Sorries
John was angry. Ava hadn’t turned up as she’d told his father she would. He’d even been a little hard on the herd this morning, impatient with a couple of cows that had insisted on guiding their calves towards the shade. John could appreciate the cool now he’d propped himself in the shadow of a giant ironbark tree. He was tilting his head skyward when he noticed the first signs of a strangler fig. He and his father had come across a mature one in the north-west paddock a while back. Epiphytes, like the strangler fig, were the result of a random seed landing in a high, moist crevice of an existing tree. Often delivered in bird droppings, the seed thrives in the sunlight and rain and eventually its aerial roots take over the host. ‘Poor bloody thing gets the life sucked out of it,’ Colin had explained, then muttered something about bloody women and marriage.
John picked up a small rock and flung it at a nearby tree. He swore as the stone rebounded to score a direct hit to his knee, leaving him smarting as well as angry when he set off again, his destination and thoughts clear. If he didn’t go to the cook’s cottage and find out why she hadn’t shown up, his ability to concentrate for the rest of the day, week, month, year – his whole life – would be shot to smithereens. Barely sleeping last night after they’d kissed, he’d stewed all day, first waiting for Ava and then for the best time to seek her out. About now she would be taking a break, which meant John would have her to himself until she had to return to the main house in a couple of hours to start the evening meal. Closing in on the cottage, he took deep breaths to calm himself, certain of only one thing. He’d wait for her to apologise to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted, when Ava opened the door. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
*
She’d prepared a response in anticipation of this very moment, but could Ava articulate any of it to his face when his expression was burning holes in her heart? His clothes were filthy and those robust shoulders his mother had boasted about slumped. Sweat and cattle dust smeared his face, his eyes were red, but she couldn’t turn him away.
‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped aside, then shut the door behind him. ‘You might want to start with a wash in the bathroom. I’ll make us both some tea.’
John emerged a short time later looking refreshed, but no less forlorn. The striped shirt in shades of brown was damp in places and unbuttoned, but that was better than no shirt at all. But the man’s tall, taut body presented a temptation Ava could not afford. This situation had to be nipped in the bud. Before he sat at the small table where Ava had set tea, John moved the two chairs she’d purposely positioned on opposite sides and straddled one, as usual.
‘Thanks for not closing the door. I acted like a jerk last night, like the kid you no doubt think I am. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘John, I don’t think you’re a kid. Our age difference is not the problem. Truth be told, I missed out on being your age, too focused on getting by. Being around you is fun.’ Ava smiled. ‘I like that we can laugh at goofy things one minute and the next be ruminating over the best way to make prawn cocktail dressing.’
‘Then what’s wrong with us being together?’
‘Other people will see you as too young, or me as too old. To your mother you’re still her little boy and I’m too old to be calling her Mrs Tate.’
‘But I am my own man.’
‘Yes, you are that and I like you a lot. I’ve never met a man like you. I feel good in your company, I do. You’re also very different from the boyfriends I’ve had in the past. Add all that to the romanticism that comes with living at a place like Ivy-May, and, well… Don’t look at me like that. Why are you smiling?’
His grin grew. ‘You called me a boyfriend.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘You did. You said I’m very different from your previous boyfriends. Means the same to me and I like it. And I like hanging around you. I’ve never known a girl who speaks my language – and I’m learning so much about food.’
‘You’re a fast learner, but, John—’
‘Do you think I’m going to steal all your chef secrets?’
‘I don’t have any. I don’t believe in keeping secrets. Listen to me—’
‘Every chef has secrets,’ John quipped.
Was he deliberately goading her? Ava stiffened. ‘Look, I’m not a qualified chef. In fact, I have no qualifications at all, not even a school leaving certificate, yet your mother still picked me. She gave me a chance. Not only can I not afford to blow this job, I won’t repay your mother’s trust and generosity by doing the wrong thing. Besides, Marjorie would kill me.’
‘Ava, in case you haven’t noticed, my mother is over-protective, and that’s a generous description. I also hate to admit that you were the only applicant. There are no cooks banging down our door out here. We’re the ones who should feel grateful you applied.’
‘That makes no difference to what I believe. I’m safe here at Ivy-May. I’m part of a real family, and I can’t remember a time I ever felt so secure and connected.’
John reached out and placed a hand where Ava’s rested on the table. ‘Were you not safe in the city? Are you running away from something?’
‘Someone.’ She smoothed the hair above her ears.
‘Are you… are you married, Ava?’
‘No.’ She couldn’t sit any longer, but in such a small space, smaller still with John in it, there weren’t many places to go, so she paced. ‘I was in a relationship and… Well, the thing is…’ Now Ava was in the kitchen, her back to John as she rinsed dishes in the sink. ‘I have a record of picking bad men who think they have to break a girl’s spirit.’
‘I’m not a bad man. I don’t even believe in breaking a horse’s spirit.’
‘I know, John, but you’re not good for me either. You’re the type who…’ She felt his presence, but didn’t turn.
‘Tell me,’ he whispered, his breath tickling the back of her neck. ‘What type am I, Ava?’
Conscious of his every move, Ava couldn’t think. There was so much to say, but the words in her head were not equal to the task. The dishes crashed back into the sink and she planted both hands on the edge for strength.
‘The type that will break my heart.’
He was closing the safe distance, his fingers sliding from her shoulders to her hands. ‘And if I promise that will never happen?’
‘You can’t make that kind of promise, John.’ She was pinned in the circle of his arms, his body hard against her back.
‘What did you mean when you said “a real family”?’
‘You don’t realise how lucky you are to have a mother who wants to protect you. I left home at seventeen. I wasn’t a runaway. I didn’t want to leave my father. He was sick, he needed me, but I had no choice.’
‘Why?’
Ava somehow managed to turn around, the small of her back arched and straining, the attempt to distance herself from him futile. ‘See this scar?’ She pointed to the one on her forehead, just above her left eyebrow. ‘It reminds me every day of my mother.’ She told him about her childhood, dragging up memories of her mother’s indifference and her drunken rants at a man she’d once vowed to love in sickness and in health. Delving into those memories was Ava’s first mistake, doing so with John the second.
When he ran out of soothing words, and when the last tissue from the box had been tossed into the garbage bin, Ava surrendered herself to him. When his embrace tightened and he kissed the scar, her cheeks, her neck, she pulled back to breathe, to take stock. She saw his face and understood the question his eyes held.
*
How she’d managed to drag herself out of his arms and off the bed before they did anything irrevocable that afternoon, and every night since, she didn’t know. Even more surprising was John’s maturity and his calm unquestioning relinquishing of her body each time she asked. At twenty, John Tate was more of a man than any other Ava had ever met and turning him away was more difficult each night.