The Maxwell Sisters (15 page)

Her secret paradise was complete. Now it was time to cook.

The smell of eggs, bacon and brewing tea tugged insistently on his consciousness, pulling Adam out of a deep sleep and into wakefulness. There was something else there too, something fruity and tangy and utterly mouth-watering. Stubbornly, he turned on his side, rubbing his faintly throbbing head.

He'd had a few too many glasses of wine yesterday, first with John in Horace's barrel room and then with the rest of the Maxwells at dinner. It had been a little hard not to get into it – with all those fireballs being tossed across the table. Not to mention the little firecracker sitting directly opposite him. He chuckled softly as he thought of Eve. But those thoughts were interrupted by the metallic sound of a pan being laid on the counter.

He stilled.
What the?! Was there a possum in the kitchen again?

He inhaled deeply, picking up once more the scent of delicious food.
Last time I checked, possums couldn't cook.

And as far as he knew he was the only squatter that had been granted permission to sleep in the storeroom. The Maxwells had been very good to him. A little too good. But he just couldn't seem to turn their hospitality down. Not completely, anyway. To preserve his privacy, he'd rejected their offer to live in the house but had taken up residence in the storeroom of the restaurant. It wasn't much. A vacant room with a mattress on the floor. There was a small bathroom out the back that was perfect for his needs. He'd lived with much less as a kid so, in his view, it was very comfortable. That and the fact that Anita doted on him like the son she'd never had. It was addictive really, being so wanted – like he was one of the family.

That was something he'd never had before.

Family.
The kind of in-your-face, overwhelming, can't-mind-their-own-business family that smothered you with love, any chance they got. It was a childhood fantasy and he couldn't help but enjoy it, any more than a pirate dancing on a mountain of gold.

He'd lost his parents before he could remember them. They'd both been killed in a car accident when he was five. He had other family who had taken him in. His maternal grandparents had been awarded official custody but looking after him all the time had been too much for them. So they'd passed him around to his aunts and uncles. As a result, he never felt like he belonged anywhere. He knew his cousins resented it when he showed up. It was like,
Oh great, I'm going to have to share my room again.

Oh great, he's going to expect to play with my toys.

Oh great, I have to let him hang out with me and my friends.

His grandparents regarded him as work. They were getting old and didn't want a child under foot any more.

‘My time for raising children is over now,' his grandfather used to say when he picked him up from school. ‘I should be enjoying my twilight years.'

How many times had he wanted to run away?
Stuff them all!
he used to think.
If they don't want me, I'll just go.

And he had too. When he was a teenager, he'd got a part-time job in a supermarket and made a bid for independence. He had some friends who said that he could stay with them. It hadn't taken much to convince his family to let him go.

It had been nice for a while because the friends had actually been pleased to have him … at first. Then their parents had started to get a little weary of their house guest.

‘Hasn't Adam got anywhere else to go?' they asked. ‘Doesn't his family want him back?'

So he'd moved in with someone else and the musical beds had started all over again.

Eventually, of course, he'd managed to stand on his own two feet. He'd got his own place and started working fulltime in a hardware store. He'd moved from job to job, city to city, rental to rental until he ended up in the Barossa Valley, grape-picking. That's when the wine bug had bitten him, when he'd had his first glimpse of the life he could have. The life he really wanted.

He had loved that part of Australia for its beauty and its tradition. Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. He didn't want to be a drifter any more. He wanted to settle in that place that gave him purpose and rhythm.

Wine was all about rhythm – choosing your time and doing it right, to create something wonderful that could be enjoyed by everyone. It was as much art as it was science, and it was the first time in his life that he was truly inspired by anything.

He wanted to be a winemaker.

When fruit-picking season ended, he got work at a cellar door and started doing a viticulture degree by correspondence. It took him six years to complete and he did not regret one day of it. Wine was his passion. It was more reliable than family and more giving than friends. It was his reason for being and its influence had been surpassed by only one life event.

Falling in love.

Her name was Kathy Rixon, of Rixon Valley Estate, a fifth-generation Tanunda family whose history was steeped in wine. He'd met her at the Barossa Valley Vintage Festival in a street parade. It had seemed like a match made in heaven.

But it wasn't. The only thing angelic about her was her face.

Fast forward a couple of years and he was back on the move. No money, nowhere to live and no desire to get close to anyone again. In fact, it had been more like going back in time, like starting over in those years when nobody had wanted him.

When he'd first come to WA, broke as a high school dropout, accepting a job and a bed on the Tawny Brooks property had seemed like a Godsend. At least until he had enough funds to get a place of his own in Margaret River. He'd come to this region to start fresh in a town where nobody knew him, and nobody cared to know him.

Wine and surfing. That's it.

But Anita wouldn't have that. It was like she was physically incapable of keeping anyone at arm's length, and when you'd never had a mother before, her fussing was like living a fantasy he thought had long since passed him by. To be honest, he could have got his own place months earlier, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Living at Tawny Brooks was just too easy.

After all, if Anita wanted to cook him dinner every night, who was he to complain? Sometimes he ate with them at the house, sometimes, if he was working late, she left his portion in the restaurant.

She was a fabulous cook. No sooner had he finished a bowl of her chunky chicken and vegetable stew than he was already looking forward to the next day's menu.

Her husband was a strange coot, unpredictable and uncanny. When he'd first met him he'd been starstruck. It was the great John Maxwell – founder and creator of the world renowned brand, Tawny Brooks. His reds had been described as rich and complex, his whites delicate and balanced. He didn't know what he was expecting but certainly not what he had got.

When John had interviewed him for the job, he had taken Adam on a walk through the property. They'd strolled through a block of sauvignon – the smell of dirt, sunshine and vine heavy and heady. John asked him no discerning questions nor enquired after his education. In fact, their conversation seemed rather random and John himself appeared preoccupied. He stopped constantly to check a plant, to brush the leaves fondly with his fingers, to scold birds and click back at the insects.

On first glance, Mad Maxwell was living up to his name. Like the scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz
, he was a fixture in his own vineyard, which had miraculously come to life. He treated his business, not as a component with many parts, but as a living organism functioning as one whole. Essential to the pulse of this life was the fertility of his soil, the rhythms of the cosmos and the grace of God. His biodynamic traditions were fanatical.

No sprays. No insecticides. But specially prepared composts and emulsions made with herbs, manure and cow horns. He used the movement of the moon and the alignment of the planets to decide when to plant, when to harvest and when to pray. Wildlife and bugs lived freely amongst his vines and made Adam feel like an early settler growing his first crop.

When they came to the end of their walk, John turned to him and said, ‘Adam, why do you want to be a winemaker?'

He had cleared his throat, rather dismayed because he had thought he'd made a good impression. ‘John, I
am
a winemaker. Have been for a few years now.'

‘All right then. Tell me why you choose it above any other profession.'

‘Because I love it.'

John shook his head. ‘Love, my friend, is a two-way street. Give and take. Compromise and compassion.'

Adam had scratched his head.
Where is he going with this?

After a moment, John tried a different approach. ‘What is wine?'

‘Well, er … it's technically fermented grapes,' Adam tried to be concise. ‘Water, alcohol, sugar and acid.'

‘And
magic
.' John clicked his fingers as though snapping a spell. ‘Without the magic part, you don't have anything. Think about it, my friend, you don't just put grapes in a tank. You put the landscape, the season, the rain and the sun in there too. The perfect balance of all is wine, good wine. To drink it is to taste the earth. Winemaking is not an occupation, my son, it is a calling. Until you realise that, you may love wine but it will not respect you and the magic will never come.'

‘Are you saying you don't want to hire me, John?'

‘No, I'll hire you.' John slapped him on the back. ‘But on one condition.'

‘What's that?'

‘That you listen.'

‘Of course I'll listen to you.'

‘Not to me, idiot,' John grinned at him. ‘To the vine.'

And then he'd walked off, leaving Adam standing there wondering whether he was supposed to ask for a contract or just report bright and early the next day. He settled on the latter and hadn't looked back since.

There was another clang in the kitchen, this time jolting him fully awake. He sat up. He wasn't dreaming, there was definitely somebody cooking in the kitchen. Had he overslept? He glanced up at the shallow windows at the top of one wall. It was still dark outside.

Rubbing his eyes, he stood up on his mattress, wrapping the blanket Anita had given him around his shoulders. There was a soft glow coming from under the door and the smell of butter melting on freshly toasted bread. He opened the door a crack and peered out.

His jaw dropped open.

What a sight!

If there was magic at Tawny Brooks, this was undoubtedly it.

In the soft glow of the candlelight stood Eve Maxwell, a vision of delectable loveliness surrounded by the flickering of tiny flames, their gentle glow providing just enough light to identify the sweet flimsiness of her attire – a short dressing gown stood open to reveal a virtually see-through pastel-pink slip. The neckline dived obligingly to reveal the swell of beautifully formed breasts. Unlike the day before at dinner, her hair was out and rioting on her shoulders, a mass of untamed glossy black curls that you just wanted to twine through your fingers. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide with enjoyment. She lifted a bunch of chive stalks, which she must have picked fresh from the garden, to her nose and inhaled tenderly before sentencing them without pause to the chopping board. She was using at least three pots on the stove and one frying pan. On one side was a crepe already covered in raspberries, dusted in icing sugar. She was humming as she transferred the chives, a scoop at a time, to the frying pan on the stove, which, if Adam's nostrils were correct, contained the world's best version of scrambled eggs.

Powerless to do anything else, Adam pushed the door open further and came out.

Eve froze in the act of putting the chives into the pan. The long wide sleeves of her robe dangled low, next to the stove. For a moment, her eyes simply rounded in shock. ‘You!'

She could not move, so complete was her disbelief. And then she gasped. ‘I'm on fire!'

‘So am I,' he agreed, most readily coming forward.

‘No, you idiot,' she snapped, desperately pulling her long sleeves from the gas flames, ‘I'm ON FIRE!'

She danced away from the stove, swatting and blowing on the flames, heading towards the sink, which was halfway between him and her. He acted faster. Crossing the room in two strides, he threw his blanket around her and yanked her close.

The fire on her sleeves went out.

But as he held her, looking down into those shocked brown eyes, and felt the hammer of her own heart against his, they burst to life again. Not on her sleeves, but around his heart, behind his eyes, between his legs. Hot, enticing, taunting flames that licked, tempted and burnt away the rest of the world. She fit so easily into the hard plane of his body, her fragile softness melting into his frame, making him wonder why he had sworn off women.

It seemed like such a cruel thing to do to himself, especially when gazing down at her soft kissable mouth.

‘Are you sure you don't have the hots for me?' he whispered hoarsely. ‘Because, frankly, this is getting beyond ridiculous.'

‘Are you kidding me?' Eve demanded. ‘Let me go!'

‘Okay, okay. Just calm down.' Abruptly, his arms and the blanket fell away and a whoosh of cold air encircled her.

She rubbed her arms. ‘You don't understand. I almost set fire to the bloody restaurant again!'

‘Hardly,' he scoffed. ‘I was here the whole time. It was never going to happen.'

Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘You were here the
whole
time. Watching me?'

‘Well, it sounds creepy when you say it like that but honestly –'

She cut him off. ‘What are you even
doing
here?'

He shook his head. ‘No way. I asked you a question first, which you have deliberately ignored. What is all this?'

She glared at him. ‘What's all what?'

‘The lingerie? The candles? The midnight feast on steroids?'

Eve realised his first accusation about having the hots for him again suddenly seemed plausible. A wave of heat rolled through her. She tried to hold up her palm calmly but her voice came out on a stammer. ‘Y-you're completely getting the wrong impression here. I
do not
have the hots for you.'

He shrugged off the blanket and threw it on the empty counter behind him, and she nearly died at the sight of his completely bare chest.

Okay, so that was my first lie.

He was so perfectly formed that if he hadn't been standing right there in front of her, she would have sworn he was photo-shopped. Tanned, fit and muscular, he had more definition than any statue of Adonis she'd ever seen. He turned off the stove and began to walk towards her, sending alarm shooting up her spine like a shock of electricity.

‘Then why are you trying to seduce me?'

‘I – I …' She backed up as he drew closer, her bum hitting the sink behind her. ‘I'm not! I wasn't trying t-to seduce you.'

He came in close, so close she had to strain back against the counter to stop her chest from touching his.

His eyes narrowed and his head cocked to one side as though he were examining a very interesting specimen. ‘I have to admit, it does seem a little out of character. You strike me as the kind of girl who would want to go on a date before you cooked me breakfast.'

‘This is not for you. I had no idea you were here.'

‘Really? You're going to eat all this food yourself?' He reached behind her and turned on the tap. She glanced at the food on the benchtops spread around them. She had gone a little crazy. Crepes, scrambled eggs, mini quiches, breakfast bruschetta, fresh fruit. But she just couldn't seem to help herself. Once she got started, the ambience of the kitchen had just taken over. It was so easy to lose herself here. And that's exactly what she wanted to do, lose herself.

‘I … I …'

He stepped back a little and was trying to grab her hand.

‘Hey!' she resisted. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Calm down,' he said impatiently, turning her hand over so that he could put her red and blistering wrist under the tap. She hadn't even realised it was sore until the water touched the wound.

‘There, you see,' he smiled down at her, ‘just helping.'

He was still standing way too close for her liking, in barely nothing at all. The waist on those pyjama pants hung so low she was half afraid they were going to drop off. And then where would she be? She averted her eyes in horror at the thought.

She turned around to face the sink, pulling her wrist out of his hand. ‘I can do it myself, thanks.' She hoped her voice would indicate that he should step back as well.

Thankfully, he did. She inhaled deeply again, as though she'd just come out of a tunnel. And with the fresh air came some clarity.

‘So you never explained to me what you're doing here,' she reminded him tersely.

‘What am
I
doing here?' He grinned. ‘Now that's rich coming from you.'

She pursed her lips. ‘It's a fair enough question.'

‘All right,' he agreed. ‘I'll answer one of yours if you answer one of mine. I'm here because I live here. Your parents let me sleep in the storeroom. It's easier because I work on the property and no one was using the restaurant before.'

‘So they just thought they'd start renting rooms?' She was aghast.

‘Oh, I don't pay them any money. It's not about that,' he smiled. ‘I think your mother just enjoys having another man nearby who she can rely on.'

Eve gritted her teeth.

‘I don't know if you've noticed,' he continued pleasantly enough, ‘but your father hasn't really been himself lately.'

She glared at him. ‘That isn't really any of your concern.'

‘It is when I'm the one your mother sends off to look for him when he disappears.'

‘Disappears?'

‘Sometimes for hours on end.'

‘What's he doing?'

‘A bit of everything.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Why don't you ask him?'

‘Maybe I will.'

‘Good.'

‘Good.'

They fell into a very unfriendly silence. She wished he would just leave but of course he didn't. He continued to stand there, staring at her in a most intrusive fashion. She knew she should never have given Tash her nightie. If she didn't know any better she would have sworn her sister did this on purpose as an act of revenge.

‘So,' he cocked his head to one side, ‘back to my question. If all this food is not for me, who is it for?'

‘It's not for anybody. I just felt like cooking.'

‘At three in the morning?'

She lifted her chin. ‘It's a free country.'

‘Oh shit.' A rather unsavoury idea seemed to disturb his handsome features and his arms crossed his bare chest, making his pecs bunch attractively. ‘Is it for Spider? Are you meeting him here or something?'

‘What? No! Of course not. I don't know where you get your ideas from but –'

‘I got them from the tea jar.'

‘The what?' Her voice broke off as fear paralysed her.

He backed up towards the windowsill, picked up that fated jar that had once held all her hopes and dreams and presented it to her. ‘It's all making sense to me now. You're the girl who left that note in here, aren't you?'

She turned off the tap. ‘You've read it?'

‘Well, of course I have,' he shrugged. ‘I live here and a man needs a cup of tea from time to time.'

Her fingers fisted against her forehead. ‘What have you done with it?'

‘I haven't done anything with it.'

‘But it's not there any more.'

‘Isn't it?' He opened the jar. ‘Oh, you're right. I will have a cup of tea though.'

He took a tea bag out and put the kettle on while her brain did backflips. ‘This is a nightmare.'

‘Well, yes,' he agreed. ‘For you, I suppose it must be. But that's what you get for trying to steal your sister's fiancé.'

She laughed, almost hysterically. ‘You would think that, wouldn't you? But you really don't have a clue about what's going on here.'

He poured hot water over his tea bag and drew up a stool directly opposite her, in front of the raspberry-covered crepes. ‘So tell me.' He looked at her expectantly.

She stared back at him, sitting there, all broad shoulders and rippling muscles, sipping tea of all things, watching and waiting.

Oh for Pete's sake. At this point, what do you have to lose?

‘Spider and I are very good friends,' she began earnestly. ‘Have been for years. And yes,
maybe
I did at some stage develop feelings for him. Quite strong feelings
because
we were so close. But I never acted on them. I never told him about it. I was too shy. You see, I'm not very good with men and –'

‘Seriously? Because you seem to know which buttons to push from where I'm sitting.' His eyes flicked meaningfully across her body and her cheeks blushed. Involuntarily, she crossed her arms over her chest, wincing as the brush of the charred fabric rubbed against her burnt wrist.

He frowned. ‘You know, you could just take that dressing gown off. That sleeve is aggravating your wound.'

She reddened further. ‘No, I don't think so.'

The sleeve of one arm was burnt and smelly and it was irritating her wrist but there was no way she was prancing around in just Tash's nightie in front of this guy. He'd probably ask her if she had the hots for him again.

Some of what was going through her mind must have occurred to him because he smiled mischievously as he looked down into his mug of tea.

‘I wasn't trying to be a pervert. I was going to suggest before you interrupted me that you could wrap my blanket around you instead. It would provide more cover than what you're currently wearing.'

She gnawed on her upper lip. Then, while he bent his head to take another sip of tea, she ripped off the dressing gown, dropped it on the floor and grabbed the blanket from off the counter. She flung it across her shoulders and pulled it around her. It smelled of soap and man and was indeed a lot warmer and more modest than her previous attire. She sat down on a stool on the opposite side of the counter.

‘Better?' he enquired.

‘Much,' she agreed. ‘But before
you
interrupted me, I was trying to tell you that I had to write Spider a note about my feelings because I was too shy to tell him.'

‘But you never gave the letter to him,' he clarified.

‘No, it stayed in the jar and I came here tonight to remove it. Unfortunately, it wasn't there, so I ended up cooking instead.'

‘Like any normal person would do,' he nodded airily.

‘People deal with things in different ways.'

‘Of course they do.' He shrugged a little too easily. ‘Some people go back to bed. Some people cook!' Putting down his tea, he indicated the plate in front of him. ‘Do you mind if I have some?'

‘Why not?' Sarcasm coloured her tone. ‘It's not like you're going to go away and mind your own business, is it?'

‘Oh no,' he agreed, ‘this is all far too interesting. And that's why I'm in town, you know, for the distraction.'

‘I'm glad my problems are so amusing to you,' she glared. ‘Would you like some cream for your crepes?'

‘Is there any?' His eyes lit up.

‘No,' she said with satisfaction. ‘There isn't.'

‘Now that was cruel.' He pointed his fork at her. ‘And for no reason at all, when I'm offering nothing but my deepest sympathy. You and I are very similar.'

‘I seriously doubt that.'

‘Remember that complication I left behind in the Barossa?'

‘Ye-es.' She drew out the word.

His expression grew pensive. ‘It was a she, not an it.'

‘I figured,' she sighed. ‘So what'd she do wrong, ask you to marry her?'

He had already told her he wasn't looking for a relationship so she had asked the question flippantly, intending it as a joke. She never expected him to say, ‘No, I asked her.'

She sucked in a breath. ‘She said no?'

He took another mouthful of crepe. ‘She said yes, we planned the wedding and everything.'

‘Oh.' This stumped her. ‘So what happened?'

‘She never showed up.'

They were silent until comprehension dawned on her and she straightened in her stool. ‘So you were standing there, in front of the guests, waiting and …'

‘Yep.' He took another sip of tea.

‘Oh.' She wanted to ask more questions but felt it a little rude to do so.

She waited for him to give her more information but instead he said, ‘So you see, we're not so different, you and I. Both suffering from a bout of unrequited love.'

She snorted in a rather unladylike manner. ‘Oh, I think we're very different.' She reached over and grabbed the pan from the stove, tipping the scrambled eggs onto a plate in front of her.

For starters, this guy could have his pick of rebound girls. Herself included if she let him mess with her head too much. If he was looking for a ‘pick-me-up' after his fleeting brush with heartbreak and he thought she was easy pluckings, he had another think coming!

‘Listen, Adonis, I don't think –'

‘What did you call me?'

‘I – what?' She broke off in confusion. ‘I didn't call you anything.'

‘Yes you did. You called me “Adonis”.'

‘Have you tried the eggs? They're delicious.' She swapped his near empty plate for her full one.

‘You know,' he said, tucking into his eggs, ‘I could help you.'

‘Help me with what?' she demanded, half-worried and half-relieved that her distraction with the eggs had worked.

‘I could help you find out where that note went. Make a few discreet enquiries.'

‘No.' She was alarmed. ‘Don't say anything, to anyone. Just let it be. Please.'

Her voice was so anxious that he laughed. ‘All right, all right. But what do you intend to do next, Eve?'

‘Do?' she repeated, grabbing the bruschetta, which was sitting at arm's length, and pulling it towards her. ‘I don't intend to do anything.' She cut the bruschetta in quarters. ‘I just want Phoebe to be happy. I want Spider to be happy too. I'm at Tawny Brooks to be supportive.'

He chuckled. ‘Really? What about Eve? Is she allowed to be happy as well?'

She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. I'm just not focused on that right now.'

‘Doesn't sound like you're ever focused on it. I watched you through dinner last night and all you did was bend over backwards for everybody else.'

‘That's what family is about, isn't it? Giving and sacrificing for each other. Isn't that what your family is like?'

‘Er … no.' He scraped the last of the eggs onto his fork and put it into his mouth. ‘You know, I thought your mum was a good cook but she's got nothing on you.'