Marta’s pulse skipped and danced as she drove into the laneway of Joe’s market garden. The place was a hive of activity, and she carefully negotiated her way to the area designated as visitor parking.
A big sign advised all visitors to go to the office.
Goggle-eyed, Marta stared through the windscreen, trying to assimilate everything at once and for the first time in a long while, she was thoroughly confused. When did all this happen?
A smartly painted packing shed sported a huge, billboard-sized picture of Joe, clean shaven, smartly dressed, his arms crossed and smiling at the camera, beneath a banner proclaiming Joe’s Gourmet Vegetables.
The image was life-sized and life-like.
Joe was one handsome dude, and that portrait had captured his rugged good looks.
Beneath it, a large curtain-sided chiller truck was parked at a loading bay. Two forklifts worked like busy ants loading it with pallets. Beyond the truck she could see a huge expanse of plastic-sided growing houses. Twisting her head to the side a little, she could see what looked like a construction crew hard at work.
She shook her head in disbelief.
An old dude drove past on a tractor, and it wasn’t until he lifted his battered cap to her in greeting that she realised he was one of the men who had helped clear up the yard around her mother’s home.
Marta lifted a hand in belated greeting.
This upmarket facility bore little resemblance to the hardscrabble acres Joe’s father had scratched a living from.
‘I don’t have excess cash to splash around’—Joe’s words echoed in her head. Looking at this set-up, Marta wasn’t surprised.
Her mother had once mentioned in passing that Joe had redeveloped the market garden he’d taken over after his father’s sudden death, but she had never expected anything so … so, well, industrialised.
Men and machines were busy at work.
Looking at this set-up, Marta held no doubts that Joe had parlayed his father’s small-time market garden into a large and obviously profitable enterprise.
Someone rapped on her car window, and she turned with a start.
Joe was grinning at her, the real Joe, wearing a ragged T-shirt, scruffy shorts, scarred work boots and black stubble on his chin, his genuine smile welcoming; this was not the polished billboard facsimile.
She smiled at him through the window.
‘This is a surprise.’ He opened her car door and stood there, hands on the top of the door, his chin resting on them. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I can’t believe this place.’ She stepped out of the car, her gaze darting everywhere as she tried to take it all in. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘It’s still very much a work in progress,’ he said, grinning at her and so obviously enjoying her reaction.
Marta looked at him over the top of the car door. ‘You were actually serious when you said you’d employ Ben?’
‘Most definitely, I will need more staff. When the construction crew have finished the new growing houses, I will have twenty acres in production under cover, besides the paddocks of outdoor crops.’
‘Good Lord,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Would you like to come and have a look around?’
Marta hesitated. ‘I’d love to, but I’m on my way to the cove. Eve is running me through her duties today.’
‘When is her baby due?’
‘End of January, but she goes on leave after the seventh.’
‘Do you think she’ll last that long? She looked about ready to pop when I saw her yesterday.’ He lifted his disreputable hat and scratched his head. ‘I was delivering vegetables to Christophe when she waddled in to pass on a message from McIntyre.’
Once again, she caught the slight sneer in his voice whenever Xander McIntyre’s name came up in conversation. Marta didn’t understand his attitude to the developer who was responsible for rejuvenating what had been a rundown and very tired facility.
‘God! I hope she doesn’t decide to have that baby early.’ She looked up at Joe, tension knotting the skin between her brows. ‘You don’t like Xander?’
‘He’s okay.’ There was no mistaking his grudging tone. ‘Just don’t let the man run you ragged. You’re taking on one hell of a lot. The man’s a workaholic and he expects the same of everyone else.’
‘I do know this, but I appreciate that you care, Joe.’ She met his dark eyes, her expression and tone serious. ‘I’ve come to apologise. I offended you last night, and I never intended to. I do appreciate your help.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re right too, about letting Ben help with the rest of the clean-up.’
‘It’s okay, I need to apologise as well. I was pushy and out of line over that photo and the things we found in that trunk.’
‘You were.’ She took a slow, deep breath; apologising didn’t come easy. ‘But you were right; I do need to find out more. After I’ve finished with Eve at the resort, and run through my repertoire with Christophe, I’m going to visit with Mum and I’ll take that photo.’
‘Do you think she will remember?’
‘Who knows? The strangest things will sometimes jog loose a cascade of memories. Other times—’ she shrugged and spread her hand in wide a gesture of frustration, ‘— nothing.’
‘Are you hoping the photo will jog loose something in her memory?’ He hesitated a moment, then asked, ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
Agnes Field had always been very fond of Joe. Undecided, Marta scuffed a shoe in the gravel. Do I want Joe to visit Mum with me?
‘Would you? Aren’t you busy?’
Joe glanced back over his shoulder. ‘My staff can manage without me for a day. Do you want me to drive you there?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘No. I’m due to meet with Eve in an hour, and then I have a meeting with Christophe. I’m aiming to get to the rest home around three.’
Joe rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘How about I meet you at Rest Haven at three then? You can text me if there’s any change, okay?’
Marta nodded and sat back in her car. Joe looked down at her through the open door. ‘Drive carefully. The traffic will be brutal this close to Christmas. And talking of Christmas, have you anything planned?’
‘Christophe has organised an orphans’ Christmas party for his friends who have no family to go to. Would you like to come with me?’
‘You’re not spending Christmas with your Mum or Becky?’
‘Becky’s flying to Germany next week to spend the holiday season with her partner. As for Mum—’ He broke off shaking his head. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘Look, I have to go. I’ll let you know, okay?’
Marta shut the car door, fired up the engine and backed out of the parking lot. As she drove away she saw Joe in the rear-vision mirror, standing there, hands on his slim hips, and frowning.
He wants me to join him and his friends for a Christmas party—sorry, Joe; I’m not a charity case. It isn’t going to happen.
***
Joe watched Marta drive away, and scowled. Why did she light out of here like a scalded cat? He aimed a kick at an inoffensive clump of weeds. Marta was fine until I mentioned Christmas.
He gripped the back of his neck—this was too much like a repeat of the past. Me left staring at Marta’s back as she walks away.
He kicked at the clump of weeds again, this time sending them flying across the visitor carpark. Well, he was damned if he was going to sit back and do nothing, and he was tired of seeing her back as she left.
‘So how do you plan to make Marta want to stay?’
Joe looked around, expecting to see his father, the acerbic comment a little too close to the bone. His father as usual, was right—I need to make a bold statement.
‘What’s up, boss? You look like you’ve lost your last friend.’
Joe looked into Kev’s weather-beaten face and scowled. ‘I asked Marta to come to a friend’s place with me for a Christmas party, and you’d think I’d asked her to attend a prostitutes’ ball,’ he groused, kicking at the gravel again.
Kev’s rusty chuckle grated on Joe worse than hayseeds in his grundies, and he glared at the old guy, and silently cursed his far too sharp eyes.
Nothing much got past Kev. He’d been a fixture here, since Joe himself was a boy.
‘Seems to me she has a mighty lot on her plate, and kicking up her heels and having a bit of fun probably isn’t on her radar.’ Kev lifted his battered hat and scratched at his bald head. ‘What with her brother still inside and her mum losing her marbles and all grip on reality, Christmas probably looks like a real downer for young Marta.’
Shit! Why didn’t I think of this?
Joe knew. He’d been too busy wallowing in his own shit, and not really processing all that Marta had going on in her life.
‘You need to do something real nice for her, something that will cheer her up.’ Kev’s shrewd old eyes saw far more than Joe was comfortable with.
‘Like what? I’ve cleared up her yard, and helped clear out the clutter Agnes left inside that house.’
‘Bad, was it?’
‘Ten times worse than it was outside. It was crammed to the rafters with paper and junk and anything else Agnes could lay her hands on.’
‘I guessed as much. I used to be real friendly with Agnes, but she only had eyes for that charming rascal, Sean Finnelley.’
The far-away expression in Kev’s eyes had Joe doing a double take. Kev once had a thing for Marta’s mother—no wonder he volunteered to help me clear up the yard around her house.
‘You’ve known Agnes Field for a while?’
Joe desperately wanted to ask Kev what he knew about Sean Finnelley, but he curbed his curiosity. It wasn’t his place and judging by Marta’s reaction last night, if she learned that he was asking questions, it would piss her off, big time.
‘All me life.’ Kev’s expression dared Joe to make something of this. ‘I’ve called in on Agnes a time or two, and knew she wasn’t coping. She was so damned paranoid that I contacted social services with my concerns.’
‘I didn’t know this.’
‘No reason why you should.’ That shrewd gaze held Joe pinned. ‘Tell me, son. Did you help Marta because of her mother, or did you help her because she needed help?’
Guilt slugged Joe upside of the head—‘I’m doing this for your mother. For no other reason.’—and he struggled not to squirm.
‘I thought as much.’ Kev hooted lustily and slapped Joe on the shoulder. ‘You want to make an impression on that lady, mate, you’re going to have to up your game.’
‘And what would you suggest?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been so busy playing in the dirt around here that you’ve forgotten how to sweet-talk a lady? God, you have me really concerned.’ Chuckling under his breath, Kev turned to walk away. He’d gone a few yards when he looked back over his shoulder. ‘It’s gonna take more than a few fancy flowers and chocolates. You need to think up something that Marta needs and would appreciate. That lady’s got real nice tastes.’
Tell me something I don’t already know. Joe watched Kev walk away, resisting the urge to grind his teeth in frustration. The old guy was right—damn him to hell and back.
The question was what could he do that Marta would appreciate. She’d always been prickly and that hadn’t changed one iota.
It would have to be something personal, something she would take delight in.
***
Flushed with pleasure after her interview with Christophe, Marta was still on a high when she turned into the rest home carpark.
Joe was already there, leaning against his dusty ute parked in the shade of a spreading gum tree. He had changed from his ratty work clothes into tan chinos and a dark golden brown collarless shirt, and he’d trimmed his whiskers.
He is one handsome hunk, and sure as hell cleans up nicely.
He barely resembled the boy she’d left behind all those years ago. This older, mature Joe was all man, a man she was fast falling for, all over again. As if I have time in my life for personal relationships.
Marta’s heart did a little one-two skip in her chest and her mouth went dry.
He straightened up as she parked beside his ute and stepped forward to open her car door. ‘How did you get on with Christophe?’
‘Great.’ She gathered the photo and her purse, then alighted, giving him a beaming smile. ‘He’s a delight, and so easy to talk to.’
‘For a Frenchie, he’s a pretty straight-up guy. So what have you decided with him?’
‘He wants me to do a Friday and Saturday night gig until March, then we’ll reassess.’ Marta couldn’t keep the lilt out of her voice.
‘Did you sing for him? Was the band there too?’
‘The band wasn’t there; I accompanied myself on my guitar.’
Joe stood staring down at her, and frowned. ‘How do you know if you’ll gel with the band?’
‘Christophe said he’ll talk to them.’
‘Marta,’ Joe sighed softly. ‘You and I both know that may not work. Have you worked with this band before?’
She stiffened and some of her pleasure leached away. Trust Joe to highlight the flaws in this arrangement. ‘No, but Christophe assures me they are easy to work with.’
Joe didn’t say anything else, but his frown was far from reassuring. ‘I guess he knows what he’s doing. What has he arranged, equipment-wise, for you to perform?’
‘He’s installed a raised dais in the corner of the back deck; it’s really nice and should work well.’
‘So what did you sing for him?’ he asked as they walked towards the rest home entrance.
‘A classic Edith Piaf number.’ She laughed softly. ‘I thought he was going to swoon.’
‘Cunning. He’s French to his fingertips, what else did you expect?’
‘He was ecstatic, and rattled off some in French.’ She pulled a face. ‘Way beyond my school-girl French to understand, but when he calmed down we spent an hour discussing what he thought would suit his clientele.’
‘I have to hand it to Christophe, he’s got a great feel—he knows exactly what people dining at Chez Christophe expect and will appreciate.’ Joe paused on the steps and looked down at her. ‘And the resort, how did you get on with McIntyre and Eve?’
Marta grimaced. ‘Eve was okay, Xander though—’ she broke off. ‘I don’t know how Eve keeps up with the schedule he has her on. The events coordinator position is a seven-day a week one over the peak holiday season, with duties rostered between two people. Xander wants me to do five days, the other coordinator two.’
‘That’s too much for you if you’re performing at night as well.’ Joe frowned, and stared down at her. ‘How many nights will you do a gig at the resort?’
‘At the moment, it’s up in the air. Xander said it would most likely be two on alternate nights with Chez Christophe, but he’d need to consult with the band first before he made a decision.’
‘The same band that Christophe intends using?’
‘I guess so, he didn’t say.’ She saw Joe’s scowl, and said, ‘It’s what the man wants.’
‘Are you going to do it? What about your mum and Ben, will you have time for them?’
‘It’s only temporary. I can manage for three months.’
‘You’re spreading yourself too thin.’
‘The gigs are only for two hours, and I need the money.’ She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘Plenty of people work longer hours and more than one job.’
‘Singing isn’t like holding down a second job, it’s physically draining. What good will money do if you crash and burn?’ Joe looked down at her, his expression sober. ‘Tell McIntyre you’re only prepared to fill in for three days. The man can afford to employ another part-timer, he’s loaded. You need to look after yourself—unless you do, you can’t be there for your brother or your mother.’
‘I can manage.’ She tilted her chin, her voice soft, but determined.
‘You need to look after yourself.’ His expression was grave, his eyes tender and concerned. ‘Promise me?’
Marta met his serious gaze and felt herself sinking fast. ‘Okay, I promise.’
A slow smile softened his austere features, and he swooped down and kissed her upturned lips, the softest brush of lips on lips. ‘Thank you, you won’t regret it. Now let’s go and see your mother, see what she has to say about that photo.’
Caught by surprise, she inhaled a swift breath; trying hard to ignore the flutter of excitement in her gut, she pinned him with a steady gaze. ‘Chances are she might not even recognise me. I hope this won’t throw you as much as it did me.’
‘It won’t. Don’t forget I saw your mum fairly recently, and she was quite with it then.’
‘That can change, hour by hour, I’ve learned.’
‘Let’s go and we’ll deal with whatever this visit throws up. Talking out here won’t make it any easier.’
She nodded; with Joe’s steady strength at her side Marta found she could breathe much easier and the rapid race of her heart calmed. She’d all but forgotten the calming effect of his presence. Careful—he broke your heart once before, she reminded herself.
As nursing homes went, Rest Haven was decent enough. It was well run and offered health care and comfort to people who could no longer manage living alone. But the reason for its existence remained constant—it was a place where old people came to die.
The receptionist saw them, and signalled them over. Marta smiled at the woman. ‘I’ve brought a friend along to see Mum. Is she in her room?’
‘She was a little while ago, but if she’s not there she will be in the residents’ lounge. Enjoy your visit.’
As if. Marta sighed softly and led the way down the hallway.
She shivered: the air-conditioning kept the inside temperature of the building just shy of too cool. A wall dispenser pumped out air freshener, but this did little to disguise the odours permeating the walls, the floors, the very air of the place—a mix of pee and the harsh chemical odours of cleaning agents. She caught herself holding her breath, but the smell irritated the tissues at the back of her throat just the same.
Somewhere ahead of them, an old man kept crying out, ‘Help me. Somebody help me.’
The melancholy sound echoed and she looked around, but was unable to locate the source of the cries. Elderly residents roamed the hallways, some walking in crooked lines pushing walking frames and others stumping along with walking sticks sporting four-fingered floor grips. Another old woman, toothless and vacantly smiling at nothing in particular, scooted past them in a wheelchair.
‘Scary isn’t it?’ Marta looked up at Joe. ‘Just think, we’ll end up like this one day.’
He leaned close and said softly, ‘They’re clean and warm and safe, and in the end this is all they care about.’
‘Thank you for that.’ Marta paused at an open doorway and touched Joe’s arm. ‘Mum’s in here.’
Agnes sat by a window, rocking in a chair that seemed too big for her slight body, the rhythm uneven, as if sometimes she forgot how to keep the motion going.
It seemed to Marta that since her last visit, her mother had shrunk into herself. Surely she hadn’t been so stooped and withered, or her hair so thin and white that patches of pink scalp were clearly visible. The green dress she was wearing was old and threadbare, but the new, fuzzy pink slippers on her feet were the ones Marta had bought for her last week.
Her heart hurt to see her once vibrant mother like this, and she sucked in a quick, sharp breath to ease the pain.
Joe, sensing her distress, caught her hand and held it tightly, threading his fingers through hers. She clung to him without the least hint of shame, glad of his strength.
He mother gazed at something beyond the clear glass, her mouth turned up in a soft, sweet smile—as if she was seeing something particularly pleasing. Marta had often seen her mother smile like this when she was younger, particularly when Marta sang for her.
‘Mum?’
The rocker stopped moving. The smile slid off Agnes’s face as she turned towards the sound and stared blankly from Marta to Joe. ‘Who are you?’
Marta winced at the querulous, uncertain note she heard in her mother’s voice. God! I’m not strong enough to cope with this.
Agnes’s gaze roved from her to Joe, standing tall and still beside her. ‘Joe?’
Joe moved past Marta and caught her mother’s hands in his warm, strong ones. ‘Yes it’s me, Agnes. I’ve come to check up on my best girl.’
Agnes giggled.
Marta stared. There was no other word to describe the sound her mother made or the sudden lightening of her expression.
‘You’re a charmer, Joe. Come closer and let me look at you.’
He obediently leaned close and curved a callused hand around her cheek, his smile soft and tender as he looked into the older lady’s eyes.
‘You’re a good boy, your daddy would be so proud of you.’
‘Thank you. I try to live up to the standards he set for me.’
Her mother looked past Joe at Marta. ‘Have you brought your lady friend to see me?’
The question hit Marta with a kick as solid as any delivered by a mule. Guilt and hurt and grief writhed inside her. My mother recognises Joe—not me.
‘It’s Marta, Mum.’ She pushed past Joe, knelt beside the rocker and grasped her mother’s hands and held them firmly. ‘I’ve come to visit and see how you’re doing.’
Agnes looked at Marta for long, tense moments, then the same sweet smile lit up her face as lucidity dawned, along with recognition.
‘Why it’s my baby come home.’ She glanced past Marta to Joe, a sudden frown crowding out her smile. ‘Are you setting to break my girl’s heart again?’
The blunt, tactless words made Marta wince.
Joe merely smiled. ‘No, Agnes, I’m aiming to take good care of her.’
‘Joe’s been helping me, Mama.’ The childhood name slipped out easily. Marta held her mother’s hands, and willed her to stay anchored in the present. ‘He’s helped me mow all the grass, as you wanted me to.’
‘That’s good. It’s a fire danger otherwise. When are you going back to your singing, baby?’
‘Soon. I’m busy—’ she stopped abruptly, catching Joe’s eye and seeing the infinitesimal shake of his head. It would be a mistake to mention clearing the house.
‘Sit down, Joe,’ Agnes scolded. ‘You’re way too high up for me to look at from down here. I’ll get a crick in my neck.’
He sat in the visitor’s chair and Marta picked up the photo she’d brought.
‘What you got there?’ Agnes twisted her head to one side.
‘A photo I found.’ Marta placed the photo on her mother’s lap, then rested back on her heels so she could watch her mother’s face.
Agnes stroked her fingers over the glass, her expression softening and filled with sorrow.
‘Sean.’ Agnes sighed; the whispery sound echoed with melancholy. ‘He was so handsome and kind.’ She looked up directly at Marta, reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You have his eyes, and his voice. Sean could make angels weep when he sang.’
‘He could sing? I didn’t know that.’
‘You never had a chance to know him.’ Agnes sighed again.
‘He romanced you then left you to raise us alone.’ A hard note crept into Marta’s voice.
‘Not by choice.’ Agnes’s eyes were clear and lucid, her voice surprisingly strong. ‘He tried to immigrate here, but he wasn’t allowed in.’
‘Why?’ Marta sank back on her heels, startled by this unexpected disclosure.
Agnes stroked her fingers over the photo, silent so long Marta was sure she’d slipped away once more, retreated from reality. Then she looked up, her tear-filled eyes filled with hurt. ‘He came from Ireland on a visitor’s visa and overstayed … They deported him.’
‘He wasn’t allowed back into Australia?’
‘Not for three years.’
‘Even though he had children?’ Marta asked, even as she knew the answer.
Australian border security was tough on over-stayers, their rulings almost impossible to challenge.
Agnes sighed once again. ‘He had a wife back in Ireland, see.’
Oh dear, Immigration wouldn’t like that. Marta caught her mother’s hands and smoothed her thumbs across the backs of them. ‘Did you know, Mama?’
‘Not at first. Later it didn’t matter.’ Agnes’s voice was bleak and echoed with pain.
The sound threatened to break Marta’s heart. ‘Why didn’t it matter?’
‘He was Catholic so divorce was never going to happen.’ A solitary tear ran down her cheek. ‘And then he was dead; he was killed in a passenger train derailment.’
‘Oh, Mama.’ Marta stroked her mother’s hands offering her wordless comfort. So much she’d never understood now began to make sense.
‘I didn’t know he was dead for such a long time, not until after Ben was in school and by then all I could do was keep raising you kids.’
Agnes lapsed into silence and sank back in the chair, her head drooped and her eyes closed, and moments later she began to rock in that haphazard way, and once again she was lost to the world around her.
Marta knew asking about the men’s boots she’d found was pointless. She had loads more questions, but her mother’s precious moments of lucidity were gone: the old lady had already forgotten she and Joe were there.
Marta blinked furiously to dispel the gathering tears and gave Joe a helpless look. He extended a hand to help her rise. ‘You ready to go?’
The compassion in his eyes was nearly her undoing and she fought to keep the threatening tears at bay. My poor mother. Fancy not knowing her man had died, and to find out years later—Marta shook her head.
It beggared belief that anyone could endure such unimaginable sorrow.