The Grass is Greener (18 page)

‘I'm talking about Jack Franklin. It's pointless throwing away your career for him when he's already left town.'

All the blood had drained from Bronwyn's face. ‘What did you do?'

‘Nothing but a simple test,' Bianca had informed her coldly. ‘And Jack Franklin failed. He's not putting his life on hold for you. So I have no idea why you should do the same for him.'

Her mother was many things – devious, cold and mind-bogglingly efficient – but Bronwyn couldn't blame her if she was right.

‘What do you mean?'

‘When faced with the choice between you or the stellar job opportunity I secured him in France, he chose France.'

‘You actually put it to him like that?' She was horrified.

Her mother had paused, her eyes narrowing. ‘Of course.'

All the fight was snuffed out of Bronwyn then, her body limp and lifeless like a piece of driftwood.

‘You don't understand …' Her voice trembled. ‘We hadn't even spoken about being together. He didn't know how I felt about him. I wasn't going to push him. This was not why I was quitting law. It was never about that.'

‘And now it never will be,' her mother agreed before walking out.

Bianca Hanks had gutted her daughter more completely than if she'd taken a knife to her stomach. The news had rendered Bronwyn speechless for days. She could not believe that her mother had so callously stepped in to a situation that she knew nothing about and not only ripped it from seam to seam but placed her daughter in one of the most mortifying situations of her life.

She didn't know what was worse: having someone tell Jack that ‘little Numbat' was harbouring hopes of romance in the wake of his brother's tragic accident, or the fact that the knowledge had made him turn tail and run for the hills.

Green rolling vineyard-covered ones in Bordeaux, apparently.

She had still gone back to Oak Hills briefly to see Chris and offer what comfort she could. However, staying on indefinitely had made her feel sick after Jack's complete rejection. She had needed some space from Oak Hills and also some space from her parents.

She finally moved out of home, got her own apartment. She hadn't started at the family firm the following year but at Bantam, Harvey and Grey, where she told herself she might be able to stretch her own wings for a while.

She was wrong, of course.

The mantle of the Eddingses and the reach of Bianca Hanks touched everything in the Perth legal profession, and until she got out of law she was never going to be free of her.

So here you are … again,
she reflected as Horace and the scenery around her came back into focus.

‘You've gone awfully quiet.'

Horace's dry tone lifted her completely out of the reverie and she bit her lip nervously.

‘Touched a nerve, didn't I?' He eyed her shrewdly.

More like six or seven.

‘What did Jack say to you before he left?'

‘Nothing,' she said bitterly. ‘Not even goodbye or have a nice life.'

Horace's frown deepened. ‘Everybody thinks I was too hard on him, but the truth is, I should have been harder earlier. His inconsideration knows no bounds. I gave him too long a leash here at Oak Hills and we all paid for it. Chris the most.'

‘Don't get me wrong, Horace,' Bronwyn shook her head, ‘as angry as I am at Jack for leaving, I'm just as mad with you.'

‘What?'

‘Do you know why I used come here so much when I was in uni? It was because my home was a wasteland. I couldn't bear to be there with parents who only wanted me for one thing – status. The Franklins represented real family to me. You guys were solid. You could count on each other, no matter what. And then you ruined it.'

‘I ruined it!' Horace protested.

‘Yes, you did,' Bronwyn said crossly, ‘because you weren't there for your boys no matter what. You were judge, jury and punisher instead, and that's why this family broke apart.'

‘For someone who is supposed to be a guest in my house, you've got an awful lot of opinions,' Horace growled.

‘Get used to it.' Bronwyn shrugged. ‘I'm turning over a new leaf.'

‘God help us all,' he said, but when she glanced surreptitiously at his face, he seemed quietly arrested. Before she could contemplate it further they had reached the office block. Horace stopped to unlock the doors and let Bronwyn in.

The place was a mess.

If Bronwyn didn't know any better she'd say they'd been robbed.

There were five desks inside in a kind of open-plan arrangement. Chris, Lydia and Claudia had one each; there was a spare desk for the winemaker and a layout table in the middle. Paperwork littered the scene. Files were scattered on the floor, open ones on the desks, tools from the yard dropped by the door, and empty cleanskins on the central desk like they had actually been tasting produce while flicking through mail.

‘It gets worse,' Horace nodded. ‘Look at the bills on Lydia's desk.'

Bronwyn picked up the first piece of paper that caught her eye. ‘You are fitting out the restaurant with fancy new candelabras? I thought you were supposed to be cutting spending, not investing in expensive upgrades. These are $150 a table.'

‘According to Lydia, that is a saving.'

Bronwyn raised her eyebrows. ‘How so?'

‘We don't use as much power for lighting. Plus, they're on special.'

‘
Say what?
'

‘Half price,' Horace said tightly. ‘So we're actually saving $150 a table.'

‘She can't honestly believe that.'

‘When we first got married it was endearing, but now that she's managing the budget, it's a nightmare.'

‘I see. And Chris …' Bronwyn walked over to his desk, which she could barely make out under the layers of paper. Chris didn't seem to believe in filing, had no diary to speak of, and there was a stack of due dates and appointments written on various scraps of paper pinned to the walls.

There were wedding events coming up.

There were wine orders to fill.

Tours to prepare for.

Bottlers to line up.

Bronwyn's mouth thinned. ‘This is going to take some time to sort through.'

 

It took her the balance of the week, in fact, just to get a list of priorities. Particularly as she was doing it on the quiet or whenever Horace could sneak her into the office. This wasn't as often as she would have liked and usually took some arranging. Despite the older man having committed himself to being her ally, he also spent a greater part of the time feeling sorry for himself.

The more they uncovered together, the worse the news got. Oak Hills wasn't just losing money. It
needed
money. Apparently the roof on the barrel room had to be re-tiled. The tractor's engine was on its last revs. Many of the picking bins were damaged and needed to be repaired or replaced. And that was just the beginning. Bankruptcy was nothing but a hop, skip and a jump away.

As soon as Horace found out that the damage to his business was worse than he had ever suspected, he spiralled into a depression that was difficult to pull him out of.

The week after, Bronwyn had much less success with him. Often during the day he would take long walks or disappear altogether, leaving Bronwyn high and dry. He seemed inclined to spend a lot of time with a man called John Maxwell, who Bronwyn didn't exactly count as good company. John owned the estate next door called ‘Tawny Brooks' and back in the day had been more Horace's arch-rival than friend.

Now that the two men were freshly retired they both seemed to relate more to each other than anyone else and enjoyed wallowing in their mutual displacement.

She found them both the following weekend in Horace's leaky barrel room. Rows and rows of oak barrels on large steel racks filled the brick warehouse. A cackle of laughter had erupted from the far wall as she'd entered. When her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting she saw two old men sitting on the floor, their teeth stained red from the wine they were drinking. One was clearly recognisable as Horace, who lifted his glass to salute her. The other was John Maxwell. He was tall and weathered with wrinkly olive skin and greying facial hair.

‘Horace, I've been looking everywhere for you,' Bronwyn complained, walking across the room and breathing in the cooler, fruitier air. It was laden with the aromas of oak and blackcurrant. An empty cleanskin bottle lay on the concrete between them. However, it looked like both men had graduated from bottle to barrel and were tasting straight from the tap.

Fantastic. He's drunk.

‘This is my spy,' Horace slurred to John with a grand wave of his hand. ‘Because of her I'm now aware of everything that's been going on.'

‘And does that make you feel grateful or relieved?'

Horace choked. ‘It makes me feel disappointed to know how far my children have fallen from grace.'

‘All children fall,' John nodded sympathetically. ‘It's about giving them the means to pick themselves up.'

Horace glared at him. ‘Easy for you to say. You've got a pack of angels who have chosen to leave you in peace. My lot just want to stick their oars in any chance they get. They've ruined me.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't go that far,' Bronwyn said crossly. She held out her hand to Horace's friend. ‘Hi, I'm Bronwyn. Nice to meet you.'

He nodded. ‘John Maxwell. Would you like a glass, my dear? We are sampling Horace's finest. And though it pains me to admit it, it's not too shabby.'

‘Damn straight.' Horace lifted his glass in toast.

‘Er, no, thank you. I'm kind of in a bit of a rush.' She looked meaningfully at Horace. ‘You promised me you were going to get me into Claudia's office again today.'

‘What's the point?' he demanded. ‘You said it yourself yesterday. It's not just the people but the place that needs fixing. My bank account is dry. How about yours?'

‘Well,' Bronwyn began thoughtfully, ‘since you mention it –'

‘Forget I said that.' Horace held his palm up. ‘I've got my pride, after all, and you're already working for free.'

‘Horace, if we're going to do this, I need you to stick with it. We need to get a plan. You and I need to sit down and brainstorm.'

Horace's eyes lit up. ‘We can brainstorm in here if you want.'

‘Over a couple more glasses perhaps?' Bronwyn put her hands on her hips.

‘She's a woman after my own heart.' Horace nudged John. ‘I don't know why neither of my sons snatched her up when they had the chance.'

Bronwyn felt herself redden.

Pretend he didn't say that.

‘Careful, my friend,' John warned him, ‘something tells me she's mad with you.' He elbowed Horace back. ‘Look at her. Can't you see she's upset?'

Horace squinted. ‘No. I'm nearly blind, remember.'

‘Are you?' John hiccuped. ‘I thought you said you were deaf?'

‘No, that's you,' Horace chuckled. ‘
Obviously
.'

John laughed too. ‘I guess you might be right. Should we make a toast then?'

‘To what?'

‘To losing our senses. I'm really quite enjoying it.'

They clicked their glasses, making Bronwyn want to bang their heads together as well. Luckily Adam, the winemaker from next door, turned up not two seconds later and offered to cart John back to where he belonged. Apparently Anita Maxwell was mad as fire because her husband had been MIA all afternoon. As soon they were both out of earshot, she turned crossly to Horace.

‘Why are you doing this to yourself? Life shouldn't leave you along with your sight. You have a chance to make Oak Hills right again. Stop letting me down.'

The message must have got through because he grudgingly stayed by her side the rest of the afternoon, explaining various pieces of the Oak Hills puzzle that she was gradually unearthing from different areas around the office. The problem was, despite the pile of debris that needed wading through, there was still one crucial outstanding issue.

The winemaker.

The hiring was Lydia's task and so Bronwyn had steered clear of it until now. However, with the matter becoming significantly more urgent, she couldn't see how she could avoid challenging the Oak Hills matriarch again.

Her next opportunity to do so was at breakfast. Lydia told her she had hired a local who would be starting the following week. This was indeed a relief but when Bronwyn tried to press her for further details, she changed the subject.

‘I heard you met John Maxwell a few days ago. Now there's a man who needs your help.'

Horace, who was also present, had lowered his paper. ‘What are you talking about, woman?'

‘Mrs Caffrey said he was enquiring in town after a lawyer. I'm surprised he didn't say anything when he met Bron the other day. Why don't I mention who she is next time he's here?'

Bronwyn frowned. ‘I'd rather you didn't.'

‘Nonsense, you should be proud of your family's connections.'

It was clear now more than ever that Lydia
really
wanted her otherwise occupied but just didn't want to be a bitch about it. Bronwyn didn't blame her. The last thing she wanted was to have a fight with Claudia's mother. However, maybe she couldn't avoid it.

After breakfast she wandered outside to check on Elsa.

This was the usual time of day she got to spend with her dog. She felt more protective than ever of Elsa now that she knew exactly the calibre of her owner. She had been totally taken in by Peter Goldman, but at least the upside was she might get to save Elsa and her pups from a lifetime of torment.

Not ‘might', Bronwyn, you will.

Packing Elsa off to Leon McCall was not an option.

She gazed down at the pregnant canine. ‘Hey, girl, how are you holding up? Babies coming out yet?'