Unexpected Delivery Read online

  “Hi, Sage.” He attracted the attention of the busy waitress who glided over straight away. “Can we please have a bottle of the Californian Tempranillo?”

  “Sure,” Sage said and walked away scribbling on her notepad as she went.

  “This is a lovely place, much nicer than I expected. But, I guess I haven’t been to a lot of country pubs.”

  “Yes. It’s the best in town and the locals love it too, even though they cater for the tourist market. It’s hard to beat good food and decent beverages, I guess.”

  Sage returned with their wine. Daniel offered Vivienne to taste, and not shy, she swirled the liquid in her glass.

  “It’s got such a pale colour. Are you sure this isn’t a lighter red and you’re tricking me?” she teased.

  He shook his head. “No, honestly, it’s different, you’ll notice it when you try. Its colour is deceiving, often appearing lighter but that’s the thing,” he said tapping his nose. “It’s lighter in colour but has the fuller flavour.”

  Vivienne swivelled her glass to bring out the richness of colour. It didn’t arrive.

  “It’s almost an orange-red,” she commented.

  “Yes. You’ve picked it. The Cab Savs and Merlots are deep red, using deeper-coloured grapes. This appears translucent, doesn’t it?”

  Vivienne took a sip.

  “Wow, that’s good, a punch of cherry and vanilla but a smooth aftertaste. You’re right, it’s nothing like Pinot but not heavy either. I could start to like this.”

  “I knew you’d enjoy it.”

  They smiled at each other as Sage poured them both glasses.

  “Thanks so much for introducing me to this wine. How do you know so much about it? Are you hiding a vineyard out the back of the dairy?”

  He chuckled, deep and throaty, like it didn’t come out often.

  “No, I’d like to, though, and it sure is cold enough around here. But no, I like to drink it first, and I have a small collection. My cellar has wines in it that I might not ever drink.”

  “If you’ve such a collection, why would you bother coming out to buy wines?”

  “That’s a very good question. Remember, I was drinking cold lager before, now I’m sitting her drinking Tempranillo with you. Not sure I’ve got this one in the cellar anyway.”

  After gulping a big sip of wine, she extended her hand. “We haven’t met properly. My name is Vivienne, spelt with two n’s and an ‘e’, not the other way.”

  He placed his wine glass on the timber table, and clasped her outstretched hand. Her cool fingers embraced his warm skin.

  “And my name is Daniel.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Daniel. How do you keep so warm in this weather? I’m always so cold.”

  He held her gaze one minute too long so she retrieved her hand to the safety of her lap when he didn’t answer. Her fingers tingled hot. His hand was rough, calloused and big. Hands that made you safe.

  As usual, the smallest of prompts took her back to her parent’s home, to her father’s large, brutish hands, like Daniel’s but always used as a weapon.

  “Daniel, the dairy farmer,” she quipped bringing herself back to the table and sweeping the memories away.

  “Yes, you could say that,” and he repeated the phrase.

  They only dragged their eyes away from each other as Sage approached to take their dinner orders.

  Vivienne advised Sage that she’d have the pumpkin risotto.

  Daniel regarded her. “No steak to go with your wine then? It’s perfect and will be a nice cut. Stu out back would have had it delivered from the local beef farm.”

  With an internal grimace, Vivienne’s stomach rose up into her throat.

  Daniel observed her as the silence stretched on.

  “You don’t eat meat?”

  Vivienne nodded.

  “Okay, that’s fine.”

  Her discomfort caused hackles to crawl up her spine. About to jump in and advise she didn’t require his permission, he continued, “Do you mind if I eat meat then?”

  Vivienne rocked back on her chair, almost toppling it on its weak twig legs. She placed two hands on the table to steady herself.

  Never had she been asked if it was okay to eat meat in her presence. Was this a trick? Confusion grounded in suspicion swirled in her tummy, unsettling the fine wine she drank. She scrutinised him as he continued to consider the leather-bound menu he held.

  “Because if you do, it’s no problem, I don’t mind having a day off meat. Don’t they say we should all have a meat free day? Don’t get me wrong, I do love it, I am a country boy, but won’t eat it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “No, I don’t mind at all, but I just don’t eat it myself.”

  “Okay then, I’ll have the bangers and mash then, please, Sage.”

  “Pork doesn’t have a strong scent, so hopefully it won’t bother you too much.”

  Vivienne shut her gaping mouth. He stared at her, oblivious to the significance of the moment. Is this for real? Was a true country gentleman sitting across from her?

  “No, look, that’s fine, don’t worry, people around me eat meat all the time. It’s okay, I’m used to it, but I don’t like to cook it either.”

  Why did she say that? In her head, she planned future meals with him in the cosy cottage, that is, before she kicked herself for the stupid image.

  “Is it the taste or are you an animal conservationist?”

  Usually, she avoided this conversation with great will, forcing the topic elsewhere, onto anything but her eating habits. She hated telling the truth because the reality involved a story and no matter how she tried to lighten it, endless questions always occurred and she ended up giving half of herself to others.

  Tonight, had turned out differently.

  Daniel probably wanted the rare steak with fries and gravy but had ordered a meal that he thought she could cope with. Why would he even care?

  Before she could change her mind, she blurted it out.

  “My father only ever ate meat. When I was a child, we always had to have meat, steak, sausages, pork chops, anything with three vegetables and perhaps a slice of bread if we were lucky. We ate it every night for dinner, not even the weekends off. My father made me eat every bit of the chewy, overcooked slabs and each tiny pea and corn kernel before I could leave the table. He’d gulp his down like a pig.” She slowed conscious of keeping emotion out of her voice. Talking about her father without getting teary or angry, or both, was not easy. “So, he would make my mother leave to clean up and he’d watch T.V. and I’d sit at the table until all the food had been eaten.”

  She lowered her head. “You know what? It’s not even that I don’t even like meat. Sure, I didn’t like the tough steak I had to cut with a butter knife or the fatty lamb but I hated the process, the theatrical show that came with dinner. It would have been nice, just once, if we could have had pasta, salad with the meat, a burger, for goodness sake, but every night was the same, like groundhog day, the only thing to look forward to was the variety—would it be beef, lamb or pork? Every now and again, if he came home in a good mood, we were allowed chicken.”

  “How often did you have chicken?”

  “Less than once a month.”

  “So, your father was often in a bad mood then.”

  Another nod.

  Silence.

  She’d gone too far and revealed too much. Vivienne clamped her mouth shut. This segment of her life story alone seemed feeble. Who cares if you were made to eat your dinner every night as a kid? Most had too, and in her childhood, most families ate meat and veg, nothing special about that. Determined to shut the rest of her history away and now uncomfortable, she vowed not to reveal any further parts of that story tonight.

  Looking around, she imagined an escape. Toilet? Buy another drink at the bar and not come back? He might take off anyway, and the problem would be solved.

  “I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound like fun at all.”

 
; That word. The one everyone had trouble uttering. Sorry.

  She returned a weak smile, aware of the fact she’d caught a train where she didn’t want to go, and needed to heave herself back onto the right station and head toward the direction she’d been going in. Her past tested her and here she was talking to a stranger about it. Weird.

  Steaming meals arrived in front of them and prevented her fleeing. She was thankful.

  The pork did have an aroma, she’d know. Her face had been pushed close to its fatty skin often enough. In return for his kindness she would ignore it. Vivienne leaned over her own meal, inhaling. Roasted pumpkin didn’t invoke any memory other than hunger.

  “Yum, this smells divine,’ she offered looking up, noticing he hadn’t started eating.

  “Yes, it looks good.”

  “Tell me about your farm,” she asked before eating a mouthful of risotto.

  Daniel lit up; a ray beamed outwards as he talked about Bunyatree Farm.

  The hours passed. Last drinks were called and they had not exhausted all their topics of conversation. They had not paused to catch their breath. Daniel told her of his undeniable draw to the country, his heritage, upbringing and inevitable connection to the land.

  Bunyatree, that’s what he called it for short, was a third-generation farm. Whilst it had always been intended for him, it had never been a burden to bear. He’d embraced it as soon as he could. His demeanour throughout the evening remained serious, thoughtful, but occasionally, a sparkle shone in his eye and the curves of his full lips lifted into a smile. Drawn to those intense pools, at close range, her gaze kept flicking to his short beard, cropped close to his chiselled chin. She longed to rub her fingers against the bristle. Would it be prickly or soft to the touch?

  With the wine, another bottle had been ordered, and a sated stomach and warm environs, she relaxed and lost track of the time.

  As she listened to him talk, Vivienne brushed away hair that had fallen across her face. Daniel’s gaze went straight to her right temple. Questions flittered across his face and his eyes squinted and focused on her forehead. Vivienne’s hands could not move fast enough. She pulled her hair back to her face, angling away from his gaze.

  His oversized hands moved towards her temple and teased her hair back behind her right ear, exposing her scar again. He rubbed his pointer finger down the line of it, dipping in and out of the curve of the dead skin.

  At this point, a person might start to explain or change the conversation. Not Vivienne, not tonight. His light stroking touch was mesmerising. She concentrated on it and had to control the urge to tip her head and let his hand cup her chin. Lost in the moment, her eyes shut. Opening them moments later, Daniel watched her. His smile had disappeared to be replaced with concern. He placed his hand on the timber table only inches from her own, the heat radiating between them.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Her admiration and respect for the man sitting across from her increased tenfold with his lack of words. Why didn’t he quiz her? Start an inquisition of what, why and how?

  If falling in love at first sight had been believable, and she didn’t think it was, she may have just fallen down the Alice hole. His silence had cemented the quality of him, his respectful nature, and sensitivity. Vivienne revelled in it even though disbelief sat alongside it. Daniel had been open and honest about his life in Rosebrooke.

  Could she say the same?

  Repeatedly, she’d made a deal with herself that when the conversation slowed or topics ran out, she’d reveal where she worked and what she had to do in this town. In her own defence, that moment had never happened, so she hadn’t mentioned her employer, or her local business. Expecting the delicate bubble surrounding them to burst at any minute, he had to eventually ask why she’d been at his farm that day.

  But he didn’t.

  She knew, too, buried back in her mind that she had to draft the second default notice and deliver it. How could she do that now?

  Lucky the lights lowered and the crowd started to usher out into the freezing night air. Still she clung to the ridiculous notion that it was time to come clean. Yes, she’d do it, be honest, she wasn’t a dishonest person. But they’d had such amazing conversation; fun, innocent and light-hearted, that she couldn’t bear to ruin it with the truth.

  But, of course, she knew, like the Andersons, it wasn’t ‘work talk’ to any of them. It was real life and the consequences might be devastating. When she stood to pull on her rain jacket, Daniel assisted. He’d been a gentleman right to the end. She willed the words to exit her mouth and to end the night with the truth. Just when she thought they might be spoken, Sage came to clear their table or the barman slapped Daniel on the back with a goodnight. And then, the moment had disappeared, a segment of the bubble floating away, not capable of capture. The cold air grasped her cheeks in its icy tentacles as they exited the pub. Its breeze laced its way down her neckline, chilling her to the core. Stamping her feet to get the blood flowing, she turned towards Daniel. He stood in the glow of the full moon, illuminated.

  “Can I offer you a lift?”

  “No, no thank you. Tonight’s been great, unexpected. I thought I’d have eaten and had one drink and been home in bed by nine . . .”

  “And yet here we are,” he interjected.

  “Thanks for your company, I really enjoyed it. And for introducing me to Tempranillo, I’ll have it another time.”

  “Goodnight, Vivienne.”

  “Goodnight, Daniel.”

  Darkness enveloped her as his bulk leaned toward her blocking the moon’s beams. His two hands upon her arms stilled her trembling. Vivienne sighed with anticipation as Daniel moved closer. His breath brushed her cheek; the scent of red wine mixed with herbs and garlic intoxicated her. Her lids longed to shut but she willed them to stay open and alert. Hot lips pressed against one cheek, then the other, the cold more noticeable after their absence. He whispered goodnight in her ear before he strode away.

  Vivienne made her legs move, despite her body being numb. She could say her extremities were suffering cold, but with hot blood pumping around her body, that could hardly be true. One thing for sure, the country had delivered way more than she could ever have expected.

  Chapter Six

  Squeals echoed from inside. Vivienne stood on the front porch of the quaint cottage and listened. Small and solid, the house reminded her of a not dissimilar one her family had stayed in whilst on a driving holiday—one of the few holidays she’d had as a kid—in Tenterfield.

  For reasons she couldn’t remember, they’d driven to Sydney. On the way home, they’d stopped in Tenterfield. She remembered it as a small country town like Rosebrooke. As a twelve-year-old, nothing of significance stood out from her stay, but she could picture the pizza place where they’d had dinner. For once, they’d dined out and she recalled her mother and father sipping white wine while she ate garlic bread and washed it down with lemonade. Tom, or Thomas, her father, had been in a particularly good mood, pizza and soft drink were a dream come true.

  Vivienne rapped on the solid timber door of the house. Fortified against the frosty climate, the cottage was solid. A high, brick chimney adorned the roof and the foundations lay to the ground, preventing any wayward air finding itself up through the roots of the house. A concrete path led to a porch inviting guests in, flowers blooming in pots a further welcome gesture. With spring dawning, buds were appearing, sprouts waiting to burst open with colour. Edgings displayed bright white gloss next to a trimmed hedge with an affixed and not at all rickety gate. To finish the look, a doormat adorned with cats—the picture not at all faded with use—sat at the entrance. In comparison to Daniel’s, it presented as a loved and nurtured home.

  Had Mrs Buchannan from her unit next door in Brisbane remembered to feed Ginger? She hadn’t thought of her pet until now. The likeness of the cat on the doormat to her stray kitten was uncanny. Vivienne hoped that with nothing to fill her days, Mrs Buchannan from apartment twel
ve would be spoiling her tabby and most likely they’d be sitting together devouring episode after episode of the Bold and the Beautiful. The theme song could often be heard slipping under the door on any given weekday afternoon from the old lady’s apartment. She made a mental note to check on Ginger later. A scuffle broke out inside and noises reached her. The door swung open. Vivienne towered over a small child who gazed up at her through thick-rimmed glasses and hair flopping across his forehead. He reminded her of Harry Potter.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. Are your mum and dad at home?”

  “Yes. My name is Lucius and I’m eight years old.”

  “Hello, Lucius. That’s an unusual name.”

  “It’s biblical. When I’m naughty my mum says it means devil, but it doesn’t. It means light. So, I say that I’m the light of her life, and I am, literally.”

  “How interesting. You said your parents are at home?”

  “Yes. I also have a sister, she’s only five and very annoying. Her name is Isabella, not Isabelle. She gets cross when people confuse her name. So, when she aggravates me, I call her Isabelle or Izzy and it drives her nuts.” The boy beamed up at her.

  “Lu, who’s at the door?” A voice in the background yelled.

  “No one, Mum,” he yelled back.

  “Um, I do need to speak with your mother.”

  “Okay,” he said and shut the door.

  Perplexed, Vivienne waited. Bees buzzed around the flowers vying for position on the most luscious petals. She knocked again. The door opened once more.

  “Hello, I’m sorry Lucius said no one was there.” Turning back in toward the house, the woman said, “Lucius, why didn’t you say someone was at the door?”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Are you Mrs Lawrence?” Vivienne felt she had walked into the set of a movie where cameras rolled with no time to stop.

  “Yes, I am, how can I help you?”

  Extending her hand, Vivienne said, “My name is Vivienne Greene and I’m from McGuires Metropolitan Bank. I need to talk to you and your husband about your mortgage.”

  Mrs Lawrence’s face drained of colour and her knuckles gripped the door handle. The slight woman moved further behind the protection of the door as if Vivienne was dangerous.