What Rosie Found Next (16 page)

He paid for their order, refusing any contribution from Rosie, and as he walked her across the road to her pink beetle, she felt a fluttering in her tummy as though she’d been on a real date.

On her drive home, she pulled up at the end of Daisy Lane. She wanted to see the cottage again. It was a dream, a far off one at that, but beneath the glare of the sun, she stood looking at the derelict place she could do so much with. She stood on the tiny veranda, which sat beneath a slim porch, and looked in the window at the front, wondering what it’d be like to come home to this place on a rainy day, lean an umbrella in the corner beside the front door and sit down in front of a roaring fire.

She went round to the back, peering in each window, but it was only when she came back to the front again that she noticed the sign. Except this time, it no longer said For Sale … it read Sold, and her heart sank as much as the churned up earth beneath her feet on the neglected front garden. Her dream was shattered.

*

Rosie took her frustrations out by vacuuming the house top to bottom, dusting every surface she could find and polishing the stainless steel in the kitchen until it shone. Owen returned a couple of hours later as she finished polishing the bannisters in the hallway.

‘I don’t think even Mum bothers to do that,’ he commented. ‘What’s up?’ He must’ve noticed the scowl.

‘Nothing.’

He didn’t move.

‘The house in Daisy Lane, you know, the one I told you about?’

‘The derelict house?’

Rosie slumped down at the foot of the stairs and Owen squeezed onto the step next to her.

‘That’s the one. It’s gone.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘Sold,’ she said.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘It was a stupid dream anyway.’

‘It wasn’t stupid. Your dreams are part of who you are. What, you expect me to say there’ll be plenty of other houses?’

‘Something like that.’ She smiled.

‘Well, I hate to be too predictable.’ He held out a hand and pulled Rosie to standing. ‘Come on, let’s cheer you up. It’s operation Santa time.’

Rosie brought in the boxes containing the Christmas village, and Owen pulled all the Christmas paraphernalia from the shed at the bottom of the garden.

He stood next to the boxes. ‘There’s one other thing we need to do first.’

Rosie looked at the long box open at his feet, the plastic green leaves protruding out enthusiastically. ‘The tree.’ She grinned.

‘Kind of.’ He picked his keys up from the kitchen bench. ‘I think it’s about time I found out what all the fuss is about. We’re having a real tree this year, Stevens.’ He pulled out an extra pair of leather trousers from a cupboard in the laundry and passed them to Rosie. ‘These belonged to Sadie – Tom had a bike before he went into parent-land and traded it for a car and a baby seat – and she’s about your size.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘About the tree or the pants?’

She giggled. ‘Both.’

‘Very serious. Go and get changed.’

The pants looked small but they were a surprisingly good fit. They were soft with stretchy side panels that glided over her hips, and when Rosie reappeared downstairs she didn’t miss Owen checking her out. She shrugged on the spare leather jacket and picked up the spare helmet.

‘Ready?’ Owen called over the din of the engine when Rosie climbed on behind him.

She put a thumb up to show she was ready for the off, glad for now to have nothing but the hum of the engine and the whipping of the air around her as they headed out of Magnolia Creek. She sat rigid at first, scared to relax. Her hands gripped the handrail, and her feet pushed onto the pillion footrests. Her body leaned whichever way the machine took her, but as she relaxed into the ride, she put her arms lightly on Owen’s waist and let her body meet his as it had done that first time on the bike.

The scenery was amazing. Trees lined the roads, stretching up to the sky further than Rosie’s eyes could see, and the sun bounced off the leaves. They weaved this way and that, and before long pulled in between two gateposts off the main road and into a car park that was a sectioned off part of a field. She held tighter as the Ducati coped with the bumps before they came to a standstill.

She took off her helmet and ruffled her copper locks, hoping she didn’t look sweaty from the leathers and headgear worn beneath the summer sun.

‘You’re a good passenger, Stevens.’

She pulled a face.

‘I’m serious. You don’t fidget like some girls do. And you were relaxed enough to lean with the bike as we followed the road.’

Rosie wondered how many girls had been on the back of the bike and quickly scolded herself for letting jealousy rear its ugly head over a man who wasn’t hers to be jealous about. ‘I wanted to survive to tell the tale,’ she said.

Families bustled around the farm. Acres of Christmas trees stood in obedient rows: tall, short, medium, wide, narrow. A toddler helped his mum tag a tree and a father and daughter stood by as their tree passed through a contraption to wrap it in netting for transportation home.

‘Come on.’ Owen thought nothing of taking Rosie’s hand and leading her down a row of trees. ‘Let’s get stuck in before they’re all gone.’

‘There are hundreds of them. I don’t think that’ll happen.’

‘Well, when I phoned the owner of the place he explained that most trees are tagged by the start of December.’

Rosie smiled. ‘We’d better get started then, hadn’t we?’

The ground was damp beneath their feet as they went up and down the rows listening to squeals of delight from children and their parents when they located the perfect tree. Rosie stopped next to one that wouldn’t look out of place in a hotel foyer and, shielding her eyes, she gazed up wondering whether any ladder was tall enough to reach the angel’s position at the top.

She jumped at the feel of Owen’s breath against her ear when he said, ‘Not that one,’ and moved past her.

Her fingers reached out and touched the branches of the trees as she made her way further along the row and up the next. The scent of pine needles overpowered and whipped up nostalgia inside of her, each needle she traced beneath her fingers reminiscent of her past.

Owen’s hand squeezed her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded.

‘This was supposed to be a good surprise.’

‘It is, believe me.’

They stepped over a water sprinkler line on the ground and Rosie stopped at a tree halfway down the row. ‘How about this one? It’s a great shape, wide at the bottom, not too pointed at the top.’

‘It looks good to me.’ He waved over an assistant who measured the tree for pricing and tied a gold ribbon around its widest part to show that it was taken. Rosie watched on, beaming, as the assistant explained the tree would stay right where it was, thriving from the moisture in the soil, until it was dug up and delivered on a day of their choice.

When the tree was paid for and a delivery date arranged, Owen looked up at the black clouds.

‘Where did they come from?’ Rosie asked.

‘I don’t know but we’d better get back. We don’t want to be caught in the storm.’

A rumble of thunder hastened their walk over to the bike, and the Ducati’s engine drowned out any more sounds from the skies as they made their way back to Lakeside Lane.

Rosie already knew in the pit of her stomach that this was going to be a Christmas to remember.

Over the next fortnight Rosie got underway with Christmas preparations, making lists and ensuring that everything was ready. They’d decorated the house after their return from the Christmas tree farm that day and now white fairy lights weaved between bannisters all the way up to the top floor, the Christmas village sat proudly on the sideboard in the lounge room, a garland hung from the knocker on the front door and sprigs of pretend holly – the real thing would struggle to survive the Aussie heat – adorned picture frames and ornaments dotted around the house.

When Rosie had unpacked the Christmas village that same day she’d turned around to see Owen laughing at her.

‘What’s so funny?’ she’d asked.

‘Nothing.’ He couldn’t keep a straight face.

‘No, come on!’

‘Well I’m just wondering whether there’s anything left in Magnolia Gifts after your visit.’

She took out the delicate pieces from their protective bubble wrap. ‘Very funny. Just show me where I’m allowed to put it.’

Once they’d found a place and the village was completely assembled, even Owen had to admit it looked pretty classy as well as festive. ‘You’ve done well, Stevens,’ he’d told her.

And now, Owen was busy with his latest investment property, spending all day, every day working on it, roaring off on the Ducati bright and early most mornings. When Magnolia House reopened almost two weeks into December, Rosie returned to work and today, with a flurry of organisation and preparation, Magnolia House was almost ready for the first wedding since the fire. In forty-two-degree heat, Rosie coordinated gardeners replanting shrubs and grass at the side of the house where the fire had been, and she kept them well hydrated with plenty of ice-cold water. She arranged a painter to give the discoloured white signpost at the front of the house a fresh lick of paint. And most of all, she kept herself busy to stop her mind from wandering to whose wedding it was. Any minute now, Carrie would be arriving with the bonbonniere for her sister’s big day.

In the air conditioned office, Rosie uploaded photographs of the last wedding onto Facebook and responded to comments on previous posts, assuring clients their bookings were still intact following the fire and that Magnolia House looked as spectacular as ever. She’d already sent a mailing to the list of upcoming clients, inviting them to revisit Magnolia House if they had any doubts, and she’d attached photographs she’d taken that morning capturing the early morning glow from the sun coming up over the white wooden roof. In her experience, a picture would reassure clients far more than her words ever could.

‘Rosie?’ Carrie poked her head round the office door.

‘Hello, come in.’ She eyed the box in Carrie’s arms. ‘Have you brought the bonbonniere?’

‘I have. All eighty pieces.’

Rosie peaked into the box filled with tiny glass candy jars, each with a thin pink and white spotted bow tied below a silver lid. ‘The wedding cake delivery is confirmed for tomorrow morning at nine thirty.’

‘Fabulous.’

And then, because this was what they always did with relatives of the wedding party who made deliveries pre-ceremony, Rosie said, ‘Can I offer you a tea, coffee, something cold to drink?’

‘No thanks.’ Carrie’s perfect teeth were bright against tanned skin. ‘I’ve got a busy day of pampering with my sister and my mum.’

‘That sounds lovely. And I hear you’re going away for Christmas.’

Carrie leaned against the doorframe. ‘I can’t wait. I’ve enjoyed helping plan Kristy’s wedding, but it’s been hard work. My sister isn’t a girly-girl, but she wanted the kind of wedding she sees in magazines.’

‘It’ll be a beautiful wedding, and I’m sure she appreciates all the hard work.’ It was quite impossible not to like Carrie. ‘I’ve been roped into helping out with the catering. Two staff members jumped ship when we were closed for a few weeks and found themselves jobs elsewhere.’

‘Then I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, Rosie.’ And with a shake of her mane of blond hair, Carrie left.

*

‘Oh come on, Stevens. Please …’

It was the morning of the wedding and Owen was literally backing Rosie into a corner, the corner of the kitchen.

‘I’ve never used them before,’ she pleaded, hands behind her back, refusing to take the clippers from him. ‘Believe me when I say you’d be better off leaving your hair as it is.’

‘Oh come on, I haven’t had time to get my hair cut on account of all the community work I do down at the fire station.’

‘Stop trying to make me feel guilty!’

‘I’m merely stating facts, Stevens.’ He was getting somewhere now – she couldn’t stop smiling. ‘This hair of mine will spoil the photographs.’

‘You’re not wrong there.’

‘I had two jobs to do for Kristy’s wedding: pick up a tux and—’

‘Get a haircut,’ Rosie finished.

To his delight she frowned but took the clippers anyway. ‘You know you can’t moan at me if it turns out to be the worst haircut ever.’

Owen pulled a chair to the middle of the kitchen floor. ‘I’ve already fixed on the right clippers for the back. Do upwards to about here.’ He indicated the back of his head to around the level of his ears. ‘And don’t look so nervous.’

‘You’re going to a wedding, there’s pressure.’

‘Relax. It’s not my wedding, so we’re good.’ He flung a towel around his shoulders and sat on the chair.

Rosie tucked the towel into the top of his T-shirt. The touch of her fingers against his skin felt comforting, but when the clippers buzzed and she ran them upwards from the base of his neck, he had a much bigger reaction. He shut his eyes when a groan threatened to escape. He cleared his throat as she moved the clippers up the sides above his ears. He’d never realised they were so sensitive until now.

‘How’s it looking?’ he managed to ask.

She ran a nail across the base of his neck and it made him shudder. ‘There’s some hair the clippers have missed.’ She moved closer to finish the job, and when she blew gently against his skin it almost tipped him over the edge.

‘Now, do I change clippers?’ she asked. ‘Owen! Open your eyes.’

‘I’m trying to relax in the moment, Stevens.’ Really he was doing his best to distract himself from how good it felt when she touched him. ‘Change to the yellow clippers, they’re slightly longer.’

He closed his eyes again as she moved around him. It was safer that way. The closeness of her body was getting too much.

As her nails gently scraped against his scalp when she checked the clippers had done their job, he was eternally grateful of the extra towel across his lap that hid how much he was enjoying this. When he’d asked her for the favour, this wasn’t exactly what he’d anticipated.

‘I think we’re done,’ she announced.

He escaped to the downstairs bathroom to check, grateful of some time to let his physical reaction subside.

‘Not bad, Stevens. I may use your services again,’ he called to her in the kitchen.

‘We’ll see about that. Now I have to get ready, so I’ll leave you to sweep up.’

*

As Rosie showered and got ready for the day, she tried to make sense of that moment in the kitchen, the moment where she knew she’d crossed a boundary she wasn’t sure she could get back from. She’d felt Owen shiver beneath her touch, and she hadn’t missed him sigh, either, when she blew the stray hair away from his neck.

She dried her hair and put on a light layer of foundation, some eyeliner and a touch of grey eye shadow. She pulled on a straight, black, knee-length skirt and a white, short-sleeved shirt. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, the open shirt and the place where her cello bridge necklace usually sat. It still looked odd to see bare skin.

By the front door she slipped on black patent heels as she heard Owen come down the stairs behind her, and when she turned she was stunned. The man who usually wore a T-shirt and jeans, or shorts, stood before her in a tux, a crisp white shirt contrasting against tanned skin and a black bow tie hanging teasingly loose around his neck.

She checked her phone was inside her bag – anything to stop staring at him. ‘Are you looking forward to the wedding?’

‘Not really.’ He went into the downstairs bathroom off the hallway and Rosie watched him look in the mirror and take each end of the bow tie. He didn’t know what he was doing at all. ‘Carrie and I aren’t serious, and today I have to meet her entire family.’ He leaned around the doorjamb when Rosie giggled. ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’

‘I’ll be serving Pimm’s and Lemonade on the lawn at precisely two o’clock,’ she said. ‘I suggest you have a few for Dutch courage.’

Owen uttered a few expletives and then emerged from the bathroom, his bow tie still hanging loose. ‘I should’ve got one of those elasticated things. These are impossible.’

‘Blimey, I’ve had to do your hair and now I have to help you get dressed?’ Rosie took control and, facing Owen, pulled each end of the bow tie to an appropriate length. ‘This isn’t really in my job description.’

‘How do you know how to do these?’ His eyes were fully focused on her.

‘Adam has plenty of corporate functions, but he’s never had the patience to do a bow tie.’ She crossed the two sections over and pushed one through the v-shape. Her hands shook as she formed the loops and finalised the bow.

‘There, how’s that?’ She willed him to go back into the bathroom and look in the mirror instead of at her.

After what felt like forever, he did as she’d hoped and called out, ‘I’m impressed.’

Back in the hallway he adjusted the black cummerbund around the top of black trousers and pulled on the jacket he’d hooked over the bannisters.

‘The boutonnieres are at Magnolia House,’ said Rosie.

‘The bou-ton-whats?’

‘The boutonnieres: flowers for the lapel on your jacket.’ She laughed and picked up her bag. ‘I’ll see you on the lawn around two o’clock.’

*

Owen sat on the bottom stair when Rosie left the house. She’d been a vision in her smart clothes – the shiny heels, the black skirt and the white shirt that revealed the faint outline of a lace bra. He only snapped out of his daydream when he saw Carrie’s sleek black Mercedes take the Hubba’s place on the driveway. He opened the door and gave her a wave, then dashed upstairs to grab the finishing touch for his tuxedo.

From the top drawer in his bedside cabinet he took out one of the black velvet boxes. He removed the mother of pearl cufflinks and fixed them through his shirt sleeves with far more prowess than he’d had with the bow tie. He took out the second velvet box containing the gift he’d chosen for Rosie. He’d wanted to give it to her moments ago as she’d tied his bow tie and he’d gazed down at the bare skin of her neck. He’d watched her all the while, her fingers looping the black silk, threading bits through here and there until it looked perfect.

When a toot from the Mercedes snapped him to attention he pocketed the box in his tux and headed downstairs.

*

Rosie hadn’t factored in the lawn when she’d chosen her footwear for waitressing at today’s wedding. She felt as though she was drunk as her heels sunk into the ground and she tried to keep the tray of drinks level.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been on the Pimm’s yourself?’ It was Owen.

‘Inappropriate shoes,’ she explained, moving to the gravel driveway instead. ‘That and inexperience with waitressing.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘Nice boutonniere by the way.’ The silky petals of the deep red rose were a rich contrast to the black of his tux, and he looked even more striking now he was wearing the entire ensemble complete with jacket.

‘Boutonniere is a poncy word for a flower, in my opinion. But I have to admit, it’s a nice choice. Mum would approve anyway.’

Rosie smiled at three guests who snapped up the remaining glasses of Pimm’s from her tray.

‘So how’s it going, meeting the family?’ she whispered to Owen when the guests moved on.

‘I’ve dodged most of them, although I did meet Carrie’s parents.’

Rosie leaned past him to where Carrie stood chatting with the mother of the bride. ‘Carrie makes a beautiful bridesmaid.’

‘She does.’ He didn’t follow the direction of Rosie’s gaze to where Carrie stood looking stunning in her midnight-blue halter-neck dress. His gaze lingered on Rosie instead.

‘I’d better go back inside for another tray of these,’ she told him. ‘Enjoy the ceremony.’

‘I’ll try.’

*

‘Is there a problem?’ Owen asked. Carrie’s mother looked fraught. So far she’d been pleasant and calm, and there had been no quips of ‘Carrie, it’ll be your turn next’ with nods and winks in Owen’s direction. He was grateful for that.

‘There aren’t enough,’ said Bea, the maid of honour.

‘Mum, there’s nothing we can do about it now.’ Carrie tried to calm the situation. ‘There aren’t enough boutonnieres,’ she explained to Owen. ‘The florist must’ve got the numbers wrong.’ Turning back to her mother, she said, ‘Kristy won’t even notice. She’s too nervous about her walk down the aisle.’

Owen stepped in. ‘May I make a suggestion?’