I Will Not Run (6 page)

Chapter 8

Winter

Monday, 21
st
July

I spent the day with Dom today. It was great even if he did try to sabotage our fun. I wish he’d relax and quit pushing his behaviour therapy on me. I know what he’s up to. He’s diligently trying to conquer my gun phobia so that when the moment comes, I’ll be able to blow my husband’s brains out. Of course, he doesn’t know that I have a plan of my own, a better, safer plan. I’m not going to tell him about it either. He’d only come up with a million reasons why my idea is a bad one. Number one reason would be, you don’t give a psychotic madman medication that’s going to make him even madder and more psychotic. Hell, that logic’s hard to argue with.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, walking towards me, waving a bottle of wine. “I bought bubbles, you like those best, right?”

When Dom’s about, my cat-sized grin is never far away. I didn’t care what was in that bottle, a bottle of vinegar would do. I wanted him around, no matter what he brought. But I loved the fact that he still remembered. I used to drink champagne, and eleven whole years later he still remembered that fact.

I’d been sitting on the grass waiting for him, pretending to be lost in a book but really, I was way too excited to read more than a line or two. He strode up, leant down, and kissed my cheek. A neighbourly sort of peck and I’m sure he meant nothing by it but try telling my body that. My face heated with pleasure.

Being around Dom again, it’s like being back in those old happy Bruno-free days. I know I’m fooling myself but what the hell, I’m going to enjoy this while I can. Happiness is hard to come by.

When Dom strode up, he was swinging his bottle. I think the wine was there to distract me, to soften the fact that I was in for a morning of facing my fears. He was wearing his determined instructor’s face too, and that wasn’t good.

Well, he wasn’t going to get it all his own way. I had more than enough stress to deal with in my everyday life. Whenever he came over, I’d made up my mind that all I would do was relax and laugh and live in the moment.

“So, Dom, tell me, what have you been getting up to without me?”

He cocked his head. “In the last eleven years, you mean?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

“Okay, what have I been up to?” He gave me a lopsided grin. “What shall I admit to?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Let me see, lots of studying and lots of wine. I started a practice, and then there was more wine. I tramped Vietnam and learned to cook. That’s about it, I think.”

Crap, if he’d managed to condense eleven years into a few sentences then he was going to be harder to distract than I thought.

“Is that all?”

“Okay, maybe I’ll throw a little heartache into the mix too. I missed you some of the time.”

I gave him a deadpan face. “Sure, sure, while you were traipsing around the world, skiing in Switzerland, sailing up the Amazon, you missed me, course you did.”

He plonked his bag down on the nearby garden bench, then tossed the bottle into the grass. He unzipped his bag then gave me a sideways glance.

“Now,” he said, and didn’t finish his sentence.

I could tell by the way his voice changed, and went business-like that he had serious psychology stuff in mind for today.

“What about lady friends?” I blurted, not ready to begin, not by a long way. “I know you’ve had plenty of women, I can tell.”

I was trying desperately to distract him but really, it was the worst topic. I had a sadistic streak, for sure because his women were the last thing I wanted to hear about. He’d been back in my life five minutes and here I was, already feeling territorial. Crazy, considering that I’m the married one.

He riffled through his case. “I suck at relationships, Winter, you know that.”

Since when?
Women had always hung around him. I think that was our problem. When I was eighteen, I was too insecure to cope with all the girl attention he got.

“I bet you’ve had more girls than Bruno’s boys put together.”
Why couldn’t I just shut up?

He caught my attention and held it. His eyes are so dark and penetrating. When he looks at me, it’s like he can see past all my bullshit, like he can see the true me deep down. He keeps making me blush, and then I feel like a complete idiot. I have to keep reminding myself that he is trained to see through everyone’s rubbish, past everyone’s fronts and that there is nothing special in the way he looks at me. He’s good at throwing me off my game, that’s for sure.

Studying me still, he said, “Another girl is
not
what I’m looking for right now.”

Yikes, that was awkward
. I knew in my gut he was telling the truth too. I shrugged. “Whatever.” I tried to look casual and unaffected but deep-down I wanted to die because it was his way of telling me to back off.

I picked up my Kindle, hoping he’d think I was bored with him already, and that the book I was reading was every bit as scintillating as he was, or more so.

“What I
am
looking for is a wife.”

My eyes shot up. “Right.”
Damn it, he shocked me again
. I bit my lip wondering what his revelation meant. I didn’t know whether to feel deliriously happy, because I might still have a chance here or mad as hell because I was married and out of the running. The thought of Dom being out there, searching, it was enough to make me puke. For a split second, I even hated him for making me feel more alone than ever.

Finally, he pulled his eyes away and opened his bag. “To work, my lady.” He plonked himself on the seat then tapped the empty space beside him.

I got up, moved over and sat but my head was spinning, and all the colliding emotions were making me giddy.

He fished a booklet out of his bag and waved it under my nose. A big glossy brag of a thing, full of guns and man-toys and other nasties. I looked at the cover without focusing. Instead, I imagined him leaning against the bar in our local Hare and Hound, surrounded by single girls wearing miniskirts and carefree smiles.

“I guess we’d better make some progress,” he said, squeezing my arm, “or that, that, that . . .”

Really
? You struggle to say ‘husband?’ That had to be a good sign. I finished the sentence for him.

He ran his hand through his hair. “If you insist on calling that shit your husband.”

He won’t be for much longer.
I didn’t say that aloud though because I wasn’t up for the ‘you-have-to-leave-him’ talk. How many hundred times have I heard it already?

We sat together, companionably for a while, like old mates, old bed mates who secretly fancied another roll between the sheets. At least I did, anyway. Give me half a chance and I’d be back under those covers and to hell with the consequences. Life isn’t long enough for women like me, women married to men like Bruno. If I felt surer of myself and less fearful of rejection, I’d lean across and kiss Dom right now. Maybe I should just go for it. Then again, if he pushed me away and said,
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
I’d die
.

“Right,” he said, slapping his knee, signalling that he wouldn’t be put off any longer.

He opened his book with theatrical flourish, like he was in some sort of melodrama. “This, my dear Winter,” he said, pointing at a photograph, “is a standard hunting rifle, something country folk like us use to shoot rabbits with.”

He was trying to conjure up enthusiasm, but even I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He leafed through the book, searching for another gun picture while I sat there, staring into the distance, studying the windy road that lead to the top of the gorge.

“And this one’s an air pistol. It’s used for pest control, maybe rats, that sort of thing.”

I sneaked a peek at him from the corner of my eye. He wasn’t looking at the gun photograph either. Like me, he was staring ahead, spying on the old farm truck in the distance, the one struggling its way up the windy hill. We sat together silently rooting for that old banger of a ute, hoping it would make it to the top and escape the gorge forever.

Jerking himself back, he flicked again. “And these are competition pistols.” There was warmth in his voice this time. Those competition rifles used to be his favourite.

“You might recognise this beauty,” he pointed one out. “I had a gun just like her years ago. Do you remember?”

I braved a look.

“Surely you remember. You fired Meg once.”

I think it was the name Meg that did it. He always named his guns. That memory made me feel like the younger Winter, the one that jumped into everything feet first and worried later. I miss the brave person that I used to be. So to prove that I hadn’t become a complete wimp, I turned my head and stared straight at the gun picture, bold as anything. It’s been a long while since I willingly looked at a gun, even a picture of one. I felt sweaty but somehow I managed to smile and keep my eyes on the page.

“You do remember then.” He laughed, throwing his head back as if he’d just accomplished something huge.

I giggled too. It felt good, making him happy. “Actually, what I’m remembering is that morning
before
we went to the rifle range. You made me breakfast, remember? You made cheese on toast and you sneaked a sardine under all the layers of cheese. I nearly threw up because who wants to eat cheese on toast and come across a random sardine? I gagged but got the toast down somehow, and I pretended it was good too.”

He roared. “I don’t hide fish in my food anymore. Next time I make you breakfast, you’ll enjoy yourself, and I’ll make sure you do.”

That was loaded with meaning.
I smiled a little and looked down.

I didn’t let on but I remembered more about that morning than what we ate for breakfast. I remember the lovemaking before we ate, or was it during? I’d dressed up for him, wearing a corset and nothing else and sat at his breakfast table, almost naked, sipping tea until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He pushed all the plates and condiments aside, pulled me onto the table and made a feast of me instead.

I sneaked another glimpse at him. Was he revisiting that memory and enjoying it too? He went quiet and still, for quite a long time. Then he shook himself, as if pulling his head from the past. His fingers flicked madly through his gun book again, and then abruptly he gave up on the task and snapped his book shut.

“Want some bubbles?” he asked, throwing the book down, biffing it into the grass. Without waiting for my answer, he grabbed the champagne and popped the cork. I held the bottle while he fought around in his bag for two glasses.

“Toast,” he said, holding his filled glass up to the hills, his eyes far away in the future.

“Here’s to the beautiful Winter, to the most wonderful girl in the world.” He laughed, as if to make light of his compliment then drank hard, knocking it all back in one.

“
Yeah, right!
”
I responded, although inside I was popping and buzzing with joy. Who needed champagne?

He turned, scrutinising me again. “Don’t you doubt it.”

I raised my eyes heavenward even though secretly, I wanted to giggle and shout. We clicked glasses. This time I downed a few giant-sized gulps.

“My turn,” I said, tapping the bottle with my glass, my way of asking for a refill. Then I cleared my throat, letting him know that I had a toast of my own to make.

“Here’s to Australia’s most eligible bachelor, Dominic Frenchman.”

We clicked again.

“I’ll drink to that any day,” he said, “but the girls in town might not agree with you.”

“False modesty. That means you drink again.”

He did, and then he yelled out, warming to our game, “I’ve got another one.”

I was feeling lightheaded, but who cared? This was way more fun than anything I’d done all year.

He downed some more. Then almost shouting, he called out, “Here’s to Bruno. May he get what’s coming his way.” His reckless words flew out over the hills. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he wanted to be heard.

But so what, I was sharing and enjoying his I-don’t-give-a-damn mood. Egging him on, I raised my glass and accidentally spilt champagne down my top. Okay, so I was a little tipsy, but a long way from drunk. My exuberance had more to do with him than the alcohol. Mucking around, goofing about just like we did in the old days was every bit as intoxicating as the champagne.

He delved back inside his bag, this time fishing out cheese and pate and a small container of roasted peppers.

“You’re like Felix the Cat with your magic bag of tricks.”

He nodded and pulled a fringed rug out too, shaking it madly. “We’re having a picnic,” he pronounced, spreading his thin sheet out on the grass. He jumped aboard and patting the space beside him, inviting me on.

We nestled together without touching. The warmth from the wine, the feeble winter sun, and the strong sense of Dom’s body so close to mine, made me feel lightheaded and wonderful. His body heat reached out filling the gap between us. We were only a smidgen apart and I should have been content with that, but my wayward thigh kept inching towards him, wanting to touch. His scent alone was intoxicating, making me feel fuzzy and out of focus. He still smelt the same, after all these years, warm and leathery and sweet. I thought I’d long forgotten his scent, but it was there all the time in my head. I wanted to close my eyes and breathe deeply, storing some of him inside me for later.

Maybe it was the wine making me sentimental and romantic. I was right in the mood for a little loving and from the look of him, I wasn’t the only one. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes shining.

“Now, Winter the wonderful.”

I giggled, sounding like a silly schoolgirl.

“I’ve got a movie for you to watch. I made it especially, for yours truly, so you have to pay close attention, okay?”

Yikes, more behaviour therapy. Luckily, I’d had a skinful.

I leaned in, pretending I needed a better view of the screen but it was an excuse. What I really wanted was to press my body hard against his.
The
joy of it all
. It took all my strength to keep my hands by my side. My fingers were tingling, because they wanted to trail themselves along his leg.

He pressed the start button on the iPad and his movie jumped into action. “As you can see, I produced, directed, and starred in this work of art.”