Meant To Be (36 page)

Emily wrote a quick reply.

From: Emily Oliphant

Subject: RE: Busy artist at work

To: Simone Lonigan

Cc: Jake Lonigan

Hi Simone,

It really was wonderful having you stay. We wish you could have stayed longer too. But, wow, you're really
burning the midnight oil – I hope not literally!
I love the image. It's gorgeous. I'm looking forward to seeing what else you come up with.

Jake's off on the tractor up at David's property and I've been cooking up a storm – just because. Better run and rescue a batch of biscuits before they burn!

Happy painting!

Lots of love,

Emily xx

She reread her message before sending and cringed at her few white lies. They were small enough not to matter, weren't they? She couldn't tell Simone via email what was really going on. She pressed ‘send'.

As she turned off the computer, she wondered if the image would be suitable for the invitations. She was keen to get them finalised and off to a printer.

There were quite a few fiddly things left to get done. Jake was looking after most of them, but they were still on her mind.

She remained undecided about the sign having an actual button jar on it. Were they running the risk of looking too quaint and unsophisticated? The last thing she wanted was to be mistaken for a hospital auxiliary shop selling tea cosies, lamingtons, and crocheted knee rugs in local footy team colours. Not that there was anything wrong with that – it just wasn't what she had in mind for her business.

Jake kept assuring her the logo would be classy, but so far she was yet to see an actual design. Maybe just plain block lettering on a cream background might be better – ruby red to match the glossy front door and other timber highlights. Or perhaps on a gold background.

Emily pondered the sign as she drove out to Barbara and David's. The more she thought about it, the more she felt that they were over-complicating things by including a logo. They should just stick with the plain and classic:

THE BUTTON JAR

Fine Art and…?

Fine art and what? Bric-a-brac?
No, too casual.
Homewares?
A bit too limiting.
Knick-knacks? Curios?
No, to Emily these words suggested wares of an ordinary nature, and diminished the term fine art. And it was definitely
fine
art she would be selling, as opposed to decorative art; the stuff brought in by the container load from China.

Sure, she'd be selling the odd jar of jam, but the focus was to be art. If only she could think of the right word for an eclectic mix of good-quality
stuff.
Was there one? Until then, it would simply be:

THE BUTTON JAR

Fine Art Gallery

Or, even better: Gallery of Fine Art.

She pictured it in her mind. The more she thought about it, the more adamant she was. That was the tone she wanted to set.

She fought back the sadness as she entered David and Barbara's home. She unloaded her goods from the car into the fridge, freezer, and pantry. She tossed out the old milk and replaced it with a box of unopened long-life. There was nothing worse than arriving home after being away and not being able to have a cup of tea or coffee. She could only imagine how they would be feeling coming home after this particular trip.

It was clear they had left in a hurry. The place was tidy enough, but on the table were two mugs and a chopping board with a knife lying across it, and a few scraps of pear core and stalks. Barbara never left anything on the table; it was always cleared and wiped off immediately after every meal.

Emily did the few dishes and tidied up. She hesitated at their bedroom where a dirty clothes hamper was overflowing. Would it be overstepping the bounds to do her friends' laundry? She tried to reverse the situation in her mind. How would she feel in the same position? While it might be nice to have the simple act of washing to distract from other things, it also might be nice not to worry about running out of clean clothes.

She grabbed the hamper and took it to the laundry. Thankfully it turned out not to be as full as it first appeared.

While the load was whizzing around in the front loader, Emily pondered changing the sheets. She loved fresh sheets, and would change her own every day if it wasn't a hideous waste of water and electricity. But some people might actually like coming home to familiar smells – especially after an ordeal. In the end she decided
to leave the neatly made bed as it was. There were plenty of clean sheets in the linen press if needed.

She waited and hung out the clothes on the outside line, thanking the sun for being out and shining brightly, and the brisk breeze for blowing. While she was waiting for them to dry, she decided to check on the progress of seeding.

From the verandah, all she could see were acres and acres of rich brown turned land. The work must be happening out over the next rise. She called the dogs, who were snuffling about nearby, and they piled into the car.

Sure enough, a few kilometres further into the farm, Emily came over the second rise from the house and discovered a mass of activity. She let the car roll to a halt and stared in awe. As far as she could see in every direction, tractors in all sizes and colours were trundling around paddocks. She counted them: four paddocks, five tractors in each. Twenty tractors. She tried to pick out which one Jake might be in, but couldn't. There were a few green John Deeres and they all looked pretty much the same.

She continued over to what looked like the nerve-centre. There was a cluster of utes parked a little way from a line of trucks with seed and fertiliser bins on the back and shiny metal field bins with augers sticking out of them. It was so well organised. Parked out of the way, she watched as a tractor came in and pulled alongside the front truck. A bloke ran over and pulled the cord to start the small motor to drive the truck's augers to fill the air seeder hoppers. It was fascinating to watch.

In just a few minutes that tractor was driving off and another, a red one this time, was pulling in. Emily got out her camera, told the dogs to stay, and exited the car. She walked around, being careful not to get in the way, and started snapping away. Then the bloke on the truck augers, the noisy little motor now silent again,
called and waved her over. As she moved closer she recognised Bob. She shook his hand.

‘Wow,' she said. ‘What a production.'

‘Yeah. Least we could do. Taking a few photos?'

‘It's an amazing sight.'

‘Climb up here and you'll get a great shot right across the paddocks,' he said, indicating the ladder on the back of the truck.

‘Okay, thanks.'

‘Here, I'll take that while you go up,' he said, holding out his hand for the camera.

Not keen on heights, Emily carefully negotiated the ladder. She leant down and thanked Bob as he passed up the camera.

‘Wow, what a spectacular view.' She gulped back a wave of intense emotion. Seeing the activity from ground level had been amazing, but up here it was awe-inspiring. She could see the brightly coloured, evenly spaced tractors making their way around the paddocks – all at the same speed – the patchwork of landscape changing colour behind them. She snapped away. When she was confident she'd got enough good shots, she handed the camera back down to Bob, and carefully descended.

‘How was it?' Bob asked.

‘Brilliant. What an amazing turnout.'

‘Yeah. You certainly tear through the acres with this many machines going. We'll be finished in a few hours.'

‘Which one is Jake?' she asked.

‘Over there to your left. He's in David's John Deere. Young Stevie Richards is in yours still.'

Emily felt a surge of pride on Jake's behalf. Helping out here would mean he was accepted into the fold more quickly than he might otherwise have been. Though he'd met lots of locals thanks to the cottage project.

The district could be a little standoffish when it came to outsiders. It was often said that you weren't local until you were third generation born and bred. That was if you were a farmer. Emily often thought townies needed five generations to earn their stripes, farmers being the dominant species. There seemed to be different rules for everything.

‘Okay, that's me again,' Bob said, as another tractor came in to fill up. ‘Catch ya later,' he said with a wave as he raced over and retook his position by the side of the truck.

Emily got back in the car, but she couldn't make herself drive away. Watching this, being part of it, was so special. She sat there watching tractors coming and going and making their way around paddocks, and lost all track of time. She was in a mesmerised daze when a tap on her window startled her. She smiled at seeing Jake and wound the window down.

‘Hey there,' he said.

‘Hey there yourself.'

‘What a sight, eh? I can't believe how many are involved now.'

‘Yeah, it's amazing. I can't tear myself away,' she said with a laugh. ‘I've been at the house, doing their washing. I'm waiting for it to dry.'

‘Perfect weather for it.'

‘Yes, thank goodness. Have you heard from David today?'

‘Not me personally, but Bob spoke to him late last night. They're planning to be back the day after tomorrow. Hence the additional workforce.'

‘Do you think we might be able to go up to Whyalla tomorrow?' She wanted to pick up the chandelier and sort out an outfit for the opening before Barbara and David got back so she would be close at hand if needed. ‘I suppose I can go on my own if I have to,' Emily ventured.

‘Funny you should ask. I've finished here now. And I actually just got a call from Tom Green. He wants to do a final sign-off on the Civic Centre. I was waiting to ask you if tomorrow would suit.'

‘Great,' Emily said, feeling relieved. She didn't want to be distracted when she saw Barbara and David. Thank goodness she wasn't needed on site at the cottage. Jake was constantly in contact with the trades, and regularly assured her he had it all in hand. The windows and doors were going in today – or was it yesterday? After the plumbing and electrics had been done, the gyprockers would get to work, and then the tilers. She was happy to leave it in his capable hands and see it when it had come together.

‘I'm going to head off,' she said. ‘The washing should be dry now. Oh, did you see the email from Simone, the one with the image of her painting?'

‘Yes. It looks great. Though a little small on the phone's screen.'

‘Do you think it would work for the invitations? I'd really like to get them started.'

‘I don't see why not,' he said.

‘And I've also been thinking about the sign and the general branding,' she added.

‘Me too. I'm thinking perhaps leave the button jar image off. If that's okay with you. Perhaps just have classic, stylish lettering. But we can discuss it later.'

‘Great minds think alike. I totally agree. I think using the jar might make us seem a bit quaint. I want to be taken seriously.'

‘And you will be,' he said, leaning in and giving her a kiss. ‘We'll look at fonts later. I've got a few ideas.'

‘Great. Thanks. See you later.'

Emily drove off feeling buoyed. Things were good as long as she didn't let her mind dwell on Barbara and David's grief. For a few moments she'd even managed to forget her own pregnancy. Thinking about it now made her quiver with nervousness.

One thing at a time
, she told herself.
Washing in and folded, ironing done, and then home.

As soon as Jake got back that afternoon, he retreated to his office. When he emerged a few hours later for dinner, he had lots to share. He'd been speaking with Simone and had got her to agree to a deadline for the paintings.

‘Allowing a week for unforeseen circumstances, we can have the opening on June twenty-fifth,' Jake said. ‘Lucky we decided to put gas log fires in; we might need them.'

‘Is it fair to put that sort of pressure on her?' Emily asked. ‘I didn't think creative people worked like that.'

‘No idea, but she agreed. I'm sure if she had a problem she would have said so.'

‘I suppose.'

Jake went on to say his graphic designer contact had agreed with keeping their branding simple and had suggested a font.

‘God, that was quick,' Emily said. ‘Perhaps we'll have six weeks for the invitations after all.'

‘I phoned him with the brief as soon as you left. It was a piece of cake.'

Jake laid a sheet of paper printed in the perfect cranberry colour on the table. It was plain and classic.

‘It looks good,' she said. But her voice must have betrayed her mood, because Jake looked up sharply.

‘I'm not taking over too much am I?'

Emily couldn't lie. But she couldn't tell him the truth. She nibbled the inside of her cheek, unable to quite look at him.

‘I am; I've overstepped the mark, haven't I?'