Sundown Crossing (17 page)

It wasn’t until she’d settled Sam into bed and they were sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching a bland television program, that Carla began what was going to be an awkward few moments.

‘That was a great dinner,’ Josh forestalled Carla’s ‘talk’. ‘I rarely have a home-cooked meal. Living alone, I’m not inclined to fuss too much over meals.’

‘Um, thanks. Josh…’ she began carefully. ‘There’s something I have to say. It’s not easy for me but, well, it has to be said.’

He gave her a sweeping glance then his features fell into serious lines. ‘Sounds important.’

‘It’s about us.’

He grinned at her, his body visibly relaxing. ‘Then it is important.’

‘No. Well, maybe. You see, I think…’ she drew in a deep breath then bit the bullet. ‘We should stop seeing each other. It, us, as a couple, isn’t working…for me.’

Josh’s face went red, his forehead puckered in a confused frown. ‘What do you mean by
it isn’t working for me?’
His tone turned aggressive. ‘Haven’t we had some good times, fun together? Sam likes me. I thought you…’ He stopped, thought, then attacked. ‘I haven’t laid a finger on you. So,’ he shrugged, ‘what’s the problem?’

Carla hadn’t allowed for his mercurial temper. He could be calm one moment, the next working himself into a rage. He had done so once at a restaurant when he’d queried the bill. Though he’d apologised later it had been embarrassing. ‘Please, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. It’s nothing to do with you, it’s me.’

He got up, paced across the rug twice then came to a stop in front of her. ‘Oh, I get it. I’m not good enough. After all you are a Stenmark.’ His gaze narrowed nastily on her. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘That’s not it at all.’ Damn, she’d known it was going to be difficult, that he would be difficult. His pride was wounded, he felt that
she’d insulted him. ‘Josh, try to understand, I don’t
feel
anything for you and I believe it’s wrong to let you go on thinking that one day I might. But,’ she stared up at his angry countenance, ‘I hope we can still be…friends.’

‘Friends!’ His laugh was harsh and his features suddenly screwed up with anger. ‘I’ve never wanted friendship, Carla. I wanted more than that, and I was prepared to be patient.’ He pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘You…you led me on. You let me think that if I were a “good boy” one day I’d get more than a meek and mild goodnight kiss.’

Getting angry herself, she stood and, hands on her hips, faced him. ‘I did no such thing, Josh, and you know it.’ He was taking it badly, she should have realised he would, so it was best not to prolong the process. ‘I think you’d better leave. Now.’

‘Kicking me out
again,
are you?’ He sneered at her. ‘All right, I’ll go, but not before I get some return on all those dates we had.’

Before she recognised his intention he reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. His grip was amazingly strong, she couldn’t break free of it. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her arms pinned to her sides. Unerringly his mouth descended on hers in a kiss that was hard, punishing, and intended to be insulting. He forced his tongue between her lips to dart and dominate the recesses of her mouth and she was near powerless to stop him. Still, she
struggled for several moments until she realised that her actions were exciting him even more. She went limp, and unresponsive.

When he was finished he pushed her away and she wiped her mouth in an obvious gesture of disgust. ‘I’ve asked you to leave. Go. I don’t want you coming here again, Josh.’

Then, in a sudden burst of understanding she saw that his behaviour a few seconds ago was the real Josh Aldrich. The other Josh, the polite, interesting, mostly considerate Josh, had been an illusion created to impress her. Of that she was now suddenly very sure. Until tonight he had duped her with his cleverness, acting the role of Mr Nice Guy, and she might have responded and fallen for it. Thank goodness, she hadn’t.

‘Damn you, get out of my house…’

‘I’m going.’ The words were thrown at her with barely controlled fury. He picked up his jacket and slung it over one shoulder, after which his gaze raked her from the top of her head to her toes, not bothering to disguise his lasciviousness. ‘Don’t think I’m finished with you Carla, ’cause I haven’t.’

He slammed the door as he went out, making the window frames rattle. Carla slumped down onto the sofa and to her dismay, found that she was trembling in reaction to his kiss, and to his rage. How had she allowed herself to be taken in by Josh? She had thought he was…nice but after tonight…There was something about him, his disrespectful manner, a certain menace in his voice.
The way he’d looked at her was unnerving too. A shiver of alarm stiffened her spine. Try as she did to dismiss it, she wasn’t able to. It had been a while since she had been kissed passionately, not since…Derek. Josh’s kiss had been more than a kiss, it had been a…selfish violation of what should be a sensitive caress, unwanted and unasked for. Rejecting him had brought out the worst in his nature, unleashing more than hurt pride, a kind of low-level sexual violence.

Good God, what’s the matter with you,
she rebuked herself, trying to compose her inner self. She was letting her imagination run wild. It had been just a kiss, from a frustrated man, that’s all. Restless, unsettled, Carla got up and tidied the living room and kitchen before checking on Sam. Thank goodness the row with Josh hadn’t woken him. She covered him up, then headed for her bedroom, all the while telling herself that with regard to Josh Aldrich she had nothing to worry about, that he wasn’t the type to harbour a grudge. She lay under the sheet for a long time trying to convince herself that it would be so.

Josh drove about one hundred metres down the road from Sundown Crossing then, swearing under his breath, swerved onto the verge, stopped the pick-up and turned the engine and headlights off. For several seconds his hands gripped the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white as he tried to regain control over his temper.

Bitch, bitch, bitch! Carla Hunter was no better than any other female he’d had ‘dealings’ with: like, Traci, his too young, too bland wife, his disinterested mother and a string of other females since he’d reached puberty. They had all led him on in one way or another, tried to take advantage of him. He grunted. Fool! He’d thought Carla was different but she had used him, made him think he had a chance, built up his hopes that she might be the right one, the one woman he could really care for. Christ, he could cheerfully strangle her for that. Frustration made him bang his hands on the steering wheel, making a dull thumping noise.

He had thought—his heavy features screwed into a scowl—he was making progress, that she was warming to him when all the while she’d been playing him, letting him be a stand-in dad for her kid, and screwing him for information about the Stenmark family. He bit his lip until it bled. Shit, maybe he shouldn’t have told her so much about them, about their strengths and their vulnerabilities—especially Lisel’s passion for attractive, unattached males. And, the unfair thing was, he’d really liked Carla, more than just ached to get her into bed. He had feelings for her, had even thought about, some time in the future, marriage.

What a stupid bugger he was to have let his emotions get the better of him. Josh dragged a deep breath in and slowly exhaled. He let his head rest against the seat of the car. Even now his body
was still aroused by that kiss—even though she hadn’t been a willing participant. Harruumph! He cleared his throat, forcing the muscles to relax. Several weeks of being nice, playing the gentleman, being on his best behaviour for one lousy kiss. Not much of a return for the effort he’d put in. In the darkness, his eyes narrowed as the urge to inflict vengeance for the hurt Carla had caused rose within him. He wasn’t through with Carla Hunter yet. Not by a long shot.

His mouth stretched wide in a malevolent, toothy smile. The bitch owed him and she would pay, one way or another…

C
arla had not participated in a harvest before. Paul gave her a week off and the morning the work began she, Angie, Tran and Kim as well as four itinerant pickers, one of them a gun picker, assembled in the vineyard. Sensible, comfortable clothes and shoes, a broadbrimmed hat and a wicker basket in which to deposit the bunches of grapes as they were cut from the vine were their tools of trade. Many vineyards used mechanical pickers but for their small vintage, and to be economical, they were hand-picking.

The trick was to work steadily, Angie advised everyone, not flat out, and to drink plenty of fluids to replace what was being sweated out. Carla believed she was reasonably fit but by mid-afternoon on the first day, everything that could ache, did—thigh muscles, back and neck. Her hands were stiffening too. Angie had promised that by the end of the second day her body would
adjust to the workload. Well, the jury was still out on that.

However, in spite of the physical drawbacks Carla experienced enormous satisfaction as she snipped each bunch, deposited it in her basket, and moved down the row. She had helped the fruit to grow, nurtured it, weeded the soil around the vines, trimmed and generally cosseted the grapes to get them to this point. As a teacher she enjoyed face-to-face teaching. Imparting knowledge to students was a task she was proud to be part of, but this was different, more personal, and it gave her a greater understanding of what her dad and Angie had experienced year after year. From the thrill at seeing the vines’ first buds in spring, then worrying over their progress as the grapes grew—was it too wet, too dry, too hot or too cold—then the picking so that the winemaking process could begin.

She couldn’t have done it without Angie. Sundown Crossing wouldn’t have got off the ground without her. Angie’s expertise, her years of accumulated knowledge, had got the vineyard to this stage and would see them reach its climax, turning grape juice into several varieties of wine.

Still, on the first day Carla was pleased to see the sun set. Dog tired, feet dragging, she followed Angie back to the cottage where she found a pleasant surprise in the form of Paul and Sam making dinner.

‘Didn’t think you’d be up to cooking after the first day,’ Paul greeted them with a knowing grin.
‘I mightn’t grow grapes but I’ve been in the Valley long enough to know what the harvest takes out of everyone.’

‘Food?’ Carla flopped into a chair. ‘What I need is a bath to soak in for an hour or so.’

‘Of course you do,’ Paul commiserated. ‘Sam, hop off and start the bath for your mum.’

‘Mum, Angie, we surprised you, didn’t we? Paul’s cooking a baked dinner. It’s your favourite, Mum, lamb and rosemary. I helped do the veggies,’ Sam said with a pleased-as-punch grin before he raced off towards the bathroom.

‘Good boy, Sam,’ Angie called out to him as she sat at the kitchen table. She looked pointedly at Carla who was leaning against the pantry doors. ‘Paul’s a treasure, isn’t he?’

Caught in the middle of a yawn, Carla’s expression was guarded. ‘Definitely.’

‘No big deal. Living alone there’s rarely the need or desire to do a big dinner for one. I know it’s not considered macho but I enjoy cooking,’ he admitted. He looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘Dinner will be ready in an hour and a half.’ There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked Carla, ‘Need help getting into the bath?’

‘I’m not a geriatric,’ Carla shot back sharply, suddenly remembering that he’d seen her soaking wet and, if his memory wasn’t faulty—and she knew it wasn’t—he would have a good idea of how she’d look. ‘Though, at this very moment my aching muscles make me feel as if I am.’

‘There’s a box of Radox in the vanity, sprinkle
some in the water. It’ll help,’ Angie suggested. Having been involved in harvesting for more than twenty years she was more used to the physical side of it but with their age difference she had had her share of aching muscles too. She began to rub the back of her neck.

Paul noticed and offered, ‘I’m a dab hand at massage. Want me to give you a rub while the lamb’s cooking?’

‘I’m okay.’ She gave him a smile for his thoughtfulness. ‘Rolfe used to…’ Remembering that he used to rub her back and shoulders during harvesting made her glance at Carla. They smiled at each other and there was no need for words. Each knew the other had been thinking about him during the day. ‘It’s hard work, but your dad would have been impressed with what you did today,’ Angie said.

‘It was tough but I enjoyed it, and tomorrow and the next day I’ll be more used to it.’ She lifted a questioning eyebrow at Angie. ‘Won’t I?’

‘You will. The backpackers were pretty good too. They did their share, as did Kim and Tran.’ Angie frowned as she mentioned the Loongs. ‘Have you noticed that there’s something going on with the Loongs? Kim isn’t her normal, happy self.’

Carla nodded that she had. ‘Tran looked more than his usual surly self and Kim could scarcely raise a smile.’

Sam rushed back to the kitchen. He was always in a hurry. ‘Bath’s ready, Mum.’

‘Oh. That means I have to move.’ Carla winced as she stood and, one hand holding her back, shuffled off to the bathroom.

Angie caught Paul’s gaze following Carla down the hall. For a second or two he looked preoccupied, then his features settled into an impassive mask again. Interesting, that. Over the time they’d been in the Barossa she had come to know him as the type of man who kept things, especially his emotions, to himself. Apart from him telling them about his late fiancée and a few other things, they didn’t know a great deal about Paul van Leeson, she realised, other than that he’d had a small but successful architectural business in Adelaide. He had moved when his uncle, Dirk van Leeson, who was a builder, and almost his closest living relative, had fallen ill. Paul had come to the Valley to run the business till his uncle’s health improved. That hadn’t happened and prior to his death, Dirk willed his business and a plot of land, five acres, to Paul. So he had stayed, changing the emphasis on what he did to the planning and supervising of historical restorations—there were many old homes in the Barossa—as well as tendering for light to medium architectural work when it was advertised.

She liked Paul, he was genuine and hadn’t an ounce of pretentiousness in him, and in her heart she believed he was the right man for Carla. But, like Rolfe, Carla could be stubborn. After Derek’s death she had made up her mind that she didn’t need a man in her life, doubly so after the recent
experience with Josh Aldrich. What a pig of a man! With regard to Josh, Carla had seen the light before her emotions had become involved, and thank goodness for that. She wanted Carla to be happy, but Angie knew that until Carla put aside her fear of getting hurt again in a relationship, there’d be little progress between her and Paul. And in that she was making an assumption—that Paul was interested in Carla. Maybe he wasn’t, maybe he still grieved for Lisa. She let out a sigh and came to the conclusion that she was a better winemaker than matchmaker and perhaps that was how she should leave it.

‘So, sure you don’t want a massage?’ Paul reminded Angie.

‘No, I’m fine,’ Angie fibbed. In truth she was as stiff as a board but a hot shower and some exercises would loosen up the muscles. ‘Carla’s in greater need of your magical fingers than I am.’

‘I’ll let you convince her of that.’ He winked at her. ‘Meanwhile, I’d better turn the meat and veggies.’

Dinner that night in the cement-rendered cottage at Sundown Crossing was a pleasant affair. Paul turned out to be a good cook, and supplied dessert: apple crumble and whipped cream. Angie insisted on doing the washing up, freeing Paul to give Carla—who at first objected but finally gave in—a neck and back massage while Sam, who’d started to get small amounts of homework, did his usual grumbling as he settled down to it at the dinner table.

‘You’ve got to relax, Carla,’ Paul chided as, sitting on the sofa with her on a footstool in front of him, he began to work on her taut muscles.

‘I am relaxed.’

‘You’re not,’ he told her straight out. ‘Breathe in deeply, then out slowly. Go on.’

She did once, twice, three times. God, but his hands were good. They sought and found sore muscles she didn’t know she had. His fingertips kneaded her neck, rubbing, working the tightness out. Wonderful. She sighed with satisfaction, wondering how people picked fruit day after day. This massage was what she’d needed, and really, she had been silly, initially, to deny that she did. Why had she?

What was it about Paul that kept her…what? On edge, unable to relax when he was around. He was a good employer, understanding, very intelligent, ‘a let’s not fuss about it’ kind of man. Mmmm! Deep down and if she were honest with herself she knew the answer to the question only too well. There was the potential within her to like Paul too much. And…she didn’t have time for romance, she had to concentrate on building up the vineyard, getting it out of debt and making a satisfactory income. Besides, why was she even mentally debating it? He wasn’t interested in her, not romantically. Still, she sensed a loneliness in him, a need for company, which had probably come about since Lisa’s death. Being the friendly, downright nice type he was he had consciously or unconsciously taken them under his wing.

She recalled Paul’s reaction when her grandfather had spoken as he had to her. Paul had interrupted Carl and said he’d overstepped the boundaries of politeness, which proved he wasn’t in awe of the Stenmark family. She liked it that he’d defended her even though she was perfectly capable of standing up for herself. Damn, there was that word again—liked. She couldn’t seem to get away from it.

Paul’s massage and Carla’s deliberations were interrupted by Angie carrying a bottle and three port glasses on a tray. Carla recognised the label as her father’s one and only vintage—the bottle was one of the fifty bottles of port they’d found that first day.

‘Today being the first day of the harvest, and it going so well, weatherwise and with optimum bunches of grapes, I thought we should test your father’s port. It’ll be amazingly smooth or amazingly off.’ Her smile sought Carla’s approval. ‘Shall we?’

‘I think Dad would like that,’ Carla replied, her voice becoming a little husky. They were both remembering other vintages, at Valley View, where her father had established the tradition of sampling the previous year’s vintage as the current grapes were being harvested.

‘I’d be honoured to try it,’ Paul said. He was studying Carla’s reaction, an unfathomable expression in his eyes.

Angie removed the seal and uncorked it. She brought the bottle close to her nose, inhaling the
fragrance. ‘Smells all right but, as Rolfe used to say, the proof is in the tasting.’ She poured the dark liquid until each glass was half full. They each took a glass, holding them aloft in a silent salute before they sipped.

‘It’s good,’ Paul approved. ‘Not too heavy, a pleasant aroma, a smooth aftertaste.’

Angie’s comment was more professional, as it should be. ‘Fruity. Smooth. A touch dry, aged in small oak casks for at least five, maybe even eight years before being bottled—probably by Otto, the man Rolfe kept on with a retainer.’

‘Pity there were only fifty,’ Carla corrected herself, ‘now forty-nine bottles.’

‘Mum, may I have a sip?’ Sam entreated, wanting to join the momentous tasting session. ‘It was Grandpa’s first vintage.’

Carla smiled at her son and sat him on her lap. ‘Okay, but just a sip. You’re way too young to be drinking alcohol.’

Sam rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, I know.’

Carla was no wine connoisseur and she didn’t have an overly sensitive palate but she knew enough to understand that the port was good. It warmed her throat as it went down, but didn’t burn, and radiated a sense of relaxation through her body, though in a different way to Paul’s massage. Oh, for God’s sake…

Angie filled the port glasses again and they talked as they drank, mostly about the harvest and the work that was to follow.

When Paul caught Carla in her third yawn he
apparently decided that it was time to take his leave. ‘I’ll be off now. There’re enough leftovers to do for tomorrow night’s dinner. Saves you having to cook if you don’t want to.’

Carla yawned again. ‘All I want to do is sleep like Rip van Winkle, for a hundred years.’ She chuckled at the look Sam gave her, then remembered her manners. ‘Paul, thanks for doing what you did tonight, and the massage. Much appreciated.’

His hand reached for the knob on the front door. ‘My pleasure. Hope tomorrow goes well. Bye,’ and then he was gone.

By the time Carla got Sam into bed and lay down on her own bed she admitted, as she lay in the dark, to being pleasantly exhausted—too much so to think, to worry, even to dream.

The weeks following the harvest at Sundown Crossing were busy ones as the grapes were crushed and the winemaking process kicked into gear. Carla became familiar with crushing and the resultant slurry of skins, juice and seeds known as ‘must’ being pumped into tanks for fermentation and clarification; the process of filtering and cold-stabilising the wine through to the bottling stage, the timing of which would be decided by Angie. Throughout the several weeks this process took, Angie spent more time in the winery to which they’d added a small office-cum-laboratory, than she did anywhere else including the cottage or her bed.

Every vineyard in the Barossa, small or large, was similarly engaged, the winemakers concentrating on turning the harvest into the best possible vintage. Even so, there was one person who found the time to check on what was happening at Carla’s vineyard.

Josh Aldrich, familiar with the property after being there several times had, since Carla gave him his walking papers, adopted the habit of ‘spying’ several times a week on Carla and Angie. In respect to nocturnal wanderings, he was experienced as, since adolescence and while in Tasmania, he’d become what was known as a peeping Tom. He relished the act of sneaking up to windows in the hope of catching a glimpse of a girl or woman undressing, or couples making love—
that
was quite a turn-on for him. He’d almost got caught recently doing the same thing in Lyndoch but the danger made the exercise more exciting.