The Vet from Snowy River by Stella Quinn

CHAPTER

37

By late November the weather had warmed, and Graeme convinced her to place some little tables outside the café on the footpath overlooking the lake. Tourists had flocked to them like seagulls after a hot chip, and gathered in the late afternoon sunlight for glasses of wine, cheese boards, and little dishes of antipasti. Business was up, her lawyer was texting her optimistic messages like loving our defence strategy, Vera! and her trial date had been set for the second week of December.

She was ignoring the trial, for the most part, and when she was having trouble ignoring it, she went to yoga and Marigold helped her whizz her worries off over the lake.

Sure it was a bit hippy and nuts … but whatever. She was trying to learn not to be so rigid and loosen up a little.

She inspected the strawberry she’d just sliced. Hmm. Not so loose that that mangled cut of fruit would be acceptable in her display cabinet. She popped it in her mouth, then plated up three dozen of the tarts she’d spent the afternoon baking. Poppy had whimsically named them La Di Dah Tarts on her last visit up from Sydney.

The swing door crashed open and Graeme shouldered his way into the kitchen bearing a tray of empty cups. ‘Marigold’s asking for you, my lamb.’

Vera ran her eye over the bowl containing five kilos of choux pastry dough that wasn’t going to pipe itself. ‘How chatty is she looking?’

He grinned. ‘She’s ordered a hot chocolate to go, so maybe not too chatty. One hour, tops.’

‘You mind asking her if she’s happy to come back here?’

‘I’m on it.’

Just as Vera was fitting a nozzle onto a piping bag, Marigold sailed through the swing doors.

‘The inner sanctum!’ she announced. ‘I’m feeling a little dizzy with the honour, Vera.’

Vera tested the consistency of the mix with a spoon. ‘That’ll be the powdered sugar fumes, Marigold.’ She spooned a batch of choux pastry into the piping bag and began filling her trays with short lengths of dough.

‘Éclairs? Oh, poop, now I’m wishing I hadn’t already had a slice of that devilish chocolate cake.’

‘Relax, I’m prepping these for tomorrow.’

‘My bathroom scales are scared of you, Vera, you know that? They see me coming home with shortbread crumbs scattered across my magnificent bosom, and they quake.’

Vera allowed herself a smug little snicker and pulled out a stool for her friend.

‘But seriously,’ said Marigold, taking a sip of her hot chocolate then resting it on the workbench. ‘How are you doing, Vera?’

She looked up. ‘Excuse me?’

Marigold reached over and patted her arm. ‘Burying a loved one with me as celebrant gets you certain privileges. Like me coming over to check on you from time to time. And Kev, bless him. He’d have been here, but he spied an aphid on a rose bush down at the hall and went all First Testament on me. I haven’t seen you at yoga this week, so I assumed you were burying yourself in hard work and dark thoughts, and I was right, wasn’t I?’

She tried for flippancy. ‘Someone’s got to keep this town supplied with sweet treats.’

‘Uh-huh. And someone else has got to keep this town feeling better by wearing epic earrings and making taciturn people like you talk about their feelings. And that person is me, Vera. Spill the beans.’

A splodge of dough erupted from the piping bag to form a fist-sized lump in her tray. It looked as pale and inanimate as she imagined her heart must look.

‘I’m never been very good at sharing, Marigold.’

‘You think I don’t know that? Girlfriend, you’re pricklier than a prickly pear. Luckily, I don’t scare away so easy.’

She bit her lip, and then the words came blurting out. ‘It’s all such a mess, Marigold.’

‘I know, honey.’

‘I just wanted Jill to be happy, calm, well cared for.’

‘And she was, Vera.’

‘Not always. Not when those idiots in charge of Acacia View were underpaying their staff and under-resourcing their facility.’

‘Always. Always by you.’

Was that true? She’d been so immersed in her career when Jill first showed signs she could no longer live alone. Had she taken such little care choosing a home for her because she was too involved with her career to make proper enquiries?

Vera eyed Marigold. ‘I suppose you know my trial date has been scheduled for a couple of weeks from now.’

‘You suppose right. This is a small town, honey. It’s a miracle I don’t know what colour your underwear is.’

She sighed. ‘Crap.’

Marigold chuckled. ‘People here care, that’s all. They read the papers. They see a name they know, they sit up and take notice. They see someone through the kitchen window hanging out their washing, and they run over and share the news.’

Vera was surprised into a laugh. ‘I guess I hadn’t thought about that before I moved here. I came for the peace and quiet. For the promise offered up in the Connolly House brochure. For the opportunity to be an unknown person who could be left completely alone.’

‘Pet, if you wanted to be lonely you should have stayed in the city.’

‘Alone. Not lonely.’

‘They walk the same path, Vera. But now you’ve set your feet in a whole new direction. How’s that quilt coming along?’

‘Slowly. As soon as I pull it out, the cat waddles over and plonks herself down on it.’

‘Hmm. You sure the cat’s not just your excuse? What’s the hold-up? Fear of failure? Fear of success?’

Vera hauled open the oven door and began sliding in trays of éclair mix. ‘It’s not fear, Marigold. I’ve just, you know, been busy. I’m here before dawn most mornings. My aunt just died, and anytime that I’m not busy cooking or grieving, I’m wondering how in hell this café is going to manage with me on the wrong side of tempered steel bars.’

‘You’ll employ a cook. That young man Graeme may look as pretty as a peacock, but he’s an operator. He’ll manage.’

Vera shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I’m worried. The income from this place was never for me. I had to make sure I had money coming in to pay Jill’s medical bills if I was … put away.’

Marigold frowned. ‘You were shouldering that burden on your own? What, Jill had no funds?’

She shrugged. ‘She did, once. But they’re long gone. Dementia’s a brute, but for all its destructive force, it’s got no speed to it. Five years of high-needs care, and live-in help before that, and Jill’s money from selling up her apartment was all gone.’

‘Honey, don’t ever wonder if you did enough. You did wonderfully, do you hear me? Wonderfully.’

‘I hope so. Thanks, Marigold.’

‘Me and Kev would feel lucky to be so loved. Being childless has its own rules, Vera. You’ve done your aunt proud. But I still want you to finish that quilt, you hear? Whose fabric got cut into squares for it?’

She smiled. ‘About everybody’s by now. Jill’s, yours.’

‘Uh-huh. And that red paisley we cut up last week was out of Mrs Juggins’s stash. A dozen of this town’s residents have their fabric scraps in my craft box. They’re all in that quilt, Vera. You have to stop messing around and finish it. Put a bit of you in it.’

She grinned, amused despite herself. ‘You think I should cut up an apron and stitch it in?’

‘Maybe. If you like. I would, but then I’m a sentimental old fool who made a quilt out of my goddaughter’s flannel pyjamas. You know the craft group rule: every stitch is a good stitch, Vera, especially the wonky ones. Promise me you’ll see it done.’

Vera swung the timer on the oven door. ‘Sure.’

‘Look me in the eye and say it like you mean it.’

She brushed what she could of the sticky dough from her hands. Why was Marigold so fired up about this? She looked her in the eye. ‘Marigold Jones. I promise I’ll finish Jill’s quilt. And you know what I’m going to do with it?’

‘What’s that, my love?’

‘I’m going to donate it to your fundraising stall. Maybe you can raffle it off, if it’s good enough, that is.’

Marigold pulled her in for a quick hug and pressed a kiss to her cheek. ‘That’s my girl. And it will be perfect, because rag quilts stitched together with love and patience always are. Now I’d best be getting on home to Kev before he starts fretting that I’ve run off with that fine-looking Cody boy.’

Vera jumped, knocking her pastry bag to the ground in a splatter of dough.

Marigold dropped her a wink. ‘Thought that would get your attention. When you’re done stitching, you might want to bake that boy an apple pie. Quilts aren’t the only things that need a bit of attention and patience.’

Vera let out a breath. ‘I don’t know, Marigold.’

‘Shame he couldn’t make it to the wake. That man worked until midnight getting that ceiling finished so we could reopen the hall. I was hoping he’d be there to see how much his hard work was contributing to this community. Kev was tickled pink when he read this week’s Hanrahan Chatter.’

‘Josh worked on the hall? I thought it had electrical problems.’

‘Sure, but the wiring was in the ceiling cavity, and half of the old plaster had to come out, and Josh helped with the rebuild. Crikey,’ Marigold added, waving a spatula in front of her face like it was a fan, ‘that boy is good with his hands.’

Marigold’s words played over in her head as the éclairs puffed in the oven, as she cooled them and packaged them, cleaned her mix-master, countertops, sinks. Josh had worked his butt off to get the hall ready for her aunt’s funeral and what had she done? Instead of thanking him, she’d driven him off with bitterness and lies.

Alone and lonely walk the same path.

But what other choice did she have? She was in a mess, and dragging people into that mess was not fair on them, especially when they were as lovely as the people who had befriended her here.

She thought of the world she’d found here in Hanrahan. Graeme, slipping her bottles of wine and foolish notes. Poppy, naming her tarts; the regulars who breezed in and asked how her day was going, offered her their condolences about her aunt, gave her tips on which Cooma market stall sold the freshest herbs … Kev, tending the rose bushes he’d planted by her aunt’s grave.

She didn’t want to leave, she thought, as she swiped disinfectant across her workbench. And if she was forced to by the courts, she knew this was where she wanted to come home to when she was free.

She didn’t want to be alone.

Marigold’s words played across her mind, and she ducked out to the alley to where she’d binned the old newspapers earlier. Yes, there it was. She pulled out the Snowy River Star issues and rifled through them until she found this week’s Chatter. What had Kev been so chuffed to read?

GOLD RUSH GLORY RESTORED BY LOCAL TRADIEVET by Maureen Plover

Hanrahan’s history has been given a makeover these last few weeks with a ceiling restoration project in the community hall. Local Kev Jones did the research using the Historical Society archives, and hometown vet Josh Cody strapped on his toolbelt to restore the ceiling to its former glory…

How amazing! She’d barely noticed the interior of the hall at the funeral, but she’d have to go back, especially—

‘Oh good,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘The chatterbox of the Australian Alps has gone. You can get outta here now, boss. You look beat.’

‘Graeme, hey. I’m just packing up.’ She folded the paper and took it back into the kitchen so she could read it later in full.

‘I can do that, Vera. You head on home and let me lock up.’

Now was the perfect time; foolish to waste it. She took a breath. ‘You got a minute?’

‘For you? Plenty of minutes. What’s up?’

It was her lucky day when Graeme Sharpe answered her advertisement for a café manager. ‘We have any wine out front?’

Graeme grinned. ‘There might be a busty little pinot noir rosé hiding behind the organic juice. Otago region of New Zealand. So smooth on the palate, you’d think Aphrodite herself peeled the grapes.’

‘Are you interested in Aphrodite, then?’

‘Good point. Let’s make it Thor, the Byron Bay version, because … damn.’

‘I’ll get the glasses.’

‘And find cheese. Something sharp. And give me a second to text Alex so he doesn’t think I’ve driven into a ditch on the way home.’

Cheese and wine glasses. If only every chore she needed to do in the limited time she had left would be so easy. She set a tray of nibbles on the honeymoon table in the front window and waited for Graeme to finish his call. The closed sign was squarely set mid-door, the oven was cooling, tomorrow’s baking prep was ahead of schedule.

The day was done. Sort of.

‘So spill, honey.’

Vera cut a wedge of brie and laid it on a cracker, pressed dried cranberries into the soft cheese. ‘Try this.’

‘Procrastination hors d’oeuvres? Don’t mind if I do.’ Graeme tossed the cracker into his mouth, chewed, then took a reverent sip of his rosé. ‘Delicious. We should start a YouTube channel for the ultimate cheese and wine pairings.’

She clinked her glass to his. ‘A business idea for another day. But actually, business is what I wanted to speak to you about.’

‘Okay.’

‘Marigold tells me everyone in town knows about my court case. Do you?’

Graeme reached over and took her hand. ‘A little gossip isn’t the same as knowing. Why don’t you tell me properly? You’ll get no judgement from me, Vera.’

She rubbed her face. ‘Thank you. I mean that. It is true, I’ve had charges laid against me. I’d hoped the preliminary hearing would be enough to get them thrown out, but I was wrong. Unless a miracle happens and the courthouse in Queanbeyan is struck by a meteorite, I’ll be going to trial soon.’

‘What are the chances of winning?’

‘According to my lawyer? A hundred and twenty per cent, but she’s an operator, and she’s probably done some ballsy marketing course that says optimistic clients pay their legal fees faster.’

‘And if you lose at trial?’

‘If I lose … best case scenario is community service. Worst case? Five years behind bars.’

‘Hell, Vera. What exactly did you do?’

‘I was worried my aunt was being neglected, so I hid a camera in the bookcase of her room at her aged care facility.’

Graeme’s eyebrows nearly rose out of sight over his bald head. ‘That … does sound kind of illegal.’

She choked on a mouthful of brie. ‘Well, yes, it was impulsive and I didn’t think it through. But as to the legality or not, it depends. I put the camera in because I wanted to know how often Jill was being checked in on. The Acacia View, of course, saw it as a gross invasion of the privacy of their nursing staff. I can see their point … but I can also see my point.’

‘I’m sorry, Vera. You must have been to hell and back.’

‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘It sure feels that way. So, worst case scenario—I’ve had a plan. It’s about as ready as a half-baked loaf, but here goes. How would you like to become a partner in The Billy Button Café?’

Graeme sat back in his chair. ‘An owner?’

‘Yep. When we’re both working, we split the profits fifty-fifty. If I’m not here, the profits are all yours. I can help with menus, recipes from prison, I guess. I could probably still do the books if they let me take my laptop.’

‘Wow. That’s a lot to take in. It’s also super crazy considering you’re the one with the bank loan for the café fit-out. Loan repayments first, then the remaining profit is split between us based on hours worked. If I say yes.’

‘Oh, Graeme, does that mean you’ll think about it? These few months since the café opened … my cooking has only been part of the reason we’ve been turning such a handsome profit. It’s you, too. Your coffee, sure. But you’re the drawcard. You get people. You’re warm. People come here to get a little lift in their day and you give them that.’

‘Aw, shucks.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t pull that humble routine with me, Graeme Sharpe.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I know. People love me. It’s a gift.’

‘So what do you say? Does your gift want a little more input into how this café is going to go in the future?’

‘I’ll need to think about this, Vera. Talk it over with Alex.’

‘I know. I’ll send you the financials since we opened. The lease is a liability you need to consider. Maybe get a finance person to advise you.’

Graeme was leaning back in his chair, surveying the dimly lit interior of the café. The Billy Button had evolved over the months they’d run it together; the newness of the furniture had mellowed, her ferns in their brass pots had grown leggy and lush, the painting of the high country she’d bought from the Cooma markets echoed the splendour of the view through the old windows.

‘I have had some ideas,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘I bet you have. Like what?’

‘Like … a much bigger wine list. Big enough to support a wine bar in the back room on a Friday and Saturday night. Maybe Sunday afternoons, too, with a little live jazz set up in the window bay. In winter, with the fire going, we explore the reds. Cabernets from Margaret River. Shiraz from the Barossa. Grapes, mulled wine, pot roasts with dumplings and duck-fat potatoes.’

‘Oh, just excuse me while I mop up my drool. Fabulous idea,’ she grinned. ‘This is why we make a great team, Graeme. You’ve got vision and people skills, and I’ve got a lot of angst that enjoys being thrashed out in a kitchen under a rolling pin.’

‘I’ll think it over. Although, worst case scenario, hon … finding a cook to replace you won’t be easy.’

Vera looked up. ‘Flatterer.’

‘And it’ll eat into my share of the profits.’

She choked on her sip. ‘Okay, also true. But I’m saving that particular worry for later.’

Graeme’s warm hand rested on hers. ‘I have a good feeling about the future, Vera. Mine and yours.’

She smiled. ‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Come on. Let’s lock up together. Want me to drive you home?’

‘I drove today. My car’s out back in the alley.’

‘I’ll walk you there, then.’