Page 25 of Queenslander
“How much of it did he make up?” she wondered.
“How the hell would I know?” Nev said.
Ronnie smiled weakly. Her arm hurt.
Nev kept unopened toothbrushes under the bathroom sink for when Ronnie and Rainbow slept over. Ronnie brushed her teeth. In Nev’s bed, she propped up her wrist on extra pillows.
The floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall were black, but in the morning there would be a view. She loved it here.
Stone House had a soul. Conceived in the eighties as a reproduction of a stone-and-mortar country cottage in the Cotswolds, the structure had gradually morphed into something a third British, a third French and a third Australian. The country gardens had been inspired by formal gardens Nev visited when she lived in Paris.
Nev wasn’t snobby. She didn’t drive a fast car, get her hair cut and colored at a salon, or take luxury vacations. All of hertraveling had been to conflict zones for work, most of it Agence France-Presse embedded with French armed forces, although she had briefly worked for the UN. Now she invested in sheep, alfalfa, and potting soil for her plant nursery.
When Ronnie rolled over, the older woman raised her arm to let Ronnie rest against her. Ronnie closed her eyes with a sigh. She was still uncomfortable, but she could sleep here.
Time had never moved the same since that night. As usual, she reminded herself that she wasn’t that teenager anymore—Ronnie Madonna was a grown-ass woman with old feelings and old problems, trapped in a relationship she didn’t want with a woman she hated, resigned to work minimum-wage jobs forever, like her mum, but it could be worse. Yes, it could definitely be worse.
“I can’t believe it’s been ten years since the night we met.”
Nev rubbed her back, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Ronnie opened her eyes. “Why did she give me your address?” The taxidermized barn owl stared at her from its perch in the corner. Nev had inherited the owl from her mother, had it flown in from Christchurch. It had arrived in a box with a dead mouse; bizarre coincidence or a postal carrier’s idea of a joke.
“No idea.”No eyed deer.
“We would never have met, otherwise.”
Nev held her loosely, looked thoughtful. “We would have met two years later when Debbie Collins told me you were looking for work. The real question is, why did Debbie tell me you were looking for work? Did she know your dad?”
Ronnie shrugged.
“Reckon I should put animatronics in it. Clap on, clap off, that sort of thing.”
“What would it do?”
“Normal owl stuff. Turn its head, hoot, ruffle its feathers. What do you say?”
“It could have a remote.”
“Nah, I’d lose it the next day. Better be voice-activated. Like Alexa.”
Ronnie laughed. Nev did, too. The older woman’s laugh was silent, a vibration in her ribcage. Ronnie closed her eyes, asking her neck and shoulders to relax. They sort of did. “It could be on a timer, but random.”
“Only sensible suggestion so far. Maybe Deb was doing Peg a favor.” Debbie was pub owner Peggy Collins’s youngest child and lived with her. “Why would Peg…” Nev fell silent. “Ah.”
“What? Tell me.”
“I told Peg about the break in. She must have told Deb.”
“That doesn’t explain why Debbie connected us.”
“Neighborhood karma,” Nev said. “People like feeling they facilitated a resolution. We’re probably overthinking it. They probably just thought ‘there’s a dyke, she should work for the other dyke.’”
Truth.
The documentary ended. On her request Nev put on the 1994 performance of Riverdance at the Eurovision Song Contest. The lead male dancer in the flowy silk shirt and blonde mullet looked like a younger version of Nev.
“This brings back memories,” Nev said.
