Hold On to Me (15 page)

What the hell had she been thinking organising the reopening party for a fortnight away? There was still so much to do on her place. Sighing, he looked back over his shoulder at the interesting wallpaper on his bedroom wall, coming to terms with the fact that he'd be living in a renovator's delight for longer than he'd anticipated.

Stella had him tied up in knots and he didn't like it. Since he'd started his own business, he'd got used to calling the shots. Running his own show. And he liked it that way.

He gulped down his coffee. When exactly had he handed over his life to Stella Ryan?

On Sunday morning, The Market behind the Middle Point pub was crowded. Holiday-makers jostled with locals, young children hid under trestle tables, making their parents frantic with worry, stallholders happily sold their wares and, in the best spot of all, Stella Ryan had a table with some of her most portable items. She'd chosen casual jewellery, some hats, multi-coloured striped scarves and soft leather purses and she'd brought with her one rack of summer kaftans—the kind of thing you threw over your bathers when it was hot but you didn't want your thighs on full display. She sold zillions of them.

‘A coffee for you, Stella.'

‘You're an angel, Lizzie.' Stella took the takeaway cup from her friend and sipped appreciatively. She'd been up since six and was in desperate need of caffeine.

‘We've got an amazing crowd here today. Look at all these people.' Lizzie's beaming smile and laughing blue eyes were infectious.

‘Thank you once again for saving me this spot. I feel honoured to have the prime position.'

‘We're so excited to have you here, Stella. You've added a dash of real style to The Market. I wish you could come back every week during summer.'

‘Me too, but I'm reopening in two weeks.'

Lizzie grinned. ‘Thanks so much for the invitation to the opening party. I can't wait.'

‘Me neither. I've felt in limbo since the fire. It'll be good to get back to business and a regular routine.'

Lizzie checked her watch. ‘I'll pop back later to see if you need more coffee. I've got to mingle and see if everyone's happy. Good luck.'

‘See you soon.' Stella waved her friend away and turned to take in the crowd of people. It was a real mix. Young families, retirees, bearded hipsters and vintage princesses strolling hand in hand, surfers, clutching coffees, wandering by in their boardshorts and damp hair. She felt a hint of regret that she hadn't been able to be part of this bustling Sunday morning scene at Middle Point. When she'd returned to the south coast five years before, she'd had a weekend stall at another local market for twelve months to help her get re-established, as well as working for other retailers to build her bank balance and networks, but once her business had grown, she'd moved into premises and never looked back. Having her own shop had always been her dream, and she was happy to be living it, but there was a vibe about The Market that she loved.

When she stopped daydreaming and shook herself back into the present, she realised there were two customers taking a discerning look at her wares. They were dressed in loose white linen and were impeccably groomed with salon nails and, Stella noticed as she glanced down to check out their four-inch wedge heels, salon toes to match.

‘Good morning, ladies. Let me know if there's anything I can help you with, won't you?'

The two women looked at her from behind their huge sunglasses and Stella didn't have to see their eyes to feel their disdain. It wafted across the table to her like unaffordable but sharp perfume. One of the women reached for a necklace Stella had arranged on a tree branch she'd secured in a sand-filled wine bottle. Its beads clinked together as she ran it between her fingers.

She turned to her friend. ‘That's quite nice. But I think I've seen it cheaper up in Adelaide.'

‘Mmm, I know. And really, it's only good for wearing down here on hols, isn't it? It's a little too …' she shrugged her shoulders as she searched for the right insult ‘…
colourful
for real life.'

Stella smiled grimly and tried not to bite. She took in a deep breath and tried to unclench her teeth. She'd never had nice things as a child. Sometimes, when her parents were straight for a while, there would be some spare cash. A five-dollar note would be pressed into her palm with a guilty smile from her mother, a look that maybe said sorry even if her words rarely did. And Stella would take that precious money and head to the local charity shop, where she would spend hours scouring the tables for something that would be just hers. And she often found things that she loved—her style had been distinct even then. It might have been a simple china bowl or a glass vase. Stella learnt to buy things of no value, things her parents couldn't later take and sell for cash. Even as a small girl, she could appreciate the beauty in old pieces that had come from other people's homes.

And by the time she was in her teens, having lived with Auntie Karen for years, and working at the Middle Point general store, she'd grown into her confidence and her style. She'd created her costumes; her mask; her new character. She didn't want to look like everybody else because she wasn't like everybody else. She'd learnt by then to own her difference and she turned that into a burning desire to do better, to be better. She listened when her teachers told her she was smart, that she should get an education. She didn't ask anyone for help to achieve her dreams. She'd always had to do it alone, even when Auntie Karen arrived like an angel to rescue her.

‘The coffee here is fantastic,' Stella lifted her cup to them to emphasise her point and force them to look at her. ‘Do yourself a favour and grab a cup. Enjoy your stay at Middle Point.'

One of the blondes turned to the other, without even an acknowledgement of Stella, and said rather loudly, ‘Darling, do you think they have soy lattes?' And they waltzed off.

Stella shook her head. They were such wannabes. She'd seen real money. She'd seen Sydney money. These women would be minnows in that pond. She enjoyed the image of the two of them being devoured by sharks.

The clatter of a coat hanger falling to the ground took her out of her revenge fantasy.

‘I'm so sorry.' A young woman bobbed up and shot Stella a look of wide-eyed shock. She hurriedly returned one of the kaftans to the rack and took a step back as if she were about to disappear.

‘Don't worry. They're a little fiddly and I'm only here temporarily so these makeshift racks will have to do. Is there anything I can help you with?' It was the polite thing to say but Stella couldn't quite believe this young woman would be interested in the clothes she had on display.

‘No thanks. I'm just looking.' It was a nervous smile, which Stella found amusing. There was nothing timid about the young woman's outfit. She was wearing a retro eighties tribute. Coloured leggings—leg warmers, for god's sake—a huge baggy jumper with appliquéd slashes on the front and a scarf tied on top of her head. She must have been studying old music videos on YouTube. And she'd done very well. It looked exactly right.

‘Your outfit is incredible,' Stella said with real appreciation.

‘Oh, thanks.' The young woman beamed. ‘I love op-shopping.'

‘I can see that.' Stella blinked. She suddenly recognised the girl—she hadn't realised, seeing as she looked much more grown up in her own clothes. ‘I've seen you before. You were outside my shop the other day on your way home from school.'

‘Yeah, that was me. I'm Molly.'

Stella held out a hand and they shared a firm handshake. ‘I'm Stella. Very pleased to meet you.'

She couldn't stop staring. Molly could have been her, twenty years earlier. She looked about fifteen, give or take a few months. Medium height and short hair that she'd spiked up with some industrial-strength hair gel. She looked like she was about to grow into herself: still a tender mix of self-consciousness and confidence. Stella admired her spunk. She'd not only searched the charity shops, making a virtue out of recycling, but had the confidence to totally rock her look in a beachside town where surf gear, short shorts and bikini tops were the uniform for most of the kids her age.

‘Your outfit is fabulous. I love the idea of recycling fashion. Always have! But I can't actually believe you're interested in the kaftans. Not someone your age, surely.'

Molly giggled. ‘They're not exactly my style—no offence. It's the colours I love looking at. See this one?' She took one of the pieces of the rack and held it up. ‘It's the blues and oranges and yellows. They kind of remind me of a sunset. Don't you think?'

‘I agree with you.' Stella leant in. ‘I stock that one specifically to remind my customers of their wonderful summer holidays on the south coast. It's one of my best sellers. It almost walks out the door.'

‘I really love your shop. I'm so sorry about what happened.'

‘Thank you. But it's almost all fixed and I'll be reopening soon.'

‘I look at your window displays all the time. I loved the one you did last Easter with the old dinner plates—the blue and white ones?'

Stella remembered it well. She'd found some pieces of blue willow dinnerware in the charity shop, enough to create a display with white-wrapped eggs and blue jewellery. ‘You remember that?'

‘Of course. Your shop is the best one in Port Elliot, I think.'

‘That's really sweet of you to say, Molly. I have an idea. Would you like to come to the official reopening of Style by Stella?'

Molly looked like she'd just been given the best Christmas gift ever. ‘Really? I'd love to!'

‘Come by the shop next week and I'll give you an invitation.'

‘Thanks, Stella, that's awesome. I'll see you next week.'

As Stella waved the girl away, she felt the beginnings of a brilliant idea brewing in her head.

‘You want a coffee?'

It was Monday morning, over a week since the fire, and Summer was expecting a busy day with clients in her massage studio, so Stella was taking the chance to nip down to the café and grab some coffee.

‘Soy cappuccino,' Summer called.

‘That is not coffee. That is something other than coffee,' Stella teased. ‘I'll be back in ten.'

December was well under way and the weather had put on a show. The sky was a brilliant blue and the light breeze coming up off the bay wasn't enough to cause anyone a chill. Stella picked up her pace as she crossed the train line. In the distance, she could already see Luca's truck out the front of her shop and a frisson of something shimmered through her. She hadn't seen him or talked to him since his invitation the previous Friday afternoon to go to the wedding. Perhaps she'd pick up a double espresso for him and drop it off on the way back to Summer's. That would be the polite thing to do for a co-worker, right?

As she got closer, she noticed him already waiting for her on the footpath. She'd know his body anywhere. Tall, slim hipped, big work boots. The flop of dark hair that he pushed back from his forehead. At a distance, in shadow, it looked like a wave. She'd been anticipating this moment, had been thinking of seeing him again all weekend. His words from Friday night had swirled in her head and stuck there like catchy song lyrics:
I think my luck has changed already.

She'd spent all Saturday night thinking about Luca at the wedding, even while she tried to occupy herself planning the reopening. She'd wondered what colour suit he'd worn and exactly how good he'd looked in it. She'd turned her mind to the little details: what colour tie had he chosen? Had he loosened it at the end of the night? Had he shaved or embraced the rugged three-day-growth look? Who had he been sitting with? Were they old friends or family? How did he possibly survive all those courses at an Italian wedding without bursting out of his trousers?

Oh, who was she kidding? The burning question that had her tossing and turning all night was whether he'd met anyone. Specifically, whether he'd slept with anyone. Just how gorgeous and young was the woman who'd had her hands all over his body? Who'd had his delicious mouth on hers and his strong fingers sending her to heaven? Whose name had he whispered when he came with a shudder?

When she was a couple of metres from him, it became easier to interpret the look on his face. He looked thunderously angry. The clench of his jaw and the slow and deliberate rise and fall of his shoulders sent her heart leaping into her throat.

‘What's wrong?' Stella looked into her shop. She had to squint a little to adjust her eyes to the semi-darkness, hoping something might give her a clue. It was empty, except for Luca's sawhorse and his circular saw set up on another makeshift table. There were sheets of Gyprock leaning up against the back wall and, on the north, sandstone had been exposed where they'd almost finished chipping off the damaged plaster. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Except that everything looked out of the ordinary.

When he didn't answer, she stared at him, perplexed. ‘Luca? Has something happened?'

‘No, not in there.' Luca's voice was low, too quiet.

She looked him up and down. Noted his crossed arms. His blazing eyes. His non-existent smile.

‘So, what's up with you? Did you have to go home all on your own on Saturday night?' As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she went cold. Then hot. Then cold again. She wanted to rewind those ten seconds and take them back. She had stupidly hinted at exactly what she'd been thinking. There was no escaping now. His eyes were boring into hers and when he reached out an arm, then pulled it back, she knew he was being serious.

‘We need to talk. Not here.' Luca didn't wait for her but stormed inside first, then turned and waited.

She followed him, slowly.