‘They got lucky!’ Claire spluttered, feeling side-swiped by her mother’s thought processes.

  ‘As exciting as lust is, darling, in the grand scheme of things, it’s a one-minute wonder. It’s not good looks or sex that gets you through the tough times, it’s friendship and respect.’

  Get me out of here. Claire really didn’t want to think about her parents and sex. She had enough trouble wrapping her head around the fact that they’d been married for thirty-two years. Her longest relationship had lasted two years, two months and two days.

  ‘And what about Bec and Adam Petrovic? They were introduced by their families.’ Julie beamed as if she’d just laid down irrefutable proof that matchmaking worked.

  ‘As Rebecca’s biggest ambition in life was to get married and have babies, I’m not sure she was all that fussy.’

  ‘Claire!’

  ‘What?’ Her mother’s censure at the catty comment only intensified Claire’s dislike of Rebecca. ‘So now I’m not allowed an opinion? You said it wasn’t a love match.’

  ‘I didn’t say that at all,’ Julie said firmly. ‘Adam worships the ground Bec and their daughters walk on.’

  ‘Good for Rebecca,’ Claire muttered, trying to freeze the rising frustration that threatened to spill over into angry words she’d later regret. ‘Good for Adam. I’m glad it worked out for them, but I’m nothing like Rebecca, so it won’t work for me.’

  ‘Santa! Santa! Santa!’ Ami-Louise cried in disappointment as the CFA truck passed and the distance between her and the smiling Santa—her grandfather hidden by bulky padding and a curly white beard—increased.

  ‘Come on,’ Ron said. ‘Let’s go and see Santa in the park.’

  ‘I’ll come too!’ Desperate to get away from the matchmakers, Claire fell into step with her father.

  ‘I told them setting you up with Hugo wouldn’t fly,’ her father said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I didn’t know you’d heard all that.’

  ‘Just because I don’t say much, doesn’t mean I don’t hear a lot.’

  They reached the park where the parade had terminated. Families and couples were setting up picnic rugs in preparation for the community barbecue that always preceded the lighting of the Christmas tree. Carols by Candlelight followed, although due to daylight savings most of the littlies would have crashed by then, cuddled up asleep in their parents’ arms. Right now though, children amped up on excitement hared around on bikes decorated with tinsel and family groups wandered around the floats. A queue had formed to sit in the police car and to clamber all over the fire truck.

  Ron set Ami-Louise down in the Santa line. ‘Julie’s right about one thing, though. I’d love to be a grandpa one day, but it if doesn’t happen that’s okay too.’

  Her father’s words tugged at her heart. ‘I want to be a mother one day too, Dad, but it’s only going to happen with the right man.’

  ‘There’s good blokes out there, darling.’ He gently squeezed her arm. ‘I hope you meet him soon.’

  She smiled wryly. ‘Going on the demographics of this crowd, it won’t be here.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Catch you later.’

  She walked towards the barbecue tent, tempted by the aroma of sizzling onions and hot oil. As much as she loved living in inner Melbourne and the access it gave her to food from around the world, right now she could murder a sausage in bread slathered in tomato sauce.

  It took her twenty minutes to reach the tent as she kept being stopped by friends of her parents and childhood acquaintances. ‘We must catch up while you’re here,’ was said to her at least three times. She smiled, replying, ‘That would be great,’ knowing it was unlikely to happen. Even when she’d gone to school with these people and played netball with many of them, they’d never been close. Her natural tendency was to be a bit of a lone wolf, so although she was welcomed by several groups, she belonged to none. If she was honest, women en masse drove her nuts.

  ‘Claire!’ Hugo Lang picked her up and spun her around, which was no mean feat but Hugo was a bear of a man. He set her back on her feet, his hands firmly on her shoulders while he examined her intently. ‘Look at you, city girl. How long’s it been?’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Was it the B&S ball?’

  ‘I think you’re right, although my memory of that night’s a little hazy.’

  ‘Beer with rum chasers has that effect.’ That night, Hugo had been understandably morose about life, love and how milking cows killed all chances of getting off the farm and meeting women. She’d suggested he audition for The Farmer Wants a Wife. ‘How are you now?’

  ‘Yeah, good.’

  ‘You look good.’ In fact, if he was a woman, she would have said he glowed, but perhaps that was just the natural tan that came from living a life outdoors. ‘Happy?’

  He nodded. ‘Pretty much. And you?’

  ‘Same. New job’s a bit crazy but in a few months, I’ll have a handle on it.’

  ‘And that FIFO bloke?’

  ‘Ah, no. That didn’t work out.’ She read sympathy on his face and panicked. ‘Listen, Hugo, just a heads up. Our mothers have a crazy idea in their head that as we’re both single—’

  ‘I’m not single.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ She loved Hugo dearly and this news plus the grin that was streaking across his face filled her with delight. ‘Hang on, how have you kept it a secret from Julie?’

  ‘With great difficulty. Listen, don’t say anything, okay? After Amber, this time I’m going slowly. I’ll tell Mum and Dad when I’m ready.’

  ‘I get it. I have a three-month rule with my parents, so mum’s the word.’

  ‘Thanks, Claire-bear.’ He hugged her again. ‘Sorry, gotta go. I’m late setting up the sound system for the stage. Make sure you come out to the farm before you leave town and I’ll whip you up some scones.’

  Hugo, like his parents, was one of the most hospitable people on earth. Although he had a very limited cooking repertoire, he made a hell of a curry and light and fluffy scones, which had once got an honourable mention in the cutthroat world of agricultural show cookery. ‘Is that how you won the heart of your mystery woman, whose name is … ?’

  ‘Nice try.’ He blew her a kiss and walked away.

  With hunger pains cramping her stomach, Claire finally made it to the long line at the Lion’s Club barbecue tent. With a can of soft drink in one hand and a sausage sandwich in the other, she made her way clear of the crush. She leaned back on the boundary rail of the oval and bit through the decadent white bread and savoury onions and into the hot-but-dubious-meat delight. She closed her eyes and gave a small moan as the indulgent carbs and fats exploded in her mouth. She relished every morsel.

  A deep, rumbling laugh surprised her and she opened her eyes. At first, all she saw was a bright yellow CFA helmet but then she noticed the dark brown brows arching over a pair of green eyes flecked with hazel. Eyes that were studying her with a warm and direct gaze that encouraged her to do the same. A tingle raced over her scalp before leaping down her neck. It quickly took off, raising every hair on her body, diving straight to her centre and spinning there for a delicious moment before blasting out of her like electricity seeking earth. It left her heart thumping wildly and the rest of her body buzzing.

  The man gave her a lop-sided grin that twirled an impish dimple into his left cheek. ‘Going by the look on your face, the humble sausage in bread is your favourite food.’

  She remembered her moan and her cheeks burned. She laughed. ‘Not really. It’s just been a while since I had one.’

  He was holding a hamburger in one hand and a beer in the other. ‘I haven’t had one of these for a while either so I’m looking forward to becoming reacquainted.’

  ‘With the beer or the burger?’

  ‘Both. Cheers.’

  He joined her, leaning casually on the rail, and bit into the hamburger. She tried to look away, knowing that staring was rude, but found herself watching the play of his jaw muscles. ‘Good?’ she asked. The word came out slightly strangled.

  He gave her the thumbs up.

  She was mid mouthful of her own dinner when he said, ‘I’m Matt Cartwright. Have we met?’

  She had vague memories of Matt Cartwright. He’d been a couple of years ahead of her at primary school—a skinny kid with a mop of brown curls who’d been good at high jump and running. She didn’t recall them ever sharing a conversation, and like most of the graziers’ children, once he’d finished grade six, he’d headed off to boarding school. Matt Cartwright was still tall but he was definitely not skinny. His broad shoulders squared the shapeless yellow CFA jacket, hinting that the rest of his body might be worth looking at.

  Her mother’s recent hint that Claire preferred a certain type of man arrived unwelcome in her head. He’s not blond, she countered silently.

  Matt was looking at her expectantly and she swallowed the slightly-too-large mouthful, feeling the lump making its painful way down her oesophagus. ‘I’m Claire McKenzie.’

  Recognition lit up his face. ‘Post office Claire?’

  It was a Myrtle tradition to couple people’s names with a defining characteristic. For men, it was usually their job. For women, it was often who they were married to—a tag that had always riled Claire. Then there was a select group who got a personal tag such as Crazy Joe Rawlins, who levelled a shotgun at trespassers and anyone who pissed him off, Shorty McLeod, who was 183 centimetres tall, and Chatty Chris, who barely said a word.

  ‘It’s been a very long time since I was called Postie Claire. Are you still RMB 7650?’

  ‘Yeah. That or Oakvale Park works.’

  ‘Can you be CFA Matt too?’

  ‘Nah. That’s the captain, Matt Holsworthy.’ He grinned. ‘So, if you’re no longer Postie Claire, who are you?’

  ‘Nurse Practitioner Claire.’

  ‘That’s excellent but a bit of a mouthful. The four-syllable word goes against Myrtle convention. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.’

  She thought about her many years of study. ‘I suppose at a pinch I could be Nurse Claire.’

  He took a pull on his beer. ‘What about Caring Claire?’

  ‘I like the alliteration, but Caring Claire makes me sound saintly. I’m definitely not that.’

  ‘Really? That’s good to know. Personally, I quite like Cute Claire.’

  Her brain groaned at the corny line but her body sat up like a dog hopeful of a treat. ‘Are you flirting with me?’

  He laughed again, only this time it held a hint of sheepishness. ‘The fact you have to ask means I’m not doing it particularly well.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She involuntarily tossed her head in an age-old action, letting her hair swing. ‘I think you’re on the right track.’

  The dimple dived deeper. ‘Do you reckon if I workshopped it, I might get there?’

  ‘It’s worth a shot.’

  ‘Good to know.’ His expression became thoughtful. Eventually he said, ‘Charming Claire?’

  ‘Based on this conversation, you have no idea if I’m charming or not.’

  ‘You’re playing along with me and I’m finding that pretty charming.’

  The compliment stole her attempt at a witty quip and she realised the gap between them on the rail had diminished. She wasn’t sure who had moved—or if they both had. All she knew was that her body was hyper aware of just how close his elbow and dangling hand were to hers.

  Matt pushed off the rail and faced her, the dimple now absent and his pupils large and inky black, almost obliterating the hypnotic green of his irises. ‘Charming and captivating.’

  The delicious effects of his low voice on her body swallowed her reply. Their eyes locked. The sounds of the crowd melted away and nothing existed except the two of them. The air between them vibrated with the seductive pull of desire and she let it tug her slowly towards him.

  He moved unexpectedly, taking a jerky step backwards, and then his lopsided grin returned, overriding his serious expression. ‘Come and meet Bert.’

  Her lust-soaked mind struggled to adjust to the rapid change. ‘Sorry?’

  He laughed. ‘Now you’re Confused Claire.’ He motioned with his hand towards the CFA tanker. ‘Bert.’

  ‘Bert?’

  ‘Yeah. Big Expensive Red Tanker.’

  ‘You want to show me a fire engine?’ She hated the squeak of disbelief in her voice. She may as well have said, ‘I thought you were going to kiss me.’

  ‘Have you been away from Myrtle for so long you’ve forgotten how Bert one and two keep Myrtle safe all year round, especially in summer?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, frantically fighting for composure and at the same time berating herself for misreading the situation so badly.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Matt winked at her and she glimpsed a little boy whose favourite toys were a red fire helmet and a Duplo fire truck. ‘Plus, Captain Matt’s got a bar on the other side of Bert. Can I buy you a drink?’

  Matt introduced her to the CFA crew as Postie Claire, and people who remembered her working in her parents’ business welcomed her back while the strangers greeted her warmly. With their official duties as Santa’s helpers over, some of the volunteers had joined their families but others, including Adam Petrovic, had stayed around to chat. Although Claire had grown up with Adam’s wife, she didn’t know the husband at all. He was ten years older than Rebecca and new to Myrtle. It didn’t take her very long to notice how effortlessly he commanded a crowd: men—and not just the CFA members—gravitated towards him. The blue jokes probably helped.

  Claire felt Matt’s hand on the small of her back and she was suddenly facing a different set of people. It was a mixed group and she was thrilled to discover that four of the CFA team were women. This was a huge change from her childhood, when it was automatic for men to join the CFA and women the CWA. After a polite amount of general chit-chat, Matt extricated them.

  They walked around the tanker and he gave her a tour of Bert. In typical bloke fashion, he reeled off the specifications of the truck, including the 2350-litre water tank. He told her it included 650 litres for the vehicle and crew spray protection system, which would be used if they ever got caught in a burnout. God willing, the crew would never need to activate it. He opened the cabin door and she swung up inside and then he joined her, rattling on about the air conditioning, electric windows, reversing camera, cabin support bar, fog lights and air horn. When he pointed out the seat belts, her bemusement gave way to laughter.

  His usually wide smile was wry. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to bore you.’

  ‘You’re not. Well, not really. It’s clear you’re very proud of Bert.’

  ‘I am. And wait, there’s more.’

  ‘Steak knives?’

  ‘Better. These are the Thermaguard radiant heat protection curtains if we get caught in a fire front. Hopefully we’ll never have to use them.’

  The rip of separating Velcro tabs was followed by the fall of silver curtains over all the windows, blocking out the sunshine and considerably dimming the cabin. For the first time in ten minutes, Matt fell silent. As Claire’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, his hand lightly touched hers. Butterflies hurled themselves against the wall of her stomach.

  He finally broke the silence. ‘Sorry for the deluge of stats. To be honest, though, it’s mostly your fault.’

  ‘I … um …’ His thumb was drawing circles on the back of her hand, sending addictive darts of longing all over her and reducing her concentration down to almost zero. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You’re gorgeous.’

  ‘Um … thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t felt this jumpy around a woman in long time.’ Matt cleared his throat. ‘Are you totally bonded to staying for carols?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  His fingers laced through hers, the touch warm and inviting. ‘Let’s go to the beach.’

  Lorne was half an hour away down a steep and winding road. The nurse in her who’d treated far too many car-accident victims somehow managed to fight her way through the delighted internal squeals. ‘You okay to drive?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve only had a couple of light beers, but if you’re worried, I’ll ask Shane to breathalyse me before we go.’

  This time the dart that hit her wasn’t just chemistry. She squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks. I’d love to go to the beach.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  He jumped down from the truck, came around to her side and extended his hand again. She didn’t need any assistance climbing down but she accepted the offer, because why miss the delicious buzz that zipped through her whenever he touched her?

  Once her feet hit the ground, Matt let go. ‘I’ll get out of this gear and see Shane while you sort yourself out. Meet me in Noble Street in ten minutes.’

  Noble Street was two blocks away.

  He must have read her uncertainty because he said, ‘My car’s parked there.’

  That didn’t exactly explain why they couldn’t walk there together. She was about to say, ‘I’m happy to wait here,’ but he was already striding across the oval.

  As she watched his retreating figure—a tall, straight, bright yellow beacon—it occurred to her she should probably tell her parents her plans so they didn’t worry at her disappearing act. A picture of her parents and the Langs lit up in her mind—four beaming and hopeful faces already mapping out a future for her and Matt. She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

  Met up with friends. Will make my own way home. Love Claire xx

  As she hit send, she realised the word ‘friends’ was a rookie mistake. She didn’t keep in contact with anyone in Myrtle and her mother knew it. Oh well, she had until morning to think up some names her mother wouldn’t question.

  Claire loved the road that wound up and over the ridge down to the coast. By far, her favourite part of the journey was the section where it twisted and turned through dappled light that penetrated the canopy of tiny-leafed beech trees interspersed with the world’s tallest hardwood, the mountain ash. Ribbons of bark curled from their imposing trunks, draping themselves over the shorter and stockier blackwoods below.