The Last Goodbye (4 page)

“Those newspapers are a fire hazard.”

There was a preemptive defensiveness to his tone and she guessed that Bob had no idea he was about to lose his newspaper collection.

“Well. Good luck with it,” she said. “I hope everything works out okay.” She offered him another smile before pushing Wendy’s gate open. Once she was safely inside the house, she closed her eyes and groaned.

I hope everything works out okay.

There was only one way things were going to work out. Bob was dying. There was no miracle happy ending to this story.

Rolling her eyes at herself, she carried the groceries to the kitchen and started putting them away.

She’d handled that really well. Not.

She tried to concentrate on work for the rest of the afternoon but it was almost impossible to ignore all the activity next door. Now that the curtains and blinds were open at Bob’s house, she had a ringside view into both the kitchen and living room from her customary perch at Wendy’s desk in the study. She saw Tyler moving back and forth and back and forth as he worked at clearing Bob’s hoard of newspapers. She heard him swear a few times, heard him talking on his phone, his deep voice drifting through the window in indecipherable snatches.

By three, she’d chosen only one letter for her next column and she shut the letters file on her computer with a frustrated sigh. Clearly she was too distracted—unsettled—to work properly. She might as well call it quits for the day.

She logged on to the internet instead and spent the next few hours checking out the latest offerings on her favorite house-sitting site.

She’d been house-sitting for nearly three years now and had a solid history to offer prospective clients, so there was a pretty good chance she had a shot at any job she applied for. Typically, no actual
money changed hands—the homeowners provided the accommodation, she ensured their properties and gardens and pets remained in good order. A you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours kind of deal. To date, the longest span she’d had between jobs was three weeks, and a serviced apartment had provided the necessary stopgap. As far as she was concerned, it was the perfect lifestyle choice, a great solution for a born-and-bred gypsy.

She bookmarked two options that had possibilities—one in Sydney, the other in Brisbane—then shut down the computer and went into the kitchen to stuff and baste the chicken she’d bought for dinner. She could see Tyler moving around Bob’s kitchen on the other side of the fence. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he tackled the dishes before turning his attention to the stovetop and oven. Clearly, he was as appalled as she’d been by the way his father had been living.

She frowned as she slid the chicken into the oven. She couldn’t work Tyler out. When she’d first accosted him in Melbourne, she’d gained the impression that there was no love lost between father and son. Then he’d shown up at the hospital, and there had been that moment in the parking lot. And now he was clearing out his father’s house…

Did we or did we not decide that this was absolutely none of our business and that we’d already grossly overstepped the line with our interfering?

Tearing her gaze from Bob’s window, she turned to
grab the tray of potatoes and added them to the oven. Then she settled down to kill an hour with
Country Living
magazine and lots of lovely house interiors.

By seven, the house was filled with the smell of chicken and garlic potatoes. Her stomach rumbled as she put on greens to cook and whisked up some gravy. A bead of sweat trickled down her back and she used her forearm to push her damp hair off her forehead. Roasting a chicken probably hadn’t been the smartest choice for such a warm day. She flipped on the air conditioner, then moved to the oven.

Her hands in oven mitts, she grasped the hot pan and pulled the chicken toward herself. The top was golden brown and crispy and she could smell the sage in the stuffing.

“Yum,” she murmured.

Suddenly the world went dark.

Ally blinked, aware of the absolute silence around her—no hum from the fridge, no quiet whir from the oven or the air conditioner.

She’d blown a fuse. Damn.

The heat from the roasting pan was starting to burn through the mitts. She pushed the pan forward carefully until she felt it slide into the oven.

She had no idea if Wendy had a flashlight or not, but there was no way she was going to find it in the pitch-black. Arms extended in front of her, she fumbled to the study, where she’d left her phone. The screen came to life when she touched it and she used the light to guide her to the front door. She was pretty
sure she’d seen a fuse box on the porch beside the door, the old-fashioned kind with a hinged wooden cover…

And there it was.
Phew.

She found the catch and opened the cover, squinting in the feeble light from her phone as she tried to read the writing on the various fuses. This wasn’t like the more modern trip-switch fuse boxes she was used to in the city. This was old school, with big ceramic plugs and what looked like fuse wire.

“Problem?” a voice asked out of nowhere.

She let out a little yelp and started so violently she nearly dropped the phone.

She pressed her free hand to her chest as she glanced over her shoulder. Tyler stood at the front gate, his face a study in shadows in the dim streetlight.

“You scared me,” she said stupidly.

“No kidding.” His tone was very dry. He gestured toward the fuse box. “Looks like you’ve blown something.”

“I think I overloaded it having the air conditioner and oven on at the same time.”

“Happens sometimes with these old places.”

“I don’t suppose you have a flashlight I could borrow?” she asked hopefully.

He didn’t respond, simply turned on his heel and walked toward his pickup. Twenty seconds later, he pushed open Wendy’s gate, a strong flashlight beam bouncing along the path in front of him.

Maybe it was because it was dark, but he seemed much bigger than she remembered as he climbed the two steps to the porch and stopped in front of her. She fought a ridiculous urge to take a step backward.

“Thanks for this. I really appreciate it,” she said, holding out her hand for the flashlight.

He ignored her, brushing past her to aim the flashlight beam at the fuses.

She frowned. “I don’t want to take up your time.”

She made a policy of trying to solve her own problems without relying on the kindness of strangers. It was something she’d learned early in life.

“This fuse box is pretty old,” he said.

“I’m sure I can work it out.”

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those feminists.”

“’Fraid so. I’m happy to borrow a flashlight, but I’m not a damsel in distress.”

He regarded her a moment, then he shrugged and passed her the flashlight. She waited for him to leave, but he simply stood to one side and waved a hand, inviting her into the prime position in front of the box.

“Thank you,” she said, not feeling very grateful. She didn’t particularly want to fumble around in front of him. Especially when she’d made such a big deal about fending for herself.

She aimed the flashlight, trying to appear as though she knew what she was doing. According to her sketchy memory of how these old systems
worked, she was supposed to pull the fuses out to check which one had a broken wire. She reached to check the first one.

“It won’t be that one. That’s your lighting.”

He had a shoulder against the house, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as though he was enjoying himself.

“It’s worth checking them all,” she said stubbornly.

“If it makes you feel better.”

She grit her teeth and pulled the fuse out. The wire was noticeably still intact and she plugged it in without comment.

“All good?”

“Yes,” she said grudgingly. Maybe she would have been better off fumbling around for a candle and going to bed early after all.

“Only five more to go,” he said encouragingly.

She shone the flashlight in his face.

“Smugness is really not an attractive trait, you know.”

He pushed her hand down so that the beam was angled toward his chest.

“Neither is stubbornness.”

They stared at each other a moment, neither giving an inch. Then she sighed and passed him the flashlight.

“Okay. Help me if you must.”

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

Instantly she felt rude and stupid. He’d come to
her aid, and instead of thanking him she was coming across as a prickly ingrate.

“Sorry. I guess I’m used to fending for myself.”

“I can tell. Excuse me.”

He moved closer to the fuse box and she took a hasty step backward, but not before she’d bumped against his hard shoulder. He’d been working all afternoon in the heat and he smelled of deodorant and clean sweat. Intensely masculine.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you think it is?” she asked.

“There’s a main fuse in here, usually it takes a higher gauge wire than the others…” He pulled a fuse out and inspected it. “Yeah.”

“It’s that one?”

“Yeah. You’ve overloaded the main.”

“Stupid roasted chicken.”

“It was probably the air conditioner.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Depends.”

He shone the flashlight around the fuse box, then ran his hand along the top shelf. He came away with nothing but dust and cobwebs.

“No spare fuse wire.”

“Right.” She thought for a minute. “The shops are probably already closed. So I guess that means I’m having an early night.”

She spared a thought for the food in Wendy’s freezer. Maybe if she didn’t disturb it overnight, it wouldn’t spoil.

“Hang on a moment.”

She was left blinking in the darkness as Tyler left the porch and headed next door. She guessed he was checking his father’s place for spare wire and she crossed her fingers. She watched Tyler expectantly as he climbed the steps to rejoin her. He didn’t say a word, simply held up a small piece of card with fine wire wrapped around it.

“Bless you, Bob,” she said fervently.

“Yeah.” There was a dry undertone to the single word and she was reminded of the scene she’d witnessed this morning at the hospital.

Hard to imagine this big, capable man reduced to tears. But he had been. He’d been profoundly affected by his visit to his father.

“Can you hold the light steady for me?”

She trained the beam on his hands as he threaded new wire into the fuse. She took the opportunity to study his profile. He had a bump in his nose as though maybe he’d broken it at some stage, and a strong, square jaw. His dark hair was short and rumpled, and whiskers shadowed the lower half of his face. She could discern a thin scar on his cheekbone, below the corner of his left eye. She wondered how he’d gotten it. Fighting? A car accident?

She’d thought he was focused on the fuse, but he glanced up suddenly and his gaze locked with hers. She looked away quickly, feeling her face heat with embarrassment.

Busted, big-time.

“You might want to turn the air-conditioning off before I turn the power back on. Just in case,” he said.

“Right. Of course.”

She slipped into the house, feeling her way along the wall with one arm extended. She was only steps from the kitchen when her shin connected with something hard and heavy.

“Shit!” she hissed, bending to rub her aching shin.

“All right in there?” Tyler called.

“Yeah.”

She reached out a hand and felt the lumpy metal outline of Wendy’s umbrella stand. She stepped around it and entered the kitchen. She found the wall switch to turn off the air-conditioning, then crossed to the oven and turned that off for good measure. Then she made her way back to the porch.

“Houston, we are cleared to launch.”

“Roger that.” He plugged in the fuse and flipped the switch. She gave a little cheer as Wendy’s cottage came back to life.

“Just like magic.”

“Something like that.”

He switched off the flashlight and collected his father’s wire before shutting the fuse box.

“You should probably get an electrician in to update this setup,” he said. “With a modern fuse, you’d only have to flip a switch to reset the power.”

“I’ll get on to it.” She made a mental note to
mention it to Wendy during their next Skype chat. “I really appreciate your help.”

“No worries.” He started down the porch steps.

She watched his broad shoulders as he walked toward the gate, wondering if he ever waxed eloquent about anything.

Probably not. He struck her as being the strong, silent type.

“Have you eaten?” she called after him.

For the second time that day, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Sorry?”

“Have you eaten? I have a whole roast chicken in side and, even at my piggiest, I couldn’t possibly eat it all…”

He hesitated, a slight frown forming between his eyebrows.

“Think of it as a barter, a drumstick in return for the loan of your flashlight and expertise,” she said. “There are potatoes, too, and gravy.”

She wasn’t sure why she trying so hard to convince him. If he wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t hungry.

“Chicken sounds good. Give me a moment to wash up.”

He disappeared through the front gate before she could say anything.

She returned to the kitchen and grabbed a second plate. The chicken hadn’t had time to cool, but she set the heat beneath the greens on high to bring them
back to the boil. The water was starting to bubble when she heard footsteps on the porch.

“Come in,” she called.

His hair was damp and he was holding a six-pack of beer in one hand when he appeared in the doorway.

“Dad doesn’t run to wine, I’m afraid.”

“Beer’s perfect. Although I have wine if you want it.”

“I’ll stick with the beer, thanks. Got to drive to Melbourne tonight.”

“Sure.”

She served the meal, very aware of him watching her every move. She paused when she was about to pour the gravy. Being a gravy lover, she liked it everywhere, but some people weren’t so fond. “You like a little or a lot?” she asked.