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Okay, now everything made sense.
Tonight, Caleb’s hair was still wet from the shower and hung in tight curls around his scalp. He wore a tight, plain black t-shirt with matching jeans and a shiny silver belt buckle. The right sleeve of his tee slid up to reveal the entirety of his patterned arm. It would not have surprised her if he’d ripped a motorcycle helmet off his head and dragged on a cigarette, such was his look. Except he appeared bright-eyed and rested but a scattering of dark stubble still lined his chin.
The man had to be trouble. Did that explain the butterflies swirling in her tummy at the sight of him?
Unfortunately, every woman in the room seemed to be experiencing a similar Caleb Stirling effect. A flare of irritation shot through her. She’d met him and spoken to him, helped him, and hadn’t simply gazed upon him like a teen at a rock concert.
Word had clearly spread about the newcomer to town.
The more confident ladies of the group wasted no time gravitating to his side, pawing him with their talons, offering him drinks and food, while flashing their sickly smiles.
Bridie directed Maggie to collect extra chairs for the crowd and called the meeting to order. She was the President, after all.
‘I am so excited to see everyone demonstrating such enthusiasm for the annual Bastille Day Festival. Thank you so much for attending. Lots of hands make light work, someone famous once said.’ She smiled too broadly and paused for effect, wanting to drag out the moment. But she couldn’t do it. ‘This year, I’m pleased to advise Caleb Stirling,’ she pointed which was quite silly because everyone clearly knew who he was, ‘has volunteered to help.’ Every head turned in his direction. ‘Caleb, do you have a menu plan for the day?’ she asked.
‘Menu plan? Uh, no. Not yet. I don’t know much about the festival or the requirements. Why are you celebrating the French national day – are you people French?’
For such a damn good-looking man he could be difficult. Or perhaps broody was more appropriate, or maybe sullen. She couldn’t work out if he was deliberately rude or simply obstinate. Bridie plastered a grin to her face. ‘Maggie, can you read out what food was available last year including the menu for the evening sit-down-dinner?’ As Maggie flicked through her notebook of minutes, Bridie continued. ‘No, we aren’t French, Caleb, although sometimes we’d like to be.’ A few people tittered. ‘To explain, after the first world war, this area welcomed and resettled returned servicemen. Settlements were established around this region and the soldiers were given the privilege of naming them. They chose some of the battle fields as a mark of respect for their fellow men who didn’t survive. You might be familiar with Amiens, Passchendaele, Bapaume, Messines or perhaps Fleurbaix, or Pozieres.’ She rattled them off in her perfect French accent. ‘The towns were connected by a railway line built in 1919. That created jobs as well as many other industries such as orchards, farming and even a mine at one time. The railway operated for over fifty years before closing around 1974.’
The room was dead silent. The locals knew this history, of course, but didn’t often talk about it. Bridie continued, ‘Many descendants reside in those towns today and as a testament to the past, to the soldiers and the way they forged new lives and for those of us prospering here now and proud of the region and its history, an annual festival is held. People feel an affinity and connection to France. And what better way to celebrate than with French food and culture. It’s become a long-held tradition and one that we love. It adds a bit of flair and fun to our community.’
Caleb nodded in a solemn fashion. Bridie couldn’t read whether that meant he thought they were all completely daft (and that wouldn’t surprise her) or he accepted and respected the past and the way it’s always been done.
‘Last year Chef Armstrong had stalls with frog’s legs and snails, stuffed mushrooms and French fries,’ Maggie smiled but no one else joined in, ‘and for the main meal he prepared caviar, a duck dish with some fancy name I can’t pronounce, and fish with cheese for dessert. That’s very French,’ Maggie offered.
‘And did everyone enjoy the frog’s legs?’ Caleb asked the group.
Bridie jumped in. ‘I’m not sure it was about enjoyment; it was an authentic French experience.’
‘France is a country with some of the most delicious produce and dishes in the world. Their food can be both authentic and a sensory experience.’
A shiver raced up Bridie’s spine. His delivery was deadpan and bordering on patronising, but his words were like honey. She looked around and everyone was captivated.
‘Great. You know what you’re doing. What are your ideas for this year then?’
‘Food is about a moment, a sense of place and time. It should transport you, be sensual, an unforgettable experience. Orgasmic if you will.’ All of the oxygen was sucked from the room. He spoke to her and only her, his gaze intense, direct and she was inexplicably drawn to his words, his passion, him. Without blinking he held her gaze; it was like he caressed her with those dark, intense eyes. If a freak tsunami suddenly hit Bellethorpe, Bridie didn’t think she’d be able to pull herself away.
‘I can help you with the menu,’ wealthy, married, wine maker Sally said.
The moment was broken. An over-the-top gulf of disappointment hit her. Caleb had seen her, really seen her and she’d felt alive, her nerve endings tingling in a physical sensation that rolled over her body. She’d felt important, singled-out and she’d admit it, desired. No man had looked at her like that in a long time. It left a pit of longing in her belly for more. To be loved and cared for and…when it ended, she felt it more keenly than usual, that sense of loneliness she fought to keep at bay. She lived amongst a kind and loving community, was very involved, and everyone liked her, but no one looked at her like that.
Maggie called an end to the meeting and confirmed arrangements for the next catch-up. Geoff reluctantly agreed to run a piece in The Bellethorpe Times and quizzed Maggie on the details. Bridie heard the conversations but did not join in.
Caleb had brushed off Sally and spoke with Yvette, one of the oldest members of their community and the long-term owner of the bakery. The bakehouse had been a fixture of the town forever and so had Yvette. Bridie became present once more as she watched their exchange. Of course, Yvette was eighty and little competition. Competition? She must be losing her marbles. But more likely it was the first spark of hope she’d felt in a long time. Or perhaps excitement. Problem was Caleb Stirling was a drop-dead gorgeous chef suddenly the father to a five-year-old and he lived in Sydney. Plus, he was a drunk, and if there was one thing she couldn’t tolerate it was an alcoholic.
5
Caleb entered the cool confines of the tuckshop with a sense of relief. Arriving each morning meant he’d survived another day. The commitment he’d reluctantly given the school canteen had him waking up each day with somewhere to go and something to do. Dare he say it had saved him? Nah, it was too soon for that.
‘Good morning, ladies!’ he sang out as he entered, noting with pride the time; he was getting earlier each day. He wouldn’t admit though, that he’d grown fond of the old, basic kitchen with its bare produce on the skimpy school budget. Plus, he enjoyed the low-pressure environment and easy food prep. No unhappy customers was an added bonus. He’d even adjusted to Kathleen’s easy humour and ready smile.
Today the air was still and the mood quiet, none of the usual rushing and easy chatter. Kathleen stood with a woman he hadn’t met before, their faces glued to a phone, squinting to catch whatever the image was on the small screen.
The phone lowered and the two of them did a double-take, their eyes shooting between him and the phone. Kathleen’s mouth dropped open.
His gut spasmed.
With surprising agility, Kathleen was beside him in an instant and the phone thrust into his face, so close, the image blurred. ‘Is this you?’ she asked.
