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ROSIE
Ballydoon Community Group:
Hayley commented 4.37 p.m.:
The special snow edition of the Stanmore Star sold out today. Thank you for your photos. The winner of the snow sculpture competition was Mrs Marsden for her snow reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh, complete with Santa’s sack of presents.
“Is Tom here?” I asked Mrs Turner, unsure if I wanted her to say yes or no. Mum stood at my side, keen to get out of the house and see the neighbours for a brief visit. She hadn’t said so, but I suspected she wanted to escape Dad for a bit.
I couldn’t stay for the end-of-muster celebration yesterday. I couldn’t bear another moment with Tom knowing it was all over. He’d given me exactly what I wanted. So why did I feel awful?
I shifted the document in my hand to the other. I’d stayed up last night finishing my proposal for Zanetti Winery. And here I was, lamely asking to see Tom to give it to him: as a parting gift or a peace offering, I wasn’t sure.
“He’s out in the paddocks with Ryan checking on the sheep. I can get him if you—”
“No, no. I just need to drop this off.”
I placed the stapled document down on the kitchen table. The words ‘Five-year plan: Zanetti Winery’ were in bold and centred on the top page. Tonight, I’d talk to my family and show them my ideas. No more stalling or editing. Time to just do it. Mum promised to ensure Dad would stay at the dinner table and listen.
Or, at least, stay.
Mrs Turner trailed a finger across the bolded title.
“Tom’s doing something similar for Turner’s Creek. Was going to do it after the clip but he insisted he present his ideas beforehand. Great minds must think alike.”
For some reason, I blushed.
Mrs Turner immediately headed to the sideboard, picking up a photo album. “Such good timing to drop by. I was showing Tom old photos recently. Won’t you sit and have a look?”
“Okay, but quick break from opera planning.” Mum settled into the seat at the dining table.
“Sure. A little bit, Mrs Turner,” I added, joining Mum.
“Of course. It won’t take long.” Mrs Turner placed the spiral-bound photo album in front of us. The cardboard pages were sealed in brittle plastic holding the aged photos. “Look at you both.” Mrs Turner pointed to a picture of three kids playing in a muddy yard. “You, Amanda and Tom. The three musketeers. Always playing together.”
“Ah, good memories,” Mum said wistfully.
Mrs Turner flipped more pages. Again, Amanda, Tom and I were in so many photos together. One of us swinging off the old snow gum with its rainbow bark shedding. Another of us in the creek with Lily during summer.
“Inseparable,” Mrs Turner murmured, flicking her gaze up to mine.
My heart stuttered. Tom had made no overtures or promises after the muster. Didn’t even speak much to me. Shit. Was he waiting me out, to see what I’d wanted? And I’d been too afraid to shatter how amazing our time had been together.
It was being afraid to talk that had ultimately kept us apart. Yesterday, I’d done it again. Gave into fear. After all, hadn’t I said it was just a fantasy for one night and he’d agreed?
“And then there were the birthday parties.” Mrs Turner turned some more pages and pointed to Tom turning thirteen. “You offered to help blow out the candles at his party, and he was so offended because he was a big man at thirteen.”
“Yes, yes. Good photos. But—” Mum brushed her skirt and stood, impatient. “Angelo will wonder where we are.”
But Mrs Turner continued. “And his eighteenth.”
My heart stuttered again. “Wait, Mum. Just a little longer.”
Mrs Turner placed a more modern photo book on top of the others and flipped the pages over to one in the middle.
Tom and I were talking, drinks in hand, only looking at each other. Our smiles were so happy and broad and open. Whatever we’d been talking about, it had amused us.
It was his eighteenth birthday family dinner. I wore a green woollen dress; he looked so smart in dress pants and a button-down.
