Chapter 6 Jemma #3
‘Tracey?’ Hamish called into the shaded depths beneath the back verandah.
‘Be there in a minute, love,’ a voice came from inside.
The dozen or so people in the yard had gone back to either labouring or chatting.
Much as Jemma loathed social situations, she had become accustomed to commanding attention, a measure of respect, not this underwhelming indifference.
Still, it was better than the overt attention that persisted in her nightmares.
The screen on the back door creaked open, and Hamish leaned in, dwarfing the woman he embraced. ‘Morning, Trace. Sorry I’m a bit late—I stopped for breakfast with Ethan.’
The woman nestled readily into his hug. Shiny patches of tight new skin amid the lines of life and an oddly scooped-out area beneath the bridge of her nose hinted at past surgery, most likely for skin cancers.
‘He’s in Settlers for the weekend?’ Tracey said. ‘How lovely. I know Heath’s been a bit worried about Charlee, you know … prolapsing.’ She squinted as she chose the word, her wild bush of silver-blonde hair barely restrained by a fat floral scrunchie. ‘But Ethan will be able to sort her.’
‘You mean relapsing?’ The amusement fled from Hamish’s face. ‘I thought she had everything worked out?’
‘Oh, she’s doing ever so well helping me with the Up Shop.
’ Tracey patted the patch of lace that decorated the front pocket of the baggy, faded, floral dungarees she wore.
Then she sighed, drooping like a wilted flower.
‘But it looks like Dave Jaensch was right. Though don’t you tell him I said that. ’
‘Right about what?’ All levity had disappeared from Hamish’s tone now.
‘The skatepark is attracting a certain undesirable element,’ Tracey said, her brow furrowed like a rumpled tissue.
Jemma snorted. Those undesirable elements were a legal practitioner’s bread and butter, and she had a fair idea what the issues around a skatepark would be. So much for her father’s idyllic portrayal of the small town.
Hamish suddenly remembered her presence. ‘Tracey, this is my friend, Jemma. Chance got a bit overenthusiastic with his greeting. Can we grab some paper towel for a clean-up, please?’
‘Chance is here? I’ll send Bear out to play, once he wakes up.
He’s getting a bit old and slow,’ Tracey confided.
‘Hasn’t even noticed everyone’s in the back garden.
Let me see, paper towel.’ She frowned quizzically.
‘I don’t have any, but wait a moment.’ She turned a little unsteadily, clutching the doorjamb as she got tangled in the long, bright scarf that looped her neck twice and still hung to her ankles.
As she disappeared into the depths of the house, she called back, ‘I don’t actually mean wait. Come inside, loves.’
Hamish made a mocking half-bow, inviting Jemma to go in first.
Her winter-chilled skin tingled as she stepped into the hallway, the smell of burning pine far too strong to be from a candle. The cream-painted walls were lined with photographs, mostly of the same two women, taken years apart.
‘At least it can’t be mistaken for a handprint,’ Hamish said.
‘What?’ She glanced back at him.
‘The mud on your butt.’
‘Seriously?’ What sort of guy would so brazenly admit to ogling a woman’s backside?
‘Chuck a left,’ he said with an unrepentant grin.
Following his direction, Jemma entered a kitchen.
A cane picnic basket on the table was piled with scones alongside a large bowl of cream and a jar of ruby jam covered by a circle of floral material held on with a thin rubber band.
A golden cake, thickly spread with passionfruit-flecked cream cheese icing, took up a third of the table, and Jemma wondered where Tracey had sourced a baking tray the size of an oven shelf.
On the counter near the sink was a sponge cake cut into cubes, a plate of desiccated coconut and a bowl of brown liquid.
‘See you’re getting in practice for shearing season.’ Hamish dipped a finger into the bowl and licked it. ‘I swear I’m going to persuade you to marry me, Tracey. Your lamingtons are the best in the country.’
Tracey giggled. ‘Goodness, Settlers Bridge wouldn’t know whether to be more shocked by me marrying a man or you marrying, full stop.’
‘But imagine how much we’d give them to talk about.’ Hamish draped a brawny arm around her shoulders in an affectionate squeeze.
There was something oddly attractive about the easy manner with which he flirted. It was possibly because there was clearly no real intent behind his words—although the use of words for entertainment rather than rigid purpose was usually anathema to her.
‘Why are you battling with that dinosaur?’ Hamish indicated the blue enamel woodstove in one corner of the tatty old kitchen. ‘You’re okay with the electricity bill? The rates are killer now.’
‘Course I am, love, don’t you worry yourself,’ Tracey said.
‘But there’s nothing like a wood oven for getting the crust on a scone just right.
Can’t use it in summer, obviously, but you’d better believe I’ll take advantage of it through winter.
And Bear just loves the warmth.’ She nodded at an untidy mound of shaggy grey fur immediately in front of the stove.
The flames flickering through the open grate reflected a sudden glassiness in her eyes.
‘For so many years, he’s hated the heat, wouldn’t even come out of the hallway when one of the fires was on. Now I always know where to find him.’
‘Bestest boy.’ Hamish bent to tug gently on one of the dog’s dark ears and was rewarded by a deep, reverberating snore. ‘How old is he now?’
‘Seventeen last month,’ Tracey said with a wondering shake of her head. ‘I never thought he’d stick by me this long.’
‘That’s what happens when you’ve got the best vet in the state on call.’
‘Matt certainly has a lot to do with it,’ Tracey agreed.
The dog groaned and stretched luxuriously on the circular rug, which appeared to be made of braided tea towels and flannel shirts, but didn’t open his eyes, although it looked exactly like he was smiling beneath Hamish’s hand.
Hamish gave the dog a final pat before straightening. ‘You’re all right for wood, then?’ he said.
‘Matt looks after me there, too.’ Tracey tossed both ends of the scarf over her shoulders before leaning over to stir the contents of the bowl. ‘Though you can bring me in a few more from the front verandah, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘You know it’ll cost you.’ Hamish pointed at the basket of fluffy scones.
‘And you know you can always help yourself, love. I’ll pack you a Tupperware of these lamingtons to take home, if you’ll keep your finger out of the chocolate long enough for me to coat them.’
‘Come on, Tracey, you know you love me stirring your sauce,’ Hamish teased. ‘You don’t have to be coy just because Jemma’s here. We’re all adults.’
Tracey flapped a tea towel at him. ‘That mouth of yours will get you in trouble one of these days, Hamish MacKenzie.’
‘Don’t you just wish.’ Hamish smirked, leaning back against the chipped counter with his ankles crossed.
‘Watch this one, love,’ Tracey said as Jemma smothered a chuckle. ‘He’s a heartbreaker.’
‘That’s okay, I’m a lawyer,’ she replied.
Tracey looked confused, but Hamish grinned. ‘So, no heart, right?’
‘If that’s what you need to tell yourself to make the rejection okay …’ she said, secretly impressed by how quickly he’d caught on.
Hamish observed her with lazy amusement for a long moment. Then he pushed himself away from the counter and turned to Tracey. ‘Anyway, we’d better get Jemma cleaned up,’ he said. ‘In case she changes her mind and decides that she fancies getting dirty with me.’