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“So that’s a ‘no’?”
“That’s a no fucking way.”
As they pulled back into the road, Mick glanced at her.
“Is it something you could do, if you wanted to?”
Sophy nodded, appreciating that he’d actually asked this time, instead of just assuming that her asthma prevented her from doing anything more vigorous than an energetic bout of embroidery. It didn’t overly bother her, as God knows, there had more occasions than otherwise in her life when she’d been grateful for the free pass out of sports. The hearty hockey-playing type she was not. But Mick had already displayed warnings signs of being an unexpected fusser.
“I actually did it for my twenty-first birthday,” she said reminiscently. Under extreme duress from Melissa and in a slightly tipsy condition from noon cocktails, but it still counted.
“Fun?”
“Completely awesome.”
“And would you do it again?”
“Absolutely not.”
They were nearing Gibbston Valley, which was heavily populated by vineyards, and she pointed out the turn-off for Silver Leigh. The car wheels clattered over the cattle guard at the entrance and they followed the long, smooth sweep of stones up to the public car park. The winery restaurant was popular in summer and the outdoor picnics tables were full, the lunch crowd cheerful and boisterous. Children stripped down to shorts and sandals were paddling in the stream and terrorising a pair of ducks.
The Cheesery was set a short distance down a gravel path and her parents’ house was built in the private area out the back. It wasn’t until Sophy was walking down to the shop, Mick striding easily at her side, that she had sudden qualms. Their newly minted friendship was without precedent in her personal experience. It usually took months, more often years, before she felt this comfortable with a new person. The lack of constraint between them now seemed so natural that it hadn’t occurred to her how it might look to the people who knew her best. She hadn’t brought a friend home to meet her parents since she was sixteen. And the one and only time she’d brought a man here, they’d been dating off-and-on (and shortly after, definitely off) for almost six months and he’d invited himself after complaining about her standoffishness as a pseudo-joke. It had been a very awkward afternoon.
She slanted a glance up at Mick. His face showed nothing but interest as he took in the crops and outbuildings of the vineyard. He had been prepared to drop her and run, but his meeting wasn’t for another couple of hours and there wasn’t much to do between here and the Kawarau estate. She had insisted that he stay, so she would just have to make the best of it. It would only be awkward if she allowed it to be.
And any day now pigs would fly and she would be given academic tenure in Calculus.
The interior of the Cheesery was blessedly cool and quiet, experiencing a temporary lull in sales while people were out getting happily sloshed in the sunshine. The young woman behind the counter looked up from the commercial scales, where she was weighing a wedge of the signature Leigh Blue, and smiled at her.
“Hey, Sophy.” She turned her head and called into the kitchens, “Marion! Sophy’s here.”
There was an inaudible response, the mumbled words pleased and light in pitch, and then Sophy’s mother appeared through the staff doors, pulling off her latex gloves and looking delighted.
“Hello, darling,” Marion said, glancing at her watch as she hurried forward to envelop Sophy in a hug. They’d met up for lunch in Arrowtown only a week ago, but her mum didn’t ration her affections. She’d always been equally pleased to see her daughter whether she was returning home from a term at boarding school or returning home from a trip to the shops. “You made good time. I wasn’t expecting you and Dale until closer to dinnertime.” Her eyes had gone over Sophy’s shoulder to where Mick waited in polite silence. “And you aren’t Dale,” she finished cheerfully.
Mick came forward and shook Marion’s outstretched hand. His posture was regimentally upright, his handshake firm and crisp. Sophy half-expected them to stamp one foot and salute one another.
“Mick, this is my mother, Marion James. Mum, this is Mick Hollister,” she said a bit warily, in response to her mother’s expectant look. “He works for the Ryland Curry Security Corporation and he’s been kind enough to pose for me this week.”
“Hades,” Marion surmised, taking in the breadth of Mick’s shoulders with an evaluating stare that actually brought a faint reddening to his cheekbones. Her eyes twinkled at his slight embarrassment. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mick. I hope you’re going to join us for a late lunch.”
“Oh.” Mick looked a bit at a loss. “That’s extremely kind of you, but…”
Accustomed to struggling in social situations, Sophy found it equally difficult to watch other people flounder.
“Do stay,” she said quickly, reaching out with a light touch to his hand. His fingers briefly flexed into a fist as his gaze shot to hers. She couldn’t read the expression there. She smiled a bit too brightly. “Mum makes the most amazing barbequed ribs.”
“It’s true,” said Marion sapiently. “I do.”
Mick looked from one woman to the other, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Amazing, huh?” he said at last.
“Epic poems have been composed in their honour,” Sophy replied solemnly.
“Jamie Oliver would fall at my feet and weep,” confirmed Marion.
Waving her arms like a farmer herding recalcitrant sheep, she hustled them toward the back door, where a private pathway led to the family home. Mick gave in gracefully, obviously amused. Sophy was glad to see that he looked considerably happier than he had when he’d arrived at the art school that morning. Walking slightly ahead with Marion, she felt her mother’s eyes on her and looked up to encounter a quick, pointedly curious stare. She flushed.
