Page 64 of The Orchard at Rosevale
‘Shall do.’
‘I’ll pop to the loo while you write your note,’ Bette said, and Ferne knew her friend was giving her time to compose what she had to say. Not that she needed it. The note requesting Jesse come see her ASAP would be brief.
What she’d say when—if—he arrived would be another matter entirely.
CHAPTER
34
Cruz hated firing employees. He’d had to do it a few times over the years while working in restaurants, and their shocked expressions, their gaping mouths, their wide eyes—sometimes filled with tears—gutted him, but all the axing he’d done in the past paled in comparison to what he’d done to El.
The way she’d looked at him … His gut twisted at the thought, and he bypassed the homestead and headed straight for a quad bike. Logically, he shouldn’t ride while in this mood, but screw logic. He needed to get away from El and clear his head, and a ride around the farm’s perimeter would achieve both.
Strapping on a helmet, he fired up the engine and checked the fuel gauge, then took off too fast and skidded. Resisting the urge to overcorrect, he slowed down, gripping the handlebars so tight his knuckles stood out. He saw Kyle out of the corner of his eye, waving him over, but ignored him and roared away, kicking up dirt. How many times had he ridden this path with his father after he finished high school? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? One of the few good memories he had of his dad was the many times they’d ride the quad bikes to various parts of the property, when Mac would extol the virtues of farming at length. Cruz had listened out of politeness rather than interest, already dreaming of working in a Melbourne restaurant, but he’d enjoyed his dad trusting him enough to impart wisdom.
No great surprise that Mac had pretended his son didn’t exist after Cruz told him he’d be leaving the farm for the city.
He remembered the day vividly, like it had happened yesterday. His mum had encouraged him to break the news gently, so he had stayed up late the night before, prepping his father’s favourite slow-cooked smoky barbecue chicken and apple pie, then worked alongside Mac all day, driving himself to the point of collapse and earning a slap on the back when they’d returned to the homestead. That evening, after Mac had demolished every morsel and given begrudging praise—‘you can cook and work a farm, lad, well done’—Ferne had made herself scarce and Cruz had sat at the table, given his dad a beer and told him he’d be leaving at the end of the month.
Mac had turned puce and, rigid with anger, had flung the beer bottle over Cruz’s head, where it smashed against the fridge door, leaving a dent still there to this day. That’s when the yelling had started, with Mac calling him everything from ‘a waste of space’ to a ‘useless bludger’. Cruz had hidden his hurt well, waiting until Mac exhausted his fury before cutting his dad another wedge of apple pie, placing it in front of him and walking out of the kitchen.
To this day, Cruz didn’t know if that piece of pie had been a peace offering or a way to get his dad to shut up, but from that moment until he left the farm, Mac barely looked at him. At the time, Cruz had pretended like it didn’t matter. He’d paid his dues by staying on the farm and learning the ropes for two years after finishing high school, and if his father couldn’t be supportive, screw him. But every time he baked an apple pie for restaurant patrons or friends, he would be reminded of his father and their fractured relationship.
Thinking about his dad must’ve made him unconsciously steer towards the shed at the eastern corner of the property. Mac had made it clear in no uncertain terms that the shed, his man cave, was off limits. It had been his dad’s go-to place and nobody was welcome, which made it all the stranger to see a spire of smoke drifting from the chimney into the crisp, cloudless sky.
Wondering if he’d have to deal with squatters on this all-round crappy day, he parked the quad bike about two hundred metres away and strode towards the shed. The corner of this land had the Powell property on one side and Crown land on the other, with a back road nearby; easy access for anyone who wanted to take up residence and not be found until someone like him stumbled across them.
Reining in his rising irritation, Cruz knocked on the door. Even though he owned the place and could’ve barged in, he didn’t want to scare whoever was in there in case it was just kids hanging out.
When the door creaked open and Roger, his dad’s mate, peered out tentatively, his eyes bloodshot like he’d been crying, Cruz couldn’t have been more surprised.
‘Everything all right, Roger?’
‘Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?’ Roger snapped, his belligerence at odds with the sadness in his eyes.
‘Well, you don’t look so good,’ Cruz said, uncomfortable that the old man hadn’t opened the door fully and invited him in, even though he wasn’t a guest.
‘See how good you look when you get to my age,’ Roger muttered, earning a wry grin from Cruz.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Reminiscing,’ Roger murmured, tearing up again, and Cruz realised that although his father had forbidden him and Ferne from entering his man cave, he must’ve had his mates over.
‘You miss Dad.’
‘Something fierce.’ Roger blinked several times and swiped a hand over his eyes. ‘You better come in.’
Cruz bit back his retort—how magnanimous of you—and entered the shed, surprised to see it kitted out with a comfy sofa, a bar fridge, a TV and a bed with rumpled bedclothes, meaning Roger had been taking a nap.
‘Did you used to hang out here with Dad?’
Roger nodded, biting his bottom lip. ‘He was my best mate.’
‘Mum and I were never allowed down here.’ Cruz sat on the sofa, not wanting to get into a deep and meaningful conversation about his father but needing to give Roger some time to compose himself before he booted him out.
There must have been a generator around the back, supplying electricity to the bar fridge and TV. It could be put to better use as a back-up for the restaurant when it opened. Besides, this place needed to be emptied so others wouldn’t be encouraged to take up residence. Not that Cruz was completely heartless about the plight of homeless—he’d invited Bindi into his home, hadn’t he?—but the remoteness of this location meant if someone squatted here and they got into trouble, they might not be found in time to get help.
‘Want a beer?’ Roger opened the fridge and Cruz saw it was stocked with a half-dozen wine bottles and ten stubbies.
