The House On Burra Burra Lane (9 page)

He wasn’t about to push Sammy into anything.

When Sammy got to the kitchen she put both hands on the table and hung her head, breathing deeply.

To hell with friendship … she wanted the man. She ached to kiss him, wind her arms around him, hold him, pull him tightly into her until he let go of whatever he was holding onto and loved her. Physically loved her.

She turned, and looked out of the kitchen window, tugging at the memory of the first sensual awareness she’d felt with him until it sat clear and vivid in her mind and liquefied her body to honey. The instant she’d set eyes on him. And again, in his truck. In the field with his horses. Again, when he’d kissed her so quietly, so tenderly, in the stables.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth. Her skin warmed her lips, like the touch of Ethan’s mouth had. She’d relaxed into his kiss and he’d pulled away. He’d stayed away for three days … because of embarrassment. Had she messed this up, like everything else? Had she done the wrong thing by kissing him back? What did he see when he looked at her? What did he feel? Impossible to tell.
He was too damned private.

She glanced at the hole in the hem of her white jersey T-shirt. She plucked at it, ripped the material, making the hole bigger.

Oliver Dolan had never made her feel anything but useless and below par. He’d tried to lead her down a better road, advising her what to wear and certainly what not to wear. What would Mr Perfect-Suit-and-Tie think if he saw her now?

Thank God she’d got out of that quarrel when she had, although in some ways the whole mess was of her own making, but at least she wasn’t being influenced by Oliver or her mother here.

Verity had a hold over Oliver and Oliver had a hold over Verity—both of them going round in circles about money— with Sammy in the middle. She should have known better than to tell her mother anything but she’d had no-one to confide in. Kate had been overseas, and it had felt like a dangerous game, having so much information on Oliver but not being able to prove it.

She wasn’t going down that track again. She would not be pulled into anyone’s net of intrigue. Not here. Her new place, her new town, her new life. Whatever Ethan felt or thought or did—it wasn’t up to her to push for more. She had to ignore the urgency of wanting him. See their relationship for what it was, not what she’d like it to be. She made him laugh and he helped her out. She shook him out of his solitary manner sometimes, and he did more for her than he should most of the time.

That’s what it was: their friendship. So, in fifteen minutes, she’d make a pot of coffee and take a mug outside to the shed for her friend. He took his with three sugars. He’d need a hand if he was going to tackle the decking for the porch. Whatever he asked for, she’d help, and if he didn’t need help she’d bring herself back into the house and get on with things. On her own.

S
ammy pulled up at the southern end of Main Street and backed her twelve-year-old SUV into a tight but negotiable spot.

She picked up the flyer from the passenger seat and scanned the agenda for Swallow’s Fall Country Women’s Association of Australia annual fair. At 11.45 am she’d be judging the underten’s colouring-in competition. Two groups. The first for three to six-year -olds, and she was as nervous as a scrub wren leaving the nest for the first time. There were only four children in that age group, which made her job harder. Alienating a Swallow’s Fall mother at this point was not a good idea. She planned on joint winners and joint runners-up. The second age group was easier—eight children. She’d place the top three, but every child would get a certificate of merit. She’d hand drawn all the certificates and had put in extra hours to make them as acknowledging and commemorative as possible, so the children could put them somewhere special at home and feel proud. Surely that would be acceptable with the mothers, along with the prizes Kookaburra’s fundraising had covered? She’d never judged anything before. She kept her portraiture pieces private, and her fashion illustrations were work. She’d found some youthful fun again, doing the certificates.

The CWA would be pleased with the turnout and the weather. Or perhaps they demanded both. The sun shone on the November day, pre-empting summer. The breeze from distant Mount Kosciuszko drifted overhead with enough of a flurry to keep the crowds content in the unexpected Snowies’ heat wave of 26 degrees.

Sammy hid her grin as she got out of the vehicle. Did eighty seven people make a crowd?

She locked the car, dropped the keys and bumped her head on the wing mirror when she bent to pick them up. She breathed deeply, stuffed the keys into her shoulder bag and turned to Main Street.

Trucks, cars with trailers, and motorbikes were parked two deep under the claret ash trees lining Main Street. From the Town Hall, southern end, with a preservation notice fixed to its dilapidated brickwork, to the northern end with the pretty, salmon-pink B&B. Before that, the conservatively painted burgundy and green bus station, no more than a shelter with a waiting room.

The colonial posts and walkway verandas either side of the street shone in cream and tawny tones as though washed, scrubbed and brushed with a magic glow. Royal-blue signage stood out on the lemon-yellow painted toy and gift shop. A sharp contrast to Morelly’s stately dove-grey façade. Even the old cemetery, whose last inhabitant had been put to rest in 1889, had multicoloured bunting along the white picket fence, still fluttering from the Labour Day public holiday. The day before Sammy arrived in town.

Seven weeks ago. She’d been told they always decorated the old cemetery, regardless of the occasion. Mr Swallow himself was buried there. The first resident.

She hadn’t mentioned her fashion illustrations to anyone but Ethan. He must have given someone in town the heads-up on her drawing ability. He’d been surprisingly enthusiastic about her portraiture work. Had managed to embarrass her and make her laugh at the same time with his sudden, reflective aptitude for appraising art. The day she’d got a bit lost about what she wanted from him, but she’d made his coffee, strong and sweet, and he’d let her help him with the porch decking.

After she’d agreed to judge, a few of the townswomen had come back with a second request to put in an hour or two at the CWA information table. Hardly akin to working in the plush office in Sydney, but much better. Her job in the city could be replaced by anyone. Her role at the CWA table was necessary. She’d been in town long enough to know they expected commitment from their community. She didn’t know what accessible skills she had to offer if they asked for something more, but they had roped her in to help, not expecting a refusal, and she couldn’t say she wasn’t pleased about the tone of acceptance.

She walked along the raised wooden walkway that served as the pedestrian area for the shops: the grocer’s; Cuddly Bear Toy Shop where the art competition would be judged; the hardware store, and then Bushman’s Clock Bar & Grill.

There wasn’t a hint of a big-town agricultural show or a hyped-up fair with lots of outside traders and market stalls, but they had made the town eye-catching and colourful enough for the tourists who drove through to stop a little longer than usual and sample the home produce, or watch the log chopping, or the sheepdog trials.

The other side of the street housed the industrial conveniences. The petrol station—Mrs Tam, the owner and a strong advocate for the resourceful women of the CWA, made and sold the best ice-cream Sammy had ever tasted—then the stock feeder’s yard where Sammy bought eco- and pet-friendly fertilizer, logs for the fire, and cat food in bulk.

Ethan would buy his horse stuff there, she thought as people passed to-and-fro, on their way to the next food stall or the hotdog stand.

The sky rolled above, like a blue cyclorama. A backdrop for the canvas of the High Country farmland beyond the town; a palette of greens and greys, dotted with snow gums and the pinpoint outlines of sheep, wallabies and kangaroos. The scenery wound on to the undulating hills in the distance, then to the alpine ridges, topped with snow like icing trickling over the side of a Christmas cake. She’d have to draw this picture one day. Work in pencil but layer richly, until it looked like an oil painting.

The children ran along Main Street, holding balloons high while Mrs Tam’s ice-cream dribbled down their chins.

Ethan would be around somewhere; he was listed as judge for the best dog tricks, after the picnic lunch.

‘That’s just scribble,’ Josh Rutherford said, shuffling to the table with an armful of educational boxed toys. Josh worked at the toy and gift shop two days a week. He was saving up for a motorbike. He must be desperate for the bike, Sammy thought, smiling at him, to work in a toy shop.

She picked up the drawing. ‘It’s four-year-old scribble with a lot of style.’

Josh leaned forward, peered hard. ‘Scribble.’

Sammy laughed. ‘Cat—look—there’s a head and two ears, and there’s the tail.’

‘Longest tail I’ve ever seen on a square-headed cat.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ Sammy put the artwork on the table, next to a drawing of a purple tractor. ‘Both are runners-up.’ There was style in the wayward flair. The content was different, but each drawing had a big yellow sun with angular rays, and V-shaped blades of lime green grass. She could practically see little tongues sticking out of the children’s mouths as they concentrated hard, fat crayons in stubby hands.

‘Yours is worth looking at, though,’ Josh said, picking up a prize certificate.

‘Thank you.’ She’d drawn stars and crescent moons on the certificates, and had just spent time writing the names of the children on the banner of each certificate, in bold blue or pink, depending on gender.

‘You ought to give a few lessons, Miss Walker,’ Mary Munroe, Cuddly Bear’s owner said, dinging the cashier’s till closed. ‘My kids would like that. I’d be happy to pay and I could bring them over to your place after school one day.’ Mary wore white jeans and a carnation-pink shirt which covered her ample bust and slim hips. She always had earrings dangling from beneath her short blonde hair. Today’s matched the shirt, neon-cerise drops almost touching her shoulders. Mary had ushered children and parents into the shop with a big smile, a bubbly joke and a hardworking enthusiasm, the children eager to drop off their competition works of art.

‘My Gemma, she’s eleven, she’s got real style. Draws some lovely stuff.’

‘That’s true, Miss Walker,’ Josh said. ‘Gem’s a gem at drawing.’ He grinned.

‘Please call me Sammy, both of you,’ Sammy said. ‘Do you have any of Gemma’s work here?’

Mary Munroe laughed. ‘Always.’ She opened the doors on a large golden cupboard behind the counter which could have come right out of
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,
and stood back to display the drawings pinned to the inside.

‘Oh, Mary.’ Sammy stepped closer. ‘These are fantastic. You ought to have them out on the walls.’ The drawings were well beyond the usual capability of an eleven-year-old. Horses in silver halters, ponies drawing pumpkin carts, cats with mice scurrying around their paws, and bunny rabbits in tall fancy hats.

‘I’d like to display them, but this is a toy shop. I don’t want people thinking my kid gets preferential treatment. Bad for business.’ Mary winked.

Sammy pondered as she studied the drawings. ‘You could have a few art lessons here, in the shop. Then have a wall dedicated to the drawings of all the children. That would pull the mothers in.’

‘And business. Would you organise the classes? Maybe a Thursday afternoon each week.’

‘Go on, Miss Walker,’ Josh said. ‘You’ve got the talent.’

Thursday afternoons. Ethan would be finished his work on the house soon and Sammy didn’t want to be alone every day. He’d spent the last week finishing off the porch decking. He only had the shed walls to fix now. She’d have her own tasks, those would keep her occupied all year, but it would be lonely—different, she amended—without Ethan wandering her property.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d love to. I’ll write to my boss and ask her for donated art materials. She runs a fashion house in Sydney. I’m sure the company would be happy to throw a few art packs our way.’

‘Done,’ Mary said, closing the wardrobe door. She walked across the room and pulled down the yellow shades on the window. ‘And so are we. Come on, let’s go to the fair.’

‘I’ll buy you an ice-cream, Miss Walker,’ Josh said, tucking his T-shirt into the band of his hipster jeans.

‘No,’ Sammy said. ‘I’ll buy you one. You were a great help with the children, they were a little boisterous and you handled them really well.’

Josh shrugged, pulled a pack of chewing gum out of the turned-up sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘Don’t mind kids,’ he mumbled. ‘But I better go find my mum. I’ll catch you later, Miss Walker.’

‘It’s Sammy, Josh.’

Sammy waited for Mary to lock up the toy shop.

‘You go on down to the field,’ Mary said. ‘Mrs Tam has her ice-cream stall down there, next to the cake stall. I’ll be along in a few minutes. Got to find my kids. See you later, and thanks again, Miss Walker.’ She smiled, then craned her neck, looking over Sammy’s shoulder. ‘Oh, look,’ she said, pointing at the field across the street. ‘There’s Ethan. He’ll have had kids running after him today too. Bet he’d like to buy you an ice-cream and discuss it.’ She winked. ‘Nice to have you in town, Sammy.’

‘It’s great, Sammy. I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

‘I haven’t done anything yet, Ethan.’ Sammy studied her strawberry shortcake ice-cream, almost down to wafer only. ‘I’ll write to my boss, Kate Singleton, in Sydney and ask if she’ll donate materials.’

‘It’s a commitment, small or otherwise. Would your boss do that on a continual basis?’

Sammy shook her head. ‘You’re so studious and appropriate.’

‘I’m what?’

‘Kate’s my best friend as well as my boss. I know she’ll help out, and if she doesn’t for whatever reason, then I’ll buy the materials myself.’

‘I’m not studious,’ he said. ‘What makes you think that?’

She popped the last nibble of wafer into her mouth and licked the cold ice-cream from her lips. ‘Best ice-cream in the world.’ She smiled up at him.