The Vet from Snowy River by Stella Quinn

CHAPTER

5

‘Hot vet alert.’

Vera was running a wire cutter through a plum and crème anglaise tart when Graeme sauntered behind her.

‘Second visit today. But is it for the cakes or the cake baker?’ he murmured.

She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know her café manager was waggling his eyebrows and doing a little shoulder shimmy. Graeme had missed his calling as a comedian; she’d laughed more this week since they’d opened the doors of The Billy Button Café than she had in months.

‘He’s all yours,’ she said.

‘Not this one, lovely. Had his eyes on you like gum on a shoe this morning.’

Her thumb slipped into the hazelnut crumb, and her eyes shot to the footpath they could see through the café windows. Surely not. Besides, it would be a dark day in hell before she’d be getting involved with a man again. A betrayed, bitter woman with a café business to build up and a prison sentence to face down did not chat up customers.

Not after the last disaster.

Graeme wasn’t wrong about the hot factor, however … even a people-challenged, down-on-her-luck café owner could see that. The man entering her café for the second time that day was hotter than her new six-burner commercial stovetop.

The vet was tanned and outdoorsy looking, as though he spent his weekends logging timber with his bare hands, or rock-climbing the famous escarpment on Old Regret. His tan didn’t go at all with his close-cropped hair, though. The trim style made her think of the big-city lawyers who’d spent the last year screwing her out of virtually every dollar she’d saved, and most of her dignity.

‘I’m the kitchen person; you’re the people person, Graeme. That’s why we make an awesome team. I’d rather peel potatoes than do the meet and greets.’

‘Vera. If you want The Billy Button to be a success, you’re going to have to play nice every now and then.’

Graeme was right, damn it. She lived in Hanrahan now, and this wasn’t the outskirts of Canberra, where residents and tourists outnumbered coffee shops a zillion to one. Her café would need regulars to thrive during the off-season, which meant she needed to stop hiding behind her pots and pans and engage with people. Gritting her teeth, she kept her place behind the counter. She could do this.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She worked up a smile and hoped it looked genuine. ‘Hi. I’m Vera. Would you like a table?’

‘No, thanks.’ He grinned, and she felt a little dizzy by the onslaught of all that handsome smileyness being directed straight at her. He was older than she’d first thought. Friendly eyes the colour of chocolate sauce, lashes the same hazelnut blond as his hair.

‘I’m Josh Cody, from the vet clinic across the park.’ He held his hand out over the counter.

She hesitated. She’d have thought nothing of shaking hands with strangers back when she worked at the newspaper. Executives, stay-at-home parents, small-business owners, sporting celebrities—she’d have shaken their hands, grilled them within an inch of their lives about whatever story she was pursuing, and marched on back to her desk to bash out an article without batting an eyelid.

But that was before.

She huffed out a breath, annoyed with herself. She was overthinking this. She reached out and gripped his hand, then gave it a firm shake. Definitely spent his weekends hefting man tools, she thought. His hand was warm, strong, steady. Like a stone hearth in a homey country cottage.

Her skin clung to his as she drew away, and she realised too late her fingers were covered in powdered sugar and hazelnuts. She really should have stayed in the kitchen. ‘Sorry. Sticky fingers … it’s an occupational hazard.’

He smiled, and her heart did that pit-a-pat thing she’d read about in novels.

‘No problem.’ He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a few sheets of paper. ‘We’ve a lost dog at the clinic. I wondered if we could post a flyer in your window?’

She smoothed the paper out on the counter. A photo of a dog, contact information and phone numbers, and—shouting out loud and clear from the bottom of the flyer—the words Cody and Cody Vet Clinic. Oh, a husband-and-wife team, which was just as well … she had no time to be having hot thoughts about Snowy Mountain vets.

Pull yourself together, Vera, she chided herself. She was exhausted, what with running out of coffee beans on opening day, and having the grease trap in the kitchen blow a fuse, and baking late into the night all week. The drama of the café’s first week in business was clearly playing amuck with her brain function. She’d sold everything she owned and ditched Queanbeyan to work hard, find a new solitary life, and a place of peace and tranquillity for her aunt.

A clean slate.

Sizing up random married guys over cake crumbs and coffee grinds was an absolute no-no.

Taking a breath, she gave him the best customer relations smile she could muster. ‘Sure. I’ll put this straight up.’

‘Appreciate it.’

She pulled some sticky tape out of the cubbyhole beneath the till, and made to walk around the counter, thinking he’d leave, but he perched on a stool and fixed his eyes on hers.

‘How are you settling in?’

‘Er …’ She tried to think of a response. It had been so long since she’d engaged in small talk, she almost blurted out the truth: she was anxious, she wasn’t sleeping, she had to check her bank balance before every five-dollar purchase to make sure she didn’t go into the red. ‘So far so good,’ she managed. ‘This late September weather is a little chillier than I’m used to.’

‘Yeah? Where did you move from?’

She swallowed, and wondered if she should edge past him towards the front window to bring this conversation to an end. The less anyone knew about where she was from, the better. ‘The coast,’ she said, waving her hand towards the front door as though that was an adequate answer.

‘I just moved back myself.’

Yep, she was going to make a break for it to the window. She waggled the flyer in the air. ‘That dog’s owner could walk past any minute now. I’d better, um—’

His eyes crinkled in a way which ought to be banned for married guys, because now she was so flustered she’d dropped the sticky tape. She reached down for it but the chatty vet beat her to it. He dropped it into her hand, and she scooted past him to the window before he noticed the colour she could feel heating her cheeks.

He stopped in the café doorway as he headed back out into the sunlight. ‘Welcome to Hanrahan, Vera. I’ll see you around.’

‘Sure,’ she lied brightly, mindful of Graeme’s instruction to play nice, while making a mental note to keep a wide distance between her and all the distracting vets in the district. ‘See you.’

Vera successfully resisted the urge to watch Josh Cody disappear up Paterson Street.

‘You see?’ she said to the cloth she’d pulled out of her apron to polish the pane of glass beside the front door. ‘This is how you stick to your goals. Discipline, hard work and averted eyes.’

She pushed the vet out of her thoughts as she fussed about with the flyer, wondering what the optimum height was so as to not interrupt her customers’ view out. A noticeboard would be better for community flyers—something timber and ornate, maybe in the alcove on the side wall by the fireplace—with a bookshelf below it. A fern in a copper pot above the books would match the copper light fittings, and perhaps she could source some vintage photos of the historical buildings lining Hanrahan’s pretty park … create a fireside nook to encourage customers to linger.

The local school could pin up its fete notices, and maybe there was an amateur dramatic society who put on plays, sang Christmas carols in December, that sort of thing? The ski season on the upper slopes had come to an early end with the snowmelt a few weeks ago, but there’d be more events on the town’s calendar. If she was still a free woman at the end of October, Halloween would be fun.

Pumpkin scones, she thought, as she taped the vet’s flyer to the glass, would lure the Queensland tourists inside. Was that straight? She eyeballed the square edge against the windowsill. Nope. She peeled off the tape, adjusted the paper, tried again. The local kids might enjoy cupcakes decorated as little monsters, perhaps some olive and egg spiders.

She caught herself smiling at the thought of whipping up a batch of mulled wine, with dry ice and scary ping-pong eyeballs floating about in it. Maybe this café caper really was beginning to soothe her ragged nerves.

She jumped as a face popped up on the other side of the window and eyeballs, real ones, smiled at her from beneath an old-fashioned cloth cap.

‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered. Beside the elderly man towered a handsome woman wearing the largest and pinkest and dangliest—was that a word?—earrings she’d ever seen.

‘Incoming customers, Graeme,’ she called over her shoulder as she tucked the sticky tape into her apron pocket and made her way to the doorway. ‘Look welcoming.’ Like he had to be told. She plastered her happy café-owner face on and took a breath.

‘Hello,’ she said to the pair.

‘You must be Vera. Let’s take a look at you,’ said the woman, reaching out and taking both of her hands. ‘Isn’t she a peach, Kev?’

‘Ah, hello. Yes, I’m Vera. Welcome to The Billy Button Café.’

‘Marigold Jones. I expect you’ve heard of me.’

The woman disconcerted her by batting eyelashes which might have been fake. It was hard to tell, what with all the green eyeshadow and the arthouse earrings and the acres and acres and acres of flowing leopard-print frock. The name did sound familiar though. Where on earth could she hav—

‘Call me Marigold. We are going to be such friends, Vera. I knew it as soon as I saw your lovely sign. Wildflowers are my favourites, especially yellow billy buttons and pink triggers. You, my love, have taste. This is my husband, Kev.’

‘Pleased to meet you. Are you … er … needing a table?’

The steamroller’s attention had been claimed by the interior of the café, and she swooped from table to table, inspecting the cut-glass vases, pinching the white linen tablecloths, for all the world as though she was at an estate sale and wondering what to buy.

‘I’ll be taking a seat, Vera,’ said Kev. ‘Where do you want me?’

The café was empty, the last lunch-goers having left their empty plates and generous tips behind just moments ago. ‘Take your pick, sir.’

‘Now don’t go calling me sir, you’ll have Marigold thinking I’m getting old. Kev will do fine. Don’t mind my wife, she’s as nosy as she is good-hearted, and when she’s finished deciding which of those fine-looking desserts she’s going to let me buy her, she’ll be right over.’

‘Vera, my dear,’ called his wife, ‘what are you doing with this other room through the archway?’

Vera hurried from Kev’s side, bemused. Small-town living took some getting used to, that was for sure. ‘I haven’t decided. The big table was already there when I took over the lease, but the area is a bit dark, even with the fresh paint. Maybe a private dining room eventually for groups of twelve or so? I thought I’d settle in to coffee and cake, breakfast and lunch, until I get a feel for how many people in Hanrahan are dropping in. Start simple, maybe build up a little when I know what I’m doing.’

‘That’s a good plan.’

‘Thank you, I—’

‘But it’s not a great one. Now, you go and cut me and my Kev a slice of that fancy cake—the one with the layers and the toasted coconut—and bring us over a cuppa. I’ve got a new plan for you, and mine is a great one.’

Vera headed over to the counter and found pretty plates, a teapot. What was it about this town? ‘Look out,’ she muttered to Graeme. ‘This new customer’s even bossier than you.’

‘Hush your mouth. That can’t be true.’ He looked over her shoulder and grinned. ‘Ah, yes. I see you’ve met our prophet. Excellent.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Marigold Jones. She was the one who told me I should apply for the job here. She’s got the personality of a wind turbine, but she’s a gem, Vera.’

‘She’s certainly talkative. I can see why you didn’t say no when she suggested you get a job; you wouldn’t have had a chance to.’

‘Coffee? Tea? Milkshake? What’s their poison today? I can make it for you while you get acquainted.’

She gave him a quelling look, which he waved away. ‘Tea, Graeme, thank you. Two teacups. And would you mind making me an espresso? Something tells me I’m going to need it. Marigold’s invited me to take afternoon tea with them … and when I say invited, it was more like a commandment from the First Testament. She says she has a plan.’

‘Go you, girl,’ said Graeme, tamping down a dose of ground arabica beans, then sliding the portafilter into the machine. ‘Mingling with the locals. You’ll get the hang of this café business yet.’

‘Mmm,’ she muttered, and slid two slices of hummingbird cake onto the gold-rimmed plates. She debated for a mini-moment then shrugged. What were a few hundred calories here or there anyway? She cut a third slice, set them all out neatly on a tray. Worrying about her waistline was way, way down on her current list of worries.

‘You’ll have to let me know what you think of the cake,’ she said, as she set the tray down on the table in the inner room where Marigold had settled herself like a CEO at a board table. ‘It’s my aunt’s recipe.’

‘Your aunt?’ said Marigold. ‘Now this is just the sort of detail I like to know about my new friends. Tell me more.’

Vera could feel frown lines dragging her eyebrows together and cast about for a way to deflect this line of questioning. She had no interest in filling in her life details for some random woman.

‘Er …’ Poop. Where was a change of topic when she needed one?

Kev stepped in. ‘Mags, my love, eat your cake and stop being nosy.’

She threw him a smile and relented. She could share a little, couldn’t she, without the sky falling down? ‘My aunt was quite a cook in her day, but she’s elderly, and doesn’t bake anymore. Using her recipes is a way for me to connect with her.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Marigold, from around a mouthful of cake and cream. ‘This is wonderful.’

Vera felt her throat backing up and took a scalding sip of the espresso Graeme had slipped in front of her. ‘You may know the aged care home she’s just moved into,’ she said when she could trust her voice. ‘Connolly House, on the outskirts of Cooma.’

‘A hospice.’ Marigold reached across the table. ‘My dear, I’m sorry. It’s a lovely home for the terminally ill. Kev and I pop out there quite frequently, don’t we?’

Kev gave her a wink. ‘Mags is sizing me up for a room, I expect.’

Vera choked on a mouthful of toasted coconut shreds.

‘Now look what you’ve done, Kev.’ Marigold passed her a glass of water. ‘Have a sip of that while we tell you our plan.’

‘Hold your horses, love. Let her finish her cake.’

Vera took stock of her two eccentric guests. Kev was clearly older by a good margin; his skin had creased into leather the shade of aged pine floorboards. Close-cut grey hair curled tightly beneath his dark green corduroy cap. The clothes he wore hadn’t been in fashion for thirty years—a wide-legged brown suit, a cream shirt ironed to perfection, a tie that a seventies hippy would have been proud to wear to a revolution.

Marigold was only slightly less dramatic looking when seated. Her massive updo had streaks of grey through it, but the streaks were theatrical, as though an artist had painted them in with a flourish. Vera couldn’t remember meeting a woman oozing more personality than Marigold Jones.

‘So,’ she said. ‘What’s this grand plan?’

Kev puffed his chest out. ‘It was my idea.’

She smiled. ‘Okay, and it involves …?’

Marigold reached across to his plate and spooned up the last inch of his cake. ‘It’s true. Kev pretends he’s the quiet one, but there’s a lot of action going on beneath that old cap.’

For a second Vera wished she was a teenager again, so she could roll her eyes. ‘And yet, here I sit, still clueless.’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Marigold.

‘Give her the short version,’ said Kev. ‘Girl’s got a business to run.’

His wife nodded. ‘You’re right. Okay, here’s the thing. Kev and I are on the committee of the Hanrahan and District Community Association. We have a hall down at the southern end of the Esplanade; it’s one of the oldest buildings in town and dates back to 1870. It’s in the parkland beside the historic town cemetery, and council leases the building to us on the condition we keep it restored. The community hall was the courthouse back when this district was a gold rush town, and we’ve all put in a lot of work refurbishing it back to its glory days. The cemetery, too … it has some treasures we look after: notable headstones, a few pioneers, even a woman who legend says was hanged for bushranging.’

Kev cleared his throat. ‘Even more exciting than the bushranger … there’s the roses.’

His wife patted his hand. ‘Yes, Kev does the roses. Problem with historic buildings, though, is they don’t keep pace with change. We’ve just had to close the hall to functions while we get some emergency repair work done. Turned the lights on yesterday and you’d have thought Lucifer himself was tap dancing in the wiring.’

Kev nodded. ‘Sparked like diesel chucked into a bonfire.’

‘The electrician says we can’t use it until we’ve had the ceiling down and the lights rewired.’

Vera nodded. ‘Okay. You can’t use your hall.’

‘Mrs Juggins is the problem.’

She pursed her lips. She should so have let Graeme handle this. ‘Mrs who?’

‘Hold your horses, Marigold. The girl’s not a local; she doesn’t know about the Jugginses.’

The woman gave her husband’s hand a pat.

‘Mrs Juggins is tucked up in her coffin at the funeral home waiting for us to send her off. She was one of ours, a community hall regular who ran our craft stall for, golly, I don’t know how long. Ever since I sold up the florist shop, and that’s been a goodly number of years now.’

‘Umpteen, shouldn’t wonder,’ said Kev.

‘Is umpteen a number, love?’

Kev scratched his head. ‘More than ten, at any rate.’

Vera coughed, just gently, and forced herself not to look at her watch. The lamb shanks in her kitchen crockpot must be calling her name by now, begging to be rescued. ‘Mrs Juggins in her coffin,’ she prompted.

‘Funeral’s next week to allow for her daughter to get back here from London,’ said Marigold. ‘Thursday, half past ten. The tea-and-cake afters should have been in our hall an hour later, but the wiring’s thrown a spanner in that idea. We need a venue that can cater a function after the funeral. And all the functions coming up until our hall gets the devil stripped out of its wiring. Your back room is perfect. We move the table to the side and set up a buffet, bring a couple of chairs in for the folks who aren’t so steady on their pins, the rest can stand. We’ll fit thirty in here at a pinch.’

Vera nodded. Next Thursday gave her a chance to set up a menu, think through her supplies of milk and tea and heaven knew what else. And what an opportunity to bring some locals in to sample what The Billy Button Café had to offer! ‘I might need to borrow some of your hall’s cups and saucers—I’d struggle to keep thirty sets clean and have customers in the main room being served too.’

Kev gave a satisfied humph. ‘Knew this was a great idea.’

‘Now then, Kev. Save your bragging for when you’ve brought a load of crockery over here in the ute. Maybe the big urn, too. Some of our regulars can drink tea like it’s bingo juice.’

Vera needed a pen, paper, maybe a spreadsheet. She’d need to bring forward her plan to secure a waitperson, too. Perhaps a teenager? ‘Chicken ribbon sandwiches. Mini lamingtons, mini quiches, perhaps a fruit cake and a gluten-free slice. That sort of thing?’

‘Perfect. And don’t you be thinking we’ll be skimping on payment. A hardworking girl with a business to run needs cash as well as the next person. Kev can go rustle up some crockery while you and I crunch numbers.’

Vera smiled. ‘Marigold, I’m beginning to see why Graeme was so happy to see you drop in today. You were right. My plan was good, but your plan is way, way better.’