Second Time Sweeter Page 17

  ‘She’s a good person,’ Gen said, realising for the first time she actually believed that.

  Weird.

  She had spent so long thinking of Nelly as an old monster. It was bizarre that motherhood and the passage of time lent you some kind of wisdom about these things, a clarity you didn’t have when you were a free agent, unconnected to other people in quite the same way, unused to putting your concern for other people before your own desires. ‘She just doesn’t really care what people think of her.’

  ‘Nice gig if you can get it.’ Anne-Marie shrugged.

  Gen nodded. It sure would be.

  ‘Anyway.’ Gen felt the blonde shift gears. She reached across and touched Gen’s hand, and her fingers were cold and pointy. ‘So you’re Genevieve Jenkins.’

  ‘Yep.’ Gen wondered where this was heading.

  ‘The hometown sweetheart.’

  Gen froze, her fingers curled around the delicate porcelain of the teacup. ‘Who told you that?’

  Anne-Marie rolled one slim shoulder delicately. ‘It’s my job to know things. Brodie pays me a lot of money to keep his reputation right.’

  Gen considered this woman. Young, younger than Gen, she would have guessed, but with a hard, cool calculation in her eyes Gen would never quite master. And completely stunning. Blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, all that fine blonde hair, long golden brown limbs. She was like an ad for a surf company—hot chicks and boards. And bold as brass. Anne-Marie was looking right back at Gen, daring her to bring it.

  ‘That was all a long time ago,’ Gen settled on.

  ‘Really?’ Anne-Marie didn’t sound convinced. She rolled that shoulder again. ‘Still.’ She reached over and touched one of Gen’s long red curls in a gesture that was strangely intimate. ‘You’re a darling thing. Maybe we could work a little of that old spark? Get some cute pics of the two of you? What do you think? Bro’s been helping you out, hasn’t he?’ She smirked. ‘It might help put some of those gay rumours to rest.’

  Gen almost choked on the tea she’d been sipping. Gay? Brodie Brown? Brodie, who almost made the pants of women in the street fall off just by looking in their direction?

  Anne-Marie registered her surprise. ‘Doesn’t matter how hot you are in my town, honey. Unless you’re bedding women every other night, you’re a screaming queen.’ She pulled at her bottom lip speculatively. ‘Well, correction. If you’re as young, eligible and hot as Brodie and you’re not bedding women every other night.’

  Several thoughts crowded Gen’s brain all at once, but the only one that really stuck was There aren’t other women. Her insides did a small but determined happy dance.

  Anne-Marie was looking at her expectantly, so she felt like she had to say something. ‘The Brodie I knew wouldn’t care about that stuff,’ she said. ‘He knows who and what he is; I don’t imagine he much cares what other people think.’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ Anne-Marie confirmed with a small smile. ‘But he pays me to care. He’s the Crop King, honey. He’s the real deal—small-town country boy, made an empire out of servicing rural Australia. Young, hot, hard as hell. Charming. Australia wants the farmer to have a wife, or at the very least to bang some hot patootie so they can be sure they’re drooling in the right direction. We’re all totes right-on now, but the last thing we want is our hometown hero to be a fag.’

  Gen stood up and pushed her chair back. She’d heard enough. And it wasn’t just the casual, ugly reference to homophobia that disturbed her. It was the creeping feeling she had that she and Anne-Marie were having this conversation, sure, but they were also having a whole other conversation, on a whole other level. Gen searched her intuition to work out why she was feeling that.

  Nelly, for one. Nelly’s hackles were well and truly raised, and it would take more than an annoying blonde and a lazily discarded blender to do that. If Nelly felt this shallow princess was sniffing around the boy she had raised so carefully for her dead sister, that would do it.

  Then there was the way Anne-Marie looked at her, as if she was trying to both read her intentions and unsettle her at the same time. Gen didn’t know, couldn’t know, but she would bet the farm that this woman wanted to be the farmer’s wife, or at the very least the hot patootie Brodie was banging.

  ‘It was nice meeting you,’ Gen said, heading for the door. ‘Tell Nelly I’ll catch her later.’ She turned back, not wanting to ask this creature, but needing to know. Something was wrong with Brodie; she had seen the concern on Nelly’s face. ‘You got any idea where Brodie is now?’

  Anne-Marie pursed her lips. ‘I’d place a bet on the pub.’

  ***

  Nelly watched through the curtains as Gen got into her old ute and drove away, spinning her tyres on the gravel. Ten years ago, everything had seemed so clear. She had needed to get Brodie out of this town, staying focused and following his dreams. Okay, so one of his biggest, most enduring dreams may have been Genevieve Jenkins but Nelly had been sure that wasn’t what Elsie, her older sister and best friend, had meant when she had charged Nelly to take care of her only son on her deathbed.

  To Nelly, Genevieve Jenkins had simply been an obstacle in the way of Brodie doing what he needed to do. Nelly loved that boy as if she really had born and birthed him. She had taken on the role of mother, father, mentor and chief arse-kicker with everything in her. She knew, had always known, that Brodie was special. But he had come close, so perilously close, to going under when his parents died.

  Gen may have been part of the reason he survived, but Nelly knew better than anyone that while teenage love affairs don’t last, they usually drag you through a pile of shit before they end. Nelly didn’t want that for Brodie. It was nothing to do with Genevieve. Gen had always been a nice, friendly girl, bright as a button and sweet and open. Nelly would have felt that way about any girl who so consumed Brodie that he could think of nothing else. So she had tried, in every way she knew, to discourage the grand passion. In the end, she thought she was simply going to have to lump it. But then Gen had done the simultaneously miraculous and unforgiveable. She had turned her back on Brodie—his plans, his dreams, his love so big and raw you could almost reach out and touch it—and told him to go without her; she was in love with Peter bloody Macdonald.

  And from that day on, Nelly had hated that girl like Lucifer himself.

  And she didn’t give a shit that it seemed irrational.

  Sure, she had wanted Gen gone. She just hadn’t wanted Brodie’s heart stomped and his world shattered—again—in the process. She had thought the worst thing she could ever imagine was Brodie being derailed from the beautiful plans that he had always been hatching. But after Gen broke his heart, she knew that was chicken feed. She would have given anything to wind back the clock and make it go away.

  But she couldn’t.

  From that day, Brodie was different. And while Nelly loved watching him rise and rise, she felt it in him—the hole where Gen had been.

  And, she thought as she watched Gen’s ute spin out of the driveway, she had watched it in Gen, too. She had watched her mope around town, strangely not with the magical Pete Macdonald, despite the boy’s best attempts. Not for years anyway. She had watched Gen throw herself into the farm, and then, in time, into her marriage and her kids.

  Those kids, Nelly had to admit, were pretty darned cute.

  And then she had watched as Gen started to rise in the community—as her farm started to take on a leading role once The Big Cow screwed them all, and she started going down the whole home dairy route. She watched as Gen joined the DB, and then the Spring Fair Committee, as she started to agitate for organics.

  Gen was different, older, and somehow, like Brodie, sadder.

  Nelly just figured the magical Mac hadn’t worked out, a supposition that was borne out when Mac up and left for some bird at his work. When it had happened, a year ago, Nelly had wanted to feel glad, victorious, and had wanted to dance on Gen’s pain. But the girl had just stuck her shoulder to the wheel, gritt
ed her teeth and dug in even harder.

  If you didn’t hate her guts, you’d have to admire her.

  And then Brodie had come home. And Nelly had seen it happening, all over again—the magic between those two young people. And she had seen the thing that had died that day in both of them coming back to life. It was insane, impossible, but there it was.

  Brodie was different back in Sweetiepie this time. Because he was different around Gen. She didn’t know, couldn’t understand, what it was that had made Gen have that brain-snap ten years ago, but she decided there and then, as she sculled the last of her tea and placed the cup in the sink, that she was going to find out. She was going to visit that girl and get to the bottom of this puzzle once and for all.

  Because she had seen a glimpse of Brodie’s future—and it was rich, but sad. And she knew one thing for sure—if it involved anything to do with that long blonde stick of a PR piranha, Elsie would turn over in her grave.

  ***

  It took Gen a couple of hours to decide to go and find him. She did the groceries first, then checked on her mother. Whatever was going on for Brodie, it must be private, otherwise he would have come to see her. But then he had tried to call her, so maybe? In the end, she could concentrate on nothing else. She tried to occupy herself, but the relentless backbeat of her brain was Brodie, somehow hurting, somewhere getting drunk.

  In her most secret places, she was sure she knew what it was.

  Nelly shouldn’t have done it, not like that. Outed him with the idea of the farm in front of all those people. Gen knew how hard he had worked to stay on top of shit through school, and the only thing that had kept him whole was the knowledge he would leave and do something different. And Nelly had been the biggest advocate of that. So why the hell did she want to drag him back now, like a boy late for dinner?

  She parked the ute in front of the pub and sat, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel for a few moments before she extracted herself. Would he welcome her showing up here while he was feeling like this? Would he be embarrassed? Would he want her to go away?

  Fuck it, she had no choice.

  She strode up to the old veranda and peeked through the doors. The scene that confronted her knocked the air from her lungs and the balance from her legs. Brodie, alone and looking lost, at a table in the corner, in the dark. Beer and whiskey glasses were scattered in front of him, and his head was in his hands, facing down towards the table. His hat was on the floor, and it looked to have been stepped on more than once. The place was fairly deserted at this time on a weekday afternoon, so he had his misery and decline to himself.

  Gen’s fingers tingled with the urge to go to him and comfort him.

  Something about the scene reminded her so much of that other time.

  ***

  They were still only thirteen, although Brodie seemed older. In the last few months, he had stepped up his teasing flirtation with her, assuring her that now they were teenagers it was perfectly acceptable for them to have a proper relationship, and start to think about some serious kissing. Gen had just laughed as she always did, and pretended she didn’t hear him. This was part of what they did. She may have made easy and joked around, but he unsettled her, that wild boy with the wild grey eyes. He always had, with his terrifying lust for life, his easy grace, and his wild and open courtship.

  She thought about him, dreamed about him, more than she should have for someone who was one of her best friends. It was like they existed on two levels—the one of teasing and sparring, and the one she glimpsed sometimes when she looked and he looked at the same time—sly, surreptitious. Sometimes they would look away and it would be gone, but sometimes the look would hold one second, two, longer than it should. And in that brief moment there was such openness that Gen felt her heart might drop from her chest and her skin might curl and incinerate on the spot with the force of the thing that moved between them.

  But today was beyond all that. Today Sarah, her mother, had sat her down and told her, eyes black with pain and impotence. Elsie and Neil, such good people. The farm had been in trouble, Sarah said. Neil had taken it badly, the way some men did. He had tried so hard. His contracts had been eroded; the bank had been circling. No one quite knew whether it had been accident or something else. But Elsie had been rushing him to the base, to help, when fate had twisted the wheel and sent their car skittering. Then he had been done and she had been not far behind.

  Gen had sat there blinking and trying to understand.

  And then she had been running, tearing through the town, across the fields, up his road. Somehow she had known where she would find him. Just not how she would find him.

  He was drunk, very drunk, in the messy, noisy way of teenage boys early in their career of messy drinking. He was lying on a stack of hay bales, shirtless and sobbing. She entered quietly and tweaked one big toe. He sat up suddenly, reaching for a discarded shirt to wipe his face.

  ‘Gen?’ His voice had broken the year before and it was still finding its way to grown-up, but there was a smoothness to it even now, that always made Gen think he would make it there okay.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She spread her hands and stepped closer to him, the redness of his face and darkness of his eyes breaking open the careful rules between them. She traced her finger down his cheek, feeling the wetness there.

  They didn’t talk more. She didn’t kiss him; he didn’t try to kiss her. But she reached out her arms and he moved into them. She held him, patting his hair and making soothing noises into his neck. She smelled cheap whiskey and sour beer on his breath, but also the sweet smell of his skin. His chest was warm and smooth and something awoke in her. It was as though in an instant they moved from partners in some childish dance to grown-ups-in-waiting. He was hers, and she was his.

  And thus it ever was.

  ***

  Gen made to move towards Brodie at the little table, but before she could slam through the doors, another act played out before her. Anne-Marie, changed from shorts into a short black dress that skimmed her thighs, arrived at the table from the direction of the bathroom. She took the seat next to Brodie and draped an arm around him, nestling into his neck the way Gen had that day fifteen years before.

  Gen wanted to scream at her to back off, leave him alone, couldn’t she see he was in pain, but before she could, Brodie turned his face to the blonde and returned the snuggle, burying his face in the crook of her neck, a gesture so familiar and intimate it sucked all the air and life from every cell in Gen’s body. She didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t turn away. It was like that day all those years ago, but Anne-Marie was here with him, comforting him, watching him get drunk and get sad. Life had moved on; the world had turned. Brodie was of somewhere else now, and Anne-Marie was the perfect accompaniment to that life.

  As Gen made to retreat, Anne-Marie looked up and spotted Gen standing in the half-open doorway. She whispered something to Brodie and made for her. Gen screamed at her muscles to move, back away, but they stood frozen and wilful as Anne-Marie loomed larger and larger before her, and then was upon her, pushing her back through the doors as she moved out onto the veranda.

  ‘He’s not much for company this afternoon,’ Anne-Marie said, with a parody of a sad smile.

  Gen’s mouth worked hard to try out a series of responses but she finally settled on, ‘Was it what Nelly said?’

  ‘Of course.’ Anne-Marie scowled. ‘It’s ridiculous, putting that on him, especially with the bad news about the certification today as well.’

  ‘The certif—’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Anne-Marie covered her mouth prettily. ‘I think he was wanting to be the one to tell you about that.’ She waved a hand breezily. ‘Oh well, he’s not really in any state, poor bastard. Yeah, all the stuff coming together on the same day, it just kind of took him back, I guess. Childhood stuff, you know.’

  Oh, Gen knew. She’d been there. ‘So what’s …?’

  Anne-Marie gave her the thumbs down. ‘The Del
orios,’ she said mournfully. ‘That bloody shitty little market garden. Must have been spraying there in the past. It didn’t pass; the town didn’t pass.’

  A day or two ago, Gen would have imagined this would be the worst thing that could happen to her. But that was before she had watched Brodie reliving past losses, and then touching, nuzzling with this creature of blonde magnificence. ‘It’s nice,’ she said finally. ‘That he has you for company today.’

  What a complete crock. Gen wanted to scratch the flesh from the woman’s face; scream at her; pull her hair. Mostly. A tiny, flimsy part of her was glad Brodie had someone. But most of her just wanted it to be her.

  Anne-Marie nodded and beamed. ‘It’s ridiculous of course. All that crap about Brodie taking on the farm. As if he could. I mean, honestly.’ She blew out a breath in disgust. ‘His life is in Sydney.’ She looked sideways at Gen and smiled. ‘For now?’

  Gen knew she was being led somewhere she didn’t want to go but she was powerless against this girl’s bait. ‘For now …?’

  ‘Well,’ Anne-Marie said quietly, like girls at a sleepover sharing confidences, ‘I’m sure he’s told you about the US deal. He’s bought a place there already.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘LA, here we come.’

  LA? We?

  ‘I think Sweet Pocket may be a little hard to manage when you’re setting up a global business.’ Anne-Marie said it like you might say Typhus may be a little hard to manage when you’re a supermodel.

  Gen nodded. ‘Of course.’ Her legs were made of lead, and chalky salt filled her mouth, but she had to get away; away from all the horror this woman was spewing; away in her beloved ute, Una, away to her home. She took one last look through the doors at Brodie, his head still down. She remembered him again that day, the smooth youthfulness of his skin; the way his eyes had lightened when he’d looked up and seen her; the way she had felt that her world had narrowed to him in that moment. And she remembered the thing he had said as she had held him.

  I know you, Genevieve. I’ll always know you.