Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (5 page)

‘Okay, we may as well get started then.’ He stretched out his denim-clad legs as far as they would go, as though he could brake with his feet like the Flintstones if need be. ‘To begin with, you have to push the clutch in —’

A worry line indented the space between her eyebrows. ‘The clutch. Right. Um . . . where’s that exactly?’

Sheesh.

‘It’s the third pedal on the floor,’ he answered through gritted teeth.

‘Got it.’ She flicked her hair over one shoulder in a distracting manner and he wondered if she’d pay any attention at all.

‘Right, so push the clutch in, put the car in reverse,’ he gestured at the gear stick, ‘give it a bit of throttle and then let the clutch out again.’

Her forehead scrunched up. ‘A bit of what?’

‘Throttle – as in, you know, accelerate.’

‘Oh, yes, I know how to do that.’

Did she ever. He’d seen it first-hand and still bore the wound. How had he been talked into this again? Gripping the handle above his window, he said several silent prayers before giving her the nod. ‘Okay, let’s go then.’

He clenched his jaw in readiness as she turned the key in the ignition. Kasey Chambers immediately blared from the speakers. Then the Camry jerked backwards at speed – and conked out. Alex tugged at the seatbelt straining against his upper body, cutting off his air supply.

Winnie stared at the steering wheel as though it were a crystal ball about to reveal some sort of answer. ‘Hmm, that didn’t work.’

No kidding. He exhaled through his nose.

‘Yes, that’s what happens when you don’t give the car enough revs – it stalls. You’ll have to start it up again.’

‘Urgh, this is a nightmare,’ Winnie moaned. ‘I haven’t even left the car park yet.’

Alex bit his tongue to keep himself from agreeing. Her sweet perfume and the confined car space were doing his head in as it was.

Winnie frowned, looking distracted. ‘The music’s not helping. Olive must have put it on this station.’ She jabbed the radio off with a finger, silence reigning supreme again. Alex steeled himself once more as she reached for the clutch, feeling like he was at the top of a rollercoaster ride.

Somehow Winnie made it out onto the main strip without stalling. She crunched the gears from second to third, but, hey, it wasn’t like it was his prized ute. At the roundabout, the car suddenly lurched forwards and paused, both actions repeated over and over again. His body followed the movements.

‘What’s happening?’ Winnie squealed as he hung onto his seatbelt for dear life.

‘Push the clutch back in,’ he barked. ‘You released it too quickly. The car’s bunny-hopping.’

She did as instructed, the Camry halting at last. Thankfully, no-one was driving behind them.

‘Just what I need – more public humiliation and gossip fodder for the
Coastal Herald
,’ Winnie murmured, restarting the engine.

He assumed hailing taxis in Sydney was more natural to her. He wasn’t sure how she’d got to Kingston in one piece.

Twenty minutes later, she’d more or less got the hang of things, though. Still, Alex would have felt far safer being the one behind the wheel. ‘Right, we’re not far from the office now. I think we should call it a day.’

Winnie shot him an impish grin as she drove. ‘Maybe we’ll try a hill start next time.’

Alex swallowed hard. He’d been hoping today’s instruction was a one-time-only performance. Surely Olive could help with any more lessons? He’d done the tough bit. ‘Uh, not sure you’re quite ready for that. But we’ll see —’

Crack.
Alex jumped as the distinct sound of plastic hitting plastic resounded through the air. That was followed by a nasty scraping noise on the bitumen. Winnie slammed on the brakes, causing both their bodies to jolt forwards.

Alex dragged in a breath and, wincing slightly, swivelled around in his seat to view the damage. He was almost afraid to look. His Falcon ute’s side mirror lay in the middle of the road. Of all the obstacles on the main street, she’d somehow managed to sideswipe his pride and joy. The Camry’s mirror was bent back, but still intact.

Winnie chanced a look at him, her face pale. ‘Crap.’

Keeping a handle on his anger was a struggle, but he tried a few deep, calming breaths and shook his head. ‘I think I’m cursed when it comes to your driving. Though I suppose it could have been the door.’

‘I’ll pay for a new mirror,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘I promise.’

‘Er . . . Mrs Mannix?’

Oh dear. Winnie had hoped for pearls and pink gardening gloves, thanks to Mrs Mannix’s posh tone of voice on the phone. Someone more like the Queen Mother, not a woman with the haphazard dress sense of a bag lady. But protruding from a ladder up a tree was a paisley skirt and cherry-red Crocs, teamed with shapely calves and grey slouch socks. Winnie’s hopes for a glossy picture spread, worthy of impressing Christa, faded fast.

Leaves rustled and an eighty-something woman’s thin, horse-like face emerged from the foliage. ‘Hello, dear. You must be from
Beach Life
. Nice to have you round. Er, would you mind taking my bucket and passing me up that fresh one on the ground?’

‘Oh, no problems, sure,’ Winnie said. The weight of the bucket she was handed sagged in her arms; Mrs Mannix must have some biceps for an octogenarian. Winnie hoped she would be as sprightly at her age. Voluptuous, fragrant figs filled the bucket to the brim. Resting it on the grass, Winnie grabbed the empty one and held it up to the old woman.

‘Could you hold it, dear, while I get the remaining fruit?’ Mrs Mannix chirped down at her. ‘Can’t have the birds eating them all.’

‘Uh, okay, sure.’

Winnie’s arms ached as Mrs Mannix loaded up the second bucket, but she soon got into it, pointing out where the green-and-purple fruit were camouflaged against the leaves. It wasn’t exactly how she expected her first
Beach Life
interview to begin. And it was certainly a world away from nattering to some Sydney It girl about her health regimen – ignoring the illegal substances she snorted – but it was almost . . . meditative. Yes, that it was.

Plus, it was better than recalling Alex’s disbelieving stare after she’d lopped off his ute’s side mirror. Luckily, the work car’s mirror only ended up with a minor scratch. Even so, she’d driven her Echo to the interview in the end. Baby steps, baby steps.

Once the bucket was full to bursting, Mrs Mannix climbed down from the ladder. Up close, Winnie drank in the woman’s sky-blue eyes and steel-grey hair, wisps puffing free at the sides. Despite her unfortunate dress sense – bar a rather pretty gold fish pendant with a red-stone eye – Mrs Mannix had a kindly look about her.

Setting the bucket down, Winnie dusted her hands. ‘So I guess we should look at those heirloom roses and veggies then.’

‘Oh, plenty of time for that, dear. I need tea first. Aren’t you parched from the searing sun?’

‘A little . . . I guess.’

Clearly, it wasn’t going to be a quick interview. Moments later, Winnie sat across from Mrs Mannix at a dining table laid with a floral-print tea set and platters of homemade biscuits. A red-and-white striped model lighthouse sat at the table’s centre. The scene was a little different from the busy cafés in which Winnie often interviewed Sydneysiders, with one eye on their iPhone clocks as they sculled their espressos.

Sunshine spilled onto Winnie’s bare shoulder through a window as she sipped home-crafted peach tea. There was a definite marine décor theme going on – she spotted a porthole-style stained-glass window featuring an image of an old ship.

‘So, you live alone here?’ she prompted Mrs Mannix.

‘Yes, I have done, dear . . . for the past fifty years.’ The elderly woman’s voice wavered as she set down her teacup with a clink. ‘My husband, Peter, died young. In his thirties. But Kingston’s a great place for keeping busy and keeping your mind off things.’

‘Oh.’ Winnie felt a pang of sorrow for the woman, but didn’t want to intrude further by asking how he’d passed on.

The old woman’s features brightened again, knocking off a few years. ‘So, have you seen many of the sights since arriving?’

Winnie shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’ve been too caught up with work. I
have
seen the Big Lobster and the beach, of course, and I had a drink at the Crown Inn and I’ve been to this interview.’ Oh dear. Why did she even mention the pub?

‘The Crown Inn – oh, yes. Did you know it used to be known as the Ship Inn in 1862? They ran the mail from there. That was before it was renovated and renamed the Crown Hotel in 1878, of course.’

‘Wow, I didn’t realise the pub had been around so long. You certainly know your stuff.’ If only the walls could talk. Maybe she hadn’t been the only woman to drunkenly dance to the jukebox – and make a fool of herself – in her first week in town.

‘Yes.’ Mrs Mannix swallowed a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Facts and figures are my thing. I’m a member of the local historical society and this town is
full
of wonderful history. You might not know that it’s named after Sir George Strickland Kingston – the politician, surveyor and architect – while the township of Kingston-on-Murray was named after his son, Charles. Actually, speaking of history, that reminds me . . .’

Clambering to her feet, Mrs Mannix turned to rummage in a cupboard drawer behind her. Colourful glass bottles tottered on several wooden shelves above. Returning to the table, the old woman handed Winnie a mauve flyer. ‘You should come to this event, dear. Might make a good yarn for your magazine.’

Winnie skimmed the flyer. It was an invite to a launch of the local museum’s refurbished maritime wing that Friday. The theme was ‘ghost ship’. Ho-hum. She wondered if washing her hair would fly as an excuse.

‘There’ll be speeches,’ Mrs Mannix continued. ‘Plus plenty of hors d’oeuvres and local wine doing the rounds. And I’ll be there, so you won’t be alone. Although all the locals are friendly, anyway.’

‘Um . . .’ Winnie looked up, immediately trapped by the woman’s earnest gaze. Puffing out a breath, she tried to muster up enthusiasm. ‘Well, uh, of
course
, I’d love to come. Thanks for thinking of me. It sounds . . . wonderful.’

Mrs Mannix beamed, and Winnie tried not to think about how quickly her life had changed – going from upper-crust soirees to crusty museum launches in a snap. But it wasn’t like she had anything important pencilled in her diary for, oh, the next two months. And she
did
need to be seen around town, at least in a more respectful manner.

Two months. Right, time to push on. Whisking her empty teacup aside, Winnie emitted a small cough. ‘Now, about those heirloom roses and veggies . . .’

Back at the office, Winnie typed madly against the drone of
Ready Steady Cook
and Olive sawing her nails. The ad manager had had the brainwave of installing a TV to kill boredom in their lunch break. To be fair, there were only so many times you could stroll the scant shops on the main strip without looking like a streetwalker. But so far, the idiot box had provided a constant hum. Winnie got the feeling Olive was a bit of a TV addict. Still, she couldn’t work in silence either.

Despite knowing Christa would have reservations about the Mrs Mannix story, Winnie was pushing ahead with banging out the interview notes. Somehow she’d been pulled in by the sweet, badly dressed old widow; she’d work out how to spin the yarn in the best possible light to her boss later. And Alex could do photos for the spread by himself. They didn’t have to do every assignment hand in hand – something he should be particularly happy about. At least they’d gotten past the whole kiss thing with the driving lesson. It had been a relief when he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

Struggling over a shorthanded word in her notepad that resembled an Egyptian hieroglyph, a shadow fell across her desk, accompanied by a vanilla fragrance. Looking up, Winnie found herself staring at a girl about her age with power-red lips, almost white face powder and black hair scraped into a ponytail. To make a dramatic arrival, the woman also had the apparent ability to make the sun go behind a cloud on cue.

She extended French-tipped fingers in Winnie’s direction. ‘I’m Eden. I gather from the window sign you’re Winnie?’

Winnie shook the girl’s hand and smiled, being slightly clawed in the palm in the process. ‘I am indeed.’

‘I heard you were looking for local stories,’ Eden continued in a hushed tone, tightening the belt of her beige trench at the waist. ‘Well, I have an exclusive.’ She dropped into the chair opposite with a flourish – and without invitation. ‘I’m getting married and it’s going to be the wedding of the millennium.’

‘Oh . . . wow,’ Winnie said, more appropriate words escaping her. Apparently Eden hadn’t heard of a humble pair named William and Kate tying the knot.

Olive’s response from her side of the room was more succinct: a snort. ‘Sorry,’ the ad manager said, holding a hand to her nose, ‘coffee went down the wrong way.’ The liar. Her eyes flashed humorously.

Winnie tried to keep a straight face as she gazed back at the bride-to-be. ‘How exciting – uh, excuse me a moment.’ Feeling slightly unprofessional, she turned to mute the TV with the remote, not missing Olive’s quiet groan of dismay. At the same time, an idea began to take shape in Winnie’s mind, like a kaleidoscope pattern falling into place. ‘Actually, it’s perfect timing you should come in – we’ve, uh, been planning a bridal section for the back of the magazine. Your wedding will be perfect for it.’ She shot a pointed look at Olive. ‘Advertisers just love that sort of thing.’

Olive duly squirmed in her seat. It was about time the redhead sold an ad. Time was a-ticking. Grabbing her notepad, Winnie gave Eden her full attention. ‘So tell me – what have you got planned for this dream wedding of yours?’

Eden sat back in her seat, somehow maintaining her stiff, ballerina-like posture. ‘It has a Snow White theme.’

Another muffled snort erupted from Olive’s side, which quickly morphed into a cough. ‘Darn coffee,’ the ad manager moaned in a hoarse whisper. Thankfully, Eden didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in her own fantasyland.

‘The reception is going to be at a friend’s sprawling cattle property,’ the bride-to-be continued. ‘Decorations will include gilt frames hanging from the trees, thousands of red roses, birdcages and fake reindeers. I’m also going to have three dress changes.’ Eden held up a trio of digits to emphasise her point. ‘Including a full-skirted formal gown for the ceremony, a more slimline dress for the reception, and flippy dance wear for the choreographed bridal waltz.’

‘Three, wow.’ Winnie let out a low whistle. ‘Even Lady Gaga doesn’t always get so many.’

Eden looked like she’d bitten into a poisoned apple à la Snow White as she chanced a smile – it came out more like a grimace. The wedding was obviously a serious business for her. ‘As well as a crystal tiara,’ the bridezilla pushed on, ‘I’ll be wearing a cathedral-length veil and Mary-Kyri glass slippers for a touch of Cinderella.’

Winnie gaped. ‘
Actual
glass slippers?’ What was a girl with such fantastical ideas doing in a small town like Kingston?

‘Not glass exactly.’ Eden smoothed her coat collar. ‘The sequins and sheer material will just provide that illusion.’

‘And the groom?’ Winnie pressed. He seemed an afterthought. ‘How did you two meet?’

‘His name’s Flynn Hilton and he’s in livestock sales,’ Eden said primly. ‘We grew up together in Kingston, but both moved away. I’d always secretly fancied him in high school, but was reluctant to say anything at the time. A few years ago, though, when I saw on Facebook we’d both be in town visiting family, I dropped him a line. We wound up going to dinner together and,’ she shrugged, ‘that was it. Kingston’s since become our home again.’

Winnie was impressed. Eden had clearly Facestalked the lad. The princess had balls. ‘How lovely. And when’s the wedding?’

Eden rattled off a date in just under two months’ time. It would be cutting it fine for the magazine’s deadline, but could just make the launch edition, so long as the other pages were already laid out and space was left for the final images to drop in.

‘Perfect. Well, we’d love to cover it,’ Winnie gushed. It sounded like the Kingston equivalent of a Posh and Becks wedding – ridiculous enough to make a great spread. ‘Oh, will you have a professional photographer taking snaps we could use?’

Eden nodded. ‘Of course.’ Hell’s bells, the girl was probably flying in celebrity snapper, Annie Leibovitz. Eden dabbed at the side of her mouth, though not a smudge could be seen. ‘Uh, perhaps you could also drop by my house sometime soon – for an extended interview. I can take you through my wedding folder and fabric swatches, so you get a full picture of everything before you begin the article.’

Winnie held in a sigh, instantly longing for the ten-minute interview slots she was granted with celebrities in Sydney. Drawing stories out suddenly seemed more painful. Clamping her teeth together, she grabbed her diary anyway. ‘When suits?’

Eden fished a diamante-studded, gold-look phone from her handbag. Tapping on the screen, she named a day and time the following week.

Nodding, Winnie pencilled it in her diary, the other days around the entry dismally blank. She still had a lot of ground to cover. ‘Oh, and where’s your place?’

‘Thirteen Buckingham Avenue.’

Naturally.

Soon after, Eden swept out again like the Queen of Sheba and Olive was able to let forth a rip-roaring, ear-splitting laugh. Finally containing herself, she grinned. ‘Didn’t think it’d take long for you to cross paths with Eden Delaware. She’s Mrs D’s daughter – the one who signed you up for netball your first day. Everyone’s related around here. You’ll get used to it.’

‘The pair certainly have pushiness in common,’ Winnie mused.

‘Mrs D’s claim to fame is once helping Kingston win a Tidy Town Award, and her husband’s on a heap of local committees. The whole family’s pretty well known around here.’ Olive adopted a sweet tone. ‘And we’re just so lucky to have Eden back on home turf.’

Winnie giggled. ‘Small doses definitely seem recommended.’

Olive crossed her eyes. ‘Well known, of course, doesn’t necessarily mean well
liked
. Just picture what the poor bridesmaids will have to endure.’

‘I can only imagine,’ Winnie said, shaking her head.