Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER
13
I’m reading the specials board outside the pub when the Viking, clean-shaven with his lion hair swept back, steps onto the kerb.
‘Mackenzie.’
Does he say my name in his head as precisely as he says it out loud? Or, in the way I have another name for him, does he have one for me? Risk-taker. Problem.
‘I thought this’d be easier.’
When he glances over my shoulder towards the bridge, it’s not hard to make out his thoughts. You live two hundred metres away. The film is at your house.
After skirting around him, I grasp the door handle with two hands to haul it open, but he reaches over my shoulder to pull it wider. Not touching, but close. I settle my heart rate before stepping over the threshold.
The first time I saw the Viking I was in pain and lying in the dirt but I stared at his face and body. I shouldn’t think badly of others—men and women of all ages—who do the same. Is Kit aware of it? Does he feel their eyes as we walk past the bar?
‘Mac!’ Shelley waves from a booth near the window. ‘Your table’s ready.’ When we reach her, she bobs a curtsey. ‘We don’t get too many celebrities in here.’
The Viking looks around. ‘If I see one, I’ll let you know.’
She laughs. ‘I’m Shelley.’
‘Kit.’
‘Can I get a selfie?’ She holds up her phone.
‘Later? I don’t want a crowd.’
‘No problem.’ Shelley’s eyes are wide when she turns to me. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Since when did the pub have table service?’ I ask.
‘Since you turn up twice in one week. First Aiden, now Kit.’ Shelley smiles again. ‘C’mon, Mac. What do you want?’
‘Lemonade, thanks.’
‘Soda water with ice.’ The Viking indicates where I should sit before sitting opposite with his back to the room.
‘Do people always recognise you?’
‘They’re also interested in you.’
‘I’m hardly ever here.’
‘Except this week.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Why meet me here?’
‘Here you go!’ Shelley puts a tray on the table with a flourish. ‘Call out if you need a top-up.’
I shift my glass on the coaster, shift it back again. ‘I wanted to talk in neutral territory.’
He crosses his arms. ‘You don’t want me at the saddlery.’
‘The saddlery is my home.’ I sip from my glass. ‘Have you and Erik made your decision?’
‘All three shortlisted submissions will progress to the trial stage.’
‘Really?’ I sit straighter in my chair. ‘What does that involve?’
‘We talk to environmentalists, scientists, conservationists, land care groups and government organisations. We spend time with each applicant.’
‘That would be me?’
‘Did you see the doctor?’
I lift my chin. ‘He was happy with everything.’
‘When can you hike?’
I nod with more confidence than I feel. ‘I can hike with a day-pack any time you nominate.’
‘Can you camp overnight?’
‘One night would be okay, so long as the nursing home can contact me.’
‘You never leave Gordon?’
‘I wanted to care for Grandpa at the saddlery, but everyone, including Grandpa, thought it’d be too hard to handle on my own. Physically, emotionally.’ The bubbles in my lemonade bounce to the top of the glass. ‘Seeing him at the nursing home and telling him what’s going on is as close as we can get to staying together. It comes first.’
‘We’d have a satellite phone.’
‘What would we do on the hike?’
‘You can talk about the mine, how it will change.’
‘The environment is important, but you want personal too. Do I have that right?’
‘Yes.’ He leans forward, links his hands. ‘We also have to prove we can work together.’
‘It wouldn’t only be us, would it?’
‘The team forms around us.’
‘The trial is a test?’
‘The starting point is your family’s place in this town. You, your father, your grandfather.’
‘The environment association is starting up again.’ Swirling ice with the straw, I create a whirlpool. ‘We can get people interested in Summerfield and the challenges we face. When the river is running like it used to, you can film that too.’
‘You’d be on camera.’
Like my mother. Like—
A group of eight women, one wearing a sparkling ‘bride-to-be’ ribbon across her chest, sashay through the lounge. Their dresses are floaty, their heels are high. Laughter. Whistles. I recognise two or three of the women from high school. Am I upset I’m not with them? One of the gang?
I don’t want what they have. But …
Why shouldn’t I take risks in other ways? Why shouldn’t I have the possibility of adventure? I liked working on the film set. The actors and the crew were clever and creative and interesting. They appreciated the fresh morning air and the bright stars at night. They respected what I did, the commitment and labour. They admired my skills on horseback.
‘Summerfield has a story worth telling,’ I say quietly. ‘When do we do the trial?’
***
The lights outside the nursing home stay on all night, but the rooms facing the road are in darkness. Grandpa’s room faces the school, but his window will also be dark. Eight o’clock, Mr Henry. Lights out! If things were different, if he weren’t exhausted from the illness that ravages his body, he’d have argued with the nurse. Never in anger, that isn’t his way. He’d have smiled, maybe even winked. ‘My late wife Mary played the piano,’ he might have said, ‘and I’m partial to a tune myself. Mind if I listen to a bit of music while I finish a chapter or two?’
The Viking, adjusting his stride to accommodate mine, walks silently beside me over the bridge. A second four-wheel drive is parked at the saddlery. When I stumble a step, he holds out a hand.
‘What’s the matter?’
I reassure myself that it’s not a stranger breaking into the saddlery, but the Viking’s four-wheel drive. The vehicle is the same make as my car but a much newer model. No hay or mud or saddles or bridles or tools heaped in the back.
‘I didn’t expect the four-wheel drive.’
‘It’s Erik’s.’ When I step around a branch our elbows bump and I skitter away. ‘You said there was a lot to pick up.’
‘I put three of the containers back under the house. The film and cameras are in them.’
‘Cameras?’
‘I thought they might still have film inside, or you might need them to look at the film. I don’t know how this works.’
‘What film work did your father do when he lived here?’
‘Nothing paid. He needed a regular wage.’
‘Why didn’t he go to the city?’
We’re in the shadows between the verandah’s ceiling light and the spotlight at the corner of the house. A frog croaks. Keith Urban, shut inside the house, whines and yelps.
‘My parents hated one another—you already know that—and that’s why …’ I clear my throat, meet his gaze. ‘I want you to do what you did in your other documentaries. It wasn’t reality television, was it? It wasn’t exploitative. Family disputes have nothing to do with Summerfield or the mine.’
The Viking stops at Erik’s four-wheel drive. He crosses his arms. ‘Go on.’
‘I want to be involved, but I won’t talk to you and the rest of the world about my parents. Mum is well known and people might be curious. I don’t want you to ask about her relationship with Dad.’
When I walk around the house the Viking follows, standing back as I negotiate the bolt on the half-door. The containers are lined up to the right of the door—he lifts them one by one before retracing his steps and storing them in the boot. I have my back to the four-wheel drive and he has the sky behind him. Billions of stars, glittering golden pinpricks. Is this how stars look in Norway? Same but different. What about the northern lights?
‘I’ll create digital files of anything I can access,’ he says.
I move to slightly higher ground. ‘I hope it’s useful.’
He rubs around the back of his neck. ‘Chloe said you were popular with the crew. James, the actors—they like you. Did you know people besides Shelley tonight?’
‘The bride-to-be, a few others.’
‘Why didn’t you acknowledge anyone?’
‘They were mostly looking at you. You’re used to that, I’m not.’
‘You don’t greet them?’
For the past three years, I’ve been an outcast. ‘I’m always with Grandpa. It’s where I want to be.’
‘Last Saturday you went to the hotel with Aiden.’
‘We’re friends.’
He hesitates. ‘In the way that Chloe and I are friends?’
Why does this seem like a trick question? ‘I guess.’
He holds out a hand. ‘Show me your grip.’
Another test? He’ll work out my heart is racing, but I do as he asks. His hand is larger. Mine is warmer. Do I turn my wrist? Does he open his fingers? Our palms connect and I hold on tight.
Our eyes lock. He lifts my hand, rests it on his chest. ‘This isn’t friends, Mackenzie.’
Through the cotton of his shirt, I feel the strength in his body, the warmth of his skin. My legs wobble. My thighs tingle. I swallow. Search for words.
‘No?’
He puts a hand on my shoulder and runs it down my arm. He lowers his head and whispers. ‘Do you know why I worry about you?’
His words flow from his chest to my hand and up my arm. Warmth pools in my breasts and much lower.
‘You don’t know me.’
‘In the mine protests, you climbed trees. You chained yourself to equipment.’ When he steps even closer, my traitorous heart turns cartwheels. Somersaults. Whole body flips. ‘We expected to find people in the town who were against the closure of the mine. The antipathy to your family—your grandfather failed to disclose it.’
‘Grandpa focuses on the positives.’
His eyes close for a moment. Frustration? Exasperation? He strokes across my palm with his thumb.
‘Erik, Astrid and others will make a decision after the trial.’ He changes his grip on my hand. ‘I won’t contribute to that decision.’
‘Why not?’
Head bowed, he strokes my cheek with a fingertip. ‘Because of this.’
Do I kiss his serious mouth to prove that I’m strong? How could that be wrong, when all of my senses want it so much? I grasp his shirt, put my other hand on his chest and stand on my toes.
‘I can stand up for myself.’
With something between a growl and a groan, his hand slips to my hip. He breathes in, I breathe out. My breasts touch his chest. Cold winds and gentle breezes. A frozen mountain, a warm autumn night. How would it feel to—
Our lips touch. The world spins.
His world. My world. His touch is firm yet light. Assured yet careful. A contradiction like he is. When was I last kissed? And by whom? Forgettable. Forgotten. This kiss …
He cups my face, finds the fine hair that grows at my nape. Then, as he tilts my chin with a thumb, he lifts his head a fraction. Enough that I see his eyes. They can’t possibly be blue in this light. Or maybe they can. The night sky is blue and the stars shine brightly. His eyes have silver flecks and—
‘Mackenzie.’ He kisses me again. Short but firm.
‘You want this?’
‘I do. Do you?’
I’m breathing through him as he mutters consent on my mouth. Top lip, bottom lip. He trails kisses to my ear, the sensitive skin at my throat, back to my mouth, but his hands stay firmly on my hips. No grasping or grabbing. No tongue. Just careful bone-meltingly tender kisses that course through my veins and turn my legs to jelly.
‘Kit?’ A breathy exhalation.
He smooths my hair, tucks stray ends behind my ears. He looks intently into my face.
‘Vakre ?yne.’
‘What is that?’
He smiles, a flash of white teeth. ‘You have beautiful eyes.’
I put a hand on the side of his face. ‘Do both of your parents have blue eyes?’
‘Yes.’ He turns his head and kisses my wrist. ‘Your mother’s eyes are green.’
‘My father’s were brown.’
His hands go to my waist. He brushes a kiss on my mouth. ‘Clementine could be an asset. Have you considered this?’
My heart won’t have stopped beating but it feels like it has. Is this what he’s been getting at? That my mother, my shallow and self-absorbed beautiful mother, could be useful? I was hot and now I’m cold. Icy cold. I open my fingers. I take a step back. Another step and another. I wipe my hands down my jeans. Challenge over. Count to ten. Sort my thoughts.
‘Mackenzie?’
I cross my arms, wince at the pull in my shoulder. ‘Let me know when you want me for the trial.’
He holds out a hand. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I have to get back.’
‘You’re at home.’
‘Inside.’
‘We kissed.’
I close my eyes. ‘Don’t.’
‘State a fact?’
‘Sexual attraction.’ I bite my lip, hide the tremor. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘You speak from experience?’
‘Others’ experiences.’
‘Why not your own?’
‘I don’t have to explain what I do.’
He unlocks his jaw. ‘You don’t explain anything.’
‘I want my mother kept out of this. I’ve made that clear.’
‘Mackenzie …’ He speaks quietly. ‘When I spoke of your mother, didn’t—’
‘You did!’
His eyes close briefly. ‘Forget what I said.’
I wave a hand between us. ‘Forget that.’
‘We can’t work together. Not like this.’
‘You said others would decide whether Summerfield gets the nod.’ I push words through the lump in my throat. ‘You and me … that’s not important.’
He turns on his heel, walks a few steps before coming back again. He glares into the distance like he’s cursing the heavens. ‘What the fuck just happened?’
We kissed and it was heart-meltingly perfect but …
‘I get to do the trial. You get the film. That’s all.’
His jaw is tight. His mouth is … I shudder a breath. Forget his mouth.