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I grunted, grabbing the kettle, and headed to the kitchen to make tea. Before I could think about my actions, and Tom’s, I needed tea.
“Maria will be home any minute now. Her flight got in early.”
“Good, we need her help today.”
“So how’d it go with Tom?” Anthea asked, following me into the kitchen.
I spun around. “What do you mean by that?”
“Did he sort out why we aren’t getting Turner lamb? And agree to sell his grapes?”
I slumped down and let my forehead thump the benchtop, adding to my thumping headache.
“I … didn’t get a chance to talk to him about it.” I straightened and Anthea opened her mouth to say something but I cut her off. “Tea first, please. And then I’ll deal with the youngest Turner.”
Fifteen minutes later, fortified with tea and more painkillers, I headed out in the ute again to find a paddock near our boundary I vaguely remembered where Tom had planted grapes for a high school project six years ago. But Dad claimed that Tom had grown a similar amount of vines in pristine condition of tempranillo we needed to make our next vintage. This was a high school project that had blown out of scope.
As long as Tom was my neighbour, I’d always have to do business with him: lamb, fencing costs along our boundaries and now wine grapes.
I parked on our side of the fence near the snow gum that had been the centre of my witch-goth phase in high school. Its bark was shedding in strips, leaving its trunk in striking colours of the rainbow. It was in stark contrast to the grey, straw and brown winter landscape around it.
And below, on the other side of the small hill, were row after row of grapevines. Young and thin, but chocolate brown, not ash-grey. The soil below was mulched with straw, and the rows were sown with lucerne that had been cut to the ground. A tiny dam had been formed in the gully to catch rain run-off. A small pump house pumped water up the hill to an irrigation system to drip-irrigate the vines. Just like we’d spoken about as an idea for his high school project.
My stomach roiled.
This felt like treason. Not only was Tom venturing into my industry, but he’d also somehow poached my father to help in between his uni studies and duties with the station. But why? It made no sense for a sheep farmer to be growing acres of grapes.
Movement between the vines caught my attention. Tom. He was here, rather than catching up on lost sleep.
Time to face him for round two.
13
TOM
#STAMwedding group chat:
Rosie: I know this group chat is meant to be for Amanda and Stuart’s wedding, but I need help
TomCat: What’s wrong?
Rosie: Dad’s in hospital. Heart issues. Amanda is with me here.
TomCat: I can help. Say the word. Anything.
RaceStace: Me too. I’ll drag Ryan over as well.
Rosie: @Tom @RaceStace thank you
What the—
I opened up a separate private message and typed in Rosie’s name. I hadn’t sent her a DM in four years.
TomCat: how is your dad? And you? Your mum?
TomCat: what do you need?
Rosie: he had a scare. Mild heart attack but could mean he’s quite sick and needs an op. And the vineyard is a mess. Had to sack one of the helpers today. Caught him with petrol and tools in the back of his ute. Been stealing from us :(
