Authors: Rachael Johns
Imogen pressed her hand against her heart. ‘So it was love at first kiss, then?’
‘Aye, it definitely was.’ Charlie sighed. ‘Once I’d experienced the magic of those lips, nothing else seemed to matter anymore. And I certainly didn’t want any other man laying a claim on her.’
He dug his wallet out of his pocket and opened it to a black-and-white photo of the most naturally beautiful woman Imogen had ever seen. She was incredibly tall and wiry, and freckles spattered her cheeks, which she could tell, despite the lack of colour in the photo, were as rosy as beetroots. Imogen had never seen the resemblance between Gibson and Charlie and now she understood why. Gibson was the image of his grandmother – same eyes, same wry smile, even the same stance.
‘I haven’t got many, but this one’s my favourite.’
Imogen took her time to admire the photo. ‘She’s beautiful.’
She thought of her photos of Jamie – placed strategically throughout her apartment so she’d never have to go more than a few hours without seeing him. Her eyes stung with threatened tears. Would she be the same as Charlie when she was in her eighties? Fifty years was a very long time to be alone.
She had to think of something else to say before she became a blubbering mess. ‘So, when did you give up teaching?’
Charlie had already told her he spent most of his adult years on the family crop and sheep farm, only moving into town a few
years back when the homestead grew too small – whatever that meant.
‘I handed in my notice within two weeks of Elsie’s kiss. After that I worked with Elsie on the farm and it just felt right. Like what I was born to do. Her sisters married other local farmers, her dad died of his broken heart and we worked together as partners. She didn’t even slow down when she got pregnant with Harry.’
He paused for a moment and Imogen saw him swallow.
‘I never imagined childbirth would take her. Losing her was the biggest shock of my life.’
Imogen closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. ‘I know,’ she whispered, without meaning to.
When she opened her eyes, Charlie was staring at her, a hundred questions lingering in his eyes. ‘Who did you lose?’
Her turn to swallow, but no amount of swallowing would eliminate the golf ball in her throat. ‘My husband, Jamie,’ she said eventually. ‘The love of my life, too.’ Maybe it sounded dramatic but it was the truth. She knew Charlie understood.
‘When?’
‘Two and half years ago.’ She didn’t offer the exact calculations, even though she still ticked each day off in her mind. ‘He was a firefighter. He died rescuing a young girl during a bushfire.’ She shuddered – there was no way she’d ever get over the horror. ‘But I don’t want anyone here to know,’ she added, emerging from her reverie. ‘Please don’t tell anyone, not even Gibson.’
Especially
not Gibson. She couldn’t bear him changing his grumpy tune and forcing niceties just because he felt sorry for her.
‘Coming here was my fresh start,’ she explained. ‘I need to be my own person and I don’t want everyone thinking they already know me. It may sound crazy, but it’s the way I want it to be.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
A slightly awkward silence reigned between them for a few moments – as if they were both unsure whether they should have shared so much – then Imogen remembered why she’d sought Charlie out in the first place.
‘Cal and Pauli had an idea and I wanted your thoughts.’
Charlie adjusted his hat and cocked his head to one side, waiting.
‘Themed food nights,’ she announced. When his expression remained blank, she elaborated, explaining everything her staff had proposed.
He pondered the idea a while, then leaned forward and clasped his hands together. ‘I think it could work. Lord knows the blokes round here like a good meal. But how about we do a trial run?’
She hoped he wasn’t about to suggest Gibson as one of the taste-testers.
‘Have you thought any more about my idea of a slab party?’
Imogen bit her lower lip. ‘Yes, I just don’t feel very comfortable asking people. And I do have money, it’ll just take time to organise and schedule tradesmen.’
Charlie dismissed her reasoning with a wave of his hand. ‘This is the country, woman. People in the bush like lending a hand. And if you offer free food and booze to a select group – I can help you sort out the riffraff – then you don’t need to feel guilty. You’re giving them something in return.’
She glanced around the pub, cataloguing all the jobs that needed to be done – jobs that could be done quite easily and quickly with a few tools and willing bodies. Then she could leave her funds for the bigger renovations. ‘You think people would go for that?’
‘Honey, the boys round here will be running each other down in their utes to help you.’ Charlie grinned and his eyes almost twinkled. ‘You just say the word and I’ll get the ball rolling.’
It was a win-win situation. Pauli and Cal could test out the new food, and once the work was done, it’d be free drinks for everyone.
‘The word,’ Imogen said, thinking this was something she didn’t need to think about at all.
She and Charlie chose a weekend – two weeks away, to give everyone plenty of notice – and started planning which VIP handymen to invite. Charlie rattled off names, most of which were unfamiliar, telling her who would be useful to have around and to whom they’d need to give the easy jobs. Apparently Gibson was very good with his hands, and Charlie seemed to think he’d be more than willing to help out.
Imogen didn’t want to think about Gibson’s hands and she didn’t like to burst the old man’s bubble either, but she’d bet The Majestic on the fact his beloved grandson would rather pick lice off sheep with a pair of tweezers than lend her a hand.
That night, Gibson hit the bar at his usual time.
Imogen noticed him the moment he walked in the door. His eyes sought hers, then quickly looked away. She wanted to kick something. While her hormones had a happy party without her every time he came within twenty metres, Gibson appeared to find even being in the same space as her suffocating.
Aside from his irritating good looks, dedication to his grandfather was the only good Imogen could see in Gibson Black. She’d spent more time than she cared to admit trying to work out what the hell his story was. And whether he had a girlfriend stashed away somewhere. She could ask Charlie, but she didn’t want him to think she was interested. Which she wasn’t. Curiosity just happened to be her middle name, and Gibson was a mystery begging to be solved.
As Charlie made a beeline for his grandson, the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding eased out. He clearly looked forward to
these daily visits, and she knew Charlie was the only reason Gibson ever came in. The times he talked with Charlie were also the only times he bothered with a smile.
To take her mind off
him
, Imogen took the chance to ring her friends while Gibson sat at the bar and Cal and Charlie held the fort.
Tonight, Jenna was even more excitable than normal because she’d been doing serious research. ‘Hey babe,’ Jenna answered. ‘Did you get my email?’
Imogen glanced towards her computer screen from where she was, leaning back in her swivel chair. ‘When’d you send it?’
‘Oh, only about half an hour ago. I’ve been looking into our little problem and I think we can get you a real good deal, delivered to your door. I sent you a selection.’
After a few days of deep consideration, and those irritating urges whenever Gibson Black ventured into the pub, Imogen had finally solicited Jenna’s help with The Vibrator Acquisition.
Barely able to believe what she was contemplating, and with Jenna still on the line, Imogen opened her email and her eyes boggled – not only at the prices but also the colours, shapes and sizes.
‘Well?’ Jenna asked after a few moments’ silence. ‘See anything you like?’
‘Um …’ Jenna would be disappointed if Imogen backed out now. ‘I’ll have to give it some thought.’ Quite frankly, it was hard to imagine sharing her bedroom – never mind her bed – with any of those things. ‘Anyway,’ she said, changing the subject before Jenna could nag her to make a hasty decision, ‘you know how you and Amy have been talking about coming up for a weekend before the baby arrives?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you free the first weekend in March? Amy says she’s in if you’ll drive.’
‘Hell yeah,’ Jenna replied, adding a whoop. ‘I’ll make sure I’m free. But I hope you’ve ordered in some better champagne since we were last there.’
‘Of course,’ Imogen said, feigning indignation. ‘Just don’t get a manicure the day before; this is going to be a working weekend.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jenna asked.
‘I’m throwing a slab party.’
‘A what?’
Imogen laughed. ‘That was my reaction too when Charlie first mentioned it. Apparently it’s a party where everyone brings a slab of beer to celebrate a new house or something, but his idea is a little different. We’re going to ask the locals to help with some of the pub renovations, and in return I’ll provide the beer for a party at night. Sound like fun?’
‘That depends on your definition of fun,’ Jenna replied.
Imogen laughed again. ‘Hopefully, by the end of the weekend, most of the minor tasks will be done and I’ll be able to focus on promoting the pub to a wider clientele.’
Jenna was silent for a moment. ‘So there’ll be lots of hot blokes there?’
Imogen rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Jenna was nothing if not predictable. ‘Yes. Hopefully. With any luck it’ll be stinking hot and they may even have to work without their shirts on.’
‘Ooh,’ Jenna murmured appreciatively.
Imogen pushed aside the thought that immediately jumped into her mind – Gibson Black without his shirt on. Luckily she wouldn’t be subjected to that. There wasn’t any danger of him joining the party.
That settled, she said goodbye to Jenna, hung up and then peered out at the bar. Gibson was gone, so it was safe. She served a couple of guys and chatted about their work on the mine. One
even offered to take her out on his RDO and show her round the site. But as interesting as the idea sounded, she got the distinct impression the guy meant it to be a date, and that wasn’t going to happen.
Despite enjoying herself, the night dragged. The stream of men to the bar was steady, but the pub wasn’t what you’d call busy. Even Charlie looked weary earlier than usual, so she convinced him to take an early mark at ten o’clock. An hour and a half later, when she and the girls had farewelled the stragglers, collected the dirty glasses and finished cleaning up, Imogen could have curled up under her desk in the downstairs office.
Her limbs ached and she didn’t think she had the energy to climb to the stairs to her apartment. Reviving the old place and increasing turnover wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d first assumed.
Being her own boss was already taking its toll.
If there was one thing more irritating than a female intent on fixing a pub that didn’t need fixing, it was a female who refused to leave his head. And Imogen Bates was proving to be one such female.
They’d barely spoken since the morning Gibson had interrupted her run, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t interacted. Every time he went to the pub they exchanged glances, longer than the average hello-and-how’s-your-father, glances that oozed meaning despite their frosty facade. Wherever he went, he thought about her bright eyes, perky physique and feisty personality. He’d never admit it to Guy or Wazza, but he was damn attracted to the woman. He had no intention of acting on his feelings – he could write a book of reasons why he shouldn’t – but it didn’t stop him anticipating his daily visit.
Once upon a time, Charlie was the sole reason for going there, but he’d be lying if he said that was still the case. Sometimes he spent the whole day checking his watch, counting down the hours until he could head into town for a quick fix of the new publican.
As he moved mobs of sheep from one paddock to another, he pondered his dilemma. When his parents had moved to the city, he promised them that he’d keep an eye on Charlie. For the most part, Charlie didn’t need watching, but he had been getting a bit forgetful the last couple of months.
Jack and Jill worked the sheep ahead of him – so competent he barely had to shout any instructions – and a thought struck him. It was his quiet season. He wasn’t shearing or crutching, not harvesting or seeding. What was to say he had to visit Charlie in the evening?
When he’d started his visits a couple of years back, evenings had been the obvious option. He’d been seeding at the time and could only fit a visit in after work. Besides, it had been his first year as a bachelor again and going home at night to an empty house – a massive reminder of his personal failings – hadn’t been appealing. In the pub’s jovial atmosphere, and with the help of the odd beer, it had been easy to forget his woes.
But he’d moved on now. He’d grown accustomed to the quietness and peace at home. Not being nagged about leaving your socks and jocks lying around was only one of the benefits of divorce. Now there was nothing to stop him visiting Charlie at home during daylight hours.
Gibson adjusted his hat, whistled ahead to Jack and Jill and grinned at this epiphany. He laboured harder, hurrying the dogs and the sheep. If he worked quickly, he could have the sheep safely in the new paddock and be in town in time to share lunch with his grandfather.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Charlie looked up from where he’d been weeding his measly front garden as Gibson stepped out of his ute.
‘Brought lunch,’ Gibson replied, holding up an esky. ‘And a very good morning to you too.’
Charlie heaved himself to his feet and glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost afternoon.’
Despite the gruff words, Gibson knew his grandfather was happy about the unexpected visit. ‘So it is,’ he said, heading for the front door.
He went in ahead of Charlie and began to unload sausages, eggs, bacon and juice from the esky. He hoped there was a fresh loaf of bread lying around for the toast. He’d decided to cook up a typical big breakfast (despite it being well past that time) because Charlie loved that type of food.
‘What are you doing?’ Charlie asked when he finally entered the tiny kitchen. He frowned at the food laid out on the bench ready to be cooked.
‘I told you. I’m making lunch.’
The frown deepened. ‘I usually have a Cup-a-Soup and some crackers.’
Gibson feigned a look of disgust. ‘Then it’s good I’m here. That’s no lunch for a grown man.’
Charlie hesitated for a moment, then went to the pantry. He took out a sachet of instant tomato soup and went to boil the kettle.
‘You’re not going to have that instead of this feast?’ Gibson couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice as he gestured to all his ingredients.
Charlie ripped open the sachet. Gibson noticed his hand shaking as he emptied the powdered contents into an old Scouts mug. ‘I’ll have that as well,’ Charlie finally answered.
‘Okay.’ Gibson shrugged. Just another one of his grandfather’s quirks. While Charlie sat down at the table with his mug and started to blow on the steaming contents, Gibson began to cook.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ Charlie asked, between mouthfuls of soup.
‘I wasn’t very busy and I thought it’d be nice to have lunch with you.’ Gibson didn’t look at Charlie as he spoke, choosing to spear and turn the sausages instead. ‘Not a sin to spend time with my granddad, is it?’
‘No,’ Charlie answered tentatively, ‘but you’ll still be at the pub tonight, won’t you?’
Gibson shook his head. ‘There’s a movie I want to watch on telly.’
‘Which one?’
‘What?’
‘Which movie?’
Dammit
, why hadn’t he planned this better? He hadn’t anticipated his grandfather giving him the third degree.
‘Can’t remember the title,’ he said as he popped some bread into the toaster. ‘It’s had lots of good write-ups though.’ He hoped there was a movie on at least one channel tonight. If he told Charlie the real reason he didn’t want to go to the pub, he’d never live it down.
Charlie sighed and focused again on his soup, taking tiny but quick spoonfuls until the mug was empty. He stood up, crossed the kitchen and put his mug in the fridge.
Gibson did a double take. ‘Do you want me to wash that?’ he asked, pointing to the fridge.
‘Why would I want you to wash the fridge?’ Charlie asked, scratching the side of his head.
‘I meant the mug. You just put the mug in the fridge.’
‘What?’ Charlie’s one word was more of a bark. Confusion crossed his face. He retraced his steps and opened the refrigerator.
Gibson’s eyes hadn’t been fooling him. The empty mug sat on the middle ledge between a tub of margarine and a bag of tomatoes.
‘Well, hell,’ said Charlie, snatching the mug and all but throwing it into the sink. ‘You’re flustering me.’
‘Sorry.’ Puzzled by this uncharacteristic behaviour, Gibson nodded towards a kitchen chair. ‘Sit down, Granddad, and let me feed you.’
‘I’m quite capable of feeding myself,’ he snapped.
‘I never said you weren’t.’ Gibson resisted the urge to throw his hands up in the air. He’d been the only family member to stick up for Charlie when debate raged over whether he should live alone or not. This lunch wasn’t going at all how he’d planned. He racked his brain for a safe topic of conversation but the only thing he could think about was Charlie’s work at the pub. Not wanting to bring Imogen up, he cast around for something else.
‘I spoke to Paris last night,’ he said eventually. ‘She said Bradley got a merit award at school. Apparently his was the first for this year’s kindy class, so she’s pretty stoked.’ Bradley was his sister’s oldest son. Rumoured (by Paris) to be a genius, neither Charlie nor Gibson had seen any evidence thus far. They usually joked about Paris’ tendency to talk up everything her kids did.
Today Charlie only nodded and uttered a barely audible, ‘That’s good.’
Gibson decided to concentrate on getting the meal on the table and work on the conversation after that. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until his nose caught the tempting aroma of cooked sausages and bacon.
‘Okay, Granddad,’ he said, laying a full plate in front of the old man. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Sure am,’ Charlie replied, a slight smile lifting his lips. ‘I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.’
Gibson opened his mouth to mention the soup but thought better of it and chomped down on a sausage instead. As he said earlier, packet soup couldn’t be classified as food.
‘This is good,’ Charlie said after a few mouthfuls, ‘but you’re still coming to the pub tonight, aren’t you?’
Gibson halted his fork and egg halfway to his mouth. ‘No, Granddad, I told you I was busy this evening.’
‘But you always come.’
‘I come to visit you, not the pub, and today I’m visiting you at home instead.’ He hadn’t noticed his granddad so hung up on routine before. ‘That okay?’
‘It’ll have to be, won’t it?’ Charlie replied gruffly. ‘But you’ll come tomorrow night, won’t you?’
‘We’ll see.’ Gibson glanced down at his plate so as not to meet Charlie’s eye and started back in on his lunch.
But when tomorrow came, Gibson found that he had to head into town mid-afternoon to buy some strainer posts for fencing. It’d be a waste of petrol to make the trip twice when he could quite easily visit Charlie now. This time he popped into the general store and picked up a packet of Tim Tams to take as an offering. Hopefully with the sweet taste of his favourite biscuit on his tongue, his granddad would be distracted from the fact Gibson had avoided the pub two days in a row.
Charlie was dozing in the rocker out the front when he arrived. Gibson plodded up the wooden steps onto the verandah and Charlie startled at the sound.
‘What time is it?’ Charlie all but leaped out of the chair. ‘Am I late for work?’
‘Nope.’ Gibson opened the screen door and held it for Charlie. ‘I had to come into town, so I thought I’d visit you as well.’ He held up the packet of biscuits.
Charlie narrowed his eyes at Gibson. ‘You’re not coming in for your drink tonight, are you?’ He glowered and stormed off down the hallway.
‘Not tonight,’ said Gibson, trying to keep his voice light as the door banged behind him.
‘Another good movie on the telly?’ asked Charlie, clearly not believing his excuse at all.
Gibson didn’t care. It wasn’t as though he was ditching his familial responsibilities – he was still visiting, wasn’t he? ‘Something like that.’
Charlie reached the kitchen table and sat down on one of the old chairs. ‘Never mind. Open that packet and I might forgive you for confusing an old man.’
Happy that Charlie wasn’t going to press the issue, Gibson ripped open the foil and shoved the tray across to his grandfather. Then he put the kettle on. Within five minutes they were nursing mugs of tea and discussing the finer points of AFL. Charlie was a Dockers supporter and Gibson barracked for the Eagles. The big West Australian derby was still a couple of months away, but that didn’t stop Charlie getting excited. Once that topic was exhausted, Gibson decided he’d better make a move.
As he stood to collect the mugs and ditch the now empty biscuit packet, Charlie spoke. ‘I told you about Imogen’s slab party, didn’t I? I was thinking you could bring your power sander and have a go at the verandah. Imogen reckons people will get splinters from it once she gets the outdoor area functioning better.’
Gibson froze at the sink. ‘Slab party?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie nodded enthusiastically. ‘When Imogen told me all the things she wanted to do to the pub, I realised a number of the tasks could be done relatively quickly with local volunteers. That’s when I suggested she provide the food and the alcohol and throw a party for anyone who helps her fix up the old girl. The whole town will benefit.’
Yeah, Gibson reckoned the blokes would be lining up for this scheme. ‘Um … when is it?’ he asked, trying to sound noncommittal.
‘First weekend in March. And I’m in charge of organising everyone.’
‘That’s great.’ He tried to sound like he meant it. ‘But I won’t be able to help. There’s a lot happening on the farm right now.’
Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s why you can take hours off in the middle of the day, two days in a row, to visit an old man and eat?’
Sometimes Gibson wished Charlie
was
completely off with the fairies like his mum and Paris believed. He had no witty or logical reply. So instead he rinsed the mugs and feigned deafness.
Unfortunately, when his granddad had a bee in his bonnet, he didn’t let up. ‘Sometimes you’re a mystery to me, Gibson Black. I know women haven’t been terribly kind to you, but have you got something against Imogen in particular?’ When Gibson said nothing, Charlie continued, his voice rising in annoyance. ‘You’re downright rude to her and now you blatantly refuse to help when everyone knows you’re usually the first to lend a hand round here.’
‘That’s just it,’ Gibson said, jumping on this excuse. ‘I already do my bit for the town, volunteering for the ambulance and chairing the Apex committee.’ Not to mention somehow being coerced into dressing up as Santa Claus at Christmas for the very few children left in the town. ‘I’m sorry Granddad, but I just can’t do it.’