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Squeezing too hard until it’s time to turn out the light.
He used to write Lisa poetry. Early in their relationship, he’d written verses most days before work and left them on the kitchen bench. Often, short and sweet, sometimes funny, always loving.
The whisky was warm as it rushed down his throat and the burn it provided was worth it. Noah poured another, swirled the amber liquid in the glass before tossing it back. It provided the exact relief he needed.
The poem was meant to be light respite but he no longer found it amusing. Nothing about pouring out his heart in matching rhyme could make this situation better.
Taking the bottle and the glass he sat on his back deck and whistled for Otis to follow. The deck wasn’t fancy but had a chair and table and a spectacular view over the national park. The area was renowned for its rock formations and boulders. Granite to be precise. As far as he could see were large boulders, some balancing precariously as if they were about to tumble, others long and flat, handy for sitting upon. The rocky terrain was his favourite view. Not too far from here was a hike across large waves of rock face, through cliffs with other incredible rock formations. It wasn’t dainty or neat, but bold and beautiful.
His aim might be off, but Otis wanted to play fetch. Noah threw a ball as far as he could. The dog dropped it at his feet only moments later. He threw it again. As a family, they’d spent many afternoons out here playing, often eating dinner on a picnic blanket as the sun went down. Emily loved ball games as much as Otis. He’d taught her how to catch, throw the footy and kick a soccer ball. They’d play team games, Lisa and Emily against him; there’d been lots of laughter. They were some of his best memories.
In the future he had imagined enrolling Emily in the kid’s division of his touch football club. Or if she didn’t fancy that, maybe little athletics. Now, he was unlikely to see her advance through any of these sports. At least he could still watch games on a Sunday when he wasn’t working.
With another sip, he cringed as he remembered how he’d asked Lisa to stay. How she’d turned away, saying it was too late.
Lisa had been so full of life when they’d met and when she’d agreed to live in Bellethorpe. She’d relished the move and being extroverted had met more people in town than he had. He thought she’d cemented her place here and felt comfortable.
When she’d started grumbling, he thought it was just a phase, maybe baby blues and she’d feel better soon. Something else he was wrong about. She wasn’t that unhappy, was she? Had she said? How had he missed the signs? Most likely because he was working.
With the birth of Emily, Lisa didn’t continue her job and Noah had to carry the financial load. And he didn’t mind but he worked longer hours and added in Saturdays, too. Whereas once, he would have been home in time for a glass of wine on the deck before dinner. Towards the end, he’d rush in, often late and tired. Lisa had been sullen, withdrawn, and the evenings quiet, until eventually there was nothing left to say.
He regarded the shack he called home. It wasn’t the Taj Mahal by any stretch but he didn’t mind it. Except, Lisa had wanted to move, longed for a bigger place, a yard, maybe some farm animals that they’d always dreamed of.
She’d only ever asked him once, and he’d refused, thinking she was joking. Move away from Bellethorpe? It was something he’d never consider. End of conversation. But then that was when his dream of owning the old house had come alive. He’d compromise and buy a large family home with lots of land where Lisa could nurture her veggie patch and have a brood of animals. Except, those things took time and money. He’d been saving ever since. A bolt of anger surged through him. Imagine if they’d purchased the place on Kinross Road and she’d left. Not only would he be stuck with a hefty mortgage, Noah would be caring for a menagerie of animals. He threw the ball again and treasured the relief of Otis chasing it across the field. Ease up, mate. That hadn’t happened but maybe if they’d shifted, they’d still be a family.
But it was too late.
So, he should have known, should have realised what would come.
He was man enough to confess he’d stuffed up. But did that mean his punishment was not seeing his daughter? Lincoln had said the fight wasn’t about principle or pride. It was hard to make it about anything else. Now that he’d lost everything, all he had left was Emily.
The support group said it was about father’s rights. Each member of that group had a sorry tale to tell and most had no happy ending. The court system was biased towards mothers, they said. If that was true, why would he bother fighting? He was mentally fit for it, but the cost. Ironically the savings he had, of course, he no longer needed to buy his dream family home. Further irony, if he was successful, he’d never have the grand family home for Emily to live in. She’d have to return here because he’d have no money left.
Where did that leave him? He had the funds to pay the initial lawyer instalment. After that he’d be relying on weekly income and he understood the debt would outweigh his pay. Then, if he was lucky, and won, he had no family home because his savings were lost on the fight. It was pretty much a shit show whichever way he looked at it. But when Emily was older and asked him that question: why didn’t you fight for me? The only answer could be, that he’d tried.
Otis nudged his foot reminding him of the game. Yes, game of ball. If only everything was that easy. Noah threw it once more and the dog belted across the grass.
A thought out of the blue made him sit up straight.
Who needed him and his building skills right now? Who had the money to pay generously for his work? Yes, admittedly, the same thought made the spirits suddenly taste sour in his mouth, but he was a genius. It was the perfect solution. Except of course, he would be working on the very house he’d hoped would one day be his, his and Emily’s. But he had already accepted that dream was over.
He, builder, Noah Hawthorn would do the renovation work for Ava Montgomery.
There was endless effort required to fix up that place, might take months and be expensive, even charging his reasonable fees. She had mentioned cash up front, now that money could be his. Generously, he’d donate the plans he’d already drafted and suited the house perfectly. The plans were traditional and kept the house to its original grand style. If Ava was a modernist, she wouldn’t be interested. But he imagined anyone interested in modern homes with their brick rendered facades and open living and clean and sharp lines, wouldn’t have been interested in that house anyway. Sometimes an old house was an old house and there was no fixing up or modern cons that could change that.
With relief, he poured himself another drink. He had fixed his own problem. He could afford the lawyer and pay him on an ongoing basis; he would fight for Emily and for what was right. There was a way forward, he could see it now, feel it, grasp success.
Only hitch was, he had to get Ava to agree.
Chapter Seven
Ava’s nerves were a jangle. After her run-in with Noah at the hardware store, and then her phone call with Jamila, she couldn’t quite settle.
Lost in thought, she gazed out the window, watched the horses run free, their manes dancing in the wind.
They’d go riding!
‘Ish!’ she yelled. Her son came racing in, sliding on his socked feet. ‘Want to go for a horse ride?’ His answer was a squeal and he danced on the spot. Ish made Daisy comfortable and tucked her up in some blankets in a basket on the deck. They dressed in their oldest jeans and long-sleeved shirts and headed out.
