Chapter Eight
At five-thirty in the morning while Dan was sitting at the table scrutinizing farm records, Herman, dressed for farm work, walked into the kitchen and grunted hello. Then his father opened the back door, hauled on work boots and disappeared into the dawn, whistling for the dogs.
“Great,” Dan said to his ledger. “Just bloody great.” Getting up, he closed the door. Blue crawled out from under the kitchen table, where he’d been warming Dan’s feet, and looked up at him with plaintive eyes, ears cocked.
Dan sighed. “Et tu, Brute?”
Blue whined. “Fine.” Dan opened the door. “As long as you can square it with your conscience.” Without a backward glance, the old dog tore off after Herman’s receding form. Dan cursed. He could just see how this was going to play out. A brooding Herman killing himself with young man’s work while Mum sat by the phone in her town house waiting for a call his pig-headed father was too proud to make.
“Like hell.” Dragging on his own work boots, Dan followed his father to the lit barn where he found him loading feed sacks on the tray of the ATV. “Go see Mum and sort this out. You know she didn’t mean it.” After her demand for a divorce last night, Pat had thrown them out. Herman headed for the whiskey bottle as soon as they’d returned to the farmhouse.
His big mouth had caused enough trouble for one night, so Dan had made up the single mattress in the spare room for his father and slunk off to his new bed where he was so desperate for distraction from his compounding troubles that he’d read Contented Dementia… It was surprisingly good.
Herman threw some rope over the sacks to tie them in place. “Maybe I want her to mean it.”
Dan stopped fondling Blue’s ear. “What?”
“Maybe I’m tired of being the bad guy.” Herman jerked the rope tight. “Tired of everything that’s wrong with our marriage being my fault.” Another loop, another jerk. “She says she needs to be needed…complains that I don’t share my feelings.” Herman tied a knot that only a knife would sever. “Would you show your underbelly to someone who holds you accountable for everything that goes wrong in her life?”
“But you love her, Dad.” Mum might not see it but her son did.
“And what’s it worth? Niks.” His father always defaulted to Dutch words when he was upset. “Everything we’ve built together over thirty-five years—a farm, a family—none of that means anything compared to the life Pat could have had if she hadn’t married me. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone to give that woman everything she missed out on, and none of it matters. Whether we’re in Tuscany or Timbuktu, I’m never going to be enough for her.”
“Dad,” Dan said softly.
“Nee, son.” His father’s voice was thick with pain and bitterness. “If your mother wants to lose the deadweight holding her back, let her, eh?”
He started up the ATV’s engine, forestalling further argument, gestured the dogs on the tray and sped off.
Dan packed up his pruning tools and chainsaw and drove to the Swann house. He’d make a start on the hedge with hand clippers until the household woke up because he sure as hell couldn’t stay around here watching Herman suffer.
He hadn’t expected anyone up at six, but he met Rosemary at the front gate, on the verge of going for a walk. “Daniel, what a nice surprise.”
“We arranged it yesterday.”
She looked at him blankly. Dan recalled the book he’d read last night and tried again. “I thought I’d trim the hedge for you.”
“Oh, good, it’s been annoying me. Come in.” Chatting about the garden, she led the way into the house.
Except for that initial forgetfulness, she seemed her old self today with none of the confusion that characterized her yesterday. And nothing about her appearance was out of the ordinary. She wore pants, a neat blouse and a fleecy gray cardigan.
Inside, she surprised him by patting his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Daniel. I never worry about Jo when she’s with you.” Dan swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. He believed he was doing the right thing with this wedding but encouragement was in short supply. Yet this woman had always given it to him.
“Great handshake, Daniel,” she’d approved when Jo first brought her five-year-old classmate home. “Firm. And you look me in the eye. Excellent. You can always tell the quality of a man by his handshake, his posture and his shoes.”
Dan had squirmed in embarrassment as Rosemary’s gaze dropped to his bare feet. “Except in this hot weather,” she’d added smoothly, then kicked off her elegant pumps and wandered around for the rest of his visit in stocking feet. He’d adored her ever since.
Entering the kitchen, he saw the counter was covered with glass jars of all shapes and sizes. Over the dining chair hung an apron he remembered fondly from his childhood—hand-painted with bunches of red cherries.
“You’re making jam today?”
“Yes, raspberry.” Rosemary fumbled to put her apron on. “Let’s go and pick some right now.”
Except it was late autumn, not summer. As he tied the apron strings for her, Dan thought carefully. “I saw a lot of mandarins on the tree out front. I’d hoped you were making marmalade.”
“You always did love my marmalade, didn’t you? Well, if the mandarins are ready.” Handing him a bucket, she led the way outside again, across the damp grass.
“I was a land girl in the war,” she said as they started picking. “My job was to grow crops to feed our boys.” She looked at him through the mandarin tree, her blue-gray eyes bright as a bird’s through the dark green.
Dan smiled at her. “Yes, I know.”
“Tell me, Daniel, are you still intending to join the army?”
And because it was Nan who’d known him since he was five and she wouldn’t remember this conversation he said, “I don’t think I’d make a good soldier anymore.”
“My younger brother Georgie wanted to be a soldier.” The fruit landed in the bucket with a soft thud. “He spent most of the war fretting that he’d miss the fun. He enlisted on his eighteenth birthday…January 5, 1945.”
“That’s when you want to join a war,” Dan commented, “close to winning it.”
Rosemary chuckled. She was picking carelessly, tearing the fruit off stems and leaving behind tufts of exposed inner rind, torn fragments of veined white. “Georgie loathed fruit and vegetables,” she said. “He’d only eat potato. When I was chipping away at the frozen earth to plant the bloody things in Somerset I’d tell myself he needed them in Normandy.”
She cupped a mandarin in her hand, as though trying to warm herself with it. “At least it was summer when he died. The soil would have turned more easily when they buried him.” Nan dropped the mandarin on the grass. “You have to keep planting,” she said, her voice as rusty as an old wheelbarrow, “you have to bring life back from the earth.”
He caught her hands. “I’d like to grow fruit trees,” he said, “but I’m not sure which fruit makes the best jam. I could really do with some advice.”
He could almost see her coming back, her face breaking into a smile of relief as she recognized him. “Well,” she said happily, “you’ve come to the right person. You can make good jam out of any fruit if you know the secret.”
“Secret?” Picking up the bucket, Dan led her toward the house. His heart ached for Georgie, for Steve and Lee, for all the men who died in foreign lands.
“Methylated spirit…” Her eyes sparkled. “You use it to test for pectin. Take one spoon of boiling juice from the pan, then add three spoonfuls of meths when it’s cool. If a large clot forms, then your jam will set well.” They entered the kitchen. “You can put the mandarins in the pantry.”
He hadn’t been in the pantry since he was a kid. Dan found himself looking on the second shelf for the biscuit tin, caught himself and smiled.
“Is that Polly you’re talking to?” he heard Jo say. “Pol, don’t laugh but I tried Nan’s wedding dress on last night and wouldn’t you know it, the zip got stuck.”
Intrigued, Dan walked out of the pantry. His bride stood facing the sink, getting a glass of water, her short curls a riotous tumble and wearing a beautiful, if crumpled, gown.
“Isn’t this bad luck before the wedding?”
Jo gasped and spun around. “You’re early.”
“You know what they say about the early bird.” His appreciative gaze traveled down the dress and up again to Jo’s blushing face. “Wow.”
“Don’t read anything into this,” she warned.
“Actions speak louder than words.” He remembered this feeling—optimism.
“Nan asked me to try it on and—”
“I did no such thing, young lady.” Tutting, Rosemary started smoothing out the wrinkles. “Good heavens, it looks like you slept in it.”
Jo’s blush deepened. “And then I couldn’t get it off.”
Dan smiled. “I’ll help you take it off.”
She frowned at him as Rosemary tugged at the zip.
“What on earth have you done here?” she scolded. “The chiffon’s caught.”
Or maybe he’d leave it on, slide his hands down the silky fabric covering her delightful butt, then lift that pretty skirt…. “Would you like me to try?” Dan suggested meekly.
“No!”
“Good idea.” Rosemary propelled her reluctant granddaughter closer.
Jo turned her back on him. “I mean it,” she muttered. “This has absolutely no connection with us.” The blush even tinted her neck. He wanted to bite it.
“Uh-huh.”
The dress smelled of lavender, the silk felt blood-warm. The back cut away to a modest V but he still had to fight the impulse to lean forward and lick the smooth skin it exposed. Dan took his time freeing her. This was the longest he’d been this close to her since his return and he made the most of it. Jo squirmed under his caressing fingers.
“Don’t fidget,” said Rosemary, hovering anxiously. “You’ll tear it.”
“Listen to your grandmother,” said Dan, enjoying himself immensely. Rosemary nodded her approval.
“You know, I sewed every bead on by hand. Hours and hours it took. I’ll never forget Graham’s face when he saw me.” In Nan’s face, Dan caught a glimpse of the young bride she’d once been. Jo nodded but tensed. How many times, he wondered, had she heard this story? He lifted his hands to her shoulders in silent support, all teasing gone.
Rosemary was still talking. “His family never thought I was good enough but we were a great team. You two make a great team, too. I’ve always thought so.”
Jo moved away from his hold. “Nan, we’re not getting married.”
“And when she’s with you, Daniel, I never worry. Now…what was I…?” Her voice trailed off; her attention turned inward. Her hands fluttered around her apron as though searching for a hold; she looked down at the cherries printed on it and her face cleared. “I’m making jam today.”
“The mandarins for the marmalade are in the pantry,” he reminded her.
“Excellent.” Rosemary bustled into the larder. Dan returned to untangling Jo’s zip.
“She was up in the night and wouldn’t settle until I tried it on,” said his bride defensively. “I haven’t changed my mind about marrying you.”
“You know what I think?”
“I know I’m not going to like it.”
He freed the last of the delicate fabric and pulled the zipper down slowly. “Your subconscious is on my side.” He brushed his lips along the bumps in her spine.
Jo jumped and tried to tug away. “No, it’s not.”
Holding the opened zip, Dan smiled at the goose bumps his kiss had raised. “And so is your body.” She bowed her head. “Jo?”
Rosemary staggered out of the pantry with the bucket of citrus. Releasing the dress, Dan went to help. “Daniel, how nice of you to visit,” she exclaimed. “You knew I was making your favorite marmalade, didn’t you?”
“I could never sneak anything past you, could I?” Taking the bucket, Dan turned to Jo.
She was gone.
* * *
Jo stood at her bedroom window, watching Dan wield a chainsaw, slicing through the tangled hedge like it was a pat of soft butter. Why couldn’t he simply accept her refusal? Why did he have to persist with this ridiculous wedding deadline? She didn’t want to humiliate him.
When she’d finally fallen asleep she’d dreamed of him standing in the church, waiting for her, his expression drawn and anxious. The congregation’s whispers becoming titters, then laughs until everyone howled. She’d woken up crying.
In a stupid wedding dress.
With a sigh, Jo returned it to storage, repacking it in tissue and laying the stalks of dried lavender through the folds to protect it. It was a battle of nerves and she had to win for the sake of a friendship neither of them could afford to lose.
She glanced out the window again, this time at her grandmother, sitting in an armchair in the glass conservatory adjoining the kitchen where she was “supervising the work.” Rosemary had dozed off—God knows how with that racket—but she was sleeping so little at night now. Picking up a blanket, Jo went downstairs and laid it gently over her knees. Nan didn’t stir. In repose she looked like she always had.
Polly poked her head in and Jo raised a finger to her lips. Closing the door gently behind her, Jo returned to the kitchen.
“Tea?” suggested Polly.
“Coffee please.” Jo yawned. Lately she existed on the stuff.
While Polly set up the coffeemaker, Jo eyed the bucket of mandarins, then with a shrug found a couple of bowls and started slicing them.
The chainsaw stopped. Glancing through the kitchen window, she saw Dan taking an armful of clippings to the compost heap behind the shed. He’d taken off his jacket and his damp navy T-shirt clung to the muscles of his back. She remembered the touch of his lips on her neck and shivered.
“How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?” Polly found clean cups in the dishwasher. The smell of fragrant coffee mingled pleasantly with sharp-sweet citrus.
“He’ll give up eventually.”
“I’m not talking about Dan,” said Polly, “I’m talking about Rosemary. How many nights this week has she been up?”
Jo scraped a sliced mandarin into a bowl, then reached for another. “I’m coping.”
“Are you?” Polly picked up her hand holding the knife. She was trembling with exhaustion. “How many, Jo?”
She pulled her hand free. “A few,” she admitted and concentrated on slicing.
Polly folded her arms, her expression set to charge nurse. “We talked about this.”
“Let’s see how next week goes.” Her slices were getting thicker and thicker. “It could be a passing phase.”
“You made a commitment,” Polly said quietly.
The mandarin fell open; Jo gouged out the pips. “Look, I haven’t got the energy to discuss this now.” No, don’t reinforce Polly’s argument. “I mean, I’m too busy with the Chronicle.” She and Kev were spending hours analyzing CommLink’s annual reports and crosschecking profit forecasts with actual performance. Trying to work out whether CommLink was bluffing by a process of deduction. Because thanks to Dan, Kev no longer trusted Jo’s instincts. She’d begun to question them herself.
“You promised me,” repeated Polly. “And more importantly, you promised Rosemary.”
Something inside Jo snapped. She threw down the knife. “If you haven’t got the guts to see this through, Pol, then quit! I can do this alone.”
“Ha,” the nurse retorted. “You’re so damn tired you’re delusional!”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Jo gripped the table edge. “You know I don’t mean it. You’re the best thing that happened to both of us.”
“Then listen to my advice. You can’t continue like—”
“What’s going on?” Dan said casually. Neither of them had heard the back door open. Stopping beside Jo, he glanced from one woman to the other. “I could hear you arguing from the garden.”
Jo sent Polly a warning look. “We’re discussing the best way to make marmalade.”
The older woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jo, but I need reinforcements.” She faced Dan. “When Rosemary was first diagnosed she chose a residential facility and had herself put on a waiting list for a place there when she needed full-time care.”
“Polly, stop.” Jo tried to sound calm and authoritative but her heart hammered against her ribs.
“When the time came, Jo increased my hours instead,” said the nurse. “I only found out when Pinehill phoned last month to see how things were progressing. Apparently Rosemary even made Jo promise to respect her wishes in front of the director.”
Jo went to the sink and rinsed her juice-covered hands. “She’s not a burden,” she said to no one in particular.
“When I challenged her, Jo talked me into another deadline.” Polly continued to look at Dan. “Once Rosemary was getting up through the night more than once a week, then Jo would accept the need for residential care. I suspect that’s been happening for some time.”
“She raised me. I’m not abandoning her just because it’s getting harder.”
“Someone needs to talk some sense into you before your health suffers,” Polly said to her.
Jo concentrated on drying her hands but said fiercely, “I’m coping.”
Polly picked up her bag. “We need more sugar from the store if we’re making this marmalade. Anything else you want me to pick up?”
Yeah, a new caregiver. Jo bit her tongue against the sarcastic retort and shook her head. This betrayal was exactly why she kept her own counsel. She waited until Polly was out of earshot and snarled at Dan instead. “This is none of your business.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “Any chance of breakfast? I’m starving.”
Surprised, Jo blinked at him. “There’s eggs…a loaf in the breadbox.”
He opened the fridge, taking out the eggs, butter. “You eaten yet?”
“Uh, no, not yet.” Has Nan? “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Rosemary was still sound asleep, her mouth slightly open like a child’s. Jo stood for a moment composing herself. After a few deep breaths the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach receded. She returned to the kitchen. Dan had already greased the skillet with butter and was mixing eggs in a bowl with a little milk.
“There’s some cheese and tomatoes,” she said, “if you prefer an omelet.”
“Scrambled’s fine. Got any parsley?”
“Tons.” Jo went out to the overgrown garden. The parsley patch had rioted through summer; now in autumn it had gone to seed. She was mixing her seasons up as badly as Nan. But she found some spring onions that hadn’t been harvested and took them inside. Soon the pungent green onion mingled with the scent of buttery eggs. Jo realized she was hungry.
“I’ll make toast,” she suggested.
“Good idea.”
She sent him a sidelong glance as she dropped two slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster. Maybe he was biding his time, lulling her into a false sense of security.
“Relax.” Dan stirred the eggs. “I’m not going to hassle you about Nan.” He turned off the element; found plates and cutlery. “Polly doesn’t know you like I do. Of course you know how to juggle multiple obligations, not to mention keeping yourself healthy.” Jo concentrated on the toast. “You still jogging?”
“When I can fit it in.” Which is never. She resisted the urge to check her reflection in the toaster.
“And Rosemary seemed fine when she let me in this morning. She was off for a walk but postponed it.”
Jo’s head shot up. She must have forgotten to deadbolt the front door. The last time Nan had wandered they hadn’t found her for three hours.
Dan glanced over. “Bread.”
A wisp of smoke rose from the toaster. Jo rescued the toast and joined him at the table.
Her stomach had started churning again.
Dan picked up his knife and fork. “Mom asked Dad for a divorce last night.”
“What!”
“I guess my appetite should be affected but frankly after missing dinner, I’m starving.” He handed Jo her cutlery. “I told them I was sick and tired of acting as an intermediary and to sort out their own mess… That worked really well.”
“Oh, Dan, I’m sorry.” Stunned, Jo started to eat. “I’m sure Pat regrets what she said this morning.”
“Dad doesn’t.” Between mouthfuls, he related his conversation with his father.
“Poor Herman. Yet I kind of understand where your mom’s coming from. Your dad started this by reneging on a promise…and don’t even try to bring this around to the promise I made to marry you. I was drunk.”
Across the table, his eyes were very blue. “So both parties have to be sober for a promise to be binding?”
“Yes.”
“Any other provisos?”
Jo covered her bases. “And both have to be serious when they make it. It should be witnessed. And preferably on paper…a legal document.” That left out the beer mat.
Dan looked thoughtful. “Dad never signed anything promising Mum he’d travel. Theirs was only a verbal agreement.”
She frowned. “Is that how he’s trying to weasel out of it? No wonder Pat’s had enough.”
He sat back in his chair. “You really think he’s bound by this; don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” she said hotly. “Your Mum trusted him and he’s betraying that—”
Jo stopped, suddenly seeing the trap he’d laid for her. She put down her fork. “This isn’t about your parents…or us, is it?”
Dan shook his head.
Jo pushed to her feet. The chair toppled to the floor. Throat tight, she flung open the back door. “Out…get out. If you really knew me you’d understand how I feel about Nan.”
He stood. “I do understand. You want to fix this and it’s driving you crazy that you can’t. Which leaves you torn between respecting her wishes and hanging on to her for all you’re worth.”
She couldn’t speak or she’d burst into tears. Holding the door open she blinked hard at the old-fashioned clock hanging on the opposite wall.
“Jo…” His tone was as gentle as a touch, “…you don’t have to do this alone.”
The second hand jerked around the clock face. “If you really want to help then cancel the wedding.”
“I…can’t. If I start letting you use delaying tactics we’ll be eighty before we sort this out.”
Still she wouldn’t look at him. “Don’t lecture me on accepting reality until you can.”
He stopped in front of her, narrowing her view down to one muscular shoulder and a cord of bicep under the sleeve of his T-shirt.
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with the fact I’m serious about getting married. It would be nice if that happened before the wedding.”