Berry Flavours (3 page)

“It’s all under control.” Red blotches glowered on his cheeks.

Clancy thought at first that he might have been embarrassed. Well, so he should be, they both should be. “I need to get your father to take me back to the hotel. I’ll get the bus back to the ferry. This just isn’t going to work. Not only for me, but for you as well.” Though how she thought she’d find a place to live, get work and start all over back in town was just a bit beyond her at the present moment. Her insides were parched, including her brain.

The suffocating air, thick with the smell old lanoline and sheep piss had her head spinning.

Greg ducked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just wait until tomorrow. It’ll all happen then.” He looked at her, anger evident in his eyes. “You can prepare at the house kitchen. It’s not brand new, but everything works. There’s a big coolroom there. Think about it.” The red blotches paled. “We need to do this.”

She took another sweep of the huge area, pressed a forearm to her forehead to mop the perspiration. She frowned. “Why not do it at the pub? You own that, don’t you?”

“Already suggested that.” He kicked at something under his boot. “Dad does things on impulse. Drives the bank manager crazy, shuffling money here and there, but he was so excited you were on board—”

“He didn’t tell me everything I needed to know.”

Greg stared at her. “Thing is, this is our last shot.”

Clancy’s heartbeat escalated. “What?”

“This has to work or nothing. He’s right down to the wire, mortgaged to the hilt and has a legal battle on his hands over the land.”

“Stop.” Clancy held up her hands.

“We can pay you – that’s no problem. We just need the place rolling by New Year, to show it’s viable. We already have forty-five firm bookings for Christmas lunch, all paid in advance.”

He tried a smile but Clancy was on to him. There were agendas here and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her either.

As if she was prey or something.

Noo-noo radar was in overdrive and it was never wrong. And she was tired, wrung out after last night’s useless fun and boring games after the blow-up with her father. Maybe her perspective was skewed.

She was also broke and homeless and this was not going to be a good way out of that predicament.

She weighed up her options as best she could. Had she said she wanted a challenge?

Don’t wish too hard for what you want...

She rubbed her face, wiped her hands down her sides and felt Berry’s card in her pocket. Berry. Green eyes. She shook her head to dispel the distraction and tried to recall their conversation earlier in the bar. Hadn’t he said something about working for him if it didn’t pan out here?

She looked at Greg Thomas. “It’s the twenty-first today. If the place is not fully operational on the morning of the twenty-third I’m gone. That’s electricity connected, gas connected, clean running water, ovens, cook tops, deep fryers...” She counted off her fingers.

“I get it.” He nodded at her. “It will be, don’t worry. Thanks.”

“Hasn’t happened yet.” She was busy trying to figure out what should happen first, the menu and orders for food to save time, or should she wait to see if the fit-out made it across the line then go mad on the twenty-third. If it worked out.

“If you need a hand...” His voice trailed off, but his leery gaze didn’t.

She stopped short of telling him to get the hell away from her. His strange blue gaze was on her face. “Where are my quarters, please? I need to get changed before I meet your father again.”

He ducked his head once more. “Uh, a room in the main house. I’ll show you.” He turned on his heels.

“Wait a minute.” She was talking to his back. “I was told I had a self-contained cabin on the property.”

“I told Dad he shouldn’t have offered that. It’s in worse shape than this.” He waved a hand behind him. “A room in the main house. Come on.”

Clancy stared after him, the creep of uncertainty spreading inside.

Chapter Three

Berry Lockett sat on his verandah watching the sun sink over the vines, a glass of his own fine shiraz in his grip, the bottle open on the table beside him.

So Mac Thomas was going for it. He was going to try and put together that shearing shed restaurant of his and tackle his problem by throwing more money at it.

He glanced across at the sheaf of papers alongside the bottle. His solicitors had done as much as they could before they closed a week or two back for the Christmas break.

Some Christmas.

He had an early January court battle on his hands and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

He bent over the arm of his chair and ruffled his dog’s head. Rommy looked up at him. “Stupid bugger, that Mac Thomas.” Rommy knew what he meant. Kelpies were smart that way. He dropped his black head back between his equally black paws.

Berry thought of the woman he’d met at the hotel, Clancy. He wondered if she’d given his card any more than a cursory glance before chucking it in the nearest bin.

By now, if she had any sense, she’d be able to see Mac Thomas didn’t have a hope in hell of pulling off what he needed to. She should be running for the hills.

Mac’s pub was up for sale. Everyone in the district knew Mac was up against a wall and his last chance was to make a go of the Vineyard Restaurant again.

Clancy Jones hadn’t struck him as someone who could pull it off, either. She’d looked a bit jaded, weary.

He liked what he saw, but he figured she had battles of her own.

Don’t we all?

He thought again about her. The easy conversation, the laughter, the way her gaze rested on him when she spoke.

He thought again of her hair in that clip-thing, all loose and bouncy, as if at any minute it might fall down around her shoulders. He’d like to see that.

The thought startled him.

It wasn’t all he’d noticed. The rest of her had fired his interest, the first woman in a long time to grab his attention and hold it for more than a moment or two.

He swallowed some wine, allowing the pepper and spice flavours to fire his taste buds. He refilled his glass, held the bottle up in the fading light. “
Berry Flavours
,” he said, admiring the label. “Still a good name, hey Rommy?”

Rommy agreed, although he wasn’t a connoisseur of wine himself.

A vintage from 2007 – one of Berry’s best ones. It had come out of a good summer with decent rains in the winter before. He rolled another mouthful around and let it sit on his tongue a moment before letting it slide down his throat.

Full bodied, fruity and intense, with mulberry and blackberry flavours deep on the palate, pepper for pizzazz, spice for comfort. He loved this wine.

He loved his home.

He didn’t love his neighbours.

And he certainly didn’t like this time of year. Oh sure, he was busy enough and his own restaurant was doing well using his farm produce, the freshwater crayfish, and his own wines from the vineyard.

But it wasn’t a happy time for him. He was a man on his own, long past hoping for the right woman to join him. He had his work, his dog, his friends. But it was times like Christmas when he felt bleak, when he knew his mates invited him over because their wives couldn’t stand to see him on his own on that particular day.

Even they’d given up trying to match him with single friends. Seemed nobody before had caught his eye.

But Clancy Jones had. And there she was, working for the enemy.

*

“No and no and no.” Mac hit the table three times with the flat of his palm.

Clancy winced inwardly at the booming voice. “You can’t have a Christmas feast with Poacher’s Pie as the main course.”

“You haven’t been here five minutes so don’t go telling me what I can and can’t do. I want down home food and lots of it.”

“Mutton stew is not going to cut it.”

“Who told you it was mutton stew?”

Greg scratched his ear. “It basically is just that, Dad.”

Mac Thomas glared from his son to Clancy and back again. “I want this place to be known for where you get big hearty meals.”

Clancy tried again. “What about a spit, lamb or beef – perhaps both. Maybe some salmon mousse or veal terrines... and some decent salads.” She was trying to think of anything tried and true she could prepare without having to experiment to get things perfect. There wasn’t a lot of time—

“No one ever got filled up on salads. Lots of roast veggies, good and plain, that’s what I want. And pavlova. Huge ones. Nothing fancy, hear me? Nothing I can’t spell or pronounce.”

She leaned back in her chair and glanced around the big old kitchen, which would have been a beauty in its day. A real cook’s dream back then. Those long, deep, solid timber benches, the butcher’s block, and an island bench with cupboards which was half the size of the room and would have been before its time, she reckoned. Cupboards lined the walls top to bottom and wonder of wonders, there was a pantry you could dance in.

But she had no clue how to cook on the AGA, a massive wood-burning stove squatting in the alcove. A wood-fired pizza oven was about as far as she’d got in that direction. Besides, it looked out of place, unused and unloved. The new kitchen had better be operational soon. She wondered what the two men did for cooking their own meals.

She sighed aloud. “I don’t know I’m going to stay—”

A mobile phone trilled loudly and Mac Thomas thumped his chest and pockets to locate it. When he found it, he yelled, “Yes? What papers? Yes, of course I did. Well, it will have to do. Take the bastard down once and for all. That’s my land.”

Greg had come to attention. Clancy looked between the pair and couldn’t decide whether or not to take her leave. She stood but Mac Thomas waved her back into her seat.

“Yes, yes. All right. We’ll be there. January tenth.” He hung up without another word.

“As I was saying,” Clancy started again, “I don’t know that—”

“Three or four choices of entrees, same with mains and lots of side dishes. No freshwater cray, got it?” He glared at her. “I’ve got a list here of all ingredients I want you to use. Nothing fancy, so don’t go ordering anything fancy.”

“But—”

Greg leaned towards her and spoke very softly. “How do you think you’d even get off this place?”

Prickly heat rushed across her shoulders. Clancy let the silence hang and Greg didn’t attempt to fill the void; just sat back staring at her.

He’d spoken so softly Mac Thomas hadn’t heard. “Good. I reckon that’s easy enough to handle. I’m looking forward to it. Now, you can practice on me and Greg for tea tonight. We’ll have lamb.” He shoved his chair away as he stood up and stomped out of the room.

She dropped her pen to the table and took a deep breath. “Freshwater cray would at least liven things up. The weather’s forecast to be stinking hot by next week and he wants roasted veggies.”

“No cray.”

“Why not?”

“His mortal enemy and biggest competitor lives on the farm next door. He farms the crays, and he’s got his own vineyard and wines, too.”

Clancy’s hand slid into her pocket and clamped on Berry’s card, still there, nice and warm. “I see.”

“And he has one of the best boutique restaurants on the island.” Greg looked at her and shifted in his seat. “So I’m told.”

Clancy raised her eyebrows. Berry Lockett had a bit more going for him than he let on. A thrill ran through her. “So he’s the competition. Is he doing Christmas as well?”

“He’s shut for the actual day.”

“What’s the story between him and your father, then?”

“Goes way back to my great-grandfather’s day. A fight over who owns the land we’re on.” His blue eyes pinned hers. “It’s comes right down to the fence wire, literally. Lockett’s boundary is supposed to be this side of our shearing shed.”

“Go on.”

“Beresford Lockett – that’s the next door neighbor, his great- grandmother was married to my great-grandfather, an earlier marriage. She’s buried on the land, and where she’s buried he reckons is his land because the boundaries had been shifted illegally.”

“And?”

“If the courts uphold it, we will have to relinquish about ten metres this side of the shed and for about three kilometres.”

“A lot of land.”

“And our shearing shed.”

“So why bung the restaurant back in there? Why doesn’t your father rebuild it somewhere else?”

Greg shrugged. “I dunno. Pride, maybe.”

“So where is great-grandma buried?”

Greg curled his lip. “That’s the kicker. It’s the reason Lockett is going for our throats. He reckons she’s under the shearing shed.”

Chapter Four

In her room Clancy tried to concentrate on a shopping list for Mac. If she didn’t do it, God only knows what he’d come up with to get this function happening.

But why was she even bothering?

Well, for a start, she had no car and it was a four-kilometre walk to the gate. Greg Thomas had figured that much out, the weasel. She had no way of carrying all her worldly possessions with her.

That’s why she was bothering, biding time until she could work out how to get out of here. They were mad, both father and son. Mad. They had no money, a failing business and they were about to throw good after bad and set up a restaurant.

She left her gear packed, and had pushed the bags against the far wall of the bedroom. She wouldn’t be unpacking in a hurry because she intended to find some way to get the hell out.

At least the room was comfortable enough, but it certainly wasn’t what she’d been promised.

Neither Mac Thomas nor his son were to be trusted on a number of fronts.

She had to use the bathroom which was down the hall and was a shared bathroom. Another annoying second-rate factor. She hadn’t felt at ease being in the house either, but there wasn’t a lot she could do about it.

And what a typical male bathroom it was.

On her way out she’d almost bumped into Greg as he was going in.

He just stood in her way as she tried to get past.

Awkward. Unpleasant.

Foreboding.

She’d had to flatten herself against the wall to avoid touching him.

The whole set-up was nonsense. No way should Mac be building up infrastructure when losing a court case could see it all ordered to be removed. Such a waste of money – and money it sounded like he didn’t have.

She had to get out. She’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire for sure, but the frying pan was looking better than it had two days before. Then again, remembering the angry vow to her father she would never return probably meant that particular frying pan was now not an option.

Clancy checked her watch. She had some time before she was due to start the evening meal, a test run for the dinner Mac had said. She figured they expected her to become their kitchen maid, but they had another thing coming. She’d cook what she wanted.

Maybe that way she’d get sacked tonight and be told to move on the following day. And that way they’d have to deliver her off the property.

Yes!

There might be another way. She eyed her laptop. Perhaps there was satellite broadband at the house. She’d email Berry Lockett, ask him politely if he’d come and get her, maybe meet her on the driveway track (dragging her luggage) and drop her off at the pub to get the bus and ferry back to Adelaide.

She thought a moment or two about just plain ringing him, but then she got the jitters. A woman ringing a man after a chance meeting in a pub and asking for major assistance was not a good look. What if he rejected the idea outright? Embarrassing.

At least if she emailed and he chose not to answer, there wouldn’t be any stomach-turning mortification.

Email is best.

She opened the laptop and fired it up. Deliriously happy when she saw the Internet was available, she checked Berry’s card, keyed in his email address and tapped out a quick note.

Berry, I know your place is next door to where I am now. Is there a chance you could meet me somewhere between the two properties and kindly give me a lift back to the pub for the bus? Hope you can help. Thanks in advance, Clancy Jones.

That already made her feel better. In fact she felt a warm tingle make it all the way down to her toes.

She waited until she was sure the email had sent then closed the laptop. She’d check for his answer in an hour. In a half hour. In fifteen minutes…

The warm tingle was still with her. But at the moment she was stuck. Now the only option was to do what she’d always done in tight spots, or times of sadness…or happiness for that matter.

She went in search of the kitchen to cook.

*

Mac Thomas leaned over his plate. “What do you call this?” He had his nose over his plate and sniffed.

Clancy could have whacked him on his big head with a frying pan. “It’s lamb kebabs, with middle eastern spices on a bed of boiled rice because there was nothing else in the pantry.”

“I don’t eat rice. God only knows how long it’s been in the pantry, probably since the last cook was here.” He pointed at his son. “Don’t eat the rice.”

Clancy forked a mouthful and chewed slowly.

Greg looked at her. “It smells great. I didn’t even know we had those spices in the cupboard.” He dragged a meatball off the skewer and shoved it whole into his mouth. “The best.”

Mac Thomas glared at her. “I said plain.”

“Fine.” She stood up and went to the microwave, pulled open the door and delivered a warm plate with a perfectly cooked lamb fillet resting on it. Diced potatoes dripped butter and herbs, and a couple of baby carrots accompanied it.

“You didn’t microwave that.” Mac pointed his knife at the plate.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I don’t eat carrots.”

She took a pair of tongs, removed the carrots from his plate and dropped them on to her own. She placed his plate in front of him.

He sliced the fillet. “Not cooked,” he said as the meat revealed it was just a little pink. He pushed the plate away.

She smiled at him. Reached across and tonged the lamb from his plate and placed it on a plate beside hers. Then she resumed her seat, and her meal.

Greg sputtered his wine.

“It’s not cooked.” Mac Thomas thrust his seat back. A few lonely pieces of diced, buttery potatoes sat on his plate in front of him.

“It is cooked the way I cook it. It is plain. It is with potatoes. You can’t get any plainer than meat and potatoes.” Clancy continued eating without looking at either man. Just the way she liked it.

“You can’t cook like that for this function.”

“I will be cooking the way I know how. If you don’t approve, I will happily leave tomorrow.” She continued eating.

Greg took a long swallow of wine and another whole meatball before he said, “Dad, this is really good. You need to try it.” He smiled at Clancy.

She felt sick.

Mac Thomas was beet red. “I don’t like spices. I don’t like under-done meat. I don’t like salads. I want plain meat and veggies.”

“You ate it all when Marlie was cooking for you.”

“Who’s Marlie?”

“Marlie McEwen, his girlfriend.”

“Marlie McEwen is not my girlfriend.”

“Not now, no. You pissed her off too much. But she did cook great meals for Dad. He lost a lot of weight.”

Clancy continued chewing, then swallowed and took a sip of wine. “What other veggies do you like?”

“Parsnip. Onions.”

“You don’t have any.”

“Well, when we do the shopping we will have.”

“What else?”

Greg piped up again. “That’s about it.”

“Greens?”

“Only if they’re about mush by the time they get to the table.” Greg pointed at her spare plate with his fork. “You going to eat that fillet?”

“No. And you’re not either. Your father is going to eat it.”

“I won’t eat it uncooked.”

“Slice it again,” she instructed and landed the fillet back on his plate. This time the meat juices ran clear. She could hear his stomach rumbling. Mac harrumphed and took a bite. Then another. It wasn’t long before he’d wolfed the lot.

“Well, Dad?”

“Not enough on the plate.”

Clancy nodded. “Fair enough.” She pushed her plate away, just about empty. “I’ll be off to bed. Long day.”

“You have to clean up.”

“No, I don’t. I’m the chef, not the kitchen hand. Goodnight.”

In her room she could hear the arguing voices but not the content. She was exhausted, but not too exhausted to open her laptop. She waited patiently for the email program to open, to download, and was disappointed to find nothing in her inbox.

She felt sure Berry would have answered her. Maybe he would later. She’d have a nice surprise when she awoke to his email in the morning. That idea carried her to the bed where she undressed, fell under the covers and slept.

*

The next morning there was still nothing from Berry.

Clancy got to the bathroom ahead of the two men. She hurried, didn’t want to be bumping into anybody as she went in or came out.

She checked her emails. Nothing.

Pulled on clean jeans – checked her emails – and a light-weight long sleeved t shirt wrinkled from her bag – checked her emails – and went straight to the kitchen. Surprise, surprise, the dirty dishes from the night before were still on the sink and the table. She left them.

Finding the kettle and boiling water, she looked for coffee and found only instant. It would have to do. She marched back to her room and checked the laptop for the eleventieth time, still without success.

No answer from Berry.

Her heart sunk. He wasn’t going to reply. He was just going to let it go and ignore her. But she’d had such a good feeling about him – how could that be wrong? He had a certain way of looking at her made her feel there was... something.

The way he’d looked at her. The way his eyes had never left her face when she was talking. He watched her, listening as if she was saying the most important thing in the world to him. To him. That’s what it was... that she was the only thing in his world.

Dammit.

She sat on the edge of the bed, thinking fast.

There was only one solution right now. She’d have to sweet talk Greg into giving her a lift back to the pub. That was that.

She didn’t like it too much. He was definitely creepy.

She opened the outside door in her room, stepped out to stand on the verandah with her coffee and gazed at the extraordinary sight before her. The vines reached from almost her doorstep to at least five hundred metres all around her, sloping down to a tree-lined gully.

It was one thing to be without a home and a job, but man, it was pretty here.

Why the hell would they be building up that old smelly shearing shed? Sure it had character, but the view from this verandah was nothing short of spectacular.

Clancy took a step back, checked it with a different perspective... it was wide enough for banquet-style tables and chairs.

She walked the length then back again. You could get service staff in and around it easily and with doors from the verandah to almost every room in the house, access from the kitchen wouldn’t be a problem.

She ran down the few steps to gaze back at the verandah from the lawn below. It would be perfect. Why hadn’t they thought of this?

Mac would only have to re-fit the existing kitchen – and wasn’t all that stuff coming today? She should hijack the shearing shed idea and redirect all the energy to the verandah. It would still be called the Vineyard Restaurant, and what an outlook over the vineyard...

Nah. Not convinced. Even the little she knew of the Thomas’s, she couldn’t expect any worthy idea to fly.

She swallowed the last of her coffee and was about to get another when she heard Mac clomping about inside. She waited a moment or two, wanting to be out of sight for a while.

The phone rang and Mac answered. A beat or two and his rasping shouts, angry questions and replies reached her ears. Then silence.

So the day hadn’t started well. She bet one of the tradies couldn’t make it today, of all days... It wasn’t her worry.

Maybe it was the electrician, only the most vital of them all. And if that were the case, then maybe her idea about the verandah would make it—

She heard Mac bellow with rage for Greg, and from a distance,

Greg bellowed back. Another argument ensued.

Forget it. There was no way she was going to stay here. Bugger the verandah idea. She ducked back inside to her bedroom to check the laptop again. Still nothing. She looked about her room as if an idea would leap out of the woodwork. “Come on, Clancy. Pull something out of your hat.”

Then a knock sounded on her door. She pulled it open.

It was Greg, his face ashen. “The truck. The whole bloody truck carrying everything down from Adelaide has tipped over outside Yankalilla. It didn’t even make the ferry last night. We’ve lost everything. All the kitchen stuff. Everything.”