What Rosie Found Next by Helen J. Rolfe Read Free Book Online Page A

where Owen stood at the cooker. She was about to greet him with a cheerful ‘hello’ but froze when she recognised the tune playing through the speakers.
    He held up a wine glass when he caught sight of her lingering in the doorway. ‘Is red okay?’
    The sounds of the cello coming from the iPod docking station on the sideboard fell over her like a magic spell. She held her breath, torn between closing her eyes and losing herself in ‘The Swan’ by Saint-Saëns or running far away from the speakers that brought back so many memories.
    ‘Rosie?’ Owen stood proffering the glass.
    ‘Yes, please, I’ll have a glass.’ She pointed outside, eager to escape. ‘But I’ll water the garden first.’
    He left the glass on the table and returned to his culinary tasks. ‘I cleared the gutters earlier,’ he said, scraping mushrooms into the pan on the stovetop, his back to her now as he stirred the sizzling mixture. ‘No need to call the handyman in when I’m here.’
    ‘Right.’ She floated outside, well away from the music, and unwound the hose from its holder on the fence near the pool. She turned the tap using all her strength, determined not to ask for any help right now, and started with the largest rose bush, bursting with ruby red flowers. As she sprayed it she watched droplets settle on the silken leaves and run down to the thorns before plummeting into the soil beneath. She moved on to the orange roses, the bush standing at hip height with cupped, pale flowers with hints of peach, thirsty and ready to be taken care of.
    The smell of a home-cooked meal snaked down the garden and attacked Rosie’s stomach as she turned the hose to the lawn. Starting at the back fence, she worked her way backwards towards the rear of the house and the pool. Watering down the grass and cleaning out the gutters were paramount in bushfire season, and she was glad to have Owen pitching in to look after the place.
    When she reached the deck he was waiting for her. He pushed the glass of red into her hand. ‘Here, you take this and let me put the hose away.’
    Without argument, she took the glass and with her other hand wiped her brow, hot from the manual labour even though the sun had eased off in the early evening.
    ‘What type of bird is that?’ Rosie nodded towards the fence behind the rockery as the creature landed.
    ‘He’s our resident lyrebird.’ Owen chuckled. ‘He often stops by for a bit of a chirp and then he’ll be off, back into the bush.’
    The bird stood proudly, black eyes rounded, his beak snapping open and shut as he released a song that sounded like a kookaburra at first and then a car alarm, which, in all honesty, sounded more familiar to Rosie than the sounds of nature all around her now.
    ‘That damn song will have you looking out the window to see whose alarm is going off. I swear he’s doing it for a laugh at our expense.’ Owen wound the hose onto its reel. ‘Come on, almost time to eat.’
    He led the way inside and called over his shoulder, ‘I’ve changed the music too. I got the impression you weren’t keen.’
    Rosie didn’t offer any further explanation on that front. She simply sat at the rectangular pine dining table and sipped her wine as Miley Cyrus belted out ‘Wrecking Ball’. She gazed out the glass doors, over to the bush behind the back garden. The tranquillity of the countryside held as much magic in the fading sun as it did during the best parts of the day.
    Owen cut into her thoughts. ‘I hope you like lasagne.’
    ‘As a matter of fact, it’s my favourite.’
    He topped up both glasses of wine and put the finishing touches to a salad, scattering thin slices of red peppers, red onion and crumbled feta across the top of spinach leaves, rocket and tomatoes.
    ‘You seem to know your way around a kitchen,’ Rosie observed.
    ‘I’ve always enjoyed cooking.’ He poked a knife into the lasagne to check the pasta was soft and then slotted the dish back into the oven.