Taking the Plunge by J. B. Reynolds

Author:J. B. Reynolds [Reynolds, J. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780473491505
Publisher: Tsubaki Press
Published: 2019-10-11T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

At six o’clock on Saturday evening Kate pulled to a stop outside Lawrence’s rented house, the wheels of her Santa Fe crunching in the gravel. A small, two-bedroom, colonial-style cottage on the western edge of Cromwell, it was the guest house for a much larger dwelling. The owners, the MacDowells, had a long family history in the area, going right back to the gold rush. Both buildings were surrounded by a sprawling English country garden — or as much of an English country garden as was possible in the arid climate of Central Otago.

After turning off the engine, she took a moment to compose herself. In the weeks since Lawrence had moved in she’d avoided coming here, preferring to do hand-overs in the familiar territory of her own home. It had taken further needling from her mother to get her to agree to his invitation, and she hadn’t confirmed her acceptance till earlier that morning when Lawrence had phoned to ask. She’d then spent the rest of the day regretting it.

She slid out of the car and paused, listening to the gentle lap of waves on the lake-shore beyond the garden. Sniffing, she caught the faint scent of rosemary and thyme. All was peaceful — except for her heart, which pounded in her chest, threatening to burst through her ribcage. She pushed the door shut and made her way along the cobbled path towards the cottage. The path was bordered by a line of rose bushes, heavily pruned, standing like stunted, spiky skeletons in the darkening twilight, awaiting the warm hand of spring. She thought about turning around and driving home, but was stopped by the idea of having to explain that choice to her mother.

On the doorstep she paused again, feeling nauseous, a strange mix of loathing and curiosity churning in her stomach. She felt the need to fart, and let one off, a little insect squeak in the night, before raising the brass door-knocker and dropping it three times in quick succession.

She heard movement inside and Lawrence opened the door. Soft vanilla lamplight flowed from behind him, accompanied by mellow, shuffling jazz music.

“Ahh Kate,” he said, a broad smile on his face. “Fashionably late, as always.”

“A woman’s prerogative,” replied Kate, her tone cool as the night.

“Of course, of course.” He moved aside to wave her in. “May I take your jacket?”

She swallowed, then nodded and stepped across the threshold. She shrugged her jacket off and handed it to him, glad he made no move to touch her, then surveyed the room. It was open plan, high-ceilinged, yet cosy and warm, firelight flickering through the sooty grate of a pot belly stove against the wall to her right. Beyond the stove, a wooden staircase rose up and across the rear wall, leading to the bedrooms. To her left was a small kitchen, the cupboards chipped and battered, and in front of her were two ancient sofas, faded green with bright orange blankets draped over them. The overall effect was comforting, old-fashioned, almost kitsch.

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