'I'm fine,' she managed, feeling … discombobulated. She was covered in bubbles and she was bright pink. Had she locked the door? She didn't think so.
'Dinner's ready. I've fed Rusty, but do you want yours here or in the dining room?'
In here, she thought, but then maybe he had it with him. Maybe if she said the word the door would open.
'In the dining room,' she squeaked.
'You want a hand out of the bath?'
'No!'
She heard him chuckle. 'Hey, I'm a doctor, remember? I'm used to human bodies.'
'You're not my doctor, and you're not used to this one. Go away.'
'Yes, ma'am,' he said and there was silence-and she pulled herself awkwardly out of the bath and thought maybe, just maybe, she should have let him in.
Maybe she even wanted to.
Maybe she was losing her mind.
The meal was served on the terrace. Tori left Rusty on her bed, watching the door-of course-and made her way cautiously through the dining room and outside. And paused.
She could see the whole world.
The valley meandered downhill, following the ancient river path. Far in the distance she could see the faint, flickering lights of the city at dusk, but the foreground was simple, natural beauty.
The dusk wasn't so deep that she couldn't see vines around the house, lines and lines, reaching into the distance. Gum trees followed the river-massive eucalypts with wide, spreading branches. For Tori, who'd lived with blackened skeletons for so long, the sight was enough to make her gasp.
'We thought you might have gone down the drain.'
It was Jake, rising to greet her. As well as Jake there was Rob and two tiny, wrinkled women, smiling a welcome. One of the women had her arm in a sling. She looked pale and strained, and she held her arm as if it hurt. The other looked a little better but not much. Her forehead was badly scarred, and she was glancing nervously at her companion as if she was deeply worried about her. Fire victims both. Six months raw.
They were all six months raw.
'Do you need introductions?' Rob said easily, rising as well. She'd recognised the women but was given introductions anyway. 'Tori, you must know Miss Glenda Parling-postmistress to Combadeen until fifteen years ago. And Mrs. Doreen Ryde? Doreen's Glenda's sister. You've already met Mrs. Matheson, our own personal wizard-chef, and of course you know Jake. Sit down and wrap yourself round some of Mrs. Matheson's cooking.'
Jake was holding her chair for her. There was nothing for her to do but sink onto the lovely upholstery-and sink into the night.
Jake and Rob were chatting, drawing the elderly ladies out between them. They let her be, as if protecting her. The conversation had obviously been going on before she got there. She was free to take in her surroundings and the people around her. The lilt of soft music in the background. The fragrance of … more gardenias?
And then the food arrived.
For six months she'd been living on snacks on the run. Whatever Jake and Rob planned for this place, it was obvious snacks on the run were not on the menu.
For all her life afterwards she remembered that meal.
First there were tiny garfish with slivers of lemon and curls of melting butter, cooked to perfection and leaving her mouth exploding with flavours of the sea.
She'd barely finished when fingers of crusty toast arrived, spread thickly with a creamy trout pate, with caviar on the side. Around the plate were tiny tomatoes, shreds of lettuce and curls of shallots. How could a salad taste of sunshine when winter was barely over? The greenhouse at the edge of the balcony gave her the clue.
The night grew more dream-like. Jake was filling her wineglass with something white and cool and luscious. She was achingly conscious of his presence, but he didn't speak to her and she didn't speak to him. Conversation was happening around her but she felt as if she was in some sort of bubble, free to be her with no intrusion.
Then came the lobster, and it took her breath away. It had to have been caught this morning, she thought. She'd never tasted lobster like this. She glanced up and Jake was watching her, enjoying her enjoyment. She should think of something to say, but it was too wonderful and she left him to think what he liked and went back to cracking a claw.
Or trying to crack a claw. She was struggling. Then Jake leaned over and cracked it for her, expertly, as though he'd cracked a thousand claws in his life. He tugged the flesh free and held it out. She almost took it straight into her mouth-but what was she thinking? Somehow she pulled back, took it in her fingers and slid it into her mouth herself. Almost decorous, but not quite.
Jake smiled and she tried to smile back and felt … and felt …
She didn't know what she was feeling. She wasn't making any sense to herself.
Rob was at her elbow then, asking if she wanted her wine refilled. She put her hand over her glass in a gesture of panic. Had she only had one glass? She felt dizzy. Or maybe floating was a better word.
They were eating by candlelight now. The night sky was full of stars and the moon was rising, vast and round. It was unseasonably warm, and the warmth was adding to her feeling that she'd been transported to another world.
Jake was watching her-she knew it-and that added to the floating sensation as well.
'You can't always eat like this,' she managed as the housekeeper put a parfait of raspberries and chocolate before her. Mmm.
'Jake said we were to pull out all the stops tonight,' Mrs. Matheson said.
'Though the food's wonderful all the time,' Glenda ventured. 'This place is fabulous. Doreen and I keep coming here, whenever we need time out, and it's like heaven. If only we could bring Pickles … '
'Pickles?'
'Our cat,' Glenda said, suddenly sad, and once again Tori noticed her wince as she moved her hand. 'He was very traumatised during the fires, but he's better now. We're all traumatised. We live in the relocatable village while we rebuild, but we both have health problems. When things get too much we put Pickles in the cattery and come here.'
'Why can't you bring him?' she asked, trying to focus on something other than the food, the night, Jake. Mrs. Matheson was setting down platters of frosted grapes and tiny chocolates, and Jake was watching her with an air of a genie producing his magic. She could reach out and touch him …
No.
'We don't welcome animals here,' Rob was telling her.
'But Rusty … '
'Rusty's a special request from the owner,' Rob said, giving Jake a rueful grin. 'Old Doc's wife was allergic to dog and cat hair. The no-pet rule seemed easiest so we've stuck with it.'
'Old Doc being your father?' she asked Jake, and he gave a curt nod as if he didn't want to go there.
But this was obviously news to Doreen and Glenda. Clearly no one had explained who Jake was until now-maybe there'd been no need. Maybe he hadn't even eaten with the guests until tonight. Now they looked astounded.
'You're Doc McDonald's son?' they gasped as one, and got another curt nod.
'Oh, my dear … ' Doreen whispered, sounding awed. 'Your father? He was the most wonderful man. Oh, when our papa died nothing was too much trouble.' She hesitated then, looking puzzled. 'You're not … He and Hazel didn't … ' And then her face cleared. 'I know. You're Diane's son.'
'That's right.' Jake's voice said, Don't go there, but Doreen had had a wonderful dinner and wonderful wine and she was past picking up subtleties.
'Oh, my dear, of course you are,' Doreen said. 'Thelma said you were at the funeral but no one believed her. But you're the little boy Doc lost. He broke his heart over you.'
'Not so much as you'd notice,' Jake snapped, clearly wanting to move on. 'I had no contact with my father from the time I was three. I heard from him only once after my mother took me back to the States, but I was a man by then and … well … even then he didn't seem keen to get to know me.'
'Well, that's nonsense,' Glenda snapped back, as if rising to bait. She clutched her hand and winced again, but a little pain wouldn't stop her defending a man she clearly idolised. 'I was postmistress in Combadeen for forty years and I can tell you that your father wrote to you every single week, from the day your mother took you away with that awful American. Big fat letters, they were, crammed with everything he could think of. He posted them every Friday. And you know what? Nearly every one of them came back, marked returned to sender. But he still kept sending them. Then about twenty years ago, he went over to the States. "I'm going to find him, Glenda," he told me, but three months later he came back. He looked dreadful-and he hadn't seen you. Your mother wouldn't let him near. Oh, that woman … '
Glenda's cheeks were pink with indignation, anger building and building. 'Not that it's any of my business,' she said, 'but to hear you say there was no contact … It makes my blood boil that your mother wouldn't let him keep in touch. But then he met Hazel. Even then, he and Hazel couldn't have children and I know he missed you every day of his life.'