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“How did you—” Amanda began, but I cut her off, shrugging out of their embrace.
“Yes.”
“What happened?” Mrs Turner’s voice was as gentle and kind as always.
Amanda’s eyes ping-ponged between us.
“I was here a week ago. I missed you and Stuart by an hour,” I explained to Amanda. “I spoke with your mum. About things. Fiancés. The vineyard.” I sniffed. “You were right, Mrs Turner. Coercive control. He tried to control everything. My calendar at work and private appointments. My work. He’d ridicule my work in front of others. Always in front of others. Saying things like ‘you can do better, Rose. I know you can.’ Ugh! I used to hang onto every word of his, desperate for praise and his seal of approval. He also spoke like that to our research assistant, Rachel, junior lecturers, and students. How did I not see at the time that his behaviour was condescending and awful?” “He had us begging for compliments the way dogs beg for treats.”
I swiped hard at my eyes, disgusted that I’d fallen for Richard’s charisma.
“He proposed at the lectern, in front of the whole faculty and university staff.”
“He what?” Mrs Turner looked to Amanda, who nodded.
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Yep. And then I turned him down as a video started to play.” I regaled the claims made in the anonymous video to Mrs Turner. “And now my parents think I pulled that wonderful stunt. And I’m sure the faculty suspects me as well. I wish I’d thought it, and more so, I wished I had the courage to have pulled it off. I’ve been putting off ending things with Richard for four weeks, and then someone delivered the hammer blow tonight in under two minutes.”
My phone rang again, and I ignored it. “I don’t know who did it. Work colleagues keep calling, wanting gossip. I can’t—I just can’t. Not tonight.” I inhaled sharply. “Mrs Turner, my parents are on their way, and I can’t talk to them. They think I did this. They think … I can’t manage the vineyard.”
Amanda gasped in outrage.
“It’s okay, dear.” Mrs Turner straightened. “I’ll speak to Mama Z and Angelo.”
The landline in the kitchen rang, making me jump.
“Don’t move. I’ll get it.” Mrs Turner answered the phone. “Turner’s Creek Homestead. Ah, Mama Z. One moment—I know. Just—she’s here and she’s okay.”
Mrs Turner covered the receiver. “Amanda, take Rosie out back to the patio. I’m about to talk to the Zanettis and reassure them Rosie is okay and all will be right.”
Amanda nodded, grabbed the wine, and then my elbow, leading me to the back door, hearing Mrs Turner say, “She’s going to stay the night here, Mama Z. Maybe two.”
I blindly followed Amanda out to the patio, grateful to be cocooned with this family for a night, or two, to lick my wounds and face the aftermath of this night with my parents and work colleagues.
3
TOM
Tom’s first unsent letter to Rosie:
Dear Rosie,
You’ll never see this letter. I will never send it.
I miss you, and I hate myself for it. Part of me keeps saying I’m being weak with missing you.
It’s been a week since you dumped me. I’ve gone over our two weeks together so many times, wondering where I went wrong. What was the moment it went from great to shit? I just can’t figure it out.
I miss the woman who whispered dirty things in my ear. I miss the woman who said she wanted a future, too.
Stacey writes in a journal. She told me her psychologist recommended she write every day, reflect on things she’s grateful for, and download thoughts so you’re not carrying them around with you.
Maybe that’s why I’m writing this letter. I tell you Rosie: I have too many thoughts. I keep thinking the same things over and over, so I thought, if it helped my sister get out of her head and get better, then I’d give it a crack.
But so far, all this has done has made me feel even more shit, so I just don’t know. Maybe this is my first and last letter to you, Rosie.
Regards Tom
I watched Mum hurry off to the homestead to see to Rosie, but I wasn’t in any mood to join a party. Not yet. Even though I should check if Ainslee was introducing herself as my girlfriend or something to all my family and friends.
