What Rosie Found Next (4 page)

‘He’ll have me to answer to if he puts one foot wrong,’ said Adam firmly before steering the subject onto safer ground. ‘So, tell me, have you been reading up on all your notes, ready to wow them at your new job?’

She’d finally managed to use the desk in her room as it was intended rather than as a barricade across her door. ‘I have. I think it’s making me more nervous though.’

‘It’ll be good to put all that theory into practice.’

She smiled back at him. It was five o’clock in Australia, but Singapore was a few hours behind and Adam still had a way to go to finish his day, so they chatted more about her mounting excitement at starting the new job and didn’t mention Owen again.

By the time Rosie finished her call and descended the stairs, the smell of garlic and something rich and meaty wafted towards her and pulled her into the kitchen to where Owen stood at the cooker. She was about to greet him with a cheerful ‘hello’ but froze when she recognised the tune playing through the speakers.

He held up a wine glass when he caught sight of her lingering in the doorway. ‘Is red okay?’

The sounds of the cello coming from the iPod docking station on the sideboard fell over her like a magic spell. She held her breath, torn between closing her eyes and losing herself in ‘The Swan’ by Saint-Saëns or running far away from the speakers that brought back so many memories.

‘Rosie?’ Owen stood proffering the glass.

‘Yes, please, I’ll have a glass.’ She pointed outside, eager to escape. ‘But I’ll water the garden first.’

He left the glass on the table and returned to his culinary tasks. ‘I cleared the gutters earlier,’ he said, scraping mushrooms into the pan on the stovetop, his back to her now as he stirred the sizzling mixture. ‘No need to call the handyman in when I’m here.’

‘Right.’ She floated outside, well away from the music, and unwound the hose from its holder on the fence near the pool. She turned the tap using all her strength, determined not to ask for any help right now, and started with the largest rose bush, bursting with ruby red flowers. As she sprayed it she watched droplets settle on the silken leaves and run down to the thorns before plummeting into the soil beneath. She moved on to the orange roses, the bush standing at hip height with cupped, pale flowers with hints of peach, thirsty and ready to be taken care of.

The smell of a home-cooked meal snaked down the garden and attacked Rosie’s stomach as she turned the hose to the lawn. Starting at the back fence, she worked her way backwards towards the rear of the house and the pool. Watering down the grass and cleaning out the gutters were paramount in bushfire season, and she was glad to have Owen pitching in to look after the place.

When she reached the deck he was waiting for her. He pushed the glass of red into her hand. ‘Here, you take this and let me put the hose away.’

Without argument, she took the glass and with her other hand wiped her brow, hot from the manual labour even though the sun had eased off in the early evening.

‘What type of bird is that?’ Rosie nodded towards the fence behind the rockery as the creature landed.

‘He’s our resident lyrebird.’ Owen chuckled. ‘He often stops by for a bit of a chirp and then he’ll be off, back into the bush.’

The bird stood proudly, black eyes rounded, his beak snapping open and shut as he released a song that sounded like a kookaburra at first and then a car alarm, which, in all honesty, sounded more familiar to Rosie than the sounds of nature all around her now.

‘That damn song will have you looking out the window to see whose alarm is going off. I swear he’s doing it for a laugh at our expense.’ Owen wound the hose onto its reel. ‘Come on, almost time to eat.’

He led the way inside and called over his shoulder, ‘I’ve changed the music too. I got the impression you weren’t keen.’

Rosie didn’t offer any further explanation on that front. She simply sat at the rectangular pine dining table and sipped her wine as Miley Cyrus
belted out ‘Wrecking Ball’. She gazed out the glass doors, over to the bush behind the back garden. The tranquillity of the countryside held as much magic in the fading sun as it did during the best parts of the day.

Owen cut into her thoughts. ‘I hope you like lasagne.’

‘As a matter of fact, it’s my favourite.’

He topped up both glasses of wine and put the finishing touches to a salad, scattering thin slices of red peppers, red onion and crumbled feta across the top of spinach leaves, rocket and tomatoes.

‘You seem to know your way around a kitchen,’ Rosie observed.

‘I’ve always enjoyed cooking.’ He poked a knife into the lasagne to check the pasta was soft and then slotted the dish back into the oven. ‘This is one of the more complex dishes I make. Stir fries, meat and two veg, a quick pasta and sauce are usually what I settle on.’

He brought the bottle of red over to the dining table that ran parallel to the kitchen bench, and sat opposite Rosie. ‘Sorry, am I ruining your view? Should I move?’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s fine.’

‘Have you ever house-sat this far out of the city?’ He took a sip of the smooth red.

‘This is the first time.’

‘And do you approve?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

His lips curled into a knowing smile and a strong hand extended over the base of his wine glass. ‘Have you had much chance to explore?’

‘Not as much as I’d have liked. But I’ve been to the main street now and got chatting with Bella from Finnegan’s café.’

His face lit up. ‘She’s great, isn’t she? I bet you didn’t have a chance to escape either. Not before she cornered you for a chat.’

Rosie giggled. ‘We talked for ages. She thinks a lot of you.’

‘Well … what can I say?’ When Rosie rolled her eyes, he asked, ‘So why don’t you have a place of your own?’

‘We haven’t got around to buying anywhere yet.’

‘We?’

‘Me and my boyfriend.’

‘Does this boyfriend of yours have a name?’

‘Adam.’

‘Sorry, I’m being nosey, aren’t I? My usual company in a house is a sleeping bag, an airbed and the smell of renovations. I’m not really fit for human contact.’

He was better than he realised. ‘House-sitting suits me while Adam is working overseas,’ she explained. ‘He’s an investment banker. A part-time job as a PR assistant came up at Magnolia House, and it’s ideal for me following my communications degree.’

‘Aren’t you a bit old to just be finishing Uni?’ he asked. ‘God, I’m sorry. That didn’t quite come out the way I meant it.’

He looked so embarrassed all Rosie could do was smile. ‘It’s fine. I’m twenty-seven, and communications was my second degree.’

‘Your second? Why?’

She gulped her wine. ‘I originally did a degree in music.’ When he raised his eyebrows she added, ‘I did it because I loved music, but I had no desire to teach or be in any sort of band. So, I decided I needed to study something I enjoyed but something that would get me a job too.’ She hoped her answer would suffice and breathed a sigh of relief when it did and Owen changed tack.

‘So when’s the boyfriend coming home?’

‘Soon, I hope.’

Before he could fire any more questions her way, the oven timer pinged. Rosie brought the salad over to the table while Owen served the lasagne.

‘This looks amazing,’ she said. ‘You can stay here a bit longer if you cook like this every night.’

As soon as the words were out she knew she shouldn’t have said them. It was flirty and the wine was partly to blame, but she was also enjoying his company and felt a freedom she didn’t usually feel in her well-structured life. But most of all she was enjoying these moments of normality: sitting down for a meal, talking over the day, discussing future plans. These simple things made her feel alive and present and stopped her obsessing about what was going to happen next.

Her eyes lingered on the tail of the rose tattoo as it moved with the tendons in his arm when he scooped out a second serving of lasagne, and she thought about how different this man was to Adam. Adam was grounded, had focus and knew what he wanted in life, but Owen seemed unpredictable, freer.

‘I’ll be heading down to Mornington Peninsula first thing tomorrow,’ he said, laying the serving spoon down again. ‘I’m putting up a garden shed for my tenants and I’ll bring the bike back on my truck. I’ll be home pretty late. You don’t mind if I leave the truck in the garage, do you?’

‘Of course not, I’m happy having my car on the driveway. It brightens up the place.’

‘It certainly does.’ He grinned. ‘Can I ask what happens between house-sits, when you have nowhere else lined up?’

‘I usually head down to my mum’s in Geelong.’

‘Ah, so in a way we’re quite similar.’ When she looked at him quizzically, he added, ‘We both rely on a base in between: I come here, you go to Geelong.’

She wasn’t sure how to answer that.

He sat back, swilled the remains of red wine in his glass. ‘You’re looking forward to Magnolia House, I take it?’

‘Yes, I can’t wait.’

They chatted about her job and what it would entail, and as they talked Owen topped up both glasses of wine. ‘The owners of Magnolia House have been there for a while,’ he said. ‘There’s never been a bad report about the place. I’m sure you’ll settle in quickly.’

Rosie cradled her glass as the inky night sky overpowered the pale blue of the day. Soon the view of the Dandenong Ranges would fade into complete darkness.

He sipped his wine. ‘Did you try Bella’s scones?’

‘I don’t think she’d have let me leave unless I did. Freebies can’t be good for business though.’

‘Ah,’ said Owen, finger hovering mid-air. ‘She’s an astute businesswoman. I bet now you’ve tasted them, and now you’re on a first name basis with her, you’ll go back without a moment’s hesitation.’

She let out a laugh. ‘Okay, so it was a shrewd business move then.’

‘I think so. We don’t want the roaring tourist trade here in Magnolia Creek, because we like things how they are, but we need to attract at least some custom to keep local businesses running. Rumour has it that a chocolate shop is opening up some time in the New Year.’

Rosie nodded, impressed, and as they chatted she realised that despite being nomadic, Owen was incredibly proud of his home town. In fact, he seemed more grounded than he was willing to let on. She longed for the same confidence, the same feeling of belonging.

She stood to take the dishes over to the sink, but Owen’s hand wrapped around her arm. ‘Sit down, there’s no rush, and we can do them together.’

The sound of the word ‘together’ rolling off his tongue made her heart quicken, but his pager broke the moment.

He shook his head and muttered ‘not tonight, sweetheart’ before looking at Rosie. ‘Sorry, I’ll make a quick phone call and then come right back.’

‘Take your time,’ she called after him as she took the dishes to the sink and he went to use the phone.

Who was the ‘sweetheart’ he was referring to? The pager wasn’t work-related, obviously. Rosie’s mind drifted to those two girls sitting on the bench in town and the conversation she’d overheard about the man in the leathers and how he’d been playing hard to get. Owen was twice their age, at least, but had the pleasant man she’d shared dinner with managed to fool her into thinking he was more decent than the bikie who’d roared into Magnolia Creek in the middle of the night and scared her half to death?

Perhaps Adam was right. Perhaps this was a bad idea. After all, how well did she really know Owen Harrison?

‘Sorry about that.’ Owen joined her at the sink. ‘It was just—’

She held up a hand to stop him. She’d let herself get carried away in the moment, relaxed in his company, had one too many glasses of wine. ‘There’s no need to explain.’ She pulled out some plastic containers. ‘I’ll put the leftovers in here and then put them in the freezer.’

He frowned. ‘Rosie, let me wash up. Please, you could’ve seen me out on the streets or shopped me to my parents and you did neither.’

She relented and let a yawn escape. ‘Thank you for dinner. I’d better call it a night and give Adam a call before he thinks I’ve forgotten about him.’

If Owen had turned down ‘sweetheart’s’ offer for the promise of something better here in this house, then he was about to be bitterly disappointed.

Two days later, Rosie started the morning on her hands and knees in the garden. She’d found an old kneeling mat in the shed along with secateurs and a pair of gardening gloves that dwarfed her hands. After deadheading the roses and watering the bushes from underneath, as Jane had suggested to discourage spider mites which could attack the flowers, she now only had the lawn to mow.

The kneeling mat had saved her from being too uncomfortable, but she’d smothered herself in sunscreen before tackling the garden, and it was a magnet for anything grubby. Her shorts were clean but her legs were covered. She did her best to brush the worst off her knees. It would soon be time to clean herself up and head to Magnolia House for her first shift. The shift pattern suited her already as she hadn’t had to leap out of bed this morning, and she’d been able to work outside in the coolest part of the day.

She returned the tools to the shed and wrestled the lawn mower out from between a set of shelves and a collection of spades and a garden fork. She pulled it out through the narrow doorway to the shed.

‘Here, let me,’ Owen called out from the deck. She was surprised he was awake considering she didn’t hear his truck roll up to the house until around three this morning.

‘I’m perfectly capable.’ She refused to let go and his fingers touched hers on the handle of the lawnmower.

He didn’t break her stare. ‘I don’t doubt it. But while I’m here, I’ll do the lawns and you can whip the vacuum around.’

He sure knew how to wind her up. ‘That’s sexist and you know it.’ There was no way she’d let go now.

‘I prefer to call it “practical”.’

‘Yeah, well I’m happy to do the lawn.’

‘Come on, no need to be—’

Rosie used her body to block him and pushed the lawnmower away and onto the grass.

‘You’re a determined little thing, aren’t you?’ His voice mocked her as he leaned against the shed, watching.

The heat rose in her cheeks. Of course she could do this herself without any help. If there was anything Rosie Stevens was, it was capable.

Owen thrust his hands into the pockets of his faded denims. ‘I’ll tell you what. If you can start the mower then she’s all yours. But if not, you forfeit and I get the lawn, you get the vacuuming.’

‘Ha! You’re on.’ It couldn’t be that hard to start the blessed thing, could it?

When she’d circled the lawnmower a few times looking for any obvious buttons, Owen, a smile still in place, said, ‘Let me do it, will you.’

‘No way.’ She’d seen a mower like this before and reached down to the cord that would make it leap into action.

She pulled the cord once. Okay, not hard enough. She braced herself, legs sturdy, and pulled again. Nothing. She pulled again, and then again in case she wasn’t pulling it at the right angle.

‘Stop having so much pride, woman, and let me help.’

She glared at him as he stepped forwards.

‘I’ll give you a hint,’ he offered.

‘Go on,’ she huffed.

‘Open the petrol cap on the top and check it’s filled to the right level.’

She did as suggested. ‘It’s full.’

‘Right, now, let me give you another hint before you put your shoulder out trying to start the thing.’ He crouched down in front of the lawnmower and motioned for Rosie to join him. ‘See that red button there?’

She leaned closer to see what he was talking about.

‘Push the button four times,’ he instructed. ‘That’ll get the petrol flowing. Then, see the lever on the handle? Push it as far forwards as it’ll go – that’s the throttle. Then give that cord a big pull and away you go.’

It sounded simple enough. She went through the motions and gave the cord a big tug again, but nothing.

‘There must be something wrong with it,’ she insisted, blowing at the corner of her mouth to get her hair out of her face.

Owen moved forwards and this time she stood aside. Eyes locked with hers, he grinned, raised his eyebrows and pulled the cord. He didn’t need to say anything else as the engine purred into action.

‘I guess I’ll get the vacuum out,’ she shouted over the noise and turned to walk towards the deck.

‘Oh relax.’ He pulled her back, his hand on her wrist. ‘Here you go, I was winding you up. The lawn is all yours if you want it. I just thought it’d be fun to see you start the mower. Mum can never do it either.’

The mower drowned out any further conversation, and Rosie found therapy for her frustration by going up and down the garden in strips. She wondered how you made those defined stripes like they did on sports fields and wished she could give the garden the same kind of professional touch.

When she’d finished and walked up the steps to the deck, Owen had a rucksack on his back, his helmet and keys in hand. ‘I need to head off,’ he said. ‘I just got a call to say my rental property up near Albury was broken into. I’m meeting the insurance assessor up there.’

‘Aren’t you taking your truck?’ she asked.

‘No, it sounds like the damage is to the glass panel of the back door and the rear windows, so I won’t be needing my tools. I’ll arrange a glazier and check the whole place over.’

He pushed his helmet on and Rosie said goodbye before heading upstairs for a shower. But even the ‘good luck on your first day’ message from Adam on her iPad did little to lift her spirits in a once-again empty house.

*

Magnolia House was a gorgeous whitewashed structure with a veranda stretching across the front in a big smile. The property overlooked the lake glistening beneath the sun, and beyond the water were eight holiday cottages dotted between gum trees and bushes in the deepest of greens.

Rosie’s first day flew by. The owner of Magnolia House, Rebecca Martin, oozed passion from her veins about anything and everything to do with weddings. She was one of those people, Rosie decided, who would never understand how anyone could stay still. She flitted from one task to the other and gave Rosie a heap of responsibilities from the start. In her short five-hour shift, Rosie got to know the layout of the main house, she saw the interior of those beautiful whitewashed cottages and she selected photographs for a flyer to pass to jewellers all over Victoria in the hope they could capture the bride and groom’s attention the moment they selected that special ring. Rosie finished her day by scheduling two viewings of the venue for couples who wanted to marry at the end of the following year.

When she left to walk home, her spirits and passion for the town were as fierce as the sun in the sky. In fact, she’d never loved Magnolia Creek more. She felt a sense of belonging, she was making friends, establishing herself. She was fitting in.

The feeling of euphoria certainly didn’t fade when Rosie turned into Lakeside Lane and took in the always-beautiful sight of the jacaranda trees stretching all the way towards the end where number twenty-seven sat. About to cross the lane towards the driveway, Rosie decided to lengthen her walk and take a detour. She’d passed the opening for Daisy Lane before, but she’d never investigated where it lead. Daisy Lane was just wide enough for a single car, so as she listened for sounds of approaching vehicles, she made her way all the way to the end, eager to investigate every inch of this town that was beginning to feel more like home than it probably should.

At the end of the lane was a single cottage. It looked as though it had been abandoned for years. The window pane to the right of the front door remained, but the window on the other side was boarded up. The wooden railing on the small yet cute veranda was rotten and needed replacing, and the floor was part ripped up, exposing dirt and stones below. A For Sale board stood lopsided at the front of the property and Rosie wondered how long it had been there. It would take a brave person to buy this place, she decided as she walked around the outside of the cottage. It was tiny – two bedrooms max, at a guess – and peering through the window at the back, she could see the kitchen was little more than a battered butler’s sink and a decaying cooker. A yellowed net curtain obscured her view of another room, but she could make out stairs going up to the roof space. A few tins of paint were lined up along one wall, suggesting someone may have bought the place and tried to make it liveable before admitting the property was beyond help and relisting it for sale.

She stood for a while. It was quiet here, and she liked it. It was tucked away and private, yet only a short walk from the main street. She’d grown up in a small house attached to the family newsagency her mum had run for almost ten years. But this place? This was the sort of home she’d only ever been able to dream about.

She looked at the For Sale board once more before she sighed and turned to head back to the house. She wondered, as she walked, whether to mention it to Adam. Even in its dilapidated state it held a magical quality, and she knew deep down it could be transformed into a real home. They could fence off the garden, lay a lawn, even put in decking given the generous size of the plot.

It wasn’t as if she was asking for the world; just a small slice of it to call her own.

*

Rosie enjoyed the next couple of days in the house alone – the way it should’ve been. She read a book, went out for long walks and worked another two shifts at Magnolia House, enjoying her lunch beside the lake each day, unable to resist donating the final crusts of her sandwich to the swan that jumped from the water at the first sign of company. She even went to Finnegan’s on her way home, stopping for a cold drink or a coffee and a good chat with Bella, who had confirmed the rumour about a chocolate shop opening up on the main street in the New Year.

She found a bike in the shed at the house and spent her free time cycling along the main street and along the bike trails, basking in the feeling of freedom. And in the evenings, as Magnolia Creek gradually fell asleep around her, Rosie found herself not listening for the sound of the Ducati in case it arrived to spoil her peace, but instead listening for it to signal the moment the house would come alive again with familiar chatter and laughter.

The Ducati finally made an appearance a couple of days later as Rosie was in her bedroom making her bed. But when the engine idled for longer than usual, she peeked through her curtains to see what Owen was up to.

He’d taken off his helmet and his hair held the sheen from the sun overhead. The rays kissed his tanned skin as he chatted with someone, and Rosie picked up on the sound of female laughter. It wasn’t long before the girl in question moved away from the porch that had hidden her at first, and Rosie recognised her as one of the teenagers she’d seen the other day.

Rosie turned her attention back to her bed and pulled on the pillowcases, unable to stop thinking about Owen and that girl young enough to be his daughter. He wasn’t hers to be possessive about, but she
was
allowed an opinion.

When the chatter from outside stopped and Rosie heard the front door shut followed by Owen’s footfall on the stairs, she plumped up the last pillow and was unsurprised to hear a knock at her door.

‘Come in.’ She plumped up another pillow even though it had already been seen to.

Owen poked his head around the door. ‘Did you miss me?’

‘It’s been quiet.’ She couldn’t help but smile at him. ‘How did it go with the house, was there much damage?’

‘It wasn’t too bad. All sorted now.’

He filled the open doorway and leaned on his arm resting against the doorframe. Rosie was busy thinking about how he really did need an orderly short back and sides when he said, ‘I’m heading to the pub later tonight, if you’re interested.’

She thought about that girl again. ‘I’ve got a bit of work to do.’

‘They give part-timers work to take home?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well if you change your mind, let me know. I’m taking the bike and I’ll be on light beer, so I could give you a lift.’

‘Light beer?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why aren’t you drinking?’

She heard a weird buzzing noise, and Owen pulled out his pager from his pocket. ‘Because of this thing. I’ll catch you later.’ And with that he was off down the stairs, out of the door, and away on the Ducati.

Owen came back a couple of hours later, and even though Rosie had taken to lying on her bed to read from her Kindle, she positioned herself back at her desk with her iPad to create the illusion that she was doing something work-related, in case he came upstairs and asked her about the pub again. She planned to stay home this evening and FaceTime Adam and mention the cottage she’d found. She had nothing to lose after all.

When Owen bypassed her bedroom and she heard the pipes in the old house groan as he took a shower, she was strangely disappointed. Twenty minutes later and her stomach rumbled so loudly she knew she couldn’t hide away any longer, and she went down to the kitchen.

She took out the chicken breast she’d marinated earlier and set about dicing an onion, peeling and slicing a carrot and cutting up a few florets of broccoli. She added these and a rainbow-selection of sliced peppers to the wok once the meat was sizzling, finishing the dish by throwing in udon noodles.

She tossed the ingredients together as Owen came downstairs to join her in the kitchen. His arm snaked over her shoulder and his hand snatched a piece of chicken from the pan.