Man Drought (21 page)

She smiled a little, because that was cute. Gibson hadn’t exactly wooed her in the ute, but then again, she hadn’t exactly been complaining. This recollection demanded another sip of champagne. At this rate, she’d be drunk before dinner, which wasn’t a good idea. She needed to keep all her wits about her around Gibson Black.

She was about to ask him about his day again, to tell her more about the farm, anything to fill the weighted silence, but he got in first.

‘So, tell me about your family.’ It was small talk to ease them away from the current topic of conversation and that suited her just fine. ‘You said your dad’s a cop and you’re part of an all-girl family. How many girls, exactly?’

Family was a safe topic. She adored her sisters and could talk about them till she bored him. ‘Too many. I have three sisters and each of their stories is pretty much the same. They married young, had kids and are busy living happily ever after in various parts of Australia.’

‘Lucky women,’ he said. She detected a hint of sarcasm in his tone, although not enough to call him on it. She didn’t want to
start another debate about women and love. ‘How young were you when you got married?’

‘For your information, I was twenty-five, which is older than all my sisters.’ She drifted off for a moment, smiling wistfully as she recalled that magical day. Blue skies, the foreshore of the beautiful Swan River, lots of family and friends. Forever ahead of them. ‘Jamie and I were high school sweethearts, but we broke up for a while in between. I guess the fact we eventually drifted back to each other shows that it was meant to be.’

He simply nodded and took another sip of his champagne. He leaned a bit further back into the couch and looked about to stretch up and rest his arm along the back of it, but seemed to think better of it and, at the last moment, put his spare hand on his knee instead. ‘So if they’re all scattered about, you must miss them.’

‘We talk a lot on the phone, but because they don’t live in Perth, I didn’t see them much anyway. I do miss Jenna and Amy though. I love it out here, but it can be lonely.’ Realising what she’d just confessed – she didn’t want him to think that she was having doubts about the move – she added, ‘Thank the Lord for phones and emails.’

‘Ah, Jenna.’ He hung his head a second before turning to her and offering an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry I was a bit insensitive about her and Guy the other night. I was out of line.’

‘Thanks. Apology accepted.’ It surprised her that he’d brought it up, but she was glad he had. She liked that he was man enough to say sorry. ‘I’m sorry too, about what I said about Serena. I was out of line as well. I didn’t know her and I don’t know why you split up.’
Hint, hint
, she thought as she toyed with the stem of her glass and waited. When Gibson didn’t comment, she swallowed before elaborating. ‘It’s hard to believe it was just the city-country thing. Surely no woman is really that shallow?’

He smiled knowingly at her and she swore her heart actually stopped for a moment in anticipation of what he might divulge.
She hadn’t realised until that moment how much she wanted to know. Sure, she was curious – that was a woman’s prerogative – but it was more than that. She wanted to
know
him, to find out what had shaped him and what made him tick. She wanted to be a true friend.

‘There is more,’ he finally admitted, and Imogen had to rein in the urge to punch the air in victory. ‘But I’m not going to talk about it.’ He spoke kindly, yet his tone said there’d be no use arguing. He downed the dregs of his champagne and frowned as he looked towards the closed door. ‘Should we check on Charlie?’

It was an obvious attempt at changing the subject, but the banging and clanging coming from the kitchen told Imogen this might be a good idea.

‘Is he usually this noisy while cooking?’ she asked, also staring at the door.

They both cringed as another loud crash sounded.

‘No,’ said Gibson. ‘He’s not.’ He slapped his glass down on the coffee table. It tipped over but he ignored it, already on his way out of the room.

Imogen put her glass down, righted Gibson’s and then followed. It was only when she entered the 1970s kitchen that she noticed the absence of cooking smells. Usually when she went to dinner somewhere, she revelled in the delicious aromas. Tonight she’d been so distracted that she hadn’t noticed their absence.

Charlie turned and spotted them both standing in the doorway. All the overhead cupboards were open, and pans had spilled out from the lower cupboards onto the linoleum floor. Yet beyond the mess, there was a small round table with a pretty floral cloth and candles all waiting to be lit.

Gibson cleared his throat and surveyed the disaster zone. ‘You okay, Granddad? Anything we can help with?’

‘I’m fine,’ Charlie replied, the sheen of sweat on his face telling them he was anything but. ‘I just can’t find the recipe for your grandma’s shepherd’s pie.’ He turned around and started on the drawers. She guessed the strength in his arms came from years working on the farm and more recently carrying slabs of beer, but couldn’t help but feel sorry for the drawers as he yanked at them one by one. ‘Your mother probably moved it when she visited last. When she tried to have me committed.’

‘Granddad!’ Gibson’s voice was loud and firm as he stepped over a frying pan and some barbecue tongs. He stooped beside his grandfather and stilled him.

Imogen watched, her heart in her throat; she felt like an intruder but didn’t want to leave either of them in what was clearly an hour of need.

‘Granddad,’ Gibson said again, his voice softer now. ‘You don’t need a recipe for Elsie’s pie; you’ve been making it for years. Hell, I could probably make it.’

‘It’s not
that
easy, lad,’ Charlie snapped.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Gibson looked to Imogen and all she could do was bite her lip and shrug. Finally, he turned back to his granddad. ‘I’m sure you’re right and it isn’t easy. We’ll help you find the recipe, but how about we just make something simple tonight. Shepherd’s pie takes a while to prepare, and even longer to cook.’

Charlie looked up at Imogen in a way that made her feel as if she were a stranger. He wasn’t acting himself, but she guessed it was out of his control. She smiled at him, stepping further into the kitchen. ‘Do you mind if I cook something?’ she asked, her heart thumping in her ears as she waited for his answer, wondering if he’d grouch at her as well. ‘I don’t get the chance much anymore.’

After long moments of tension-filled stillness, Charlie slumped against the kitchen bench. His head fell into his hands as he let out a gut-wrenching sob. ‘I just don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ he admitted. ‘Gibson’s right, I’ve been making Elsie’s pie for years. But tonight I just couldn’t get it together.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, closing the distance between them and squeezing Charlie’s shoulder. She swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away threatened tears. ‘We all have days like that. I’ve been working you pretty hard at the pub.’

‘I always told you women were slave drivers,’ Gibson added. He was trying to lighten the mood, but Imogen could hear the worry in his voice, see it in the creases round his eyes.

And she knew that tonight they had to move on. It was no good for either of them to stand here worrying about the strange way Charlie was acting. She’d talk to Gibson about it later if he’d let her. She didn’t pretend to be an expert, but she was beginning to think that his mother’s concerns might be legitimate.

‘Okay,’ she said, turning to open the fridge. She surveyed the contents and retrieved an onion, some mince and some tomatoes. ‘Let’s make spaghetti.’

‘My favourite.’ Gibson smiled, moving to sit down at the kitchen table.

‘It’s everyone’s favourite,’ she said. A red-checked apron hanging on a hook caught her eye. She scooped it up and tossed it to Gibson. ‘And don’t think you’re just going to sit there and have me wait on you hand and foot. Onions. Now.’

Chuckling, Gibson stood and surprised her by wrapping the apron round his waist. Warm shivers stirred her belly, but it could have been because Charlie had an electric fan-heater on unnecessarily. Wiping her brow, she surreptitiously switched it off and turned to Charlie. ‘Now, how are you at grating cheese?’

Within a couple of minutes, Imogen had located a CD of old
sixties music, put it on the player in the lounge, and had both men following her orders. Gibson even cried over the onions.

‘No woman ever made you cook before?’ Secretly, she thought it kind of sweet. ‘They’re not
that
bad, you know.’

‘Which is why you gave them to me, of course.’ He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and then presented her with a plate of beautifully chopped onions. She took them and tossed them in with the mince she was frying. As well as the fresh tomatoes, Charlie had a tin of tomato soup in his cupboard and a jar of crushed dried garlic that didn’t look as if it had been opened for years. She sneezed at the dust as she opened the garlic, but still tossed a pinch into her impromptu bolognaise sauce. The aroma as she stirred made her stomach rumble.

Charlie visibly relaxed after that. They refilled their glasses of bubbly, and while they waited for the sauce to simmer and thicken, Gibson and Imogen listened happily as Charlie told stories of Elsie and his early days at Roseglen. They didn’t sit down to eat until nine o’clock, but had a lot of fun in the meantime, and Imogen found herself and Gibson slipping into an easy, playful banter. The dish smelled surprisingly delicious and Charlie had enough fresh vegetables for them to throw together a chunky Greek salad as well.

At the table, Charlie lifted his glass before tucking into dinner. ‘To Imogen and Gibson.’

She raised her brow and Gibson shrugged. He seemed to believe it safer to lift their glasses and join in. She guessed he didn’t want to upset Charlie, but an uncomfortable feeling swirled in her gut as she and Gibson said in unison, ‘To us.’ She’d have to seek Charlie out tomorrow and make sure he understood that no amount of matchmaking would change her mind about a new relationship – even if his grandson was a bit of a hunk.
Understatement of the century!

Gibson downed his whole glass of champagne. Then, while she echoed the action – well, quite a few gulps anyway – he changed the subject.

‘Footy season’s not far away, Granddad.’

A sparkle only equal to the one he got when he talked about Elsie lit Charlie’s eyes. He finished his mouthful of pasta and then said, ‘Bring it on.’

‘Yeah, I can’t wait to see the Eagles flog the Dockers again.’ Gibson started in on his meal, twisting the spaghetti strings around his fork.

‘Watch it, boy.’ Charlie lifted his fork and jabbed it in Gibson’s direction.

Gibson shrugged back with a mischievous grin. ‘Only telling it how it is.’

A smile threatening on Charlie’s face, he lowered his fork. ‘You’ll eat your words soon, Gibby, mark mine.’

Shaking his head, Gibson looked to Imogen. ‘Who do you go for?’

She shrugged. ‘My parents were basketball fanatics, so footy didn’t really make it onto the radar.’

‘What about Jamie?’ Gibson asked, before embarking on another mouthful.

‘Um … he went for Carlton. He grew up over east.’

Charlie glanced at Imogen, his expression confused. ‘Who’s Jamie?’

She almost choked on a piece of cucumber. Gibson frowned and neither of them said anything for a few long moments.

Finally, Imogen cleared her throat, wondering how many times she’d have to have this conversation with Charlie. ‘He’s my husband,’ she said, and then added quickly, ‘
was
my husband, I mean. He died three years ago.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ Charlie said, real sympathy filling his eyes as he reached across to pat Imogen’s hand with his old papery one. ‘Do you mind me asking what happened?’

It seemed he had no recollection of their conversation. Taking a deep breath, she quickly filled him in, her heart breaking all over again at the connection they shared.

‘That’s just awful.’ Charlie dropped his fork into his half-finished dinner and sighed. ‘Here I’ve been going on all night about my precious wife, when you’d probably like to talk about your husband too.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, taking
another
quick sip of wine. She vowed to switch to water soon. ‘I love listening to your stories.’ Although he was a generally happy person, Charlie positively came alive when he spoke about his wife. And despite the fact they’d only had a few years of marriage, he and Elsie had clocked up a lot of funny experiences in that time.

It was stupid, but in a way she felt jealous of Charlie’s memories. She and Jamie hadn’t had long together either, but Charlie and Elsie appeared to have fit so much more into such a short time. And unlike her and Jamie, Charlie and Elsie had a legacy, in Gibson’s father and Gibson. For Charlie’s sake, Imogen hoped that one day Gibson would find someone he wanted to do more with than simply have sex.

‘Nothing like a good love story. Was it love at first sight?’ Charlie asked.

‘Kind of,’ Imogen mused, recalling the first time she saw Jamie. She generally just said they met in high school, but Charlie (and probably even Gibson) would see the humour in the truth. ‘I was thirteen. It was our first day of high school and Jenna dared me to run through the boys’ change rooms when they were getting dressed for P.E. So I did. Most of the boys were already putting their sneakers on, but Jamie was standing there in nothing but black jocks. I don’t know who was more embarrassed – him or me. I couldn’t look him in the eye for months after that, but nor could I get him out of my head.’

Charlie snorted with laughter and even Gibson smirked. After that, she and Charlie exchanged more stories of their lost spouses. She was less effusive than he was, and neither of them asked Gibson if he wanted to talk about Serena, but where it was uncomfortable on one level, she somehow knew that sharing memories was exactly what Charlie needed. And Gibson seemed to get that too, for when the talk started to wane, he suggested the family photo albums.

Leaving the dishes for later, they migrated to the lounge room. While Charlie and Gibson dug out the albums, Imogen stepped out onto the front porch to call the pub and check everything was fine.