Iron Pot Hill Farmstay Retreat
Ava’s motel mattress had been comfortable enough overnight, the quilt surprisingly warm. The room, while spotlessly clean, was cluttered with too many brochures and visitor guides. The only issue, as usual, was the bathroom. Whenever she travelled, Ava had carried her own towels and put the ones supplied out of sight. White hotel towels still brought bad dreams.
Unable to face the room-service breakfast she’d ordered the night before, too disappointed that her first attempt hadn’t convinced John to take on the portrait, Ava pressed nine on the internal phone to check room availability, should she need to extend her booking.
‘Maybe a week,’ she informed the manager. ‘At least.’
‘If only I’d known you might want to stay longer. As of tomorrow we’re full. A quilting club convention is coming to town.’
‘A quilting club?’ Accommodation was not at the top of her what-could-go-wrong list, like the various scenarios that had played out on the drive up: John recognising her; John not remembering her at all; John being angry or hurt and not wanting to know her. Or, worst case, John being indifferent to her after so many years because he’d had a fabulous life without Ava in it.
‘I can give you their number,’ the motel manager was saying. ‘You can call the pub and book a room.’
‘The pub on the corner?’
‘Only one in town. Been fixed right up, though.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, without explanation.
‘Well, there’s a basic motel on the highway a bit further north, or if you prefer something a bit different there’s a place about thirty minutes out of town, on the old Tate Road.’
‘Ivy-May?’
‘You know the area?’
‘It’s been a long time and for some reason… I mean, I hardly thought the Ivy-May B-and-B would still be operating.’
‘You’re right. The actual homestead reverted back to a private residence, but the farmstay side of the business has grown bigger and better, taking up the old O’Brien place.’
‘The O’Briens’ place?’
‘Yeah, it’s all one big property, these days. Take the same road out of town. Then, instead of heading towards Ivy-May, follow the arrows on the blue and white B-and-B signs.’
‘The small hotel out of town sounds more convenient. Thank you.’
‘Just be careful on the roads. There’s a heavy mist refusing to budge this morning.’
After showering, she took extra care to fix her hair into the slicked-back bun she’d worn since securing her first cooking job when hairnets had been a commercial-kitchen essential. While the regulations had relaxed, the bun had never changed, only the clips used to secure it had varied as trends dictated: scarves in the seventies, oversized flowers glued to combs in the early eighties, then sparkly diamanté clips, scrunchies and extensions. Ava had tried them all. With the first sign of grey appearing in her early forties, her young stylist, Tiffany, suggested that a touch of dye would keep her looking younger and that a shorter style might be easier to handle. Ava had politely declined. Easy options presented no challenge and there’d been ample in her life.
Forced to leave home at seventeen, Ava had worked hard, fought hard, and protected her heart, only letting her guard down with John. Soon enough her number-one priority was safeguarding her children. Tony had matured fast – being the man in the family had probably helped. He’d found the love of his life early, marrying Mariska before he’d turned twenty-one. Nina, though, seemed to be in no hurry to settle down. She’d travelled and invested in real estate, courtesy of Dirk’s trust fund.
Ava sighed at her reflection in the motel’s bathroom mirror. Her children were making their own life choices now, which was just as well: she herself was having enough trouble choosing an outfit for the sitting that John would definitely agree to today.
He had to.
Two out of the three shirt options she’d brought were going to meet the requirements stated in her quick web search last night: How to sit for a portrait. John had already touched on how arduous the sitter’s task was and Ava was not about to give him any more excuses to refuse her by wearing something inappropriate. The article had mentioned the importance of the décolletage on a model and to avoid polo-necks, shawls and bulky scarves. And mandarin collars!
As for colour? She examined her complexion in the bathroom mirror. According to the article, the more vibrant choices could alter a sitter’s skin tone, but perhaps an artificial ruddiness from a red shirt was better than no glow at all. As she attempted to paint mascara on sparse, stubby lashes that had once been long, plentiful and framing deep blue eyes, Ava realised her hands were shaking.
Detail, the article had continued. A good artist sees every detail, but even John could look long and hard at her today and never find the features of her youth. The face Ava saw this morning wasn’t that of a young woman once alive with expectation and a million possibilities. It wasn’t the face of an adored wife living a pampered life. Instead, tired eyes showed the worry lines of a mother, and her forehead the furrows of a successful businesswoman.
Ava Marchette had enjoyed both roles. Once, being a mother and an entrepreneur had been more than enough for her, when work had filled her days and the twins had filled her nights, her life and her heart. How the years had flown. Perhaps Ava’s reflection suggested she was indeed overdue for age-minimising hair dye and an easy-to-do style. She sighed, and jettisoned the mascara tube with a clunk into the bathroom’s bin, questioning both the make-up and the madness that was keeping her in Candlebark Creek when the one thing she’d hoped had changed clearly had not.
John Tate did not remember her and no make-up in the world would help. Not that her appearance mattered, or that every article of clothing she’d packed was either black or white. They were colours she’d always been comfortable in and mimicked the way she’d lived her life. What was important was the opportunity to be with John, to learn about his life. Ava wanted nothing more than to know that, even without her, he’d found love, inner peace and purpose. In a few days she would be out of his life for ever, her conscience clear that the events of the past, of her giving up and leaving, had not broken his heart so completely that he had never loved again.
*
While memory and instinct had allowed her to find the way to Ivy-May yesterday afternoon, this morning she took one of the tourist information brochures from the hotel room. It showed a more direct route and the new road further along the highway where, as the motel proprietor had indicated, she’d be able to follow the arrows. The same brochure had cleared up a few questions. The pub’s licensee was an ex-policeman by the name of Gus Hoorgengarten, and the Majestic Mountain Walking Trail promised to challenge those fit enough to tackle one of the several volcanic plugs that made the Basmorra region’s landscape so intriguing.
Too early to arrive at Ivy-May, she ignored the arrows and veered left to follow the graded gravel track that ran for several kilometres along Candlebark Creek. On both sides, in brittle brown paddocks bordered by barbed-wire fencing, Brahman cattle gathered in groups, the breed easily recognisable by the tell-tale water-storage hump on its back. Rising out of the morning mist still sitting low to the ground, the mountains were unchanged from thirty years ago. A short way along the track of boggy ruts, now cement hard, Ava knew she would be able to look across the creek and see the cook’s cottage.
To her right the same rickety footbridge still connected the Tate and O’Brien properties, and there, on the far side, was the familiar corrugated-tin roof and brick chimney. Ava’s foot pressed hard on the brake, jerking the car to a standstill and she stared at the building through a fusion of fog and dust on her windscreen. She remembered the first time John had walked her there from the back door of the Ivy-May homestead. Even at a brisk pace, with the excitement of having a job still fresh, the walk had taken several minutes along the meandering track. John had been so excited about cooking, and to hear a young man speak about growing and preparing food with such passion had been new to Ava. In the years she’d worked in Brisbane kitchens, never once had she heard anyone express the appreciation John had for the very thing chefs worked with every day: the raw ingredient.
After leaving her car, Ava fumbled with the length of heavy chain on the farm gate, the clunk of metal-on-metal jarring in the stillness of the morning. Negotiating the cattle grid on tiptoe, then the footbridge, she made her way up the small rise that seemed steeper than she recalled.
The view was worth the trek. With the exception of leaf litter strewn across the porch and on the built-in seat for two, where she and John had sat staring up at the stars, it was exactly as she remembered. Cobwebs strung between the awning uprights were enough to confirm the cottage was unoccupied, but what momentarily stole her breath was seeing the mobile still hanging to one side of the three steps. She’d made it with an assortment of disused cutlery, John drilling small holes in each handle for Ava to hang from fuse wire.
‘G’day, can I help you?’
Ava startled at the voice, turning away from the window she’d been peering though, the sudden movement making her head spin. ‘Oh, John, you scared me.’
‘Sorry about that.’ His head cocked to one side. ‘These days I go mostly by my middle name, Blair. It was my great-grandfather’s name – Arthur Blair. Besides, two John Tates is confusing.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, you’re Blair. For a moment I, well, you’re just as handsome as your father.’
‘You know my dad?’
‘Umm, yes and no. He’s painting my portrait.’
‘Oh, so, you’re her.’ Blair’s grin widened. ‘I was at Dad’s last night and he mentioned something about a lady having arrived on his doorstep.’
‘I believe I may have been quite insistent.’
‘And I believe he may have mentioned the word “stalker”.’
Ava laughed. ‘I suppose now you’ve caught me peering through windows you’ll be adding “burglar” to the list.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He pointed to the other side of the creek. ‘You’ve parked in a dead-end lane, pointed in the wrong direction, and with the door open so the battery will go flat. You’re not a thief and that’s a most unlikely getaway car.’ If Blair noticed Ava’s sharp intake of breath he didn’t say anything. ‘You also won’t find much worth stealing around here. So, what brings you this way?’
‘I saw the signs pointing to a bed-and-breakfast and the motel in town is booked out – a quilting conference, of all things. The manager told me about your establishment and a hotel further along the highway. I must have taken a wrong turn and I saw this cottage.’
‘Yeah, that craft convention is an annual event you don’t want to be anywhere near. Those women will have you in stitches.’ Blair winked.
So like John!
Ava studied him, looking for more familiar features. Blair’s eyebrows and lashes were dark, unlike John’s sandy colouring. But like John, Blair was stocky, his hair cropped to control the hereditary curls.
‘If you want, I have availability in the lodge, or a cabin.’
‘Now there’s an idea.’ Ava looked back to the cottage. ‘This one?’
His head shook. ‘Not usually, unless we’re full, and that doesn’t happen a lot, as you can tell by the cobwebs. This one’s on my renovation wish list and renos aren’t cheap. With this cabin being plumbed and with its own rainwater tank I’d like to maintain it as a self-contained unit. That’s my long-winded way of saying it still has an old kitchen.’
‘Perfect, because I’m an old cook and self-contained suits me just fine.’
The country around them was quiet and still enough to make audible the sound of Blair rubbing the stubble on the side of his face. ‘I’ve managed to get the place cleaned out on the inside, but I’m sure another cabin would—’
‘Not at all, Blair,’ Ava said. ‘I’m easily pleased. I’ll pay the going rate,’ she added.
Blair grimaced. He looked uneasy. ‘Most people come on holidays to get away from cooking. They prefer I do the work.’
‘You cook too?’ She eased back.
‘I love food, growing it, preparing it, eating it.’ He patted the flat stomach above a leather belt with a big brass buckle. ‘Our accommodation in the lodge includes breakfast baskets: fresh eggs, homemade sausages, vine-ripened tomatoes and home-baked bread.’
‘Sounds scrumptious.’
‘Families use the communal kitchen, which we stock with essentials as well as homemade jams. All you need, really. The view of Candlebark Creek is pretty spectacular in the morning from the deck, too, especially at this time of year.’
‘You’ve sold me. The lodge sounds perfect.’ Ava hoped she’d disguised her disappointment. ‘And you run the Ivy-May establishment on your own? It’s certainly expansive.’
‘Ivy-May?’ Blair hesitated. ‘No, it’s the Iron Pot Hill Farmstay Retreat these days, named after one of those mountains you can see in the distance. Ivy-May was part of the B-and-B Mum and Dad set up and the start of what you see today. Or what you will see when you come up to the lodge.’ He waved towards the main homestead. ‘Mum and Dad added cabins further down the river, on the other side, nicer than this one. Then they added the lodge-type offering for families and groups. I spruced the cabins up and added a venue for functions. That’s all another long-winded way of saying it’s a bit of a money pit and way too big an operation for one person. I have a team of amazing helpers who work their magic here every day.’
‘A farmstay retreat?’ Ava repeated.
‘Fancy way of saying we provide people with affordable luxury accommodation and a farm experience, all rolled into one, if they want that. Of course, some people want to do nothing but kick back, and the two cabins are very secluded.’
‘The dream,’ Ava mused aloud, her comment prompting another curious glance from Blair.
‘More like bloody hard work.’ He snorted. ‘Word of mouth is everything for a biz like this, and getting a return on investment keeps the bank happy. I’ve been growing the business, trying new things. You’ve got to give people what they want and exceed expectations.’
The bank? Surely the property was owned outright and debt-free after all these years.
‘Bringing systems into the twenty-first century isn’t cheap, but it’ll make things easier into the future, although I admit to being woeful when it comes to social media and stuff. You’d think I’d be right into all that. To be honest, I’d rather not bother at all.’
‘Being told by my son I had to tweet was the first sign that I needed to retire, although I miss being busy. Tony does a wonderful job and my daughter’s the social-media whizz. I thought all young people’s phones were like hers, constantly beeping with one thing or another.’
‘Look where I live.’ Blair waved his arm in the same way John had yesterday. ‘I do what I have to online, but why would I want to have my head stuck in the Internet all day when I have this?’
‘Your father must be very proud.’
Another short, sharp shrug. ‘I guess. He’s… Well, he’s Dad and one of a kind, which comes with its challenges. I’m guessing you know about him and that’s why you’ve come up from… ?’ His enquiring tone left Ava little choice.
‘The Sunshine Coast and, yes, I’m aware of his extraordinary story. I read about him in a magazine.’
‘There were enough stories going around when I was younger. He was in demand and that took a toll on the family. Dad moved to the city for a while, but he couldn’t wait to come back. Reckons the only way he’s leaving Ivy-May again is feet first in a box.’
Ava ignored the quip. ‘I imagine media attention would be hard to take for any length of time.’
‘Grandma called it an ill-mannered intrusion and Mum hated the constant scrutiny. The pair became fierce defenders of our family’s privacy and Dad found the distractions difficult. He was pretty torn, trying to be everything to everyone. I knew my dad first as John Tate, artist in demand, and father second. He was totally obsessed, and even though he did his bit, Mum took over the day-to-day running of the property.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yeah. These days, good old Katie could run ten of these places and still have time for tea. Wow!’ Blair coughed into his hand. ‘That’s possibly more information about my life than you wanted to hear.’
Ava managed a smile, despite the mention of Katie’s name. ‘She runs the place with you still?’ His mother’s identity should not have surprised her. What she hadn’t considered was Katie still being here, still involved in John’s life. The magazine article had said the artist had withdrawn from the spotlight to live alone on the family property in Queensland’s Capricornia region.
‘Mum likes to think she runs the place.’ Blair grinned. ‘She’s always kept a close eye on everything and everyone. As well as missing nothing she’s a passionate advocate for the advancement of our little town. Not sure Candlebark Creek would be booming if not for her. Right now she’s visiting the town’s sister city. Some impossible-to-pronounce place in Japan.’
‘Passion is the key to success in life, Blair.’ Ava was keen to shift the focus from Katie, but glad to know she wouldn’t be bumping into her. ‘Never more true in the hospitality game, as I know from experience.’
‘How so?’
‘Pastry chef, Le Cordon Bleu, Paris, 1987.’
‘Whoa, seriously? Well, what do you know?’
‘Quite a lot about cooking, since you ask.’ She returned the smile. ‘Sounds more impressive than it is, though. When I came home I started a business. Just a bakery.’
‘No, I didn’t mean literally what do you know. I meant, well, the thing is I’m in the middle of nutting out a high tea offering to bring some tourist-bus business our way.’
‘My goodness, high tea? The latest fad a generation wants to lay claim to when it’s been around for ever. Still, I’m not surprised the concept is so popular, even though people misuse the term. High tea is a meal with a cooked dish and quite different from afternoon tea, which is taken at four o’clock, with a few sandwiches and cakes.’
‘I did not know that.’
‘What you need for afternoon tea is a variety of tiny sweet treats with big flavour and lots of texture.’
He seemed to ponder that piece of advice. ‘I have some nice cool water in the house. If you like, you can come up and we’ll find you a room.’
‘Lovely.’ Ava turned to head back to her car. ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Great, but, as I said, the track you’re parked on is a dead end. You’ll need directions to my—’
‘I know the way.’ Ava waved.