The Grass is Greener (7 page)

‘Actually,' Bronwyn managed to stem the flow of conversation at last, ‘she did arrange for someone to take her place.'

All eyes swung to her.

‘Who?' Lydia enquired.

Damn! Can I really do this?

‘Well, don't leave us in suspense, Numbat,' Chris protested. ‘Spit it out.'

‘Well, it's,' her gaze shot from one to the other before she spread her hands hopefully, ‘it's, er … me.'

For a moment they all just stared at her in stunned silence and then Horace let loose a roar of laughter.

‘You're going to run Oak Hills Winery! No bloody way!'

‘I … I beg your pardon?' Bronwyn stammered.

‘As much as I like you, Bronwyn, we are not packaging up our business and handing it over into your untried hands. Why would we? It's too risky, not to mention ridiculous.'

‘Ignore him.' Lydia came forward, clasping both Bronwyn's hands between hers. ‘He's being rude.'

‘So you think I could do it?' Bronwyn eagerly pounced on this.

It was Lydia's turn to stall. ‘You're a wonderful girl, sweetie. Smart too, with all those degrees behind you. But … this is our … everything.'

‘I totally get that.' Bronwyn squeezed Lydia's hands. ‘And I would fight for it with my … everything, and not ask for payment except food and a roof over my head. I would replace Claudia exactly.'

Just like I was your daughter.

She groaned inwardly at her teenage fantasy that was unexpectedly coming to life.

Lydia's expression became rather bewildered. ‘But don't you have commitments back in Perth, Bronwyn?'

‘Not really.' Bronwyn winced. ‘I kinda got fired and I can't stay in my apartment anymore because of Elsa.'

‘Her new dog,' Chris informed his mother, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the wheels of his chair. ‘Big bullmastiff, the size of a small pony. Can't say I would have picked her as your type, Numbat. But I guess you're full of surprises today, aren't you?'

Bronwyn stuck out her tongue at him as he grinned at her.

Horace, however, was not to be distracted.

‘And we're supposed hand over our livelihood to someone who has no experience of managing a winery, who just got fired from their job and encouraged my daughter to flake out on her responsibilities?'

‘Come now, Horace,' Lydia scolded him, ‘that's not fair.'

‘No,' he declared, ‘it's just the truth.' Closing his eyes, he rubbed his fingers over his temple. ‘Why do the people I count on the most always let me down?'

It was this gesture of true despair, more than his words, that hurt Bronwyn.

She licked her lips. ‘I got fired because I refused to give Elsa up to be put down, not because I was incompetent. The whole situation made me realise that I don't want to practice law anymore. In fact,' she glanced at their faces earnestly, ‘I actually think I hate my old job. I don't want to ever go back.'

She braced herself for the protests her mother would no doubt have voiced … had she given her the opportunity to do so.

Why?

What happened?

You were so good at it!

Why quit now when you're at the top of your game?

Don't be silly. You love what you do!

As for her father, Robert Eddings hadn't ever taken that much of an interest in her life, so why on earth would he start now?

‘Well,' Lydia nodded contemplatively, ‘I guess one can't do the same thing forever, but are you sure this is what you want to do instead?'

‘Absolutely,' Bronwyn replied firmly, both relieved and grateful for Lydia's response. ‘Claud told me you guys were having problems here. All I want to do is help you get your reputation and sales back on line. I love this place. I want to restore Oak Hills to its former glory as much as you do.'

‘Okay,' Horace nodded. ‘So you've got passion and ambition. I admire that, but winemaking is not corporate law. This business is as much art as it is science. It requires a delicate balancing act, a love of the land and an intuitiveness that Claudia doesn't have and neither do you.'

‘Then who does?'

To Bronwyn's surprise it was Chris who had jumped in. She had never seen him so affected. His face was pale, his voice rough with anger. He'd always approached life with an air of whatever will be, will be. When he'd lost the use of his legs, his easygoing attitude had remained. She'd always admired him for that and his willingness to give anything a go. Even today, for most of the conversation he'd sat quietly in his chair contemplating everything that was said without a shred of the panic his parents were clearly feeling. And it wasn't to say that he too shouldn't feel some sort of upheaval. Chris was by no means the family freeloader. He managed the cellar door, organised tastings and sometimes gave tours in the summer, explaining to wide-eyed tourists and winemaking experts alike their process from harvest to fermentation. He was good at it too. Chris knew how to play up the romance of it all, and his cheeky good humour had always been an asset to the family.

However, there was none of that in play now. ‘Is it Jack you have in mind, Dad?' he asked sarcastically. ‘What a pity you drove him away.'

‘Jack!' Horace spat out the name like a mandarine pip. ‘That boy had ability but no discipline, apart from being a downright disgrace to this family.'

‘A disgrace because of what he did to me?' Chris demanded. ‘Or how he disappointed you?'

‘I don't see how that has any relevance.'

‘Of course it has relevance.'

Horace glared at him. ‘I don't want your opinion. Didn't ask for it.'

‘That's right. Doesn't count, does it? Never did.' Chris lifted his chin. ‘And that's what's so ironic about this whole mess. You got rid of the one guy who could bring this place back to life because of me, the son you never loved as much.'

His words were like hot oil spitting from a pot, leaving everyone scalded.

Bronwyn's gaze flew to Chris. He was clearly just as shocked by his outburst as everyone else. He probably hadn't meant for it to come out but now that it had, he couldn't snatch it back.

Oh dear.

It was in this moment that Bronwyn realised she might have been blindsided by her own need. She had been so determined to get out of law, she'd jumped headfirst into this escape plan. The Franklins were no longer the happy family from her uni days. There was a reason Claudia had been so miserable at Oak Hills, and now she was about to discover firsthand why.

‘I think it's time I took a walk,' Horace remarked and, with an unsteady gait, left the room, shutting the door behind him firmly.

‘Sorry about that,' Chris remarked with a humourless smile. ‘I don't know what came over me.'

‘No, it's my fault,' Bronwyn tried to patch things over. ‘I didn't realise this plan Claudia and I have hatched would open old wounds.'

Chris snorted. ‘Who said they were shut?'

Lydia laid a hand on Chris's arm, her face a picture of concern. ‘Perhaps it is time we sorted through our dirty laundry. We've let this all fester for too long. I'm just sad that it's taken Claudia leaving for us to realise it.' She looked up and met Bronwyn's eyes. ‘On reflection, Bronwyn, I think you
have come at an excellent time. We are definitely going to need you around here. In fact, you're the perfect distraction for the storm about to break.'

Alarm bells began to ring in her head. ‘What storm?'

Lydia spread her hands. ‘Oak Hills can't sustain my husband's dissatisfaction for much longer.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Honey, it's not just you or Claudia or me or Chris he doesn't trust to run Oak Hills.'

Chris groaned. ‘He doesn't trust anyone.'

Lydia pursed her lips. ‘My husband is finding the concept of retirement rather difficult to process.' She sighed. ‘Winemaking has been his life for so many years now, it's hard to just chuck it in and let someone else take over. Especially a stranger. He won't admit it but he always thought Jack would take the reins when he retired, and in truth he doesn't really want anyone else. His pride is standing in the way. As for me, I never thought this feud between them would last so long.' She tapped her fingers restlessly against her arm.

‘Well,' Chris pointed out, ‘he can't keep firing every winemaker we take on just because he doesn't like his way of doing things.'

‘Is that what's been happening?' Bronwyn's eyes rounded.

Chris nodded. ‘Can you imagine what kind of wine we're getting with three different winemakers having a hand in the one vintage? That's why our reputation is gone.'

‘Too many cooks spoiling the broth?'

‘Exactly. Claud and I have told Dad again and again to lay low but he won't listen. Even the fact that he's nearly blind now doesn't stop him. We're basically at our wits' end.'

‘Well, I'm not,' Lydia responded firmly.

Chris glanced at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You were right about Jack. He
is
the one person who can save Oak Hills. He's every bit as talented as your father was.'

‘That doesn't mean I want him to come home,' Chris added.
‘He's been shunning us for years, Mum. He has no incentive to help. It won't work.'

Bronwyn went still. ‘What won't work?'

Lydia reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Bronwyn, we'll need you here to keep the peace, you'd do a much better job than Claud ever could. She's as bitter about Jack abandoning us as your father is.'

Her heart sank. ‘Lydia, what are you going to do?'

‘Something I should have done a long time ago.' Lydia nodded. ‘I'm going to ask Jack to come home.'

Sebastian Rowlands was both busy and frustrated.

He had court appointments booked to his eyeballs, at least half a dozen affidavits to finalise and ten witnesses to interview. His junior lawyer, Nelson, was already fully loaded with work and his secretary, Juliet Nesbitt, had taken a personal day. Not that she didn't deserve it. Of all the secretaries he had known, she was definitely the best. Honest, trustworthy and methodical to a fault. Juliet ate through his paperwork like termites in a timber roof. He couldn't ask for better. Of all the women who had guest-starred in his life, his relationship with Juliet was singularly the most longstanding and meaningful.

Did he find that sad?

No.

He'd much rather have a good secretary than be married. Low maintenance, high rewards.

No bullshit.

Nelson, on the other hand, required a lot of attention. The young lawyer did try his best but his efficiency was low because he was still learning. In turn, being a mentor to him was a
time-consuming process that took longer than if he actually did the work himself.

He tutted as he flicked though the brief in front of him written by Nelson, which was full of errors. He was going to have to sit down with the boy again, putting them both further behind. Not that there wasn't something to be said for having another human being look at you with envy, respect and doe-eyed wonder.

That
he liked.

Not because he saw himself in Nelson, but because he didn't.

Nelson had grown up in a stable family environment, well supported by his parents, and still lived at home. He had no notion of independence because there had always been someone there to pick him up should he fall. He had moved smoothly from high school to university without a care in the world.

No, he liked Nelson because he was earnest.

He was good and he was kind, untouched by the jaded cynicism that years of getting to know the frailty of man's honour brought to your life. He loved shocking him with the hard advice and ‘war' stories; startling him when Seb pointed out Nelson's mistakes just in time to pull him back from the brink of liability and disbarment. Unfortunately for Nelson, this seemed to occur on rather a regular basis.

Seb chuckled to himself as he flicked through more of the young man's work, seeing a number of flashing danger lights in his phrasing. He circled these with red pen.

And so you've adopted him.

Much like an old man takes in a stray puppy.

Wasn't that what you were when Cyril gave you a leg up?

He shook his head at the thought. He always knew when he was stressed because he started reminiscing about the past. When he was seventeen, already supporting himself because the discontinuous nature of foster homes had started grating
on him, he hadn't dreamt of becoming a lawyer. Honestly, he had just wanted to get by, pay his rent and maybe buy an old bomb that someone was trying to flog so he could get away to the coast for the weekends. He was a loner. Still was. There was no one in this world he trusted more than himself.

Until he met Cyril.

The phone on his desk buzzed, rousing him from his musings. He hoped it was Juliet, calling to say she was coming in after all.

It wasn't.

‘Morning, Seb.'

‘Cyril.' Genuine pleasure coloured his voice. ‘Don't tell me you have another case for me.'

‘Something better than that, son. Get over here, will you?'

‘Right now?'

‘Right now.'

Seb put the phone down. Standing up, he threw on his jacket and walked out of his fish-tank style office and straight into a pool of cubicles, mainly occupied by graduates and paralegals. They kept their heads down as he strode past, hoping not be flicked another one of his files, no doubt. The thing was, he needed more help. He was going to have to get it somewhere.

He reached the main foyer of Hanks and Eddings. The receptionist there fielded all calls, but particularly Cyril's. His office was directly behind her desk, a double-doored entrance with stark silver handles. It looked ostentatious, just as it was meant to.

‘Morning, Seb,' smiled the receptionist. ‘I was just about to put Mrs Matheson through to your office.'

‘Tell her I'll call her back,' he nodded. That was likely to be a very long phone call. Mrs Matheson tended to cry a lot whenever they went over the facts of her case, which he supposed was understandable. She stood to lose her home, her beach house and the ability to pay her children's private school fees because her husband had dared to avoid paying taxes. Ah,
the benefits of spousal dishonesty. Yet another reason he had no intention of getting married anytime soon.

He strode on and the receptionist didn't stop him. She was used to him coming and going from Cyril's office as he pleased. It was a privilege not enjoyed by many. When he walked in, the old man was already seated on the couch in the alcove off to one side, a mug of coffee resting on his knee.

‘Help yourself.'

Seb definitely didn't have time for a break. But he'd learned very early in his career that you refused the founding partner of your firm nothing if you could help it. He filled himself a mug from the Nespresso machine on the bar behind the couch and then walked around to sit next to the man whom he regarded more as a father than a boss.

‘I've got a surprise for you,' Cyril nodded with pleasure, his bushy eyebrows lifting cheekily. ‘A present, if you will.'

Seb took a fortifying sip of his coffee. ‘You haven't set me up on a blind date again, have you?'

‘Lord, no!' Cyril shuddered. ‘Given the last three were such disasters, I wouldn't risk my reputation with my female friends further.'

‘Disasters? Really, they said that? I thought I gave all of them a good time. Who was that last girl I dated, Lisa, Lilly, Lee-anne …?'

‘Her name was Lani and she
was
my personal trainer.'

‘Ah yes, we spent a wonderful week together. Good food, expensive entertainment, great sex.' Seb permitted himself a ghost of a smile. ‘Most dates didn't wrap up till the next morning. It was very nice. I don't know what she could possibly be complaining about. ‘

‘Perhaps the fact that after you reeled her in for a week of paradise, you never called her again,' Cyril groaned as though he didn't know whether to laugh or scold. ‘Do you know how difficult it was to find another personal trainer when she quit on me? She was so good, too.'

‘Ah well, that's a shame. I'm terribly sorry.'

Cyril raised his eyebrows again. ‘No you're not. You're not sorry at all.'

There was a flash of white teeth. ‘Well, I can't help it if you don't believe me.'

‘I just don't know why you do it, Seb.'

‘Do what? Apologise?'

‘No, always put an end date on your little affairs before they've even begun.'

Seb snorted as he took another swig of coffee. ‘Hardly. I usually don't know until at least after the first date.'

Cyril, however, was not to be put off by humour. ‘You've never had a long-term connection to one woman since I've known you. Even your own mother.'

‘In my defence,' he pointed out, ‘that isn't entirely my fault.'

His mum had been in contact only a handful of times in his teenage years and twice in his twenties. None of those times had been an enriching experience. The connection had been more about her than about him and after he turned twenty-five she had ceased to reach out to him at all. That was more than ten years ago now. He definitely had no desire to reconnect with her in the present. Not after she'd abandoned him at six years old for her drug problem. He did sometimes wonder where she was. Just out of curiosity, of course, but never for any great length of time.

‘Yes, I suppose that's true,' Cyril agreed. ‘But you shouldn't judge the values of every woman you meet upon your mother's.'

Unbidden, the pretty face of a smart-mouthed waitress intruded upon his senses.

Why black? It's the colour of your soul and your complete and utter loss of faith in humanity.

He banished the vision of her immediately. Why the comments of someone he was never likely to see again should affect him this much, he had no idea. It was Cyril's fault. Sometimes the man pushed all the wrong buttons, and yet …

He had nothing but love and respect for the man. Cyril had given him the guidance and support he'd needed at just the right age. Their friendship had begun in response to a favour – a favour that was pretty much unforgettable, though neither of them had spoken of it since.

He had just started working at Hanks and Eddings as the mail clerk; the only job there that didn't require some sort of qualification.

He walked into Cyril's office with papers for his in-tray. The managing partner was seated behind his desk, but his chair was pushed out at a comfortable position so that he could peruse the document he was reading. He didn't look up as Seb leaned across the desk to place the new mail and remove the ones to go out. Mail clerks were tantamount to furniture at this firm.

As Seb straightened to move away, he heard Cyril's soft gasp. He looked down in time to see a wet patch growing on the crotch of Cyril's pants. Cyril was also watching it in shock and mortification. The incident was so odd that it took Seb a couple of seconds to realise that the managing partner was actually wetting himself involuntarily. Cyril glanced up, his eyes watery with humiliation. ‘It must be my prostate, I can't control the fuckin' thing.'

Since then Cyril had had an operation and thankfully no longer had this problem. At the time Seb remembered feeling deeply sorry for him. Before he could offer any assistance however, the door opened and Pam, Cyril's secretary, poked her head in. ‘Your ten o'clock, sir.' Then she stepped back and three people walked in – a client and two partners from the firm, one of whom was Bianca Hanks.

Thinking fast, Seb knocked the glass of water sitting on the edge of Cyril's desk into his boss's lap. The fluid went everywhere and then the glass smashed on the floor at their feet. The cracking sound caused the three people entering the room to pause in confusion.

‘Oh shoot, I'm so sorry,' he said, particularly to Bianca Hanks, who was eyeing him like she would like to serve him up for dinner.

It was a well-known fact around the office that Bianca Hanks was dying to knock Cyril off his perch and usurp his position. Since they had both started at the family firm as young lawyers, they had competed neck and neck to become managing partner, a position held until just recently by Cyril's older brother, Robert. Bianca had gone so far as to marry the man to increase her chances of being his successor. However, when Robert had left the firm to become a judge, he had chosen his brother instead of his wife to take the reins, giving further proof to the old saying, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'

Bianca Hanks took any opportunity she could to undermine Cyril's authority. Seb may have been low in the pecking order but he was well versed in reading people … particularly the dangerous kind.

He grabbed the box of tissues beside the in-tray and passed it to Cyril. ‘Here you go, sir.'

Cyril met his eyes gratefully for a second longer than necessary. ‘Thank you.'

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Sebastian,' the other partner at Bianca's elbow reprimanded him, striding past the client, who was looking rather bewildered. ‘How could you be so careless? He's soaked.'

‘It was an accident,' Seb apologised. ‘My hand slipped.'

‘So I saw,' Bianca threw at him. ‘It seemed almost deliberate.'

‘Hardly,' he said quietly. ‘Shall I go source you another pair of pants, sir?'

‘That would be ideal,' Cyril nodded tightly before turning to Bianca. ‘Your abrupt entry startled him, my dear. Next time please ask my secretary to summon me to the boardroom. In the meantime, I think we might have to reschedule.'

‘What are you waiting for?' Bianca had snapped at Seb. ‘Those pants aren't going fetch themselves.'

‘Of course.' Seb nodded and dashed from the room.

After that Cyril had taken a great deal of interest in Sebastian's progress at the firm. He noticed he was smart, he noticed he was fast and he noticed his phenomenal attention to detail. He'd given him advice and encouraged him to realise his potential. Before Seb knew what was happening he was being sponsored through a law degree and offered a job too. Cyril had been far more paternal towards him than the biological father he had barely known.

And, yes, because of all that he did permit the old man certain liberties, but there were some boundaries he didn't like anyone to cross.

‘Is there a point to this conversation?' he demanded.

‘Don't you want the comfort of companionship? Someone who actually cares if you don't come home at night?'

He folded his arms. ‘Why do I need someone to care if I don't come home?'

‘Everybody needs that, Seb. When I was your age I was married with two kids.'

‘Good for you.'

‘Damn straight. Nothing makes this job easier than a good wife, Seb. You need a support system with the hours we do. I don't know what I'd do without Maggie.'

‘Believe me, Cyril, if I wanted to get married there are plenty of women out there who would help me out.' He shuddered. ‘Just the other day I met an interesting piece of work at Seashells on Clarabel Terrace.'

‘Did she propose to you?'

‘No, but when she found out I wasn't interested, she insulted me.'

‘Insulted you?'

‘Said I clearly had no friends on account of my lack of faith in humanity.'

Cyril chuckled. ‘She might be onto something.'

‘Subterfuge is what she's onto,' Seb retorted. ‘Said you were her uncle, too. Haven't got any hot brunettes in your family, have you?'