Chapter 4 #4
‘Don’t just take my word for it, but if you come to the end of this experiment and choose Kyra or Madeleine, don’t be surprised if you wind up changing nappies and dealing with newborns in your fifties.’
She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek, then another that landed close enough to his lips that he could smell the wine on her breath.
‘If only there weren’t cameras looking over our shoulder, and microphones capturing every word …
’ She stepped back with a wink and a smile that should have sent blood coursing through his veins.
Should have, but didn’t. Spencer rubbed his jaw, so caught up in the revelation that he almost headbutted the camera when he stepped into the hallway.
‘Spencer! That was some proposition. Tell us how you’re feeling right now? Can you hear the pitter patter of little feet in your future, like Emily suggested?’
Dazed, Spencer wasn’t sure what he mumbled to the cameraman, but whatever he said, it got the guy off his back.
Spencer shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and set off in the opposite direction. Kyra and Madeleine had seemed a bit wobbly on their feet, and while they weren’t likely to bail him up for a chat, he increased his pace and headed outdoors, not in the mood to take any chances.
He was on his knees, tugging at oxalis weeds from the opposite side of the rotunda that couldn’t be seen from the house, and trying to clear his jumbled thoughts, when the sound of a sneeze came across the lawn.
He froze. Can’t a guy have a minute’s peace?
Relief washed over him when he heard someone softly singing a tune from The Sound of Music.
‘Thank God, it’s you, Louisa. I thought I was in the firing line again,’ he said, rising and then pausing when he saw Clem Crossley at her car, getting ready to leave. ‘Oh, sorry, I could have sworn that was Louisa.’
Clem smiled. ‘She was humming it in the kitchen and now it’s stuck in my head; it’s such an earworm.
I wouldn’t have sung it if I knew I had an audience, though.
’ Her eyes sparkled as she pointed to the handful of yellow flowering weeds he was holding.
‘Such a romantic, Spencer. You really shouldn’t have. ’
He glanced at the soursobs. ‘They match your dress,’ he said.
‘And they’re a perfect match for my lovely singing voice,’ Clem deadpanned. Maybe it was the complete lack of strings attached to the conversation, but it felt easy, Spencer realised. No propositions, no pointed questions or promises, just two adults joking around.
He knew he shouldn’t be hiding in the garden, avoiding the three women he’d invited back to the farm, but being with Clem seemed almost effortless in comparison to the work involved in forging a connection with the remaining contestants.
His old self-preservation tactic of putting distance between himself and Clem Crossley felt ridiculous on reflection.
Clem moved to one of thorny rose stems and read the label, then the next.
‘I love the way you’ve planted them all around the base of your rotunda, they’ll look divine when they grow up around it.
I have a Pierre de Ronsard growing up an old fence, but I’d love a whole wall of them flowing en masse. They’re my favourite rose.’
‘Fingers crossed they thrive on neglect,’ he said.
‘A blanket of mulch, a harsher prune and a scattering of Black Marvel Rose fertiliser and they’ll go great guns,’ she said.
‘Thanks, I’m not much of a flower guy.’
Clem looked from the rotunda to the box hedges and the ornamental snowball tree that was now bare, as if she could imagine it fluffed up to a leafy beauty with little white pom poms in spring, just like she’d imagined the roses in full bloom.
‘This garden says otherwise. I recently catered to a wedding in a garden that wasn’t half as speccy as this. It was your wife’s domain, I take it?’
He’d already told the producers and the contestants that Belle was an off-limits topic, and he sure as hell didn’t like the way Clem was looking at him. Was that pity?
‘It’s gone a bit backward since she passed.’
Spencer pushed his hands into his pockets, blinking away the memories that bubbled up too easily. Despite what he’d told Dana, there was a lot about Clem Crossley that reminded him of his wife.
‘I planted those roses myself last winter, they’ve held up surprisingly well so far.’
‘They’ll be spectacular,’ Clem said softly. ‘I didn’t know Belle, but I’m sure she’d have loved them too. It’ll take a few years for them to fully cover the rotunda, but gosh, when they do, it’ll be amazing.’
They stood, silent in their thoughts, and it was then that Spencer realised that these women he’d been stringing up fairy lights for, the reason for all these cameras, all this fuss, had all respected his request not to discuss Belle.
But was it in respect of his wishes, or because they didn’t know what to say? Or worse, was it because they didn’t care?
The conflict in his heart compounded when he realised his future bride might have different ideas for the garden, as well as the property. How would he feel if they decided to put their stamp on this garden, if they wanted to rip out the roses in favour of natives, or lawn?
His thoughts were interrupted by Dolly, who bounded across to them, pausing to scratch her ear.
‘Here’s trouble,’ he said, stroking the beagle’s short coat. Clem turned to leave, and he walked her to her car. ‘Before you go, how’s the guinea pig situation? Tell me that wasn’t the secret ingredient in those choc orange sweets you brought today?’
A burst of laughter bubbled out of Clem’s mouth.
‘God no, I’m not stark raving mad. Even if that rodent hadn’t made a kamikaze run for his life and escaped into the garden the moment we got home, I most certainly wouldn’t have baked him in a dish.
Particularly not one I was serving to paying customers! ’
‘Good to know,’ Spencer said. ‘Long live Orange Peel the Brave. See you later, Clem Crossley.’
She looked down at his outstretched hand, tossed the tea towel she was holding over her shoulder, and grasped it firmly. Her hands were warm and her grip was stronger than he’d expected. He watched her drive away, then let out a long sigh and returned to the house.
Clem knew her people-reading skills were a little rusty—her failed relationships were testament to that—but there was something full-on about Emily Brewington-Major, and when she delivered the next batch of catering to South Giddi Giddi on Sunday morning, she sensed that Louisa Brealy thought so too.
‘I’ll walk you out, Clem,’ Louisa said, linking an arm through hers. ‘Love this dress—it’s even got bees on it. Did you buy it specially for the TV show?’
Clem laughed. The colourful corduroy dress had been one of her favourite finds from her cousin Fiona’s second-hand store several years ago, and even if she could find the time to go shopping, she didn’t have the budget to revamp her wardrobe at the drop of a hat.
Especially not for a TV show she had no role in.
‘You would’ve seen me wearing this dress at the cafe a hundred times, if not more. It’s practically falling apart at the seams,’ Clem said.
‘Well, it’s a darn sight more cheerful than the black, black and more black everyone else seems to wear around here. I’m not sure those girls know other colours exist.’
Clem glanced back over her shoulder to where Madeleine and Kyra were huddled around a small fire pit.
They were rugged up in dark coats and scarves, their blonde hair tucked under beanies, casting impatient glances towards the film crew, who were interviewing Emily and Spencer on the deck.
Sure enough, Emily was dressed in all black, from her jeans to her jacket, and from the set of her crossed arms, Clem suspected their conversation was more stormy than sunny.
Not my business, she reminded herself, opening the Jeep’s dusty door.
Much like Clem’s pre-loved dress, her car looked well past its prime parked beside the brand-new vehicles the Love on the Land cast and crew had at their disposal during the show.
‘Are you holding up okay with all this on your doorstep, Louisa?’ Clem asked. ‘It can’t be easy on you and Ian.’
Louisa pressed her lips together. ‘It was my bright idea in the first place. Spencer’s like a son to us, and if he finds someone special, we’ll back him one hundred per cent.’
‘He’s lucky to have you both in his corner,’ Clem replied, making her farewells.
The Jeep juddered over the rutted limestone roads as Clem drove back towards town.
South Giddi Giddi was barely visible through the dust in her rear-view mirror, but one thing was clear: the Brealys treated Spencer Hawkins with more love and compassion than her in-laws had ever shown her in her short marriage.
They hadn’t been especially warm or affectionate at the best of times.
Her father-in-law’s engagement party speech, with jokes about divorce statistics and pre-nup agreements, should have been warning enough, but the hardest blow was when she’d fallen dangerously ill after Harriet’s birth, and in the ‘Get Well Soon’ card, her mother-in-law had suggested that the quicker Clem pulled herself together, the less traumatic the whole incident would be for everyone, especially their baby granddaughter.
Any of those contestants would be lucky to be welcomed into the Brealy family.
She was so deep in thought she had to slam on the brakes when she saw a trailer and ute pulled over on the side of the road.
Ian Brealy lifted a hand and waved.
‘All good, Ian?’
‘My old golf bag’s shifting around on the trailer, that’s all, I just stopped to readjust it. By the way, the crew are raving about your catering. Far better than the fare Marco Grubb was serving up.’
Clem beamed. ‘You’re only saying that because you’re a cafe regular. Escaping filming today? Your foot must be fully healed.’
He gave a sheepish shrug. ‘Too many people tramping around my property, each one bossier than the last. A bloke needs his space, and eighteen holes on a hungry stomach suits me fine, although a smarter man would’ve waited until the catering delivery before nicking off.’
Ian’s grumbling reminded Clem of her grandfather.
Clem laughed. ‘Well, I’ll be back the next few days, and you know you can order all those items off the menu. Plus, I’ll be more places, more often soon—I’m getting Aunty Jean’s coffee van back on the road. She just sold it to me.’
‘That little van’s done a few kilometres in its time. With two foodies in the one family, I’m surprised you didn’t join forces earlier.’
This made Clem laugh. ‘I’ve barely had time to scratch myself until now. There’s plenty of coffee addicts to go around, and now I’ll be able to corner a new part of the market.’
‘I look forward to seeing the van back out and about. Oh, and how did you get on with the guinea pig? Spencer had us laughing about that over dinner one night. Who won that battle?’
‘It was a stalemate,’ Clem said. ‘No clear winner, just another nasty little creature lurking in my garden, living his best life on the run.’
Ian looked delighted at this. ‘Been years since our Belle was a little ratbag like your two causing such mischief. It’s refreshing to hear about kids with a bit of spirit. Should be more of it.’
As Clem drove away, she found herself smiling at Ian’s compliment, trying to decide what had touched her the most; the fact that her daughters had been dinner table conversation at South Giddi Giddi, or the way Ian had patted her car roof softly and urged her to drive safely as she put the car into gear.
Two new emails were waiting for her when she pulled up outside her great-aunt Jean’s house to pick up the girls. Jean’s daughter, Fiona, was already there to collect Selina, and Clem hoped there hadn’t been any more sneaky guinea pig–related transactions going on in her absence.
Miss Lyndall’s emailing on a Sunday? Penwarra Area School must be working them hard, she mused, opening the email about the forthcoming class camp.
Dear Miss Crossley,
Last week, students completed a persuasive writing piece about why their mum or dad would make a great parent helper, and Harriet’s piece was head and shoulders above everyone else’s.
Please see the attached photo of Harriet’s assignment, and details of the camp dates in term four. Being a camp helper is more like an extreme sport than a holiday, and there’s absolutely no pressure to commit yet, but I’d love to discuss this further in person.
Clem’s instinct was to set the teacher straight with a polite, apologetic reply listing all the reasons it wouldn’t work, but Ian Brealy’s nostalgic tone, the way he’d marvelled over Harriet and Indi’s guinea pig heist, made her hesitate.
With a quick look at Jean’s backyard fence, where she could see her daughters bouncing happily on the trampoline, she opened the attached photograph of Harriet’s assignment. She’d gone to town on the coloured border and glitter accents, but it was the writing that hit Clem right in the ticker.
My mum Clementine would be a better helper than all the other parents because she’s a mum and dad combined, but wrapped up in one, so she’ll only take up one bunk bed.
She’s the greatest at making sad feelings disappear, and her singing would be awesome around the camp fire.
She’s a Swiftie like me and my friends, so we don’t need to teach her the words to any of the songs, and in the talent show, she can burp really loud, so that will make everyone laugh.
I also think my mum should be the parent helper because she never gets to take holidays or do anything fun, because she’s always too busy, and she says our money is for saving, not spending, so this would be like a free holiday for her as well as me.
I think she would love camping with us in the mountains.
Please, please, please pick her. Yours sincerely, Harriet Mae Crossley.
Warmth built up behind Clem’s eyes. Harriet’s letter was achingly funny and sad at the same time.
And as she read it a second, and then a third time, she knew she’d be mad to turn down the opportunity to make memories with her little girl before she became a big girl who was too cool to nominate her daggy mum as parent helper for canteen, let alone a three-day, interstate school camp.
‘There you are, Clemmy. Not a moment too soon.’
Clem quickly swiped her eyes and looked up to see Aunty Jean waving to her from the front door. ‘You won’t believe the fireworks we’ve had here this afternoon. I’m going to need your help bailing me out of this one.’