The first pale glimmers of dawn rimmed the horizon just as a kookaburra’s raucous laugh broke the silence. The bird was close, chortling as it heralded a new day. The rowdy birds never mistook the time.
Joe cracked open weighted eyelids and lay unmoving for a full minute trying to take in his surroundings—then memory crashed over him in waves. He turned his head and, sure enough, Marta’s tawny-blonde hair lay strewn across the pillow next to him.
Her shoulders were bare and one arm lay uncovered by the sheet, and even this early, a dew of sweat sheened on her bare skin. In the half-light, her golden eyes closed, her features relaxed in sleep, the worry she wore like a cloak was temporarily banished.
Tenderness tugged at him—she was carrying some pretty hefty burdens. Her mother’s slide into dementia and her brother set for release in the new year were each a serious challenge. Combined it was one hell of a load.
Yet, without hesitation, she’d cut short her career, and a hefty pay cheque, and returned home to help her family in their time of need. And this showed great loyalty and strength of character.
He wanted to lie there, to savour the pleasure of watching her sleep, but with an early meeting scheduled with the building crew foreman, he didn’t have that luxury. He needed to be up and moving.
He slid out of bed and picked up the clothes he’d discarded haphazardly last night and padded down the hall to the bathroom. He poked around, relieved to see Marta had stocked up on men’s toiletries—for Ben, I assume—he would hate to turn up for work smelling like a daisy.
Showered and dressed, he returned to the bedroom.
He was tempted to let Marta sleep, but while he didn’t know where this relationship was headed, he did know leaving her bed without saying goodbye was a mistake he’d do far better not to make. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed a hand across the alluring expanse of bare skin where her shoulder met the sheet. ‘Marta?’
She grumbled and buried her head deeper into the pillow.
A reminiscent smile touched his lips. She had always been slow to wake in the mornings—‘You know I don’t function at all well until I’ve had coffee.’
Joe did know and the memory left him more than a little uneasy.
‘Marta,’ he said with a little more force, pushing a lock of hair off her cheek, then giving her shoulder a little shake. ‘I have to leave.’
‘What’s the matter?’ One golden eye opened and she rolled over blinking rapidly, and so obviously nowhere near ready to wake.
Not that this was surprising given how little sleep they’d had in the night.
Outside, the kookaburra laughed again, the harsh sound mocking a human’s desire to sleep past dawn. A distant strident caw of a crow and squabbling lorikeets in the trees outside were a jarring counterpoint to the melodious chorus of magpies and honeyeaters.
Joe chuckled softly.
‘I have to leave now,’ he repeated patiently, his hand caressing the smooth skin of her shoulder.
That brought both her eyes open. ‘It’s morning?’
‘It sure is,’ he murmured, seeing understanding dawn in her eyes. ‘And I’m already running late.’
She rolled over and looked at the window. ‘It’s hardly even daylight.’
‘I know, sweetheart,’ he said close to her ear. ‘I have a meeting scheduled with the building foreman in an hour.’
She nodded and rolled onto her back, and lifted an arm to cover her eyes.
‘Are we okay?’ he asked, holding the hand lying on the coverlet.
She shifted her arm and looked up at him, her expression serious. ‘I don’t know. Are we?’
The hesitant question left him unsure how to respond. He rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. Life had been so much simpler before she came home. He’d been tied in knots ever since.
‘Sure,’ he said quietly, more serious than he could ever remember.
A sleepy smile curved her lips. ‘Do you have time for a kiss?’
‘A quick one.’ He swooped down and claimed her pouty lips. ‘I’ll see you tonight, and I’ll help you with some more clearing out.’
A quick frown darkened her eyes. ‘I need to order up another skip.’
‘No you don’t.’ He leaned down and kissed her softly, thoroughly. ‘A new one arrived yesterday.’
Her frown deepened and she opened her mouth, but he silenced her protest by the simple expedient of putting a finger over her lips. ‘Let me help you, Marta. My dad always said that a problem shared is a problem halved. I’ll come back after work, okay? Don’t you worry about dinner, I’ll organise it and bring it with me, okay?’
She nodded again.
He swooped down and kissed her thoroughly, then reluctantly stood to take his leave.
***
Marta lay there, her elbow over her eyes listening to Joe’s tuneful whistle as he left. How do I feel?
Contented.
Happier and more at ease than she’d felt in a long while, and no longer so alone, but beyond this lay an irksome worry—where do Joe and I go from here?
Now wide awake, Marta was too unsettled to lie in bed. She needed to be up and doing. God knows, there was a mountain of work still to do to make this house even halfway habitable.
She looked around the bedroom she’d used since she was a child. It was spartan in its tidiness. In here, she could at least pretend that all the stuff and clutter outside the door didn’t exist. Even as she knew this was a delusion.
Her stomach grumbled—when did I last eat?
With a wry grimace, she realised it was the coffee she’d shared with Joe last night after their visit with her mother. No wonder I’m hungry.
Poor Joe—he’d gone without breakfast.
I’m a pretty poor hostess. Keep the man awake all night then send him away hungry.
Showered, dressed and desperately in need of food, Marta braved the rest of the house. The kitchen floor was clear; a dozen boxes destined for charity were stacked against one wall.
And she no longer felt at risk of being smothered—though I’ll have nightmares for years over this.
On the bench, she found the tray they’d used covered with a tea towel. She lifted the towel and saw it set ready for her breakfast and blinked away tears. Her mother’s long-ago words surfaced—‘Joe’s a keeper.’
Now, she appreciated her mother’s sentiments.
Without Joe’s help, she would barely have made a dent here, but she sensed in him a deep reserve. He would help her because this was how he rolled, but he wasn’t about to trust her without reservation, and this was a sobering reflection.
Breakfast in hand; she retreated to the back terrace.
Here, seated comfortably—thank you, Joe—Marta was struck all over again how out of touch she’d been, then and now.
How could I not have known? Why did I need a social worker’s call?
Sure she’d flown up to Brisbane and visited with Ben bi-monthly, but her mother she’d visited not nearly often enough. Guilt ate at Marta—why did I rely on phone calls?
The answer was simple. She’d wanted to avoid the risk of running into Joe.
On the drive up here, she had decided a couple of weeks would see her mother settled, the house and grounds cleared, and the house ready to be marketed—the reality was it would take weeks yet to be anywhere near done. She’d thought that the money realised from the sale of their home would enable Ben to make a start fresh, well away from Marandowie—and I could relocate closer to Rainbow Cove.
Marta snorted at her naiveté, and startled a blue fairy wren sipping water from the leaves of the nicotiana Ben had watered before he left. Her mother would appreciate seeing these pots once again planted with profusely flowering annuals—me, not so much.
They were a symbol of ties she’d rather not create.
Frowning, Marta surveyed the terrace with critical eyes.
Edged with the potted plants and furnished with comfortable furniture, it was an oasis among the dishevelled chaos. Its cleanness clearly showed up years of lack of maintenance. This house needed a ton of money and elbow grease to make it saleable.
In real estate speak—do me up and reap the rewards.
Thanks to Joe, she was now prey to serious second thoughts. Do I want to cut all ties to Marandowie? Is it even possible?
If Joe was married and settled, Marta knew she would have no qualms about cutting all ties. But Joe was a free man and what’s more, he’d offered Ben a job.
No way could Marta see her brother turning this down. She had written to him outlining Joe’s proposal, but had yet to receive a reply. If he accepted Joe’s offer of employment, Ben would need somewhere to stay. Where better than here?
She sighed. What had appeared simple was now complex. As for last night—I should put it in a box and mark it ‘don’t disturb’ and get on with the rest of my life.
This may be forced upon her, regardless.
Unless she secured a permanent gig, or found a place closer to the cove, she would eventually need to return to Sydney. There was very little in her line of work within reach of Marandowie, a little country town on the edge of nowhere.
And after just the briefest glimpse she’d had of Joe’s enterprise—she knew he was firmly planted in Marandowie soil, and going nowhere.
Sitting here was achieving nothing and, unbidden, she heard one of her mother’s pithy sayings—‘If there’s a job that must get done, don’t idle sit and brew it, but if you wish that it gets done, begin at once and do it!’
With a rueful laugh, Marta cleared away her breakfast dishes, donned her protective gloves, and set to work. If Joe was cooking dinner, the kitchen needed serious attention—a few cupboards needed sorting still, and all the surfaces needed scrubbing.
***
The sun was low on the horizon when she heard him pull in and park near the back terrace, followed by his cheerful whistle. She was only too aware that she’d been listening for him.
He strode around the corner of the house carrying a box. ‘You about ready for dinner, ma’am?’
‘For sure. What have you got there?’ She stepped closer to look in the box.
‘Dinner.’ He chuckled and held it a little higher. ‘I see you’ve made a dent in cleaning the kitchen.’
‘I have. It was necessary if you intend to cook. You won’t believe this, but I found twenty hand egg beaters.’ She shook her head. ‘Twenty, Joe, I counted them.’
He put the box on the bench and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. ‘Your mum was sick.’
‘I know,’ she muttered, and blinked away grief-stricken tears.
‘It wasn’t necessary to clear out the kitchen cupboards.’ His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact. ‘I brought my portable barbie.’
His pragmatism helped her regain her composure. She blinked again and he was striding back to his ute, returning a few minutes later with a nifty little barbecue. In a few deft moves, he assembled it, set it on the corner of the terrace then set the barbie on the stand.
He stood back, his smile mischievous as he waved a hand. ‘Ta-da!’
‘That’s so cute.’ She circled it studying it from all angles and grinned at him. ‘It looks like some miniature flying saucer. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Sure, I have a job just for you. Let me fetch another box.’
He strode back out to his vehicle and she went to investigate the box on the sink. It held an eye-watering selection of vegetables, red and orange capsicums, aubergines, courgettes, radish, lettuce—all the makings for a gourmet salad.
He walked back through the kitchen door and saw her looking in the box. ‘The finest vegetables Joe’s can provide.’ His voice rang with unmistakable pride.
‘They look scrumptious, and so fresh.’
‘For sure. Can’t you hear them screaming—don’t cut me, don’t cut me.’
‘Oh, you’re a funny man.’ Marta let loose a belly laugh. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘See that box on the table out there—’ he indicated the other box he’d brought in, ‘—while I assemble dinner, you can assemble that.’
Curious, she walked out onto the terrace and undid the box and stood staring at an artificial Christmas tree and decorations. Startled, she glanced at Joe, and found him watching her.
‘It’s a Christmas tree,’ she said before she realised how stupid that sounded.
‘I know, and it’s Christmas in a few days. It’s more than time that you got into the festive spirit.’
‘What’s the point?’ She shrugged and turned away.
He moved with the speed and grace of a panther, caught her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.
‘The point is that you are here, Marta. And you are very much alive. Wearing a hair shirt will not cure your mother’s dementia, or miraculously wipe out the fact that your kid brother has spent the past five years in jail.’
‘I know this,’ she retorted, stung.
‘You need to face your changed circumstances and take up the reins of living—for yourself.’
Stunned and bereft of words, she stared at him.
‘You need to start somewhere and stop walking about blinded by circumstances,’ he said softly, his serious gaze never leaving her face. ‘And putting up a Christmas tree is as good a place to start as anywhere.’
Shaken by his words and his vehemence, she swallowed hard. ‘I guess.’
‘You’ll do it?’
She nodded. ‘Where should I put it?’
‘In the corner of the terrace where there is a semblance of normalcy.’
‘True.’ She huffed out a laugh. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to haul away all the boxes we’ve filled for the charity shop. That will clear floor space in the kitchen, dining room and lounge.’
‘I’m one step ahead of you,’ Joe said with a little chuckle. ‘A guy from the local charity shop will be out later this evening to collect it all.’
‘You contacted them? Without asking me?’
‘No.’ He lifted a placating hand. ‘Joe’s donates fresh vegetables to the Marandowie Community Charity for their foodbank. Today, they gave us their order for the vegetables they need for the Christmas dinner they put on every year for pensioners. I happened to mention that I was helping you clear out your mother’s house and had boxes of goods to donate and he offered to come and collect it.’
‘I see.’ And she did. Is there no end to the things I owe Joe for? ‘I was wondering how I was going to get all that stuff out of here, and thinking it would take umpteen trips in my little car.’
‘I guessed as much, and when he suggested it, I accepted on your behalf.’
‘Thanks for thinking of me.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He looked at her and smiled, the endearing lopsided smile she loved. ‘So will you decorate the Christmas tree while I cook our dinner?’
‘Sure.’ Marta could see there was no way she could refuse, and so she graciously acquiesced, even though she thought it a crashing waste of time.
As she fossicked in the box and pulled out all the components to assemble the tree and attach baubles and tinsel, Marta found herself singing Christmas carols under her breath.
In the trees outside, lorikeets squabbled noisily as they came in to roost, and from further away came the drifting, mournful caw of a crow. Closer to hand, she could hear Joe in the kitchen, and the wafting, tantalising smell of steak and vegetables cooking on the barbecue teased her senses and added to the surreal atmosphere.
Suddenly, she understood Joe’s insistence—this is what life is all about, enjoying the moment and creating memories.
And not succumbing to melancholy in times of adversity.
She walked in through the kitchen door, standing a moment to look at him. His back was towards her as he washed salad greens in the sink. Without thinking it to death, she walked up behind him and threaded her arms around his waist and rested her face against his back.
‘Thank you, Joe. I needed the reminder that life is meant to be lived.’
He turned in her arms and reached past her for a towel, then dried his hands before pulling her into a tight hug. ‘It’s okay to be sad, to grieve, but we do need to focus on taking enjoyment where we find it.’
‘You’ve made me see this, thank you.’
Later, after they finished eating, they sat in comfortable silence enjoying a glass of wine in the deepening dusk.
‘That dinner was amazing.’ Marta lifted her glass in a silent toast. ‘You’re a great cook.’
‘Christophe would tell you it’s good rough tucker.’
‘Really?’ She stared at him, her eyebrows almost reaching her hairline. ‘I never picked Christophe as a patronising jerk.’
‘It’s a standing joke between us.’ A laugh rumbled from him. ‘I call it fresh tucker, he calls it peasant food.’
‘If that’s a sample of peasant food, bring it on,’ she quipped, laughing as she stood to gather their dishes.
‘He’s an alright bloke, and a damn good friend, despite his fancy tastes.’ Joe’s serious words sat between them.
The lengthening silence was broken by the shrill peeping of a truck’s backing beepers.
‘That sounds like the guy with the charity van,’ Marta said. ‘I’ll clear these dishes away. You can help him and supervise the loading.’
Joe caught her arm, and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Are you quite sure there’s nothing here you want to keep back?’
‘No,’ she said, her voice resolute. ‘I’ve put aside any stuff I think we should keep back to go through later. Those boxes are in the sunroom. The rest of this is just clutter.’
‘Sure? Once it’s gone, Marta, it’s gone.’
‘I’m sure; besides, I have all the stuff I’ve collected in storage back in Sydney.’
After one more searching glance, he nodded and strode out to meet the truck driver.
***
Joe stood in the centre of the lounge room.
Marta flopped down in an armchair, coughing as she disturbed dust. ‘My God, there is a floor to this room after all. I was beginning to wonder.’
Joe gave a crack of laughter. ‘Glad to see the return of the real you.’
‘I’m no longer running the risk of suffocating.’ She grinned at him. ‘Now, I need an army of cleaning elves.’
‘Do you want to hire professional cleaners?’
‘No. I need to do this, myself.’ Marta couldn’t have rationally explained this compulsion if she tried.
The room, the whole house, needed a serious application of elbow grease, but now at least the furniture was visible. The ancient upright piano in the corner sported a decent coating of dust.
Joe sat on the piano stool and lifted the lid.
The ivories, yellowed with age, gleamed dully in the overhead light. He ran his fingers across the keys, and winced. ‘Man, this needs tuning.’
‘It’s probably never been played since you last sat at that keyboard.’
He stood, swiped an arm across the dusty top, lifted the lid and extracted a tuning fork. ‘Ta-da!’
Marta curled her legs up under her, content to watch.
At the piano, Joe was in his element, and it was obvious to her that he had lost none of his skill. He tinkled notes, his head on one side, until the sound of each note pleased him. He certainly hadn’t lost his ear.
Does he miss it?
The piano tinkled again, as he replayed a little stanza; all the time he listened intently to the sound, twisting the tuning pins with the fork until each note was pitch-perfect. After each adjustment, he added a little improvisation to the stanza. The music was haunting—an echo of joy, a mourning sorrow—and it was nothing she recognised. Is Joe composing again?
His concentration was complete. Marta was sure she could drop a brick on his toe and he wouldn’t even notice. He had always possessed this ability—to lose himself in his music to such an extent that the world beyond the keyboard ceased to exist.
At last he was satisfied and he tucked the tuning fork back in its cubbyhole.
He sat down at the piano and spread his big hands on the keyboard; music flowed through the dust motes in the air.
At last, he seemed to run out of steam and the notes died away.
‘Do you regret not taking up that scholarship?’ she asked, her voice tentative, the question hesitant. She knew that this was a touchy subject.
He sat there, staring at his hands as he flexed them, his expression thoughtful. ‘In some ways yes, I regret it; in other ways, not at all.’
She frowned, trying to make sense of these cryptic words. She had never really understood exactly what had transpired within the Marshall family when his father died.
She had already left Marandowie—and Joe. Be honest: I ran, I was scared of Joe’s mother.
Sure, she had heard Rebecca’s jumbled version, but the girl had been so strung out, so frightened, that Marta was never quite sure if Becky’s home situation was as bad as she intimated. ‘Why did you turn down that scholarship? That’s something I’ve never understood.’
He sat there, silent and staring at his hands so long she wasn’t sure if he would answer. He looked up at her, his grey eyes dark with emotion. ‘When Dad died, it was so sudden, one hell of a shock.’
The anguish in Joe’s voice tugged at Marta’s heartstrings. She only knew the bare bones of this happening. Frank Marshall had died suddenly—Marta’s mother thought it was his heart—and the whole Marshall family imploded.
Rebecca ran away from home, the distraught girl landing on Marta’s doorstep in Sydney in the early hours of the morning, the day after her father’s funeral. Within a week Adele had moved out of the family home—into a Melbourne penthouse with her lover—while Joe had dropped his music studies and taken over the family’s market gardens.
And Marandowie gossips had had a field day—they were like pigs in clover.
Now, Marta stood and crossed to his side and sat on the long piano stool beside him. She caught his hand and threaded her fingers through his. ‘What happened, Joe?’
‘It was a Saturday, midsummer and as hot as blazes.’ He grimaced. ‘You know how it gets here.’
‘Hotter than the seventh level of hell.’ She did know. It got so damn hot you could literally cook eggs on the footpath.
‘We’d just finished breakfast and Becky and I were moaning about the heat. Dad said he’d take us into Marandowie, to the pools for a swim, and predictably, Mother hit the roof.’
‘Why?’
‘I had piano practice and Rebecca had her singing practice, and nothing, not even the blistering heat, was allowed to interfere with our regimen.’
‘I remember.’ And she did.
Adele Marshall’s threats were still a vivid memory. Over the years, Marta had succeeded in pushing them into the dim recesses of her brain. Reminded of them now, a shiver goosed its way up her spine.
‘For once, Dad wasn’t having a bar of it. Do you remember how quiet he could get, how his eyes would go all steely?’
Marta gave a ghost of a grin. ‘I remember. He could scare the hell out of me with one look.’
‘Me too,’ Joe admitted with a laugh. ‘Dad just looked at Mother and said, very quietly, he was taking us swimming. He looked at me and then Rebecca, and told us to go get our swimmers.’
Joe flexed his hands staring at them.
She knew he was lost in the past and, judging from his expression, it wasn’t a pleasant place.
‘Those were the last words I ever heard Dad say.’
‘Oh, Joe,’ she said, her voice a hushed whisper. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘We whooped and scarpered upstairs; when we came back down, Dad was lying face down on the floor.’ His voice faltered and he looked up at her, shaking his head. ‘Mother was standing there and told me to phone for an ambulance and sent Becky out to wait for them. She seemed so calm—so cool. I shoved her aside, turned Dad over and started CPR and yelled at Becky to dial Emergency. As I ran past I heard Mother mutter, “Typical Frank, an inconvenience to the bitter end.”’
‘You’re freaking kidding.’
‘I’m not, fair dinkum. Becky was hysterical, and she screamed at the operator, “Mum has killed Dad!”’
‘Oh my God. She didn’t.’
‘She did.’ Joe shook his head. ‘Mother snatched the receiver and slapped Becky and tried to calm things down, and all the time Becky kept screaming that Mother had killed Dad, in a voice like a fireman’s whistle. Talk about an uproar.’
Marta choked and spluttered on a gasp. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘All hell broke loose. Within minutes the house was swarming with cops and ambos.’ He raked an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘The ambos took over CPR and they zapped Dad with a defibrillator and got his heart restarted. They put him and Becky in ambulances. The police handcuffed Mother and took her away for questioning.’
‘Hooley-dooley, Joe, what did you do?’
‘That was the moment I became a man. In one split second, I discovered I was far more my father’s son than my mother’s musical prodigy. My dad was lying there and our mother had muttered about the inconvenience. I was in shock, but I was also incensed.’
‘Ever the master of understatement.’
‘Dad died later that day and the police turned Mother loose. Later the Coroner ruled Dad had suffered a massive coronary.’ Joe turned Marta’s hand over and stroked the back of it with his thumb. ‘The day after his funeral, Mother rang the real estate people and listed the gardens for sale. She informed me and Becky that we would be moving to Europe to continue our music studies.’
‘And yet you’re still here.’
Joe looked at her, his gaze steady. ‘Yes, I’m still here.’
Marta knew there had to be a lot more to the story than the bare facts Joe had revealed. Despite his obvious reluctance, she asked, ‘And your mother?’
‘As far as I know, she’s still with her lover—the man she prostituted herself with so he would further mine and Becky’s musical careers.’
Marta choked on another gasp, expelling her breath in a wheezing cough. ‘What?’
‘I discovered Mother had slept with my music professor so he would up my grades to ensure I qualified for that scholarship. She’d been his lover for years before my father died.’
‘You’re shitting me. What did you do?’
‘What anyone with any integrity would do.’ He lifted a hand and let it fall. ‘I notified the university, turned down that scholarship and engaged a lawyer.’
‘Your mother challenged you?’
‘She did, and she tried to sell the gardens. Fortunately, Dad’s affairs were tidy, his will clear and concise. I inherited the gardens, Rebecca their holiday home at Coffs Harbour, Mother their townhouse in Brisbane. Dad’s share portfolio and cash assets were split between Becky and Mother. His life insurance Becky and I shared equally.’ He grinned at her, his grey eyes held a gleam of mischief. ‘So I rolled up my sleeves and went cap in hand, to Kev, Dad’s right-hand man, and asked him to teach me how to run the gardens.’
Marta knew, to her cost, that Joe was fiercely loyal to the people he loved, and he would find his mother’s actions unforgivable. This is far worse than ever Becky said. Did his sister even know the whole truth, or did Joe shield her from their mother’s actions?
‘And you’re content? You don’t miss your music?’
‘I love the work,’ he said simply, ‘and I still have my music. What I don’t miss is the relentless pressure. Music is now my joy, and my plants love it too.’
‘Your plants?’
‘You’ll have to come and visit my gardens sometime, and you’ll see.’
‘I intend to.’ She glanced up at him, troubled by his revelations. ‘I never knew any of this.’
‘There was no reason why you should.’
Unspoken, the rift between them lay exposed. In Joe’s eyes, I left him without even a token explanation, too afraid to reveal the truth.
Memory goosed Marta, a cold shimmer near the base of her spine.
She didn’t trust Adele any more now than she did all those years ago when, as a green girl, her own mother had encouraged her to leave Marandowie, to use her singing talent to forge a career as a cabaret singer.
‘Do you have much to do with your mother?’
‘We haven’t spoken since she left,’ he said and held up a hand, palm outwards, his voice grim. ‘Any communication between us now is through our lawyers.’
Marta took a slow deep breath. ‘And Rebecca?’
‘She talks to our mother from time to time.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘Rebecca is an adult, and she’s free to choose her own path.’ He turned on the piano stool; his hands hit the keys, creating a discordant sound.
Quick as a flash, Marta turned, and matched the sound with a tuneful echo.
Without missing a beat, he shuffled along to give her room and the years fell away—as one, music flowed from their fingertips. Effortlessly, they segued from one tune to another, improvising and adding wherever the mood took them. Music had always been the one area where they meshed, without recrimination, without hostility.
‘God, it’s so long since I’ve done that.’ Joe stopped playing and looked at Marta, memories clouding his senses. ‘We always did make great music together, and not just at the piano.’
‘We did,’ she murmured, her voice husky with desire.
‘Sing for me, Marta.’
The simple request, the earnest plea in his eyes, his cajoling smile won her over. She stood and walked to the end of the piano, and rested an elbow on the lid. Joe struck a scale, and without hesitation, she followed his direction, note for note, up and down the scale, warming her vocal chords.
Seamlessly he segued into ‘Oh Holy Night’. Marta blinked back tears—her mother’s favourite Christmas song.
Joe knew this.
When the last note died away he sat silent, his hand held out in supplication. She accepted the silent invitation, and he hauled her into his arms, bending his head and taking her mouth in a slow, sensual kiss.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you going to send me home tonight?’
‘I should,’ she said a mischievous undertone in her voice, ‘but I won’t. You can stay.’
It was all the invitation he needed and, rising with alacrity, he gently closed the lid of the piano. They had gone two steps when the silence was broken by the warble of her mobile phone.
Who is ringing me so late?
She jerked her hand from Joe’s, her heart thrumming in panic as she scrabbled in her jeans pocket for her phone.
‘Your mother?’ Anxiety edged Joe’s voice.
She looked at the phone screen and shook her head, shrugged and walked through to the kitchen to take the call, too aware of Joe’s intent scrutiny.
***
Joe stared after Marta, catching the unmistakable anxiety in her expression before she stood and walked out of the room to take the call.
Was the late call about her mother?
He heard her voice, but could distinguish nothing of the conversation. He turned on the piano stool, his hands lax in his lap as he waited for her to return. One look at her face and he knew that the phone call was not good news.
‘Your mother?’
‘No.’ She slipped the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Your good friend Christophe.’
‘What the hell did he want?’ Joe demanded. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock.’
‘He’s cancelled my gig at Chez Christophe.’
She laughed, a hollow sound devoid of amusement. ‘Your concerns about the band were justified. They refuse to work with me and Christophe wants music more than a vocalist.’
Joe came and stood beside her. ‘Did he say why or what caused his change of mind?’
She shook her head and turned away to stare out into the dark night, her back stiff, her demeanour radiating hurt and humiliation. He walked up behind her and they were both clearly reflected in the glass, her expression flat and unrevealing.
‘What about your contract?’
‘We didn’t have one. It was a trial, and if my singing proved successful with his clientele, then we would formalise things.’
‘Did he give you a reason?’
‘He doesn’t need to.’ She shook her head, her voice laced with bitter irony. ‘He pays the piper, he calls the tune.’
Joe, staring at her rigid back, knew this dealt her a solid blow. From the little she’d let slip, he guessed she was reliant on the income from the restaurant and the resort. He didn’t know the details of her situation, but he guessed she was liable for a good portion of her mother’s care, and this wouldn’t come cheap.
‘Weren’t you due to start this weekend?’
‘Tomorrow night.’ Her lips pressed together in a thin line.
‘I’ve never found Christophe unreasonable. He must have a sound reason for cancelling at this late date.’
‘To him maybe.’ She looked around the room, her expression filled with despair. ‘But it leaves me fair and square up the creek without a paddle.’
He winced at her bitterness. ‘Would you like me to talk to him?’
She fished her phone out of her back pocket and held it out. ‘Be my guest.’
He shook his head and retrieved his own phone from his hip pocket. As he pressed the call button, he watched Marta walk out through the kitchen door and disappear into the night.