Free Heart of the Outback by Lynne Wilding

you’ll be by yourself.”
    “I date,” she said with a bored sigh. “Didn’t I go to a wedding last week with Rocco Biviano?”
    Carlo’s head shook slightly. “Rocco is your second cousin. Big deal, as you young ones say.”
    “Papà, I’ve got plenty of time to settle down. I’m nowhere near thirty yet.” Francey forced herself tobreathe deeply, slowly, and not take offence because he didn’t
mean
to hurt her. It was just that he had this thing about her getting married, and unlike some Italian-born fathers who tried to hold onto their single daughters, Carlo Spinetti was quite the opposite.
    God, if she had a dollar for every time he’d made a comment about finding a man over the last four years, she’d own her much-loved VW beetle outright. For a moment her blue-green eyes snapped with the light of battle — she enjoyed a confrontation — and then her gaze darted about the kitchen her mother was so proud of. Finally, after years of agitating and not-so-gentle arguments Lucia had convinced her tight-fisted husband to have it modernised. And now, her mother, who loved to cook, while Francey did not, happily spent a good part of her days conjuring up wonderful food for her husband and daughter. No, she decided, no arguments tonight, she was too happy about being on the awards short-list.
    Still, she had some understanding of her father’s reasoning. Carlo and Lucia Spinetti were from Murge, a village near Minerveno, not far from Bari, on the south-eastern side of Italy. A few years after World War II they’d come to Australia to start a new life, and had brought many reminders of the old country with them. Family photos, hand-stitched linen, mementoes and the old ways with which they were familiar. And in her father’s case, the traditional belief that women should marry early and devote their lives to their husbands, home, cooking and raising many
bambini.
Poor Papà. A well of compassion flowed through her as she remembered some of the stories he’d told her of his relatives, and where he’d grownup. The poverty had been unbelievable. Now, Carlo Spinetti was caught in a time warp, unable to catch up with twentieth-century technology, let alone the coming third millennium.
    “Carlo, leave Francey alone,” Lucia entered the debate as she dished up three plates of spaghetti marinara and placed a bowl of salad on the table. “We only see our daughter once a week. You stop the scolding.
Va bene
?”
    Francey grinned at her mother, her mouth twitching to hold down a brief smile. Lucia Spinetti was one hundred and fifty two centimetres of Italian volatility. Packaged in a comfortable, still curvaceous figure and with greying hair arranged in a neat bun and dark, almost black eyes, she wasn’t afraid to stand up to her larger, bombastic, sometimes overbearing husband. People said she got her temperament — if not her looks — from her mother.
    “Thanks, Mamma.” She dropped a grateful kiss on the top of her mother’s head as she sat at the dinner table and put a serving of salad on her plate.
    “Francey,” Lucia said, “Meredith rang here earlier on. She and Brett are sailing on Sunday. She said if you want to come, you give her a call.
Va bene
?”
    “Right, I’ll ring her later. After dinner I’ll show you the gown I’m going to wear to the awards dinner.” And then she made a mental note to steer the conversation away from herself. She could always get her father to talk about the shop, how expensive fruit and vegetables were getting, how much more selective and critical the customers were. Yes, that was the safe way to go.
    Francey smoothed down the black crepe tightskirt and posed this way and that in her parent’s bedroom mirror. Yes. She was sure Aden would approve of her choice. What a good buy she’d made — off the rack too.
    Carlo Spinetti looked up from the television where the ABC news was in progress. He sat in his favourite armchair, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup,