Rose's Vintage (11 page)

Rose was intrigued to hear more about the absent Isabella and especially interested to have confirmation of the state of Kalkari's finances. She knew Henry was only interested in businesses that were on the brink of bankruptcy. That way he could swoop in and snap them up for a bargain-basement price. ‘So things are still pretty tough around here?' she asked.

‘Yep. Reckon this vintage will either make or break us. Mark's a brilliant winemaker, has great knowledge, an amazing palate, but what he's really got that puts him head and shoulders above anyone else is the feel.'

‘The feel?'

‘Yeah, a gut instinct for making exceptional wine. That's a rare thing. You can have all the knowledge, but it's got to be in your blood as well. But then that doesn't add up to enough without a great vintage – an outstanding vintage, actually – and an understanding bank manager …' Dan's voice trailed off and he laughed hollowly. ‘Not asking much really, are we?'

Rose was surprised. She'd gathered things weren't all wine and roses, to use an appropriate cliché, from Charlie's comments at the Burning of the Canes, but she hadn't known just what a knife-edge Kalkari was operating on. This was clearly why Henry was snooping, but she still wasn't sure why he'd be so interested in a winery on the other side of the world – it was all just a bit far away. There must be something else she didn't know – why else would he have sent her here?

She was in an agony of indecision. Despite her best efforts and her initial impressions of the place, she'd been feeling a small but growing sense of loyalty and affection for Kalkari and the Shingle Valley, and especially towards the kids, who, bless them, were adorable. Even Mark had warmed up a tiny bit and wasn't as irritable as he had been when she first arrived. It was also clear how hard he worked and how passionate he was about the place. She was torn between loyalty to her brother and her growing feelings for Kalkari. She decided to put off thinking about exactly what to tell Henry for a few more days. In any case, he'd most likely be after more concrete information. Facts and figures, that's what Henry dealt in, not airy-fairy emotional stuff.

CHAPTER 9

A
few days later, Mrs B bustled into the kitchen, taking Rose by surprise.

‘Oh, hello, dear. Sorry to startle you. I forget that I don't work here anymore. I'm so used to letting myself in. Thought I'd come and see how the kiddies are doing. I miss them. And how are you getting on? Everyone treating you okay?'

Rose smiled at the nosy ex-housekeeper, ‘Yep, all good, thanks. How are you feeling?'

‘Right as rain, love, right as rain. Any chance of a cuppa?' The old lady didn't wait for an answer, but picked up the large kettle that sat on the range and filled it from the sink. ‘So, how do you fancy throwing your hat in the ring for the CWA competition? Lord knows, we could do with some new blood. Dan's missus mentioned you might be interested.'

‘Well, I'm not quite sure how she got that impression as I've never even met her, but okay, what's it all about?' said Rose.

‘Well, if you are interested, I've got a couple of basic recipes for you here somewhere, and an entry form,' she said, fossicking around in her handbag and retrieving a couple of dog-eared pieces of paper. ‘Here you go: there's a fruit cake and a lumberjack cake recipe there if you need them, or you can use your own. Can't go wrong with those. Just deliver them to the town hall next Tuesday.'

Mrs B wasn't someone Rose could easily refuse. In any case, baking was what Rose did best. How hard could this competition really be? She was Cordon Bleu–trained after all. Perhaps she could show the women of the valley a thing or two.

‘Oh, and you'll need to pay the entry fee. It's a dollar per cake.'

Rose laughed. ‘I think I can manage that.' Who knew? It might even be a bit of fun.

But she didn't have much fun when, on Sunday afternoon, she attempted the first of the cakes. She went with the re cipe given to her by Mrs B. It looked simple enough, but in fact it was so simple that a great deal of detail – at what temperature and for how long to bake each cake, for example – had been left out. Detail that Rose could really have done with, she realised as she read it through more carefully. She'd just have to wing it.

‘Oh no, sweet pea, don't add any more sugar, I've measured it exactly.' Luisa had thudded into the kitchen just as Rose was weighing out the ingredients for the lumberjack cake.

Why's it called that anyway? If you bake this cake, will a lumberjack show up and whisk you off to the woodshed and show you his axe?

She gazed out the window, lost in a fantasy about a strong and silent, check-shirted man who was good with his hands …

‘Luisa!' Rose was brought back to reality. ‘Please, sweetie, don't touch. I need that for the next cake,' she said, exasperated.

Luisa was waving the packet of sugar around in an arc and pouring it all over the floor.

Christ – where's Astrid when I need her?

It was just Rose's luck that Mark chose that moment to come into the kitchen. He frowned, puzzled, as his feet crunched on the sugar scattered all over the floor. ‘Everything alright in here?'

Rose tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Super, thanks,' she said brightly. ‘We're just doing a bit of baking.'

Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?'

‘Dada, we cooking,' said Luisa, beaming at him.

‘So I can see.'

Mark came closer to Rose and brushed her cheek with his hand. Rose was startled at the unexpected intimacy of his touch. ‘What?'

‘Flour,' he replied, holding up his index finger.

‘Oh, right. Thanks.' Blushing, she hid her face, gazing intently at the mixing bowl in front of her, silently cursing her flaming cheeks, where she could still feel the touch of his hand. She was taken aback by her reaction – was she really so desperate that just a touch from a man, any man, could turn her into a blithering idiot? She reminded herself that it was Giles she missed. She did miss talking to him about her day, the solid feel of him next to her in bed at night, even the irritating way he whistled Moves Like Jagger when he was happy about something …

Rose shook her head and, with some effort, brought her mind back to the job at hand. Mark, thankfully, had left her and Luisa to finish their baking without further distractions, but by the time she had swept up all the debris from the floor and wiped down a very sticky Luisa, it was getting late and there weren't enough ingredients remaining to make the fruit cake. Mrs B would just have to be satisfied with the lumberjack cake. Despite Luisa's best efforts and the lack of baking instructions, it actually looked halfway decent. She'd decided to make a couple of versions, using a slightly longer cooking time for one, and then cut the least successful of the two up for afternoon tea. Just as well, as the little girl was desperate to taste it, and even Leo had been lured into the kitchen by the buttery smell wafting through the window.

‘You'll want to put that over there, love,' a kindly voice instructed. ‘I'll take your entry form. Money in the tin. And here's a number to tape to your plate.'

Rose had driven to Eumeralla, the cake balanced precariously on the passenger seat of the car, and arrived at the town hall just as several other women were ferrying their baking to the judging tables. The hall was fragrant with the sweet aromas of butter, lemon, brandy, chocolate and spice – and barely veiled ambition.

Lord!
The Great British Bake Off
's got nothing on this,
she thought in astonishment as she took in the rows of near-identical perfectly risen sponges and luscious iced fancy cakes. She deposited her effort next to several others on a table that bore a folded cardboard sign that read ‘Lumberjack', stuck the assigned number on it and dropped her dollar in the tin.

She was just on her way out the door when she bumped into Mrs B.

‘Hello, love, how'd you get on?'

‘Not too bad, but Luisa wanted to get in on the action too, so it was a joint effort, if you know what I mean,' replied Rose.

Mrs B laughed, her belly shaking with mirth. ‘You and Astrid have got your hands full there now, haven't you?'

‘Sure do. So when is the judging?' asked Rose, curious.

‘They bring in a judge from New Bridgeton – that's the region's nearest big town – and only the CWA's Shingle Valley president knows in advance who it's going to be. That way there's no carry-on about an unfair result, and no-one can try and nobble the judge.'

Rose looked astonished. ‘Really? They'd try to do that?'

‘Oh, you'd better believe it,' said Mrs B, looking darkly around the hall. ‘Trust no-one.'

Rose laughed at Mrs B's cloak-and-dagger expression.

‘The judging is tomorrow; then there's a bit of a fundraiser tea at the end of the week, where everyone gets to sample the entries and the results are announced.'

As Astrid, Rose and Luisa trooped up the stairs to the Eumeralla town hall later that week, they were assaulted by the noise of some fifty-odd women, all of whom seemed to be talking at once, the sound of their voices amplified by the room's high ceilings.

Despite her earlier nonchalance, Rose couldn't wait to find out how she'd done. She'd seen two magpies hopping around outside that morning, and was feeling buoyed up.

‘Come on. Luisa, let's go and get a drink, shall we?' suggested Astrid, bearing the little girl towards a table at the far end of the hall, where three enormous enamelled teapots were being hoisted aloft by several strong-armed women.

Peering between the press of bodies, Rose spied the cakes, laid out on tables that ran the length of the room. She fought her way over to the section where the lumberjack cakes were – there were eleven of them – and was astonished to see that number five bore a rosette. That was hers!

‘Well done, love!' Turning around, Rose saw that the voice belonged to Betty, one of the cooks from the Canes night. ‘Merle Stubbins took out the gong. She's won the gold rosette for best lumberjack cake for the last nine years. But you got a creditable third place. You should be really pleased with that. Some of these women have been baking for more than forty years.'