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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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just descended. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She really didn’t need this
right now.
Four hours earlier and a hundred-odd kilometres west, she’d
been surrounded by higher, drier, more familiar hills. Surrepti-
tiously taking in the landscapes of her childhood through the
lunchroom window of the vet clinic her grandfather had devoted
his life to building, Lennie had been trying to hold the thread
of what Jim’s business partner was saying when a shape burnt
onto the back of her teenage eyelids almost as thoroughly as the
Kimpton Ranges had loomed into view in the car park outside.
Lennie leaned back on the Corolla’s headrest, replaying the
meeting that had followed against the still-empty road.
‘Oh, he’s here, is he?’ her grandfather had muttered, as the
figure approached Central Vets’ front door.
‘I told him to pop in if he was passing.’ Jim’s partner, Paul,
turned the pen on the table in front of him, a hard-to-read look
on his face. ‘I thought it might be good for him to meet Lennie.’
Paul glanced across the table at her. ‘Say hi. You know.’
The lunchroom door opened. ‘Hey. Am I interrupting?’ In
the doorway, Benji Cooper paused, his wide smile warming
the room.
As the sparkle in his blue eyes deposited her straight back
in Year Twelve, Lennie felt her heart skip a beat. The captain
of Kimpton District High School’s First XV had aged well.
Very well. In fact, if anything he looked even better than he
had done when she’d last seen him driving away from Stacey
Kendrick’s end-of-year party fifteen years ago. Benji had
grown into his face, his square jaw now sporting the sort of
scruff she’d seen described in a magazine at the hairdressers
The guy looked her up and down, his scrutiny making her
almost as uncomfortable as her pantsuit.
‘I can’t be everywhere,’ he said.
‘No,’ Lennie said. ‘Of course not.’ Hoping to shift his
attention, she turned to the car. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what
happened. It just stopped.’
‘Electrical fault, probably.’ He gave her another withering
look. ‘How long since its last service?’
‘I don’t know.’ As he sighed, his suspicions confirmed,
Lennie resisted the urge to apologise again. ‘It’s not my car.
I just borrowed it for the day.’
Climbing into the driver’s seat, he turned the key. The
engine remained lifeless. ‘Could be anything,’ he said.
‘Can you fix it?’
‘Not here.’ Getting out, he narrowed his eyes at the horizon.
‘I’ll have to come back with the trailer, load it up, get it into
the workshop.’
‘Is that far away?’
He shook his head. ‘Glenmore. Ten k’s up the road.’
Lennie let out a quiet breath of relief.
‘But—’ he looked at his watch ‘—we just shut for the night.’
She closed her eyes briefly. ‘So,’ she said, matching her tone
to the knowledge that this man was the closest thing she was
going to get to help, ‘what do I do?’
‘You’ll have to wait till the morning. I’ll come back for
it then.’
As Lennie surveyed the empty road again, the man seemed
to take pity on her at last. ‘There’s a hotel by the garage,’ he
said. ‘You can stay there.’
This was a whole lot better than the back seat of the Corolla.
Better than being stranded out there on the road. The unit she
was heading towards had a roof, and walls, and a patio door
that almost certainly locked, and the rest she could do without
for a night. She ought to be able to, anyway. And it didn’t
look . . . so bad. A bit like—like a school camp. The sort that
sat empty for large chunks of the year. Anyway. Staying here
wasn’t going to kill her.
On the other side of the wire netting fence, a sheep—some-
body’s old pet lamb, she guessed, by the way it was eyeing her
pockets—ambled out from behind the block to bleat at her,
and Lennie smiled at it in return. See? What was she worried
about? There was even a friendly face.
Sliding open the rickety aluminium door to her unit, she
pulled the greying net curtain back into place, set her handbag
down on the bed and pulled out her phone. It took her a
moment to work out why her grandmother’s number wasn’t
ringing. No signal. Shit. Lennie glanced around for a landline.
Locating an ancient telephone on the stained pine table below
the TV, she punched in the digits.
‘The Glenmore pub?’ Lois O’Donnell repeated, as soon as
Lennie had finished explaining. ‘You can’t stay there. Not by
yourself. I’ll come and get you.’
‘Grandma,’ Lennie said patiently, ‘you can’t. I’ve got your
car, remember?’
There was a brief pause. Lennie imagined her grandmother
standing at the console table in her shiny new townhouse out
on the coast, the shiny new phone to her ear, Lois’s determined
mouth pursing. ‘Well, I’ll go and hire another one,’ Lois said.
She couldn’t resent all the looks coming her way. If the roles
were reversed, she’d be looking herself. Sitting here alone,
dressed as she was, she stuck out like a penguin in a henhouse.
Lennie pushed her hair away from her face. Doing what
she could to soften her look before she hit the bar, she’d taken
down her tightly twisted lady-means-business chignon, and in
the humid hangover of the day’s rain her curls were running
riot. She ran a thick black hank around her finger, pulling it
straight, before remembering what a bad habit it was to play
with your hair.
In a corner by the window, somebody else was sitting
alone. Lennie watched him, wondering what was making her
do so when everything about the guy said he wanted to be
ignored. With enviable control, his attention seemed to move
only between his beer and the newspaper that surrounded him
like a wall. He was wearing the same uniform as pretty much
everyone else in the bar, workboots and work shirt, jeans. His
hands had the same weathered tan. But there was something
about the easy way he was occupying that chair, the way you
saw professional athletes occupying the bench, every muscle
completely relaxed and at the same time ready for action. Below
his dark hair, his face was hidden, leaving Lennie’s imagination
to fill in the rest. She smiled at herself. Wishful thinking. The
chances of meeting a tall dark handsome stranger in Glenmore
tonight were probably slim.
As she continued to study him, he pushed the plate carrying
the remains of his burger a little further away. He didn’t look
at her, but Lennie sensed her covert stare had been noted,
and disapproved of. Getting up, she headed back to the bar.
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Jazzy gave her a kinder look as she paid for a second glass of
pinot noir.
The guy remained where he was as the night wore on, his beer
barely touched. The crowd had started to thin out, customers
getting fewer and louder, jugs sinking faster, but the personal
space he’d so clearly pegged out for himself remained unvio-
lated. Struggling to find a reason for his continued presence in
the bar, it occurred to Lennie that he might be her one fellow
guest in the hotel, the body behind the slam of the door she’d
heard at the other end of the accommodation block, the expla-
nation for the flat-deck Land Cruiser that had appeared outside
it. Perhaps, like her, he was waiting for the teenage swap-a-crate
party that had overtaken the car park to take itself elsewhere
before he went back to his thin-walled room.
‘Hey.’ A body thudded into the vinyl chair beside her. ‘You
want to come to a party?’
Lennie drew back a little from the beer fumes. ‘Thanks—’
she smiled, sensing a dare ‘—but I’m kind of busy tonight.’
The boy didn’t look much over eighteen.
A second guy leaned over the opposite chair, adding a
good portion of his drink to the upholstery stains. ‘She’s busy
tonight,’ he mimicked, in a ridiculous falsetto. ‘She don’t want
to come to your party, man.’
‘Aren’t you a bit old to be doing that?’ Lennie said mildly.
‘Aren’t you a bit old to be doing that?’
‘You too good to party with us?’ The first guy waved his
empty glass in her face. ‘That it?’
‘We’re fucken rednecks, man,’ his friend chimed in. ‘She
only parties with suits.’
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‘No.’ Lennie kept her voice measured. ‘I just don’t feel like
partying tonight.’
‘You know what that tight little arse of yours needs up it is
my big redneck—’
‘Hey.’ A newspaper and a pint of beer arrived on the table
beside her. ‘Sorry I was away so long.’ Casually, the guy she’d
been watching settled into a chair. ‘I had to make a call.’ He
gave her visitors a long, even stare.
‘Yeah, whatever, man,’ the boy beside her muttered,
vacating the seat he’d taken. ‘Fuck you.’
As he and his mate moved off, Lennie got her first good
look at her fellow hotel guest—if that’s what he was. He was
bigger than he’d appeared from across the room, a weight to
him that was about more than that lean mass of muscle. The
angles of his face remained shadowed even in this light, as if
he’d brought his own personal patch of darkness with him
from the corner. Her imagination had short-changed him—
it was a better-looking face than she’d given him credit for.
A stronger face. He couldn’t be much older than she was, if at
all. But something about him seemed ageless as a rock wall.
The deep brown eyes following the boys’ retreat reminded her
of a Great Dane she’d once known—astute, careful, contained.
Old-soul eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she said, when the boys had drifted back to
the rest of their group at the pool table. She paused, taking
in that face again while she waited for him to say something in
return. ‘I’m Lennie, by the way.’
‘You don’t have to talk to me.’
‘Thanks,’ she said wryly. ‘I appreciate that.’
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‘Really?’
Lennie sighed. ‘No. That’s just what people tell themselves,
isn’t it? I’ve got a choice. I just don’t want to make it. It’s hard.’
He frowned. She paused, waiting for him to relax his fore
head again.
‘There’s always a choice, right?’ she said.
‘Almost always.’
She surveyed her handiwork, wondering if the adhesives
would hold, debating the ethics of offering to suture it for real.
‘What about you? What brings you here?’
‘A forestry job.’
‘Permanent?’
‘Just a couple of days.’ He flexed his back. ‘I finish up
tomorrow.’
‘There.’ She peeled off her disposable gloves. ‘All done.’
He sat up, his hand rising again to his neck.
‘Here, let me feel.’ Lennie slid her hands below his ears,
checking the cervical vertebrae, her fingertips moving up and
over the bones of his skull. ‘You know,’ she said, studying the
shape of his pupils, ‘you should get yourself checked out for a
concussion tomorrow before you—’
‘Ow.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Quickly, she relaxed her hands, soothing the
way she always did when a patient gave her a pain response,
her fingers, sunk in his hair, stroking automatically.
‘That’s okay,’ he said slowly.
She was still looking into his eyes. His own moved down,
the back of his index finger brushing the cotton just below the
tip of her collar. ‘I’ve got blood on your shirt,’ he said.
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There was a rush of cold night air. One hand on the rickety
aluminium, he looked back, for a second, at her sitting there
on the bed. ‘Yeah,’ he said softly, ‘something like that.’ With a
clatter, the door slid shut, and he was gone.
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