Almost Mine (8 page)

My apprehension was unwarranted; the one message to give him was obvious and I spoke definitively because it was the truth. ‘You know me better than anyone. So, if you do find yourself doubting the choice that you’ve made to marry me, know that when I lose my way, which I most certainly will, that you will always remain to be the only person on this earth that can bring me back.’ I lifted myself onto my tip toes and kissed his mouth. ‘This is right. I can feel it. The one thing that I pray that you remember is to never give up on me.’

I barely got the words out when his lips were on mine. ‘Thank you for being mine.’

I wanted to correct him by saying “almost mine” but I was sure that he knew just where my feelings for him stood. Instead, I opted to thank him for giving me something that I hadn’t had in a long time. ‘Thank you for making me feel as if I exist.’

We had decided to live in the small living quarters at Mathieson’s Vineyard after Nick sold his house, and because his dad had decided to retire. Nick urged him to continue on with the winery, but Albert had refused, giving Nick sole ownership of the thriving property; it didn’t help that Albert’s health was giving out, and a mild heart attack not long after the wedding had made that decision for him. Nick’s brothers all had their plates full with their growing families and growing businesses of their own, spanning the country as they privately joked about taking over the world. They had all encouraged Nick to take the reins, just like he’d endeavoured to do since he was a child. So he did, and now he had the means to give his wife everything that I married him for: a place to raise the family that he daily reminded me that I deserved.

It was not all smooth sailing once the business was handed over, though, despite the fact that Nick knew the winery and how to run it like that back of his hand. It was an innate ability, it seemed; winemaking was in his DNA. There were still hiccups during our shaky start as owners. I learned the ropes in the office, and it took some adapting on my part — I was more of a reader than a mathematician — and we had a longer than expected winter which took its toll on the grapes, but these were all unforeseeable speed bumps and problems that were dealt with swiftly thanks to professionalism from Nick and his employees.

The staff at the winery had been offered a contract renewal once the take-over had been finalised, and Nick had earned and maintained the same reverence and respect that had been given to his stoic dad…except during our first summer when Nick had hired the seasonal pickers, and his usual astute ability to read people escaped him. Seth’s conceit and haughtiness — and anyone that resembled his utter disregard for humans in general — were now traits that Nick would never forget, or, at the same time, would want to remember either. Once Seth had been arrested and thrown off the property, Nick had a more thorough screening of his employees — and anyone else that he was legally permitted to — who may come into contact with his priceless wife.

Nick’s only priority after the wedding was to give me the home that he’d promised, and he wasted no time in getting started on the construction; even the honeymoon was postponed so that he could begin our “forever” home.

It was to be a two storey structure with wrap-around verandas on both floors because we both wanted to enjoy the full picturesque mountain views that surrounded the grape vine estate. It was to have plenty of bedrooms for plenty of children and he would build it as a reflection of his love and dedication for his life with me. I had selected weathered, white French windows to compliment the pistachio green weatherboard home. Worn timber pillars would hold up the top veranda that would one day be prettily covered with purple lilac, giving the home a certain charm that I had found nowhere else.

Within days of the wedding, stakes marked the position of the homestead, facing the east to allow for the morning sun to warm the master bedroom, allowing us to wake in the splendour of a new, hopeful day.

It was June and the homestead was near completion after our spending every spare minute of the past two years being entirely assured that it was perfect, ascertaining that the floors were the right shade of grey oak and the heavy cream curtains hung creaseless on every large French window, and that every inch of our home reflected who we were and what we wanted our lives to be: welcoming, simple and elegant.

The kitchen was a spacious U shape and connected seamlessly to the dining room and seating-for-ten dining table by way of roughly shorn, exposed beams that lowered the three meter ceilings throughout. The buttermilk walls that flowed through the entire ground floor made for a cosy, intimate frame for the hub of our home. It was decked out with top of the range, designer appliances; the oven resembling an old wood-fire took me back to the days that I’d cooked with my Ma Lily Alexander all of those many years ago, back when I was a child and didn’t have a mother to play that role. The cabinetry was timber, painted with an antique white colour, while the bench tops were the most beautiful ecru granite that I had ever seen. Plate racks lined the left wall and housed my eclectic collection of new and antique plates that I had picked up at weekend markets.

I didn’t know that I loved the simplicity of old world charm until Nick had shown me the way. We’d driven the region on the weekends, trawling for knick knacks and furniture that would fit with the theme of our home. And from my first galoshed step onto muddy ground as I explored the modest stalls, I found that I was deeply moved and swept to a simple, easy place that helped me to escape the indistinct world that I was in, and I wanted my personal space to reflect that. I wanted my home with Nick to be like nothing else that existed in my life right now. Being drawn back to a humbler time, a time when I was happy as a bird, before my mother had left and everything inside me had died. The hand painted plates recollected memories from the past that I was very fond of. I can’t tell how grateful I was to be reminded of such lovely times.

From the grand entrance of the homestead, the kitchen was presented to the left. Down a short passageway and to the right was a living area with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were in danger of be filled within the next few months of unrestrained book buying. I didn’t read much these days, but I couldn’t resist a pretty cover. And framed by the book shelves was an open fireplace, handy for those long romantic nights. A sixty-five inch LCD television hung amongst the books, its size in no way dwarfing the oversized room. Dark grey cushioned sofas lined the room, and a chunky block coffee table, fitted with drawers for storage, sat as the centrepiece. This room was designed for family entertainment: a cosy place to have a movie night with the children, or to house giggling teenage daughters during sleep-overs, or to entertain our sons and their mates with video games and weekend football. A day bed sat at the far end of the room beneath a large bay window, the perfect place for me to unwind — if I had time — with one of my many books.

The room beside the living area was a study/home office that was equipped with a large timber desk and ergonomic office chair. Another large French window brightened the room to provide a bright, open space for work and learning. Empty book shelves lined the wall behind the desk, leaving room for a growing family to, well, grow.

The remainder of the lower floor was made up of the laundry, a guest bedroom and bathroom and a narrow staircase that led down to our wine cellar which housed our personal collection from Mathieson’s Vineyard. The bottles were stowed there for romantic dinners for two, for guests that we hoped to invite when the home was up and running completely, and for celebrating the splendours that were yet to come.

Ahead of the entrance to the living room was the wide, arced stair case that kept the grey oak flowing through the house. It led to a landing large enough to be a living room in its own right. A wide hall at the top of the stairs ran in both directions and led to five bedrooms, including the cornflower blue master suite that was positioned in the centre of the house, so that, as parents, Nick and I were equally available to all of our children.

Only one of the other bedrooms, the one to the right of our bedroom, was set up and ready for a baby; the lemon yellow room with white furniture awaited a precious son or daughter. The others were left bare and painted antique white so that the excitement of decorating a nursery could be felt with every new addition to our family.

A large floor-to-ceiling-cream-tiled bathroom with ample amenities for a handful of growing children was also on the top floor, equipped to keep any messy teenage boys or make-up-exploring girls happy.

A visitor to the Mathieson’s Vineyard would be safe to assume that the farmhouse style homestead had stood proud in its position at the head of the driveway for over a hundred years; it took on an old world charm, not looking the mere twenty-four months old that it was.

It was late afternoon, and, as I nailed on our ‘Welcome Home’ sign beside our timber leadlight door, Nick came to stand with me. He’d been building a surprise in the back shed and smelled of timber shavings and hard work, something that I had come to recognise only on my exhaustless husband.

‘Looks good,’ he grinned widely and wrapped his arms around my waist. I tapped my chin distractedly and tilted my head to one side before stepping forward. Lifting the right corner of the sign, I straightened it a millimetre before stepping back into Nick’s arms.

‘Now it looks good,’ I announced up at him, satisfied. He chuckled and kissed my smiling mouth.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

‘I love you, too,’ I whispered back. It was true, I did love him, I was sure of it, and I held Nick’s gaze like I always did when the words were spoken, just so that I could gauge his belief within them. Then Nick spoke, attempting to hide a smile that was pulling on the corners of his lips.

‘You know, that’s the first time that I might actually believe you,’ he said, grinning now almost victoriously. Despite the fact that delight was spreading across his entire face, I still felt my guilt weighing heavily.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s ok, angel,’ he pulled me close, ‘now, come and take a walk with me. I have something to show you.’

‘But it’s about to rain,’ I complained as he tugged on my hand, leaving no room for discussion.

He guided me down the eight hardwood stairs that were almost as wide as the front veranda was long — making for a grand entrance to our no-expense-spared homestead — continuing across our sandy, turn-around driveway and past our new black Jeep Patriot; more of a family car than his two-seater ute. Light rain began to cover our hair and shoulders with tiny beads of mist as he guided me down to the end of the winding path that led to his own work that he’d completed earlier that day. He proudly presented me with our mini wine barrel letterbox. On it he had beautifully inscribed the words ‘The Mathieson’s’ followed by the message, ‘Better Late than Never.’ Of course the mail delivery around this off-the-beaten-track town left a lot to be desired, but the message seemed to now be an
ambiguous one. I stared at the words, in awe of my husband and his ability to keep his sense of humour, even when it came down to something as serious as this.

He took my in his arms. ‘So, what do you think?’

I had to clear my throat. ‘It’s amazing,’ I whispered as tears wet my cold face. Nick turned me into him.

‘What is it, angel?’ he hushed me. I took in every part of his face, of his softened blue eyes and slightly upturned amused mouth, his crinkles around his eyes that deepened with happy adoration whenever I was in his presence. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, ignoring the rain that had just begun to trickle down our skin. He pulled me against him, allowing his warm lips to calm my trembling own. ‘Please, don’t cry. It begins now. We have this home, we have this winery, and soon we’ll have the family that we created all of this for.’

He kissed me at our letterbox at the foot of the abundant garden before scooping me up and carrying me up the path and to the homestead and to our king-sized four poster bed inside the cornflower blue room that would hold us until he proved himself right.