The Grass is Greener (30 page)

‘Me and
Chris
?'

‘Yes, Bronwyn,' he said impatiently. ‘You two have always been perfect for each other. Knowing that made leaving that much easier.'

Bronwyn ran a hand across her brow. ‘Of course.'

He turned away from her, frustrated with a conversation that was simply turning in circles. He located his pipette further down the bench and picked it up.

She broke the silence first. ‘There's a reason I didn't come back and I'm guessing it's not what you think, but you need to know the truth.'

He was interested but tried not to let it show, moving instead towards a beaker of chardonnay must. He added ten millimetres of must to the distilled water he'd prepared earlier.

She marched up to the bench and stood beside him. ‘Jack, look at me. This is important.'

Then he made the mistake of doing just that, turning his head and catching those deep blue eyes and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose that swamped him with so many memories. For a moment he could do nothing but stare back.

‘What are you doing?' she murmured.

What
am
I doing again?

A flash of recollection jolted him. ‘TA test,' he blurted, picking up his mixture and moving it to a second bench where another piece of equipment stood waiting.

‘A what?' She followed him.

‘Titratable acidity test. You might want to stand back a bit.'

Just for my peace of mind.

‘Why?'

He positioned a tall glass burette containing a clear solution over the beaker and indicated the substance it contained. ‘When I add this to the wine there may be a small explosion. I'd hate for your clothes to catch on fire and burn off, especially after what happened the last time I saw you naked.'

‘You're kidding, right?' Her eyes were wide.

He nodded gravely. ‘Yes, I am.'

‘Argh.' She shot him an exasperated glare. ‘Are you ever serious? About … about
anything
?'

‘Life's too short.'

And I'd rather avoid talking about you and Chris.

He took a deep breath and turned his back on her again, slowly dripping the sodium hydroxide from the burette into the beaker, watching his pH probe until the reading he wanted appeared. ‘You've gotta take the good times when you can.'

‘No, Jack,' she said harshly, ‘you need to fight for them, otherwise you're just swept away by the bad ones.'

He sighed. ‘Still can't help lecturing me, can you, Numbat?' He turned around. ‘You need to loosen up. Kick off your shoes. Let down your hair.' Before he thought the action through, he reached out and unclipped the hair claw holding her knot in place. Her hair rapidly untwisted and whisked across her pink cheeks and around her shoulders. All in all it looked much better, but as she stood there staring at him like the Statue of Liberty with her torch blown out, he realised that maybe he'd gone too far.

That was not cool, man! Not cool.

‘Just a thought,' he said quickly. He put her clip on the bench and spun back to his beaker. Grabbing a pen, he scribbled down the reading from the burette on his notepad. The silence behind him was palpable.

Finally, he heard her snatch her clip off the bench. His peripheral vision caught her retwisting her hair in short, sharp movements. When she was done, her voice came out tersely.

‘There's something you need to know about what happened five years ago. My mother wanted me to stay in law that
badly that it
she
sent you the plane tickets and the job offer in Bordeaux and the note explaining it all.'

‘No.' He turned around, shaking his head. ‘My dad sent me those things.'

‘You've got it wrong, Jack,' Bronwyn said firmly. ‘It was my mother.'

Jack stilled, his throat dry. ‘So you're saying my dad didn't want me to leave town?'

‘No.'

‘He had no idea where I went till I made first contact?'

‘Yes,' she confirmed breathlessly.

That can't be right.

‘It doesn't make sense. Why would your mother think that getting rid of me would keep you in law?'

Bronwyn took a deep breath, her eyes wide and glistening. ‘Think about it, Jack.'

‘I am,' he protested. ‘Nothing is coming to mind.'

She threw up her hands. ‘Because I was in love with you,
you idiot
. She knew a rejection from you would send me flying back to her, and it worked.'

He gazed at her in complete and utter shock. ‘But Chris –'

She shrugged. ‘I guess neither of us got what we wanted.'

Hope caused his chest to fill and expand. ‘Why are you telling me this now?'

‘Because I don't want you to resent your father and brother for the rest of your life. They don't deserve that when it was all my mother's doing.' She raised her chin. ‘So now that I've sufficiently humiliated myself for your family's benefit, I better get back to it.'

‘Back to what?' he demanded. Anything to stall her from leaving his side.

One eyebrow flicked up as she lifted her hands to make the quotation marks. ‘“Stealing” your inheritance, of course. Good luck, Jack. You're going to need it.'

And then she was gone.

Personally, Bronwyn had had a gutful of Jack Franklin.

Since he'd arrived, all he'd done was rock the boat. Chris was on edge. His mother was worried and his father couldn't decide what to do about the future of Oak Hills, which, unfortunately, was now very closely linked to her own. The competition for Horace's winery had begun and she fully intended to win.

It wasn't like she wanted all of Oak Hills, just a small part so that she could feel like she was contributing to something she was connected to. Her best friend would still receive a sizable inheritance and so would Jack and Chris. She didn't know what the big problem was.

Unless, of course, Jack preferred that she marry Chris to receive her share rather than legitimately buying into the estate. She cringed when she thought of their conversation the day before and how he had gone on about how perfect she was for Chris and how glad he had been when it seemed like they were going to get together.

Argh! The delusion.

She could still recall the shock on his face when she'd admitted she'd actually been in love with him.

He was absolutely dumbfounded.

Like she'd just showed him an alien in his Year One class photo.

Her mother shouldn't have wasted so much money on getting Jack off to France. A few more weeks in Yallingup and he would have rejected her himself. It was perfectly clear that he'd never thought of her in a romantic way at all. And to top it all off, he'd had her earmarked
for his brother
.

The confusion she was feeling now, these feelings his return was stirring up, had to be ignored. Otherwise she was just setting herself up for the rejection she didn't receive five years ago. Hadn't he just returned from a smorgasbord of beautiful, sophisticated French women? In the wake of that party, why would he even look twice at her?

She had to concentrate on what was important.

Winning Oak Hills.

Not Jack Franklin's heart.

With this is mind, she decided to focus on building her strengths. Jack's was obviously winemaking so she'd steer clear of that. Her strength lay more in organisation, people and staying on top of things. So far she'd been in the background, helping Horace sort out the chaos in the office. Now, however, she thought it was time to move into the foreground. She wanted to try her hand at serving in the cellar door, get to know a little more about the product she was promoting. So that morning she reported there as soon as it opened at ten o'clock.

Ant was very pleased to see her. His eyes lit up. ‘You have not forsaken me! My life is complete.'

‘It is?' Chris appeared from the storeroom and Bronwyn quickly covered her embarrassment by explaining the situation.

‘Would I be able to help out here for a while? I want to know more about how you guys do the tastings. Would you be able to show me?'

Ant blocked her view of Chris.

‘I would be more zan delighted.' He flicked the counter several times with the white cloth that had previously lay folded over his shoulder, thus removing any imaginary specks of dust. ‘Ze art of serving wine is a talent zat has been bred into my family for generations. A skill zat, fortunately, can be learned if the pupil is apt and eager.'

Chris rolled his eyes, grabbed a glass from under the counter, put it on the glossy top, and tipped in one inch of white wine from a bottle he had near at hand. ‘In other words, grab a glass and pour.'

Bronwyn laughed.

‘Ugh!' Ant shut his eyes in revulsion. ‘Ze oaf's manners are as simple as his T-shirt.'

‘I happen to like this T-shirt.' Chris glared at him.

‘I'm sorry,' Ant's eye's widened, ‘do you wear that colour for fashion?' Behind his hand, he said to Bronwyn, ‘'Tis worse than we thought!'

The demonstration continued much like this for the rest of the morning. At first, she just hung back and watched Ant and Chris do it. She wasn't afraid of pouring wine. That was the easy bit. It was the questions that stressed her out.

Luckily, there were cheat cards on the counter. These were meant for the wine tasters, but Bronwyn found herself reading them and trying to memorise bits and pieces. Most customers, however, didn't want to talk so much as taste, and the ‘wine wankers', as Chris called them, preferred to talk to each other rather than the bar staff.

‘Spotted any yet?' Chris asked her with a grin.

‘Not yet,' she returned his smile, knowing from her uni days that you could definitely pick them out of a crowd.

A few days and a couple more shifts later, she spotted two. They approached the bar in a leisurely fashion, pausing over the merchandise in the store, muttering to each other softly, as they surveyed all before them with a critical eye. Having completed a preliminary inspection they finally approached the bar.

Bronwyn clutched the bottle she was holding to her chest as the taller of the two looked down his long nose as her.

‘Surprise me,' he murmured and then threw a smug smile at his appreciative friend as though it were private joke shared between them.

She put two glasses on the counter and served them each an inch of cabernet merlot.

The tall man swirled the contents of his glass, taking in the colour, a rich ruby-red. ‘Oh, this is elegant,' he noted.

‘Very fine.' His companion agreed before they both sank their noses into their glasses to take an extended sniff.

The taller man closed his eyes.

‘Interesting character …' he nodded. ‘Deep … but approachable. Very approachable. Tell me,' he said to Bronwyn, ‘did Horace Franklin have a hand in this or was it another winemaker?'

Bronwyn decided to play the safe card. ‘Horace Franklin has a hand in all our wines. He is never far from the heart of the winery. It's his lifeblood.'

This was true enough, but the wine wanker studied her carefully as though looking for evidence of fault.

His companion lay his glass on a slight angle against a white napkin he had removed from his pocket. ‘There is remarkable clarity here. I do like a wine which is distinctive immediately with unmistakable qualities.'

Interesting character, deep, distinctive.

Bronwyn's lips tilted. ‘Our wine is exactly like the man who makes them.'

‘Intriguing,' said one of the wine wankers. ‘I heard that Horace Franklin is retired.'

‘Yes, we have a new winemaker now, his son. He's incredibly talented.'

‘Indeed?' he responded, and both men finally lifted their glasses to taste. They pursed their lips, pushing their tongues against the rim as they sucked an infinitesimal amount of
fluid into their mouths. Bronwyn had to wince at this rather uncomfortable looking start. They did not appear to be bothered by it, swirling the fluid across their tongues much like she did with mouthwash.

‘Sensuous,' the first man exclaimed at last. ‘I like it. So intense upon the palate.'

‘Middle or after?' his companion enquired.

‘After,' the taller man announced. ‘A full-bodied, well-balanced wonder with definite structure.'

With an air of superiority and a waggle of black bushy brows, the second man flicked his glass. ‘You don't think it's not a little
austere
… a bit short on the finish?'

‘Not at all, not at all,' the first man responded, returning his friend's look with his own haughty expression. ‘Can't you taste the wild berries in it?'

‘Blackberries,' Bronwyn murmured, tentatively, because in actual fact she had absolutely no idea.

His companion snorted indignantly. ‘More like cherries.'

‘I also detect vanilla.'

His friend glared at him. ‘Nougat, you mean.'

‘Nutmeg.'

‘Turkish delight!'

‘Licorice!'

The nostrils of their pointy noses flared in challenge before they plunged them back into their glasses and moved away from the counter. She turned to Chris, who was stocktaking at the back of the bar. ‘I think I've had my first wine wanker encounter since I got here.'

‘Count yourself fortunate. I know I'm going to have a bad day when a whole tour bus of them arrives.'

‘Is there really that much to be said about wine?' she mused. ‘I mean, people say they can taste all these different flavours but at the end of the day all the winemaker puts in the barrel is grapes, right?'

‘And an insane amount of skill.'

Chris's expression closed slightly and she knew exactly who was behind her. She had to wonder how long he'd been standing there.

‘Jack.' She spun around. He was leaning against the counter, one arm up bent at the elbow, hip out, and that lopsided smile that made her heart drop out of her chest and rattle around her kneecaps.

‘I thought you handled them really well, particularly that part about the new winemaker being incredibly talented.' He grinned. ‘Did you mean that, I wonder?'

‘No one doubts your skill, Jack,' she shrugged. ‘It's your attitude that pisses people off.'

There was a chortle from Chris behind her.

‘All right, all right.' Jack glared at them both. ‘There's no need to gang up on me. Especially since I'm here to give you a message you definitely don't want to miss out on.'

She put her hands on her hips. ‘And what would that be?'

‘I'm pretty sure your bullmastiff's just gone into labour.'

‘What?' Bronwyn threw down the white napkin she'd been holding. ‘Chris, I think I've got to go.'

He laughed. ‘Sure. I'll see you in a bit.'

She walked straight out the double-doored entrance to the cellar and down the gravelled path with Jack hot on her heels.

‘Hey, slow down, you've got plenty of time. It's not like the pups pop out that quickly. It'll be a few hours before she starts pushing.'

‘Still, I want to be there every step of the way,' Bronwyn insisted, not slowing her pace at all. ‘Is she distressed?'

‘No.'

‘How did you know she was going into labour then?'

‘She started shivering a couple of hours ago and she hasn't moved from that nest of blankets you and Mum made up for her.'

‘And you're only just calling me now?' She nearly slipped on the gravel as her feet sped up. She should have stuck to one of Chris's asphalt paths.

‘Bron, calm down.'

‘Why is it that you're always telling me that?' she grumbled.

‘Because you take everything too seriously.' His hand slipped into hers and the complete opposite of calm ricocheted through her chest like the pinball in a slot machine.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Holding your hand.'

‘Why?'

He paused. ‘So you don't fall down.'

She removed her hand from his. ‘I'm fine,' she swallowed. ‘It's just … my first time, having puppies, that's all.'

They entered the house, walked straight through it and out the back door into an enclosed patio, where Lydia was hovering over Elsa. The room was light, bright and warm because the walls only rose to waist height, and then it was windows all round. Elsa was whining slightly as she lay on her nest of towels and blankets in one corner.

‘Ah! There you are.' Lydia turned around to greet them. ‘She's definitely going into labour. If we'd known this was her final week of pregnancy we should have been taking her temperature. Then we could have been more prepared.'

‘Really?' Bronwyn bit her lip. ‘Should I call a vet?'

‘I already have,' Lydia nodded. ‘She's on standby if there are any problems.'

‘Standby?' Bronwyn yelped. ‘We're doing this ourselves?'

‘Honey, over ninety-eight per cent of dogs deliver their pups without complications or assistance. She's going to be just fine.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive.'

‘Now,' Lydia dusted her hands, ‘I'd love to stay and watch, but as you know we've got that wedding on tomorrow and the staff in the restaurant are feeling the pressure.'

Bronwyn's face dropped even further. ‘You're not going to stay and help me?'

‘I'll just be down the end of the driveway if you need me. Besides,' Lydia looked slyly at her son, ‘Jack will be here.'

‘Huh?' The man himself, who had been kneeling on the blankets and gently rubbing the back of Elsa's neck, looked up in surprise.

‘It's not like you're harvesting another block today, is it?' Lydia threw at him. ‘You can make the time.'

‘But –'

‘Have fun, you two!'

‘Great.' Bronwyn threw up her hands as his mother walked out. She had noticed in the last day or so that the ice in the Franklin household was starting to melt. Chris and Jack were talking again. Not with complete freedom, but at least there was no longer silence at the breakfast table. She was glad she had confessed to both brothers exactly what had happened with her mum. However, seeing them bonding again had certainly raised Lydia's hopes, and the Franklin matriarch seemed to be making it her mission to include Bronwyn in their reconciliation.

Bronwyn turned to Jack with a sigh. ‘What are we going to do now?'

‘Watch Elsa give birth, I imagine.' He stood up and folded his arms.

Easy for him to say.

This was just the sort of thing that was way out of her comfort zone. She knelt down beside her dog. Elsa whined again, shivered violently and then vomited on her bedding. ‘Oh shoot! You poor thing.' She wrapped up the towel filled with vomit and pulled it away from the rest. Elsa's belly tensed near her hands. ‘She's having contractions.' Her gaze flicked over her shoulder at Jack. ‘Have you ever done this before?'

‘Delivered puppies?' he asked.

‘No, milked a cow. What do you think?'

He shrugged. ‘I may have witnessed one dog of a different breed doing this under someone else's supervision, but –'

‘Oh good.' She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So you're an expert then.'