The Second Promise

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“Save it,” she said with indifference, then turned back to the peony bush and lopped off a dead head. “Anyway, what do you care what I think?”

Good question. And one he wasn’t prepared to answer right now.

“I just want you to do my garden.” He brandished her signed, typewritten quote. “We made a deal.”

That instant he remembered that he’d made a deal, too—with her father. A contract signed before Christmas, which had more than ten months to run. She met his gaze with a level, sardonic stare.

“So sue me.” She bent to pick up her basket.

“I’ll pay you double.” He saw her hesitate, and triumph surged through him. Until he remembered it was because of him that she and her father would be hungry for money.

Holding her basket in front of her with both hands on the curving handle, she eyed him with disdain. “You can’t keep your company in the red. How could you afford to pay me double?”

“That’s not your concern.” From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Art’s face at the kitchen window. Then Maeve’s father ducked away.

“You can’t buy my respect,” Maeve said. “And I wouldn’t take your blood money if I was starving.” She reached into her pocket for a small note-pad, scribbled something on it and handed it to him. “Just to be nice, I’ll give you the number of a colleague of mine—Peter Davies. He’ll do a good job.”

Will crumpled the scrap of paper. He wanted her. He wanted the magic she’d promised. And although he hated to admit it, she was right. He wanted, at least in her eyes, to not be the bad guy.

He was losing perspective, he told himself. Having lost control of his company, he was desperate to control other aspects of his life. He forced himself to smooth out the paper, fold it properly and tuck it in his pocket.

The garden wasn’t that important. Maeve’s opinion of him wasn’t life threatening.

“I need to talk to your father before I go. I’ll catch you later.”

He was about to return to the house, when he spotted a solar panel lying on its side up against the wall of the garden shed. “What’s this?”

She shrugged, clearly through talking to him but bound by innate courtesy to answer. “Just part of an experiment I’m running. Dad was trying to figure out a way to increase the energy output of the solar panel so I could heat a large volume of running water. So far he hasn’t had any luck.”

Will crouched to examine the electronic control box connecting the solar panel with a twelve-volt battery. “You wouldn’t get a lot of heating capacity out of a panel this size,” he agreed. “Why not use a larger one?”

“I can’t afford it.”

“What’s your experiment about?”

“Look, don’t worry about it. It’s just something I was trying out to help my friend Rose. She raises hydroponic herbs for a living.”

“Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“I doubt it.” He waited. “Oh, all right. You know that in hydroponics, plants grow in a soilless medium and water containing nutrients flows over the roots.”

He nodded.

“Well, my experiment aims to determine the optimum temperature of the hydroponic solution so as to boost production. I want to test growth rates of a variety of herbs at three different temperatures.”

“That sounds interesting. How are you regulating the water temperature?”

“That’s the other problem,” she said, sounding frustrated. “I’ve got a water heater but not the technology to produce three different temperatures simultaneously, which I have to do to ensure that—”

“Other factors influencing plant growth are equal. I get it.” He turned the control box over in his hands. This was just the type of problem he loved to sink his teeth into. “If I could take this to my workshop, I could have a go at fixing it.”

“No, thank you.” She plucked it out of his hands. “Goodbye.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He cast a last reluctant glance at the solar panel, and went back to the house. After knocking once, he pushed open the screen door.

Art looked up from his newspaper, unabashed at openly searching for another job. “Get what you wanted from her?”

“Er, no.”

“Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed,” Art intoned with grim satisfaction.

“I disagree, although I can see why you might hold that opinion. But there’s a silver lining in every cloud. I planned to talk to you at work tomorrow about an offer I hope you’ll take up, but if it’s convenient, we could talk now.”

“All right. Will it affect Maeve?”

“I suppose it would, indirectly.”

“Then I’ll call her in. Care for a beer?”

“Thanks.”

Art reached into the fridge for a pair of thick green bottles, the type that usually contained imported German beer.

“I brew my own,” Art said, setting the bottle and a clean glass in front of Will.

“Ah.” Will reached for it, anticipating the cold tart flavor with relish. “Where did you get all the bottles?”

Art tipped his head and winked. “That, me old son, was a labor of love.”

The phone rang, and Art crossed the kitchen to answer it. “Hello? Yep, hang on a tick.” He carried the receiver to the back door, stretching the phone cord as far as it could reach. “Maevie! Phone.”

Maeve came in, dropped her basket on the counter and took the receiver from her father, averting her gaze from Will as she leaned against the counter. “Hello?”

As Maeve listened, her face turned pale. Lowering her voice, she walked as far away as the phone cord would allow, to stand in the doorway between kitchen and lounge room, her back to them.

“Pour carefully,” Art said, pretending not to notice. “You don’t want the sediment in the bottom of the bottle.”

“I used to make beer when I was at university.” Will expertly tilted his glass and poured, then held it up to the light, all the while aware of Maeve. “Nice color. Wheat beer, is it?”

Art looked pleased. “Bit of an aficionado, are you?”

“Passionate.” His gaze flicked to Maeve. Her shoulders were hunched and stiff. “What footy team do you barrack for?”

“Collingwood Magpies,” Art proclaimed. “Like my father and grandfather before me.”

“I’m a Carlton Blues fan myself.” Will sipped his beer. “Hey, this is good.”

Art nodded, but his smile was forced. He, too, was aware of Maeve’s tension. “Her ex-husband,” he explained in a low voice.

“We should give her some privacy.” Will started to rise.

Abruptly, she hung up.

Art swiveled in his chair. “Maevie, love, you okay?”

Dry-eyed and drawn, she nodded. She glanced at the full beer in Will’s hand. “I’ll be out in the garden.”

“Will has something important to discuss with me,” Art said, as she started to leave. “You’re to stay and hear it, too.”

“More bad news?” Her voice was bitter.

“Maevie, be polite,” Art said quietly.

“You might as well listen,” Will said. “I’m sure Art will want to talk it over with you, in any case.”

Maeve got herself a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and sat next to her father. She pushed up her sleeves and leaned on the table, faint scratches visible on her tanned forearms. “Well, what is it?”