Trouble in Nirvana (21 page)

“Sit down, Tom,” said Nirupam.

He pulled out a chair next to her. There was a platter with cracker biscuits, carrot and capsicum slices surrounding a bowl of dip, on the table. Some of the white roses from out front were in a glass vase as centrepiece. Four places were neatly set. He glanced about the kitchen curiously. Tidier and cleaner than he’d ever seen it.

“Rosie made this. It’s delicious,” Nirupam said. “Try it.”

He obediently selected a cracker and scooped up the pale brown paste, tasted it. “Mmm. Good,” he mumbled through a tastebud exploding mouthful.

“It’s Greek,” said Primrose from the stove where she was stirring something. The movement jiggled her bottom beneath the thin fabric of her dress. He licked his lips.

“Have some more,” said Nirupam. His response was instant, but fortunately not spoken aloud—
I would if I could
. Startled, he looked across to see her watching him watching Primrose. Her mouth had a slight curve. Was she a mind reader? Was her remark deliberately ambiguous? No, not the Nirupam he knew. One track mind. His own lustful thoughts. She consumed him. His Rose. He reached for a carrot stick.

“What names are you thinking of for the baby?”

“Rupert,” interjected Primrose.

Nirupam giggled.

“I wouldn’t do that to a kid,” Danny said, suddenly joining the conversation from the end of the table.

“I had to put up with Primrose Pretty. Can you imagine what that was like?” Primrose flicked a switch on the stove and turned to face them with her arms folded.

“I don’t remember you ever saying anything.” Danny’s voice. Completely different—softer, caring, almost puzzled.

Primrose looked at him, the unspoken understanding palpable between them. Whatever their differences now, they had something together no-one else could understand or share however strong a more recent bond may be.

“Because of your father?” asked Nirupam gently.

Primrose swallowed, nodded. “His mother was Primrose. Mum wanted to call me Katrina but Dad registered me while she was still in hospital. He didn’t ever listen to anyone else’s opinion. He...ˮ She stopped abruptly.

Danny thrust his chair back and went to the fridge for another beer. Tom shook his head at his silent query for a second.

“At school I knew a kid called Clement,” he said into the awkward pause. “He used his middle name. William. We called him Will.”

She tossed him a tiny smile. “Everyone called me Rosie. I don’t think it’s much better, really. Specially now you’ve told me about your draughthorse.”

“We had a big chestnut draughthorse called Rosie when I was a kid,” Tom explained to Nirupam.

Danny snorted into his beer. “Sure it wasn’t a mule?” he murmured but it wasn’t said viciously.

Primrose ignored him, apart from a little twitch of a smile. “I don’t have a middle name.”

“Why didn’t you change it later to something you liked? To Katrina?” Nirupam asked.

“Used to it, I suppose.” Primrose shrugged. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Like that Johnny Cash song,” said Danny. “A Boy Named Sue.”

“Exactly.”

Tom studied her as she continued with the dinner, taking a saucepan off the heat and running the contents through a sieve. Rice. Steam rose in a white cloud enveloping her. She rubbed her wrist across her forehead, dumped the rice in a serving bowl.

She’d had it doubly tough. Drunken father, ineffective mother, teased about her name, constantly on the move and having to continually re-establish herself. Far from killing her it had made her resilient and independent. Tough as hardened steel. Until recently when another series of body blows had destabilised her, attacking the very heart of her. Literally. At the core she was soft and vulnerable as anyone. As he himself.

He stood up and went to her side, drawn to her, wanting to be close. “Need some help?” His bare arm brushed hers with a tingle of awareness.

She flashed him a smile. “Put this on the table, please. And this.” She bent and removed a plate of flat bread from the oven. The heat enhanced her perfume, intoxicating him.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I enjoy cooking.”

Danny took small dishes from the fridge and placed them on the table. Cucumber in yoghurt, a blob of fruity brown chutney, finely chopped red chillies.

Primrose donned oven gloves and lifted the pan of fragrant curry across to the table. “Help yourselves.”

So far so good. Danny was relaxed and relatively amenable to her presence and comments. Tom was a moderating influence. He fitted well into their awkward little family group—smoothing the rough angles where she and Danny grated on each other—chatting easily with Nirupam.

When to introduce the crucial topic? After they’d eaten would be best. Maybe over dessert? Both men were hearty eaters, no point disturbing their meal and risk making them cross before she could start. They’d be annoyed enough when she revealed the real reason for the invitation. Danny, in particular, would be furious. But it was in his own best interests. And Tom had nothing to lose.

“Would you like wine, Tom? Danny?” Nirupam never drank alcohol but she’d developed a recent craving for lemon cordial.

“Yes, please.”

Danny shook his head. Primrose stood to fetch two glasses and the bottle of chilled Hunter Valley Verdelho. “This is a very nice white.”

“Thanks.” Tom lifted the glass and sniffed the contents before sipping. “Mmm This is good.” He put the glass down and spooned a generous helping of rice onto his plate. “I thought about growing wine grapes once.” He passed the ladle to Nirupam.

“Did you?” Primrose’s ears pricked up. Maybe she wouldn’t have to introduce the subject herself, Tom was about to do it for her. She hadn’t considered a vineyard.

“Yes.” He took the curry serving spoon, lifted his plate and dolloped big scoopfuls onto his rice. “This smells delicious. Shall I serve you Nirupam? Say when.”

Nirupam pushed her plate closer. “Thanks, Tom. Not too much.”

Barely able to sit still, Primrose watched him carefully serve Nirupam. Grapes, what about grapes? He passed the spoon to Danny who never stinted on food and piled on even more than Tom had.

“Pass the bread, please.”

Primrose handed the plate across. Grapes, Tom. Was he going to expand on the subject or had he completely forgotten?

“So did you grow grapes?” She forced casual interest into her voice.

“Have some curry. Or is there something we should know—like why you’re not eating it?” Tom grinned his lopsided grin, catching her eye so a spark flew between them. She smiled because she couldn’t help it, impossible to resist the way his mouth crinkled.

Nirupam giggled and Primrose turned her attention to the food. He was doing it deliberately. Not answering on purpose, teasing her.

“Did you ever grow grapes?” asked Danny. “I don’t remember seeing any vines.”

“No, not interested really but the climate’s good and the soil not too bad.”

“Would you have made your own wine?” asked Primrose.

“I’d sell the grapes to a winemaker. It’s a bit erratic, that industry. Last few seasons there’s been a glut. Too many small hobby farmer type growers flooding the market. They couldn’t sell their crop.”

“Oh, no go then.” Rows of neatly tended vines disintegrated into the dusty ground.

“I’d like to start taking out those willows on the river, Danny.”

“Do they have to go?” cried Nirupam. “They’re so lovely.”

“They’re a weed,” said Tom. “They clog up the waterways.”

“Fine. Give me a yell when you’re ready. Know anyone who wants a couple of goats?”

Primrose looked at Danny sharply. He hadn’t mentioned selling those useless animals. She chewed a mouthful of tofu and rice. Sammy the sheep should be thrown in as a bonus.

“Stick up an ad in the shop and the pub. What do you want for them?” asked Tom.

They launched into a discussion of prices. Goats, apparently, could go for as much as five hundred and fifty dollars each, or as little as twenty, depending on the breeding. That pair would have little to boast of in the way of ancestry.

“Try thirty five.” Tom ripped a piece of flat bread in half. “They could give milk, you know. Just need to get them in kid again. Or there’s a growing market for goat meat if you want to breed from them.”

“No!” Shocked, from Nirupam.

“I suppose,” said Danny. “Not the meat thing, the milk. But they’re a nuisance. David and Brigid left them here last year. I don’t know how to milk them and I don’t want Nirupam to be over worked.” He shot her such a loving glance tears welled in Primrose’s eyes. Must be the wine. Or the curry was hotter than she’d thought. She sniffed. No-one looked at her that way.

“Primrose knows how to milk.” Tom didn’t laugh, just shoved a big forkful of curry into his mouth.

“Do you?” asked Nirupam in amazement.

“Not goats. And I’ve only tried milking once.” She bent her head over her dinner, poking with her fork to find a cashew. What was his goal? Humiliation?

“She milked Daisy for me the other day,” continued Tom blandly. “Did quite well.”

Primrose snorted, red cheeked. “Hardly! The cow kicked the bucket over because I was so slow and she wanted to leave.”

“Takes a bit of practice. Could you play your flute first go?”

“Of course not.”

“Rosie likes to be able to do everything first go,” said Danny. “She hates to fail.”

“Danny, that’s so unfair and wrong. What do you know about me anyway?” she demanded. “You left home when I was thirteen.”

“Fourteen,” Danny snapped.

“Nothing wrong with wanting to be the best you can,” offered Tom.

“Calm down you two,” said Nirupam. “Bad vibes make the baby upset.”

“Sorry, Sweets.” Danny leaned across and rubbed his hand on her upper arm. “Sorry, Rosie.”

“Accepted.” Primrose studied her brother. An apology? What brought that on? Guilt?

Tom said, “If you don’t like goats we could look for a quiet cow.”

“So I can practise?” Primrose sent him a smile.

“Won’t get better at it unless you do.” Tom put his fork down. He sipped his wine. “How did you come to take up the flute? I mean, with your childhood.”

“I was in year seven and they offered lessons on school instruments so I pestered Mum until she agreed I could try. I loved flute right from the start.” She smiled at the memory, the incredible rush of intense feeling. “It was something I could do really well, just for myself.”

“So flute is part of your life.” Tom met her eye and held the contact. She knew what he was trying to say—give up this idiotic pretence of being a farmer and go back to being a musician, back in the city where she belonged.

She looked away. “I haven’t practised for weeks.”

“You played beautifully at the funeral,” said Nirupam.

“What funeral?” Tom’s astonished gaze flew from one to the other. “I didn’t hear about any deaths around here.”

“We had a funeral for the chooks the fox killed. Rosie played for us. It was lovely.”

She knew Tom glanced at her but she spooned herself more curry to avoid eye contact. He’d be laughing for sure. But it hadn’t been funny.

“You showed Mojo your flute,” put in Danny. “He loved it. And so did you.”

He was right. She and Mojo had had a good time together the afternoon before they all left. And holding her flute again, nestling the mouthpiece against her lips and hearing the silvery tones emerge felt right, true to her soul.

“I suppose I could take on students.”

“I think an artist
has
to pursue their art,” said Nirupam. “I mean we can’t not, can we? I love making jewellery and I can’t imagine not creating something even if I have to stop for a while because of the baby. But I won’t give it away completely and you won’t either, Rosie. You’ll find you can’t.”

“Don’t give up on your dream,” said Danny with the annoying esoteric vagueness that had got him where he was today. Nowhere.

Primrose bit back a rude retort. “I don’t know what my dream is any more. It’s all very well to talk idealistically but a freelance muse’s life is tough—a really erratic income and stressful work.”

“Like farming,” said Tom. “But if it’s in your blood you’re stuck with it. Pointless denying it’s there.” Surprised at his tone, she glanced up to find him watching her with soft eyes.

“You’re living your dream, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“What’s missing?” Nirupam tilted her head, glanced at Danny and smiled one of those private, loving smiles—a caress—then returned her attention to Tom. “A wife? Children?”

“One day maybe.” He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back, revolving the stem of his wine glass thoughtfully. “I’d like to have an heir to pass my place on to. But that’s not going to happen.”

“Why?” Nirupam asked.

Tom rubbed his lips together and drank more wine. He looked at Primrose, then at Danny and Nirupam. The words slipped out. “I can’t have children.”

“How do you know?” asked Danny, brow furrowed.

“At Uni I volunteered for a research thing. They wanted men from farms and rural areas. They were looking at the effects of environmental toxins on male fertility. Had to donate sperm. Mine was low count.” Tom drained his glass and Danny refilled it automatically. “Must have been all that crop spraying and sheep drenching when I was a kid.”

“Poisons,” murmured Danny.

“Yes. It’s one of the reasons I’m working on developing better organic methods.”

He sipped his wine. No-one said a word. Danny poured more lemon cordial for Nirupam who looked mortified.

“I’m so sorry, Tom.” Nirupam rubbed his arm gently. “And here I am...” Her eyes filled with tears.

Tom kissed her cheek. “Don’t be silly. That’s life.” His eyes bored into Primrose then away, face blank.

Primrose couldn’t speak. Her mind was empty. What did he expect her to say? That it didn’t matter? It
did
matter. It mattered to him even if he pretended otherwise and it mattered to any woman who might fall in love with him and want to...she bit her lip. Why didn’t he tell her before? Weren’t they close? Obviously not. He’d really told Nirupam and Danny, just now. She just happened to be here.