Page 1 of The Vet from Snowy River
CHAPTER
1
The cat was back.
Vera stood, bin in hand, at the kitchen door of the old Federation building she’d just signed a lease on and met the cat’s stare with one of her own.
‘Scram,’ she said, as she tipped the rubbish she was carrying into the alley skip bin. She was too tired to put much heat into the word. The cat paused in a puddle of spring sunshine then settled into a brick of fur.
Excellent. She’d have no trouble at all running kitchen staff, a barista, and a team of waiters if this was how a stray cat responded to her commands.
She lowered the rubbish bin to the ground and took a second to ease the knots in her back. What had she been thinking? She knew nothing about running a café, particularly one in a small tourist town in the Snowy Mountains. All she knew was that she needed an income to pay for her aunt’s medical bills, and cooking was the only skill she had left.
A horn tooted from the street out front of the building and had her checking her watch. Ten o’clock, bang on time. She hurried back inside, stripped off her rubber gloves, and peered through the plate glass windows that formed two sides of her shopfront. A delivery truck stood by the kerb, and two tradies were untying ropes and hauling drop cloths from the huge sign resting in its tray.
Vera felt a prickle of emotion deep in her stomach. It took a moment to recognise the prickle for what it was, it had been so long. She opened the front door and stood in the entryway as the last of the cloth was lifted, and her excitement grew from a prickle to a roar.
‘You want us to hang it now, love?’
Yes. Hell yes, she wanted them to hang it now. She may be about to make a monumental financial blunder; she may be unsure, and nervous, and sick with worry about whether her daft, outrageous idea was going to pay off, for herandher aunt. But by god, yes, she was ready.
‘Let’s do it,’ she said.
The two men reached into the truck’s deep tray and hauled. She caught her breath as the sign came clear: glossy chocolate background, pale cream writing in a stylish font she’d agonised over. The border of wildflowers had come up so much better than she’d imagined, with the yellow billy buttons plump and cheerful, and the delicate stems of pink triggers providing some old-fashioned whimsy. THEBILLYBUTTONCAFÉ,PROPRIETORVERADEROSSI.
She pressed a hand to her heart. She felt a little wild herself.
A slow clap sounding from the park on the street’s far side distracted her as she signed the delivery invoice.
‘Noice.’ The broad country accent drew her attention to a buff-looking guy on the denial side of fifty staring at her with his arms crossed.
‘Um, thanks.’
He stepped onto the road. ‘I’m your eleven o’clock,’ he said, as he walked past her and into the dimly lit chaos that was currently the interior of the café. ‘Crikey. Lots to do, lucky I’m early.’
Vera felt a frown forming and willed it away. She was a café proprietor now—she needed to be friendly. ‘We’re not open yet, sir.’
He turned to her, offered her a hand to shake and a grin that was all manicured beard and charm. ‘Graeme Sharpe. I responded to your newspaper ad for café staff.’
Hell’s bells, where was her head? She was supposed to be a detail person, and she had totally forgotten she had an interview booked for later in the morning. ‘Of course. Sorry, I lost track of the time.’
The man eyed the clutter, and she followed his gaze as it moved about the room. The chairs were piled high in one corner, still wrapped in plastic. Tables needed legs attaching, copper urns and drooping ferns formed a pyramid in the middle of the floor. ‘Vera De Rossi,’ he said. ‘Proprietor. That’s you, I take it?’
‘Yep.’
‘Uh-huh. You run a café before, Vera?’
‘Nope.’
‘You serious about making this one work?’
Vera pursed her lips. Who was interviewing who, here? This Graeme guy wasn’t lacking in confidence. ‘I’m deadly serious about making The Billy Button work.’ Understatement of the year. If the café didn’t turn a profit, her Aunt Jill’s safe haven in the dementia ward at Connolly House would be gone before she’d had a chance to change into her slippers.
‘And food. You buying in from suppliers, or making your own?’
‘Making it here. Cakes to eat in and take away, big breakfast menu, light lunch menu. Maybe dinner down the track. You know, my bank manager didn’t ask me this many questions.’
He smiled. ‘Just checking if you and I are going to be a good fit. If you’re interested in hiring the best barista north of Fitzroy, I’m your man. Only, I have to warn you, Idohave experience in running cafés and I’m fussy, bossy and opinionated. But in a totally good way.’
