Grace Under Fire, page 8
CHAPTER SIX
For two weeks Grace mulled over her visit to Ryan’s. He’d made offers—financial advice and a quick tumble. Both were tempting. Examining her slow-growing bank balance gave the idea of adding his financial genius to her arsenal appeal. Simple human warmth had a different appeal. She missed her father’s hugs, the brush of her mother’s hand across her hair when Grace was bent over a task. Ryan could make Grace laugh, and she could talk to him about farming and know he’d take her seriously. Lately, when she’d soaped herself in the shower, she imagined Ryan’s hands slipping over her, of him massaging her shoulders, sliding a hand down her spine to—
Stop! She sucked in a breath to steady herself. “Focus.”
She pulled into the reserved parking place at the community hall with Ryan still filling her head. Indirectly, he’d prompted today’s outing. Rumour had it that Bess Riley did some housekeeping and baking for him. Bess was also the president of the local country women’s association.
Although Grace had a website, self-promotion wasn’t in her lexicon. She’d relied on the taste of her cheeses, word of mouth and recent competition success to build her brand. Offering to speak to the association was an expansion of that approach.
With her trolley laden with pre-prepared tasting plates, Grace entered the hall to find herself in the middle of a chattering crowd. A lot of old biddies who came to gossip about other people’s business. Influential biddies, she reminded herself. With six weeks left to secure her bank loan, she needed the community on her side.
Bess waved to her from the opposite side of the hall, and Grace started to navigate her way through the crowd.
“I haven’t seen your mother at one of these meetings in a while.” An imperious septuagenarian stepped into Grace’s path. The old lady had ruled the town library for thirty-five years and remembered every child who’d had or lost an overdue book.
“She and Dad are away at the moment, Mrs. Hornblower.”
The woman inspected Grace’s trolley. “Are these yours?” she asked.
“Some samples for after my talk.” Grace had never fully believed there was a Mr. Hornblower. Danny’s theory was that the librarian had co-opted the name of the fictional Napoleonic Wars-era Royal Naval Officer as her own after a torrid affair with a sailor.
“I’m looking forward to trying them.” The woman suddenly chuckled. “All those books you had me order were put to good use I see.”
Grace edged forward another few feet. Bess was signalling wildly in the background and pointing to the clock above the stage.
“How’s your mother, Grace?” The receptionist from the doctor’s surgery laid a hand on her shoulder.
Grace turned around and found another three women waiting for her answer. Hell! Until the last few years, her mother had been a regular fixture at these meetings. “She’s good. She and Dad are staying with friends in the Blue Mountains.”
“Was that Chrissy’s daughter I saw at the field day?” asked the publican’s wife.
“Ella and the babies were up that weekend. Excuse me.” Grace extricated herself from their kind clutches. When she’d told Ella last night she’d be pitching to the country women’s association, her sister had said, “Go, girl!”
The girl had come! Kicking and screaming, but she was here. Unless Grace engineered a bigger, steadier boost to her cash flow, she’d never make the mortgage repayments. Farm income also needed to cover wages for Bluey’s permanent replacement.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Bess said crisply, helping Grace unload the trolley and set up her display. The woman, about as wide as she was high, sported a smile that had worn deep tracks in her face. Housekeeper to big interstate landholders, she’d retired to the area with her husband about five years earlier. An irresistible force in the district, Bess would tan her hide for lumping her in with old biddies or gossips.
Grace scanned the crowd while Bess made her introductions. A few strangers, a few business people as well as farmers and farmers’ wives. She’d expected Rochelle Harkiss, the petite owner and manager of the Wellness Centre, to come. Her makeup and carefully layered long hair were Instagram perfect. Her flowing pants and loose blouse left the impression she floated across the floor—an elegant bohemian who always made Grace feel like a pregnant cow beside her.
“Ladies. Today’s guest speaker is Grace Anderson, our local cheesemaker.”
The audience fell silent.
Rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans, Grace rose to her feet. She sucked at public speaking, but, hey, another compromise. If she wanted support, she had to ask for it, but asking for any kind of help went against every promise she’d made to herself after Smithhouse.
What compromises are you prepared to make? She recalled Ella’s question.
Grace covered the cheese-making process, the different types of cheese available to sample at the back of the hall after her talk, showed some slides and made a few jokes. Then she took her biggest risk—a plea to the women of her community for their moral and practical support.
“Mum and Dad are retiring.” She waited for the shocked gasps and ripples of “That’s terrible,” “I’m so sorry,” “Elaine” and “I wondered” to die down. “Blue Sky has always been a family farm. That will continue. I’m taking over from my father.” She didn’t need to be explicit.
These women were shrewd enough to connect the dots, to realise her mother’s health had driven the decision, and Grace was buying the farm. The dairy farmers amongst them would be painfully aware of the hit from the reduced milk price on incomes. It was a short step to understanding her cheese business needed to grow exponentially for her to finance the buyout. A few of these women had worked off-farm over the years to keep their properties afloat. In a very real way, she was appealing to her tribe.
“Congratulations on buying the farm.” Rochelle approached Grace as she descended the stairs from the stage.
“Dad told me you were interested in buying,” Grace said bluntly. Best to get it out in the open.
“Given the way you lost the land I’m on, I never had much real hope of success.” The older woman laughed lightly. Mutterings had commenced when Rochelle bought Grace’s parents’ land from Smithhouse on the same day they’d lost it. There’d been more talk at the lightning-fast council building approval for the Centre, but no proof of corruption. Grace’s father still insisted Rochelle wasn’t part of the swindle. “I did get an idea while you were talking.”
“What’s that?” Keep an open mind, Grace lectured herself while her neck and back muscles clenched. Open mind. Open mind.
Rochelle’s choice of landscape gardener had put more noses out of joint. Not local, the burly man in workman’s clothes, early thirties, blonde, bronzed and built was often at the side of the Centre’s owner. His edge of rough was at odds with Rochelle’s smooth and languid style. More toy boy than gardener but over time the locals had accepted him, when he used local landscape suppliers and made a few friends in the district.
“An opportunity to expand.” Rochelle bared her orthodontically-curated perfect teeth in a triumphant smile. “You could offer tours, demonstrations, sampling and sales, which I’d promote through the Centre.”
“You’d take a cut.” Grace halted.
“We’d both benefit.” Rochelle glided over Grace’s abrupt response. “I admire what you’ve achieved. I know how hard it is to fall over the line with the deposit.”
“I’ve got the deposit covered,” Grace stated firmly. That was a big fat lie until she knew what percentage the bank wanted.
“I can help you to grow.” Rochelle’s smile turned to pity and carried cold calculation as well, as if Grace was the village idiot. “Include you in my regular promotional flyers, introduce you to potential buyers.”
“I haven’t thought of tours while I work.” Grace forced a friendly smile and resumed her push towards Bess with the dedication of one of Ryan’s cows heading for his robotic milking machine. “I’m not sure it’s the best use of my time.”
“Depends on the price. We both sell products that aren’t off the shelf.” Rochelle’s honeyed tones, close to her ear, were as hypnotic as any top-of-her-game magician. “You rely on people paying a premium to buy your cheese, just as I rely on people paying a premium for what I offer.”
“Food’s a different product. I’ll give it some thought.” Not in this lifetime.
“I feed different appetites.” Rochelle fed multiple appetites. “We have a lot in common. I think we’d work well together.”
Who the older woman shared her bed with had nothing to do with business. Grace hadn’t listened to the gossip about Rochelle using sex for favours before and wouldn’t start now. Ryan? Her gut cramped in instant rejection. She’d seen them together. It wasn’t her business. Pity the green-eyed monster standing like a devil at her shoulder prodding her with its barbed trident didn’t get the message!
Bess bustled towards them. “You’ll have to share, Rochelle. I have some other ladies with questions.” Bess steered Grace back towards the tables spread with cheeses, biscuits, dried fruit and a few bottles of wine alongside the usual tea and scones.
Grace sweated through another hour, handing out flyers with details of her website and social media sites, her smile fixed in place. She’d come to sell, yet she’d screeched like a wild cat at the first offer—the only offer—she’d received. Discomfort prickled her skin beneath her increasingly limp shirt, and she searched for the source. Rochelle bought local, including Grace’s cheese, and hired local.
I’m not the jealous type. Grace did battle with herself all the way to her next stop, a new delicatessen. Another referral from Ryan, and the contradiction between following up on Ryan’s suggestion and dismissing Rochelle’s with a “when hell freezes over” curse made Grace squirm even more uncomfortably in her seat. Rochelle’s motive was pure greed, whereas Grace suspected Ryan’s actions, like this referral, were more a clever chess move in their dance of desire than an attempt to take a share of her profits. She hadn’t had a chance to thank him. Thanking him involved seeing him.
Seeing him would aggravate her itch, his buzz.
Did it matter if they sampled each other if he wasn’t staying? A no-strings-attached torrid affair. Whoa! He’d planted the seed—she groaned at the pun—and she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to get him naked.
The delicatessen was an unexpected innovation in a town that had gone from old family-run shops to supermarkets, convenience stores, assorted chains and boarded-up shopfronts. The locals were ready for something beyond the bland. Housed in a pretty old pharmacy, with bow windows and blue-and-white-leadlight glass, the business might just survive. A different concept. A new approach. Their add-on, if successful, could be an income booster for her as well. A café to serve good quality, fair trade coffee and cakes, sandwiches, quiches and pies made on the premises.
“How did you meet Ryan?” She shook hands with the owner, Bob, on the finished deal. The image of Ryan trawling shops on her behalf looking for sales was both foolish and heart-warming.
“I bumped into him at the tourist office. He encouraged me. Said the area was ready for something different.”
She’d had the same idea, and that made her twitchy—that she and Ryan might see eye to eye on more than farming methods.
“Hi, Ryan.” Bob waved.
A public place and her nerves were jittering. Grace hadn’t felt this awkward since her first official date—holding hands with a boy and walking down the street for every gossip in town to see, feeling eyes crawling over her and dissecting each tiny gesture she made. She swung around. Ryan’s hat was settled low on his forehead, and his glasses were firmly on his nose. Strong and silent and she was tempted by the idea of shattering his steely control.
“How’s it going?” Ryan shook Bob’s hand.
“Improving by degrees.” The man nodded in her direction. “A great tip of yours, stocking Pretty Girl cheeses.”
“I appreciate the opportunity.” She pushed her hands into her pockets. That way they couldn’t embarrass her by whipping off Ryan’s sunglasses.
Bob turned back to his shop, then pivoted. “I’ll let you know how sales go, Grace. But I’d say have another shipment ready.”
“When’s the opening?” she asked.
“Saturday,” he replied.
“I’m planning on being here,” said Ryan. “You could always have a cheese tasting in conjunction with the opening.”
“That’s a great idea. Are you free for an hour on Saturday afternoon, Grace?” Bob asked.
“I can do that.” She waited until the man had disappeared into his shop. “You’re spending a bit of time promoting my product, Ryan.”
He rubbed his chin. “Should I stop?”
“Yes! No! Why?” she muttered. He reduced her to speaking gobbledygook, and that was plain mortifying.
“You have a good product I’m familiar with. If I’m asked if I know anyone who produces cheese, I give your name.”
“Is that the only reason?” She studied him, her head cocked to one side, unsure of her ground. He asked for nothing in return for these small acts of kindness. Rather, he gave her no choice but to accept his generosity.
“Small businesses need to help each other to survive. The more a community prospers, the more everyone prospers. What other reason could there be?” He almost crooned, the deep gravel of his voice a caress.
The shimmering sexual buzz was a beat in her blood. The combination of heat and affection threatened her independence in a more disturbing way than Rochelle’s offer for a slice of her profits.
“Okay!” He shrugged. “I confess. You suck at marketing. You’re best when you let the cheese speak for itself.”
He got that. Another reason his offer was different to Rochelle’s.
“Last night I picked up an order from a contact I made at the show. Six cheddar wheels a week for twelve months.”
“Congratulations.”
“You should take some of the credit for that order too, since you supported organic being included in the show.”
“I said you suck at marketing, Grace. Your products speak for themselves.”
“I’ve started tossing around ideas for doubling production,” she defended herself. “Fast-tracking some new product ideas.”
“Any word from the bank?”
“Not yet.” Waiting for the decision ate at Grace’s self-confidence. It made her question if the small steps forward, the single sales, the garnering of support would be enough to convince the bank. She was riding a rollercoaster where she didn’t know if success or disaster waited at the bottom of the next run. Like a kid with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clamped on the safety rail praying for the madness to end. Terrified she’d be found in the wreckage. The lack of control was the killer.
“The waiting does your head in.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she muttered. The broker had promised an answer in the next few days. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to drop by, see if he had any news while she was in town. “I was spruiking to the country women’s association earlier.” She started pushing her trolley towards the van.
“I didn’t think you had time for such frivolous activities.” He fell in beside her.
“Am I that obvious?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Don’t answer. I represented Mum a few times when she was sick. I asked to be the speaker today. To promote my cheese. To promote myself—new owner of Blue Sky.”
“How’d that go?”
“Positively for the most part. Rochelle offered to advertise tours of my place for her customers.” Grace hadn’t intended to blurt out Rochelle’s offer first. “In return for a cut of any revenue.” Or to confide in him. Grace couldn’t afford to alienate anyone, much less Rochelle, who’d woven her business into the fabric of the town so tightly no one dared cross her.
“That’s how a successful businesswoman operates.”
Grace halted, stung. “If that’s a dig at me, I’ll never be successful. I don’t have the stomach for taking a cut of other people’s profits. And I don’t have the ethereal looks, floaty wardrobe and follow-me-home stilettos.”
“I liked the lace and frills concoction you wore to the field day.” With his glasses firmly in place, the rumble of his voice was her guide. Like the rich symphonic music she played to the cows the sound soothed and inflamed. He leaned forward to run a finger down her cheek. “Like I told you, a buzz.” Before she could object to his intimacy, he continued. “Who else was there?”
“Bess. She said she knew you.”
“Asking questions about me, Grace?” He ensnared her with his intimate whisper. “It’s good to know you care and don’t just lust after my body.”
“Another woman was pumping her.” She denied responsibility for starting the conversation, but a pulse jumped in her throat, anticipating how he’d translate the words lust and care to action. “I came in at the tail end.” She waved a hand dismissively.
His mouth curved in disbelief. “Did she tell you my old boss put me in touch with the station owner where she worked, gave me a good reference, and they took me on? Bess was the backbone of the domestic staff. She has a soft spot for me.”
A lot of people around the Northern Rivers had Bess pegged as one of the toughest old birds around. Soft spot? What was it in Ryan that brought out Bess’ softer side?
When he tugged on a curl resting against Grace’s neck, the gentle pull had her swaying towards him. “She does a few days for me.”
She placed a hand on his chest to keep him at bay. “Do you pay her in diamonds?” Bess hadn’t wanted to retire, so she worked occasionally for a few select customers.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “She says I need all the help I can get.”
“Bess made the cheese biscuits.”
“She did.” He inched closer. “Want to come over for some more?”
