Berry Flavours

Berry Flavours

By

Darry Fraser

© Darry Fraser

First published 2014

Re-released September 2015

All rights reserved

Find out more about my stories on

www.darryfraser.com

Chapter One

Last night was the last night, she vowed silently.

Well, for a while, Clancy, old girl. Don’t go making promises you can’t keep. After all, ’tis the season to be jolly.

Yeah right.

Some jolly. Another brawl with Dad and this time I’m homeless and jobless.

Almost.

The bus took off after dropping her off outside the hotel. She stared at her dumped luggage and let out a ragged, pathetic sigh. It wouldn’t move itself.

For two hours the coach chugged and chortled out of Adelaide on its way to Reception Bay and the Australis Island ferry terminal.

She was just lucky she hadn’t chucked and chundered all the way.

Her eyeballs hurt, her tongue felt like a leather strap and her throat craved a thirst-quencher she knew she couldn’t get, no matter how much H2O she guzzled. A thirty minute ferry ride over a thankfully flat and glassy Explorer Strait to Portstown on Australis Island. Finally another ninety minute bus ride to wherever-the-hell-she-was.

How big
is
this island?

Four hours so far into the hangover, maybe another four hours of gut-rolling nausea to go with a skewer still piercing each temple for good measure.

Gee. A chef’s job on Australis Island seemed like a good idea last week.

That, and the fact the new boss had signed her up so fast the ink hadn’t dried on her application – so to speak – and had seemed a tad too eager.

Maybe I’m the only person who applied.

Oh
God
.

Now look. What I need is something to cheer me up, and a drink right now just might be the right idea. Forget the ridiculous vow. Hair of the dog is what I need. Hair of the largest dog ever. With lots of ice and lemonade. Then a diet coke…no, maybe the
real
thing.

And look. Here’s a hotel.

She gave the old building the once over. If she had to wait here for her lift to the MacGregor Thomas Vineyard Estate, no better place to wait than inside.

She hauled her bags behind her and headed towards the main door. As she juggled to reverse inside, the door pulled open behind her.

“There you go.” The warm baritone hummed at her back.

Clancy scuttled her wheelie bag inside. “Thank you.” She glanced his way. The green-eyed gaze connected with hers and a rush of heartbeat pitter-patter charged through her.

And that didn’t happen a lot these days. Those green eyes were really something under the fine dark brows, above an open, friendly face with beard-stubbled cheeks. That gaze had her pitter-patter ratcheted up a notch.

He held the door wider as she dragged her other bags past, and a solid bump of her hip on his side brought a rush of blood to her cheeks. “Sorry.” She shuffled through and hoped her every pore didn’t reek of last night’s vodka shooters.

“Pleasure.” His voice hummed, soft-timbred and low in his throat.

She glanced again to smile her thanks. His gaze locked hers for an instant, intense and interested. She dragged everything past him through the door and clomped inside, hellbent on the closest bar stool.

Only ten feet away...

Rattled, unorganised and clumsy, she grabbed a seat and climbed on to it, puffed out a long breath.

Great. I just sounded like a balloon deflating. My attractive self
.

Her green-eyed man stopped to chat with a couple seated at a dining table. She ogled the broad back and the tight bum and, when he turned to look at her, tried not to ogle the bulge where a bulge in a man’s pants should be.

She swiveled in her seat to check the place over, Distracting Herself.

Someone had clearly attempted to refurbish the place and give it the look of authenticity again. Or maybe, nobody had done a bloody thing and it was the genuine article. Shabby
shabby
as opposed to shabby
chic
. Perhaps someone else had put up the tackiest, daggiest Christmas decorations she’d ever seen.

“G’day. What can I get you?” The lanky barman lifted his chin at her. His ears dangled bobbing Santas. Jammed over his head was a baseball cap on backwards with tinsel pinned to it. A damp-looking, grubby Christmas motif towel draped like a fox stole over his shoulders.

“Whatever you’ve got in sauvignon blanc. Something local.” She stopped herself. “And, a long lemonade with lots of ice, please.”

“No worries.”

Her head throbbed. She shouldn’t have ordered wine, but what the hell.

The awful, bloody annoying Christmas decorations swinging around her refused to be anything but cheery and jolly. Not helping.

Definite hangover.

She glanced around. Anything to take her mind – and gaze – off the man with the green-eyed stare still laughing with the couple at the table.

Oh, look - the bar itself
.

Two massive four-metre planks of highly polished, rough-cut river red gum. The rich, deep auburn hue reminded her of luxury, masculine, refined, assertive.

She flattened both palms and slid her hands along its silky surface. Someone had known what they were doing when they installed the bar.

The thought made her sad for a moment.
This was like at home.
Too bad now. Getting maudlin. Drinker’s remorse or something.

And her head still hurt. Maybe she needed a glass of water, too. Jeez, more water. The hangover was worse than she thought.

A few moments later the bartender plonked two ten-ounce handle glasses in front of her, one filled with ice and soft drink the other with white wine.

Clancy took up the lemonade and chugged down a great gulp, sighed, suppressed a burp, relaxed and turned her attention to the wine.

She was about to protest its unstylish glass when her green-eyed doorman took up the seat beside her.

“I see you like the counter-top, but you don’t like the wine.” He scraped the stool closer to the bar and nodded at the bartender.

Her heartbeat thumped in her ears. “I haven’t tasted it yet.” She met that intense green-eyed stare. Maybe it was the slight pucker of his brows which made it so intense. He was about forty, a little weathered, but in that tingly cosy-up-by-the-fire way. She glanced at her wine. “I don’t like the glass it’s in.”

“The wine’s good. Just the staff training’s a bit lacking. And they haven’t got around to buying wine glasses yet.” He nodded at the bartender again as a ten-ounce of beer arrived in front of him. “I’m guessing you’re the person Mac Thomas has employed.” He took a long drink then set his beer down, fished in his pocket and slapped a fold of notes on the bar.

Santa-dude swiped a tenner and returned with change.

“Good guess,” she said. “I’m Clancy Jones.”

“Berry Lockett.” He held out a hand.

“Berry?” She took the proffered hand, its palm rough. It was a strong hand, a hand used to helping with heavy loads. Her heartbeat thudded merrily pushing the skewers deeper into her forehead. It had to let up soon.

“Beresford. Fancy name, I know. Great-grandma’s maiden name.” That low baritone rumbled again.

“Ah.”

“Going to drink your drink?” He nodded at her glass. “You look a bit gloomy staring at it.” He slid a small wallet and a bunch of keys on to the bar alongside his change.

She pulled a face at her untouched glass. “I asked for a local sav blanc. I hope it is.”

“It is. Taste it,” Berry said. “It’s good. Happen to know the vineyard pretty well. It’s just over the hill about four kilometres.”

She ventured a sip. “It is good.” She sipped again. Checked out the black chest hair above his T-shirt collar. “You drink wine sometimes?” She lifted her chin at the beer.

“Sometimes. Probably too much. Beer’s a good change, but I can vouch for the local wines.” He grabbed his wallet and peered inside. “There are others but none better than this one.”

She looked around the bar. “I expected good food and wine but the place looks a bit rough, though.”

“And you’d expect some atmosphere in here for a country pub, too, wouldn’t you?” He waved his hand around. “The place lacks a certain
je ne sais qois
,” he said.

She ventured a glance at his face. “You know exactly what it lacks. How’d you fix it?”

“I’d employ some happy staff, for a start.” He inclined his head towards the dangly-Santa-dude. “Nice guy, but Alan over there doesn’t exactly warm the cockles of your heart.” Berry studied his hands. “Is this where Mac Thomas has you working?”

“I’m supposed to be in the Vineyard Restaurant. I didn’t know he owned this place, too.”

“The Vineyard Restaurant.” Berry frowned. “It’s not exactly up and... ah, I wonder he didn’t say something about...” His voice trailed off. Then, “Well, they need a bloody good cook in here, too.”

Clancy shrugged. “He said the Vineyard Restaurant. All I know.” She took another big swallow of lemonade again. She was enjoying the conversation, hoping he was as good as he looked and not some crazy noo-noo out here in the boondocks. That’d just be her luck.

“’Fact, there’s another place around here could use a chef now I think of it.” Berry shrugged. “As I was saying, staff would be one change then I’d get myself some goddamn good wine glasses for the place.”

She looked at the handle glass. “Good move.”

His gaze roamed over her face again. “You from Adelaide?”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, took a tentative sip of wine.

“Apart from the obvious attractions,” he said and waved a handed around at the bar again, “why here?”

She shrugged. “Chance to work on the MacGregor Thomas estate. When I saw the ad for the job, it said something like, ‘Chef required to make us great again. We’re a bit rundown and looking for energy’. Hope that’s not a bad sign,” she said into her drink. “And I hope I have the energy.”

‘“A bit rundown,”’ he repeated. “Yes. Well, sometimes, you just have to take the plunge, right? ”

Clancy hesitated. “Needed to make a fresh start.” She looked into his eyes and away again, the forthright stare unnerving. Maybe her decision to take the job wasn’t such a good one. “It’s pretty much in the sticks here, isn’t it? It just seemed like a good place to come.”

The kitchen doors bounced open and Alan appeared with two plates of something she didn’t recognise. He headed for a couple sitting over by a window.

“What was that meal?” Clancy asked. “Couldn’t pick it.”

“That’s the Poacher’s Stew.”

“Poacher’s Stew.”

“That’s right. It’s game pie.”

She checked the grin on his face. “You’d have to be game to eat it, right? You led me into that one.”

“I know for a fact it is day’s old cooked mutton, which ordinarily would be all right, except it’s been heated and reheated since it was first chucked in the pot.”

“Oh no.” It was easy, pleasant conversation. Friendly even. No sleaze about him, maybe not a noo-noo after all. “You seem to know all about it.”

He lifted a shoulder. “I’m local, immediately local.”

“Oh. You’re not—? Are you here to take me to the property?”

He glanced at her hair held in a clip at the back of her head. His gaze roved over her face to her mouth.

Her lips tingled. Her toes tingled. And something in between tingled, warmed.

A second or two later he said, “I have gravely considered my answer, and it is that I wouldn’t deliver someone like you to Mac Thomas even if he begged me.”

Clancy at first thought she’d misheard. A whip of heat slipped over her neck at the way he looked at her. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Long story.” He raised his glass. “So, to the new chef at the Vineyard Restaurant.”

She tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and raised her glass. “Thanks. I think.”

The bar door slammed open and a big, solid man pushed inside. “Lockett, keep away from my staff. Don’t want them damn contaminated,” he called from the doorway.

Clancy sneaked a glance at Berry, who slid a small card across to her, slipping it under her fingers. “That is Mac Thomas, and this is where I take my leave.” He swallowed the rest of his beer. “Good talking to you, I enjoyed it.” His gaze clamped hers a moment and he leaned towards her. “In case you need a friend.” He tapped the card then turned to the big man. “I’ve only told her when she’s seen the light and finishes working for you, she can come and work for me.”

Clancy palmed the card and pocketed it. She lost sight of Berry as Mac Thomas wedged his bulk between them.

“In that tin-pot little affair you’ve got going on over yonder? I don’t think so.” Thomas turned to her. “You must be Clancy,” he said and thrust out a massive paw.

She looked up at the big man and guessed he was mid-to late fifties. He had a thatch of what might have once been carrot-red hair, now streaked with grey, thick and unruly. He didn’t bother to flick it away when it flopped over his forehead.