Only We Know (17 page)

So she watched Sam as he drove and basked in the warmth of the car, the sun through the windows warming her skin, his presence warming her from the inside. They'd hardly spoken that morning. When Calla had got out of bed, Sam had already been for a run, showered and eaten breakfast. He'd put some bread in the toaster and, when it popped, put it on a plate and pushed it over the kitchen bench to her with a tub of margarine and a jar of jam.

‘Here, try some of this. It's incredible. I kept a jar of strawberry jam from that shop.'

Calla had hungrily lathered it on the toast and devoured it. While she ate, Sam boiled the kettle and made her a coffee. He even remembered how she liked it. Weak and white.

‘Thanks,' she'd murmured as he passed it to her, and her croaky morning voice once again gave her away.

‘Sshhh,' he said with a sexy smile and raised eyebrows. ‘Don't speak until you've had your coffee. You're evil without it.'

She'd squinted in mock derision back at him. She had been slow to rouse and it had nothing to do with her need for caffeine. She'd had a restless night thinking about what had happened the evening before.

Neither of them had spoken of it that morning. Calla had decided it was a half-drunk slip. They'd each had a bottle of wine, had become too relaxed with each other. That was all it was. That lingering hug, the fierce kiss that was over too soon, as if Sam suddenly realised what he was doing and had to stop before she got the wrong idea. It hadn't been long, but it had been more intimate than either of them expected. It was just a kiss goodnight. Wasn't it?

Like hell it was. She'd thought about it for half an hour the night before as she'd drifted off to sleep.

Calla let her sleepy eyes drift from the endless straight road ahead to Sam's left leg. There was strength beneath the worn denim of his jeans. She could see it in the muscles there, the way they moved when he had to shift down a gear or two to slow for a pothole.

‘You want to choose some music?'

‘Mmm?' Calla lifted her eyes and he was watching her. Which meant he'd probably seen her staring at his thighs. Well, they were good thighs. They deserved some attention.

‘Check out some of my playlists. Maybe there's something you like better than what I've been playing.'

Calla stretched her arms out in front of her, tried to suppress a morning yawn. ‘Who doesn't love classic Aussie pub rock?'

‘Exactly.' He thumped the steering wheel for added emphasis. ‘Oh hang on, you're taking the piss.'

Calla smiled. ‘What else have you got?' She reached over to the car stereo and worked out how to scroll through his playlists. When the sounds of The Temptations filled the car, with sweet words about sunshine on a cloudy day, Calla cranked the volume.

‘I had a Motown phase when I was a teenager,' she said above the music. ‘God, I love these old songs.'

A click of her fingers became a sway, then a sway became a seated dance.

When she opened her mouth and sang, Sam looked at her anew. It was almost impossible to keep his eyes on the road anyway, with the redhead in the car with him, so close he could reach out and touch her if he wanted to. But when Calla started to sing, he almost crashed. Her voice was incredible: clear, pure, as beautiful as she was. Throaty and knowing. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Hard. And he remained silent, letting the sound of Calla sink into his head, seep into his chest, and float all around him in the cabin of the car, with the warming sun shining in on them, like all there was in the world was the two of them and an old Motown song.

He suddenly wished his father's place was more than two clicks down the track.

‘That you, Andy?'

Sam shut the car door and waved at his father. All the buzz of the drive with Calla disappeared and weariness set in to his shoulders. He was going to have to deal with this. He glanced at Calla in case she'd heard his old man's mistake. She had already been looking at him with concern on her pursed lips as they walked side by side to the house. Sam held the painting in his left hand, still wrapped up. He hoped like hell the old man would be lucid enough to remember something, anything about how he came to be the life model for Calla's brother. Please let him be lucid enough to help Calla, he thought. Just a clue, a hint would be all they need.

‘It's me, Dad. It's Sam.'

Charlie was seated on his favourite wooden chair, squinting at them through eyes shielded by a raised and gnarled hand. The dogs, Boxer and Banjo, had jumped to their feet, but a quick whistle from Charlie kept them rooted in their positions by his side.

‘Sam,' Charlie said, clear disappointment in his tone. ‘It's you.'

‘And this is Calla. Do you remember we were here yesterday?'

‘Hi, Charlie,' Calla said breezily, taking the front steps to Charlie two at a time and leaning down to plant a smacking kiss on his cheek. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? I'm dying for a warm drink myself.' And before Charlie'd had time to recover from his confusion, Calla had pulled off her boots, pushed open the front door and disappeared inside.

Sam sat on the log and joined Charlie in admiring the view. This wasn't a great start. They'd hoped he'd be better in the morning, but he seemed worse. Charlie was still looking at his second-born son as if he were a stranger.

‘Nice morning,' Sam said.

‘Reckon we'll get rain later. Those clouds are on their way.'

They both looked out to the northern sky, to the looming grey clouds smothering the distant ocean.

‘Had a bit lately,' Sam said.

‘Bloody oath we have. That's the island for you.'

The two men sat in awkward silence. Sam had never had deep and meaningful conversations with his father. He'd been able to talk to his mother like that, but never Charlie. She was the one he went to if he'd had problems as a kid; though, come to think of it, Sam struggled to remember what his problems back then were. Life didn't get complicated until he was about to finish high school. And then it got so fucked up he didn't want to remember.

‘I ran into Adrian Thompson at the servo when I got off the boat.'

‘Who's that?'

‘Thommo,' Sam said. ‘He has the servo in Penneshaw.'

‘Can't say I know him,' Charlie said.

Sam scratched his chin. ‘He said you're still driving.'

‘Of course I'm bloody well still driving. How would I get around the island if I didn't?' Charlie's voice grew louder and instantly impatient.

‘Dad, it's dangerous for—'

‘Here's your cuppa, Charlie.' Calla carried out the hot drinks on a tray. Sam made a mental note that he had to tell her she didn't have to be a waitress around him and Charlie.

‘Cheers, love.'

‘Two sugars, just the way you like it.' She put the tray down on the veranda and handed Charlie his mug of tea. Charlie sipped appreciatively and considered Calla. Sam wondered what was coming next.

‘How do you know how I like my tea?' Sam wasn't surprised that the anger in Charlie's voice had disappeared. Calla seemed to have that effect.

Calla's eyes darted to Sam. ‘Just a lucky guess, Charlie. And make sure you have a bickie or Sam will eat them all.' Sam watched her wink at the old man before passing him a cup of steaming black coffee. As she held it out to him, he made sure to cover her fingers with his, and her eyes darted to him. A spark of awareness flittered between them. He felt warm all of a sudden: was it the coffee or the redhead?

‘Thanks, love.' Charlie chuckled. ‘Nothing better than a cuppa out here.'

‘You're right about that.' Calla sat down on the edge of the veranda, and Sam watched her drink her coffee and take in the view. She was wearing the knitted cap she'd bought the day they'd found the painting of Charlie and her red curls spilled out underneath, loose and wild. They tumbled onto her shoulders and moved softly in the breeze. She was dangling her legs off the edge of the veranda, and Sam watched her playfully swing them back and forth. And when she closed her eyes to the sun and leant her head back to open her face to the warming rays, something shifted in him. This cautious woman, this glass-half-empty girl, was letting go. He could see it with every hour they were together. Could feel it as surely as his own heartbeat.

‘Your mother used to make a mean Anzac biscuit,' Charlie announced, a pride in his voice that roused Sam's memories. He remembered them too: the house filled with the sweet aroma of Golden Syrup and melted butter. It took him back, for an instant, to a time when there was laughter and innocence and happiness in this house. ‘She'd bake dozens of the bloody things and you boys would eat them all up before I got home.'

Andy had held the Anzac biscuit record. Fourteen in one sitting. Sam had never managed to break it.

‘Do you have her recipe, Charlie? I'd love to write it down and take it home with me.'

‘Sure, love. Maybe Sam can have a look on the bookcase. I'm sure Jean's recipe books are still there.'

Seeing as he was being pretty cogent, Sam decided it was a good time to see whether Charlie might remember something about Jem. ‘Hey, Dad, I need to ask you a question.'

‘And what's that?'

‘Calla and I were in that little craft shop in Penneshaw yesterday.'

Charlie looked at his son, confused.

‘You know what women are like. Calla couldn't resist going in to do some shopping.' Sam looked over to see if his snark had got a reaction. She didn't look his way but in profile he could see a smile curl her lips. ‘And I found this.' Sam reached behind him, where he'd propped the painting against the wall of the house. He carefully tore off the protective newspaper wrapping. He turned it around to show Charlie. ‘I reckon that's you, Dad.'

Charlie squinted at it. ‘Well, I'll be blowed.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Calla turn. She tucked her curls behind the ear nearest Charlie.

‘I bought it. Thought I'd take it home to Adelaide. Hang it in the toilet.'

‘Cheeky bugger.' Charlie smiled.

‘Can you tell me about it? When did all this happen? You taking up a new career as an art model now? And please don't tell me you've posed naked for someone.'

Charlie leant back in his chair, reached down to one of the dogs, scratched its ear.

‘Some young bloke took my photo. He was at the pub with young Ben, I reckon. Was it Clive's birthday? Ruth's? I dunno.'

Calla and Sam exchanged glances. They were a step closer. Her lips parted but she let the words hang there before glancing away to the paddocks and the ocean in the distance.

‘So you don't know anything more about this guy, Dad? Says here his name is J. Maloney.'

Charlie shrugged. ‘Nope.'

‘When did he take your photo, Charlie?' Calla's voice was light but Sam knew what was underneath the question. ‘Was it lately, or last summer, maybe?'

Charlie scratched his head. ‘I dunno, lass. We had lunch at the pub. Clive paid.'

Sam scoffed. ‘You mean Uncle Clive paid for lunch? That'd be a first.'

Charlie erupted into laughter. ‘He's always been a tight-arse.'

Sam laughed along with his father, heartened by the idea that Charlie still remembered anecdotes like that one. For the first time in a long time, too many years to count, he really looked at his father. There was a life in that face. For the most part, it had been a well-lived one. There was wiriness to Charlie, and, even though he'd been semi-retired for too many years to count, there were still muscles beneath that shirt, a back and chest and arms that had been shaped by hard work. Charlie's eyes captured a history, of happiness and struggles and tragedy. All these things had shaped him as a man, as a husband and as a father. And Sam knew that he carried the same DNA, parts of the same history, the same future too. Wistfully, Sam realised they were the only two people in the world who shared the same tragedies, and that had only served to drive them apart, not bring them closer. That idea that people come together to share their sadness was Hollywood, not reality, as far as Sam was concerned. Tragedies didn't make people connect: they tore them apart, splintered and shattered families and friendships.

‘More biscuits, Charlie?' Calla was on her feet, which excited the dogs. A sound from Charlie and they settled. When she looked at Sam, he could see an anxious hope in her eyes. ‘No thanks, love,' Charlie said as he rocked his chair. ‘That'll do me until this arvo, I reckon. But you two go ahead.'

‘Sam? What about you?'

The softness of Calla's voice did something to him. The way she said his name, like a sigh. It hooked him, reeled him in like a fish.

‘No. I'm right. Thanks.'

She picked up the empties, tipped the dregs onto the garden at the end of the veranda and loaded them onto the tray. They clinked together as she opened the door and walked inside the house. Sam watched Calla until she'd disappeared. Man, he wanted her. Who was this woman who'd so easily slipped into the space between him and his old man? How had she managed to calm the anger between the two Hunter men, soothe their hurt, settle their tempers?

‘She's a nice lass.' Charlie was staring into the distance.

‘She is.'

‘Why don't you take her for a drive, show her the place? She'll like it. You don't want to be sitting here gasbagging with me the whole bloody time when you could be with her. If you're a smart man.'

How the hell was he going to convince his father to move away from a place he loved down to his bones?

‘Dad, there's something I need to talk to you about.'

Charlie didn't avert his gaze from the distance but his gnarled fingers twisted into a ball.

Sam took a deep breath. ‘I've been talking to Dr Smith. And Auntie Ruth.'

‘Have you now?'