Читать книгу Scandalous Secrets - Michelle Douglas - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

THEY LOOKED BEAUTIFUL.

Penny gazed at the table in satisfaction. She had two plates of lamingtons ready to go. She’d rolled her cakes in rich chocolate sauce, coated them in coconut and filled them with cream. She’d thought of the difficulties of plates and spoons over in the yard so she’d gone small, but she’d made two each to compensate.

She’d piled them in beautifully stacked pyramids. They looked exquisite.

But this wasn’t a social event, she reminded herself. Two lamingtons might not be enough, so she made a few rounds of club sandwiches, bite-sized beauties. She cut them into four-point serves and set them on a plate in the lamingtons’ midst. They looked great.

She glanced at the clock and felt a little swell of pride. She had the ovens hot for the frittatas for lunch. They were almost ready to pop in. She had fifteen minutes before smoko and she was totally in control.

Matt would walk in any minute.

And here he was. He looked filthy, his pants and open neck shirt coated in dust, his boots caked in...whatever, she didn’t want to think about it. His face was smeared with dust and his hair plastered down with sweat. ‘Hey. Nearly ready?’

She lifted her lamingtons for inspection. ‘We can take them over now if you like.’

He glanced at the table and his gaze moved on. ‘Where’s the rest?’

‘The rest?’

There was a pregnant pause. And then... ‘This is all there is?’

‘Two lamingtons, two points of sandwiches each. How much more...’

He swore and headed for the pantry, leaving a trail of filthy footsteps over her nice, clean kitchen floor.

Her kitchen. That was how she felt when she worked. This was her domain.

Um...not. Matt had flung open the pantry door and was foraging behind the flour sacks. He emerged with three boxes.

Charity sale Christmas cakes. Big ones.

‘They hate them but they’ll have to do,’ he snapped. ‘Help me chop them up. They’ll stop work in half an hour and if this is all you have...’

‘But there’s plenty,’ she stammered and he gave her a look that resembled—eerily—the one her father gave her all the time. Like: You’ve been an idiot but what else could I expect?

‘This isn’t your society morning tea,’ he snapped, ripping cartons open. ‘It’s fuel. Grab a knife and help me.’

She was having trouble moving. This was supposed to be her domain, the kitchen, her food—and he was treating her like an idiot. She felt sick.

A memory came flooding back of the dinner a month ago. She and her parents in the family home, the mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour. It had been her birthday. She’d like a family dinner, she’d told them. Just her parents, her half-sister and her fiancé.

And she’d cooked, because that was what she loved to do. She’d cooked what Brett loved to eat—stylish, with expensive ingredients, the sort of meal her father would enjoy paying a lot of money for in a society restaurant. She’d worked hard but she thought she’d got it right.

She’d even made time to get her hair done and she was wearing a new dress. Flushed with success, she’d only been a little disconcerted when Brett was late. And Felicity... Well, her sister was always late.

And then they’d walked in, hand in hand. ‘We’re so sorry, Penny, but we have something to tell you...’

Matt was already slicing the first cake but at her silence he glanced up. Maybe the colour had drained from her face. Maybe she looked how she felt—as if she was about to be sick. For whatever reason, he put the knife down.

‘What?’

‘I...’

‘It’s okay,’ he told her, obviously making an effort to sound calm. ‘They’re very nice lamingtons but this isn’t a society fund-raiser where everyone’s spent the last three hours thinking about what to wear. Some of these guys have shorn forty sheep since they last ate, and they intend to do forty more before their next meal. Calories first, niceties second. Help me, Penny.’ And then, as she still didn’t move, he added, ‘Please.’

And finally her stunned brain shifted back into gear. She shoved away the sour taste of failure that followed her everywhere.

Fuel. Hungry workers who’d been head down since dawn.

Cute little lamingtons? She must have been nuts.

What then? Hot. Filling. Fast.

She had it.

‘Ramp the ovens up,’ she snapped and headed for the freezer. ‘All of them. High as you can go. And then wash your hands. I need help and you’re not touching my food with those hands.’

‘We don’t have time...’

‘We’ll be ten minutes late. They have a choice of a late smoko or eating your disgusting cake. You choose.’

* * *

He could order her aside and chop up the fruitcake the team despised—or he could trust her.

He went for the second. He cranked up the ovens and headed for the wash house. Two minutes later he was back, clean at least to the elbows.

By the time he returned, Penny had hauled sheets of frozen pastry from the freezer and was separating them onto baking trays.

‘Three ovens, six trays,’ she muttered. ‘Surely that’ll feed them.’ She indicated jars of pasta sauce on the bench. ‘Open them and start spreading,’ she told him. ‘Not too thick. Go.’

Hang on. He was the boss. This was his house, his kitchen, his shearing team waiting to be fed. The sensible thing was to keep chopping fruitcake but Penny had suddenly transformed from a cute little blonde into a cook with power. With Matt as an underling.

Fascinated, he snagged the first jar and started spreading.

Penny was diving into the coolroom, hauling out mushrooms, salami, mozzarella. She didn’t so much as glance at him. She headed to the sink, dumped the mushrooms under the tap and then started ripping open the salami.

‘Aren’t you supposed to wipe mushrooms?’ he managed. To say he was bemused would be an understatement.

‘In what universe do we have time to wipe mushrooms?’ She hauled out a vast chopping board and, while the tap washed the mushrooms for her, she started on the salami. Her hands were moving so fast the knife was a blur. ‘I could leave them unwashed but I have an aversion to dirt.’ She gave herself half a second to glance with disgust at his boots. ‘Even if you don’t. You finished?’

‘Almost.’ He poured the last jar over the pastry and spread it to the edges. ‘Done.’

‘Then I want this salami all over them. Rough and thick—we have no time for thin and fancy.’ She hauled the mushrooms out of the sink and dumped them on a couple of tea towels, flipping them over with the fabric to get most of the water out. World’s fastest wash. ‘Back in two seconds. I’m getting herbs.’

And she was gone, only to appear a moment later with a vast bunch of basil. ‘Great garden,’ she told him, grabbing another chopping board.

He was too stunned to answer.

They chopped side by side. There was no time, no need to talk.

And suddenly Matt found himself thinking this was just like the shearing shed. When things worked, it was like a well-oiled machine. There was a common purpose. There was urgency.

His knife skills weren’t up to hers. In fact they were about ten per cent of hers. He didn’t mind. This woman had skills he hadn’t even begun to appreciate.

Wow, she was fast.

It was the strangest feeling. To have a woman in his kitchen. To have this woman in his kitchen.

She was a society princess with a pink car and a poodle and knife skills that’d do any master chef proud.

Her body brushed his as she turned to fetch more mushrooms and he felt...

Concentrate on salami, he told himself and it was a hard ask.

But three minutes later they had six trays of ‘pizza’ in the oven.

‘The herbs go on when it comes out,’ she told him.

‘We won’t have time to garnish...’

‘Nothing goes out of my kitchen unless it’s perfect,’ she snapped. She glanced at the clock. ‘Right, it’s nine minutes before ten. This’ll take fifteen minutes to cook so I’ll be exactly ten minutes late. I hope that’s acceptable. Come back at eight minutes past and help me carry it over.’

He almost grinned. He thought of his shearing team. Craig was the expert there, and Matt was wise enough to follow orders. Did he have just such an expert in his kitchen?

‘How can it be ready by then?’ He must have sounded incredulous because she smiled.

‘Are you kidding? I might even have time to powder my nose before I help you take it out there.’

* * *

Taking the food over to the shed was an eye-opener.

A campfire had been lit on the side of the shed. There were a couple of trestle tables and a heap of logs serving as seats. Three billies hung from a rod across the fire.

The fire was surrounded by men and women who looked as filthy as Matt—or worse.

One of the men looked up as Penny and Matt approached and gave a shrill, two-fingers-in-the-mouth whistle. ‘Ducks on the pond,’ he called and everyone stopped what they were doing and stared.

‘Hey.’ It was hard to tell the women from the men but it was a female voice. ‘You idiot, Harry. Ducks on the pond’s a stupid way of saying women are near the shed. What about Marg and me?’

‘You don’t count,’ one of the shearers retorted. ‘You gotta have t... I mean you gotta have boobs and legs to count. You and Margie might have ’em but they’re hidden under sheep dung. Put you in a bikini, we’ll give you the respect you deserve.’

‘Yeah, classifying us as ducks. Very respectful.’ One of the women came forward and took plates from Penny. ‘Take no notice of them, sweetheart. I’m Greta, this is Margie and the rest of this lot don’t matter. If they had one more neuron between them, it’d be lonely.’ She glanced down at the steaming piles of pizza. ‘Wow! Great tucker.’

And then there was no more talk at all.

The food disappeared in moments. Penny stood and watched and thought of the two frittatas she had ready to go in the oven.

How long before the next meal?

But Matt had guessed her thoughts. He’d obviously seen the pathetically small frittatas.

‘There are a couple of massive hams in the cool room,’ he told her. ‘We can use your pretty pies as a side dish for cold ham and peas and potatoes. Penny, you saved my butt and I’m grateful, but from now on it doesn’t matter if it’s not pretty. At this stage we’re in survival mode.’

And she glanced up at him and saw...sympathy!

The team had demolished the food and were heading back to the shed. Matt was clearly needing to head back too, but he’d stopped because he needed to reassure her.

He wanted to tell her it was okay to serve cold ham and peas and potatoes.

She thought again of that dinner with her parents, the joy, the certainty that all was right with her world, and then the crashing deflation.

This morning’s pizza had been a massive effort. To serve quality food for every single meal would see her exhausted beyond belief.

She could serve his horrid cold ham, she thought, but that would be the equivalent of running away, as she’d run away from Sydney. But there was nowhere to run now.

She braced her shoulders and took a deep breath, hauling herself up to her whole five feet three. Where were stilettoes when a girl needed them?

‘I’ll have lun...dinner ready for you at twelve-thirty,’ she told him. ‘And there won’t be a bit of cold ham in sight.’

* * *

He should be back in the shed. These guys were fast—they didn’t have the reputation of being the best shearing team in South Australia for nothing. The mob of sheep waiting in the pens outside was being thinned by the minute. He needed to get more in.

Instead he took a moment to watch her go.

She was stalking back to the house. He could sense indignation in the very way she held her shoulders.

And humiliation.

She’d been proud of her lamingtons.

They were great lamingtons, he conceded. He’d only just managed to snaffle one before they were gone. There was no doubt she could cook.

She’d pulled out a miracle.

He watched as she stopped to greet Donald’s dog. She bent and fondled his ears and said something, and for some reason he wanted badly to know what it was.

She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Her bouncy curls were caught in a ponytail. The media thing he’d read yesterday said she was twenty-seven but she looked about seventeen.

‘Hey, Matt...’ It was Harv, yelling from the shed. ‘You want to get the next mob in or will I?’

He shook himself. It didn’t matter what Penny did or didn’t look like. He needed to get to work. He’d have to knock off early to go and make sure she’d sliced enough ham. Could she guess how many spuds she had to cook?

He glanced at her again. She was heading up the veranda. She looked great in those shorts. Totally inappropriate for this setting but great. She’d squared her shoulders and she was walking with a bounce again. Rufus was following and for a weird moment he wouldn’t mind doing the same.

* * *

Food. Fast. Right.

She stared at her two quiches and three sticks of bread dough doing their final rise in a sunbeam on the window ledge—an entrée for that mob, she thought. A snack.

The reason that pantry was packed... Yeah, she got it.

There were sides of lamb, pork and beef hung on great hooks in the coolroom. Whole sides.

She usually bought lamb boned out and butterflied, pork belly trimmed to perfection.

But she had done a butchering course. Once upon a time a two star chef who’d agreed to have her help in his kitchen had yelled it at her. ‘You want to understand meat, you need to understand the basics.’ He hadn’t made her kill her own cow but she had handled slabs of meat almost as big as this.

But to cut it into roasts, marinade it, get it into an oven she didn’t know...

‘Not going to happen,’ she muttered. ‘But I reckon I could get chops cut and cooked in time. First, let’s get the bread divided and pies baked, and then I’m going to tackle me a sheep.’

* * *

Matt didn’t leave the shed until ten minutes before the team was due to head to the kitchen.

He was running late. With Penny’s knife skills though, and now she knew how much they ate, surely she’d have plated enough?

He opened the kitchen door—and the smell literally stopped him in his tracks. He could smell cooked lamb, rich sauces, apple pies redolent with cinnamon and cloves. Fried onions, fried chicken? His senses couldn’t take it all in.

He gazed around the kitchen in stupefaction. The warming plate and the top of the damped-down firestove were piled high with loaded dishes, keeping warm. There were rounds of crumbed lamb cutlets, fried chicken, slices of some sort of vegetable quiche that looked amazing. Jugs of steaming sauces. Plates of crusty rolls. A vast bowl of tiny potatoes with butter and parsley. Two—no, make that three—casseroles full of mixed vegetables. Was that a ratatouille?

And to the side there were steaming fruit pies, with great bowls of whipped cream.

‘Do you think we still need the ham?’ Penny asked demurely and he blinked.

This wasn’t the same clean Penny. She was almost as filthy as he was, but in a different way. Flour seemed to be smudged everywhere. A great apricot-coloured smear was splashed down her front. The curls from her ponytail had wisped out of their band and were clinging to her face.

And once again came that thought... She looked adorable.

‘I’m a mess,’ she told him when he couldn’t find the words to speak. ‘The team’ll be here in five minutes, right? If you want me to serve, I’ll go get changed. Everything’s ready.’

And it was. The team would think they’d died and gone to heaven.

‘Or do you want me to disappear?’ Penny added. ‘Ducks on the pond, hey?’

‘Ducks is a sexist label,’ he told her. ‘Harry’s old school—Margie and Greta have spent the last couple of hours lecturing him on respect.’ He grinned. ‘But, speaking of respect... You, Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth, are a proper shearer’s cook and there’s no greater accolade. Don’t get changed. What you’re wearing is the uniform of hard work and the team will love you just the way you are.’