Wish Upon a Wedding. Kate Hardy
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brother had returned to the city.
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and then folded her arms. Mac would be in there. Russ had warned her that his brother might prove difficult. He’d also had no doubt in her ability to handle difficult.
‘Jeez, you save someone’s life and suddenly they think you’re Superwoman.’
But she’d smiled as she’d said it—though whether in affection at her dear friend and former boss, or at the thought of wearing a superhero outfit she wasn’t sure. Though if she burst in wearing a spangly leotard and cape it might make Mac reconsider the soundness of locking himself away like this.
She planted her hands on her hips.
Painted a sleek grey, each weatherboard sat in perfect alignment with its neighbour—and, considering the battering the place must take from sand, salt, sun and wind, that was a testament to the superior materials used and to whoever had built it. The best that money could buy, no doubt. The galvanised tin roof shone in the sunlight. There was even a chimney, which must mean there was an open fire. Nice! Winter might be relatively mild here on the mid-north coast of New South Wales, but she didn’t doubt the nights could be chilly.
She pulled her cardigan about her more tightly. Still, shut up as it was, the house looked cold and unwelcoming even in all this glorious sunshine.
There’s only one way to change that.
Casting a final longing glance back behind her, she set her shoulders and strode towards the house, mounting the six steps to the veranda two at a time.
A piece of paper, stark white against the grey wood, was taped to the door with ‘Ms Anderson’ slashed across it in a dark felt-tipped pen. Jo peeled the note away. Was Mac out? And was he going to insist on the formality of ‘Ms Anderson’ and ‘Mr MacCallum’?
Ms Anderson
I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working so let yourself in. Your room is on the ground floor beyond the kitchen. There should be absolutely no need for you to venture up onto the first floor.
She let out a low laugh. Oh, so that was what he thought, huh?
He finished with:
I eat at seven. Please leave a tray on the table at the bottom of the stairs and I’ll collect it when I take a break from my work.
She folded the note and shoved it in her pocket. She opened the front door and propped a cast-iron rooster that she assumed to be the doorstop against it, and then latched the screen door back against the house before going to the car and collecting her cases. And then she strode into the house as if she owned it—head high, shoulders back, spine straight.
Malcolm ‘Mac’ MacCallum had another think coming if he thought they were going to spend the next two months or so communicating via notes.
She dropped her suitcases in the hallway, wrinkling her nose at the musty scent of old air and neglect. A large reception room lay to her right. She strode in and flung open the curtains at the three large windows to let light spill into the room. She turned and blew out a breath.
Look at all this gorgeous furniture.
Antiques mingled with newer pieces, creating an elegant warmth that reminded her again of Mac’s success. She glared at a gorgeous leather chair. What use was success if it made you forget the people who loved you? Mac hadn’t visited Russ once since Russ’s heart attack. She transferred her glare to the ceiling, before shaking herself and glancing around the room again. It was all in serious need of spit and polish.
She grimaced. Tomorrow.
She turned her back on it to open the windows. The sound of the sea entered first, and then its scent. She straightened. That was better.
She found her room at the back of the house. Someone had made a half-hearted effort at cleaning it. Mac, she supposed. According to Russ, the last cleaning lady had left over a month ago. It would do for now. She’d tackle that tomorrow as well.
Her window looked out over an unkempt lawn to a garage. She lifted the window higher. She might not have a room with a view, but she could still hear the ocean. She leant against the windowsill, reaching out to touch a banksia flower on the nearby tree.
A moment later she drew her hand back, a breath shuddering out of her as she thought back to that stupid note stuck to the door. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Turning her life upside down like this was probably foolhardy, irresponsible—even insane. After all, geology wasn’t so bad and—
It’s not so good either.
She bit her lip and then straightened. She’d gone into geology to please her father. For all the good it had done her. She wasn’t concerned with pleasing him any longer.
She’d remained in the field to keep the peace. She didn’t want just to keep the peace any more—she wanted to create a new world where peace reigned...at least in her little part of it. She’d stayed where she was because she was frightened of change. Well, Russ’s heart attack had taught her that there were worse things than fear of change.
Fear of regret and fear of wasting her life were two of those things. She couldn’t afford to lose heart now. She wanted a future she could look forward to. She wanted a future that would make her proud. She wanted a future that mattered. That was what she was doing here. That wasn’t foolhardy, irresponsible or insane. On the contrary.
But...what about Mac? What was she going to do? Follow instructions today and then try to corner him tomorrow? Or—?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the caller ID before lifting it to her ear. ‘Hey, Russ.’
‘Are you there yet?’
‘Yep.’
‘How’s Mac?’
She swallowed. Or not follow instructions?
‘I’ve only just this very minute arrived, so I haven’t clapped eyes on him yet, but let me tell you the view here is amazing. Your brother has found the perfect place to...’
What? Recuperate? He’d had enough time to recuperate. Work without distractions? Hole up?
‘The perfect place to hide away from the world.’ Russell sighed.
Russ was fifty-two and recovering from a heart attack. He was scheduled for bypass surgery in a few weeks. She wasn’t adding to his stress if she could help it.
‘The perfect place for inspiration,’ she countered. ‘The scenery is gorgeous. Wait until you see it and then you’ll know what I mean. I’ll send you photos.’
‘Does a body need inspiration to write a cookbook?’
She had no idea. ‘Cooking and making up recipes are creative endeavours, aren’t they? And isn’t there some theory that creativity is boosted by the negative ions of moving water? Anyway, there’s lots of deserted beach to walk and rolling hills to climb. It’s a good place to come and get strong—away from prying eyes.’
‘You think so?’
‘Absolutely. Give me an hour, Russ, and I’ll call you back when I have something concrete to tell you, okay?’
‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Jo.’
‘We both know that in this instance it’s you who’s doing me the favour.’
It wasn’t wholly a lie.
She’d known Russ for eight years. They’d hit if off from the first day she’d walked into the mining company’s Outback office, with her brand-new soil sample kit and her work boots that still held a shine. Their teasing, easy rapport had developed into a genuine friendship. He’d been her boss, her mentor, and one of the best friends she’d ever had—but in all that time she’d never met his brother.
After