The Maxwell Sisters (6 page)

Before Eve could reply, the subject of their debate walked in with a tray of antipasti and a bowl of quartered fruit. ‘Oranges,' she announced. ‘They're the best in the South-West. All the way from Nanup. It's a long way to go to get oranges but I do it every week on principle. Once you taste these, you'll never go back.'

‘That's okay, Mum,' Phoebe waved the bowl away, ‘I'm all right for the minute.'

‘But I drove an hour and fifteen minutes to get them,' her mother protested. ‘They're the juiciest you'll ever taste.'

‘I'm sure they are. I just don't feel like an orange right now.'

‘Eve had one,' her mother announced waspishly.

Phoebe glanced at her sister, who shrugged helplessly. ‘She insisted.'

‘And what did you think?' Anita prompted.

Eve's dancing eyes met Phoebe's. ‘They were the juiciest I've ever tasted.'

Phoebe grinned.
Traitor.

‘There, you see!' Anita threw up her hands as though a bill had just been passed in the senate.

‘Fine, I'll have one already.' Phoebe grabbed a quarter as her mother went out again to get the drinks.

Her sister's face had lightened considerably with the exchange and so had the burden in Phoebe's pocket. Being back in the house and surrounded by her family, she began to wonder why she was making such a big deal about a forgotten scrap of paper. Who knew how long it had been sitting there? Perhaps it was years old – back from a time before she'd even come on the scene, when the kitchen was full of staff. She tried to remember the names and faces of some of their female employees. Eve would know. Maybe she'd ask her later.

In any case, the letter was not proof of infidelity. Someone had a crush on her fiancé and that wasn't a crime. It was even kind of flattering.

An hour later Spider's parents arrived and then Heath turned up a few minutes later. This provided further distraction. The family was finally coming together. Her loving fiancé was by her side. This wedding was going to happen. How could she believe that anything could possibly tear them apart now?

The scenery was gorgeous. Warmth and a feeling of well-being filled Natasha as she drove up Rickety Twigg road. It wound lovingly through the tall green forest of marri and jarrah trees from Bussell Highway to the quiet town of Yallingup – a tiny hub in this area filled with wineries. Their tall grey and white trunks stretched up to the sky but all those branches and leaves let in only a smattering of flickering sunlight, which played upon her dashboard as she wove her way through the forest. Excitedly, she wound down her window to let the fresh country air whip at her cheeks and hair. She could hear the sounds of the bush now. Birds, probably fairy wrens or New Holland honeyeaters, looking for a sweet flower or unprotected grape.

There were so many wineries in the area. Happs, Driftwood, Stormflower, Woody Nook, Rosily, Clairault. Too many to name them all. Every estate had its own history, its own methods of growing grapes and making wine, in a region so passionate about a good drop.

But amidst it all, Rickety Twigg road was the path that cut history through her life. All the properties on this road held childhood memories. She had grown up here. Driving down it now eased some of the hurt and pain she had accumulated over the past year. Coming home felt like the right thing to do.

The first winery that flashed into view was Oak Hills, with its huge wrought iron gate spread wide at the top of a red gravel track, which led into the heart of the estate. Nearly as old and well known as Tawny Brooks, it was owned by the Franklins, whom she had not seen in years. Relations between her family and theirs were mixed. In all matters of wine and business they were arch enemies, competing neck and neck for sales and James Halliday stars. Their growing and viticulture philosophies were completely different, so conversations were always too opinionated to be friendly.

Back in high school she and every other girl had been fascinated by Jack Franklin, who, from age eighteen, was the region's most notorious womaniser. She'd even had a fling with him at one stage before he'd decided to move overseas to pick up new knowledge in winemaking. She wondered where he was now. Tearing up France, no doubt. His sister, Claudia, and brother, Chris, were lovely. They'd gone to school together and always got on well. It was a shame their parents hadn't been more friendly.

She passed the entrance to the next property, which was not very big. No more than about thirty hectares. The access road was a poorly defined dirt track that came off Rickety Twigg and seemed to run straight into the bush. There was no visible sign post. So if you weren't a local, you wouldn't even notice it. The property was called Gum Leaf Grove – probably because of the huge gum trees on the road side, shielding it from view. As children, she and her sisters had dubbed it the haunted mansion. The giant rambling house on the property was falling apart and vacant. It had been for years. Whoever owned it never came to visit, but leased most of their backyard to grape growers so the vines growing around it were reasonably taken care of.

The road began to slope gently upward and her car climbed to the top of the hill. As she rolled over the peak, she took her foot off the accelerator and her breath caught in her throat. There was Tawny Brooks. Not a blemish on the land but a feature. The vines cut neat rows as they curved over the hill, interspersed by gravel tracks and the occasional tree or rosebush. The dam, or ‘Crazy Man's Lake', was a prominent feature in the centre, a small gazebo and a short jetty at its shallower end. The house was not far from that. Built in the seventies but well maintained, it was made of jarrah and stone. It was only one storey and did not look that big from her vantage point but Natasha knew the floor plan like the back of her hand. The house was huge and every window had its own special view, whether it be the lake or the vines. The house had tranquillity covered from every angle.

And yet, somehow, now that she was turning onto the gravel path that led down to it, the good feelings from before receded and worry began to set in.

You lied to Phoebe and now you're going to lie to everyone in your family.

There would be questions. Even the most mundane one – ‘How are you?' – would need to be answered. She couldn't tell them what had happened last year and that she was still jobless. Not before the wedding. What a way to dull the happiness of their moment. Her miserable news could definitely wait. Besides, what had she been chanting to herself on the way down here?

Forgive.

Forget.

Forgive.

Forget.

She had to move on. It wasn't a choice any more. She had to forgive herself and stop obsessing over Sophia. In fact, she'd been making rather good progress these last few months in the lead-up to this trip. It had been many weeks since she'd allowed the name to creep into her head. Usually at times like this she had flashes of Sophia herself. Her smile, her hair, her beautiful and enviable skin. It was sick, really, given she had never actually met Sophia in the flesh. These images were an extension of her distraught emotions sent to taunt her more than anything else. Or at least that's what her psychologist had said. This time, however, it was Heath's face that caught her mind's eye. His dark black brows drawn tightly together. His fists clenched, suppressing strong emotion. Anger or frustration, she didn't know which.

‘You've got to stop talking about her,' he was saying. ‘It's not helping. It doesn't get us anywhere.'

‘I can't pretend she didn't exist.' Her voice arced in pain.

‘I'm not asking you to,' he cried, ‘but if you don't start focusing on the future, Tash, there's not going to be one. At least not for us, anyway.'

That's all he ever talked about. The future. The future.

That if she wanted to move forward, she had to stop letting past events drag them down.

‘How easy for you to say,' she had flung at him. ‘You speak like someone with no feelings at all.'

He'd walked out then. Not out of her life. No, that had come later. But it had definitely been the beginning of the end.

Firmly, she shut off her thoughts as cleanly as picking up the TV remote and killing the picture. She focused all of her attention on the road again. Frankly, she was sick of images like that. Bone weary of them.

Reliving the past didn't help, but a sabbatical might. Tawny Brooks was exactly what she needed. The red dirt track widened into a large car park just outside the cellar door where several wine tasters stood chatting. Next to this was the famous Tawny Brooks garden, her mother's pride and joy.

She drove on through the car park, eager to get to the house. She parked out the front beside two other cars, both Holden Barinas, just like the one she had rented.

My sisters must be in town.

It was strange how they were all so different, but when it came to cars, exactly the same. Her nerves hit a crescendo as she stepped under the timber arches, shading the front door of the house.

Here goes.

She took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open after a few moments and a rush of love overcame her at the sight of her mother. It was like no time had passed. Anita wore an ancient looking floral dress that Natasha was sure she had first seen as a kid. Her large coal-coloured eyes grew wet as she spread her arms.

‘Tash! My darling girl.'

Natasha returned her mother's embrace, which required her to half-bend, half-stand to meet her mother's diminutive height.

‘Why did you knock?' Anita scolded. ‘You know it's open.'

‘Sorry, Mum. City habits.'

‘Where are your bags?'

‘In the car. I thought I'd bring them in later.'

‘All right. Come in, come in.'

She felt her mother's critical eyes on her as she stepped over the threshold. ‘You haven't been eating properly, have you? You're as skinny as a leaf.'

‘Am I?'

‘Don't play dumb. Your sister Phoebe is exactly the same. She looks like the wind blew her in.
Well
,' she shook a stern finger as she shut the door, ‘that's all about to change.'

‘Really.' Natasha smiled at the direct order. Though to be honest, she was rather hungry. She hadn't brought anything to snack on in the car on the way down. She'd just driven non-stop till she got here.

Her mother grinned at her. ‘People come to the South-West to eat and drink. And you girls aren't going to be the exception to the rule.'

It was true. The region had its own chocolate and cheese factories and all the pickles, jams and preserves you could possibly desire. Not to mention the liqueurs and candies, pasta sauces and every fruit and vegetable available to pick fresh off the trees should it take your fancy. It was no wonder most tourists were in town simply to drive and consume organic produce. And of course there was the added advantage of wine tasting as well. But for her, it was her mother's cooking that brought her to Yallingup. Cheesy filo tiropites, her famous chicken soup – avgolemono – and nutty, cinnamon-spiced baklava drizzled in syrup. Her mouth was watering just thinking about it.

Natasha stepped further into the house and aromas from her childhood assailed her. There was a blend of pot pourri on the hall table in a delicate glass bowl, purchased in a glass blowing house in Margaret River back when Mum and Dad had been a young married couple. The pot pourri itself was her mother's own creation. No doubt made from cuttings from the Tawny Brooks' garden. Also faint, but still discernible, was the cleaning agent Anita used on the polished wooden floorboards, a natural blend she made herself from black tea and vinegar. The floors were shiny enough to see your face in. Natasha swallowed a lump in her throat as memories flooded her mind.

‘Is anybody else here?' she finally asked, snapping out of her reverie.

Her mother's lips pulled into a straight line. ‘It's just your father left to arrive now.'

Natasha blinked. ‘Dad? But where is he?'

‘I have no idea.'

Uh-oh.

She didn't quite know how to respond to this. Communication had never been a problem for her parents. They had always had a very solid, loving marriage.

Who are you to talk?

She had seen how fast that could change.

‘He left this morning,' her mother continued. ‘And hasn't returned.' Anita's face clouded. ‘I sent Adam to go find him, but he hasn't returned either.'

‘Who's Adam?'

Anita brightened a little. ‘Our new winemaker. A lovely young man. Very helpful and he loves my cooking.'

Natasha smiled wryly. Her mother loved anyone she could feed.

‘You know what,' Anita placed her hand in the small of Natasha's back and gently pushed her towards the sitting room, ‘you go ahead. I'm going to get some more cheese. Everyone else is in there.'

The sitting room was the biggest room in the house and the most accommodating for entertaining large groups of guests. Spacious and airy, it was lined on one side with bookshelves and on the other with two huge windows overlooking the lake. She used to sit in there and read as a kid. The four burgundy-coloured couches in the room were long and deep enough to lie on.

But she'd only taken two steps over the threshold when she stopped in shock.

The first face she registered was Heath's.

Heath's!

Olive skinned, with chiselled cheekbones, his large dark eyes were fringed by lashes that stared unwaveringly at her from across the room. Light flashed behind her eyes, her body went hot and then cold. She reached out and steadied herself against the doorframe, focusing all her willpower on closing her gaping mouth. His own lips were straight, neither smiling nor frowning as he regarded her with the deliberation of a cowboy before a gun draw.

What the hell is he doing here?

‘Tash!' Phoebe materialised from nowhere, enveloping her numb body in an excited hug which didn't really form that much of a distraction considering she could still see Heath over her sister's shoulder. Sirens continued to wail in her head.

What sort of ambush have I walked into?

She felt bile rise up her throat as she looked around the rest of the room. Taking in the other faces. Eve's pale one on the couch. Spider, standing by the window, with a kind of half-embarrassed, half-whimsical smile. Two other people she didn't know were standing beside him and looked as nervous as she felt. A tall, white-haired couple, with similar eyes and facial features to Spider, so she assumed they must be his parents. It was almost like the scene of an intervention. But who for?

‘How was your flight?' Phoebe pulled out of her arms to demand cheerfully. ‘You must be exhausted driving all the way from Perth right after landing.'

‘I didn't,' she responded stiffly, her eyes returning to Heath, trying to work out what angle he was playing. ‘I stayed overnight at a hotel.'

‘
A hotel?
' Phoebe swatted her arm. ‘You should have crashed at Eve's.'

Natasha didn't know whether to be mortified or relieved as her gaze swung to the sister she hadn't seen in over a year. Eve regarded her solemnly from the couch, a self-conscious expression clouding her eyes as she said thickly, ‘Of course. I mean, my couch is pretty comfortable and I have plenty of spare bedding.'

Natasha took a breath to relax but her voice still came out stilted. ‘I didn't want to cause any inconvenience.'

‘It wouldn't have been any trouble.' Eve shrugged but looked down at her hands as though the statement was a futile one.

Natasha completely got that. She really did. Eve's reaction to her was perfectly understandable. But Heath?

As her gaze was irrevocably drawn to his again, he walked across the room towards her. She shrunk into herself with every footfall until he was finally in front of her.

He put a hand under her chin and lifted her lips for a kiss. If they had been alone she would have resisted. His mouth burned hers with their brief contact before he said, half-smiling, ‘Surprise.'