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She shivered.
He sensed her sadness, not just in the way she said the words, but in her utter stillness, her turquoise eyes fixed but unseeing across the crater, as if every part of her was holding something tightly bound inside.
And then she seemed to sense him watching her, sense him wondering, and she shivered and whatever spell she was under was broken. ‘I was born there,’ she said briskly. Then she shook her head and let the wind peel back the loose strands of her hair from her face as she turned towards the car. ‘We’d better get going if we’re going to get to this meeting on time.’
Thirty kilometres farther through green pastured land sat the coastal town of Port MacDonnell, a sleepy fishing and holiday village now, where a century ago it had been a bustling port.
Right on the esplanade stood a grand old double-storey stone building overlooking the jetty that had once served as the Customs House. A German mine from World War II that had washed ashore on the beach sat in pride of place on the front lawn. ‘The wedding is to be held in the local church but the reception will be here. I just have to work out a few details for the order. Why don’t you take a walk out along the shore? I won’t be too long.’
‘Given I’m supposed to be working, I’d prefer to tag along.’ He was curious to see her operate away from her beloved vines, and dealing with customers one on one. From what he’d heard the few times he’d visited the town, a kind of folklore had built up around Holly Purman, and as far as the locals were concerned, it seemed she could do no wrong. ‘I’d like to see how you deal with customers who are lucky enough not to be cursed with the Chatsfield name.’
She drew her shoulders up at that, no apology to be seen in eyes the colour of glacial meltwaters, more a note of resignation. ‘Suit yourself.’
Inside the building the happy couple was already busy with the function manager comparing lists and making notes, and the next sixty minutes were spent considering menu choices and matching them with wines.
An hour later, Franco had to admit that Holly was more than good at what she did. She had a passion about her wines that she brought with her—a passion that shone right through those boring khaki work clothes.
Yet more boring khaki work clothes.
And he wondered as he watched her—given she’d changed before they’d started out—did she ever wear anything else other than her polo shirts, work pants and boots? Anything else that made something of the curves he knew she had hidden away under those oh-so-practical layers?
If he had to sum up her wardrobe in two words, it would be designerless drab. And if he could nominate one area where she had no gut instinct at all, this was the one.
Because otherwise, whether out in the cold morning air whispering to her vines, or dealing with clients face-to-face, she was supreme. Today she had listened to what everyone had to say, paying special heed to how the bride and groom wanted their wedding to be. She’d made suggestions when there were none forthcoming. She’d sorted out problems that were foreseen and made provision for uncertainties and things that might go wrong.
And she’d smiled.
And that smile and those eyes were a killer combination. It made everyone in the room feel good.
Including him.
And that was the biggest revelation of them all.
An hour later the order was complete and they were heading back to the car when he saw the sign for the takeaway shop down the road. His stomach rumbled and he remembered they’d missed lunch in the rush to get away.
‘Why don’t we grab something to eat while we’re here?’
She followed the direction he was looking and asked, ‘Fish and chips?’
And after more than a dozen years living in Italy, the very idea of fish and chips sounded exotic. ‘Why not?’
So they bought fish and chips with wedges of lemon all wrapped in paper from the café and found a bench overlooking the rocky beach to the marina and breakwater beyond.
The sun was warm when it peeked out from behind the odd cloud, the wind too lazy today to neutralise the effect, and the fish and chips were so good they were content to just sit and eat and watch the fishing boats bobbing on their lines. How long was it since she’d had the chance to sit and eat fish and chips at the beach? She couldn’t remember the last time.
And never in a million years would she have believed it possible today, not with Franco Chatsfield for company.
So maybe her stomach had been rumbling up a storm and the smell of frying fish and salty chips had been too much to resist, but still she wondered what kind of seismic shift had occurred that they could sit like this so companionably together.
‘That was good,’ he said on a sigh, screwing up his paper in his hands and leaning back, hooking his elbows over the back of the seat and stretching out his long legs in front of him.
