He was a self-made man, having built his truck stop up into a very successful business, and he’d grown his empire with purchases of fuel stations across the Central West as well as his own transport business. In the early years, he’d tried to bully the Dwyers into selling him their business too. When that hadn’t worked, he’d tried to lure their customers away by lowering his fuel to ridiculous prices the small business hadn’t a hope of matching. But the people of Wessex had not abandoned Dwyers’. It was part of the local fabric, an icon of the town, and it suited locals to buy fuel in the centre of town instead of driving the kilometre or so out to Baxter’s. So Dwyers’ had survived. Bel suspected it was something that still irked Bob to this day.
Betty Miller made her way through the pub doorway and out to the microphone that had been set up on the footpath,tapping it and setting off a high-pitched squeal that had everyone wincing.
‘It has been my great pleasure to oversee this historic event. Putting Wessex on the tourism map has been a dream myself and the progress committee have shared for many decades. With the commencement of this latest project, not only will we provide some local jobs but we will also open up our little town to the rest of the country and beyond, bringing greater prosperity to us all. Without further ado, I am happy to announce the statue with the most votes, which will become our town’s mascot, is … Elvis Peckley!’
The gathered crowd cheered, and Bel joined in. Now the festival really had something to really celebrate. For all Betty’s dramatic flair, she was right about one thing—Wessex needed a tourism boost before it turned into a ghost town. If they had to pin all their hopes on a statue, Bel was glad it was something like a historical rooster instead of a commercialised giant burger that would only benefit one person; the person who was storming towards the microphone looking anything but jovial.
‘This is ridiculous!’ Bob announced. ‘I demand a recount—and an impartial overseer.’
‘Impartial?’ Betty exclaimed indignantly. ‘Are you insinuating, Robert Baxter, that I was somehow biased?’
‘Everyone knows which way the progress committee wanted this vote to go.’
‘How dare you!’ Betty gasped, reminding Bel of an angry chook as she seemed to puff up to double her size.
‘Wow … this is kind of intense,’ Tate said quietly.
‘We should have grabbed some of that popcorn on our way over,’ Bel whispered back.
‘I’m officially calling for a recount,’ Bob repeated, leaning closer to grab the microphone.
Emma appeared at Bel’s elbow and they swapped incredulous looks. ‘Can he even do that?’ Bel asked.
‘I don’t know. I’m fairly sure there was a “voting decision is final” clause, but I’m not sure about asking for a recount.’
Pandemonium broke out as Betty attempted to wrestle the microphone from Bob’s grip, causing it to squeal loudly again and eliciting a group moan as the audience covered their ears.
Somewhere along the line, the Rotary president, Sid Buchanan, had situated himself in between the warring parties and was now attempting to broker a truce, taking control of the microphone and turning it off, thus ending the background commentary, and choosing instead to raise his voice to announce that they would take a short break to sort things out.
‘The movie’s about to start, we’d better get over there,’ Emma said, turning to walk towards the park across the street.
Bel felt Tate’s hand slip into hers and she looked down at their joined fingers, feeling that previous rush return.
‘You coming, Bel?’ Emma asked, turning around.
‘Uh … actually,’ Bel said, reluctantly dragging her gaze from Tate’s to look at her friend. ‘I think we’re going to head off.’
Emma blinked. ‘Oh. Okay. Are you sure? You always loved movie night. The kids are looking forward to it.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I …’ She glanced over at Tate briefly. ‘Tell the kids I’m sorry. I’ll come out and bring them doughnuts after school.’
‘Okay. If you’re sure …’
What was Emma’s problem? She should be happy that Bel was going to be hanging out with a man. It’s what she’d been trying to push her into for years. And why would she use her children as a guilt measure? That was plain unnecessary.
‘Everything okay?’ Tate asked as Bel watched Emma go.
‘Yeah. Everything’s fine. My car’s over this way.’
Tate slid his arm around her waist and Bel’s previous annoyance was forgotten as butterflies flared to life inside her. A giddy sensation filled her head.
When they pulled up in her driveway a few minutes later, the silence in the car was heavy. She turned off the ignition and they sat together in the growing darkness.
‘Here we are,’ she said, turning towards Tate and trying for a cheerful tone to cover the nervousness that was rapidly trying to overtake her.
A loud rumble of thunder echoed outside. Then the heavens opened and rain began pelting the roof of the car. Before Bel could even register this sudden turn of events, Tate leaned across, his lips touched hers, and she forgot allabout the storm outside. She was filled with a heady mix of surprise, lust and the urgent need to move closer.
She wasn’t sure how long they kissed for—it could have been a second or an eternity—but as soon as he eased away, she fought the urge to whimper.
