‘She had some choice words to say about their chances of winning the contract. Harry Haymaker’s bound to stick his oar in.’ For the past eight years, the farmer from the adjacent district had been out-bidding locals on sharefarming contracts.
‘Indi seems nice,’ Charity ventured with the subtlety of a post driver.
Hamish scowled. Why did people in a relationship assume there was something lacking in everyone else’s life? Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t recently tried to hook up on a more permanent basis than had been his preference for the past decade; he’d thrown his hat in the ring only a few months back. Got it thoroughly stomped on, too, so it was probably lucky his heart hadn’t been invested. Though he didn’t reckon that was ever going to be a problem; the fact that even animals—including the barn owls over in the tractor shed—paired for life proved ‘love’ was nothing more than a chemical impulse, not sharing something that required investment or effort.
‘Natasha plans to talk her into coming along for a catch-up once school goes back,’ Charity continued. ‘Now that we’ve got a couple of dinner options in Settlers, it’d be nice to get a bit of a girl gang together for a regular kind of thing.’
‘Sexist, much?’ Speak of the devil. It was Natasha who had pretty much shot him down the previous year—andshe’d been new to town, so the rejection couldn’t have been because of his reputation. ‘You’re right, though, Indi is nice. For a sister,’ he said, and Lachlan guffawed.
‘But she isn’t—?’ Charity looked confused.
‘Trust me: if you’ve known someone all your life, there comes a point where they definitely seem more like a sister than a potential.’
Lachlan stood, shoving the chair away with the back of his knees. ‘You’ll have to look further afield.’
‘Lookwould suggest I’m actively searching. I’ve no time for any of that, mate. Not with this lot to take care of.’ He gestured toward the now-purpled farmyard.
Charity gave a little yelp and slapped her arm. ‘Come inside, we’re going to get eaten alive. I can’t believe there are still mosquitoes out here in May.’
‘It’s because it’s unseasonably warm,’ Lachlan said.
‘Then why are you worried about the crops? Isn’t warm weather good for making them grow?’
‘Would be, if we had any in.’
‘But you were seeding … ?’ Charity held up both hands in comical confusion.
Lachlan tugged her close, an arm around her waist as he kissed her forehead. ‘Dry seeding is for the pasture paddocks—clover and vetch for animal feed. We won’t do the crop seeding until the weather breaks, when we’ve got a better chance of germination.’
‘This farming stuff is hard,’ Charity said dolefully as Lachlan held the door open for her.
Hamish paused on the verandah, staring after the couple. Charity was from the city, so it wasn’t fair to expect her to know any more about farming than he knew about teaching. Yet he suspected that much of her cluelessness was adopted as a way to inconspicuously bolster his brother’slow self-esteem, by helping Lachlan realise the extent of the knowledge he’d amassed.
Would anyone ever have his back like Charity had Lachlan’s?
3
Jemma
‘You aremagrissima,’ Nonna said disapprovingly as she hugged Jemma.
‘She isbella,’ Nonno dared to contradict.
Jemma knew her grandmother was right. Her favourite suits were beginning to hang from, rather than drape over, her figure. She leaned into the embrace. ‘It’s not like you never see me, Nonna. I live right next door.’
‘I know where you live,insolente. I also know that you are off to work before we get here, and you often don’t come home until after the trattoria is closed. What kind of life is that for a young woman?’
‘A career, Nonna. That kind of life.’
‘Pfft.’ Nonna snapped her fingers. ‘Giving a job a fancy name doesn’t make it any more important.’
Nonno chuckled as he hugged Jemma. ‘Yet you are happy to tell all our customers of our granddaughter the barrister, Rosa?’ he chided.
‘It won’t matter if she becomes a judge if she starves herself to death, will it?’ Nonna said, pushing him aside so she could propel Jemma into the kitchen at the back of the restaurant.
Seated on a stool at the industrial bench in the middle of the room, Dad immediately got to his feet. He crossed the tiled floor and drew Jemma into a warm hug. Unlike her mother, this part of her family could be relied on never to be short of three things: minor dramas, opinions—and love.
‘Hey, kiddo.’ Dante saluted her with a sauce-covered ladle from his position at the enormous cooktop. It would never seem normal to see her uncle there instead of Dad. Despite the weather turning chilly, Dante wore a t-shirt and track pants, though whether that was to display the coveted vascularity of his weight-lifting obsession or his tapestry of tattoos, she wasn’t sure.
