Chapter 7 Hamish
Hamish
Tracey’s bangles clacked as she shook her wooden spoon at him, oblivious to the chocolate sauce splattering everywhere. ‘You behave yourself, Hamish MacKenzie. No wonder you’ve got a reputation.’
‘Hey!’ He pretended the accusation hadn’t hit its mark.
‘I only meant Jemma might want to come help with the cleanup in your backyard.’ He suspected he might be playing with fire, teasing the uptight lawyer—but her abrasive attitude made the temptation too hard to resist. ‘Why does no one believe I’m a reformed man? ’
‘Tigers and spots, love,’ Tracey retorted. ‘Or is that lions?’
‘Leopards.’ Tracey was a classic. And Jemma still hadn’t spoken, just stared at him, coldly furious. He’d probably pushed it a bit too far, considering he’d only met her a day ago. He relented a little. ‘Paper towel, Tracey?’
‘Hasn’t Lucie Tamberlani spoken to you about that?
The trees, you know. We can’t use paper towel anymore.
Here.’ Tracey pulled a hand towel from a drawer.
The top had a knitted border added, so that it could be hung from a hook near the sink.
Similar towels on the weekly CWA stalls had provided a fabric calendar throughout his childhood, the changing patterns heralding each season and event: spring flowers with bright yellow trim; Easter rabbits with pink and blue edging; Christmas trees and snowmen with festive red and green borders.
‘Oh, I can’t use that,’ Jemma protested.
‘Sure you can,’ he said, taking the towel from Tracey, and moving in as though he intended to swipe the dirt from Jemma’s pants. Along with her sneer, too, hopefully. Pierce was a decent bloke, yet his daughter was like an overstrained fence wire, ready to snap at any moment.
Chances were, she would sue him if he followed through with the joke, so he held the towel out to her instead.
Jemma snatched it, but then smiled at Tracey. Her entire face changed when she wasn’t glaring at him. ‘This is too cute to ruin,’ she said, spreading out the garish cartoon print. ‘The crocheted edging is gorgeous. So much work.’
‘Get away with you, love.’ Tracey sounded chuffed, as though she hadn’t made and sold hundreds of similar items to raise funds for the CWA. She turned to rummage in a drawer. ‘Here, use this older one, and take that one with you, if you like it.’
Jemma looked taken aback. At a guess, he’d say she’d probably never done any menial work like drying the dishes. Or perhaps she was trying to work out how neon-blue carrots would fit her décor?
Bear struggled arthritically to his feet, uttering a low ‘oof’ as though he’d only just noticed the company.
‘You coming out in the sun, fella?’ Hamish said, dragging his gaze from Jemma’s attempt to rub the mud from her ridiculous dog-repelling pants.
He was pretty sure Tracey had noticed his focus; not much escaped the old duck.
He and the dog headed down the hall, moving out of earshot of Jemma’s over-effusive thanks to Tracey.
‘Hot and cold, that one,’ he muttered to Bear.
‘And no doubt frigid as all get-out.’ The judgement slightly eased the sting of the woman’s patent dislike.
Ethan was right: Hamish wasn’t accustomed to being rejected.
It was a bit of a shock to realise that the looks and charm he’d coasted by on for well over a decade might have an expiry date.
He surveyed the work crew from the back verandah.
Already there didn’t seem a great deal left to do in the large backyard.
He wasn’t a gardener, but, thanks to the large team, it looked like everything had been pruned, weeded, hedged and shovelled to within an inch of its life.
The path leading to the Hill’s hoist was a little uneven, though, and could be a trip hazard.
He reached for a spade leaning against the wall.
He’d lift the pavers, get a new load of crusher dust down and re-lay the bricks.
Tracey wouldn’t take well to being laid up in hospital if she fell, particularly not after all the time she’d spent in there with her partner, Marian, a few years back.
‘Don’t break a nail.’
He forced himself to turn to face Jemma’s sarcasm. To his surprise, she twisted her lips wryly.
‘I mean, it’d be a shame, because your guitar playing last night was pretty good.’
‘Jeez, don’t bury me under your adulation.’
She shrugged. ‘And I get your nail polish now. The Turkish flag, right?’
Even in the midst of what he was choosing to consider a semi-apology, the lawyer needed to win? ‘Nope.’
Jemma frowned. ‘So the story is … ?’
‘Why does there have to be a story?’
‘Because a guy painting his nails random colours isn’t normal. There has to be a reason for the action.’
‘Normal, huh?’ There was a judgement guaranteed to get his back right up. Not so much for himself, but because of the detrimental effect being labelled had had on Lachlan. ‘Maybe I just do it because I don’t like to be pigeonholed.’
‘Then that in itself is a reason,’ Jemma crowed.
Hell, she’d be a pain in the arse in the courtroom, chalking up the wins in her verbal battles.
‘But how do painted nails stop you being pigeonholed?’
‘Well, it clearly threw you off the scent,’ he said, placing the sharp edge of the spade under an uneven paver.
He levered it up. ‘You reckoned it put me into one of two categories: either a hipster or a dad, if I recall correctly. But you’re wrong on both counts.
Now you figure that I painted my nails for a gig.
Three strikes.’ Apparently, the need to score was contagious.
Jemma had followed him, using the toe of her sneaker to gingerly push aside the bricks he dug out. ‘Then why?’ she persisted.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it does. Actions have consequences. So there has to be a rational reason for the action.’
He leaned on the handle of the spade, eyeballing her. ‘And if you can’t work out that reason? What then?’
‘I keep … digging.’ She grinned, indicating his spade.
He passed it to her. ‘Be my guest.’ Her nosiness should have irritated the crap out of him; it was none of her business that he often gave in to odd impulses, like painting his nails when he’d been putting acrylic on a canvas.
Yet her almost compulsive questioning, her need for control, was such a contrast that it was strangely entertaining.
She levered the spade under the edge of a brick, then grunted. ‘Is this cemented in?’
‘Only by time. Probably been there through more than a hundred years of winter rains and baked in by forty-degree summers. Here.’ He held out his hand to take the tool back, but Jemma shook her head, her face set as her grip tightened.
Any second now she’d start on a rant about how women could do anything men could do.
‘So is that part of the job? Along with being heartless?’
‘Is what part of the job?’ she said tersely, though that could have been because of the effort of prising up the stone.
‘Snap judgements.’
‘Got it!’ she exulted as the paver slurped free of the mud. ‘And, yes. To a degree. I need to be able to assess character and intent.’
‘You ever worry you’ve got it wrong?’
‘No.’
Well, that about summed up her arrogance.
He gestured towards Ethan, who was threading his way through the chaos, carrying a tray of coffees and a paper bag stencilled with the logo Hamish had drawn for Christine’s Diner.
He always got a bit of a kick to see his artwork out in the world, no matter the medium.
‘How would you pigeonhole that guy?’ he said to Jemma.
‘Profile.’ She narrowed her eyes at Ethan, though Hamish suspected it was partly so she could take a break from digging.
One brick and she was done. ‘Initially, as a big eater. Except he’s on the thin side and his cheeks are sunken, so I doubt he’s interested in whatever’s in the bag—although he’ll probably hit the coffee.
Add the knuckle tatts and the earplugs, and I’d say we’re talking drug use plus prison time. ’
‘He’s a uni lecturer and one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.’ Jemma was right about the drug history, but her ego was big enough that she didn’t need that feedback.
‘Didn’t say he wasn’t. No reason he can’t be high functioning. But also a strong possibility he could be a future client. Maybe I’ll drop him a business card.’
‘Jesus!’ Did she not have an off switch? ‘Haven’t you heard of not judging a book by its cover?’
‘That’s the biggest load of woke nonsense. Books have very carefully designed covers specifically so that we can judge them at a glance. People are the same. Although, that’s only my initial assessment—’
‘Pigeonhole.’ He could be every bit as awkward as her.
She ignored his correction. ‘To make a more detailed evaluation, I’d need to open the book … or, in this case, speak with your friend.’
‘Or not,’ he muttered. Last thing Ethan needed was a lawyer prying into his past. ‘Don’t you think that perhaps people are more complex than your snap judgements allow for?’
‘Rarely,’ Jemma said. ‘But that’s where evidence comes into play.’
‘So we’re arbitrarily assigned the label you choose and guilty until proven otherwise?’
‘Not all of us get to spend our lives watching crops grow, you know.’ She dropped the spade and put her hands on her narrow hips, and he had a juvenile flash of satisfaction as he noticed more mud transfer onto those magic pants.
‘For some of us, the ability to evaluate a person’s character is crucial—character is always the motivator for action. ’
‘Except in crimes of passion.’
‘Wrong.’ Although she’d assumed a defiant stance, Jemma’s eyes sparkled. ‘Violence is a choice; passion is never an excuse. And again, it takes a certain character type to commit the crime.’
‘Isn’t that more forensic psychology than lawyer stuff?’
‘We’re multifaceted.’
‘Which some might say could make a lawyer’s character hard to pigeonhole …’
She tilted her head, acknowledging the point. ‘Yet still that initial assessment is invaluable. You’re not going to pretend you don’t get a gut feeling when you meet people?’
Was there a subtext to her words? He’d tagged her as abrasive, independent and arrogant, yet he felt a flare of interest, the thrill of discovering something different.
‘Fortunately for everyone, I’m open to questioning my gut.’
‘Graphic,’ she said, and a galah in the overhanging eucalypt cackled.
‘But see, you’re admitting that you, too, make snap judgements.
Or pigeonhole, as you seem to prefer.’ Somehow, she managed to make it sound like agreeing to use the word was another victory in her favour.
‘We all do it, because sometimes it can come down to a survival tool. At the very least, it’s a useful skill.
’ Jemma’s dark gaze ranged the yard, before settling.
‘For example, I can tell you that girl is looking for trouble.’
He followed her line of sight and snorted. ‘Not round here, she isn’t. That’s Tara Paech. Wheaty’s sister.’
Jemma gave a disparaging huff, and he realised his mate’s name meant nothing to her.
‘Does that connection somehow make her safe? Because I can tell you right now, she’s not necessarily a bad girl but she’s actively looking to be led astray.
The clues are in the way she’s dressed—and the fact that the entire time we’ve been out here, she’s had her eye on you. ’
He felt unwelcome heat warm his neck. Like the rest of the town, he was awkwardly aware of Tara’s infatuation and he always laughed it off; Tara would grow out of the crush.
‘That’s some kind of uptight bullshit, you know,’ he said gruffly, although Tara must be freezing in her short shorts and tight tank.
‘I thought women were supposed to be able to dress any way they want?’
‘Obviously, they can. But there’s a vast difference between what is defensible and what’s sensible. I’d argue her right to wear anything she wants, but you can’t tell me that her clothes are appropriate for the place, the weather or the task. Ergo, defensible but not sensible.’
‘So then you’re judging her appearance, not her character.’
‘Character can be evidenced by appearance, at least on a basic level.’
The woman had an answer for everything, delivered in an infuriatingly confident tone.
‘There are ways to let your interest be known to the appropriate person, rather than advertising general availability. And that speaks to character. In this case, immature character.’
He shrugged. ‘Or maybe it speaks to honesty, a highly undervalued trait. Besides, Tara’s just a kid. She’s testing the waters. Getting some life experience.’
A frown shadowed Jemma’s face. ‘She’s no kid. And even if she was, that’s no protection. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,’ she finished tightly.
Although she was right—Tara had grown up without him realising it—the lawyer’s arrogance was exasperating.
Perhaps this was partly because the ache in his scarred arm from the ‘accident’ the previous year proved her point.
Out in the world, no woman was safe by virtue of her age or any other factor.
‘I’m aware. But no one around here is going to let anything happen to her. ’
‘Pretty sure Dad mentioned Samantha is country born and bred,’ Jemma remarked.
He winced. Settlers Bridge had failed to protect one of their own; in fact, with the exception of Christine Talbot, no one had been aware of Sam’s situation until a few months ago.
‘In any case, I got the impression that not everyone in the restaurant last night was from around here,’ Jemma continued, driving home her point without even raising her voice.
‘Guess you’re right there,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Settlers is still coming to terms with having anything but the pub bringing in non-locals.’
Although it would be an awkward conversation, maybe he ought to have a word with Wheaty about Tara.
Then again, as Jemma had pointed out, Tara was technically an adult—she wasn’t Hamish’s responsibility—and, truthfully, he wasn’t exactly the best person to be dishing out advice on how women should behave.
Problem was, now that Jemma had opened his eyes, it was an issue he couldn’t ignore. Damn it.