The Auction a Romance by Anna Erishkigal Read online

  I tossed her shoes into the boot and listened to her happy chatter the entire ride home. She practically floated through supper, and when she was done I managed to squeeze in a half page of fractions before it occurred to her she was afraid to do them. I tousled her hair and told her not to worry. At the IGA, I'd bought enough strawberries to make a one-and-a-half recipe of strawberry-rhubarb pie. Evil me! I chuckled at my own deviousness.

  The phone rang at seven-fifteen. My hand tingled as I picked up the receiver. My voice sounded breathless as I said 'hello.'

  "G'day, Miss Rosamond," Adam's warm baritone filled the telephone. "It's time to say my nightly goodnights."

  "Pippa's in the kitchen."

  "And how are you doing this evening?"

  I smiled. Adam always asked about my day before he asked me to put Pippa on the phone.

  "Pippa went horseback riding today."

  "Did she do okay?" He sounded worried.

  "She did great," I said. "Never have I seen a kid so happy to muck out a stall. I snapped a couple of pictures, but I have no way to email them to you unless you know of someplace I can pick up some reception."

  "You can sometimes get three bars if you climb into the hayloft on the far end of the barn," Adam said.

  "Do you want me to upload them someplace so you can share them with your family?"

  "No." Adam's voice turned curt. "Keep my daughter off of social media."

  Part of me rankled at the sudden change in his demeanor, but the other part, the part who'd dealt with other parents gun-shy about people's tendency to upload indiscriminately, understood.

  "If you had internet access, you could Skype Pippa every night."

  Adam grew silent.

  "I'd like that." The combative sound of his voice disappeared. "But I already checked. There's no broadband in this area. I researched dialup, but I never did anything about it because my mother was techno-phobic."

  "Skype doesn't work with dialup."

  "That's too bad." Adam sounded disappointed. "I'd love to read Pippa her bedtime story, but all we have here is satellite phone."

  Pippa came bounding in, her expression ecstatic.

  "Is that Daddy?"

  "Yup," I said. "And he wants to talk to you."

  I handed the phone to Pippa and listened as she chattered away about riding Polkadot and making a new friend.

  Keep chipping away at him, Nipper. Your Daddy worships the ground you walk on. If it makes you happy, you -know- he'll buy you your own horse eventually.

  Chapter 10

  After another week spent getting closer to Pippa, I felt almost jealous when Adam got home and, all of a sudden, I became invisible. Sure, both father and daughter invited me to tag along, but I could sense a desperate pull between them to spend what little time they had together to bond. Having lost my own father to my mother's machinations, I did my best to stay out of their way.

  I was relieved when Linda Hastings called on Saturday morning to ask if I'd be willing to drive her into town.

  "Sure," I said. "Just let me tell Adam, and then I'll be right over."

  I followed the sound of banging to find Adam hammering a board into a brand-new post he'd just dug to repair the fence. Pippa sat straddled on an adjacent strip of fence, dictating to her father the next place she thought he should drive a nail. They were two radiant creatures of the sunlight: Pippa, the beautiful, white-blonde child whose hair shone like the penumbra of a glistening star; and Adam, her golden-haired father whose hair the sunlight transformed into a fulgent golden crown. A lump rose in my throat as I realized Adam's hair was the exact same color as Harvey's coat had been.

  "Adam?"

  I forced myself to meet his eyes instead of ogling the firm, suntanned navel which peeked out from his unbuttoned shirt.

  "Ahh, Rosie," Adam said. "Care to help us replace some fence posts?"

  "I, uhm…" I glanced at the stack of pressure treated lumber. "Actually I, uhm. Would it be okay if I drive Linda Hastings into town?"

  Adam grinned, revealing a set of perfect teeth. A curious flutter trembled deep within my belly as the sun's warmth elevated the temperature of my skin. Adam turned to his daughter.

  "Do you hear that, Miss Muffet? Rosamond has decided to leave all this work to us?"

  "Will you see Emily and Polkadot today?" Pippa asked.

  "Not today, nipper," I said. "At least I don't think so. Linda asked me to help her deliver her farm goods."

  "Linda has always been my guardian angel," Adam said. "Whatever she needs, if I can help her in any way, just let me know?"

  "I will," I said. "Though she's so independent, I don't think she'll ask unless she's desperate."

  "She always has been," Adam laughed. "She's the only person who was never afraid of my father."

  His smile disappeared. Pippa's face fell as well. Adam broke eye contact and grabbed the post-hole digger, jamming it into the ground as though he wished to smite a demon. So? The fearsome ghost had reared its ugly head again? Tonight, like it or not, Adam and I would have a little chat.

  "Okay, then," I said. "Have fun."

  I gathered some things and hopped into the Falcon. Within minutes I was at Linda's house, loading woven baskets full of colorful produce into the boot of my car which was large enough to hide a couple of bodies. Linda hobbled out onto the porch with her four-pronged cane, carrying a small, knit blanket wrapped in a yellow bow.

  "Could you put this up the front, Rosie? I don't want it to get dirty."

  I admired the intricate intarsia pattern and soft fiber, a blend of hand-spun wool and alpaca from Linda's livestock. It smelled lightly of lanolin and some other scent I couldn't place, perhaps chamomile?

  "Did you make this?"

  "Of course." Linda said. "It's for Macy Robertson, the teacher who's about to go on maternity leave at Saint Joseph's. As soon as we get these deliveries done, we'll be stopping by to pay her a visit."

  "But I don't know Macy," I said. "And I didn't buy her a gift."

  "It's just for tea," Linda laughed, "not a baby shower. I thought it would provide the perfect excuse to introduce you."

  I gave Linda a noncommittal smile. I'd been so busy with Pippa I hadn't had a chance to send out any resumes, especially not for a substitute teaching job which would only last for a couple of months. But I was touched by the fact that she even cared.

  "Okay," I said. "But before we go, I want to stop at the IGA to pick up something sweet to accompany the tea."

  "Oh, dear Rosie!" Linda laughed. "You know I already took care of that!"

  She hobbled back into her house. I finished loading vegetables into the boot and, once that was full, into the back seat, along with two coolers filled with eggs, homemade cheese, and fresh, unpasteurized goat's milk. A few moments later Linda came out carrying her purse and two golden loaves of fruit bread. I helped her down the steps which, to an elderly woman with a gimpy hip, might as well have been the Eiffel Tower.

  "Where to?"

  "It's more of a route," Linda said. "My hemp and fiber sell at the commercial markets, but most of my garden customers all live local."

  What I'd assumed would be a quick stop at a wholesale distributor turned out to be a pleasant, day-long social visit with half the population of Nutyoon, all of them friendly, and every one of them intently curious about how I'd come to live with the long-lost Bristow son.

  It was, I was certain, more socializing than my entire previous twenty-three years of life combined.

  "You ready for one more stop?" Linda asked.

  "Macy?"

  "Ah-yup," Linda said. "Take the second street on the left."

  We pulled up to a sprawling ranch-style home which, by the looks of it, had been added onto several times. In the front yard, a chestnut-haired boy of about twelve pushed a lawnmower, while off to one side an identical girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, stood next to a little sister, together spraying a bed of tomatoes with a hose.

  "Are these a
ll Macy's kids?"

  "Some of them," Linda said. "She has eight, soon to be nine."

  "Oof!" I laughed. "She'd fit right in with a Gitano gypsy family."

  My father had wanted to give me brothers and sisters, but my mother insisted she would bear no more children than we could afford. They'd had countless shouting matches about her expensive country club membership, her second-hand luxury cars, and the fact our house was perpetually under renovation; while my mother countered that Harvey's upkeep drained the family budget. It didn't surprise me when, the moment their divorce became final, my father skipped back to the old country to take a Gitano wife.

  A self-assured looking girl, perhaps fifteen, came to the door.

  "Mom! Linda's here!"

  The house erupted with dark-haired children like that scene in The Mummy when scarab beetles crawl out of the ground. These busy beetles, however, were decidedly helpful, and within moments the last of Linda's produce disappeared, leaving us standing next to my now-empty car.

  "Come on in." Linda grabbed the fruit bread. "Macy's getting too big to get around."

  She made me carry the baby blanket, Linda meddling in my future teaching career. I didn't have the heart to tell her that, as soon as my stint finished up with Pippa, I would likely head back towards Brisbane to find a permanent teaching job.

  "Hello?" Linda called into the open doorway.

  "Linda, come in!" a voice called from inside.

  We passed through a living room which, while tastefully decorated, bore the mark of much difficult kid-wear. At its center stood a glass coffee table with grey pipe-insulation tubes jammed onto its sharp edges. Along one wall hung hundreds of pictures, each of them arranged into artful mélanges. Some of the kids were obviously Macy's, while others wore the plaid-and-green uniforms of Saint Joseph's school.

  The house reeked of roasted garlic, sautéed oregano, and just a touch of pepper. In the kitchen, a petite, chestnut-haired woman stood in front of the stove, bending awkwardly forward past a burgeoning belly to dump freshly diced tomatoes into an enormous pot.

  "You must be Rosie." Macy Robinson gave me a disarming smile. "You'll have to forgive the mess, but … kids. You know how it is?"

  "Yes, I do." I shook her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  The teenage girl who'd initially come to the door stood at the counter, rummaging through one of the baskets she'd carried in.

  "I found the basil, Mom!"

  "Thanks, sweetie," Macy said. "Could you please rinse it off and mince it up for the pot?"

  She handed her daughter the juice-stained cutting board and then sank down into a kitchen chair with a sigh.

  "I love fresh tomato season," Macy said. "But putting it all up for the winter seems to take longer every year."

  "That's because you keep having more kids to put up for," Linda said. "At some point you'll have to switch to sauce out of a jar."

  "Never," Macy grinned. She gestured towards her daughter, who now stood at the sink, rinsing off the basil in preparation for cooking. "Not with so many hands to keep busy and out of mischief."

  I sat down and handed Macy the baby blanket.

  "This is from Linda."

  While Macy oohed and fondled the blend of wool, I watched Macy's daughter work, competent and self-assured as she minced the basil into tiny pieces. My own mother never wanted me to mess up her kitchen. In fact, she only cooked when there was somebody to impress. My father, on the other hand, spoke fondly of being raised in a family with eleven kids, every one of them expected to help out. What kind of mother had Adam's wife been? The latter, I suspected, given Pippa's un-childlike obsession with cleanliness.

  "Rosie?" Linda's voice brought me back to earth.

  "I'm sorry," I blushed. "I was just admiring your kitchen helper."

  "Annalise is a big help, aren't you sweetie?" Macy said.

  Annalise shot me a look that was halfway between a teenage 'aw…mom' eye-roll and a little kid's happy wiggle. She reminded me of Pippa after she'd completed making 'math muffins.'

  "Rosie has been teaching Adam's little girl to bake," Linda said.

  "She has, has she?" Macy gave me an approving smile. "Education through work is one of the building blocks of a sound education."

  "Macy started out as a Montessori teacher," Linda said, "before she got snapped up by Saint Joseph's."

  "We received training about the Montessori method," I said. "As well as Waldorf and Reggio Emilia. I did a six month practicum at a Waldorf preschool in Brisbane."

  "Done right, they're all good." Macy grew thoughtful. "It took me a while to adapt to the Archdiocese's essentialistic teaching philosophy, but by the time a kid gets to the higher grades, honestly, most of them have outgrown the Montessori work-through-play." Macy pointed to her daughter. "Nowadays, it's work-through-work, and with eight kids, Lord only knows I've got enough of that to keep everybody busy!"

  I retreated into my quiet, watchful place as Macy and Linda went off on an animated tangent about the latest gossip at Saint Joseph's and the local State School. Annalise finished up what she was doing, turned the pot of tomato sauce down to a simmer, and excused herself to go do something more interesting than listen to three school teachers cackle like a bunch of hens. After about an hour, Macy began to look weary and rub her belly. It was, I could tell, time to go.

  "It was nice meeting you." I shook Macy's hand goodbye.

  "Send in your application to Principal McMillan," Macy said. "I'll be sure to give you a positive reference."

  "Thank you."

  I drove Linda home and unloaded the empty coolers into her milk-production barn. Her son Edgar had beaten us there and was in the process of milking the goats. I handed Linda over to her son's capable hands and drove home with yet another basket of goodies.

  Adam's car and the ute were still parked in the courtyard when I finally returned home. I stared at the modest yellow ranch-style house, the empty window-boxes, the faded lawn, and the weedy flower beds with perennials which fought to survive. As recently as last year, this house had been well taken care of. It was sad to see the station fade. Was that why Adam's mother visited me each night in my dreams?

  Pippa came bursting out of the barn, her white shorts and mint-green t-shirt now stained with dirt.

  "Rosie! Daddy was telling me about the horse he owned as a boy!"

  I followed Pippa into the room where Adam kept the tools. Bits of sawdust stuck to his hair as he painstakingly glued bric-a-brac to a dollhouse. As he moved, the muscles in his forearm flexed, whispering of strength, a ridiculous contrast to the task of gluing together a little girl's toy.

  "Ahh, Rosamond," Adam glanced up. "Pippa feared you would never return."

  "Linda made me do the rounds," I laughed. "I think she dragged me to every house in town."

  "She taught school in this town for forty-five years," Adam said. "Her former students make sure she's always got a market to sell her goods."

  "I don't get it," I said. "How does she keep her farm so green when every other farm in the territory is turning brown?"

  "Linda has one of the few wells in town which never runs dry," Adam said. "Local legend claims there's a sacred aboriginal well which bubbles up here in times of drought, though during the Millennium Drought, even she had to sacrifice most of her crops."

  "What about now?" I asked. "Word in town is everybody is worried about this latest drought cycle?"

  "It's not too bad here," Adam said, "but the outback stations are becoming desperate. Whether or not you believe in global warming, every year, Australia is drying down."

  I held out the lumpy Asian cabbage Linda's son just sent me home with.

  "If you don't mind, I think I'll go in and start making supper. If I can find a recipe for bok choy."

  "Maybe stir-fry it?" Adam's face lit up in a hopeful grin. "It was my mother's solution for all things strange."

  "Thanks," I said. "Maybe I will."

  Australian Cookery of T
oday made no mention of Asian cabbage, but I found a small, red booklet entitled Chinese Cooking Class. A short time later two dirty, hungry-looking Bristows and a very dusty dog sniffed their way into the kitchen to see what was on the menu. Father and daughter alike broke into a grin, while Thunderlane's tongue lolled to the side, no doubt dreaming of the scraps Pippa would slide beneath the table.

  "Chicken chow mein?" Adam asked.

  "I had to wing it," I said. "I hope powdered ginger is okay?"

  "It sure smells good," Adam said. "Lots of ginger and garlic. Just the way I like it."

  "Is it ready?" Pippa asked.

  "Not until you hop into the shower," Adam said. "I don't know who got dirtier, you or me?"

  Pippa looked down at her clothing and frowned.

  "Mommy will be angry I got my clothes all dirty."

  Adam's smile disappeared.

  "When you're with me, you can get as dirty as you like."

  He herded his daughter into the bathroom, and then came out to lurk hungrily alongside the dog while Pippa took her shower. I set the plates and silverware out, thwacking his hand with a wooden spoon when I snagged him snitching a bit of chicken out of the pan.

  "You're worse than the dog!"

  He gave me a grin that did things to my knees.

  "Have I told you lately how much I appreciate your cooking?"

  "No," I said. "But from the way you always gobble it down, either you're always starving, or you really like it."

  Adam's grin grew broader, so radiant it made my chest hurt. The musky scent of sweat and hard physical labor mixed with dirt still clung to his work clothes. I edged closer, some primitive part of my brain hungry for the scent of male testosterone.

  "Would you be angry if I confess it's a little of both?" Adam said.

  "At least you're honest."

  "Hey … there's nothing wrong with hunger as an appetizer!"

  A warm expansiveness forced my face to crack into a bashful smile. Gregory had been such a picky eater that I'd finally given up on all but variations of the same three foolproof recipes. Adam, on the other hand, ate whatever I stuck in front of him. It made me want to try more, since no matter what I cooked, somebody always appreciated it, even if it was only the dog.