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Stacey had been introducing me to so many people lately, and I liked it a lot too.
“Hi, Mrs Turner,” I proceeded up the stairs to shake hands, or hug — shit, should I hug her? I’d never met the parents of any lover before.
“Oh, stay there. I don’t want to pass on my germs.”
I paused on the stairs.
“But you can’t catch food poisoning,” Stacey drawled. “Or have you admitted you have the bug that’s going around?”
“Ryan’s come down with it, too,” Leonie sighed. “And Catherine at the general store has been off work for two days with the same thing and John’s down two bartenders now too. I admit defeat.” She gave me a broad smile. “Call me Leonie, or Lee. Please. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for saving my daughter on the highway, and well, you were just wonderful tonight.”
Stacey had promised she wouldn’t speak of how we met to anyone. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs Turner—Leonie—was aware of our racetrack hook-up with the way her eyes kept ping-ponging between me and Stacey.
“Giving Stacey a ride is a pleasure,” I grinned, unable to help myself.
I earned a death stare from Stacey, but I caught her lips twitching.
“It’s so cold out. Come in for a cup of tea. I just boiled the kettle.”
Stacey opened her mouth, but I jumped in before her.
“If you’re sure it’s okay, that would be great.”
“Thought you were sick,” Stacey muttered to her mum.
Leonie waved a hand, her eyes on me the whole time. “I’ll be fine. Come in, Harry. I’ll boil the water again and you can make the tea.”
I hadn’t been to Stacey’s home: the historic Turner’s Creek homestead. Quite frankly I was curious. Plus, I could make sure her family were okay with this bug.
Leonie bustled down the hallway as I walked up the steps, taking in the details of the old house, the peeling paint, weathered decking boards, stone columns, shutters for the French doors, and an old brass pot by the door for umbrellas.
“I know, the house is so shabby right now,” Stacey sighed. “Dad painted it about ten years ago and I don’t think he primed it right. Painting the exterior is my next project.”
“Next project?”
Stacey beckoned me inside and I found myself in the hallway in front of plastic sheeting which cordoned off a large room.
“Murder room aesthetic,” I deadpanned. “It’s different, bold.”
Stacey shook her head. “I’m painting the parlour.”
“The parlour?”
“It’s what the room was originally called and the name stuck. I guess you could call it the formal lounge. The room you receive guests in.”
“And you said you Turners weren’t fancy. Are you painting the fancy room by yourself?”
Stacey nodded, pulling the plastic back so I could peek inside. Drop sheets covered furniture of different shapes and sizes. A fireplace with glazed tiles below a stone mantle was taped up around its edge. One wall was painted a colour like red wine while the rest was primed with an undercoat.
“I’m doing my best to stick to colours of the era when this part of the house was built. I’d like to do a stencil in gold around the picture rails. The VJs are awful to paint but I’m getting quite good at cutting in now. It’s just getting the time to do a wall in one sitting so the paint is even.”
The room was at least eight metres long, maybe more, and the width four metres, with several sash windows and three sets of French doors opening onto the veranda.
“I’ve done my share of exterior weatherboards and internal walls, but this is a major painting project,” I said.
“You’ve painted houses?”
“Ha, yeah. My old man’s a painter. Used to help him for extra cash when I wasn’t studying for med school. Spent every summer finishing jobs for clients before Christmas. Earned the nickname Doctor Tradie from my mates.”
