Kyle nodded. ‘Any time, mate. Life’s tough enough without having to do it alone. The Galahs have got your back.’
CHAPTER
23
Ferne didn’t believe in karma.
If she did, she deserved to be sunning herself on a tropical island while being fanned by palm fronds and fed grapes by muscled, tanned pool boys for all the shit she’d put up with over the years. But considering her predicament—ankle fracture; trip cancelled; being recognised by her dead husband’s lover—perhaps abusing Mac at his grave before she left Rosevale Grove hadn’t been the smartest idea.
She’d slept fitfully last night after hobbling back from Jesse’s restaurant, before giving in and popping several painkillers, which knocked her out. She hated taking meds because they inevitably made her drowsy the next day, and now she’d slept until eleven.
To make matters worse, she’d forgotten to order groceries last night so had minimal provisions beyond the bread and long-life milk she’d brought with her. She’d meant to use the delivery service Bette had recommended but had forgotten amid the shock of discovering Jesse recognised her. His stunned expression must’ve mirrored hers and, thankfully, he’d been busy cooking, so couldn’t chase her down the street. He would’ve caught her and then what would she have said?
Hey, just spying on the man my husband preferred over me.
How long have you known about me?
And the kicker:Did you even care that you decimated my marriage?
Nothing Jesse could say would change the deep hurt that persisted no matter how hard Ferne focussed on her future. She’d been married to a liar and a cheat, and Jesse recognising her made him complicit. Bastard.
Groaning, she picked up the phone off the bedside table and downloaded the delivery app Bette had recommended. They promised sixty-minute service for orders of fifteen items or less, so that would do for now.
After adding the essentials—apples, bananas, cheese, pesto, pasta, garlic, onions, olive oil, spices—to her cart, she checked out, adding a note to buzz when they arrived downstairs and she’d let them in to leave the groceries at her apartment rather than the foyer.
She did a thorough wash at the sink rather than have a shower, sat on the bed to dress, then set herself up in the living room, flipping her phone over and over in her hand, determined not to do an online search for Jesse Lee. What good could come of it? She’d managed to avoid doing just that for months but seeing him had awakened an unwelcome thirst for knowledge. What had attracted Mac to him? What did he do besides cook? What had he seen as the outcome of their relationship if Mac had lived?
Bizarrely, she hadn’t thought of that until now. Would Mac have eventually left her to shack up with Jesse? She doubted it, because Mac valued appearances above all else.
It wouldn’t hurt to check out the socials like Facebook and Instagram for snapshots of Jesse’s life. She could start with the restaurant, which would have an Insta profile.
‘You’re a masochist,’ she muttered, tapping on the Instagram icon.
However, she chickened out at the last moment and clicked on the farm’s Instagram profile instead. Elora had increased the farm’s online traffic in a day, with her dazzling photos of avocados in the orchard, and the surrounding farmland. The girl knew her stuff and Ferne hoped Cruz would get a good price for the place when he sold it in a year.
She’d used every ounce of willpower not to contact her son since she arrived in Melbourne, because she knew he’d need time to readjust to being back at Kinstead.
She couldn’t fathom why her husband would want to tear their son away from his life in Melbourne to strand him in a place he hated for the next twelve months. Only a bitter and twisted man would do that, and she mentally cursed Mac for the hundredth time. Her karma had already turned to shit so it couldn’t hurt.
The buzzer sounded and she tapped on the apartment app on her phone to let in the delivery service, then waited at the door. She wondered if they expected tips. She’d never ordered a thing to be delivered to the farm so had no clue about delivery etiquette.
The doorbell rang, and her confusion increased as she opened the door to find Taj, the man who’d once stolen her heart, standing on the other side.
So much for not believing in karma. It appeared that fate enjoyed having a great cosmic laugh at her expense.
Taj recovered his wits first. ‘When I saw the name Ferne Wardlow on the order, I thought it couldn’t possibly be you, yet here you are. What are you doing in the city, Fer?’
Only Taj had ever called her Fer. It reminded her of the first time they’d made love, in a tent on the banks of the Murray River, when he’d draped her in faux fur to keep her warm. He’d caressed her from shoulder to thigh, murmuring, ‘A fur for my Fer,’ and the nickname had stuck.
Now, having him turn up here seemed like an illusion, something she’d conjured up by taking too many painkillers. He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him a decade ago: grey hair a tad long for conventionality snagged in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck; startling eyes the colour of moss; deep laugh lines bracketing his mouth. That’s what she remembered most about their relationship, his ability to make her laugh. Something she hadn’t done much of recently.
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she said, finally finding her voice, not surprised it sounded a tad high.
‘Seems pretty obvious to me.’ He hoisted the brown paper bags he held higher. ‘I’m delivering your groceries.’
‘Right.’ She blushed, unable to come up with anything to say other than, ‘Come in and pop them in the kitchen please.’
He did as instructed and she closed the door, unprepared for how much smaller the apartment seemed with him in it. At six-three, Taj dwarfed her by almost a foot. She’d always liked their height difference, had felt protected by him. Unlike Mac, who’d resented his five-feet-eight inches once she’d got to know him. At first, he’d been garrulous and confident, and she’d attributed it to small man syndrome. Most of the short guys she’d ever met had been the same, making their personality bigger to compensate for their lack of height. But once they’d married, had Cruz and the years had dragged on, Mac had become an angry grouch who preferred taut silences to words.
