Short and Sweet, Page 2

  Her pretty mouth fell open. Those blue eyes grew practically round, and she looked so cute like that.

  He swallowed, and pushed on. “Mum and Dad are away for another six weeks. I’m short staffed. I could really do with some help right now. Treat it as a trial until they get back. No strings. Have a think. We could do this again Saturday lunchtime and talk about it?”

  “Well… no… ummm… why? Really?”

  He let her splutter on, enjoying her surprised confusion. Suddenly it seemed like a brilliant idea.

  She closed her eyes. “But I’d made up my mind to leave farming. You can’t imagine how tough that was. Going around in circles, weighing everything up. I don’t know if I want to go back on my decision. Anyway, people are already ringing about the dogs.”

  Dread slithered down his spine. “Six weeks,” he urged. “A six-week trial on both sides. I’ll pay whatever you’re currently getting. What have you got to lose?”

  “Damn you, Steve!” She glared at him, but he saw a smile breaking through.

  Relieved, he grinned back. “Like I said, have a think. Don’t decide until Saturday.”

  Finally she nodded, and he relaxed.

  “Another coffee before you hit the road?”

  “No thanks. After that offer my mind’ll be racing while I drive.”

  He followed her out, handing his credit card to the cashier on the way with a brief, “Back in a mo.”

  She unlocked a muddy white wagon and looked up at him. Steve ran the back of his hand down her soft cheek. “Drive safe, eh? In fact phone me once you’re there so I’ll stop worrying you’ve landed in a ditch.”

  “You’ll be asleep by the time I get back.” But she didn’t move away from his hand.

  “Not a hope until I’ve heard you’re home. Lunch on Saturday. We can do the details by phone.” As he turned, he added, “Don’t sell your dogs before then.”

  *

  On Saturday, Steve rose at first light and raced through jobs with renewed energy, impatient to be on the road on this beautiful autumn morning. After several days of calls and texts and late-night imaginings he really, really wanted her to agree.

  He showered, dressed, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His sister had once said his legs were damned good so he’d swapped his jeans for shorts. Might as well give Brigitte the best possible view of him.

  Would the big knee-brace gain him any points? What would she decide?

  *

  Brigitte brushed her hair until it flowed around her shoulders in a pale waterfall. She tossed her red hoodie onto the back seat in case it turned cold but wore a new blue top which showed a hint of boob and matched her eyes. When she reached the pub she found Steve leaning against his big black ute in the sunshine. Tall and tanned. Gorgeous. Smiling fit to bust.

  And hurt! Her heart gave a definite lurch.

  “What happened?” she demanded, leaping out and grabbing his elbows.

  His arms closed around her, and she tilted her face up, hoping it would encourage him. Sure enough, he dropped a soft kiss on her lips, and seconds later they were on their way to breathless.

  “Old accident,” she heard him gasp between juicy kisses. “Nagging at me a bit with all the extra work.”

  She slid her hands onto his big warm shoulders. “Good thing I decided to come and help you out for six weeks then, isn’t it?”

  He pulled her even closer and kissed her again. “Or maybe longer?”

  “See how it goes,” she whispered, barely believing how her luck had changed.

  *

  When he arrived home after not just lunch but dinner as well, Steve ripped the leg-brace off and tossed his added ‘persuasion’ into the wardrobe, feeling only marginally guilty. He’d been desperate to use any ammunition available, and had bargained on her having a tender heart from the way she’d described her dogs. At least he’d already admitted it was an ‘old’ accident, so his white lie shouldn’t come back to bite him. He was more than willing to demonstrate his total fitness any time she felt like swapping the shepherd’s cottage for the comfort of the main homestead.

  Hopefully long before his parents returned.

  ***

  INSEPARABLE

  “Control that great hairy beast!” Dan Carpenter yelled as half a ton of slavering shag-pile rug barreled across the sand apparently intent on killing Miss Sweetie.

  The girl he’d been introduced to only as ‘Sarah’ let out a piercing whistle and her enormous Bernese Mountain Dog skidded to a halt, dropped to its haunches, and continued to eye Miss Sweetie as though she was lunch.

  “Good boy, Auric,” Sarah called across the breezy beach.

  Dan had joined the Bolton Bay dog walking group almost by accident. For the last fortnight he’d pounded past them on his morning run, and one day someone had called out, “Get a dog, mate, and then you can go slower.”

  “I’ve got a dog,” Dan yelled back, cutting his speed down for a few seconds. “I’m looking after one for someone.”

  “Bring it along and join us,” a ponytailed blonde invited. Dan had noticed her each time he ran. He didn’t need asking twice.

  “We’ve got the wrong dogs,” he said the following morning. Slim blonde Sarah with her jaunty ponytail should have Miss Sweetie, his grandmother’s snowy Maltese Terrier. Gran had sometimes tied Miss Sweetie’s topknot up with a shiny pink ribbon so she had her own little ponytail.

  And he needed the Bernese Mountain Dog—or at least something more masculine than his perky white bundle of mischief. A chunky black Labrador—or even better, a bronzy Boxer with its streamlined muscles and athletic gait. Dan considered himself streamlined and athletic. Bronzy too, with his summer tan and streaky brown hair. Weren’t dogs supposed to look like their owners?

  “I didn’t choose him,” Sarah said. “I got landed with him when my boyfriend, Richard, left for the States. But he’s such a honey.”

  Dan wondered if she meant Richard or the dog until she added, “He won’t hurt her,” as she crunched across the sand beside him.

  Miss Sweetie looked far from worried. She pranced right up to enormous Auric and sniffed his black and tan legs. He lowered his massive head and snuffed and wuffled the length of her excited, wriggling body.

  The little Maltese Terrier seemed to adore beach walking, and had unaccountably chosen the huge Mountain Dog as her special companion.

  Which gave Dan the ideal excuse to stride along beside forthright Sarah.

  “So why do you have a fluffy toy?” she asked him in return.

  “I didn’t choose her either. She’s my grandmother’s dog, but Gran finally got too ill to live at home and had to go into care. I’m staying in her cottage until it’s sold, house-sitting I guess. I take Miss Sweetie to visit her every couple of days. They feel it’s therapeutic.”

  “How do you have all this time free?”

  Great. First she thinks I have an effeminate dog and now she suspects I’m a beach bum on the dole.

  “I’m a chef, so I try to run or surf most mornings before I start cooking.”

  She nodded at that. “I bet you pay for it at the other end of the day though.”

  “You get used to it.” And because she’d asked about him, he felt he could reverse the questioning. “How about you?”

  “I’m a nurse, so I know all about evening shifts,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m only working part time this year so I can finish my Masters.”

  “Get away from there, Timmy!” one of the men yelled as a Cocker Spaniel started to roll in something that was probably rotten fish. The rest of the group—all retired—called their own dogs to heel.

  “Is she a show dog?” Sarah asked, eyeing Miss Sweetie’s long sand-sweeping coat. The pristine white had become decidedly grubby around the edges, and it was a magnet for bits of dried seaweed and twigs. By contrast Auric’s distinctive white face-stripe and chest looked crisp and clean against his massive black body.

  Dan shook his head. “
Spoiled rotten though. My grandmother’ll have a fit if she sees her in this state. I’ll have to find a groomer to give her a bath and a trim.”

  “Save your money,” Sarah said, patting Auric as he bumped against her thigh for attention. “I’ll do it for you if you like. I’m used to bathing this big boy, so how hard can a little squirt like her be?”

  *

  Dan had the next day off work so he arrived at lunchtime, bringing a bowl of his best risotto, a bag of assorted salad greens, and a very wriggly dog.

  “You didn’t have to bring food,” Sarah said, plainly pleased that he had. They sat at a shaded table in her sunny yard, eating and talking for far too long.

  Finally he sighed, stretched, and stood. “I promised Gran a visit today,” he said, reluctantly starting to tidy the lunch plates away. Sarah was easy company. He felt relaxed and wound up at the same time. How long since a woman had done that to him?

  Once he’d cleared the table she scooped Sweetie up from the lawn.

  “Trim first or wash first?” she asked.

  “I guess if you trim first there’s less to wash?”

  They achieved some sort of success with Dan holding and Sarah trimming, but it wasn’t easy, and Sweetie soon resembled a tousled mop instead of her silky self.

  “I thought you were used to doing Auric?” he asked.

  “I bath him but he doesn’t need trimming.”

  “The next bit’ll be easier then.”

  But Miss Sweetie treated the bath as a game, bursting out of the big basin of warm water Sarah had set on the table top, drenching Dan and eventually obliging him to remove his soggy denim shirt. Sarah’s blue tank was soon spotted with splashes, too—and Dan saw the outline of a pretty bra through the thin stretchy fabric, and the sweet curves of her breasts as she bent to restrain the sopping, struggling dog.

  Sweetie yapped. Auric, confined to his run, howled in a deep sad voice.

  “This is hopeless,” Sarah snapped, pink and disheveled. “I’m going to let Auric out and see if she’ll hold still with him sitting close by.”

  “Up!” she said, indicating the sturdy timber bench beside the table. Auric instantly upped, and sat, and panted, feathery tail sweeping through the air and thumping the seat. His brown eyes glowed below their distinctive tan eyebrow spots. Sweetie put her head on one side and gazed adoringly at him. Sarah and Dan soon made much better progress.

  “They’re The Odd Couple,” Sarah said, rubbing Sweetie with a towel. “Do you think she’ll object to my hair drier?”

  “She’s objected to everything else,” he said, glancing at his watch and knowing his grandmother would soon be getting anxious. Sweetie took the noise and hot air in her stride as long as Auric stayed close. She even suffered the tangle-brush without too much complaint.

  Dan eased back into his damp shirt, clipped Sweetie’s lead on, and led his refurbished toy out to the car.

  Gran exclaimed with dismay at Sweetie’s new appearance but her eyes lit up when he started talking about Sarah. And he found her curiously easy to talk about.

  *

  Two weeks went by. He and Sarah beach walked every morning, sometimes shared brunch when she didn’t have lectures, talked nonstop, and managed to see a couple of movies. Dan fixed the crooked latch on Auric’s run and the loose handle on one of Sarah’s kitchen cupboards.

  And then Gran’s cottage was sold. The new owners requested a short settlement date—the end of the month. With only a fortnight left, Dan knew he had to move out fast.

  “There’s a spare room at my place,” Sarah said in a very offhand manner as they packed up the last of Gran’s good dinner set together.

  “What about Richard?”

  “Not coming back.”

  “So?” What was she really offering?

  “So I need to rent out his room.”

  Okay, he could live with that and see where it led.

  *

  Five nights later Dan parked his car in Sarah’s driveway, unlocked the front door with his own key, and headed for his kingsize bed.

  Sarah appeared in her bedroom doorway, covered neck to toes in a big pink robe, looking rumpled and sleepy and irresistible.

  “Come and see these dogs,” she whispered.

  Auric snored softly in his big dog bed in the corner of her room. Sweetie lay cuddled close against him, blissfully breathing with the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

  “Do you think it’s catching?” Dan asked hopefully.

  “Don’t get any ideas like that,” Sarah replied, sending him an unreadable grin.

  And as he left her room, he heard, with ears well-used to cutting through the clatter and clamor of his restaurant kitchen, her quiet murmur of “yet.”

  ***

  GO WITH THE FLOW

  Thursday January 9th.

  Best foot forward. Chop chop. Get a shuffle on.

  I can hear you saying it all, even though you’re finally dead. This is so not fair. All those years I looked after you—never really getting on with my own life the way I wanted to—and you’re still trying to pull strings and boss me around.

  Well, no more, Mum.

  You were forty-three when I was born and eighty-four when you died, and at forty-one I feel like I’ve wasted half a lifetime.

  You wanted to stay in this big house after Dad died. You wanted me to come home and help. And you wanted every single thing your own way because it was ‘your’ house and you weren’t charging me ‘market rates’ for rent. My time and care were apparently worth nothing to you.

  Your sickly lilac paint will be the first thing to go. The expensive ugly stair-lift, the second. Followed rapidly by all the fussy garden borders you could no longer tend, but expected me to keep tidy.

  Today I’m getting this house appraised, and seriously starting to look for a place of my own. I’ve chosen a man called Rex Collins from the suburban newspaper. I started going to Open Homes while you were in hospital. You didn’t know that, did you?

  I want a small, modern place with nothing tizzy to catch the dust, and no endless weeding to do. A little courtyard garden, maybe. That would be enough for me.

  Anyway, Rex Collins has black and white ads in the newspaper instead of those coloured fliers that arrive in the letterbox all the time. He doesn’t look too pushy in his photo, but of course you can never really tell. Are they shoulder pads or really impressive shoulders under his dark suit jacket? His voice is nice on the phone; he sounds like Simon, the news reader on TV One.

  *

  Friday.

  Well, he came to do the appraisal and it was awful. I’m not saying he was exactly rude about the house, but he pointed out so many things I should do to get it into ‘saleable condition.’ Hire a lawn-mowing service to cut the lawns and edges back properly. Maybe get some of those Student Job Search helpers to tear out most of the old garden beds and put down some Ezi-Lawn.

  And de-clutter. Throw out the ‘old lady clothes’ infesting every wardrobe except mine. Take down all the net curtains and let the sunshine in. Put some of those air freshener things around. Get rid of at least half the furniture. I thought the Salvation Army, but Rex Collins says selling it on TradeMe is the way to go. He’s offered to help with that.

  I think he’s a bit lonely, actually. His pregnant wife was killed a few years ago in a car crash. Somehow it’s easier to tell strangers things like that. I told him how Dad died in a car crash too, and how you used to be so domineering that it was easier to go with the flow. Your way or no way. He was nice enough not to laugh.

  He said to remove all the china plates and fancy teaspoon racks from the front entrance. Get rid of the lilac paint. There’s a colour called ‘Tea’ he says is popular. He’s going to bring me a paint chart when he comes back with the paperwork.

  Rex says I should replace the floral curtains with some pale neutral ones – at least in the sitting and dining rooms. And get rid of all the rugs and mats. Honestly, I never noticed them, but you had them everywhe
re. Beside the beds, and around the toilets, and by every door, and up the hall. Even by the kitchen bench. Mats on top of mats. It’s no wonder you fell and broke your hip.

  We’re going to start with those. Did I say he’s ordered me one of those huge bins for Monday? I said I’d do a quick dinner and we’re going to start with the absolute rubbish. So mats and net curtains first. Then the clothes and shoes and handbags, because honestly they’re awful. Why did you keep them all? And some of those clothes are still Dad’s from ten years ago…

  Then the stuff. All the old magazines you wouldn’t let me recycle. The rusty cake tins, the dozens of empty preserving jars, Dad’s home brewing gear. The rotting firewood still sitting under the hedge because you never wanted a ‘messy’ open fire. Those half bags of blood and bone and fertiliser in the shed that have gone hard and got full of insects.

  *

  Tuesday.

  Well, that’s made a difference, I just did us some fish and salad for dinner and it was nice having someone to talk with. Did I say he had a lovely voice?

  All the old mats are gone, the net curtains are gone, and some of the floral ones. Rex climbed up the ladder for the high jobs, which was kind. He even arrived with some cartons, and I boxed up the hanging plates and teaspoons for the Sallies. We brought the wheelbarrow inside – nasty rusty old thing – it can go too, once we’ve finished. We loaded it up again and again with the musty old clothes, the cracked handbags, the dusty shoes and hats, and threw the lot. They’re gone! The wardrobes are now all empty except for the one in my room.

  The bare floorboards look amazing. Rex is going to hire one of those polishing machines. He says all your rugs kept the timber in great condition and it should come up well. People love polished floors these days.

  I’m taking Friday off work, and he will too because he has Open Homes over the weekend. We’re going to paint the entrance hall. And then go to a movie.

  *

  Saturday morning.

  You wouldn’t have liked the movie, Mum. Too sexy for you. The entrance looks so clean and fresh now. Almost a bit too bare. Rex is going to do me an abstract painting. He’s taking me to a gallery next week – to an exhibition he and one of his friends have paintings in. I forgot to say we threw out a lot of those little old-fashioned flower prints. I was forever dusting the knobbly frames, and they never did hang straight from one week to the next.