Margaret Way - Marriage At Murraree

She was hardly settled in her chair before a plump, middle-aged woman reminiscent of someone’s mother on a sitcom came up to her, beaming. “I thought it was. You’re Casey McGuire, aren’t you? I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard you sing back in Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I’m on holiday staying with my niece. She’s over there.” She gestured towards a table. “Dee Walker, that’s my name.” She held out her hand.

What else could a girl do. Casey shook it. “Thanks for the kind words, Dee, but I won’t be doing any singing around here.”

Dee’s double chin quivered as if she might cry. “Not even if I asked you? Folks would love it.”

Casey stared up at the woman’s plum-hued hair. “I’m like you, Dee, I’m on vacation.” Dee wore a plum lipstick as well.

Dee wasn’t the sort of person who took no for an answer. She leaned her hands on the table. “Look, I’ve set myself the little task of getting you to sing. I bet hubby I could.”

“Dee, I’m about to order. I’m very hungry.”

“Later then?” Dee was nothing if not persistent. It had worked countless times in the past. People just folded before they got a migraine.

Casey wasn’t one of them. She was about to put a stop to Dee, only a voice she knew breathed over her shoulder. “Hey, sorry I’m late!” Next minute Troy Connellan dropped an audacious kiss on her cheek before taking the chair opposite her.

“Oh, I’m intruding,” Dee Walker said, looking pleasantly flustered.

“Nice to meet you, Dee,” Casey gave her a big bright smile. “Bye now.”

Dee left reluctantly while Connellan rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me. She wanted to know if that hot hair was real?”

“You’ve heard about wigs in the sticks?”

“Hell, yes. What did she want?”

For some unknown reason she told him. “She wanted me to sing a song.”

“Imagine that!” One bronze eyebrow shot up. “What are we talking about here? Grand opera, pop, rock and roll, maybe the blues?” He had already noted her speaking voice, low and rich, full of sexy modulations.

She looked at him through narrowed, hostile eyes. “I’m sorry I told you.”

He shook his head. “Contrary to what you may believe, any one of those styles is possible. You have a voice people would want to listen to. So did Jock come to think of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone spin a yarn like McIvor. That voice of his could weave spells.”

“Can we leave McIvor out of this?” she asked sharply

“Sounds like you don’t have a good opinion of him?”

“Go on. Dig a bit further,” she challenged.

Again he shook his head. “I’m here for a nice chat and to have a good dinner. Have you ordered yet?”

“Dee got in the way,” she said sarcastically.

“Allow me.” He held up a hand. Immediately a pretty young waitress with dyed platinum hair curling around her head, hurried to their table.

“Yes, Troy?”

He smiled up at her. “How are things with you, Debby?”

“Just the same as when you left, Troy. Pretty tame, but I have dreams.”

It looked very much like Connellan was one of them, Casey thought, sitting back and listening to the exchange. It went on for a minute more before they ordered. Fresh barramundi had arrived from the Gulf, so what else? French fries, green salad on the side.

“Thanks, Debby.” Connellan handed her the menus. “We’ll let you know if we want dessert.”

“Thank you, Troy,” she said, eyes glowing, cheeks pink.

“One of your girlfriends?” Casey asked. “Or not high enough up the social scale?”

“Debby’s just a kid,” he frowned. His white shirt revealed a glimpse of broad bronzed torso, a gold ring in his ear would have finished the look off perfectly. Even his thick hair curled up from his collar.

“A kid with a crush,” Casey pointed out.” Whereas you’re exactly the age Debby is attracted to. You did a good job making her want to grow up. Fast.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Another signal of the hand. “What’s it to be?” He turned back to Casey. “Beer or wine? I guess a glass of wine wouldn’t kill me.”

“Perhaps you should go sit at another table?” she suggested sweetly.

“Don’t be like that, McGuire. Waiter’s coming. What’s it to be?”

“A nice crisp Riesling,” she said.

The generous mouth compressed. “If they’ve got it. Crisp Riesling drinkers don’t come in all that often.”

“Try them,” she said.

The owner of the pub, a pleasant-looking man with bright blue eyes took her request very seriously. He smiled their way and waved a hand, indicating he had just what she wanted in stock.

Not only that, the bottle arrived nicely chilled.

Troy poured. “You’re going to drink this whole bottle by yourself?” he mocked.

“If that’s okay with you.” She gave a uncaring shrug. “I’ll have as little or as much as I like. Who the heck asked you to join me, may I ask?”

“No use glowering at me,” he said. “I was rescuing you from Dee. You come on real strong, don’t you McGuire?”

“Hasn’t stopped you coming back for more. And who said you could call me McGuire?”

“I distinctly recall your calling me Connellan. What’s good for the goose, etc., etc. What do you say we call it a truce while we polish off the barramundi?”

“Fine. I plan on going to bed early.”

It wasn’t to turn out that way. The main course was so delicious they followed it with a chocolate mousse then coffee.

“Who’s paying, by the way?” he asked.

“You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to take a rise out of me.”

“I just can’t make out if you actually smile or not.” He looked boldly into her eyes.

“Wouldn’t you just love to tell me it’s just like McIvor’s.”

“Jock McIvor was renowned for his sexual prowess,” he said. “Part of the appeal was his flashing smile.”

“He must have exercised it a lot,” she said contemptuously. “Don’t look for it from me. I had a tough childhood.”

“Really?” He leaned closer. “Turns out so did I. Maybe we can compare notes? Let’s order another coffee seeing you’re paying.”

She nodded. For one reason only, or so she told herself. The short black had been very good. She’d only had two glasses of wine, so she’d take the rest of the bottle up to her room. Maybe have another drop to help her sleep. Alcohol wasn’t going to be her downfall. She could take it or leave it.

Five minutes later Dee descended on them again. This time wearing elaborate spectacles. She seemed tremendously excited. “I’ve waited and waited,” she announced. “But now you’re finished. There’s a young man here with a guitar. Says his name is John Denver. Joking of course. He said he’d lend you his guitar if you would sing. I’ve spoken to the publican. Such a nice man! He said his customers would love it.”

Casey hoped her smile was okay. “Fact is, Dee, I don’t usually sing after a meal.” She had numerous times but not professionally.

“If I were you,” Connellan chipped in. “I’d get it over.”

“Why can’t you just keep out of it?” Casey fired.

“I’d lurve to hear you,” he drawled. “Never let it be said I don’t enjoy the finer things in life.”

“Oh, please, please,” Dee added, for good measure putting her hands together in a little clap. “Look here comes Johnny with his guitar.”

“Wonder it’s not Elvis,” Connellan murmured, giving her a gold-gleaming glance full of humour. “Clearly you’re caught!”

Casey took the tiny stage to much applause and more than a few loud whistles. She’d been so engrossed crossing swords with Troy Connellan she really hadn’t registered the amount of interest she’d been getting. If people whispered among themselves at Cullen Creek, at Koomera Crossing speculation was rife. The consensus of opinion. “Got to be one of Jock’s!”