‘Stop worrying. I’ll be fine. I’m going back to work tomorrow anyway.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am!’
He huffed. Fighting would only weaken her. ‘We’ll see,’ he muttered under his breath. It was a strange thing to hope she’d stay at home while wishing she was well enough to go to work.
‘I heard that. But it would mean the world to me if we worked on the designs together. If you don’t want to add your ideas, then just be my hands.’ She turned the rings on her left hand now. ‘You don’t know what’s going to happen, and if this really is my last play, I’d love to have created something with you.’
‘You’ll do other plays.’ He didn’t want to think about the alternative.
‘Maybe. But will you help me with this one?’
He scratched his scar, his concentration hard outside the window even though roos weren’t going to jump out at him in the residential part of Brachen. He swung into the driveway and parked.
If he said no, could he bear to watch her struggle? If he said yes, could he restrain himself and ensure no-one suspected his influence? If it guaranteed her legacy at Rivervue and gave her some peace, then yes. He’d be her hands. He could do that for her. He could do anything for her.
‘Okay, let’s do it.’
She smiled and clasped her hands to her chest.
‘Under the condition that no-one knows I’m involved with the concepts. You can tell them I drew the lines but they’re all your ideas, agreed?’
She opened her mouth to argue.
‘Agreed?’ he glowered.
She closed her mouth and her resistance faded. How weak was she?
‘Agreed.’ She leaned over and lowered his head so she could kiss his forehead. ‘Thank you, mijo.’
She undid her seatbelt and made to get out of the car, but she struggled to push open the door. He dashed out and around to help her, leaning in and offering his hand. She didn’t look him in the eyes. A smile fizzed on her lips. The closer they got to the house, the more of her weight he bore. She weighed so little but each step tightened the vice around his heart and threatened to mash it into pulp. If they struggled to reach the door, would they have the strength to finish the designs?
Chapter Eight
Bruce didn’t remember signing for a delivery from Hell, but that’s what he’d gotten. A whole week of it. Fourteen days before his mortgage was due or the house was forfeit. Not one of his debtors answered their phones, and a few were suspiciously absent from around town. Siobhan had gone to Adelaide, Manusha was on jury duty, and Giovanni didn’t answer his door—even though Bruce was certain he heard the old bugger shuffling around inside. Bruce vowed that the next person to hire him would pay half upfront, but no-one had called for a quote.
Great. Another thing to worry about.
He could sell his ute, but that would seriously hamper his ability to make a living and then everyone would suspect something was up. He wanted to avoid that at all costs. He knew he could get this all sorted without others catching on—but he’d been saying that for months now.
Anyway, he’d barely recoup half of the hundred grand he’d dished out for the car. If he hadn’t bought it in the first place, the debt wouldn’t have been so crippling. He’d got the keys three weeks before Rachel showed up demanding her share of the house. Timing was everything. He should have known that working in a theatre.
And that was another thing propelling him towards financial ruin.
Giving up the house wasn’t an option. He was the only Clifton who gave a damn about it. Rachel had already left it behind, but Bruce wasn’t as down on the place as her. Not that it was grand or special or historic, but it meant more to him than a jumble of bricks and timber. It was a constant throughout his life, a … well … a home. As dysfunctional as it was.
At least with him the only one living in it, there weren’t any arguments or any secrets to be kept.
He finished work at five: the installation of a new set of shade sails in Ian Turner’s garden took longer than he would have liked but at least it was finished. He had the invoice ready, but Ian wasn’t home. Ordinarily he’d let the work sit for a day and return the next to check there weren’t any problems before asking to be paid. But every day counted. They’d agreed to payment on delivery and Bruce couldn’t afford to be lenient. He opened the letterbox and his hand shoved the envelope in.
What if Ian found something wrong with his work? What if it wasn’t done to his requirements? Unlikely. There’d never been any complaints before, and Bruce was nothing if not competent and thorough. He had integrity. Unlike Ed Greenleaf, he’d never been called back to fix dodgy craftmanship.
Integrity.
That’s what Brachen expected from him.
He retrieved the envelope, closed the letterbox and hopped into his ute, flinging the invoice onto the dash, along with Mrs Farrah’s. He’d come back the next day and give it to Ian in person. He could survive another twenty-four hours.
He drove to the Pavilion on Main Street for a pie and a carton of iced coffee. Sitting in his ute, he wolfed the pie down in five greedy bites, the lukewarm meat and dried-out pastry sitting heavy and oily in his growling stomach. He chased it with the iced coffee, hoping to disguise the taste and give him a much-needed hit of caffeine. He didn’t often eat fast food but he’d grabbed the easiest thing he could, not the healthiest.
Or the tastiest.
He was not living his best life, that was for sure. He’d cook something when he got home.
If it wasn’t late and he wasn’t knackered.
He drove to the theatre. They
