Jon still had the physique of a footballer—solid thighs, broad muscular back, giant hands. No one who met him underestimated the raw power of his body—he could heft huge bags of potting mix and concrete without breaking a sweat—but it was the unexpected delicacy of such big hands wielding pencil pliers or sketching a detailed plan that surprised people. As much as Tara loved watching him flexing muscles big and small, this afternoon she planned to entice him away from the garden and into the spa to work out some different muscles. But first she needed to sow some seeds, or as Jon used to say to her, ‘get your motor running’.
Opening a text message, she selected his name, pushed away the embarrassed voice in her head and tried sexting him for the first time.
Are you all hot and sweaty after working so hard?
It’s not that hot
He obviously had no idea she was flirting. And why would he? Their texts were normally please buy milk, did you order the mulch? or remember to call your dad.
Tara tried again. I’m hot and sweaty just thinking about you She added a kiss-blowing emoji.
She hit send, then shoved her phone deep into her handbag. Denny North was flexing his muscles with a mobile phone blitz and he’d already given her a warning about touching her phone in the car. The children had been goggle-eyed and wasted no time telling Jon, ‘Mummy got into trouble from the policeman.’
She pointed the car towards home, but didn’t get beyond the railway crossing before losing ten minutes waiting for a freight train to pass. It almost killed her not to peek at her phone.
A group of teenage boys ambled past and before she’d consciously thought about it, her right forefinger was pressing the door lock button. Thankful for the protection of tinted windows, she studied the boys. In typical adolescent fashion they varied in height from short to extremely tall, but most of them lacked adult male heft. They wore jeans, T-shirts and runners, although one wore shorts. Apart from their dark skin, they looked like most of the teenagers in town. Were these the boys causing Jon and the other traders so many headaches? Increasing the cost of their insurance policy? Distracting Jon from his family?
The railway bells finally stopped ringing and Tara crossed the line, driving the short distance to Tingledale. The first time she and Jon had seen the old Federation house with its distinctive steep pitched roof, ornate fretwork and wide verandas, they’d fallen in love. The massive renovation they’d undertaken had only strengthened their affection and pride in their home.
As she approached the turn-off, Jon’s muffled text tune played in her handbag. She almost pulled over to read it, but decided to savour the anticipation. Everything was in place for a magical afternoon. She was wearing her bathers under her clothes, and she’d set up snacks and cold drinks in the outdoor kitchen’s fridge. All she needed to do was hit the button on the spa then find Jon.
She turned into the long drive and her buoyant mood flatlined. Her father-in-law’s car was parked behind Jon’s.
Goddamn it, Ian! Why today?
It wasn’t that she disliked Jon’s father—although his drinking bothered her—but they’d seen him on Thursday for the weekly roast. He was much easier to entertain when the children were home and she couldn’t fathom why he was here—he usually played bowls on Saturday afternoons.
She parked and checked her phone. Dad’s here. Sorry. Raincheck xx
Jon wanted a raincheck! Hope soared and Tara recalibrated her plans. She’d give Ian a cup of tea and a slice of fruitcake, cut a hunk for him to take home, then shuttle him out the door. That still gave her and Jon plenty of time before she had to collect the kids.
Opening the car door, her ears were assaulted by the deep vroom of a two-stroke engine and the squeal of a saw against wood. Her heart sank—the combination of Ian and the chainsaw was the opposite of quick.
She unlatched the side gate and walked down to the bottom of their large native garden, deafened by the noise. Jon was three-quarters of the way up the big gum, wearing a safety harness, a hard hat, safety goggles and ear protection. Ian, also wearing a hard hat, was gesticulating wildly and Chris Hegarty stood by his ute in the adjacent paddock, interest keen on his face.
When Jon rested the saw, she called out, ‘Hi,’ trying hard to hide her annoyance.
‘Hello, love.’ Ian moved in for a quick kiss. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. Jon said you were in town for the afternoon.’
She glanced up at her husband who was still wearing earmuffs. If he read the WTF question on her face, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he smiled and gave her a wave as if he was exactly where she’d expected to find him.
A few weeks earlier they’d discussed lopping this limb off the widow-maker. As much as she loved river red gums, they were unpredictable, often dropping branches on deathly still days. She’d never forgive herself if it fell and killed someone, but Jon hadn’t mentioned taking it down today. Chagrin on Flynn’s behalf needled her—their son would have loved watching this.
Jon pulled the ripcord on the chainsaw, the roar reducing hearing to impossible. Tara considered staying to watch, but the blokey atmosphere drove her inside.
Ignoring the clean washing calling to be sorted and the overdue giftware order for the store, she picked up Anna Karenina. Flipping past twenty pages of introductory text, she mused on the first line about happy families being all the same but unhappy families being miserable each in their own way. She reassured herself that she and Jon weren’t miserable—they just needed time together to reconnect. Feeling reassured, she settled in to read about the
