been gone from Marandowie a long time,’ he muttered, his patience strained. ‘Life doesn’t sit still and little kids do grow up.’
She narrowed her eyes and burned him with a scorching look. ‘And now little Emily is all grown up, and very nicely too, you’re all over her like a rash. There’s no accounting for tastes.’
‘You have to be kidding,’ he muttered. What the shit has gotten into Marta? Is she jealous? Of little Emily?
‘Shit. You insist on me coming here for Christmas dinner and all these other loners,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘Yet within two minutes you’re chatting up some other female.’
Anger curled in Joe’s gut. He stared at Marta, his eyes narrowed and a hand clenched on his knee.
‘When did you become such a bloody snob? It sure doesn’t impress me.’ He made no effort to temper his sizzling anger. ‘I remember, you see, you running around barefooted, and dirt poor. You came from the same place most of these people did.’
‘But unlike you,’ she said, a harsh thread of scorn in her voice, ‘I have worked to overcome my poor beginnings, while you Joe, still persist in acting like some clueless country hick.’
Hurt and anger released a rush of adrenaline into his bloodstream.
He shook his head in bewilderment; his state-of-the-art growing houses were one hell of a long way from playing, they were a serious business. About to tell her so, in no uncertain terms, the hot words died on his tongue as she turned away, showing him her shoulder, and talked to the pregnant blonde sitting on her other side.
Joe sat there, silently fuming and scanning the elaborately decorated table with its mind-bending array of cutlery and glassware. I hope like hell Christophe’s dishwasher is working. The thought of doing all these dishes by hand was daunting.
As a rule, the cook didn’t clean up.
Joe groaned under his breath—he’d been in the Frenchman’s kitchen often enough to know Christophe believed dishes and clearing away were best done by his flunkies.
He looked at Nico, seated across the table beside Emily, but this hope died.
Nico had already been hard at work in the kitchen, and now had his head down scrolling on his phone—he deserved a break on Christmas Day.
And Marta would never risk her manicure.
So he would be on his own for the clean-up—it was enough to put a man off his tucker.
He glanced at Emily, pleased to see she’d lost that scared rabbit look. He caught her eye and winked, and was rewarded with a glimmer of a smile.
The Brighton family was yet one more family in Marandowie to implode after the death of a family member—my family belongs to this exclusive club, a club no one ever asks to join.
A rousing cheer greeted Christophe as he walked through the doorway holding a platter aloft with dramatic Gallic flair.
Joe, jerked from his bleak thoughts, stared at it, trying to figure out what the hell it was.
It looked like some trussed up parcel of whatever—hooley-dooley, are these the crisp, fresh vegetables I brought here for Christophe earlier?
The poor things were sitting in some sort of jelly and primly arrayed around the centrepiece of—whatever the hell it was—and looking so bloody unnatural. To him, the whole thing resembled nothing more than a woman whose hair was sprayed to death with lacquer to keep it in place.
‘Ta-da!’ Christophe placed the huge platter in the centre of the table, and spouted off some unpronounceable French name, something about jewels in aspic.
Joe’s gulped and stared at it in horrified fascination.
‘What is it?’ Marta studied Christophe’s masterpiece, her head on one side.
‘Damned if I know,’ Joe muttered under cover of a burst of raucous applause.
Christophe spouted off in French and Joe heard murmurs of appreciation from the others.
‘Pretentious rubbish,’ Joe muttered, anger flattening his accent with a rough edge. ‘Ruination of garden-fresh produce, it you ask me.’
‘No one asked you.’ Marta’s hand slid along his thigh, too damn close to his junk, and her fingernails dug into his flesh. ‘Cut it out.’
Joe muffled a yelp. ‘What the hell was that for?’
‘Grow up or shut up,’ she muttered.
Their testy exchange was covered by the pregnant blonde, Freya, standing to serve Christophe’s creation and commanding the chef to sit.
Joe squelched his anger and, frowning, watched Freya take a slice of whatever the hell it was. ‘That protruding belly of hers must get in the way. Reckon she’ll help with the dishes? She looks right at home and here’s me, trussed up like a prize goose.’
Marta dug her fingernails into his thigh once more, and Joe caught her hand and held it just a little too tightly. He ignored her wince, his gaze steady. ‘Leave off.’
Marta met his gaze for several tension-laden minutes, and he released her hand. He indicated the open bottles of wine and held one bottle aloft. ‘Want some?’
‘Why not.’ She tossed her head and laughed, a brittle, unhappy little sound.
‘Red or white?’
‘White.’
‘Tell me when.’ He poured the sparkling beverage into a long-stemmed glass.
‘When.’ Her eyes mocked him.
Freya passed Marta the platter and after she’d taken a slice, she passed it to him. Joe helped himself before he handed it to Christophe. The savoury smell of spice and herbs made Joe’s belly grumble.
He watched Christophe hold the platter so Emily could serve herself, pleased to see his friend treating Emily with kindly courtesy. He was relieved to see the lines of strain around her mouth had eased. She said something to Christophe, and Joe saw his friend’s colour heighten—interesting.
Hell, did Marta see me looking? One quick glance, and he caught the jealous sparkle in her golden eyes. Too right, she’d noticed. He ate a mouthful—the fancy thing did taste good, far better than he expected.
He lifted his fork to Christophe in a gesture of appreciation. ‘You’ve outdone yourself, mate. This tastes better than it looks.’ Joe winked at Emily. ‘He’s a guy with many talents.’
Emily rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘I can see he’s an excellent chef.’ She sampled a forkful. ‘And this sure tastes good.’
Her laughter was music to his ears. If ever anyone deserved a break, it was Emily. He turned to Marta. ‘You like it?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the food.’ The caustic barb embedded in her voice burned. ‘What gives with you and the little blonde?’
‘Nothing, she’s just a kid, and one having a damned rough time.’
‘Are you sure? You seem inordinately concerned about her, is all.’
‘Emily doesn’t know anyone else here except me and Christophe,’ he said, his voice even. ‘And they’ve been at loggerheads over that broken wall between their houses. I insisted that Christophe invite her today, so I feel responsible to make sure she’s okay.’
Marta eased out a breath and visibly relaxed. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Christophe wants to demolish that wall and rebuild one that matches the wooden lathe fencing,’ Joe explained quietly. ‘Emily is fighting with him over it.’
‘Can’t say that I blame him.’
‘What?’ Joe looked up as he heard Christophe mention his name. ‘You talking about me, mate?’
Christophe looked disconcerted and Joe caught the wink he dropped Emily. ‘We were talking about the, huh, ban-jo.’
Banjo? What the hell did Christophe say that I missed?
‘Oh, right. Marta’s a musician, did you know, Emily? Do you play the ban-jo, Marta?’ Joe turned to her, his voice rich with suggestive laughter. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, ‘You play well with all my other instruments.’
Marta’s golden eyes narrowed and slowly, deliberately, she lifted a forkful of food to her lips and curled her tongue around its prongs, her gaze never leaving his, her eyes laughing at his discomfort.
He was so turned on; heat coiled in his gut, rising up his neck and into his face—Jeez, it is hot.
This was the Marta he had loved so desperately, the Marta who could tease him with one sultry look—the Marta who broke my heart and left me behind without even saying goodbye.
Belated caution surfaced—the memory of his desolation too vivid to ignore.
Now, she planned to sell and move. To her credit, she’d been open about this from the first. She will never be happy here—and I will be unhappy anywhere else.
Desperate for distance he turned to Emily.
She and Christophe were in close conversation, their heads almost touching—at least someone’s day was going well. Immediately, he regretted the thought. If anyone deserved happiness she did.
At the end of the first course, Christophe stood.
Joe took this as a signal and began to gather the used dishes. To his surprise, Freya stood and signalled Nico. He put away his phone and signalled Flick. She also stood and they all helped gather the used dinnerware.
In the kitchen, Nico and Flick were firmly in charge. Flick rinsed and stacked and Nico fed the dishes through the commercial dishwasher Christophe had installed in his kitchen.
Joe eased out a relieved breath. Trust the canny Frenchman to have all bases covered. ‘Do you need help?’
‘No we’ve got this covered.’ Nico grinned at him. ‘You just bring us the used stuff.’
‘You don’t want a day off?’
‘Helping Christophe here today is earning me a very nice bonus. Almost enough to enable me to put a down payment on a four-by-four.’
Joe clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. ‘Next thing we’ll be seeing you cruising around in your muscle-truck showing off to the locals.’
‘Oh, yeah, can’t wait to move up from my Tonka toy.’ Nico turned back to the mounting pile of dishes.
Christophe was serving out portions of turkey and vegetables onto plates spread out on the long counter, and spooning over some delicious smelling gravy. He worked with a terrifying efficiency that left Joe intimidated. This was a side of his friend he’d not seen in action before.
Nico and Flick worked with a similar streamlined efficiency—and here’s me, spinning my tyres like some useless spare wheel.
Disgruntled, he returned to the dining table. Marta was sprawled back in her chair, a glass of wine in one hand, gesturing expansively with the other, deep in conversation with Freya and Elizabeth, the woman who had arrived late and sat next to Jago.
Marta turned to Joe. ‘Freya knows a great interior designer and she’s going to ask him to contact me about Mum’s house.’
Warmth soothed his edginess. Was Marta reconsidering? His hopes rose, but before he could comment Christophe appeared in the doorway.
Freya and the other guests hastily moved back to their places.
Christophe stepped onto the patio, with what seemed like a hundred plates of food balanced on his hands and both arms. Startled, Joe half rose out of his seat intent on relieving his friend of his burden.
Marta jabbed him in the ribs, hard, and hissed, ‘Don’t, you moron.’
‘Ooof!’ He sat down so hard his backside stung when it connected with the chair—shit, I’ll bet I have a bruise there.
‘Touch one of those plates, Joe, and the rest will fall. Christophe knows what he’s doing.’
The chef overheard her and grinned. ‘All trainees at chef school learn this skill.’ He deftly off-loaded plates in front of his guests.
Flick and Nico appeared from the kitchen area, each carrying dinners with equal dexterity.
Joe rubbed at his ribs sure he’d have another bruise where Marta’s elbow had connected. ‘You didn’t need to do that,’ he grumbled under his breath.
‘I did,’ she muttered. ‘To carry plates like that is a delicate balancing act. Touch one, you idiot, and the rest would have crashed to the floor.’
‘I’m not an idiot, or a moron, thank you very much.’
‘Could have fooled me.’ Marta looked at him, her golden eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. ‘Why not try and act like a civilised human, Joe, and not like some mannerless, outback hick. You know better. For all her faults, your mother did teach you manners and class.’
Hurt and offended, Joe showed her his shoulder and attacked his dinner. What the hell, Marta, aren’t I good enough for you?
All the old insecurities surfaced. Insecurities he’d thought he’d rooted clean out of his mind years ago in the fallout from his father’s death. He rubbed a hand across the burn in his belly in a well-remembered reflex action.
Freya nudged his elbow. ‘You finished, Joe?’
Shit! Everyone’s finished and I never even noticed and never tasted a mouthful of chef’s food.
He hastily stood and helped Freya collect plates and glasses. In the kitchen, Nico already had the dishwasher loaded and running. There was no sign of Flick, but Elizabeth was assisting Christophe to put the finishing touches to the pudding.
Joe didn’t offer any help; he left and went looking for Marta.
He found her talking to Freya and Kiet; the latter seemed to be in a much better frame of mind. Not inclined to join them, he mooched over to the side table where Christophe was laying out the pudding buffet.
The cake Joe had watched Christophe roll into a log shape earlier this morning, when he’d delivered the vegetables, formed the centrepiece, but now it sported a fancy chocolate coating that looked like bark and was decorated with bits of life-like greenery and sprays of red berries—it was almost too pretty to cut. There were at least a dozen side dishes of fresh fruit, jellied fruit, fresh fruit salad and a berry-laden pavlova and other enticing goodies—Christophe sure knew how to put on a good feed.
Marta walked up beside him and he asked, ‘Do you want pudding?’
‘For God’s sake, Joe, show some class. French chefs create desserts, not pudding.’ She shook her head. ‘You go ahead, I’ll settle for a glass of chilled punch.’
She turned away and he glared at her back, hastily biting back a crude comment. Marta could damn well please herself, but he wasn’t about miss to out on this treat. Cooking for himself, he seldom bothered with pudding—oops, sorry, dessert—and he helped himself to a heaping plateful.
More guests descended on the dessert buffet. The women ate the fruity stuff, he noticed, but the men didn’t hold back.
Christophe saw him and grinned. ‘I never guessed you had such a sweet tooth.’
‘I seldom get stuff like this.’ Joe gestured to his plate. ‘I’m making the most of it. You’ve outdone yourself today, mate.’
‘It’s a pleasure to see people sharing good food and good company.’ Christophe clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy.’
Joe watched his friend move among the other guests, sharing a word here, and a laugh there. The Frenchman was in his element acting as host and the guests were lapping it up.
Those eating dessert sat at the table in informal groups, and the convivial buzz of conversation added to the festive air.
Joe scanned the crowd, and eased out a relieved breath when he saw Emily in conversation with Freya over the far side of the pool. Freya held a glass of water, absently rubbing a hand over her protruding belly. The baby kicked and water splashed from her glass. Both women laughed, and Joe grinned.
‘What’s so funny?’ Marta slid into the seat beside him.
Joe explained, and she turned to watch the two women, chuckling as the thin fabric of Freya’s dress tented out when a little foot or elbow moved. ‘That must be a weird sensation, a baby doing somersaults inside you.’
‘Do you want to have a baby?’ Joe’s voice was husky with longing.
Would Marta commit to him, commit to staying in Marandowie? Around them, the buzz of conversation rose and fell, but for Joe, his world narrowed to Marta. Her incredible eyes sparkled gold for a moment before they went flat.
‘At the moment, no, my life is too unsettled.’ She gathered his empty dessert plate, stood and looked down at him. ‘I would like a child one day, but not until I’m in a committed relationship. No child of mine will ever be left wondering about its father.’
She moved away, gathering up empty plates as she went.
Joe watched her until she disappeared into the kitchen, aware of the uneven beat of his pulse—was that a glimmer of softness he’d seen in her eyes?
Lunch over, guests mingled and conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed. Flick was sprawled in a chair, her sloppy smile and flaccid limbs indicating her tipsy state. He swirled the beer in his can. He wasn’t enjoying himself anymore, and he fought the urge to get stinking, rotten drunk.
Christophe stood on the wide steps that descended from the patio to the area around the pool, and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.
‘There are digestifs at the bar on the far side of the pool.’ He raised his voice a little so everyone could hear. ‘And chocolates and sweetmeats.’
‘Dee what?’ Joe asked—what the hell is Christophe on about now?
‘Liqueurs,’ the chef clarified. ‘They help your food digest and are just a fancy name for alcoholic beverages.’
‘Liquor?’ Joe grinned in sudden understanding. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so? Alcohol people, this way!’
Marta gave him a sharp dig in ribs still painful from her previous jab.
‘Oww! What was that for?’
‘Do you always have to act the crass country hick?’ she hissed. ‘Show a little class. You and I both know you do possess polish.’
He stopped suddenly, and stared at her through narrowed eyes, temper fizzing along his veins.
‘I am what I am, Marta,’ he said through his teeth, his voice lethally quiet. ‘And there’s no fucking way I’m changing, not for you, not for anyone, not for anything. I had enough of that from my mother. If you don’t like me—as I am—I suggest we fucking end this right here, and right now.’