Only We Know Read online

  Just a few minutes before, when he’d slipped an arm around her shoulders, she’d felt something shift and change between them. Something had turned up a notch. Her head and her heart had gone on a little holiday, it seemed, and she’d let herself relax in the comfort of his embrace. She hadn’t meant to drop her head on his shoulder the way she had, but something took over; something that wasn’t her loneliness, her head or her heart. It had felt so good to let go and allow herself to be comforted by him.

  Damn it. She stopped in her tracks and slapped a hand to her mouth.

  It wasn’t her head or her lonely heart that had kicked in. It was pure lust. It was the way any red-blooded woman would react when a man who looked like Sam Hunter pulled her close and hugged her. It was purely physical, that’s what it was. Which was such a relief. She hadn’t reverted to her old desperate self and read too much into what he’d surely meant as a kind gesture.

  She turned a corner from the main street. Good, she resolved as the little shop came into view. That all made complete sense. His kindness to her was nothing out of the ordinary. He was being a firefighter, that’s all. A professional hero. Phew. He’d been lovely to her but their lives would soon drift apart, as they should. Sam would be going to his father’s, and she was going home. Her quest to find Jem had been interrupted, at least for the time being, and she would have to regroup and come back another time.

  The yellow open sign hanging from a purple wooden post in the small front garden announced that the craft shop was ready for customers and Calla opened the purple screen door and walked inside. She slowly moved through the shop, taking in the handcrafted items, the pottery in dark browns and pale greens, plates and bowls and mugs. There were photographs, paintings and handmade items of country craft that Calla always loved to see when she travelled away from the city.

  She did that a lot. She went wherever the work was, whenever someone could scrape together enough money or win a grant to bring her in. A couple of times a year she conducted art workshops in country schools. She adored seeing the faces of country kids come alive when they had a paintbrush in their hands, especially the students who weren’t good at sport or maths or words, but could find pictures in their heads and recreate them on paper or canvas or wood or clay. Something came alive in them, and Calla loved watching it bloom.

  In every country destination, she made a point of stopping by the local arts and crafts shop. Most towns had them, filled with items made by people who’d been practising their craft for fifty years. Calla could paint, but she couldn’t knit or sew or crochet; she hadn’t taken the time when her grandmother was alive to learn them at her knee, and hadn’t had a mother who knew them. Whatever play time she’d had as a child, she’d spent with a paintbrush or a pencil or a crayon in her hand. The solitary nature of her artistic pursuit wasn’t an accident. When she was younger, she could hide away in her bedroom with a sketchpad and a pencil, loud music in her ears, and distance herself from the fighting and the tension and the ugliness of her parents’ relentless arguments. Sometimes, when it became unbearable, she would take Rose and an often-reluctant Jem to the playground at the end of the street, where they would play for hours on the slide and the swings and she could draw in the peaceful quiet of happy laughter and rustling leaves from the trees above her.

  ‘Hello there.’ An older woman with pale-grey hair knotted in a bun high on her head was sitting behind the counter of the craft shop, her knitting needles clicking a rhythm that sounded like a song.

  ‘Good morning,’ Calla replied. ‘What a lovely shop.’

  ‘All handmade here on the island. Let me know if I can help you with anything.’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’ Calla turned to her left and entered a room to the side of the reception area. It was filled to the brim with pottery, oil paintings, framed photographs, fine silk-screened scarves and postcards. She chose one for Rose, a black and white artistic shot of the view from Penneshaw’s cliff tops. In the main room, an old, scratched wooden table caught her eye. It displayed an assortment of jams, pickles and relishes. It was all so enticing that Calla’s fingers itched to buy the lemon marmalade she’d spotted. To its right, another wooden table was filled with knitted scarves, children’s jumpers and beanies. The pale light filtering through from outside illuminated the display. Calla’s eyes were drawn to a light olive-green knitted cap, with fine stripes of pink, burgundy, yellow and aqua. She couldn’t help but touch it, and it was feather soft and warm as toast under her fingertips. She lifted it, tugged it over her curls and bent her knees so she could see it in the display mirror. The crazy combination of colours picked up the colour of her eyes and she felt instantaneously warm. Like an Ugg boot for her head. Calla knew she had to have it.

  ‘Nice.’

  She let out a breath. That voice again. The deep rumble, the huskiness. She turned to Sam and rearranged the cap on her head. ‘You think so?’

  He stood in the middle of the shop, arms crossed, legs set slightly apart. A knowing smile on his lips and crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Here, let me help you with that.’ The woman from behind the counter stood up and approached Calla. ‘Pull it back a little bit and it will let your lovely curls be seen at the front.’ The woman arranged the cap and Calla checked it out in the mirror. She was right. Now it looked less football beanie and more French beret.

  ‘Thank you. It’s lovely,’ Calla said with an appreciative smile.

  ‘Aren’t those colours perfect for your wife?’ There was a distinctive sparkle in the old woman’s eyes as she stared adoringly at Sam.

  ‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’

  Calla pulled it off her head with a tug and widened her eyes in Sam’s direction.

  ‘Darling, doesn’t your dad love lemon marmalade? Or chutney? Perhaps some strawberry jam? There’s a wonderful display here and I think you should buy one of each for him, don’t you?’

  Sam looked like a cornered man. He glanced at the warm smile of the shop assistant and then cast a sideways glance at Calla as he pulled out his wallet. ‘What she said. I’ll take one of everything.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ the older woman murmured, a little aflutter. ‘I’ll pop out the back and get you a box to carry it all in.’

  When they were alone among the crafts, Calla flashed him an oversized smile. ‘I think you’ve just made her day, husband.’

  Sam took a step closer to her. ‘I think you could be right, wife.’

  Calla fiddled with her purchase, checked the mirror again to see how it looked. It seemed like the perfect souvenir. ‘I’m going to buy this. It’s beautifully made. And as warm as toast.’

  ‘You should,’ Sam said, close behind her.

  When Calla looked into the mirror again, she could see Sam’s reflection. He was staring into the mirror but he wasn’t checking himself out. He was looking at her, specifically at her mouth. She swallowed, felt that surge of hormones again. She straightened up and took a step backwards from the mirror, which meant she bumped right into him. He reacted quickly, his hands on her shoulders. She could feel his body pressed up against her, his breath in her hair. When she looked in the mirror again, their heads were cut off in the reflection and all she could see were their bodies close and together. His big hands on her shoulders, her back pressed against his chest. Her heart started to thump wildly in her chest and she moved sideways, hoping he hadn’t felt it.

  ‘Let’s pay for these things,’ she managed to say. ‘We’ve got to get going, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam said, reaching for his wallet.

  They waited together at the cash register as the old woman tallied up their purchases. Sam had tried to pay her for the knitted cap, but Calla had steadfastly refused. Once all the jars of jams and pickles were packed into a box, they said their goodbyes to the very grateful shop assistant, and turned towards the front door. Calla wore her new beanie at a jaunty angle. The jam jars tinkled against each other with every step Sam took.
A metre from the door, he stopped abruptly.

  Calla walked into the back of him. ‘You’ve really got to stop doing that,’ she warned as she braced her hands on his back.

  Sam didn’t answer for a moment. He was looking at a painting on the wall. She heard an explosive exhalation from his lips.

  ‘Well, fuck me,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’

  He took a step closer to the painting, leant in. ‘That’s my old man.’

  Calla moved next to him, had to get closer to it to see the detail in the painting. It was small, eight by ten, in oil, of an old man’s face. A shock of grey hair, huge brown eyes with wrinkles in the corners. He had full lips and the beginnings of a white beard. She blinked. The man in the picture could be Sam in forty years.

  ‘Wow.’ She looked from the painting to Sam. ‘You look like him.’

  Sam paused a moment. ‘So they say.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful work.’ She looked closer, admired the depth and texture of the strokes, the way the artist had smoothed and jagged the paint so you wanted to touch the contours. And that’s when Calla saw it. In the bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘Well, fuck me,’ she whispered.

  Sam turned his head to her. His arm brushed against her shoulder. ‘What?’

  ‘Look at the name. My brother painted this.’

  CHAPTER

  16

  Calla stood on the road out front of the shop. She was trying to breathe in the cool, fresh air and calm the percussion of her heart pounding in her chest. This trip was making her head spin in a million different directions.

  She’d found Jem.

  Excellent. That plan she had to find her brother, simplify her life and pull her family back together? It was all happening now, just as she’d wanted it to. So why did she feel shaky all of a sudden? She yanked off her new hat, feeling mysteriously hot in the chill wind.

  The door to the shop closed with a bang behind her, echoing in the wide and empty street. Then there were footsteps, long strides along the cement path and onto the bitumen road.

  ‘Looks like you’ve found him,’ Sam said.

  Calla took a deep breath.

  ‘Tell me this, Sam. What are the chances of there being two J. Maloneys in this world and, specifically, on this island?’

  He watched her for a moment, that little crease at the top of his nose appearing again as his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t remember any Maloneys around here when I was growing up. I know what you city people think about how small KI is, but it’s a myth that we know everyone. And I haven’t lived here for a really long time. A lot of artists come here to live and paint.’

  Calla shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat and started walking down the street towards the cliffs.

  ‘Wait. Where are you going?’

  She stopped. Turned back, shook her head furiously. ‘I have no idea. But I need to walk. It helps me think.’

  ‘Don’t go far. Just wait.’ While she paced, Sam stashed the box of jams and preserves in the back seat of his four-wheel drive, slammed the door shut and strode back inside the shop.

  Calla’s racing heart matched her quick footsteps on the bitumen road. She pulled her phone from the front pocket of her jeans. She had to call her sister.

  What on earth was she going to say?

  Hi Rose. There’s good news and bad news. My car’s totalled and I’m stranded. But, on the other hand, I’m closer to finding Jem. And I’m in accidental possession of a handsome firefighter.

  ‘Hey, Cal.’ Her sister’s voice was a warm welcome in the chill air.

  ‘Hey, Rose.’

  ‘How’s Kangaroo Island?’

  Calla took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed. ‘I have some news.’

  ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me. What is it?’

  Calla waited a beat, made sure she breathed first. ‘I think I’ve found Jem.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that didn’t take long.’

  ‘No. I mean, I still have some stuff to figure out, but —’

  ‘Where is he? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m still in Penneshaw. Listen … I need to bring you up to speed about a few things that have happened over here.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing. Tell me.’

  ‘I kind of ran into someone.’

  ‘Someone we know? Who is it?’

  ‘No, I mean in my car. I ran into someone.’

  ‘Oh crap, Calla. What — Where — How — Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t want you to worry. I’m completely fine. It was a minor bingle. But my car isn’t so fine.’

  ‘Calla, I’m getting a bad feeling about this. You sound weird.’

  ‘Everything’s good. Really.’ Calla dropped her voice. ‘The guy I ran into? He’s helping me out.’

  ‘Really? He’s not pissed off at you?’

  ‘No, he’s not. Look, it’s complicated and I’ll explain everything when I get back to Adelaide.’

  ‘This guy? What’s his name?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Calla froze. That wasn’t Rosie’s voice in her ear. It was Sam’s and he was right next to her.

  She cleared her throat, covered her mobile with the palm of her hand. ‘I’m talking to my sister.’

  ‘Okay.’ She couldn’t see the expression in his eyes because they were hidden behind his sunglasses but there was humour in his voice that gave him away.

  ‘Rose? I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’

  Calla ended the call. She shoved her phone in the pocket of her jeans. So he probably guessed that she’d been talking about him. She tried to find a smile that didn’t look like an embarrassed one.

  ‘Sorry if I interrupted something,’ he said.

  ‘No. No, you didn’t. Just checking in.’

  As Calla spoke, she noticed Sam had something tucked under his arm, a rectangular parcel wrapped in newspaper. She pointed to it. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I bought it.’

  ‘You bought the painting?’

  Sam nodded, then looked off into the distance. ‘Your brother’s good. It’s my old man in that painting, clear as day. You can feel the stubbornness leaping right out of the frame.’

  Calla’s shoulders slumped. ‘You bought the painting.’

  ‘Yep. And before you ask, the woman in the shop doesn’t have a number for your brother. Doesn’t know him. Barb’s only filling in while her friend Joan has an operation over in Adelaide. A hip replacement, apparently, and her sons don’t visit her and Cath is looking after her dog and is worried that it’s fretting without Joan.’

  ‘You got all that in two minutes?’

  Sam shrugged and, damn, there was that sexy grin again. It obviously got him whatever he wanted. ‘What can I say?’

  Calla rolled her eyes.

  ‘Barb suggested we come back tomorrow when her friend Pam is working. Pam knows everything about everyone on the island, apparently.’

  ‘Hold the phone. What’s with the “we”?’ Calla shook her head. There was no ‘we’. There was her. And him. And one car and a boat between her and the mainland.

  ‘Settle down. She thinks we’re married, remember?’ And there it was again. There was laughter in that voice. She wanted to smack him.

  ‘Right.’ Calla couldn’t believe it. So far on this trip, she’d lost her lunch and her car but had apparently found a husband and now, maybe even her brother.

  ‘So,’ Sam said.

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘Now?’ Calla huffed. ‘First of all, I’d really appreciate that lift back to the cabin so I can pack up. Second of all, I have to figure out what the hell to do with my car. And third of all, and most importantly, I need to get a ticket on the next boat back to the mainland. Where is the SeaLink office?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Sam said, frustration instead of laughter dripping from his words now. He lifted his sunglasses, propped them on top of his unr
uly dark hair and trained his eyes on her with military precision. ‘You still want to go back to Adelaide? After what we’ve just discovered?’

  ‘I don’t think I have any other choice, do you?’

  Yeah, he obviously did.

  ‘You don’t want to hang around and maybe check back here again tomorrow? See if anyone knows where Jem is?’

  ‘While that may sound like a good plan to you, it’s not to me. I’m screwed, Sam. Without a car, there’s no way I can go investigating on the island. I’m bussin’ it back to Adelaide. I’ll have to come back some other time.’

  He looked at her, his eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think so.’ There was a hint of arrogance in his words, in the way he, once again, was trying to tell her what to do, and she prickled. She hadn’t convinced him to butt out of her business, after all. Goodbye, Mr Nice Guy. Farewell, Mr White Knight. Hello, Arrogant Arsehole. Hello, Mr It’s My Way Or The Highway.

  ‘Oh no, Sam. No way. I know you think you can, but you can’t.’

  ‘Can’t what?’

  ‘Tell me what to do,’ Calla bit back. ‘I know what it must be like for you. You just snap your fingers and people do exactly what you say. You’re tall and handsome and you rescue people for a living and the ones you save, especially the women, must be so incredibly swoony and grateful when you do the hero thing.’

  ‘Oh sure, that’s the story of my life right there.’ She saw the tension in his clenched jaw and heard the anger flare in his words.

  ‘The hero thing won’t work on me, Sam Hunter. I’m totally immune to your charms.’

  ‘My charms?’ When he took a step closer, Calla took a step back. ‘You think I’m trying to charm you?’

  ‘Well. Aren’t you?’

  ‘You think that I … believe me, the last thing I want is …’ He stopped, clamped his lips shut and glared at her.

  ‘Is what, Sam?’

  He breathed deep and held her gaze. She stared right back at him until her eyes stung and she had to blink.

  ‘All I’m saying, Calla … All I’m suggesting to you … is that I think you’ll regret going home right now, when you’re this close.’