When Harriet Came Home (6 page)

Her head jerked up as if she’d been stung. “Of course not! Do you think I’m that sort of person?” She gulped. “Adam—” his name came out almost as a sob, “—I wish I’d never done it. If I’d known what would happen…”

His anger toward her fizzled, then curdled and soured in his gut. “Even without you, it would still have happened.” He exhaled and moved away from her. “You were just the catalyst. My father still had those massive debts he couldn’t repay. The bank would still have repossessed this place. We would still have been left with nothing.”

But was that the truth? The public scandal had broken his father’s spirit. After that, Warwick Blackstone had holed up in this house, too ashamed to face the world or fight for his rights. He hadn’t bothered trying to renegotiate his loans, had simply let the rapacious banks dictate terms. If Harriet hadn’t taken those pictures, maybe his father might have come to his senses and made amends. Maybe his father might have survived the crisis. He’d be poor today, but at least he’d still be alive.

“What happened to you after you lost Blackstone Hall?” she asked, her voice husky. “Where did you go?”

Her eyes glinted with moisture. Oh crap. Was she going to cry? He hoped not. He could see she was genuinely upset, and the remaining anger in him faltered.

“I wanted to go somewhere far away. I went to Tasmania.”

She blinked, nodded and hugged herself as though she were cold. “Is that where you became a builder?”

“Eventually.” Before becoming a fully licensed builder, he’d first trained as a carpenter, employed on restoration projects of Tasmania’s numerous colonial buildings. There was something about working with wood—its scent, history and organic texture—which he found deeply satisfying.

“And now you’re back here in Wilmot.” She looked up at the lofty ceiling. “And you’ve reclaimed your family home.”

He glanced up too and caught sight of the large damp stain marring the plaster mouldings.

“Not quite. The bank holds the title deeds to this house. I just have a hefty mortgage to pay off over the next twenty years and a place that’s falling about my ears.”

“Oh.” His sardonic tone brought a look of uncertainty to her face. “Has the house been empty all these years then?”

“Yes. The bank tried to sell it several times, but somehow never succeeded. This house is heritage listed, so that puts off the buyers out for a quick buck. And the more it rotted away, the harder it was to sell. I got it at a bargain price, but I’m still just buying a money-pit.”

He’d sunk all his savings into buying Blackstone Hall, and he spent all his spare time working on it. The decision to buy his old family home had been a completely irrational one in terms of economic sense, but he hadn’t hesitated to sign the papers. This house was part of his history, part of who he was, and coming back here had restored something in him he’d thought he’d lost. It sounded flaky, but Harriet was nodding, as though she understood.

“At any rate it’s a very beautiful money-pit.” She moved over to the French doors. Her shoulders stiffened. “Are you expecting company?”

Harriet’s heart sank when she spotted the silver BMW convertible gliding up the gravel driveway with the top down. The woman behind the wheel was instantly recognisable.

“My cousins,” Adam said from another set of French doors. “I wasn’t expecting them, no.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or not. The two people in the BMW spotted him and waved. Portia brought the sleek car to a halt just inches from the front veranda. The man who slung himself out of the car was tall and fair just like Portia.

“You remember Tristan, Portia’s brother?” said Adam as they walked back through the hallway and out the front door. “He was in my year at school.”

Tristan had been popular at school, but not as popular as the edgier Adam. Tristan had always seemed easygoing, and he didn’t appear to have changed much as he leaped up on the veranda and strode toward Adam with a big grin on his face. His blond, sun-streaked hair flopped across his forehead, and he was dressed straight out of the country-casual pages of a Ralph Lauren catalogue. Harriet hung back as the two cousins greeted each other.

“Just here for the weekend, so I dragged Portia along with me to say hello.” Tristan clapped his cousin on the back. Next to Adam’s work-hardened physique Tristan seemed rather soft and pampered. His eyes slid toward Harriet and lit up with interest. “Hel-lo?” He wiggled his eyebrows in ridiculous exaggeration. “Hope we’re not disturbing anything!”

The innuendo in his voice made Harriet’s toes curl.

“It’s Harriet Brown. You remember. A year below us at school.” Adam’s voice was as terse as his expression.

“Harriet Brown?” The blankness on Tristan’s face slowly altered as his memory kicked in. A flush crept up his neck. “Ah…Harriet…yes.” He eyed her uncertainly as he tugged at the collar of his expensive polo shirt. “Hi there.”

“Hello.” She gave him a nod.

“Harriet and I have just been discussing the catering for the Harvest Ball,” Adam continued without a sideways glance at her.

“
Have
you?” Portia’s voice was sharp as a whiplash, belying her languid posture. She’d been lounging against a veranda post, but now she sauntered forward in her impeccable linen pantsuit. Ignoring Harriet, she planted herself in front of Adam. “Why are you talking to Harriet about the ball? I thought you were going to call Grape in Scone today.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, but Harriet will be doing the catering.”

Portia’s jaw sagged. “She is?”

I am?
Harriet thought. She stared at Adam who continued to ignore her.

“Harriet runs her own catering business back in Sydney,” he said. “She’s just given me a sample of her cooking, and I’m satisfied she can handle the job.” He turned to Harriet. “Can’t you?”

The challenge in his eyes was unmistakeable. She sucked in a quick breath. “Of course I can.”

She had no idea what she had just agreed to. After her disastrous apple-and-rhubarb crumble, she’d assumed she’d lost all hope of winning Adam over, so she hadn’t even bothered to ask for more details like how many people he expected, or what facilities there were at the church hall. But now that she’d given him her word in front of Portia and Tristan, she would rather pull out her fingernails than back-pedal.

“You never mentioned Harriet to the committee.” Portia’s face was tight with accusation. “I’m sure some of us would have had something to say if we’d been consulted.”

“It’s the best solution.” Adam’s voice was deceptively even. “I’m sure the committee would agree that, with only two weeks to go, Harriet is the logical choice to step in for her dad.”

“Sounds like common sense to me,” Tristan chipped in.

His sister shot him a freezing glare. He buried his hands in his pockets and studied his Gucci loafers. A tense little silence developed between the four of them.

Harriet quickly tired of Portia’s scowl aimed at her. “I’d better be on my way,” she said to Adam. “I’ll call you later to discuss some of the details.” She turned back to his cousins. “My car’s back at Adam’s cottage, so I’ll just say goodbye now.”

Tristan jumped forward. “I’ll walk you back. I haven’t seen you in ages. What have you been up to?”

His attention startled her. At school Tristan had noticed her even less than Adam had, but now, as she walked back up the driveway, he bounded at her side like an exuberant golden retriever. He didn’t seem to hold a grudge against her for what she’d done to Adam’s father; it was as if he were meeting her for the first time. He asked her questions and chatted about himself in a breezy manner that she couldn’t bring herself to dislike. In return she gave him a brief rundown of her father’s accident and her involvement with the Harvest Ball.

The sound of a car engine purring made her turn her head. Adam and Portia were behind them in the BMW. Portia was at the wheel, but Adam was staring straight at Harriet and Tristan, a small frown between his eyes.

Harriet turned away and hurried up the drive, her nerves jangling. “Here’s my car,” she announced to Tristan.

She slipped into the driver’s seat of her hatchback with a grateful sigh, eager to be gone.

“I’ll see you around.” Tristan smiled hopefully as he shut her door for her.

As Portia’s BMW drew up alongside, Harriet started her engine and pulled off, waving in the general direction of Adam and Portia. Adam gave her a solemn salute. In her rear-view mirror she saw him staring after her as she sped away.

“Darling, when are you coming back?”

Harriet smiled at the sound of her best friend’s voice coming over her mobile phone. Gemma was a high-flying corporate lawyer who loved to entertain. She had started out as one of Harriet’s clients, and the two had quickly become fast friends. When Harriet told her she wouldn’t be back in Sydney for at least two weeks, her friend let out a shriek.

“But we have concert tickets for next week! I can’t go without you!”

Harriet let out a wistful sigh. “I’m afraid you’ll have to. Give my ticket to someone else.”

“It won’t be the same. And you’re supposed to go sailing with me on Nico’s yacht. I don’t trust him without you there.”

“Hmm. I won’t exactly miss playing the gooseberry between you two.”

“But you love sailing, and I thought you’d only be gone a few days, and you did say your dad was doing well. I just don’t understand—” Gemma drew in a quick gasp before her tone altered. “Oh, I get it. There’s a man involved in little ol’ Wilmot, isn’t there? That’s why you’re not hurrying back as fast as you can.”

Harriet scowled. “The only man involved is my dad. I’m filling in for him on a catering job. That’s all.”

“Says you.” Gemma crowed. “So what’s he like, this mystery man who’s stopped you in your tracks? Is he a big, burly farmer? Does he wear plaid shirts and chew hay stalks?”

“
He
is sixty years old.
He
has a broken leg.
He
is relying on me.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Harriet sighed. “Methinks this conversation needs to end. Speak to you later, Gemma.”

When she’d rung off, she felt deflated. If Gemma were here she might have brought herself to talk to her about Adam. But she couldn’t do that over the phone. She looked about her and heaved an even deeper sigh. Here she was back in her childhood bedroom, the same old posters still stuck on the wall, the same books on the shelves, and her still sighing over Adam. She might as well be eighteen all over again.

Flopping down on her bed, she tucked her arms behind her head. Her brief talk with Gemma had given her a powerful reminder of what she’d left behind in Sydney. Her life there was so different from what it was here. Back in Sydney she was a different person. Back in Sydney she was too busy to daydream about men. Back in Sydney she didn’t spend Saturday afternoons mooning over Adam.

Adam. Why couldn’t she go five minutes without thinking about him? She jumped up, rifled through her drawer and pulled out the sock she’d never given back to him. She stretched it out across her lap and stroked the red wool. There was a tiny hole in the heel. Maybe she should mend it. She had some red wool somewhere… Stop. How childish to hang on to a silly sock for so many years.

Her phone rang again, and she snatched it up, some wild, silly part of her hoping it was him.

“Harriet?” Her hopes crumbled away as she recognised Portia’s clipped tones. “It’s Portia here. I wanted a word with you.”

This sounds ominous, Harriet thought. She perched on her bed and put on a cool voice to match Portia’s. “How can I help you?”

“If you really wanted to help me, you’d go back to Sydney as fast as you can.”

Harriet rolled her eyes and counted silently up to ten. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you there, but I don’t want to let Adam down.”

“Are you serious about that?” Portia snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve done enough damage to Adam. He’s suffered plenty because of you. He doesn’t need you sabotaging him again.”

Harriet kneaded her temples. They were starting to ache. “Sabotage him? I don’t understand. That sounds way too paranoid.”

“I’m warning you, Harriet. I don’t trust you an inch. You’ve come waltzing back into Wilmot like you’ve got a score to settle, but don’t you dare try anything on with Adam. He’s worked so hard for this ball. Everyone’s seen the effort he’s put into it, and I’m not going to let you mess things up for him.”

Harriet winced as the hissing in Portia’s voice drilled into her head. “Believe me, I have no intention of messing up Adam’s Harvest Ball.”

“Like I said, I don’t trust you. So you better make damn sure you don’t screw up!” Portia hung up.

Harriet tossed her phone aside. A hard lump lodged in her throat. According to Portia, she was nothing but a vindictive woman still bent on ruining the Blackstones. Is that how other people in Wilmot saw her? Maybe. Maybe that’s what lurked at the back of Adam’s mind too. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to trust her completely, even after all these years.

The lump in her throat thickened. Yes, even after all these years she couldn’t stop thinking about Adam, couldn’t stop worrying about his opinion. She still cared about him, but something had changed. It was different now. He was no longer the untouchable, unreal prince she could adore from a safe distance. Now he was flesh-and-blood and all too human. Now, when she cooked in his utilitarian cottage and trod the scuffed floorboards of his rundown family home, she felt the pain he suffered, and she wished…

She had no idea what she wished for.

She lifted his football sock and pressed it against her cheek.

Harriet glanced at her watch as the Sunday worshippers lingered outside Saint Luke’s. She waited under a tree for Adam, away from the parishioners, including Adam’s great-aunt, who had actually hissed at her. Uncomfortable, she glanced up and down the road. When she saw his truck pull up at the curb, anticipation hummed through her. She scolded herself for being so eager, but she couldn’t stop herself straightening her skirt and smoothing back her hair as his tall, long-limbed figure loped toward her. He seemed more relaxed today, more easy in her presence. He looked her straight in the eye, and his lips lifted in a lazy grin. Her knees went weak and the blood throbbed in her ears.

Oh, boy. What an incredible smile he had. It made him look youthful and devastatingly attractive. As if he weren’t already devastatingly attractive enough.

He unlocked the doors of the church hall. “Now you’re going to see what you’ve let yourself in for.”

When Harriet had last lived in Wilmot, the church hall had been a crumbling mess of dust and mouse droppings, used only to store broken pews and jumble-sale collections. The hall she now entered was spruced up with a polished wooden floor and freshly painted walls.

“There was a fire a few years ago.” Adam snapped on the lights. “They used the insurance money to redo the floor, walls and roof. It’s the perfect place—in fact the only place—in Wilmot to hold the Harvest Ball. With the band and the dance floor it’ll be a bit of a squeeze, but we should still be able to fit in a hundred and sixty people.”

Harriet gulped. “A hundred and sixty?”

“Yep.” Adam strode to the centre of the empty hall and looked around with satisfaction. “The tickets are all sold out. We could have sold a lot more, but there just isn’t enough space.”

Thank God for that, Harriet thought. The biggest party she’d ever catered for was a hundred and twenty, and that had been a casual buffet lunch, not a black-tie sit-down dinner.

“So a hundred and sixty won’t be a problem for you?”

“Course not. Piece of cake.” Behind her back she crossed her fingers, just in case. A hundred and sixty! How would she be able to plate up that many entrées, mains and desserts?

Adam gave her a curious look. “I’m assuming you’ll still be using your dad’s assistants from The Tuckerbox to help you?”

“Naturally.” She gave a weak laugh. Of course, how silly of her. She’d completely forgotten about them and their names. She racked her brain…Dave and Tina, that was it. Both worked as part-time kitchen assistants-slash-dishwashers at The Tuckerbox, and she was sure they’d do anything for her dad, even if they didn’t know her at all. With their help, a hundred and sixty would still be difficult, but not completely daunting.

“We’ll have twenty tables, eight guests at each. All the tables, chairs, glasses, plates and cutlery are being hired,” Adam continued. “So you don’t have to worry about any of that. Did I tell you the waiters and busboys will all be students from Brescia High? They won’t be as quick as professionals, but they’re very eager to be part of the event. Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen facilities.”

He led her through a pair of swing doors into the back of the hall. Harriet found herself in a long narrow room.

“Is this it?” she asked.

“I know it’s a bit primitive, but your dad didn’t seem to think it would be a problem.”

What universe did her dad come from? This wasn’t a kitchen, it was…nothing. A laminated bench top stretched down either wall punctuated by a couple of sinks. At the far end stood two old electric stoves and one medium-sized fridge. A cramped annexe held another sink and dishwasher. And that was it. Quite sufficient to rustle up a cup of tea and pile a plate-full of biscuits after a parish meeting, but wildly inadequate for serving up a formal dinner to a hundred and sixty fussy guests who had each paid two hundred dollars.

“Harriet? You’re frowning. Do we have a problem here?”

She heard the edge in Adam’s voice, and she knew nothing could make her admit the truth. Her father had pushed so hard for her to get this catering job, and yesterday Adam had seemed to go against even his own wishes in giving her the nod, so what choice did she have? She couldn’t let them both down.

“No, no problem. I’m just thinking logistics.”

“If you have any problems, or you just want to discuss things, you have my number. Feel free to call me any time.”

She almost blushed then and had to hide her confusion by opening the refrigerator and examining its contents. She told herself she was just a member of Adam’s team, and he wasn’t eager to talk to
her
personally; he only wanted to make sure his ball would be a big success.

“How did the other committee members react when you told them about me?” She turned away from the fridge.

He rested his hip against the bench top and folded his arms across his chest. “They accepted it was the best solution in the circumstances.”

Hmm. Not exactly a glowing endorsement from him. But then, what could she expect? She moved over to the two stoves and began to test the switches.

“Anyway, thank you for taking me on,” she said. One of the oven lights was broken. “I didn’t have a chance to thank you yesterday. You’ve made my father very happy.”

“And you? Are you happy?”

Her stomach fluttered. His eyes gleamed with interest. She had the strangest feeling he was looking at her as if for the first time. That she was no longer the little “Hamster” of their schooldays, nor was she the busybody who had ruined his family. He was studying her as if he were genuinely interested in the person she had become, and even though she’d come so far in ten years, still she couldn’t stop herself becoming tongue-tied.

“Me? Of—of course I’m happy.”

“I don’t want you to feel obliged to do this job. I want you to do this because
you
want to do it. No other reason.”

Her insides melted. If he continued to give her that considerate look, she’d agree to anything he asked of her. Anything.

She tweaked the hem of her shirt and steadied her wobbly knees. “I want to do this.”

It dawned on her that she honestly did want to do the job—not to please her father, or even to prove she was a good caterer. She wanted to do this for Adam’s sake. To help him throw the best charity ball this town had ever seen.

“Good.” He nodded and shifted his feet, then stuck his hand out toward her. “It’s a deal, then.”

“Deal.”

She shook his hand. In the brief two-second contact she felt the rough calluses on his palm and the dry strength of his fingers. A quiver of confused longing ran up the length of her arm and jolted her heart. The handshake felt like a defining moment. They had crossed an invisible line and they were no longer antagonists, but they weren’t exactly friends either. No, that was asking too much. There was still too much past history clouding the atmosphere, too many hidden pitfalls. She’d never feel completely at ease around him.

But it was nice to feel they were on the same side at least.

They walked out of the church hall. Adam pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Here are all the details about the ball and a rundown of the evening’s events. It also has all the committee members’ phone numbers, including Portia’s. If you can tell her what your menu will be, she’ll be able to arrange the wines. Her family is donating it all.”

“That’s generous of them.” Harriet remembered Portia’s family owned one of the largest vineyards in the Hunter Valley. “I’ve changed my dessert, by the way. I’ll be serving strawberries and raspberries with honey and lemon-myrtle ice cream, if that’s okay with you.”

He paused, and a faint line appeared between his eyes, as though he didn’t like being reminded of her ill-fated apple-and-rhubarb crumble. “Yes, that’s fine.” He pulled the door of the hall open for her. “So what are you up to this afternoon?”

“My dad’s being discharged tomorrow,” she said. “I’m helping my mother get the house rearranged. He can’t use the stairs yet, so we have to turn the dining room into a makeshift bedroom.”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to get home. It’ll be more comfortable for him there.”

Harriet wasn’t so sure of that. Her mother had gone into a tailspin as soon as she’d heard Ken was coming home, and Harriet wondered if her father would be able to get any rest in his own home if he had Sharon fussing about him all day.

“I’ll give you a lift back,” Adam said as they neared the curb where his truck was parked.

Harriet lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Thanks.”

She glanced behind them as they drove off and couldn’t suppress a small sigh.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She turned round and folded her arms. “Just them.” She jerked her thumb backward toward the group of seniors still outside the church. “Gawking at us. Before lunch is over today half of Wilmot will know I’ve been spotted driving around with you.”

He kept his eyes on the road as they puttered up the hill. “And that bugs you, does it?”

“Doesn’t it bug you? Can you imagine what they’re saying? Especially because…you know…” she waved her hand between them, “…because of what I did ten years ago.”

“You shouldn’t be so sensitive to small-town gossip.” He eased back in his seat and rested his elbow on the window ledge. “Most of it is harmless.”

But some of it wasn’t. Her throat constricted at the memory of the gossip that had driven her out of town. Yes, she’d wanted to leave Wilmot, that was true, but it was the scuttlebutt that had kept her away all these years. She turned her head away from Adam and closed her eyes against the breeze blowing through the open window. In a few seconds he reached her parents’ house and brought the truck to a halt.

“Harriet, I hope you’re not going to let a few old biddies ruin your stay here.” He spoke lightly, but his eyes were serious. “Most people in Wilmot are good people. I wouldn’t bother coming back here if I didn’t believe that.”

She let out a sigh and ran her fingers through her hair. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it get to me.” She got out of his car, closed the door and leaned in at the open window. “After all, I’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.”

Harriet’s days grew busy and complicated. Busy and complicated she could handle. Running her own catering business threw up constant challenges for her, but nothing could have prepared her for the ordeal of the next few days.

When she confessed to her father her reservations about the hopelessly inadequate facilities at the church hall, he told her he’d already noticed that and had the perfect solution. The majority of the preparation and cooking would be done at The Tuckerbox, and the final touches would be completed over at the church hall. A van would shuttle back and forth as required. It was quite simple, really.

Harriet didn’t see any point in arguing with him. She was already in too deep to complain now. She would have to do the best she could. At least her father approved of her new menu and took no offence at having his stolid dishes replaced by lighter, more contemporary offerings.

As she’d suspected, her mother was hopeless at caring for a recuperating patient, especially when that patient was the husband who had looked after her for more than thirty-five years. Three mornings after her father had returned home, Harriet came downstairs to find her mother weeping over a pan-full of eggs.

“I don’t know how to cook!” she wailed, tears coursing down her face and salting the eggs. “I’m just trying to make an omelette for your father!” She glared at the burnt mess in the pan. “How hard can it be?”

Sharon was still in her dressing gown, her hair wild, her face unwashed and glistening with night cream. Harriet gazed at her mother’s crumpled face. A strange throb of sympathy ran through her. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had cooked breakfast for Ken. She had always thought her mother took her marriage for granted, that she accepted Ken’s devotion with thoughtless greed. Yet here she stood barefoot in the kitchen crying over some broken eggs, frustrated by her inability to be useful.

“Don’t worry, Mum.” Harriet squeezed Sharon’s hiccupping shoulders and steered her toward a chair at the table. “I’ll make Dad his omelette.” She picked up the pan and scraped the mess into the kitchen bin.

“I feel so useless.” Sharon sniffed. “I can’t seem to do anything right for your father.”

“Just try being cheerful around him.” Harriet whisked some eggs while the pan heated up. “He doesn’t need you fussing about him all day. He just likes seeing you happy.”

She cooked the omelette while her mum watched. Maybe, she thought, she’d stumbled on the secret of her parents’ marriage. They complemented each other’s needs. It was as simple as that. Her mother liked being decorative for her husband, and her father liked being needed by his wife. Despite appearances, despite her self-centred nature, Sharon really did love Ken. There could be very few other explanations as to why, at nine in the morning, she was still without hairspray, lipstick or shoes.

Her mother went to shower. Harriet had just served her father his omelette, when Cindy arrived, hurtling into the driveway in an enormous Land cruiser, its fat tires too wide for the narrow strip of concrete. Harriet groaned when she saw Cindy struggling to release Jarrod from his car seat. Yesterday Cindy and Jarrod had spent a few hours visiting and had left everyone exhausted. Jarrod was an engaging child, but Harriet didn’t think her parents’ modest house was big enough for two egos as big as Cindy’s and Jarrod’s.

“Dropping in for a cup of tea?” Harriet asked without much hope. Cindy hauled out a huge bag of kiddie things and Jarrod came squealing toward her, grabbing her round the legs. He spun around and shot into the house, yelling at the top of his voice. Cindy tottered forward in a tight black-and-white dress, skyscraper heels and big dangly earrings.

“No, it’s an emergency this time.” Cindy scowled as she lowered her sunglasses. “I’ve been let down by my babysitter. Says she has the flu. Honestly! The nerve of some people! And I have to get to Newcastle today. You and Mum don’t mind looking after Jarrod, do you?”

“What’s the big emergency in Newcastle?”