The Last-Minute Marriage

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE silence was deafening.

Peta and Harry left, the dogs followed, and Marcus was left in his little pink house with his thoughts.

His thoughts weren’t exactly little and pink. They were large and black. He cleaned the kitchen and polished the pink bench-tops. He unpacked, put his clothes on the pink clothes hangers, stared at the pink walls, thought about how many hours there were in two weeks and how much pink a man could stand.

Not much more than this.

He set up his laptop and logged into his work space. It was nine at night, which meant it was five in the morning in New York. No one was online.

He’d expected a sheaf of correspondence from Ruby. There was nothing.

A man could go crazy.

Where was everyone? He stared at his cellphone. He could ring. There were plenty of things he could discuss.

He’d wake everyone up.

They worked for him. They’d get over it.

But…

‘Have a holiday,’ Ruby had told him. ‘I mean it, Marcus. No work. Take two weeks. We don’t want to hear from you. See if you can do it.’

She’d said it as a challenge and he’d reacted as if she’d been stupid. But now, staring at his cellphone and at his idle computer, he knew Ruby wasn’t stupid. Ruby knew him better than he knew himself.

Maybe because she’d walked the same lonely road.

Tonight had been good, he thought. Tonight had been…excellent. Teaching a twelve-year-old to cook a curry.

It was more than that, he conceded. His pleasure had come from watching a twelve-year-old enjoy himself. And more than that. Watching a twelve-year-old’s big sister enjoy her little brother’s pleasure. Giving his Cinderella more.

Tonight Peta had been happy and it had felt good. It was a strange sensation but it had felt right. Making Peta happy.

Caring.

Whoa! He caught himself and gave himself a mental swipe to the side of the head. He was getting soppy here. This whole situation was for two weeks, he told himself. Only two weeks. Two weeks, Benson, and you’re out of here.

He was going nuts.

But what the heck was a man to do? He flicked on the television and watched an inane American sitcom. What on earth was this country doing, importing this stuff? Was it funny?

How the heck would he know when he couldn’t concentrate?

How had he ever got himself into this mess? he demanded of himself. The world seemed to be going to bed, but how could he go to bed? His head said it was six a.m. New York time and every single part of him was awake.

Peta had adjusted to New York time, he thought, so maybe she’d be feeling like he was. How could Peta be calmly going home to bed?

On her veranda?

That was another thing to think about. To chew over. To make a girl sleep on the veranda…

This set-up was dreadful, he thought. Appalling. She must have had the pits of a childhood. He thought of her lying in a bed-probably with broken springs-probably with thread-bare blankets-setting the alarm for the crack of dawn or earlier, so she could get up to milk her cows.

She was a real Cinderella, he decided, whether she admitted it or not. And he… He’d volunteered to rescue her.

No, he hadn’t. Offering to marry someone for two weeks out of practicality hardly turned him into Prince Charming.

There must be more he could do.

She couldn’t be asleep. Not if the bedsprings were sticking into her. And…what was that fairy story about the pea? The princess sleeping on a hundred feather mattresses, yet still disturbed by one pea underneath the bottom layer.

Fairytales! He was losing his mind.

But the image refused to go away and he found himself opening the back door and staring outside. You’re going to rescue her from a pea?

I’m not going anywhere.

But he was. He refused to stay one minute longer in this little pink room in this little pink house.

He’d just wander by her veranda, he told himself. Just to make sure. And if there were any peas that needed removing…

Well, maybe he was just the man to do it.

Don’t do it, he told himself. Just go for a walk. And if you end up close…

Sleep was nowhere. Peta lay and stared into the dark and tried to conjure up the pure contentment she’d always felt in this bed. In this place.

When their father had died the boys had conducted a vote and had decreed the inside bedroom was Peta’s. She’d refused. For as long as she remembered she’d lain in this little bed at the far end of the veranda while the boys lay in the bigger bed at the other end. They were not too far away, but not too near. This was her private place. Here she could haul the bedclothes up to her nose and disappear into her thoughts, while out in the wide world cows chewed their cuds, trees rustled in the wind, the sea did its thing, owls hooted, frogs croaked…

This farm was alive at night and it was her company. She’d missed it so much while she was in New York.

She should be revelling in it now.

She should be sleeping. She should. Instead she lay and stared out into the starlit sky and all she could see was Marcus.

Marcus did a circuit of his little house and decided to extend his tour. The moon was full. He could see the shapes of the cows in the paddocks, the shadowy trees and the mountains in the background. He could hear the soft hush-hushing of the surf below the house. He could smell the eucalypts and the salt of the sea.

All of which should make Marcus, a city boy born and bred, scurry back to his little house and close the door against the elements. Instead he found himself wandering in a wider arc from the house. Just walking. Following the tracks made by generations of Peta’s family as they went about their business on the farm.

Getting closer to Peta?

He’d already discovered from Harry that Peta had visited Hattie-often. He’d learned that Hattie’s presence had meant that the children were allowed to stay on the farm when their father died. But apparently Hattie had been a weak woman who’d cared for Peta but hadn’t been able to stand up for her against her own son.

‘I can’t remember much about Charles,’ Harry had told him. ‘I was too little when he went away. But Daniel says Charles was a real creep. He hit everyone who got in his way. Auntie Hattie had to stay here when Charles was a kid because there was nowhere else to go, but Charles hated it. He hated us. Everyone was really pleased when he went away and it was awful when he came home. Dan says he just came home looking for money and he made Auntie Hattie cry. There was never enough money for him. That made Peta angry; she wouldn’t let him hit Auntie Hattie so he used to hit Peta. A lot.’

The bleak little outline fitted exactly with what Marcus knew of Charles, but it made him see red just to think of the creep hitting Peta.

Of anyone hitting Peta.

Marcus had never really thought about it but, if forced, maybe he would have said he’d had an appalling childhood. But apparently there were others who’d had appalling childhoods. More appalling childhoods than his.

So? Other people had got over it. So why couldn’t he?

The image of his mother and her series of boyfriends still made him cringe, but it was more than just his childhood holding him apart from the human race, he thought. He knew what happened when he got attached to people. Dreadful things. It was so much better to stay apart…

His feet kept walking. The moonlight played on his face. He wasn’t in the least tired.

He walked closer. Closer to Peta’s sad little house. Closer to the veranda. She’d be solidly asleep, he told himself. No one would wake.

The dogs were his undoing.

They came out of nowhere, not vicious, not snapping, but ecstatic to see a human being awake. Harry-informative Harry, whom Marcus had pumped unashamedly during curry-making-had told him that the dogs had stayed here while Peta was away, fed by the businesslike neighbour who did things for money. To have Peta and Harry home was obviously wonderful in the dogs’ eyes, but Peta and Harry had gone to bed, which was really boring, and here was the friend who’d fed them scraps from his curry.

Marcus’s plan on walking unnoticed round the farm counted for nothing. As an ex-soldier he should have known better. The dogs were yapping and yelping and bounding, and then a voice called out of the night.

‘Tip. Bryson. Who’s out there? Come here, boys.’

Peta. He’d scared her, Marcus thought, dismayed. He hadn’t meant…

‘If that’s you, Marcus, watch your feet for cow pats. We’ve let the cows graze in the home yard.’

Cow pats. So much for terror!

What was a man to say to that? It seemed the lady wasn’t scared at all. ‘I’m watching,’ he managed, stunned.

‘Good for you,’ she called and, astonishingly, there was laughter in her voice. ‘Come here, boys.’

She meant the dogs, he thought. Only the dogs.

‘Are you in bed?’ he called.

‘I surely am.’ This was really strange, like speaking to a disembodied head. ‘Which is where you should be.’

‘I’m not tired. Why aren’t you asleep?’

‘Maybe I would be but strange men keep wandering around in my cow pats.’

‘You don’t sound as if you’re even near sleep,’ he complained. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault you’re awake?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she said cautiously. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What would you say?’

‘That I’m really happy to be home.’

‘Even if it means you’re sleeping on the veranda?’

‘I like sleeping on the veranda.’

‘Seriously…’

‘Seriously.’ There was a moment’s hesitation and then obviously a decision. ‘Come on up and see.’

‘You’re inviting me into your bedroom?’

‘I’m inviting you onto my veranda. There’s a difference.’

‘And the dogs get to play chaperon.’

‘Hey, I’m hardly about to get swept away on a tide of girlish passion here,’ she said with some asperity. ‘And if you’re thinking of indulging in the same…’

‘Girlish passion?’

‘That’s the one. I have a pitcher full of cold water and I’m prepared to use it.’

He choked. ‘It’s a great invitation.’

‘And it’s only made once. Are you coming up or not?’

Was he? His feet were already moving.

She looked about twelve years old.

Marcus reached the end of the veranda and stopped in astonishment. He wasn’t sure what he had thought he’d find but it wasn’t this.

Her bed was a single bed pressed hard against the far wall. So far so good. That was what he’d thought she’d have. But he’d expected a barren little cot. What he found were…

Cushions. Pillows. Quilts. A vast mound of glorious bedclothes in semi-ordered chaos. In the dim moonlight he could scarcely make out colours but he could see enough to know that this was a mad and vibrant mix, an eclectic scattering of whatever Peta fancied. There must be a dozen huge pillows mounded up beside her, spilling over onto the floor. The oldest of the farm dogs, a greying old collie called Ted-dog, was curled up beside the bed. As Marcus approached he gave his tail a faint wag as if to say, I’m very pleased to see you and I’ll be even more pleased if you don’t expect me to get up.

Marcus could see where he was coming from. If he was curled up on a mound like this…

So much for his pea.

‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ Peta said. She wiggled farther down under her bedclothes so only her nose emerged from the gorgeous quilts.

‘I thought you were deprived,’ Marcus said before he could stop himself and she pushed the quilt down a fraction.

‘Deprived?’

‘Abusive father. Dead mother. Made to sleep outdoors…’

‘My dad wasn’t abusive. He never liked girls but he didn’t take it out on me. He simply didn’t have time for me.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She wasn’t much interested, either. I have really scant memories of her. She stayed inside and had babies.’

‘Something you would never do?’

‘If I had babies I might make a push to make sure they were happy,’ she told him. ‘Our mother really liked babies but as soon as we started being messy it was outside and get on with our lives.’ She pushed herself up on her cushions and looked past him out to where the moon hung over the sea. ‘It was just as well it was a great outside. How lucky were we?’

‘Lucky?’

‘We had this.’ She put a hand down and fondled Ted-dog’s ears. ‘We had the dogs. We had each other. We had a great childhood.’

‘You didn’t have any money.’

‘I don’t see you happy,’ she said softly. ‘Because you have money. Where would you prefer to sleep? In that sterile, awful Manhattan apartment, or here? This is the best bedroom in the world.’

‘And if it rains?’

‘I hang plastic from the veranda rails. And if it gets really, really cold I might even let a dog or two in for company. It’s great.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘I think I like central heating.’

‘Turn around,’ she said. Her voice was suddenly urgent. She was sitting bolt upright now in her amazing bed. She was wearing a T-shirt, he thought. A T-shirt. How many women of his acquaintance slept in anything other than sexy negligées?

But, ‘Look,’ she said again and he was forced to turn and look.

And he was caught.

It was lovely, he had to concede. In fact, in truth, it was breathtakingly beautiful. The moon was casting a ribbon of silver over the sea. Below the house, the waves were breaking in long, low lines. The foam from their breaking was caught in the moonlight, a soft white pattern of hushed time.

The sand was wide-the tide must be full out as the beach seemed to spread for miles. The house was only about two or three hundred yards from the beach. The soft breaking of wave after wave was a lullaby all by itself.

Between here and the beach stood four or five vast gums, their canopies almost another roof. There was a huddle of cows under one. Sleeping. Settled on the lush pasture for the night. He couldn’t see from here but he could imagine their jaws contentedly chewing, conjuring flavours of the grasses they’d eaten during the day.

‘This is why I married you,’ Peta said softly. ‘Not for money.’

‘Not for love?’

She turned and grinned at him. ‘You’re looking for romance?’

‘Um…no.’

‘I’ve had a very nice wedding,’ she told him. ‘Thank you very much. But isn’t that how the story goes? A white wedding and then the princess gets to live happily ever after?’

‘With her prince.’

‘Who needs a prince? I have this. I have my dogs. I have security for the boys.’

‘You’re telling me I can go back to New York?’

‘Oh, no, I need you here,’ she told him quite kindly. ‘You said that yourself. Two weeks to make the marriage valid.’

‘And then I can clear off?’

‘That’s what you want to do-isn’t it?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I did decide I’d invite you up onto my veranda,’ she told him, as if granting some huge concession. ‘Just once. So you can see what you’ve given me.’

‘So you can point out that you don’t need me after two weeks?’

‘That, too. I keep getting the feeling that you see me as some sort of charity. Well, I was,’ she admitted with sudden candour. ‘You’ve saved me. I just wish I could save you back.’

‘Save me?’

‘You don’t have a very satisfactory life,’ she told him.

Good grief.

Marcus stared down at her in the moonlight. She was hugging her knees, looking at him in consideration. As if he was some sort of interesting bug…

The sensation was indescribable. He’d be less uncomfortable if the story of his life was splashed across the front page of the New Yorker.

‘Will you cut it out?’ he demanded.

‘Cut what out?’

‘Butting into what’s none of your business.’

‘If you don’t want me to,’ she said, obliging. She ducked down under her covers and disappeared up to her nose again. ‘Good night.’

He’d been dismissed. He should turn around and head down those rickety steps again. But…

But. It was a simple word and he couldn’t get over it. But. But what? He didn’t have a clue.

‘Aren’t you suffering from jet lag?’ he asked.

‘Jet lag? After the aeroplane bed I had? You have to be kidding.’ Her voice was muffled by bedclothes, almost indistinct.

‘I mean time zones,’ he said, a little bit desperately. ‘I feel as if it’s morning.’

‘I do, too, a bit,’ she agreed, still muffled. ‘But the cows will be awake at five o’clock. I have to get up then, so I need to sleep.’

‘You want me to go away.’

She put the sheet down a smidgeon and stared up at him, only her eyes above the sheet.

‘You’re lonely!’

‘No, I…’

‘Hattie’s house is creepy,’ she told him. ‘All that pink. I wouldn’t wonder if you’re lonely.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘I do miss the boys,’ she admitted. ‘Harry sleeps inside now. He has a computer and he reckons the cables get wet out here. So he ended up in the bedroom. But I liked it when they slept out here.’ She motioned to the other end of the veranda. ‘It’s a great place to sleep. If you like you could try it.’

‘What…share your veranda?’

‘It’s a very long veranda.’

‘Do you always ask strange men…’

‘You’re not a strange man. You’re my husband.’

Yes. Yes, he was. The thought was incredible.

‘And if I tell the dogs to attack they’ll do just that,’ she added.

Pop went his fantasy bubble. He choked. He turned to stare down at the mutts who were draped decoratively over the cushions. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe it,’ she said seriously. ‘Daniel did that for me the last time Charles came home.’

‘Did what?’

‘He trained the dogs. They’re great with cattle and they’re highly intelligent. Charles… Well, Charles gave me a hard time one night and Daniel decided if I was to stay here alone I needed protection. So now there’s just one word I have to say and they turn into a pack of snarling savages. Want to see?’

‘No!’

He was getting accustomed to the moonlight now and he could see her grin.

He wasn’t getting accustomed to the situation, though. This woman had stood beside him two days ago and promised to be his wife. She’d stood for press photographers, her hand in his, his lovely bride. She’d slept beside him in the plane, she’d tucked her hand in his as they’d gone through customs, she’d let him take control, manage things, do what he was good at.

What had he expected here?

Not this. An invitation to share her veranda with a pack of killer dogs between them.

But…

He stared out at the night. It was…perfect.

He could sleep here. He could sleep with Peta. Or he could go back to the pink puffy concoction that was Hattie’s bed, or to the horror-fantasy-poster-covered room that had been the creation of an adolescent Charles before he left home.

Three options.

‘It’s a very generous offer,’ Peta said cheerfully, following his line of thought. ‘I don’t make it to anyone. But now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep.’

She turned over on to her side; the covers came right up, and her body language said that whatever he did was up to him. She’d made her offer and the rest was his business.

He should go home.

Home? Who was he kidding? Home was Hattie’s pink palace.

It wasn’t so different to his place in Manhattan, he thought. Both seemed suddenly indescribably bleak. He stared down at Peta for a long moment and then slowly walked the length of the veranda.

The bed was made up. It was three times the size of hers. The boys had slept in it, Peta had said. All the boys?

Maybe.

And maybe it wasn’t such a bad childhood. He stared down at the mound of bedclothes and thought of four little boys tumbled among the pillows. With Peta sleeping close by.

Not so bad. Not so bad at all.

He hesitated, but not for long. He turned and stared at the mound of bedclothes that was Peta.

No choice.

He slipped off his outer clothes and slid under the bedclothes, feeling like a kid on a camping trip. And here was another surprise. There were no burst bedsprings. No thread-bare blankets. The bed enfolded him. The smells and the sounds enfolded him and one of the dogs came up and put his nose above the side of the bed, nosing a hopeful enquiry.

‘Let me see. I’m guessing you must be Tip. You’re one of the killer pack?’

A wag of the tail and a low woof. A quiver of the backside. Hopefulness personified.

‘If you have fleas you’re out of here.’

‘He has no such thing!’ It was an indignant squeak from the other end of the veranda.

‘I thought you were asleep?’ Then Marcus gasped as the big dog accepted the flea enquiry as a welcome and wriggled right in. Right across his chest.

‘Tip likes it there,’ Peta said in satisfaction. ‘I’ve never slept with a husband. Doesn’t it feel odd?’

Odd? That was the understatement of the century, Marcus thought. He lay and stared outward at the stars while Peta settled again and the big dog started to snore gently beside him.

He’d never sleep. How could he sleep?

He’d never sleep.

He slept.