Simmering Season Page 20

  Maggie nodded eagerly, wondering if she looked as hot and sweaty as she felt under the little black dress. Several people smiled as she made a beeline for the doors. Others looked vaguely familiar so she waved, but didn’t stop.

  She didn’t want to stop.

  She wanted to breathe.

  The first breath of warm night air as she reached the asphalt did little to revive her, too thick with the scent of fatty lamb and burnt tin foil. Maybe she should have had the toasted sandwich Ethne offered to cook. If only Maggie hadn’t felt too nauseous to eat at the time. To her right, illuminated by a stand of SES spotlights, was the smell’s source—the three homemade spit roasts, surrounded by a pack of beer and testosterone fuelled blokes, all vying for an opportunity to test their manhood by prodding the fire. On the edge of the darkness lay a dozen hopeful dogs, orange eyes glowing eerily. Achilles and Jackpot would likely be among the mob, she guessed, picturing their snouts lowered, positioned between paws, eyes watching, pleading, ready.

  Maggie had to get off her feet, but with most of the outdoor tables and chairs occupied—if not by bodies then by jackets or handbags—she headed for the monkey-bars, falling against the balance beam she’d once dreaded. Maggie never enjoyed sports period and she never understood how learning to balance on a lump of wood might prepare her for anything to do with life after school. It hadn’t helped her balance a career with marriage and motherhood, that was for sure.

  Leaning against her old nemesis, she let her body relax against the wooden beam, glad to be away from the crowd. There was something so tiring, almost dizzying, about the constant hellos and shrieks of ‘Remember me?’ Then there was ‘Geez, haven’t we been lucky with the weather?’

  The weather! Topic of last resort, in Maggie’s book.

  If forced conversation were so undesirable, what was she doing setting herself up for a tête-à-tête with the man making his way across the playground right now—two glasses and a bottle hanging from one hand, a paper bowl of something balanced on the other.

  Maggie adjusted her bum on the balance beam, tugged at the hemline creeping up her legs and tried to look cool. God, he was still gorgeous, still married and right in front of her. She felt like a child who’d been given a bag of lollies to hold but told, ‘Don’t touch. They’re not yours to eat.’

  He handed Maggie her drink and balanced a bowl of Cheezels and the bottle on the beam beside her.

  ‘Hey, remember doing this?’ Dan laughed easily, loading four fingers with Cheezels. She’d watched him and Michael do the same thing while watching TV in Maggie’s lounge room. Only Dan seemed nothing like the wilful teenager who, along with Maggie’s brother, had turned the town upside down with their shenanigans. Not that anyone ever proved who was behind the late-night drag races, the firecrackers or the exploding mailboxes.

  Dan gobbled the fourth Cheezel from his little finger. ‘Mmm, I forgot how good these little buggers are,’ he added, reloading his fingers. ‘Sure you don’t want some?’

  ‘Pass. Once I start I won’t stop.’

  ‘Okay, well, while I’m stuffing down Cheezels, how about you give it to me in five-year increments.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What’s the Maggie Lindeman story?’

  Maggie Henkler, she should have said, but didn’t. ‘How about I give you my life story in three words so we can move on. TOO. BLOODY. BORING. Besides,’ she added quickly, hoping to detract from her nervous giggle. ‘I’d much rather talk about tonight. Thank goodness the weather’s held.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Was it her imagination or did Dan’s expression just then have that Oh-God-not-the-weather look as he brushed Cheezel dust from both hands. He moved the bowl and the bottle further along the beam so he could settle next to Maggie.

  ‘I heard about Amber,’ he said.

  ‘I went to Sydney for the funeral. It was a lovely service. Phillip, Amber’s husband, was pretty devastated, as you’d expect. It was so sudden.’

  ‘Sudden or not, no one’s ever ready to lose someone they love.’

  Maggie didn’t dwell on Dan’s words, launching into a new topic to keep their conversation from becoming too morbid. ‘I met her daughter, Fiona.’ She employed her best plum in the mouth: ‘She goes by Fiona Bailey-Blair.’

  ‘And she’s the baby that caused all that kerfuffle?’

  ‘That’s her. She’s all grown up now. I’ve had her staying at the pub since she arrived in town. You should see her. So like her mother, or I should say like her mother used to be. Amber changed a lot. She came back home briefly a couple of years ago after old Gypsy died and left the Dandelion House to her and the others.’

  ‘Is Fiona here? At the reunion tonight?’

  ‘No—thank goodness.’ The surprise in Dan’s eyes demanded further explanation. ‘For a while Fiona looked like causing a bit of trouble around town.’

  ‘Sounds like her mother, all right.’ He smiled.

  ‘Hmm, only her mother is not the issue. Something someone said led her to think she’d find her biological father in Calingarry Crossing. The way she got involved with setting up tonight’s photo display, I have a feeling she was planning something. Maybe something that might help her identify her father. She’s very good at visual displays, you know?’ Maggie tried to make light, only Dan wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Find her father? You really think so?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘She’s a twenty-two-year-old version of Amber. Who ever knew what was going on behind the pretence?’

  Going well, Maggie, she silently berated herself as Dan watched the shenanigans over at the barbecue spit. So far you’ve covered the weather, funerals, and Fiona. The only miserable subject not to pass your lips is your marriage. Why is that? Perhaps she was keeping the tone light to create some fantasy-friendly moments; she was certain she’d be having one or more of those when she found herself alone and miserable in her bed later tonight.

  There was, however, no ignoring something more serious in Dan’s face when he’d talked about Fiona just now. Only a small spark of interest, but enough to bother Maggie. On the list of potential catch-up topics, Fiona sat somewhere at the bottom between the weather and Maggie’s very complicated life, but at least she was a safe subject—something to laugh over—so she went on to tell Dan about Fiona’s tantrum at the funeral.

  When Dan asked about Noah, Maggie bragged shamelessly. And when she told him about her praying mantis dream he laughed so hard he almost choked on his champagne.

  ‘Are you serious? Praying mantis? That’s hilarious.’

  ‘Not so funny from my perspective.’

  When their conversation moved on to his children, Dan turned to mush.

  ‘My two keep me busy.’ He seemed to relax, his towering frame shrinking into Maggie’s until their shoulders and arms touched.

  The balance beam suddenly never felt so good. There was such joy in Dan’s face as he recounted the moment he and Tracy had discovered they would be having twins—one of each—Emily and Michael.

  Michael! Dan had named his son Michael. She tuned out for a moment, her head buzzing.

  ‘You okay?’ Dan was leaning forward, craning his neck to look at her.

  ‘Hmm, what? Oh, yes. Sorry, I think my ears are still ringing. Is that music getting louder?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Where were we?’

  ‘I was asking you how old Noah was. You never said.’ Dan topped up Maggie’s glass with champagne, which had grown warm in her hand.

  ‘He’s seventeen turning twenty-seven. Quite mature for his age, studious, musical—of course—and no longer needing hugs.’

  ‘Emily’s the same at fourteen, only thankfully still into her dad’s cuddles. Mike not so much. He’s a typical boy and a little behind his sister. Thankfully, praying mantis dreams are not a problem. For me it’s more about trying to keep up. Makes you feel kind of old, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Be thankful you’re not Phillip Blair. Twenty ye
ars older than us and with Fiona for a daughter. He was the real reason I invited her to stay. I figured he could do with some time to grieve after watching Fiona on the day of the funeral. Looked to me like the girl was experiencing all seven stages of grief at once. Turns out she’s not so bad. She’s started to grow on me, but don’t tell her I said that.’ Maggie laughed. ‘Oh, and don’t ask her to admit this, as I’m certain she never will, but I believe she might be glad she came to Calingarry Crossing.’

  ‘As am I right now.’ Dan smiled that smile, the one etched in Maggie’s memory from all those years ago. The one she could recall by closing her eyes in bed at night. The one that was so much more than a simple curve of the mouth and two tiny twitches at the corners of his lips. Dan Ireland had a George Clooney grin before Maggie knew there was a George Clooney grin. And it was still impossible not to be drawn in and smile too.

  A good imagination could be such a curse. George Clooney or Dan Ireland. Both would never be anything more than a fairy tale. And her Cinderella moment was about to show itself. Any minute, the town clock would strike and she’d be sent scurrying back to her broom closet.

  ‘What’s that look for?’ he asked.

  ‘What look?’ Maggie crashed back to reality, an explosion of heat flaming her face as she imagined those frown lines. ‘I don’t have a look. I have a numb bum from sitting on this bloody balance beam.’

  A numb bum? she groaned inside. So much for fantasy. When did we stop wanting the fairy tale? Weren’t fairy tales about finding the magic? There was supposed to be magic, wasn’t there?

  She was having her Cinderella moment tonight, spending one night imagining she wasn’t nearing forty and married to a man who was choosing a scrap of a chance at fame over family. Well, she could dream too, and while her backside tingled from the hard seat, there was nothing numb about her heart banging away wildly and inappropriately inside her chest. She straightened her frame, a subtle repositioning of shoulders she’d unconsciously let slump a little too close to Dan’s.

  ‘How about we get the blood circulating and stretch our legs?’ Dan stood, holding out a hand.

  ‘No,’ Maggie said a little more vehemently than she’d planned, her fingers clawing the edge of the hard wooden seat. ‘I mean, I’m fine.’ She counted to five, trying to free the breath tangled inside her chest.

  More partygoers spilled out of the hall, probably needing fresh air and a break from the DJ’s boom, boom, boom. Another group disappeared into the dark, the glow of cigarettes and the distinctive smell of pot pinpointing their location.

  ‘Shouldn’t you do something about that, Mr Policeman?’ Maggie quipped, flicking her head towards them.

  ‘Oh, sure, wouldn’t that go down well. The word hypocrite comes to mind.’ Regret snatched his smile away too quickly. ‘Have you forgotten who Dan Ireland used to be in this town?’

  ‘No,’ she breathed, the enormity of that tiny word paralysing.

  Maggie remembered just about everything. Anything she had forgotten was now hitting her like gale force winds in the face. With Dan right in front of her she could barely breathe, let alone speak.

  Too close.

  Too wonderful.

  Too married!

  ‘I think the teachers busted me smoking in that very spot,’ he went on. ‘In fact, didn’t there used to be a maintenance shed over there?’

  Maggie’s cheeks hadn’t cooled down from her last thoughts when Dan’s question torched them again. He knew perfectly well there was a shed and what kids had got up to behind it occasionally.

  There was danger in such memories, she decided.

  ‘So, what do you suppose Tracy is up to in there?’ Maggie deliberately spoke her friend’s—his wife’s—name.

  ‘Oh, you know Trace.’ He sounded almost dismissive. ‘She’ll be monopolising the conversation, playing her part in a game of pass-the-picture, gushing over photos, showing off the kids. Isn’t that what reunions are for?’

  Maggie nodded, not that such rituals interested her. She’d long ago lost the need to monopolise a conversation, especially one about her life and marriage. And unless they were her own baby pictures, Maggie never gushed. When she’d worked with Fairytale Photos, she’d managed to sneak her own Noah masterpieces onto the display. They’d brought her plenty of business, not that she let on they weren’t Fairytale photographs. Noah remained the only thing in Maggie’s life worth showing off; that was until the day a grandchild happened to come along. How Maggie longed for the day her son and his wife would present her with a beautiful grandbaby. Maybe that was what she was waiting for, her purpose, the magic Maggie was missing. A grandson, or better still, a gorgeous little granddaughter to spoil, tell fairy tales to, guide and teach to make her own choices in life—choices that were right for her no matter what anyone else thought.

  Maggie continued to gaze at the stars, then drew a deep breath and let it rush out in a continuous sigh along with her confession. ‘Dan, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing here.’

  ‘I’d say right now you’re keeping me company. And while I’m grateful, I probably shouldn’t keep you to myself. You should be inside showing off like Tracy. Weren’t you “Girl most likely to succeed”?’

  ‘That was Tracy,’ Maggie grimaced before gulping the last of her champagne. ‘I wasn’t much of a stand-out at school.’

  ‘You’re certainly making up for it now.’

  Dan’s forensic fascination with her little black dress flipped Maggie’s stomach.

  ‘I think the years are testing your memory, Dan.’

  Was he flirting, or was it the alcohol making her think that?

  ‘You were going to be a great photographer. I’m not wrong about that, am I?’

  ‘You remember that about me? What else?’ she asked, a little tease tingeing her voice.

  ‘Truth is, I remember too much about living here. The good and the bad.’

  She didn’t want to say ‘Me too’. She didn’t want to go back to morbid. ‘How about after Calingarry? What’s the Dan Ireland story in five-year increments? What did you do, besides marry my best friend?’

  ‘I’ve got three words for my life story, too. My professional one, at least. NOT. BORING. ENOUGH. Wish it was boring. Wish I had weeks on end with nothing to do.’ Dan clasped the back of his neck with both hands. ‘Personally, though? Truthfully?’ he added. ‘Trace rescued me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Maggie said, her voice small. Then she followed his gaze. He was looking into the crowded marquee, probably to catch a glimpse of the all-rescuing Tracy Rose resplendent in red. Maggie thought about what to say next. ‘Did you need rescuing, Dan?’

  ‘Bloody oath. Not sure where I would’ve ended up. I was halfway to hell when I bumped into her at a university party one night. And before I give you the wrong impression, I wasn’t smart enough to be there as a student, which makes me wonder what the hell she saw in me. The uniform probably.’ His words trickled out on a laugh. ‘Part-time campus security at the time. Tango-Foxtrot-Twelve. That was me. Bad boy Dan Ireland had a two-way, a baton and a licence to take out his frustrations on any moron who messed up. Highly qualified in detecting troublemakers, though.’

  ‘Not everyone in Calingarry Crossing thought you were trouble.’

  A clump of dandelion weed poking out of the ground bore the full force of Dan’s frustration, the toe of his brown leather boot grinding it into the ground. Maggie’s eyes traced the line of blue denim all the way from his boots to the snug fit over his hips. She wondered how he’d got away with jeans and a chambray shirt given the sophistication of Tracy’s little red number. Perhaps she really had tamed him and that famed rebelliousness of Dan’s had to come out somewhere else, like in his casual choice of clothes tonight.

  ‘If I was going to marry Trace I needed to straighten myself out. Someone her father knew pulled a few strings and the next thing you know I’m headed off to Goulburn Police Academy. Not sure how they managed it, but there you go.’

&n
bsp; ‘Dan Ireland a policeman?’ She hoped the incredulousness in her voice hadn’t offended him.

  His laugh said not.

  ‘Best thing I could’ve done. Like I said, she rescued me.’

  A comfortable silence fell around them, except for the unrelenting doof, doof and occasional spray of drunken laughter escaping from the high-set windows in the old school hall. Jennifer had done a good job; tonight’s DJ had all the popular numbers. Tina Turner’s ‘Nutbush City Limits’ was on now, a guaranteed crowd-pleaser and sure to get everybody rushing the dance floor for a spot in the line. Not Maggie, not the way her feet throbbed. She worked the heel straps down with her toes while Dan continued.

  ‘I needed to make good after all the dickhead stuff I did as a kid.’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘You weren’t any more of a dickhead than anyone else, and that includes my brother.’

  ‘I know you stuck up for me. You still think the town was wrong for kicking me out, Maggie?’

  The words ‘I do’ sat just behind her lips, two words that brought back images of schoolbooks and a pencil case emblazoned with: Mrs Lindeman-Ireland.

  ‘Accidents happen,’ she said.

  Yes, Michael’s death had devastated her. Was she surprised? Not really. She’d witnessed her brother and his friends doing plenty of stupid things over the years. Any grief she’d experienced over the loss of her brother had been confused and diluted by her anguish over the town’s determination to have someone pay the price.

  ‘I used to call them accidents too,’ Dan said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘We attended accidents all the time in general duties. I branched out a few years later, did some more study and eventually landed a job with the Crash Investigation Unit. First thing I discovered is there’s no such thing as an accident.’ That famous smile flickered, faded, never happened. ‘Even today, whenever I have to confront a family with the news …’

  ‘You think about Michael.’ Maggie finished the sentence.

  Oh, Dan, she cried inside. Every nerve, every pore in her skin tingled, her protective and nurturing instincts kicking into overdrive, her arms trembling, aching to reach out and hold him, tell him it was all right.