Читать книгу Party of Three - Joan Kilby - Страница 7

EVERY MORNING at precisely seven forty-five Ally Cummings tapped the glass of the antique brass ship’s barometer that hung in her house high atop Wombat Hill. George, who was always trying to psychoanalyze her, claimed she was anal retentive with father issues, but she simply liked to know what lay ahead.

Tap, tap. The needle swung left; the barometric pressure dropped twenty millibars.

Change was coming.

Deep inside, a tiny voice insisted, About bloody time.

Then her eyebrows drew together in a frown and her lips pursed as she brushed that thought aside. She didn’t care for surprises.

George walked past, flipping the wide end of his blue silk tie through the loop and pulling it tight. “Are you working late tonight?”

Every Friday like clockwork George asked her that same question. Every week she gave her standard answer. “I have to stay to close the office at eight. Will you be all right on your own until then?”

“I’ll manage,” he said and headed for the kitchen.

Ally twisted the diamond engagement ring on her left hand. Ever since George had moved in she’d had that horribly familiar sinking feeling their relationship was doomed. Surely it couldn’t be happening again. George was perfect for her—predictable, reliable, as wedded to routine as she was. Yet, inexplicably her feelings had cooled.

This wasn’t the first time she’d lost interest once she had the man in the bag, so to speak, but it was the first time she’d gone so far as to get engaged before dumping the guy. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t cruel or callous; she didn’t want to hurt people.

She followed George out to the kitchen and put on a pan of water while he read the paper. She wasn’t much of a cook but she always made breakfast because she liked her eggs done just so, the whites set and the yolk soft, but not too soft. A lot of people felt like that; it wasn’t only her.

George usually fit easily into her routines but today he grumbled when she put his poached egg in front of him. “Don’t feel like this. I’ll just have toast.”

“But, George, Friday is Egg Day.” Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were Egg Days. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were Muesli Days. It was called having a balanced diet. Sundays she left open just to show George she could be spontaneous.

“Egg Day,” he admonished her from behind the business section of the newspaper, “is a construct of your id, an attempt to impose order on a chaotic universe.”

Ally suspected he made things like that up but she couldn’t ever be one hundred percent sure. She hadn’t spent seven years studying psychiatry, as he was all too fond of pointing out. His perfectly cooked eggs cooled on the plate while he spread boysenberry jam on a piece of wholewheat toast.

The waste killed her. “We should get a dog.”

“Don’t want a canine,” he mumbled around a mouthful. A dab of jam trembled on his bottom lip and fell onto his white shirt. “I’m a cat person.”

Siggy, George’s gray Persian, lay curled in the clean cast-iron frying pan. Lazy, selfish, pampered beast. For one glorious Walter Mitty moment Ally saw her hand turning the gas up high and Siggy leaping off the stove with an outraged yowl.

Ally blinked herself free of the image. What deeply repressed psychosis would George diagnose from that? As if she would harm an animal. Scooping up the cat, who mewed in protest, she deposited him gently on the tiled floor. He stalked off, tail upright as a flagpole, tip twitching.

“In a few years you can have a baby,” George offered magnanimously.

Ally itched at the patch of dry flaky skin on the inside of her elbow where her eczema was playing up again. The doctor said skin conditions were often stress-related and she was beginning to think he was right. She wanted children but she no longer wanted to have them with George.

When she didn’t reply George lowered his newspaper and peered at her. He had soft brown eyes that she used to think were sensitive but now realized were merely nearsighted. “When are we going to get married?” he said. “It’s time we set a date, especially now that I’ve moved in with you.”

“There’s plenty of time,” she said, fiddling with her ring.

“You’re always living in the future,” he complained. “Why can’t you be like Kathy and inhabit the moment?”

Inhabit the moment? Was this some new psychobabble buzz phrase? “I can’t believe you’re comparing me unfavorably to your secretary, the woman you call Jezebel behind her back. She’d try to seduce the Pope if he came to town.”

“At least she doesn’t dress like a nun in civvies.”

Ally glanced at her white blouse, navy skirt and low comfortable shoes. Good quality, neat and clean. What was wrong with that? She wasn’t like her sister, Melissa, who wore silks and satins from the vintage dress shop where she worked, or her mother, Cheryl, Vogue elegant in all black, all the time. She definitely wasn’t like her father, Tony, who used clothes the way an actor did costumes, with a different getup for every role he played in his various money-making schemes.

Ally was the ordinary one in her family, the sensible one. The only whimsical note in her conservative style was her colorful collection of brooches. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress.”

George checked his watch and with an impatient sigh, tossed down the newspaper, which slipped off the breakfast table in separate sheets. “Now I’m going to be late,” he said dabbing ineffectually at the purple jam splotch on his shirt. “I have a lot of work to do before an important meeting this afternoon.”

The implication that this was somehow her fault strengthened the traitorous thoughts that had been tiptoeing through her mind for weeks. She didn’t want to marry George. She’d made a huge mistake. If she needed proof, there was the fact they hadn’t made love in months and she didn’t care. That couldn’t be right.

She worried all through breakfast and getting ready for work. A breakup was inevitable. Working up the guts to say she wanted out was hard but had to be done, and soon. It was only fair to George who, like his predecessors wasn’t a bad man, just not the right one for her.

Who was? And why did she keep making mistakes when it came to men?

As she passed the barometer on her way out the door she stopped and contrary to her usual custom, gave it a second tap. The needle fell another twenty millibars toward Stormy.

George, briefcase in hand, touched his lips to her cheek leaving behind the faint scent of cloves. When was the last time he’d really kissed her? she wondered, and a mocking internal voice replied, when was the last time you wanted him to?

This made her sad. Once upon a time they’d been in love—or at least she’d convinced herself they were. Suddenly she needed to know. “George…” She flung her arms around his neck and planted her mouth on his. Incredibly, he resisted at first. She persisted and finally he opened his lips. His tongue bumped blindly against her teeth like a warm slug. So much for excitement. She felt nothing inside, not even a flicker of tenderness.

Drawing back, she avoided his eyes and handed him a furled black umbrella from the hall closet. “Take this. There’s a storm coming.”

“You and your barometer.” He chucked her under the chin and favored her with a gently patronizing smile. “Look outside—the weather’s perfect.”

Through the lounge-room window she could see the town nestled in the valley below, red tile roofs and church spires sticking up through the gray-green eucalyptus trees and darker pines. On the far side of the valley, clear to the distant rolling hills, the sky was a pale crystalline-blue, not a cloud in sight. For a split second the gap between hard scientific evidence and what she saw with her own eyes gave her a queer feeling in her stomach, as if she’d been turned upside down.

But she knew what she knew. Change was coming.

Taking a deep breath, Ally said, “When I get home tonight, we have to talk.”

“Fine,” George replied, unconcerned. Either he didn’t know the underlying meaning of the expression or he didn’t give a rat’s you-know-what about anything she might say.

Ally retrieved her own umbrella and locked the front door behind them, then waved goodbye to George as he backed his cream-colored Mercedes-Benz out of the driveway and drove off to his office, thirty miles away in Ballarat.

Every day, rain or shine, she walked the seven blocks down the long hill into Tipperary Springs. She had a car, small and nondescript, tucked away in the garage, but Ally liked listening to the birds and seeing the flowers bud and bloom in people’s gardens. This morning the air was heavy and still. The noisy rainbow lorikeets that fed in the flowering gums outside the Convent Gallery were silent, and in the center of town the purple and yellow pansies that filled the planters along Main Street were wilting after days of heat.

Ally passed her mother’s art gallery. Through the open door she saw Cheryl setting out the guest book on the front desk. She lifted her sleek champagne-colored head, saw Ally and smiled. Without breaking stride, Ally waved. A few weeks from now her parents would celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Ally was in charge of ordering the cake, sending out invitations, arranging for food and drink. Her family tended to rely on her for things like that but she didn’t mind; organization was what she did.

Ally headed toward the rental agency where she worked. The agency acted for cottage owners who rented out their properties. Tipperary Springs’s population of four thousand swelled on weekends and holidays when city dwellers and tourists flocked to the resort town, an hour west of Melbourne. Besides taking bookings, Ally made sure there was a bottle of chilled champagne, complimentary chocolates and fresh-cut flowers in every cottage.

Every morning Ally opened the office, which occupied the ground floor of a heritage-listed building. She’d brightened up the stone pillars, marble floors and high ceilings with colorful posters and potted palms. Along the walls, wooden racks displayed pamphlets of local attractions—wineries, lavender farms, glass blowing, ballooning—you name it, Tipperary Springs had it.

Ally was checking her e-mail when Lindy came in and dumped her purse on her desk. “It’s hot!” she said, pulling her damp blouse away from her chest. Perspiration ringed her armpits and her filmy skirt was stuck to her thighs. “When is this weather going to break?”

“Later today. We’re in for some rain.” The phone rang and Ally reached for it. “Tipperary Springs Cottage Rentals. Ally Cummings speaking. How may I help you?”

“Ally, it’s Olivia. How’s everything going?”

“Ticking along nicely,” Ally replied. Olivia owned the Cottage Rentals plus she ran a travel agency in Ballarat. She frequently dropped into the office unexpectedly to ensure Ally was maintaining her exacting standards. “What’s up?”

“I just got word the American tour group is leaving New Zealand a day early and arriving here tonight,” Olivia said, getting right down to business. “Will the cottage they’re booked into be available?”

“Let me check. That was Kingsford Cottage, if I remember correctly.” Ally drew up the page on her computer. “Yes, it’s empty. There’s no problem with them coming tonight.”

“Excellent,” Olivia said. “By the time they get through customs and drive to Tipperary Springs it’ll be at least seven-thirty.”

“No problem,” Ally assured her employer. “I’ll be here until eight o’clock as usual. If they can’t make it before then, tell them to give me a call and I’ll wait.”

“These people are from travel agencies in Los Angeles,” Olivia said. “If we make a good impression, who knows how much extra business will come our way. Put out the twenty-dollar bottle of champagne and the liqueur chocolates instead of the plain ones.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Ally said. And truly, it was.

She wasn’t finding a cure for cancer or building a rocket to the moon but she liked to think that because of her attention to detail, her experience and her caring, stressed-out couples who picked up their keys on Friday night went back to their ordinary lives on Sunday rested and invigorated, ready to face life again. Rich or poor, important or not, she gave everyone first-class service.

Around noon a few high white clouds were piling up over Wombat Hill Botanical Gardens. Treetops fluttered in the breeze. By midafternoon the blue sky had all but disappeared and at precisely 4:05 the sun dimmed, throwing the office into shadow. Ally rose from her desk and walked to the door to look outside. Black thunderclouds filled the sky and a gust of wind set the gum leaves rustling.

Next door at the recently refurbished restaurant, Mangos, another landmark building of the last century, workmen were pushing dollies loaded with boxes through the propped-open doors. Their hurried movements seemed somehow connected with the impending storm.

“What’s happening at Mangos?” Ally asked Lindy.

Lindy joined her at the window. Short and compact, the top of her pale head barely came to Ally’s shoulder. “The grand opening is tonight. Didn’t you see the flyer that came around?” She went back to her desk and brought over a menu. “It looks fabulous. You and George should go.”

“George doesn’t like to eat out.” Ally glanced at the colorful flyer with its mouthwatering descriptions; she had to admit, the menu sounded appealing. “Are you going?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Ben Gillard, the head chef, came here from a top Melbourne restaurant.”

“Is he the man with the spiky blond hair I see going in and out?” A couple of times he’d passed her on the street, nodding hello with such friendly confidence that she’d actually turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Once she’d found him staring back and for the rest of that day she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind.

“That’s him.” Lindy blew back her straight bangs and peered up at the sky. “Would it be okay if I leave early? I don’t want to get caught in the storm.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Ally said, her gaze drawn back to the entrance to Mangos. Ben Gillard had just emerged. He was pacing outside the restaurant, gazing up the street at the crest of the hill as if waiting for something. Or someone.

Sure enough, as she watched, a car came through the roundabout and pulled up to the curb. A woman in a sleeveless dress got out and embraced Ben. A towheaded boy of about eleven or twelve years old, all knobby joints and spindly limbs, scrambled out next. Ben gave him an awkward hug then went to get the luggage out of the trunk. All three disappeared into Mangos.

“What’s so fascinating?” Lindy asked, coming out of the back room with her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Ben Gillard has a girlfriend. Or a wife. And a kid. I suppose she could be a sister.”

“What do you care?” Lindy teased. “You’re engaged.”

Ally’s lips pursed in a smile. “So I am.”

After Lindy left, the office seemed unnaturally quiet, the streets outside all but deserted. Shopkeepers folded up their sandwich boards, pulled their racks of clothes and tables of merchandise in from the footpath and closed their doors. Like birds going to roost before a storm, the town was shutting down and withdrawing inside.

Ally rubbed her arms and shivered, an uneasy feeling skittering through her. The change was on its way.

“THIS IS THE PLACE you rented for our son to live in? It’s a dump. And so hot! There’s no air-conditioning. Do these windows even open or are they painted shut?”

Ben’s ex-wife, Carolyn, strode through the apartment over the restaurant, high heels rapping hollowly on the bare wooden floors, her disgust echoing off the cracked plaster walls as she gazed about her in disbelief. “I’m not sure I want to hand my baby over to your care.”

“Danny’s my son, too. He’s twelve years old, hardly a baby. I’m going to buy a house of my own as soon as I have a chance to look around. Besides,” Ben dropped his voice, mindful of the boy exploring the back bedroom, “you were quite happy for him to come live with me after you and Ted got married.”

“When are you going to buy more furniture?” Carolyn went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ve been here a month and so far you’ve got nothing but a shabby couch, an old dining table and a TV.”

Danny wandered out of the back bedroom. “Where’ll I put my computer? I don’t see a phone jack anywhere. I’m not staying unless I have the Internet.”

“You let him spend too much time playing computer games,” Ben said to Carolyn. “I thought we talked about that.”

“I had to promise he’d have his own computer,” Carolyn countered. “How else can he occupy himself? He doesn’t know a soul and won’t meet anyone until school starts. What is he going to do while you’re at work?”

“He’ll be fine. The restaurant is directly below us, with a stairway from the kitchen to the door.”

“There isn’t even a backyard for him to play in.”

“There’s an Olympic-size swimming pool literally around the corner,” Ben said.

“What about my computer?” Danny persisted.

“I’ll put a jack in,” Ben told him. “Meantime, you can set up on the dining table. What do you say, mate?”

Danny shrugged. “I don’t have any choice, do I? Mum doesn’t want me around now that she’s married again.”

“You know that’s not true—” Carolyn began.

Ben dropped to a crouch so he could look into his son’s eyes. “Your mother loves you, Danny. So do I. She’s had you for five years and now it’s my turn. I’m really glad you’re coming to live with me.”

“Only as long as Danny’s happy and there are no problems,” Carolyn reminded him. Danny went back down the hall to his room again and Carolyn resumed her inspection, craning her neck to study the large crack from one corner of the ceiling to the central plaster rosette. “Does this roof leak? Because I think it’s going to rain.”

“Are you about finished?” Ben said, glancing at his watch. “I hate to rush you but I’m opening tonight and I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Are you going to leave Danny alone on his first night here?” Carolyn demanded.

Ben cracked the knuckles on his right hand. Patience wasn’t his strong suit and he’d always needed bucketloads when dealing with Carolyn. “The restaurant is right below, with a stairway leading to the kitchen. I’m there if he needs me. You chose to bring him this weekend so you and Ted could fly to Bali for your honeymoon. I wanted to wait a few weeks until the restaurant was up and running and I was more settled. But if you’re worried about Danny you’re welcome to stay a few days. There’s a spare bedroom. I’ll need to find an extra bed but—”

“You know we’re flying out tonight. This was the only time Ted could get off work.” Carolyn fished in her purse and pulled out several folded sheets of paper, typewritten, single-spaced. “I’ve set out a schedule for Danny and some instructions. He needs regular meals and adherence to an established bedtime.”

Carolyn and her nine-to-five routine. He’d never been able to fit the mold, which pretty much summed up why they were no longer married. “Kids are more flexible than you give them credit for.”

“If you want to have Danny live with you, you’ve got to stick to the rules,” she said, handing him the papers.

Ben resisted the urge to crumple them into a ball. “All right. Fine.”

“Next, I insist you move out of this dump, and I mean right away.”

“The apartment is convenient.”

“See those dark circles on the ceiling? That’s where the roof has leaked. Promise me you’ll find a more suitable home.”

“Maybe.”

“Promise.”

“Whatever you say, Carolyn,” he said. “Aren’t you going to be late for your plane?”

“I’m not finished. Keep Danny away from the restaurant kitchen. I don’t want to come back to find my son swearing like a chef.” She grimaced. “Gord is a disgrace.”

“He works like a mule and is utterly loyal,” Ben replied. The sous chef also drank like a fish and yelled at the staff. Occasionally, Ben wondered if he’d been insane to hire someone so volatile, then he remembered Gord’s genius with sauces and told himself the man was worth the hassle.

“Speaking of working too much,” Carolyn went on, “you need to spend time with Danny. You can’t work sixteen hours a day, six days a week when you’re a single father.”

“I know that,” Ben assured her. “I discussed it with Steve and made it a condition of my employment that I get time off to spend with my son.”

Ben’s ambitions were simple—he wanted to cook good food and make a life for himself and Danny. Steve, the ex-lawyer and self-proclaimed gastronome who owned Mangos, wanted nothing less than a chef’s hat from the Good Food Guide. He’d hired Ben to get it for him and to that end had made concessions not normally given to a head chef.

Carolyn moved toward the door. “One more thing…”

“What is it?” Ben said with exaggerated patience.

“The parade of women through your life has got to stop. If he sees a different woman in your bed every weekend he’ll get confused.”

“You flatter me,” Ben said dryly. “But there won’t be a parade of women. There won’t even be a woman. Whatever spare time I’ve got I’m going to focus on Danny.”

“I hope you mean that. As much as it pains me to admit it, Danny’s at an age when he needs a father more than he needs me right now. More than anything, I want him in a happy, stable environment. Don’t blow this, Ben.”

“I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to be a full-time dad for years,” Ben said. “Nothing and no one will come between me and my son.”