When Harriet Came Home (2 page)

“This will be its inaugural year. I raised the idea through the local chamber of commerce. It’s all for charity, of course. All the funds raised will go to the hospital for some new diagnostic equipment.”

“You’re organising a charity ball?”

She hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous. Rude, even. She opened her mouth to make amends, but before she could speak, he gunned the truck and roared up the hill toward her parents’ house. Everything in the vehicle rattled and bounced, and she clung to her seat aware only of Adam’s grim jaw and white knuckles.

“You’re not the only one who’s changed in the last ten years, Harriet.” He brought the truck to a jerking halt outside her parents’ modest bungalow and spun round in his seat to confront her, his face rigid. “Tell me the truth. Do I look the same to you?”

Her stomach rolled. An unpleasant wet-dry sensation coated her mouth as though her body wanted to throw up. His flinty eyes locked with hers; try as she might she couldn’t break the connection.

“N-no,” she stuttered. “You’re not the same at all.”

The realisation of how much he had changed hit her like a cold wave. Once Adam Blackstone had the world at his feet. Now those feet wore rough work boots, his calloused hands laboured for a living, and it was all her fault. Her heart plummeted. She knew she was responsible for the downfall of the once-illustrious Blackstones, but it was one thing to acknowledge it privately, and quite another to come face-to-face with the consequences of her actions.

“I—I’m sorry.” All her years of confidence-building slipped away, and once again she stammered and blushed and wrung her fingers like the timid schoolgirl she used to be. “I—I didn’t think you—”

“No, that’s your trouble. You didn’t think. You didn’t think about anyone but yourself.” His lips clamped into a hard line as though he didn’t trust himself to say more. He leaped out and slammed the door behind him.

By the time she got out, he had already hoisted her overnight bag from the back of his truck and dumped it on the footpath. Without another word he returned to the driver’s seat and took off, the tires of his car spitting out dust and gravel.

Harriet was still shaking when the front door of her parents’ house cracked open. She gasped as she caught sight of her mother. Sharon Brown had once been a model and took great pride in her appearance. Even a quick trip to the corner shop could not be contemplated without fresh lipstick, matching accessories and proper shoes. But the woman who leaned against the door now was barefoot and wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair a frazzled mess, her face swollen and blotchy from crying.

“Oh, thank God you’re here!” she wailed at Harriet before weaving back into the house. “I’m an absolute wreck!”

“Yes, it’s been a rough day, Mum.”

Her mother collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. “Your poor father! He just went to get supplies, you know. His van went off the road and slammed into a pole…”

“Yes, Mum.” Harriet patted her mother’s arm. She’d already heard all the details over the phone, but there was no stopping Sharon.

Sharon pressed her handkerchief against her lips. Her hand shook. “If it weren’t for that doctor…so lucky he was passing…and then the hospital. All that waiting, and just Cindy and me…”

She crumpled into fresh tears. Harriet patted her shoulder tentatively. She wished she and her mother were more touchy-feely with each other. This would be so much easier.

“I’m sure Dad is going to be okay.” Harriet looked around for her sister. “I thought Cindy might be here.”

Sharon doted on Cindy. The pair of them were two sugar peas in a pod, and her mother had always been inordinately proud of Cindy’s auburn-haired, porcelain-skinned beauty, which mirrored her own looks at that same age.

Sharon snorted. “Cindy’s married with her own kid now. No time for her poor old mother.” Her wrinkled lips quivered and pulled down at the corners. “I suppose you’ll be dashing off too as soon as you can,” she added with a heavy dose of self-pity.

Harriet tapped her fingers on the Formica table and eyed the overnight bag she’d thrown together. She hadn’t really thought things through when she’d stuffed the bag with whatever clothes came to hand. Now that she was here, she realised this wasn’t going to be a lightning visit. Not with her father still in hospital and her mother unravelling before her very eyes.

She thought longingly of her commercial kitchen in Sydney with its pristine surfaces and industrial-grade appliances. She had three catering jobs over the next week and had been looking forward to serving up her new recipe for barbecued ribs. But then she thought of her father, and guilt scorched her afresh. She couldn’t abandon him. She’d have to ring around and get someone to cover for her. Short notice, but she couldn’t just cancel on her clients.

“I’m here for as long as I’m needed,” she said to her mother. “Why don’t you take a nap while I cook you dinner?”

“Don’t bother.” Her mother flapped her hand ungraciously. “I’m on a diet.” Curiosity crept into her reddened eyes. “So you’re really staying? I can’t remember when last you were here.”

Harriet shifted on her chair. “It’s been a while. You know why.”

“Mmm. People like to gossip, especially in a sleepy place like here.” Sharon furrowed her brow. “But you’re over that now?”

The memory of Adam’s taut, angry face made Harriet flinch inside.

“Yup. That’s all water under the bridge now,” she lied.

She’d just keep out of Adam’s way while she was here, that’s all. He’d be equally keen to avoid her, she was sure. Her father would come home from hospital soon, and when he was well on the way to recovery, she’d be able to go back to Sydney and the life she’d made for herself. She didn’t belong here in Wilmot. She’d do her duty and be off.

How hard could it be?

“Who was that I caught you with this afternoon, hmm?”

Adam backed away from Portia’s speculative tone. He should have known his cousin would interrogate him, but he wished she didn’t have to do it here in the middle of the Harvest Ball committee meeting.

“Harriet Brown,” he said. “I gave her a lift home from the hospital, that’s all.”

“Harriet Brown?” A slight frown puckered Portia’s brow before her eyes grew round. “No! Little Hamster Brown? It can’t be!”

Adam grimaced at his mug of tea. The old nickname had just slipped out of him before he could stop himself, but he wished it hadn’t. He’d seen the hurt flare in Harriet’s eyes before she could disguise it.

“Don’t call her that.”

Portia hadn’t heard him. “Well, well! She’s certainly managed to shed a few kilos, thank God. I always felt a bit sorry for her in school, but, you know, some grossly obese people just refuse to help themselves.”

Adam couldn’t recall Harriet being grossly obese. She’d been chubby and extremely shy—the kind of girl he’d never look at twice ten years ago—but not anymore. She’d lost those glasses she used to hide behind, so now you could see her big brown eyes. She’d done something to her hair too, swept it off her face and sleeked it back. And she had curves like Betty Boop. But more than looks, her personality had changed. She definitely wasn’t the quiet, timid little thing he remembered.

“What on earth are you doing driving around with
her?
” Portia’s disdainful tone brought him thudding back to earth. “Surely you haven’t forgotten what she did to Uncle Warwick, what she did to you?”

Adam frowned and cast a quick glance at the rest of the people in the council chamber room. They were all making themselves tea or coffee before the meeting began, and Portia’s carrying voice had already made a few heads turn. The last thing he wanted was for his family history to be dragged up in public one more time. Especially now, when he was busy trying to rebuild everything he’d lost.

He turned back to his cousin. “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” he said in a low voice.

How could he? Every morning he woke up to the consequences of Harriet Brown’s actions. For years he had brooded over her, but it was one thing to despise an absent figure, and quite another to run into her in the flesh. Loathing didn’t come naturally to him, but he was giving it a red-hot go.

“I’m not doing anything with her, but in case you didn’t know, her father, Ken Brown, has just had a car accident and is currently lying in hospital.”

“Ah. I was just about to discuss that with you.” Moira, one of the other committee members, bustled forward with her usual air of importance. “We’re all sorry about Ken, of course, but what are we going to do about catering?”

Nodding in agreement, the rest of the committee pressed closer like a flock of sheep, looking at Adam for direction. He sighed inwardly. He knew this question would come up at the meeting and wished he had a firm answer.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “I suggest we wait until Ken is feeling better, and then I’ll discuss the catering with him.”

“But the ball is in two weeks’ time.”

“How will we ever find another caterer at such short notice?”

“We should never have asked Ken in the first place. I mean, The Tuckerbox is okay for a cheap Thursday dinner, but it’s hardly what you’d call fine dining.” This last comment came from Portia, who didn’t bother to keep the hauteur from her voice.

Adam shot her a sharp frown, but she merely shrugged without the slightest remorse.

“Ken has been very generous to us,” he said to everyone. “It’s not his fault he’s had an accident.”

Ever since Adam had returned to Wilmot two years ago, Ken Brown had been eager to help. Adam had been suspicious and brusque, but there was something about Ken’s wholehearted goodness that couldn’t be denied. There wasn’t a malicious bone in his body, and you couldn’t say that about many people.

“Yes, we all agree on that,” Moira pressed, “but what about the catering?”

The rest of the committee waited for him to say something. It was only natural for them to look to him for leadership. He was the driving force behind the Harvest Ball, the one who had come up with the idea, formed the committee, locked in important sponsors. For the past three months it had become almost an obsession with him. Sometimes he wondered if he was too full of himself. So what if the Blackstone family had fallen from grace? So what if generations of hard-working, prosperous and civic-minded achievers had dwindled down to one carpenter, the only surviving son of a philanderer and a cheat? Did he really think one blue-ribbon charity ball would restore the good name of his family?

Maybe not totally, but it was a start. He lifted his chin and scanned the committee members.

“I won’t make any decisions until I’ve spoken with Ken.”

It was the least he could do for Ken, Adam thought. Ken Brown deserved respect.

Unlike his daughter.

Ken squeezed Harriet’s hand. “Pumpkin, your mother always feels better when her lipstick is on straight.”

Harriet glanced after her mother tottering out the ward on her high heels. She turned her attention back to her father who seemed more substantial now that he was awake and sitting up. The anxiety that had seized her all night loosened a couple of notches. She and her mother had been sitting at his bedside for half an hour, and after streaking mascara all over her face, her mother had gone off to the ladies’ to repair her makeup. Her dad didn’t seem in the least put off by her histrionics, thought Harriet, but then he’d had years of practice.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Harriet assured him. “I’ll take care of Mum. She’s just so used to having you around she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“It’s not your mother I’m thinking about.” His gnarled hand tightened on hers. “It’s you.”

“Me?” Harriet shrugged. “I’m fine, Dad, now that I know you’re not in any danger.”

“I’m so glad you’re finally back in Wilmot. I thought you’d never return.”

“Gee, Dad. You had an accident. Of course I had to come back.”

“You’ve stayed away for far too long.”

“I’ve been busy.” She tried to look nonchalant. “You know what it’s like in the catering business.”

“You can’t fool your old dad. I know what’s kept you away.” He pulled her closer. “Now that you’re back in Wilmot, I think it’s time.”

A spasm of foreboding flickered through her. She didn’t like the look on his face one bit. Beneath the swollen flesh glimmered a sternness she wasn’t used to from her father. “Time for what, Dad?”

“For you to put the past behind you and make your peace with the Blackstones. With Adam Blackstone.”

Put the past behind her? How could she do that when just yesterday Adam had snarled at her?
He
certainly hadn’t put the past behind him.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice so they wouldn’t be overheard by the other patients. “Why are you so concerned about Adam Blackstone?”

Her father shifted in his bed, his face wrinkling with a discomfort that had nothing to do with his injuries. He too dropped his voice. “I know you did the right thing when you caught Warwick taking a bribe, and it was only proper that he should resign, but…” He fingered the bandage wound around his head. “But he wasn’t all bad, you know. He did a lot of good things for this town, and he was a popular man in his own right. A lot of people were sad to see him go. When he died the whole town turned up at his funeral.”

Her dad wasn’t telling her anything new. She’d exposed the mayor’s corrupt behaviour and along with it several sordid affairs, but instead of being praised, she’d been vilified. The mayor was well-liked and respected; the Blackstone family had been in Wilmot since the 1880s and were known for their contributions to the local community. Even this hospital stood on land donated by the Blackstones. People didn’t like having their role models torn down. The consensus grew that sure, Warwick Blackstone had taken the odd bribe from a developer, and he had kept two or maybe three lovers simultaneously, but he was a widower, and a handsome one at that, and he’d done plenty of good things for Wilmot. All things considered, people were of the opinion that his crime hadn’t warranted his harsh punishment.

Harriet sighed. “Why are you bringing all this up now?”

Ken reached out and squeezed her arm. “You’ve let this episode affect you too much for too long.”

Harriet sat up straighter and laced her fingers around her crossed knees. “This episode? Dad, may I remind you I was the one who had eggs thrown at her? I was the one who had to endure everyone’s stares and mutters and cold shoulders? People used to yell insults at me while they drove past. And I’d done nothing wrong.”

“Yes, I know you had a bad time, pumpkin, but you wanted to get away from Wilmot anyway. Adam had no choice. After his father died and the bank repossessed what was left of the Blackstone estate, he had to leave town.”

Oh yes, poor old Adam. Harriet folded her arms and tried to think derisive thoughts about him, but try as she might she couldn’t push yesterday’s memories from her mind. Adam, looking so rough hewn in his work clothes, his hands toughened by years of manual labour, his eyes older than his twenty-nine years. She bit her lip as she studied her varnished toenails peeping from her sandals. Being a cook meant it wasn’t practical to have fancy fingernails, but she loved jazzing up her toenails, and her current colour—Candy Apple—was one of her favourites. This time it failed to lift her spirits. The heavy, lumpy feeling in her gut persisted. Guilt, that’s what it was.

“Dad, the Adam Blackstones of this world never even realise people like me exist. I’ve always been invisible to him.” Except for yesterday. He’d noticed her then, and it hadn’t been good.

Her father shook his head. “He’s not the same. He used to be a bit of a Champagne Charlie, but not anymore. I have a lot of time for Adam. He’s given so much of himself organizing this ball all in the name of charity. He’s a decent chap, and I wish you two could be friends.”

“Jeepers, Dad.” Harriet gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not in kindergarten anymore. You can’t set up play dates for me in the hope I’ll make a bosom buddy. I’m sure Adam doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Just give him a ring and talk to him.” He squeezed her arm one more time and leaned back against the pillows. “I don’t want to have to break a leg just to get you to visit me again. Can you just do this one thing for me, pumpkin?”

Great. Emotional blackmail. That’s all she needed. But as she studied her dad’s liverish, exhausted face, she knew she had no choice. She’d have to talk to Adam again. Offer him an apology. Extend the olive branch. At least over the phone she wouldn’t have to look at him and become tongue-tied and stupid. And if he was rude to her, or hung up on her, she’d still be able to tell her dad that she’d tried.

“Uh, sure, Dad.” She patted his arm. “I’ll give him a call this evening.”

“No, call him now while you’re still fresh.”

She didn’t want to talk to him now! “But he might be working now. He wouldn’t like being disturbed.”

“He’s doing a job over at Cindy’s place.” Her father waved his hand. “She keeps on changing her mind over what she wants. I’m sure he’d welcome a call just to get away from her.”

Harriet frowned. “What kind of job is he doing at Cindy’s?” For some reason the thought of Adam spending time at Cindy’s filled her with a wormy feeling of unease.

“Some kind of fancy pool house.” Her father shrugged. “You know your sister. Always likes everything shiny and new. Call him now. He’s a builder. He gets calls at work all the time.”

The urgency in his voice swept her along. If she was going to call Adam, she might as well get it over and done with now, instead of having the task hang over her head all day long.

“Okay, Dad.” She picked up her handbag from beneath her seat. “I’ll have to go outside to make the call.”

Five minutes later she’d tracked down Adam’s number from directory assistance. She stood in the hospital forecourt, gazing unseeing at tubs of marigolds while she screwed up her courage and eventually dialled the number.

“Adam Blackstone.” He answered on the second ring.

Thrown by his quick response, she flapped her lips as all her rehearsed greetings flew from her brain. “Um…hi, Adam, it’s Harriet here…er, Harriet Brown.”

Damn, why did she sound so hesitant?

There was a weighty pause before he spoke. “I hear your father’s doing well.”

“Yes, yes, he is.” She wondered how he knew this.

“I rang the hospital this morning,” he continued in a neutral tone, answering her unspoken question. He stopped, and she could hear some banging noises in the background. She tried to picture him wielding a hammer with a couple of nails held between his lips. What exactly was he doing at Cindy’s place?

“Harriet? Is there some reason you rang?” A thread of impatience entered his voice. She imagined him frowning down at his work boots.

“Well, yes, there is. The thing is, ah, you and I have never really talked—”

“We talked yesterday.”

“That—that wasn’t really a talk.” Her fingers grew damp as she clamped them round her mobile phone.

“I don’t need to talk.”

Sheesh, how rude and arrogant he sounded. Her back stiffened. She snatched off a marigold leaf and crushed it between her fingers, inhaling its pungent scent as she drew in a deep breath. “I think we do. You can’t tell me that, after all that’s happened, you don’t have anything to say to me, anything at all?”

He drew in a harsh breath that sounded like a growl to her. “Trust me, Harriet. You really
don’t
want to hear what I’ve got to say to you,” he said, his teeth grinding like pebbles.

Her lower lip shook, but she made herself continue. “Listen, I know you hate me, but maybe it’s time to let bygones be bygones?”

“I don’t hate you,” he said in the iciest tone she’d ever heard. “To hate you, I’d have to know you personally, and I don’t know you from a bar of soap. So let’s keep it that way, huh?”

She trembled, her skin prickling as humiliation grazed over her, but this time a welcome wave of anger washed the embarrassment away. “You haven’t changed much really,” she retorted unsteadily. “You’re still so full of yourself, still full of your own self-importance.”

She heard him drag in another ragged breath and pictured the lines deepening around his mouth. “Is this your way of apologising? Frankly, my dear, it sucks.”

And he hung up on her.

Numbly she stared at the phone. The marigolds mocked her with their bright orange heads. Whatever brief moment of camaraderie she and Adam had once shared was obviously gone—they could barely hold an ordinary, civilised conversation. Her father had thought one simple phone call could clear up a decade’s worth of bad blood, but he was wrong. She and Adam couldn’t even be in the same room together, let alone call a truce.

The back of her throat smarted. She picked a marigold and buried her nose in it. She didn’t want all these people wandering in and out of the hospital to see how much Adam had hurt her. But hadn’t she said some hurtful things to him too? Things he didn’t deserve? She groaned. Maybe she should call him back…but he’d probably already blocked her number on his mobile phone.

She discarded the marigold and trudged back inside. So much for making her father happy. How was she going to tell him about the phone call? She walked in to find her mother at his bedside, her makeup restored and only a little overdone. Her father looked drained, but when he spotted her, he broke into a tired grin.

“See? Didn’t I tell you you’d feel better after talking to him?” He turned to Sharon. “Harriet’s smoothing things over between her and Adam. I’ll feel so much better now when he comes to visit me later today.”

Harriet collapsed into a seat. “Um, what?”

“Adam said he’d be visiting me after work today. I’ve been worried about the two of you meeting, but now your differences have all been sorted, it’s a load off my mind.”

Fan-bloody-tastic. What was she going to do now? Confess to her dad things were as bad as ever between her and Adam? She couldn’t do that, not when his eyelids were drooping with exhaustion and his skin looked all sallow beneath the purpling bruises.

She chewed on her lower lip. Dad was right about one thing. She’d been avoiding Wilmot for years mainly because of Adam. It didn’t seem right he should stop her from feeling comfortable with her own father.

No, somehow between now and whenever Adam knocked off work she would find a way of getting him to accept her apology and forge some kind of ceasefire. She was tired of letting the past beat her.

Growing up, Harriet had sometimes wondered what genetic mix-up had made her and Cindy sisters. Five years her senior, Cindy had always been light years away from Harriet. They were so dissimilar there could be no possibility of jealousy. Titian-haired, willowy Cindy had followed in her mother’s footsteps and done modelling for a couple of years before returning to Wilmot to marry Brett Mitchell, her most faithful of worshippers, who made a comfortable living working at his father’s car dealership.

Cindy and Brett lived in a new subdivision just outside Wilmot on a “lifestyle” rural acreage. Harriet got out of her newly repaired hatchback and surveyed the place. For her sister “rural” didn’t mean modest. The white
Gone-with-the-Wind
house reared up like a giant wedding cake, and when she rang the gold-plated doorbell she could hear it echoing through acres of space inside. The sharp clickety-clack of stiletto heels heralded Cindy’s arrival before the door swung open.

Cindy gave her a lazy smile. “I heard you were back. Mum already driving you crazy?” She lifted one plucked eyebrow before giving Harriet her usual perfumed air-kiss several inches short of Harriet’s cheek.

“You’re looking good.” Harriet surveyed her sister’s taut figure encased in ripped, skin-tight jeans and tiny, midriff-baring T-shirt. Harriet had lost a lot of weight but knew she would never be as svelte as her sister. To look at Cindy you’d never guess she was the mother of a three-year-old. “How’re Brett and Jarrod?” Harriet asked as they walked through the soaring hallway.

“Brett’s at work, as usual.” They passed a huge living room lavishly furnished in black and white and continued down the passageway toward the back of the house. “Jarrod’s in here somewhere.” Cindy aimed a kick at a Tonka truck as they entered a vast kitchen-
cum
-family-room. A small boy lay on the carpet watching television. As soon as he heard them he jumped up and came hurtling toward them.

“Jarrod!” Cindy’s red-tipped fingers shot out to grab the boy before he could bury his grubby face in her jeans. “How many times have I told you not to do that!” The boy promptly burst into loud, blubbery tears. Cindy sighed. “Look who’s here to see you. It’s your Aunty Harriet.”

Harriet winced at her sister’s wheedling voice. Jarrod took one look at her and ran off and threw himself on the sofa. The last time Harriet had seen her nephew he’d been a tiny wrinkled baby wrapped up in a blanket. Cindy rolled her eyes and marched over to the kitchen sink where she bent to retrieve something from the cupboard beneath the sink.