Cookie Cutters
They’d driven for hours, mostly in the dark, when John decided to pull over north of Noosa on a hill where they cuddled as dawn stretched over the horizon. It was a scene only rivalled by the view from her cottage. Noosa had to be the second best place on earth, Ava decided. Only a couple of hours and they’d be driving into Brisbane.
Sunday in the city seemed sleepier than Ava recalled, the streets less busy. They checked into a small hotel, snapping up the last standard double room, but unable to check-in until later. John settled Ava on a sofa in the lobby, telling her he needed to stretch his legs after the long drive. He’d be ten minutes, max.
By the time he returned, the rumble in Ava’s stomach suggested lunchtime was close and she was itching to take a shower and wash away the thought of Marjorie Tate’s reaction when she worked out that her son had taken the good car to run away with the cook.
‘No trouble,’ the uniformed man behind the concierge desk was telling John. He’d offered to deliver the two small sports bags to their room and was now pointing them towards the strip of cheap cafés a few blocks away. ‘Or you’ll pass the Rainbow Room where they serve high tea from three p.m. each day.’
‘Perfect,’ John said, grabbing Ava’s hand.
The walk, or maybe the idea of food, seemed to have put a spring in his step and wiped away all thoughts of home. There would be enough angst when they returned to Ivy-May. For now, Ava was determined to laugh every time John stopped to kiss her – like he was doing now, in the middle of the street. He stopped to kiss her often: among a dozen other pedestrians as they crossed the street, at the counter where they ordered takeaway coffees, and outside a shop door.
Ava peeled herself out of his embrace and noticed a kitchen and home décor shop teeming with gadgets and time-saving gizmos for the home cook.
‘It’s a sign,’ John said, as his hand and hers grabbed the same cookie cutter buried amid a zoo of animal shapes in the store’s specials bin.
‘And it’s mine.’ Ava yanked to make her point. ‘I saw it first.’
‘Did not.’ John tugged back.
‘Did too.’ Ava laughed. ‘What are we? Ten-year-olds?’
‘Yeah, let’s carry it to the cashier together. It’ll be our very first jointly owned—’
‘Cookie cutter?’ Ava smiled all the way to the man, who’d been eyeing them from behind the cluttered counter.
‘Hmm, never seen this type before.’ The man inspected the item for a price sticker. ‘No packaging, no price tag, nothing.’
‘But you will sell it to us, won’t you?’ Ava pleaded. When she noticed John’s smile fall away she insisted, ‘You must. It’s a sign.’
John slapped a hand on the counter. ‘She’s right and we’ll pay you double its value, mate.’
‘John,’ Ava whispered, ‘it’s not that important.’
The man looked up from the pages of a price catalogue. ‘Double, eh?’
‘This is a sign, Ava, and you’ll understand its importance soon enough.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Go ahead, mate.’ John sounded cocksure as he pulled the wallet from his back trouser pocket, flipping it open. ‘Name your price.’
The attendant, a man in his sixties with a bushy grey beard, slammed the catalogue closed. ‘Nope, can’t find nothing like it anywhere. No price tag most likely means it was a sample from the sales rep.’
‘A sample?’
‘A one-off,’ the storekeeper clarified.
‘What’s that mean for the cookie cutter?’ Despair laced Ava’s words, as though the fate of the gadget was akin to that of a puppy on Death Row.
The man pulled a paper bag free from the pile on the counter and popped the object inside. Then he knocked John’s hand away. ‘Double nothing is nothing.’
‘Really? Thank you so much.’
The shopkeeper winked at Ava and pushed the paper bag across the counter. ‘Enjoy your sign, love.’
‘I told you,’ John murmured on the way out. ‘It’s Fate. This cookie cutter is a sign.’
‘Okay, okay.’ She laughed. ‘It’s a sign.’
*
‘My shout,’ Ava said, as they contemplated the fancy A-frame advertising high tea in the gazebo from three o’clock. When John looked ready to object, she added, ‘I have money. I’ve been saving up, remember?’
‘If you insist.’ John shrugged. ‘Shall we take tea, Miss Marchette?’ He offered his crooked elbow.
‘Let’s, Mr Tate.’
The glassed-in gazebo was an annexe to the expensive-looking boutique-style hotel Ava had walked past plenty of times, never venturing inside. Bedecked with crystal – overhead in the elaborate chandeliers, in ornaments adorning vintage wooden sideboards, and the vases brimming with greenery – Ava thought that if her heart stopped right there she’d die happy.
‘Look, John,’ she whispered so the waiter showing them to a table wouldn’t hear. ‘The chinaware is Royal Albert.’
He laughed, which made Ava fall even more in love with him. There were so many things she could show a country lad. The notion of growing and learning together, of enriching each other’s life and sharing those experiences with their children—
‘What are you thinking?’ John asked.
‘Thinking?’ Heat prickled her neck and cheeks.
‘Your expression just before was all… gooey.’
Saved by the tower of cakes delivered to their table at that moment, Ava bit back the urge to squeal like a six year old in a lolly shop. ‘Speaking of gooey, John, they have your favourite mini éclairs.’
‘But not yours, Ava.’
‘I’d never expect panna cotta at high tea, so stop fussing. We should be enjoying what we have.’
‘There’s always dessert tonight.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to stay in, Mr Tate? We could order room service and let it go cold.’
‘As tempting as that sounds, Miss Marchette, I want this time away to be as memorable as possible.’
‘I’m not sure I can cope with too many more surprises, John, and we can’t fit in all this food and dinner on the same day.’
‘Why not?’
‘For one, I’d end up as big as a house, and I’d have to find time for a jog before dinner.’
‘You’re on your own there. I get plenty of exercise back home. Besides, I wouldn’t care if you were the size of two houses. Next objection?’
‘How about the cost? There are better things you can spend your money on, like the new cattle crush you’ve bookmarked in the Trading Post magazine. Dinner anywhere in this city will be expensive.’ His hand went to her mouth, all four fingers sealing her lips shut.
‘Not another word. The table’s already booked. End of discussion. Let’s tuck in and we can get back to the hotel and get ready.’
*
The whirlwind trip to Brisbane and an afternoon of sugar had put them both on such a high that a serving of cold hard reality was inevitable. The first wave hit Ava the moment she collapsed into the armchair by the big picture window in their room. As beautiful as the Brisbane River was, the view didn’t hold a candle to the creek outside the cook’s cottage. It wouldn’t be too long and she’d be celebrating her first anniversary in Candlebark Creek, knowing it would take many years before she could claim local status. That’s if she hadn’t been permanently branded by townsfolk as the hired help who had seduced a beloved son and broken hearts.
‘How about I pop a bottle of champers?’ John asked.
‘Not for me.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t either. I’ll want a clear head tonight to remember every second of our evening. Speaking of which, we’d better get cracking.’
John stripped down to his underpants, throwing his jeans and jacket in a heap on the floor. Ava smiled and shook her head. She was staring at the clothing, determined not to pick it up, when she noticed a folded sheet of paper sticking out of his jeans pocket and ‘Katie’ written in his distinctive scrawl. She couldn’t resist, snatching the letter and waving it in the air at John.
‘You brought Katie along with you?’
‘I started writing that letter two days ago and did several drafts. I’ve carried that version around in my pocket waiting for the right words. I knew what I wanted to write and that’s when I decided to come by the cottage to see you.’
‘You’re writing her a letter?’ Ava’s voice was heaving with sarcasm but John didn’t seem to notice.
‘There were questions I needed your answer to first and until I’m one hundred per cent certain I’m—’
‘Don’t tell me! You’re leaving your options open?’ Even Ava flinched a little at her acerbic retort, while standing on the far side of the bed John seemed small and vulnerable in only his patterned boxer shorts.
‘No, Ava, that’s not what I meant at all. The one person I know better than myself is Katie O’Brien and, while she might one day forgive me for breaking her heart, she’ll kill me on the spot if I make her cry in front of me. So, you see, telling Katie about us to her face would be the cruellest thing I could do. Trust me on this.’
Ava turned to the window so she didn’t have to see John’s expression. ‘Sneaking away suddenly seems wrong by everyone, John. We should go.’ She detected the exasperation in his sigh as he flopped onto the bed. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help how I feel.’
‘Give me tonight, please. We’re due to leave tomorrow. We can talk about whatever you want when we get home.’
‘Home?’ Ava paced around the small room. ‘Ivy-May isn’t my home, John. I’m the cook, remember?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, a cook with a chip on her bloody shoulder.’
‘There’s nothing funny about this, John. We’ve run away – a concept I’m more than familiar with having run from my mother, then from Zac. Now you and I have run away from your parents as well as our responsibilities and that’s reckless and inconsiderate.’
‘You’re wrong, Ava. My parents expect a commitment to Ivy-May and I intend to meet that obligation. Admittedly they expect Katie to be involved. I promise to sort things out when we get back.’
‘John, about you and Katie that night after your party…’
Another sigh from John, louder this time. ‘You’ve already asked me if I slept with her. Are we still going down that path, Ava?’
‘And you never did answer. Your dad came in.’
John snatched the note from the bed, balled it in his fist and hurled it at a wall. ‘I’m going to have a shower. Then I’d like to spend the rest of the night not talking about anyone except us. Okay?’
Ava felt the need to clear her head. A quick jog around the park would help work off the tea and, she hoped, shake back into place the common sense she seemed to have mislaid since meeting John Tate. Her first mistake had been flirting back. The second had been to enjoy the clandestine affair right under the noses of John’s parents. With a steady job and a safe place to live, she had dropped her guard and let her heart lead her, rather than her head. She’d expected it would be just an affair: they’d have their fun, and while she would never forget John, he would likely never remember a fling with the hired help.
As she tucked the room key into her pocket, Ava paused to look around the fancy hotel suite. How did you get here, Ava Marchette?
‘Ava?’ John cracked opened the door to the bathroom. He had a towel wrapped tight around his waist and a thousand apologies in his eyes. ‘Hey, you believe me, right?’ He smiled that crooked grin, looked her in the eye and said, ‘I’ve slept with you and only you, Ava, I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘I’ll be back soon,’ was her reply.
*
John took another swipe at the misted bathroom mirror, then draped the oversized hand towel around his neck and adjusted the bath sheet around his body. After tonight, all would be forgiven, and he couldn’t wait to see Ava’s face when the restaurant delivered her the perfect panna cotta. He slapped shaving cream on his cheeks and chin, smearing his neck, anticipation making his hands tremble.
His uncontrollable grin made shaving tricky. ‘Best calm down, mate,’ he told himself. ‘The last thing you need is a face full of nicks.’ Tonight was definitely not for corny jokes or comedic impersonations.
He wished he’d had time to make the evening even more special, maybe by buying himself a new tie when he’d popped into the Lowes store earlier and bought a plain white business shirt – his first ever. He needed one that would actually do up around a neck thickened by physical labour and support a tie. With Ava he was definitely punching above his weight – in his mother’s words, John Tate was no oil painting. Not that Marjorie was an art expert: the Tate family had zero creative genes. Besides, there’s no making a masterpiece from the mundane, and that was exactly what life at Ivy-May had been until Ava had come along.
‘Ouch! Steady on, John mate.’ He dabbed at the cut on his chin. ‘A face littered with loo paper is not how you want the evening remembered.’ And he would remember every single moment, every expression on her face, every word, even though he was interested in only one at the appropriate time.
A bloody spot landed on the neck towel and he pressed closer to the mirror, wiping the persistent fog away to inspect his chin for more cuts. When he found none, he rinsed the razor, then began on the other cheek.
After a quick check of his wristwatch, his thoughts shifted to his parents at home. Twenty-four hours from now he would be back at his beloved Ivy-May with a fiancée by his side. Once his mother was over the shock, she would replace her nagging about settling down with an equally annoying countdown to her first grandchild. John wanted the same, of course, but they had things to achieve before that happened.
‘What the… ?’ Another drop of blood soaked into the towel. Having shaved every day for the last five years John wasn’t usually so clumsy with a razor. Perhaps he was more nervous about tonight than he’d realised, even though everything was arranged. More importantly, the ring was where it should be. He just needed to finish getting ready and pace impatiently while Ava showered and changed. If only the damn bathroom mirror would clear.
Another swipe at the steamy film refused to budge the fog, his reflection remaining fuzzy.
‘That’s weird.’
As he drew closer he noticed red dripping from his nose and one ear. He pulled the towel from around his neck to blot the blood and when he leaned over to splash his face in the basin the water rippled pink. With the taste of metal filling his mouth, his stomach lurched and his throat constricted as a sharp, painful stabbing in his head snatched the breath from his lungs. The floor listed and he stumbled, grabbing for support but finding only air. The next thing he felt was his shoulder slamming against cold tiles and there was silence, nothingness, aloneness. Everything was inexplicably distorted, his world at ninety degrees, and beyond the dazzling white bathroom a door banged, a woman screamed, and the white fog closed in thick around him.