of old boots, but better smelling. It’s outdoorsy. Fresh. Wild. A bit cheeky. It’s a wine to drink at night around a roaring campfire or to take to your in‐laws for Christmas lunch. It’s about winemaking with new varieties and different blends. Spice and excitement. It’s about breaking the rules, like wearing thongs to the opera.” The words tumbled faster the longer she spoke, like pebbles in a rock‐slide.
She stepped out of Tate’s embrace and turned to find his eyes searching her face. A light she hadn’t seen before shone in the cobalt depths and she knew in two seconds he’d kiss her and she wouldn’t give the brand another thought until the small hours of the morning when maybe it would cross her mind as her foot rubbed his shin and her fingers travelled down his stomach and he pulled her hips close again…
“Wait. I want to get this right.” She laid her palm against his chest.
“This brand has to stand for something, like everything our family does. I thought about directing a percentage of profits to help Aboriginal kids get—”
Winter ice cracked across his face. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t squeeze the words: get employment opportunities from her frozen throat.
“I knew this would happen.” He paced two steps away, swung back, held his hand up like a policeman stopping traffic. “It’s called cause‐marketing for a reason, Christina. People like you do it to increase sales, first and foremost. Any frogs or orphans or Aboriginals who get saved in the process? Well, they were just fucking lucky.”
He muttered something she didn’t catch towards the watching circle of trees and Christina supposed that was an opportunity for her to get a word in; to explain. But her mouth was trapped in a horrified little ‘o’ and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make a sound.
“Indigenous Australians are not a hole in a pair of jeans. You can’t just give them a few dollars and expect them to patch themselves up while you go and write about how generous you are on your blog.”
“Since you want my advice so badly, here’s some for free. Go anywhere near Aboriginals with a bottle profit and the anti‐alcohol lobby will rip you to shreds. You’ll be accused of gifting Aboriginals money so they can buy more of your booze. The best thing a winemaker could do if he really wanted to help Indigenous Australians would be stop making the stuff.”
And she watched him stride away, backlit by the reception venue’s cheery lights. She couldn’t manage to force even a snide: Jesus, Tate. Tell us how you really feel, from her throat.
Chapter 5
The drive from the city to the house on Elizabeth Avenue usually took Tate twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes in light traffic, fourteen if he caught the red lights. Up to twenty if there was a queue at the roundabout. Tonight, he’d done it in ten, slicing through the lanes, Jeep pressed to the limit. The hardest part of the drive home was waiting: waiting for the driveway gates to pry themselves apart, waiting for the garage door to open, waiting till he could bury the Jeep in his garage.
Now he punched bare‐fisted. It was a machine‐gun one‐two, one‐two‐three, one-two concussion into the heavy bag, hitting so hard the exposed timber beams over his head shook, and the fishing rods strung along them vibrated as if something was alive on the hooks. After two wild minutes his punches slowed, became more methodical. When his knuckles ached he welcomed the pain.
The Jeep’s engine clicked beside him, its bonnet still radiating warmth.
He tore the buttons from his shirt, pulled his arms from the sleeves and tossed it like a rag to the rough concrete floor. The shoe he kicked off bounced beneath a shelf. The other slid to a halt against his tackle box, the one Jolie gave him for his twenty‐first birthday, its handle worn smooth with seventeen years of use.
Then he punched some more.
When he felt the burn of lactic acid
She stepped out of Tate’s embrace and turned to find his eyes searching her face. A light she hadn’t seen before shone in the cobalt depths and she knew in two seconds he’d kiss her and she wouldn’t give the brand another thought until the small hours of the morning when maybe it would cross her mind as her foot rubbed his shin and her fingers travelled down his stomach and he pulled her hips close again…
“Wait. I want to get this right.” She laid her palm against his chest.
“This brand has to stand for something, like everything our family does. I thought about directing a percentage of profits to help Aboriginal kids get—”
Winter ice cracked across his face. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t squeeze the words: get employment opportunities from her frozen throat.
“I knew this would happen.” He paced two steps away, swung back, held his hand up like a policeman stopping traffic. “It’s called cause‐marketing for a reason, Christina. People like you do it to increase sales, first and foremost. Any frogs or orphans or Aboriginals who get saved in the process? Well, they were just fucking lucky.”
He muttered something she didn’t catch towards the watching circle of trees and Christina supposed that was an opportunity for her to get a word in; to explain. But her mouth was trapped in a horrified little ‘o’ and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make a sound.
“Indigenous Australians are not a hole in a pair of jeans. You can’t just give them a few dollars and expect them to patch themselves up while you go and write about how generous you are on your blog.”
“Since you want my advice so badly, here’s some for free. Go anywhere near Aboriginals with a bottle profit and the anti‐alcohol lobby will rip you to shreds. You’ll be accused of gifting Aboriginals money so they can buy more of your booze. The best thing a winemaker could do if he really wanted to help Indigenous Australians would be stop making the stuff.”
And she watched him stride away, backlit by the reception venue’s cheery lights. She couldn’t manage to force even a snide: Jesus, Tate. Tell us how you really feel, from her throat.
Chapter 5
The drive from the city to the house on Elizabeth Avenue usually took Tate twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes in light traffic, fourteen if he caught the red lights. Up to twenty if there was a queue at the roundabout. Tonight, he’d done it in ten, slicing through the lanes, Jeep pressed to the limit. The hardest part of the drive home was waiting: waiting for the driveway gates to pry themselves apart, waiting for the garage door to open, waiting till he could bury the Jeep in his garage.
Now he punched bare‐fisted. It was a machine‐gun one‐two, one‐two‐three, one-two concussion into the heavy bag, hitting so hard the exposed timber beams over his head shook, and the fishing rods strung along them vibrated as if something was alive on the hooks. After two wild minutes his punches slowed, became more methodical. When his knuckles ached he welcomed the pain.
The Jeep’s engine clicked beside him, its bonnet still radiating warmth.
He tore the buttons from his shirt, pulled his arms from the sleeves and tossed it like a rag to the rough concrete floor. The shoe he kicked off bounced beneath a shelf. The other slid to a halt against his tackle box, the one Jolie gave him for his twenty‐first birthday, its handle worn smooth with seventeen years of use.
Then he punched some more.
When he felt the burn of lactic acid
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