The Australians' Brides. Lilian Darcy

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      Even though every scrap of the doubt was still there, the need was stronger, and wouldn’t go away. She craved the physical act of holding a pen in her hand and moving it across the paper. She needed to think about words, much better words than just, “How’re you doing?” and “Thank you for your letter.” Dressing quickly, she grabbed the book, found the pen she’d taken last night from a jar on the kitchen benchtop and went out to the veranda.

      No one else was up. No sounds of movement came from Callan’s room farther along. No light was visible in Kerry’s little cottage across the dusty front yard. It was the coldest hour of the day. Jacinda sat on the cane couch, spread the mohair blanket over her legs and pulled it up over her shoulders. She thought about coffee but decided to wait, not wanting to risk disturbing Callan if he was having a rare lie-in.

      She opened the notebook and found the first empty page. The lines on one side were widely spaced, suitable for a child’s first efforts at literacy, and on the opposite side, the paper was completely blank, ready to be filled by a stick figure and a clumsy tree.

      Five minutes went by, but nothing happened. She was tempted to doodle. Her fingers tended to make all these elaborate curly patterns and shapes without her even thinking about it on the rare occasions when she wrote by hand. But she resisted the doodling. She wanted to wait for words.

      And finally they came.

      “I’m sitting here,” she wrote, “watching light seep upward into the sky like the curtain rising on a Broadway show.”

      It didn’t rank with classical literature’s great opening sentences, but she told herself not to care. It doesn’t matter, Jacinda. Just keep going. There doesn’t have to be a story, or a direction, or a logical sequence. Not yet. Not ever. You’re not selling this. You’re not showing it to a soul. No, not to Callan, if he asks. So just keep writing.

      Her hand had begun to ache and she’d penned four pages when Callan found her. The light was on over at Kerry’s, and she could hear the boys in the kitchen. She must have been sitting here almost an hour.

      “Want coffee?” Callan offered.

      He stood beside the wicker couch, looking too tall, and she had to fight the need to cover her page because he had a bird’s-eye view and could have read it if he’d wanted to. As it happened, he wasn’t looking at the page, he was looking at her face.

      “I’ll come inside in a minute,” she told him, twisting toward him and leaning her elbow over the paper as if it were just a casual, accidental movement.

      “No, I can bring it out for you,” he said. “You’re busy.”

      “No, I’m—That rooster of yours doesn’t like visitors to sleep in, does he?” she joked lamely. “I’m only filling in time till Carly wakes up.”

      “Well, she has.”

       So you’re not buying my excuses, Callan?

       Could you pretend, at least?

      “Oh, does she want me?” She shifted, started to close the book.

      “She’s with the boys. She’s fine.” He leaned down and flipped the pages open again, and their fingers touched. He pulled his hand away. “Keep going, and I’ll bring the coffee.”

      “No, no, I’m finished. I’m done. It’s okay.”

      “You looked like you were still working on it.”

      “It’s not work. It’s nothing.”

      “Still, keep going and I’ll bring your coffee out,” he repeated stubbornly, for the third time.

      “Okay. Thanks.” She didn’t want to argue anymore, because if she argued, he’d have questions about what she’d written, and she didn’t want questions.

      He didn’t seem in a hurry to get the coffee he’d offered, however. He just stood there, leaning against the open doorway, making her skin itch and ripple with awareness. His body was magnetic. She wanted to grab his hip or push her face into his chest and smell his shirt.

      Finally, mercifully—after probably a whole six seconds had elapsed—he asked, “Did I give you enough? I mean, are there enough pages left in the notebook? Because there are a couple more I can give you. And I have printer paper, too. Or if you want to use the computer again …”

      “For the moment, I’m fine with this.” She laid her hand across the half-filled page.

      It was, seriously, years since she’d written this much by hand, and yet she hadn’t even considered Callan’s computer, she realized. Somehow, this was the method that felt right for now, this filling of white paper with blue scrawl. She liked the physical act of scribbling out a wrong word, or jetting an arrow across the page toward a sentence added in after further thought.

      Callan still hadn’t left.

      “I’m guessing you don’t plan to show me right this minute.” He smiled, but she wasn’t in the mood to get teased on this.

      “No.”

      “No?”

      She covered the page protectively with her arm once more. “It’s nothing. It’s terrible. It’s just—It’s not a story, or anything. It’s just little snatches. Impressions.”

      “Like a poem.”

      “Not even that. Sort of like a poem.” Unnh! “I might turn some of it into a poem later.”

      “And then you can show me.” He gave her a sly look, and there was the promise of a grin hovering on his face.

      “No! Please don’t … Please don’t treat this like a joke, Callan, or like tasting a batch of cookies I’ve made. It’s not like that. I couldn’t—I’m sorry, I don’t have a sense of humor about it, and I can’t explain that, I can’t explain why it’s important, I just—”

      “Hey … hey.”

      Oh crud, now he’d sat down, frowning and concerned. Now she’d really turned this into something. She should have fobbed him off, just agreed that, yes, it was a poem and that, sure, yes, she’d show it to him when it was done, and hope that the whole thing would drop from his mind because surely he had better things to think about.

      “I’m not treating it like a joke, Jac,” he said.

      His blue eyes were fixed on her, as motionless as the surface of the water hole at night, as deep and bright as the midday outback sky. The old, sagging couch pushed them closer together, the way it had on her first night here, as shameless as a professional matchmaker. Go on, it said, feel his thigh pressed against yours. Don’t fight it. You like it.

      “I’m not laughing at you about this.” His voice had a husky note in it. “I wouldn’t. I know it’s important.”

      “It’s not important.” She pushed her hand against his upper arm and tried to shimmy her butt sideways so the matchmaking couch didn’t get its wicked way. Callan leaned back, respecting her need for space, СКАЧАТЬ