‘You know a lot about the pub history, Sharon?’
‘My dad worked here when I was a girl. Mind you, he was a little too keen on the bottle too, so half the stories he told me are probably made up. I’ve always had a fondness for the place, though. Dad was happy when he worked here. Not so much when he got the sack.’
‘There’ll be permanent housekeeping and barwork when we find a new lessee for the place. You think you and Darryl might be interested?’
‘I dunno, love. We like the casual work. Lets us travel and that.’
‘Sure. There’s plenty of casual work for the moment. Darryl tells me he’s bringing his high pressure hose over this afternoon to clean the exterior. I’ve got to head down to Cooma later; are you right to lock up if I’m not back when you leave?’
‘No worries. You’ll want to get a painter in to redo the upstairs windows, too. Those things are stuck tighter than a sheep’s dag and just about as crusty.’
He snorted. ‘That’s not a phrase I’d be wanting to see in a tourist review.’
‘I say it like I see it, love.’
‘Painter,’ he said, as he wrote it on his list, which was about ten pages long and growing by the day: liquor licence; leasing contracts; food safety certification; getting a roofer in to check gutters and downpipes; getting Mr Sooty Pty Ltd in to clear the two double chimneys. And that wasn’t the half of it. He had worked up some estimates of whether it was worth doing up the accommodation rooms or just to open the bar and drafted the advert for an experienced pub manager.
Spending a month messing about on his computer tinkering with lease documents and wresting control of the Krauss family holdings working files from the mostly AWOL town solicitor had been the busywork he’d needed. It had given him some clarity. He’d stopped obsessing about the constraints that had been put on the active part of his life. Up until now he’d been so busy resenting his injury that he hadn’t been dealing with it. He’d been distracting himself from it.
Standing in the old office, with the sun warm on his back and the history of Hanrahan settled about him, he was beginning to wonder if it might actually be possible to get his shit together.
‘The sparky was in earlier and sorted the fuse box,’ he said to Sharon. ‘He reckons we can boil the kettle now without causing a blackout for the whole of Hanrahan. You and Darryl fancy a coffee?’
‘We’ll sort ourselves, Tom. We like to have smoko at eleven. There’s a fruitcake Darryl made on the kitchen bench; you be sure to cut yourself a slice.’
She headed back out to the corridor and pretty soon he could hear the timber blinds in the restaurant area clacking and screeching as they were freed of years of dust. His phone pinged and he grabbed it, expecting it to be the roofing contractor. Or Bruno, who had dialled his grump factor down so low, father and son had been known to sit on the verandah and have a beer or two of an evening. Tom spilling his guts about his career intercepting oil tanker pirates with the task force in the Middle East had provided Bruno with plenty to think about; his injury and its high-risk prognoses Tom had kept to himself.
Dinner? Friday? My place at 7pm? #olivebranch
He eased into the no-frills grey office chair behind the desk and swung it around until he was looking through the narrow window. A garden bed of weeds looked back at him.
This was a development.
‘“Olive branch”,’ he murmured. Was she wanting to make amends for ghosting him? Or was it some weird code for ‘Fertility clinics are out of reach to me now so I’m going to hit you up to be a sperm donor again’.
The weeds in the garden bed didn’t seem interested in giving their opinion on the subtext of Hannah’s message. She’d had a meltdown at Lake George, but she’d clawed her way back from the brink on the long drive home to Hanrahan. He’d understood her need for space in the weeks that followed; she’d lost her hard-won pride, and he’d been the sole witness.
Who knew better than he how difficult it was to live without pride?
He tapped the phone’s screen so it woke up and stared at the message a moment longer. She must be fine if she was sending out dinner invitations.
Hannah Codywasokay.
Well, that was that. All he had to do was stay away and, one day soon, she’d find some bloke who could give her what she wanted.
He put down his phone without answering.
CHAPTER
22
Hannah looked at the photograph Vera had texted her, and then into her roasting pan. Both dishes had orange chunks of sweet potato, but that’s where the similarities ended.
Vera’s dish was an artwork of robust colour and lightly caramelised vegetables, dusted in paprika and sprinkled with sprigs of rosemary that appeared to have been cut by the dimpled hands of heavenly cherubs.
Hannah’s looked like the ash from last year’s vet clinic fire.
Steak, mash and carrots it would have to be—she’d used up everything else on her cordon bleu disaster. Not that it would matter, if Tom didn’t show up. She still had no idea if he was coming to dinner, because he hadn’t replied to her text. Perhaps it was punishment for not answering his text messages for a month?
