Outback Wife and Mother. Barbara Hannay

if the truth be told. She had never known that lovemaking could be so imaginative, beautiful and exciting all at once. But the end result was her very sure knowledge that she was not the type to enjoy casual sex. It had never happened that way before. Never before had she simply met a man she wanted and thought that alone was an excuse for intimacy. And now she was paying the price for giving away her heart and her body so easily.

      She had fallen in love. Hopeless, unreturned love.

      She rolled over and buried her head in the pillow, giving in to the luxury of tears—of huge, gasping, noisy sobs.

      She wasn’t sure how long she had lain there deep in her misery before the phone on her bedside table rang loudly, startling her. Automatically, she lifted the receiver without stopping to consider that she was in no fit state to take a call.

      ‘Hello, Ally. Ally, are you there?’

      ‘Yes,’ she blubbered, shoving the bunched-up corner of the sheet into her mouth to stifle more sobs.

      ‘Ally, it’s Lucette.’

      ‘Oh, hi. How—how are you?’

      ‘Much better thanks. But I was knocked out by this flu. I can’t believe my rotten luck missing the show.’

      ‘Oh, Lucette, you poor thing. I meant to ring you, but—I got caught up. I know that sounds a rather lame excuse. Your set was wonderful! It really was marvellous.’

      ‘I’m glad everything was OK. Do you have the flu now, Ally? You sound awful.’

      ‘My nose is a bit stuffed up,’ admitted Ally, reaching for a tissue. ‘By the way, I met your cousin,’ she added, regretting, even as the words left her lips, her feeble, weak will.

      ‘Fletcher? Really? I hadn’t heard from him so I assumed he didn’t make it to the show. Poor fellow, I bet he hated it. It’s not really his scene at all.’

      ‘Oh, he seemed fairly interested in some aspects of it.’

      ‘What did you think of him?’ asked Lucette, a subtle lilt in her voice implying past experience of Fletcher’s effect on women. ‘Most of my friends think he’s pretty cute.’

      I’ il bet they do, thought Ally with a stab of foolish jealousy. How many other friends of Lucette’s had Fletcher dallied with? ‘He—he seemed very presentable,‘ she mumbled.

      ‘Anyhow you’d be wasting your time looking twice at Fletcher,’ continued Lucette.

      ‘Oh?’ Ally tried for nonchalance, but the word emerged as more of a desperate honk.

      ‘Oh, he has too much bush in his blood. I mean, I grew up in the bush, too—on a property not far from his, but I was glad to leave the outback. But Fletcher will never leave. He’s totally committed to his property. Passionate about the land. So there’s not much future for a city girl with a man like him.’

      ‘Fair enough,’ replied Ally, trying to sound bored, wishing she’d had more common sense than to allow this conversation to turn to Fletcher. ‘Did you read the coverage of our show in the newspapers?’ she asked, trying to steer Lucette back to safer ground.

      But she didn’t hear Lucette’s reply. As she sat there on her bed, the phone clutched in one hand and a bunch of tissues in the other, she heard a familiar, authoritative knock at her front door. Her heart stilled.

      Ally dropped the phone, then picked it up and spluttered. ‘I—I’m sorry, Lucette. I’ve got to go.’

      Then, her heart thundering in her chest, she bounded out of bed and snatched up a towelling bathrobe, tying it around her as she hurried across the room. It couldn’t be! Surely not.

      At the front door, she paused and took a deep breath. Don’t be ridiculous, she warned herself. He’s on the plane. This will be someone from work. Get a grip! But it was a shaking hand she raised to the latch.

      She inched the door open. At first, all she could see was an enormous bunch of Cooktown orchids with lilac petals and purple throats. But then, from behind them, came Fletcher’s uncertain smile.

      ‘Oh!’

      ‘These were the only purple flowers I could find,’ he said with an apologetic grin and a slight shrug of one broad shoulder. ‘I know it’s your favourite colour and—’

      ‘Fletcher, you’re still here.’

      ‘I couldn’t do it, Ally,’ he whispered into her hair as she flung her arms around him. ‘I don’t know what this means, but I couldn’t get on that plane. I...’

      The rest of his words were lost as she linked her hands behind his neck and, with a gesture that felt as right and natural as breathing, pulled his face and his beautiful, sensuous mouth to meet hers.

      

      

      She managed to wangle a week’s special leave. The following days and nights were perfect. They drove into the country and wandered hand in hand through fields of springtime wild flowers. They dined out, cooked for each other, brought home take-away meals and watched movies together. Sensational days and mghts. Ally had never had so much fun, had never felt so happy. It was a happiness she knew could not last, but she refused to think about the future, and had absolutely no inclination to think about her work.

      And the Cooktown orchids were the first of many purple presents. Fletcher showered her with gifts; chocolate hearts with violet cream centres, a purple velvet evening bag, a box of crystallised violets and finally a beautiful pendant with amethysts set in filigree silver.

      Two nights before she was due back at work they lay together on her wide bed, their bodies gleaming in the silvery light of the moon that shone through a high arched window, listening to one of Ally’s favourite Brahms sonatas. Rolling onto his side so that, propped on one elbow, he could look into her eyes, Fletcher smiled tenderly. ‘I shall never, ever forget you, Ally.’ With a long finger, he traced the silvery outline of her body. ‘This neat silhouette will be my most precious memory,’ he told her, his voice husky.

      ‘I’ve never been so happy.’ She laughed, kissing him. ‘I’ve quite shocked myself.’

      Fletcher’s blue eyes widened. ‘Shocked as in horrified, or shocked as in surprised?’

      ‘Oh, surprised. Very pleasantly surprised.’ She bent over him, enjoying the hungry glint in his eyes as her breasts grazed his chest. She nibbled gently at the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve never been like this before. Wanting to make love over and over. Never having enough.’

      ‘Some people might find that shocking,’ Fletcher agreed with a happy chuckle, ‘but I don’t have a problem with it.’

      ‘So, you’re not sleepy yet?’ she asked, her voice sultry with desire.

      ‘How could I sleep with your tempting little body draped all over me. Watch out, Ally, you’re about to be shocked some more, but I promise you’ll love it.’ And Fletcher was as good as his word.

      

      The happy bubble burst with a phone call at breakfast.

      Ally was making fruit salad, scooping out the fleshy pulp of a passionfruit and laughingly claiming that she bore absolutely no resemblance to the round purple fruit Fletcher had coined as her nickname.

      The shrill summons of the telephone came from the lounge room.

      ‘I’ll get it,’ said Fletcher, helping himself to a cube of mango before he swung his long legs off the pine kitchen stool.

      With a contented smile, Ally watched him stride across the room, then she continued to chop banana and squeeze lemon juice over it before adding it to the bowl. She was stirring all the fruits together, delighting in the fresh colour combinations of the different melons—the pale green of honeydew, combined with the deep pink of watermelon and the delicate orange of rockmelon—when she sensed Fletcher standing very still and quiet