Thanks for all your thoughts and encouragement. I can't tell you how much I appreciate every word you send in your reviews.
As well as Ipsita, Sally Hopkinson cast her eyes over the section that needed translating between American and British English, and I thank you both for giving me your time and advice on the chapter.
January 17th, 2020
We drove a long way north to find a perfect headland for filming the fire's massive trail of smoke. Alec has blown me away with the drone footage he's taken so far, but he wants to return later with the sun in the west.
Now he's filming in this burnt-out forest, none of us has said a word for a while, and I'm feeling chills, even though it's thirty-five degrees. Alec could easily be panning across a still image because there's no movement, nothing to sway in a breeze, and no sounds at all. It's like a silent film without birds or insects in a world of black tree trunks that seem to go on forever.
I can't imagine anything surviving a fire of this size, and yet it's dwarfed by the monster still growing northwest of Sydney. Seeing this, I'm not sure such raw destruction has a place in my documentary, and Alec filming charred remains up close makes me want to beg him to stop. I'm about to say something when he turns to me, smiling and giving me a thumbs up.
"They must have incredible inner reserves, because they're shooting, even without rain."
When I look for myself, I'm filled with an overwhelming sense of relief that the trees are not dead after all. They are rejuvenating, fighting back and winning, and I want to raise my arms and cheer them all on.
-0-
Alec cannot fathom why anyone would want to cook themselves in a sauna and then jump in freezing cold water, even after I point out he'll be in the ocean once the sun bakes his skin.
"I don't burn, Bella. I got my dad's skin."
"Oh yeah, and what nationality is that?" I ask jokingly, ready to suggest we have his DNA analyzed.
"Australian, my mob's Tharawal, actually."
"You Aboriginal?" Masen asks.
"Yeah."
"I'm Wiradjuri."
"Ah ... neighbors." They both laugh as Masen nods his head. "Whereabouts? That's a big piece of land."
"Near Cootamundra."
"Oh, right."
After ten minutes of listening, I go in for a swim, because they're speaking a version of English I don't understand. As I observe the two men talking and laughing, I wonder if Jasper was familiar with Alec's heritage when he recommended him. I understand now why Jasper was pissed at me, because the quality of work I've seen today impressed me enough to offer Alec cash to photograph our wedding. He also has the same strong connection and respect for the land as Masen's, and his familiarity with indigenous culture will be a great asset for our team.
-0-
The farther south we drive, the more clouds gather in the sky, and it's actually raining when we reach Sydney.
"Well, it's not enough to dance in the street, but it's puttin' a smile on my dial,'' Alec announces from the rear seat, giving us more of his quirky lingo. In the last two days, he's made me laugh, introducing words that Masen understands perfectly but has never used with me. A bogan is a redneck; a drongo a fool; dag means a geek or nerd; and a galah—which I already knew was a bird—is a term for an idiot. I was just getting used to a tinnie being a small boat, and now it's also a can of beer. My personal favorite has to be nugget, used for a loser or jerk. I like how it sounds the same in any accent, and I really wish I'd heard it earlier, because it would have been perfect for Mike Newton, who would have thought I was talking about bite-sized pieces of chicken.
I just know we're going to enjoy having Alec around.
-0-
The rain has subsided when I knock on the door of Charlotte's house, and the sound of a wailing baby has Masen and I eyeing each other with trepidation. No matter how I argued, Charlotte insisted on cooking dinner, and now I feel awful. At least we've brought Esme's so-simple smoked trout dip with us.
The shoes by the front door send a fairly strong message, so we slip ours off and wait. Charlotte's face lights up when she opens the door, and then she casts her eyes down to our feet.
"Come in, come in! God, it's so good to see you! I'd hug you but Bree just chucked up on me. Sorry, it's been one of those days." Her eyes search the sky behind us. "Has the rain really stopped already?"
"Apparently. It's supposed to be sunny again tomorrow," I reply, and she groans.
"Cute house," Masen remarks, poking his head into open rooms when we follow her up the hallway. It's a long narrow place, a little dark at the entry, opening up to a bright family room and new kitchen at the rear.
"We're working our way through the rooms as we save up the money. It's all structurally sound, which is the main thing, right? Could you just give me a few minutes to clean myself up? Glasses above the sink, drinks in the fridge, baby on the floor."
"Sure," I reply, drawn to the little person who is now making happy sounds. Bree is in a bouncer, kicking her legs and batting at felt animals hanging above her. The fawn, racoon, bear cub, fox, and acorn look decidedly North American to me.
"Hello, Bree."
Her bright eyes dart in my direction, and I sit down on the floor beside her. "I think she recognizes her name, Masen." We both stare at her for a while.
"She's lively," he remarks, "I thought they slept most of the time."
"I guess she's no longer a newborn if she's reaching for those animals. Does that seem advanced? I guess these two must know what they're doing with a pediatrician for a … mother. Actually, I'm not sure if that's what Gemma calls herself."
"It is, Bella. Bree has two mothers." Charlotte appears, looking fresh in shorts and a floaty top, and I notice her old nose ring is now a diamond stud. She looks a million times better than she did in college, and it feels like only yesterday we went through that heartbreaking goodbye. I really hope things have changed for her back home. "Give me a hug," she says with open arms, and I let myself melt into her embrace. It feels so good.
"Oh, you got boobs," she states with a grin, having noticed I'm not a bag of bones anymore.
"And yours … they're epic," I counter with a laugh.
She rolls her hands over each other and looms over her daughter. "Ha ha. All the better to feed you with, little Breeanna."
I love the way Bree responds to her mother. "She smiles at you, Charlotte. When does that start?"
"She's been smiling since she was six weeks old. This kid is possibly the most average baby in the world—average height, weight, and head circumference. She hits all her milestones at the expected time."
"What's wrong with that?" I ask, wondering why she presents this as a negative.
"Nothing. I'd just like her to surprise me occasionally."
"Helloooo!"
It's Gemma, the doctor Esme says they love to bits, and she kisses Charlotte before picking up her daughter and smooching her cheeks. Bree knows this woman well, smiling and vocalizing.
"I missed you, too," Gemma says to her very happy daughter, prizing her little fingertips from her hair. Rocking Bree in her arms, she asks, "Masen Edwards, how have we never met?"
"I don't know," he replies. "But I've heard a lot about you."
Then she directs her attention to me. "Charl nearly died when I showed her the photo of you guys at dinner. What a small world we live in?"
"And how about us both ending up with Aussies?" I ask, sliding an arm around the man beside me.
"Drinks?" Gemma asks, opening the fridge.
"We bought a bottle of white," Masen offers, nodding when she holds it up.
"And Esme's trout dip," I add. "It's smoked trout, a little sour cream, the juice of a lemon, chopped spring onion, and a sprinkle of parsley. We don't believe it contains anything to upset a nursing baby."
"Then let's get into it. What do we still have to do, Charl?"
Charlotte takes Bree and lowers her into her bouncer, but the baby objects, screaming so loudly she picks her up again. Seeing Charlotte sigh, I offer to take her, but Bree doesn't want me, clutching at her mother.
"Charl?" Gemma stares, looking frustrated. "Don't tense up like that. She's reading you."
Charlotte huffs, as if this has happened before, and Gemma takes Bree, introducing her daughter to me formally, picking up a colorful book and asking if I'll read it. Even at four months old, it's clear Bree enjoys this, and she soon relaxes her back into my chest. Mind you, she looks up often, reassured by the sight of her parents close by.
Before long, she settles completely, feeling heavy against me, and Gemma comes over, lifting her gently and taking her from the room. Bree had fallen asleep while I continued to read.
"Well done." Masen leans down to kiss me, then hands me a glass of wine.
Gemma returns, prompting Charlotte to ask if Bree stirred when she put her down and if she swaddled her first. Gemma tells her to stop fussing and try to enjoy the adult time while they can. I don't understand the tension when I think they're phenomenal first-time parents.
"She's adorable, Charlotte," I say, feeling jealous of my friend. "I want one just like her one day."
"Thanks, Bella, but I'm exhausted. Don't let anyone ever tell you it's easy—"
"You could make it easier on yourself, Charl," Gemma interrupts. "You don't have to be on duty 24/7. Her father wants her too."
"What do you mean? Jared has looked after her!" Charlotte responds with indignation.
"Not overnight, he hasn't."
"Okay, Gemma, Bella and Masen don't need to hear this. Give it a rest."
"Do you have family here, Bella?" Gemma asks me, changing the subject slightly.
"No."
"Well, I know how much Esme wants a grandchild, so make sure you ask for her help. My mother would love to spend time with Bree."
"It's not my fault your family lives in Melbourne, Gemma!"
"We're ten minutes from the airport, and it's only an hour and a half in the air. Mom hasn't killed my brother's kids yet. We'd make her happy and come back refreshed."
"Maybe when Bree is a little older, okay?"
"Okay, Charl, I'm going to hold you to that since we have two witnesses. Your failure to trust anyone else with your daughter is robbing her of a relationship with her father and his family, just as much as mine."
I see the moment when there's a physical shift in Charlotte's demeanor. She relents, tasting the dip, getting herself a beer from the fridge. She takes a swig and then sighs. "Most people are curious but too polite to ask, Bella, so here's the deal. Bree's father is Gemma's best friend, Jared. He was the man of honor at our wedding and the only person we ever considered to be the father of our child. He's also in a single sex marriage, and gay men have virtually no chance of adopting.
"I got pregnant the first time we attempted insemination and had no problems with the pregnancy or birth. Bree is perfectly healthy, and we see no reason to stop at one, so we're planning another baby for us and at least one for them. What my wife so brutally expresses is true. Of course, Jared deserves an important place in Bree's life, and I know I have separation anxiety, caused by being discarded like trash over my sexual persuasion. I am trying to condone my family's behavior and modify my own."
Gosh, she's just like me, recognizing her failings and working to correct them. I'm in awe of her wanting to forgive her parents who were appalling when she so bravely came out. I would have wiped them from my life, but now I feel sorry they've missed her becoming a mother, embracing the life she's created here, finding happiness with a partner who obviously cares for her.
I'm sad I missed it, too, but it just means we can renew our friendship away from their toxicity. It's so weird that we've found each other ten years later, and I have a proposal that could benefit us both.
"Charlotte, our wedding is February 22nd in Melbourne, and Masen has three best friends he wants as groomsmen. Since this is all very last minute, I don't have anyone I can ask to partner them. Masen's cousin, Rose, has agreed so far, but would you consider being a bridesmaid?"
Gemma gets in quickly, ahead of a negative response. "Mom would gladly give us a weekend off, Charl, and I haven't seen you in a party dress for ages. Please say yes."
I watch Charlotte assessing my offer, and I hope she sees Gemma crying out for a break, too.
She takes Gemma's hand before smiling. "I guess it must have been fate when I saw your photo the other night, because who would have thought I'd be one of Bella Swan's bridesmaids?"
"You're saying yes?" Gemma confirms, hugging her like crazy when she nods, and I'm teary by the time they let go of each other.
Charlotte looks at me anxiously. "I'm sorry, but I cannot do strapless with this rack, Bella. I need a proper bra, so what is the plan for the dresses?"
What was the plan? I was still getting used to the idea of having bridesmaids. Rose was on board and now Charlotte. From the way Alice reacted to the invitation to attend the wedding, I was optimistic she'd say yes, and then I'd have three women I knew. Although I had never met Rose in person, she was already helping me, and I would never forget her generosity.
"I'm open to suggestions," I answer, a little worried if I'm honest. "Time is running out."
"I might have something," Gemma responds. "A friend of mine had a problem last year when her bridesmaids couldn't find a dress that suited them all. They managed to choose different styles from the same fabric and color, and everyone was happy. I remember it was a brand they sell in Myer. I can ask her if you'd like."
"Please, that would be great," I reply, thankful for the offer.
They tell us about their wedding, which took place at Gemma's grandparents' rambling house northeast of Melbourne. Too old to maintain the property now, they've turned it into a vacation rental, and it is still the location for all their big family gatherings. Gemma's mother is one of six raised in a home that holds so much history, and none of them will hear of it leaving the family. Gemma wanted to hold their wedding on the lawn where she and her cousins ran around together at Christmas, and where their kids will now do the same.
"Was it … a traditional wedding?" Masen asks. "Did you have a special song for your wedding dance?"
"We really haven't thought about that, have we?" I reply, nauseous at the thought of me dancing in front of a crowd.
"Etta James, 'At Last,'" Gemma answers him. "It was epic."
"We don't have a special song like that, Masen." I want to forget the mention of "epic" applying to our wedding dance. We have songs we both love, but this wedding is approaching so fast that I'll embarrass him if he shines a spotlight on my limited skills on the dance floor.
Gemma looks at Charlotte with love in her eyes. "It wasn't our song before the wedding, either, but the lyrics fit perfectly: falling in love with the right woman and having my family welcome her, then finally being able to marry legally."
"That is a great song. Did you have a band or a DJ?" Masen continues. I guess he's been focusing on the music for the reception, so we're going to have to discuss this wedding dance, and soon.
"Neither," Gemma answers. "We used Spotify."
"Oh, okay. That makes things easy," he states. "I heard it's tough getting a good DJ at short notice."
Avoiding more talk about our wedding dance, I ask Charlotte to fill me in on what happened after she left me in Seattle. She transferred to the University of Chicago, starting a new degree in food science and nutrition, and boy can she produce a healthy and delicious-looking meal. I am in love with her chicken skewers, threaded with onion, red pepper, and fresh pineapple, and the sweet sauce she paints on while grilling. The aroma is so incredible I can hardly wait to devour them.
I had never heard of adding mango to coleslaw before, but after I get to taste test it, I will certainly be making her amazing salad in the future. When she asks if we like fresh coriander, I admit that two years ago, I would have needed a translation and that my time in South Africa has definitely helped me transition to British English.
Offering us another glass of wine, Masen relates the confusion caused when our tour guide explained how Finnish people buy their alcohol exclusively from an Alco, but he stops short of telling the full story.
"You need to include that we were just working it out when you used the term, 'Bottle O,' to describe the same thing."
"I try to be flexible, babe, but it goes against the grain to say liquor store."
Gemma joins in. "I compromise and say sweater, but Charl will not say jumper."
I'm on Charlotte's side for that one. "It used to really bug me when Masen would say, 'I'll put the jug on,' but now he substitutes the word, 'kettle,' there's no confusion. Currently, I'm working on saying 'quarter' instead of 'fourth' because he finds it jarring, even though he agrees that one over four is a fourth."
"But one over two will never be a tooth, my dear," he jokes, and I laugh, remembering the day he questioned why I use the word "underwear" exclusively for undies, arguing that bras are also underwear, and it turned into a fiery discussion over the peculiarities in our versions of English.
"And I will never warm to using 'folks' as a collective noun," he declares.
"What's wrong with folks?" Charlotte asks, frowning.
"We don't use the term here," he offers.
"But what's wrong with it?" she perseveres, and I have to hold back when I know what's coming.
"Folks be livin' in a backwater," he replies in a terrible southern accent. "Whittlin', Bible bashin' and rockin' chairs."
She stares at him, obviously waiting for the punchline, and then looks at me, as if I understand.
"He asked me for a powerpoint to charge his phone," I reply. "What was I supposed to do with that?"
Charlotte shakes her head and laughs. "You should've seen Gemma's face when I suggested we grill hot dogs for dinner, and she thought I meant broiling the rubbery ball park franks they sell here. I had to explain how dogs are a way of life in the States, and we have endless varieties of delicious sausages we cook on the grill."
"Exactly," I concur. "And it's the same in South Africa. They have the most incredible spicy sausages they sell in long coils."
"Borworse?" Charlotte asks, saying it the way I did before I learned. "You'll find them in a lot of butchers here."
"Boo-ra-vawz. I have to pronounce it that way, now, because there was always somebody correcting me, just like I once called prawns 'shrimp.'" Masen smirks, meeting my side-eye.
Charlotte puts her hands up as if she's not gonna touch that one. It's like committing a sin in this country.
Gemma retorts. "All I know is it's bloody confusing when barbecuing is grilling, and grilling is broiling."
"You'll find a million of them, Bella," Charlotte states with a laugh. "Just ask if you're confused and I'll translate."
It's a good time for me to bring up what happened the other day. "We actually had a moment with Esme when Mom asked to see me jacked up in my wedding dress. The assistant knew what it meant and diffused the situation, but what does it mean here?"
Masen and Gemma look at each other, and Masen shrugs, "We use a jack to raise the body of a car when we change a tire."
"See, I would never have guessed that in a thousand years," I declare.
"You've never heard of a jack stand?" Charlotte asks with raised eyebrows.
It honestly doesn't register. "No, but that could be because I've never owned a car."
The two women stare at me, mouths gaping open. Plenty of people have admitted they couldn't survive without wheels, but I only saw a vehicle as a burden, stored for who knows how long at my parent's place, thousands of miles from anywhere.
"Bella immigrated to Australia with just one suitcase." Masen rests an arm on my shoulder. "Gotta love a minimalist woman."
"We're both nomads." I lean against him. "I don't know how we're gonna settle on a permanent home once the project is over."
"Well, I can honestly say I've never been happier than I am right now." Charlotte takes Gemma's hand and kisses it. "Making a home with Gemma and Bree has given me a sense of belonging I've never known before, and I'm going to turn thirty feeling very blessed with my life."
Masen is smiling, seeing the affection they share. They're no different from us, and I hope Charlotte's family can open their hearts and be part of her happiness. I'm honored that I've been given a chance to see it for myself.
-0-
Back at Woollahra, Masen is brushing his teeth when I decide I can't put off the discussion off any longer. I follow him into the bathroom, seeing he's picked up a tan after one visit to the beach.
He pats his mouth dry with a towel and puts his arms around me. "You looked good with a baby tonight."
It throws me off slightly, imagining how good it would have been if it was us showing off our home and new child.
"You okay?" he asks when I haven't replied, perceptive like his mother.
"Yeah, it's just … this first dance at the wedding—" The sentence chokes in my throat, reminding me of my inadequacy. "Can we avoid it altogether?"
He frowns, as if hasn't heard me right. "We have to dance at our wedding, baby. It's not really up for discussion."
God, I'm just going to have to blurt this out.
"I'm not sure what you're expecting, Masen, but I can't really dance, and I don't want to embarrass you in front of your family and friends."
"What do you mean? You dance with me all the time."
"It's not like that's real dancing."
"How do you know real dancing if you can't dance?"
I don't … actually have an answer for that, and his eyebrows dare me to challenge. When I don't respond, he lifts me and walks us into the bedroom, setting me down with an arm firmly across my back, positioning me like we're going to slow dance, and when I look in his eyes, he brushes his nose against mine, hovering as if he's going to kiss me.
I love it when he holds me like this, hips aligned and legs between each other's, but I fear this will be too intimate with everyone watching.
He leads and I follow, back side together, forward side together. I guess I recognize the simple pattern with a turn at the end, but I've never taken much notice when I've always been worried I'll tread on his feet.
"What happens when I lift your hand and touch your hip?" he asks, demonstrating the move.
We do this all the time, so I show him how I spin.
"And if I do it once more?"
I spin again, and he takes a step toward me, rotating me and leaning me back slightly. It's not one of those big dramatic dips where you fear the man might drop his partner. This one is full of his smile and the anticipation of a luscious kiss, and I melt when he does kiss me and leaves me lightheaded when he straightens me up and moves us on again.
"For someone who can't dance, Bella, you waltz, spin, and dip very well. How complicated are you expecting this dance to be?"
"I don't really know," I answer, giving in. "But I won't protest any longer. If this wedding dance is important to you, then it's what we're going to do."
Triumphant, he lifts me and spins us around, and I remind him I'm going to need practice before I can overcome my nerves. His response is to lay me down on the bed and promise we'll dance every day until our wedding. It doesn't take long before he's nibbling my earlobe and hitching my leg over his hip, starting the horizontal dance he's perfected. I encourage him with a lusty kiss, tasting the mint on his tongue and wrapping myself around him.
xo Thanks for reading
I won't be posting next week, going away for a very important family event that requires my 100% attention, so I'll see you after. Take care everyone.
