SEVEN
Seven
Bel opened her eyes as the familiar ding of the daily bridesmaid text sounded—right on cue. With a reluctant sigh she reached over and picked up her phone. ‘Have you stocked the wedding bathroom baskets? I’ve forwarded the list of items needed, please check your email.’
What on God’s green earth was a wedding bathroom basket? She opened Google and searched—sadly this wasn’t the first thing she’d had to look up. Who knew weddings were this bloody complicated to organise? ‘A basket or a box, placed in reception venue bathrooms, full of items to help your guests with any mini emergencies they may have,’ she discovered.
True to her word, Gisele had sent through the list—an enormous list—of suggested items … bobby pins, hand lotion, tweezers, eyedrops, sewing kits, cough drops, indigestion medication, Vaseline, lollipops and Party Feet gel cushions … what the hell ?
The group chat was conspicuously quiet, she noticed, and she gave a small grunt of resignation. Clearly, she was going to be the one running around town today searching for everything on this stupid list.
Bel dragged back her bedcovers and looked over at the new clothes hanging in her wardrobe. She’d allowed Larkin and the girls to talk her into buying them before they’d headed home from Toormanlee, and she reminded herself that she’d promised Larkin to embrace this ‘new Bel’ thing. There were new jeans—tight ones, not the baggy, boyfriend style she usually preferred. Tops that hugged her torso, as opposed to her old loose-fitting ones; cropped jackets, skirts and even a couple of sundresses. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a dress before last night.
After a quick breakfast she grabbed her keys and headed out, determined to get the shopping over and done with as quickly as possible.
She’d already received a few comments about her new hair and the absence of her bulky glasses, and she was expecting a few more. As soon as she entered the chemist she was proved right by a twitter of ‘nice hair’ comments from the girls. But she had underestimated the older locals, who seemed to think their age excused them from the bounds of social politeness. Mrs Fortescue squinted and stared at her for a solid five minutes before declaring, ‘I don’t like it! Makes you look all washed out.’ Twenty minutes later, in the bread aisle of the supermarket, Bill Woodstock let her know he thought she looked like ‘one of them Kardashian women’. Bel wondered what was more alarming: his announcement or the fact that he knew who the Kardashians were. And then, minutes later, while she stood in line at the check-out, Carol Connelly, the local CWA vice president, shook her head and tsked something about young women these days and their Botox and implants. By the time Bel had finished checking off the list and headed home, she was feeling drained.
She had only just sunk down on her gran’s comfy floral-patterned sofa when there was a knock at the front door. She considered ignoring it and letting whoever it was believe she wasn’t home, but that was pointless when her car was parked in the driveway. Dragging herself upright, she opened the door to the last person she’d ever expected to find on her doorstep.
‘Dean,’ she said, unable to disguise her surprise.
‘Wow. They weren’t kidding,’ he replied.
‘Pardon?’ Bel asked, frowning at him as he continued to stare.
‘I heard you’d had a bit of work done,’ he said.
What the hell? ‘I had a haircut and I got rid of my glasses. I didn’t exactly go under the knife.’
‘If you believe what everyone else is saying, you’ve undergone radical surgery and lost fifteen kilos.’
‘What?’
‘Wouldn’t say fifteen, but losing the overalls and baggy jeans, I reckon it’d be close to ten maybe,’ he said thoughtfully as he studied her legs in the new jeans.
‘I have not lost any weight, and I’ve definitely not had any surgery,’ she snapped, fighting the urge to shuffle her feet under his scrutiny. ‘What are you doing here? Or have you just swung by to lend your two cents’ worth?’
‘Emma asked me to drop this into you,’ he said, remembering the plastic container under his arm which he now held out to her.
Bel eyed the container she’d used to take the salad to Emma and Craig’s for dinner. ‘Thanks. You didn’t need to drive all the way in here to drop it off, though.’
He shrugged and her gaze went over the blue flannel checked shirt he wore open over a black T-shirt. ‘I was coming into town anyway. I had to, uh, pick up some … groceries and stuff,’ he said vaguely, before clearing his throat.
He seriously acts so weird sometimes .
‘I did take your advice, though,’ he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
‘My advice?’
‘About joining in. The whole community thing.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Dad was a unit commander with the State Emergency Service when I was in high school, so I was a member as a kid, and I’ve done a bit of firefighting in the Northern Territory. So I joined the Rural Fire Service and the local SES. Figured that would keep me busy for a while.’
‘I should think so.’ Though she hoped they wouldn’t be having another fire season like the one that had just taken out a number of local properties. ‘That must be pretty special, joining the same unit your dad used to be in.’
He seemed a little surprised by her comment, and Bel briefly wondered if she’d said the wrong thing.
‘Yeah. I guess it is. Most of the older guys worked with him at some stage.’
‘Does it make it easier or harder? Having people around who talk about him? You said the other day that you two didn’t get along?’
‘To be honest, it’s a bit strange. The way he was with his mates in the SES, he was a different person to the one he was at home. He never wanted to be a farmer, but he grew up in a time where you took over from your dad, the way he took over from his, and you didn’t really get a choice. You were a farmer and that was that. I think he found his true calling with the SES. That was where his heart was.’
‘But you chose to stay in farming?’
‘Yeah. I guess I inherited the love of the land from my granddad. I always wanted to work the property, I just couldn’t do it under Dad. We rubbed each other the wrong way. I regret not making a bigger effort to get back and see him more often, though. I guess we were the same in that way, both stubborn.’
‘I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to make things right,’ Bel said, and she realised she truly was. The old Dean might have been a little a-hole to her, but she could see losing his dad had been hard and she genuinely felt sorry for him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, giving her a tight smile.
‘Okay, well …’ Bel let the sentence dangle between them. ‘I shouldn’t hold you up.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, straightening. ‘I better keep going. I guess I’ll see you at the movie night?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘See you then.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘I like your new look.’ Then he quickly headed to his ute.
Bel closed the door with a small frown. What on earth was that about?
Later that evening, Bel glanced over at her phone on the bedside table and saw ‘Unknown caller’ flash across the screen. She ignored it because … well, only psychopaths answered unknown numbers. A ping sounded, indicating a message, and she tipped the phone towards her to see who it was from. Only reading the first line, she floundered about trying to sit up and almost dropped the phone. ‘Hey Bel, it’s Tate.’
How had he gotten her number? Obviously from Larkin. She opened the message to read it in full. ‘We’re heading into town to go to some markets. Larkin thinks we all need some country culture. Just wondering if you’re going? Hope to see you there tonight.’
The markets? Yes! The prospect of going was suddenly far more exciting.
She’d been thinking about Tate since the previous night. The almost kiss had been playing over and over on her mind. Tonight, she’d be super careful. Clumsy clod Mabel would be replaced by cool, calm and collected Bel, bridesmaid extraordinaire—and this time she’d be wearing a proper bloody bra.
Other places had festivals or another major yearly highlight, where the community came together as a whole and celebrated their town. But Wessex had never really had any defining event in its two hundred-and-six-year history. It had slipped through all the festival nonsense and plodded along to its own special beat. It wasn’t on any major highways, and it took a considerable drive from the nearest exit on Newell Highway, about sixty kilometres or so, to reach their little town. For years, the only real traffic was livestock road trains and trucks carting grain to the silos along the train route.
Times had changed, though, as had the population, and tourism was a new industry with a lot of potential. Over the last few years, with the grey nomad revolution and the vast number of younger families choosing to live on the land, visitors had been trickling into places like Wessex. That’s why the progress committee had decided they needed to do something to help encourage the spike in tourism, with the idea of getting a grant for the ‘big thing’ concocted over beers and chicken schnitzels at the pub almost twelve months earlier. The progress committee had since lifted its game and become a lot more professional, with meetings given an allocated time, in the conference room at the pub, prior to the snooker and schnitty night.
Emma was a driving force behind the new and improved committee. She was a doer—she got things done—and under her leadership, big things had been slowly beginning to take shape, quite literally in this case. The debate about which ‘big thing’ should be the town’s tourism icon—the Big Rooster or the Big Burger—had led to many a heated meeting, with various members walking out during discussions more than once. But the time had come to make a decision.
Today, people would vote, and tonight, the announcement would be made. There was a lot riding on the outcome. There had been rumours floating about that Bob Baxter had been trying to coerce votes from people, but the committee was confident that the appointment of Betty Miller as the chief electoral officer had ensured there was no funny business going on. Betty took her position very seriously.
The markets and movie night were a biannual fundraiser that had been a huge success over the last few years. It had been started to help pay for a number of town-beautication projects, and it had grown considerably since the inaugural event. Now they had enough stalls to line both sides of the main street for its entire length. Stallholders came from as far away as Dubbo and Orange—they’d even had enquiries from a few who did the Sydney markets. It was quite the event.
Bel glanced up at the heavy grey clouds that had begun to gather throughout the afternoon. No one was allowed to mention the R-word around Larkin but, on more than one occasion over the last few days, Bel had heard the odd whisper asking what would happen if it rained. She never managed to hear any answers to the dreaded question and had decided that Larkin must have had it worked out. She hoped. Surely it would hold off anyway?
Grabbing her fold-up chair from the back of her car, Bel set off to get a good place in the park to watch the movie. Having the ideal vantage point was critical when it came to the open-air movie experience. Too close and you couldn’t see the screen; too far and you couldn’t hear anything. Locals tended to get there early to set up their chairs and blankets and bag the best spots. She’d already done her shift at the bake stall earlier in the afternoon, where she’d smiled her way through a few more surprised looks and the odd gape at her new appearance. She’d been thrilled to hand over her apron and escape.
Bel searched the already impressive gathering of people for a glimpse of Emma then, spotting her friend’s frantic waving, weaved her way in between blankets to reach her. ‘Great position,’ she said, nodding as she eyed the enormous white screen set up at the front.
She smiled at Craig and faltered slightly as her gaze moved to the other man seated in a camping chair next to him. ‘Dean.’
‘Bel,’ he greeted her easily.
‘Dump your gear,’ Emma ordered. ‘We have to get to the pub for the official close of the voting poll. You know how Betty will get if we’re late.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
Bel unfolded her chair, helped Lucy scramble up and get comfy then left strict instructions that the three-year-old must guard it with her life. She and Emma left the park to head across the street.
‘Are you sure Craig will be okay?’ Bel asked.
‘He’ll be fine. They’ll convince him to take them to the jumping castle soon. Sucker,’ Emma said with an evil chuckle. ‘I had to bring out the negotiation skills earlier in the week to get them off the playground equipment and into the car when we went into Toormanlee. It’ll be interesting to see how successful Mr I Would Have Had Them In The Car In Five Minutes will go. Anyway, he has backup with Dean. It’ll be fine.’
The close of voting was only supposed to be a mild, superficial ceremony. However, Betty had managed to turn it into something of a theatrical extravaganza. Dressed in a purple velvet robe, complete with fluffy collar, and wearing white gloves, Betty gave a heartfelt speech to rival any royal ceremonial closing. The crowd of seven swapped awkward glances as the speech came to an end, the scattering of applause clearly not the thunderous ovation Betty had been hoping for. With an indignant sniff, she left the stage, snapping her fingers for Sid the bartender to bring the box of ballots to the back lounge area, which had been designated the official counting room.
‘Well, that’s fifteen minutes of my life I won’t get back,’ Emma muttered as they walked outside.
‘Great turnout,’ Bel said as she viewed the crowd in the park. The population was swollen with people from smaller townships and farming families from remote stations making the trip to Wessex for an outing. Bel loved seeing people greeting each other after long spells of isolation, bumping into familiar faces and catching up on gossip and news. The phone and the internet could only do so much, and face-to-face contact was a luxury when you lived so far out of town.
‘Bel!’
Bel and Emma turned to find Larkin waving madly from the middle of the street.
The group walking towards them stood out like a sore thumb; they could have been filming an advert for RM Williams or Thomas Cook. It wasn’t that they were dressed inappropriately; it was that everything looked brand-new and so … well, stiff. Bel had to stop herself looking for any price tags that may still be attached.
‘Oh look, it’s Country Chic Barbie and her friends,’ Emma said in a saccharine tone.
‘Stop it,’ Bel said, biting back a grin. There was no real love lost between her cousin and her best friend. It wasn’t usually a problem, since the two hardly ever occupied the same space, but growing up, it had occasionally been difficult during school holidays when Bel wanted to spend time with them both.
Emma couldn’t deal with how spoiled and entitled Larkin had always been. While everyone else around here made do, the Buckleys from Glentoberon loved to come to town, show off and flaunt their wealth. Bel did think Emma was remembering things with a slightly jaded edge, though. Or maybe it was that Bel was used to the way her relatives were and ignored it. Either way, Emma couldn’t stand Larkin and Larkin simply didn’t have anything in common with Emma, which always put Bel in an awkward spot.
‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ Larkin called. ‘Oh. Hello, Emma,’ she added in a noticeably less enthusiastic tone.
‘Larkin,’ Emma responded, equally unimpressed.
Bel’s gaze was drawn to Tate, who was walking towards her, the smoulder on his face already tripping her heart rate and drawing out an embarrassingly sappy smile.
‘Oh, geez,’ she heard Emma whisper, and she sent back a harshly whispered, ‘Behave!’
‘Tate, this is my friend, Emma. Emma, Tate.’
‘Hi Tate ,’ Emma said, using her secretary-of-the-progress-committee voice. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’
‘All good things, I hope?’ he said, sending her a grin. Bel took secret delight that his smile seemed to catch Emma a little off guard, judging by the quick clearing of her throat she needed to do all of a sudden.
‘Absolutely,’ Emma assured him.
‘I was hoping I could borrow Bel for a little while, so she could show me around town?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Bel sent her friend a quick look, silently asking if she was sure, and was relieved not to find any hidden irritation. There was no such thing with Emma, anyway—you never had to guess if you were in trouble.
‘I’m going to buy popcorn and head over to the jumping castle to watch my husband try to wrangle our wayward children.’
‘I’m going to find the others,’ Larkin announced. ‘Bel, you take care of Tate for me,’ she said with a wave and, behind his back, a wink.