House Of Spades: House Of Jewels, #3 y614t

House of Spades

House of Jewels, Volume 3

Amber Jakeman

Published by Amber Jakeman, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

HOUSE OF SPADES

First edition. July 21, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Amber Jakeman.

ISBN: 978-0648920250

Written by Amber Jakeman.

Also by Amber Jakeman

House of Jewels House of Diamonds House of Hearts House of Spades

Watch for more at Amber Jakeman’s site.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Amber Jakeman

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

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Further Reading: House of Diamonds

Also By Amber Jakeman

About the Author

About the Publisher

With deep gratitude for friends and family and for all who empower us in the great journey of life.

Chapter 1

Flame Rhys held her umbrella closer as the rain banged down around her. She loved living in rainforest country, but it meant making friends with water, down her collar, into the tops of her red gumboots and up her sleeves. Thank goodness for Becca and her generous heart, giving her a lift as far as the crossing. Not much further now. Glad to be alive, Flame laughed as she stomped along the wet road, shiny as silver in the late afternoon. As great drops of water smashed down onto the umbrella from the limbs and leaves, Flame imagined the tree trunks pushing ever higher as they drank the rain, squeezed by the vines twisting tighter and thicker, reaching for the sky. A couple of king parrots shrieked past and she wished she, too, had bright green wings and could soar up through the canopy and fly across the valley and beyond, to see her grown-up girls. It had been too long. The surrounding mountains disappeared, shrouded in cloud, as she inhaled deeply the fragrance of wet soil, replenisher of life. As she rounded the home corner, back to her caravan, she glanced up at the hermit’s old farmhouse at the top of the hill; the stranger was her closest neighbor. She looked forward to boiling her kettle for hot tea with sugar, or maybe even a hot chocolate with the precious UHT milk? She hitched the backpack higher on her shoulders. It was heavy, full of fresh fruit and vegetables and more spirits for the stove. If she cursed Grady again, it would spoil her day. Bitterness could grow heavier than storm clouds. “Greedy Grady, greedy Grady,” trudged her rubber-clad feet, one after the other. At least she still had the caravan, with its jaunty little spirit stove. Not long now and she’d enjoy that hot drink.

Down the last stretch of road she stomped, careful not to slide. Her fingers numb with wet and cold, she slipped open the gate latch, closed it again with care, and headed down the hill. Here, the ground was sodden with rain, the high grass and undergrowth laced with drips, tiny spider webs drooping with droplets. Not long now. Her gumboots repaid her richly in the mud. Had someone driven down recently in something big? A tractor? The ruts were deeper than ever, like weals in the rich brown flesh of the earth. Closer to home, the skies opened again. The drops beat down, atomizing through the umbrella, exploding on her world. The roar of the creek rose to a howl as she approached, but when she ed the stand of Sally Wattles, it was Flame’s turn to shriek. She looked right and left and right again, but there was no denying it. Her caravan was gone, the place it had been, empty, like the socket of a missing tooth. So much for the chance to shrug off the heavy pack and peel off her wet clothes and steamy boots. So much for the simple pleasure of a hot drink. A black leech waved around on the toe of her red boot, seeking flesh, and she rubbed it off with her other heel. A great sob lodged in the back of her throat. Her caravan, her haven, full of the only things she’d salvaged from all her years of moving—gone? Had her van been impounded? Police had taken one of her old uned cars once. Horror washed through her. Not that again!

Or maybe Grady came back for it. Again, she cursed the moment she’d laid eyes on Grady. Why had she ignored the inner voice which had warned her against his too-blue eyes, his oh-so-smooth smile and that voice? A professional crooner, singing slow love songs dripping with honey ... How could she have been so foolish! Or had someone else stolen it? Everything she owned was inside. If only she’d stuck to her resolve and sworn off men forever, she’d never be in this mess, sodden and homeless.

Defeat dragged down her shoulders, already weary from the pack, but she forced up her chin, and heaved a huge sigh. Her only option was to turn around and trace those tracks in the mud, to see if they might lead her to her caravan—one step at a time. It was all she’d ever taken, for better or worse. Back at the road, her eyes traced the muddy trail, upwards. Above the steep paddock, in the gathering darkness, were other clues. Up at the hermit’s house, more lights shone than usual. Headlights? A tractor maybe? And behind it, a dark outline. Her caravan. But why? Fast following the relief, anger began to bubble, and by the time she reached her van, fury blazed, white hot and pulsing. ... Ross Archer had seen mad people before. They weren’t mad. They had disabilities or impairments or mental health issues; the terminology kept changing. This woman wasn’t mad. Sodden, puffing from her march up the hill, she was simply furious, incandescent with rage, a force. So much for imagining the treser would be grateful. “Ross Archer,” he said to the woman. Her red hair was dripping wet, and her face, flushed. “I saved your caravan.” He extended his hand. That was the secret. Keep your cool and state your case with a polite smile. Ignoring his hand, she looked him up and down with venom. “‘Saved’ it? How dare you touch my caravan!” The woman practically spat the accusation. She fumed, eyes flashing. Was that smoke coming out of her nostrils? Maybe she was a dragon. No, it was only water vapor in the tractor lights as the darkness of evening deepened. She stared at his outstretched hand and back into his eyes. Ross retreated one step, her contempt for him visceral. “Take it back where you found it,” she said. “Right now. Right this minute. Do it.”

Ross brought his hand back to his warm pocket. The rescue operation had taken hours. Since Margaux’s death he rarely ventured outside the farmhouse, let alone into the tractor shed. Firing up the old thing after a full year had taken hours of tinkering, and all the while the rain had thundered on the tin roof, reminding him the creek would be rising. Piloting the tractor down the wet road and muddy track, wrestling the van onto the tow bar and bringing both vehicles safely up the steep hill in the sheets of driving rain had been more than a challenge. “Heroic,” he would have called it, before this woman ed her own judgment. “What gives you the right to touch my home?” she spat. If the livid vision in front of him was sopping wet, so was he. He bit his tongue. Telling her to calm down was unlikely to work. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He’d assumed she’d be grateful. “I’ll call the police!” she said. As she shook her umbrella, droplets of water flew at his face. “You will do no such thing.” Ross stayed calm, but as another cold drip made its way down the back of his neck and another landed in one eye, a flicker of defiance ignited inside him. Hungry and tired, he was in no mood for her tirade. “I will,” she glared, all spirit. “You’ve nicked it. You have no right, none at all.” Ross almost snapped, but a lifetime’s practice of dealing with the public kept him in control. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but she was still there, glaring at him, imperious, her hatred palpable. It was ridiculous. “Actually, you’re a treser,” he said, voice steady as a newsreader’s. “I’ve saved your caravan from being washed away in flood waters. You don’t need to thank me, but the least you could do is stop shaking water at me.” In her red raincoat, the woman blinked and held her umbrella still. Her eyes flicked sideways. She glared at him again. “Treser? Grady said all creek front is public. Anyway, you weren’t using it. That’s for sure.” Had her voice dropped a notch on the aggression scale?

“Well, Grady’s wrong, I’m afraid. It’s private land down there. My land. Not Grady’s, and not yours.” “But ...” “In fact, you can have your caravan back. Feel free to take it away. I don’t actually want it.” He turned to walk away, when suddenly the woman flinched and dropped her head, her expression hidden in the darkness. Her shoulders drooped. Had all the fight gone out of her? Was she crying? A great wave of sympathy for her broke over Ross. Maybe she was in shock. What did he know of her anyway, this woman with red hair who’d been camping out of sight in his creek paddock for who knew how long? Who was he to assume he was some kind of hero for towing her caravan up the hill? Maybe she’d wanted it to wash away. And who was Grady? Without thinking, Ross reached for her, at the very least to ease the heavy pack off her back. As he took its weight, she stumbled forwards against him and he found himself ing her. In a kind of surrender, she folded herself into his chest. Her sobs shuddered through him, twisting his heart, shaming him. He was glad he’d held his cool. All his life he’d labored to make life easier for itinerant people, yet they insisted on making foolish decisions—like camping beside flood-prone creeks. Resting her pack gently against his leg to stop it falling into the wet grass, he reached one arm around her and then another as she sobbed. How long had it been since he’d held a woman like this and offered comfort? Too long. Through her raincoat, the woman’s frame was small but strong, as if she were used to heavy work, yet it was his strength she drew on. Tenderness and protectiveness awakened in him, from somewhere deep within. After a minute or so, she pushed herself away from him, taking a step back. She dragged a rainbow patterned handkerchief from her pocket, a cheery touch of color in the gloom as she wiped her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “I can’t believe I just flew at you. Thank you.” She caught his eyes, rolled hers and shook her head with an embarrassed laugh

as a blush of shame rose. “It’s been a hard few months, and the caravan is all I have in the world. I’ve been half expecting Grady to come back and ... long story.” The hermit stayed silent. “So when it was missing I assumed you’d stolen it. I never even thought of the creek rising. It’s just I’d been so looking forward to a cup of tea. Can I offer you a cup of tea? And some cake? You look hungry and tired, too.” Did he? Ross put a hand to his face. He hadn’t given a thought to his appearance, but he could imagine it. Grizzled, shaggy as a bear, and soggy. Anita had nagged him into a cut and shave last time she’d visited, in the winter school holidays, but that was months ago. He glanced back at the golden slice of doorway to his sanctuary, the farmhouse. It would be dry in there, if lonely, but he was used to being alone. He liked it this way, or so he told Anita every time she phoned and tried to talk him into returning to Sydney. “It’s no trouble,” the treser offered again. “I’ve just bought more fuel for my stove.” She gestured at her backpack and nodded at the van. She had a beautiful smile when she held her head high like that. Even in the gloom, it shone out like a beacon, open and generous; bewitching. It was all he could do not to smile back, and he hadn’t smiled since ... He took a step back, and another. “No. Thank you. But, no.” She was still looking at him. Why? He broke away from her gaze, searching for anything else to hold his attention. His eyes fell on the caravan, and he focused on that. It was solid, real, a problem he could solve. Simple. Unlike his emotions. “Look. Your caravan.” “Um. Mr Archer, did you say? I’m sorry, but I really can’t tow it away just now. Grady took the car; a while ago, actually.” She stared at him, her face small under the hood, every trace of anger gone. “Look,” Ross shouted above the deluge. “How about I just back your van under the tool shed for now?”

She looked around and noticed his tin-roofed shed, open on two sides. “Yes. Yes, please. Thank you, Mr Archer, sir.” “But I won’t have a cup of tea, thank you; nor cake. I’m not hungry, and there’s no need to call me ‘sir.’” Did she know he was lying about the hunger? All she said was, “suit yourself.” Striding to the shed, Ross stood the wheelbarrow up beside the row of spades and shoved an old barrel of feed against the wall to make more space. He climbed back onto his tractor and backed the van under the shelter of the shed, a precision operation, if he said so himself. Not bad for a city slicker. By the time Ross unhooked the van, secured the tractor back in its own shed and splashed his way back to the farmhouse, Flame had quietly followed her backpack into the caravan. The only sign of the woman was the glow of a light inside her van, blinds firmly pulled down, and her red gumboots, propped upside down against the caravan step to dry. Ross’s couldn’t make her out. One minute she was rough as guts, and the next; refined and proud. His stomach grumbled. She was right. He was tired and hungry. As he shook off his wet raincoat and eased off his own gumboots at the back door, he wished for a moment he’d accepted her invitation—let himself eat cake. He couldn’t make her out. One minute she was rough as guts, and the next; refined and proud. Inside the farmhouse, he lit the stove under his own kettle, reached automatically for another tin of baked beans, and wondered what he’d done.

Chapter 2

So that was the old hermit! Flame was astonished. Well spoken. Gaunt, long salt and pepper hair and a matching beard, a bit wispy. Sad eyes . She stirred two heaped spoonsful of sugar into her steaming tea and carved herself a large slice of cake. As another barrage of rain swept against them, she broke eye , searching for something to focus on that wasn’t this man who’d been unexpectedly and inextricably kind to her. She saw her backpack, raindrops bouncing off it. She should really put it inside, out of the wet. She picked it up, turned in her boots, walked to the caravan, snatched up the wet pack, opened the van door, stowed it inside and closed the door tightly, returning to stare at him. She half wished she could follow it inside, make her cup of hot chocolate or tea, and pretend this had never happened. She peeled off her wet clothes and dressed in her warm pajamas, the legs rolled up to her knees. She soaked her feet in the last of the warm water and closed her eyes as she sipped her tea, relief flooding through her bones. Bliss. Ross’s shed provided extra shelter from the rain. Flame pushed a tentative finger under the nearest blind and peered out. The lights of the farmhouse glowed amber in the deep purple twilight. So, the hermit had rescued her van, and she’d accused him of stealing it. Awkward. She ought to apologize properly, or at least must thank him, but how? What do you buy a man who lives like a hermit, doesn’t like cake, and won’t accept so much as a cup of tea? It was unsolvable. Instead, she began thinking about practical matters. Her mind instantly filled up with a long list of all the things she had to do. They were expecting her at the vineyard on the coast at eight o’clock in the morning, to clean up and help prepare for the next set of guests. She’d have to be at the bus stop at seven. And the markets were coming up this weekend and she was almost out of her

signature tie-dyed scarves and sarongs. If she didn’t make more by then, she’d have to do a spot of fortune telling instead—not her favorite way of earning a few extra dollars—but how could she dye her cloth without the creek nearby? And when would the hermit expect her to leave? If he was right about the land, and he probably was—Grady’s words had always been too good to be true— she’d have to find somewhere else to park her life; but Grady had taken the car. She was stranded. She shook her head. Men! She was done with them. It wasn’t that they weren’t nice to have around sometimes. She liked them, but living with them? Fraught. Doomed. She should know. Grady wasn’t the first sweet-talker to persuade her to partner up. After Sven, there’d been one after another. Back then, she still believed in love, and when Grady had melted her heart, she’d foolishly rushed in. They all showed promise in that first burst of attraction, when they couldn’t lavish her with enough love and attention, but once she fell for them, they eased back on the charm and effort, settled into neutral on the couch, and expected her to wait on them. She woke up one day and realized all the chores had become hers, and all the benefits, theirs. Then they’d leave. Or she would, if she figured it out in time. That was when she’d move on, if they hadn’t beaten her to it. She should have seen it coming with Grady. That money Stella had sent her last year for the mescaline cold storage? Grady had convinced her they should spend it on a better car. “No point growing and storing our product if we can’t deliver it on time,” he’d told her. It was true their old car was unreliable. Her car, actually, but it was Grady’s caravan they’d been living in—one of his attractions. With their better car, the four-wheel drive, they’d been able to tow it somewhere new, down by the creek in Rainbow Valley. Secluded. Plenty of water and a fertile river flat for the lettuce. It had all been perfect—until Grady had fallen for that young singer and shot off northwards with her in their car, never to return. She could have reported it stolen, but of course he’d ed it in his own name, and she actually preferred to keep the caravan. He’d left it to her; he’d said in his farewell note,

doubtless to assuage his guilt. No point dwelling on the past, she told herself as she finished her simple meal, but a shiver ran through her. What if the hermit had been right about the creek? What if it had risen throughout the night while she was sleeping, and washed her away? Such tragedies happened. Now, so safe and warm, she was content. She toweled her feet dry, took the bucket, opened the van door and hurled the water out one of the shed’s open sides, into the dark night. It sluiced out in a great shining arc, lit by her trusty lamp. In here, under the shelter of the shed, her van was warmer and dryer than ever. As she placed the bucket back under the bench, she felt for the satchel, tucked up safely out of sight. Relief washed through her again. Nothing was stolen, apart from what Grady had already taken— the car and her dignity. She’d be able to pay Stella back soon after all, and she hadn’t drowned. Gratitude towards the hermit surged. He’d given her another chance. She wouldn’t waste it. Not this time.

Chapter 3

Ross washed up his single plate and propped it against the upside down mug on the edge of the sink. He looked down the paddock, thinking about the caravan, recalling the day he’d first seen it. His neighbor, Craig, kept leaving phone messages asking him to fix a fence. It was weeks before Ross had found the energy to go and investigate, down in the creek paddock, as far away as another continent. Back then, Ross’s world was the bed, the tap and an old lounge on one of the verandas. He barely slept, forgot to eat, and never left the house. He didn’t know where the time went, but he supposed it ed. The neighbor certainly thought so. Ross had played back the phone messages in a kind of haze, not really listening, but just going through the motions of what you’re meant to do just to stop the machine blinking. “Sorry, mate,” Craig had said. “Heard about your wife. Don’t want to cause trouble but my cows keep getting out.” And another. “Ah. Ross? Craig here. Craig Donovan. On your south side, mate. About the fence? Ring me back.” And again. “That fence, mate. I’ll have to just fix it and charge you half. Ring me back.” When the autumn rain stopped, Ross made himself go. He fired up the fourwheel drive and drove down. He hated the thing, so new and unused it still smelled like Margaux’s hand cream. They’d planned to drive it across Australia, once they’d settled into the farmhouse. Instead they’d driven to doctors’ appointments and weeks of treatments; and finally he’d just driven it alone, to the hospital, and then to the funeral. He’d got into it as little as possible since;

only when he was completely out of groceries. He’d wound down all the windows, flicked a large spider out into the garden, and turned the key. There was something to be said for Japanese technology. He truly hadn’t run it for months. Driving jolted him—the height off the ground. He’d winced at the flaring of the light off the front of it, shied away as the gate loomed up, managed to drive through without hitting the post. A truck roared past, scattering gravel. Gingerly, Ross eased it onto the dirt road and turned the corner to the lower paddock. He got out to unhook the gate, and praised himself for ing to close it again before driving downhill. At least Craig’s stray cows wouldn’t get run over on the road. Weeds had grown over the track and the puddles were so big he wondered at their depth. Maybe Anita was right. Was it all too much for him, keeping this big property? He had zilch farm experience. The closest he’d come to living on the land in his life, until Margaux’s dream move, their big tree change, had been mowing their lawn in suburban Sydney. He parked the car and walked down his driveway, if that’s what you could call the muddy track. The weeds and scrub towered so thick and high it was hard to find the fence. He expected to see a fallen post or two, but instead, a bright beam of light caught his eye. It glinted as he walked towards it. A bright crystal flashed rainbows as he approached the beige edge of a structure which blended into the bush as if it had grown there. A caravan. He stopped and listened. Bird calls, the gurgling of the creek, a moo or two from one of Craig’s cows. Nothing else. “Hello?” he’d called. “Anyone there?” Yet there was a smell, beyond the crush of lantana—the smell of ash. He found it, the remains of a campfire, inside a circle of round river rocks, and, behind it, more flashes of color.

A wind had come up, whistling in the higher branches. He walked faster. Down towards the creek, the land flattened out. A couple of cows munched on his grass, and there, strung out between the trees, against the backdrop of olive greens and browns, were swathes of cloth, covered in every color of the rainbow, pegged up on long lines, flapping in the wind. Ross strode closer, mesmerized by their beauty, until he was surrounded by billowing blue and purple and orange and pink, drying in the sun. The soft cloth danced, flicking his skin, with the sky pure blue above, and his feet in mud. For a moment he was back in his childhood, playing among the sheets set out to dry, running his hands along them in the sunshine, marveling at how they shut out the rest of the world. There was a sensation of tresing, despite the fact he was on his own land. The undulating rainbow-colored cloth lifted his heart, replacing the grief that had surrounded him for too many months. Time disappeared as he stood and gazed and wandered up and down, enchanted, before he ed his mission—finding the fence line to examine the neglected posts and wires. That evening, Ross rang Craig about the fence and offered to pay half for the repairs and a bit more for labor. He didn’t mention the caravan. Later, he’d occasionally force himself out of the farmhouse and amble down, to see if anyone was there and confront them about their intentions, but no one was ever home, or if they were, they’d make themselves scarce at his approach. But he worried about the van when the creeks began to rise and the rain kept falling. What if it washed away in the middle of the night? What if someone was inside? So. The treser was a woman with red gumboots and a raincoat and temper to match. He hadn’t even asked her name. ... Morning dawned fresh and bright, the sky and air and grass and fields washed clean by the rain. Ross wondered what was different when he rose from his bed,

wandered to the kettle as usual, filled it and lit the stove. He peered out at the paddocks and watched the birds swoop into the valley from high in the Nightcap Range and westward from the sea, criss crossing the spaces like they owned the place. He chocked open the back door, surveyed the old hen house and the side of the shed—and did a double take. Way out in the side paddock, her red hair aflame in the first rays of sunshine, the treser clumped along in the long wet grass in a purple jacket and those red gumboots, stooping occasionally. The memory of their fight burned in his chest, hotter than the tea. He recalled the effort it had taken him to rescue the clapped-out caravan; her anger and accusations that he’d stolen it. Why did he feel like a voyeur as he watched her return to the shed then head out to the road a few minutes later? Her life had nothing to do with his, yet she stomped around on his land in those red boots as if she owned it. It wasn’t anger he felt exactly. Curiosity? Amusement at the way she dressed? It was as he finished a first piece of toast that he realized. It was that he was feeling anything at all. Apart from that time when he’d wandered between the lengths of colored cloth, he’d been in a daze for a year. Numb. The encounter jolted him right out of a grey cold. She’d provoked fury in him, though he’d fought to hide it—and then such comion. Had he really just towed away her home, without even asking? Maybe she’d been right to yell at him. But did that give her the right to go on walking all over his land? It bothered him that it bothered him. Then, after she’d fallen into his arms, he’d suggested she keep her caravan under his shed. What kind of sucker was he? Margaux had always said he was a soft touch, and his younger daughter wouldn’t be impressed. He could imagine Anita’s nagging voice. “What kind of person are you sheltering, Dad?” An hour later, when he ventured outside, he nearly tripped on his back step, where a pile of kindling steamed in the warm sunlight. Was this a gift? A peace offering? All day, Ross watched for the woman’s return, and as she bounced in through his

front gate, full of energy, he went out to meet her, to confront her, or thank her for the gift, or at least find out more about her. “I’d do it for anyone,” she said of the kindling. That put him in his place. So, he was still a nobody in his grey world of grief, the world without Margaux. Suddenly, Flame stared him in the eye and gave him a smile so big something opened up inside him, a blaze of joy that stopped his breath. “I’m so grateful to you, truly I am, Mr Archer,” she said. “Thank you for making sure I didn’t wash away.” She laughed, but he didn’t in. He was rusty. They stood on the driveway staring at each other. Her chin was up again. “I’m sorry I can’t take away the van just yet,” she said, meeting his eye. “I’m Flame, by the way.” She shot out her hand. “Flame,” he said, trying the sound of it as he took her hand and shook it. It was small and strong, like her body. “Unusual name.” She shrugged. The name matched her temper, her gumboots and the color of her hair, springing out in Botticelli ringlets. Venus. Not for the first time he wondered about her age. Forty? Fifty? Fit. Vibrant. “I owe you thanks,” she said, placing her hand on her hair as if she knew he was studying her. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you much, unless you’d like fish fingers for dinner?” “Fish fingers.” His stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten fish fingers since he was a child. “Sounds delicious, but I won’t you, thank you.” “Okay. I’ll eat them all myself then. Is it okay if I stay a bit longer, please, Mr Archer?” “Call me Ross,” he said. “Please, Ross?” His heart flickered as she said his name. It felt so good, he turned away, his answer gruff.

“You can stay a bit longer,” he said, over his shoulder, as he set off back to his house. “Thank you!” As he entered, the phone rang—another call from Anita, back in Sydney. “You must be lonely up there, Dad,” she said. “You know my job’s in Sydney. I can’t cook for you from down here. Come home.” “I don’t need you to cook for me, Anita. It’s kind of you, but I want to stay here. This was our home, too. Your mother loved it up here.” “But you’re so far from everyone. What if something goes wrong?” “I have neighbors. We keep an eye out for each other.” Did Craig Donovan look out for him? No more than he watched his cows, perhaps; but this Flame, she’d left him kindling, of all things. It was thoughtful. No matter how often he explained it to Anita, she kept asking the same questions, always with the aim of uprooting him from the farm and luring him back to Sydney. But he couldn’t go back to the suburbs, not now. It was true he could spend whole days simply staring out the louvers across the valley. Anita would never understand if he tried to explain that doing nothing was doing something. He was literally watching the grass and trees grow, letting himself grow—grow past the past and into a future neither she nor he could imagine. All that rushing around, waking to alarm clocks, shaving, catching the 7.23am train five days a week, mowing the lawn and washing the car. The days of routine became weeks of routine, then months, then years, then decades. When he and Margaux had broken away together to enjoy a different life in retirement, buying this farm on a whim had never been his idea, but it had become her gift to him. At first, routine had followed them after all, in ever decreasing increments.

Medical appointments, drives to the Tweed for chemotherapy, slotting in times for pills, for curling up together, for treasuring each other, for ing, for resting, for saying goodbye. In the emptiness following Margaux’s death, there was the farmhouse, so little of it showing her designer’s touch—a host of unfulfilled plans. Yet it was his home. In all those days that blurred, one into another, after his rare visits to town for groceries, the old farmhouse welcomed him, with its creaking tin roof and wraparound verandas, with its flaking paint and wide-planked floors, hewn from local timber way back when the forest trees were ring barked and sliced and diced and sold a century or more ago, and the land turned over to grazing, for dairy, then beef cattle. Slowly, the medicinal smell of Margaux’s favorite old couch in the corner dissipated, as the sheer variety in the nightly influx of insects towards his reading light became a regular source of wonder to him. And the farm. Yes, it was too big for him; it was going wild, it was a waste. That was the point. It was bigger than he was, bigger than his pain and his tiny life; exactly what he needed. “But it’s not natural, Dad.” That was the trouble with Anita. As a primary school teacher she often forgot she didn’t know everything. The fact this place was completely natural— untamed and free in a way suburbia couldn’t even imitate—this was his consolation after so much pain. “Aren’t you lonely, Dad?” Maybe he was, but if so, right now, he preferred being lonely to being with others. So many people, all his life—thousands of them, and responsibility for millions more. As a public servant, Ross was a middle manager when he gladly accepted redundancy from a branch of the planning department, conceding powerlessness to make as many changes as he’d wished. He didn’t miss the crowded train rides into town, the days of meetings in grey towers, and the nondescript lift interiors where colleagues with grudges avoided

each other’s eyes as they clutched their take-away coffees. So many acres of institutional carpets and grey workstations looking out into the city of concrete, steel and glass. So many policy changes, restructures, filling maternity positions, mediation, new ministers, and on and on and on. How had nearly four decades disappeared so quickly? Margaux had held up her side of the bargain, shopping, cleaning, cooking, ironing his five white shirts each week and shepherding the girls through school. That Bethany had turned out so brilliant had surprised them both—her scholarship, the law degree, and the postgraduate opportunity in the UK. Anita was always the needy one, always wanting more. More dessert, better Christmas presents, extra hugs. They’d thought if they gave her space to find her feet, she would start to bloom. Anita had finished her teaching degree and found a job in their part of Sydney when they announced their plan to move to the country. Anita had complained to each of them separately. By then, Margaux had fallen in love with the idea of the farmhouse, and Ross, the tractor; and though neither of them were farmers, it was all irresistibly and wonderfully different, and they pushed the sale through as quickly as possible. That Margaux fell ill bare weeks into their new life remained tragic. Ross still grieved—the unpacked boxes, the renovated part of the front veranda and the plants she’d added to the garden the only signs Margaux had been there with him at all. With its tin roof, the old house sighed and groaned through the cool of night and the sun’s rotation, and wept with him in the autumn rains. It was all he could do to find his way to the old chair on the side veranda and stare at his valley. In school holidays, Anita visited to nag him, restock the deep freeze and pantry with tins of food, and plead with him to abandon the failed mission, whatever it had been, and come back to Sydney. In between, she’d phone. It was monotonous. He’d tell her the truth—that he wanted to stay—but she never accepted it. Though he knew she was trying to be kind, it irritated him. “I have to go, Anita. My toast is burning. Have a great week!”

With an irrational lurch of longing, he realized what he wanted for dinner now were fish fingers. If only. Flame’s proximity was a force.

Chapter 4

Next morning, Flame hastened towards town in her red boots, dodging mud at the edge of the road. Birds argued and swooped, and steam rose from the bitumen where the sun pushed its fingers through the forest canopy. Flame breathed deeply the smell of rotting foliage and busy soil microbes as a car approached from behind. When Becca pulled up ahead of her, she was thrilled. She jumped in and twisted around to give the two boys a big smile. “How’s school?” “Ruben’s just got a part in the school play,” said Becca. “Fabulous, Ruben,” said Flame. Becca’s youngest’s black curls always reminded her of Stella when she was young. “Who are you going to play?” “The king,” said Ruben. His smile was all the bigger for the missing two front teeth. “Amazing. Learned your lines yet? Need me to test you? How about you, Danny? Fame and fortune for you, too?” “I’m playing the drums.” Danny was shyer. This was his final year of primary school. “Nice one, Danny. When can we get tickets, Becca?” “Another month or so.” “Count me in!” “Thanks, Flame!” When the boys bounced out at the school yard, Flame moved to the front seat.

“So, what’s news?” said Becca, rarely short of news herself. “That old hermit stole my caravan,” said Flame. “What?” “Ross Archer.” “Yes, what’s that about your caravan?” “He thought it was going to wash away, so he pulled it up the hill to his place.” “Lucky for you!” “Yes and no.” “No?” “What an old grump!” “Well, it’s not surprising he’s a bit grumpy these days”. Flame huffed. “Yeah, well, my partner just left me, and I can still manage to be civil to strangers. What’s he got to complain about?” Becca was silent. “I mean, honestly Becca, he was so rude. I offered him cake and fish fingers and everything, and it was like he couldn’t be bothered making the tiniest effort to get to know me! I’m living in his shed, with a view of spades out my window. It’s absurd.” “Uh... Flame?” But Flame was in her stride now. “Sure, I parked my caravan on his property, but I didn’t know any better. It isn’t as though he’s doing anything with his land. Bet you that’s why he’s single. He’s grumpy and he’s lazy”. Becca pulled off the road and stopped the car. Flame looked over at her, and was

shocked to see tears on her face. “Becca? Are you okay?” “You don’t know, do you? You couldn’t have said that, if you knew. Tell me you didn’t know, Flame. Tell me!” Flame stared at Becca, confused. “Know what, Becca? What’s wrong?” Becca looked straight ahead, voice trembling with emotion. “His wife died, Flame. His wife who he loved more than anything. They moved here, to follow their dream, but she got cancer, and a few months later, she was dead. Just like that.” “Oh.” Flame was silent. Ashamed. They sat there side by side, staring out the windscreen at the stoic mountains and the indifferent trees. A truck roared past. Becca jumped in her seat, startled. “We should get going.” She turned the key and the car coughed into life. “I didn’t know,” said Flame softly. “I know.” “How did you find out?” Becca indicated and pulled out onto the road again, focused, if grim. “I liked Margaux. She used to come in and have her hair and nails done, once a week. Even when she was so sick, so thin. Flame, it was like the wind could blow her away. Ross would bring her in and help her sit down, and then he’d go around the corner and have a cup of coffee so she and I could talk. She told me all about Ross and their clever daughters. She was so proud of them, she...”

Becca’s voice broke a little, but she cleared her throat and pushed on. “... she wouldn’t it anything was wrong. She just kept fighting it, until she was so sick that she couldn’t come in anymore, and Ross rang me and I went to her, at the farmhouse, and I washed her hair, and did her nails, and on my last visit she told me ...” Flame reached over and put her hand over Becca’s on the gear stick. It was shaking. “She told me how much she worried about Ross, that he’d be so lonely after she was gone. And that she had so hoped to stay alive long enough to see her daughters married, and she cried, Flame. Not for her own life, but because she knew she’d never hold a grandchild in her arms.” Flame cried too, imagining her own daughters, Jeannie and Stella, and having to say goodbye forever. The dread of it stopped her tongue. “Be kind to him, Flame.” Flame just nodded, and they drove the rest of the way in silence. ... If Ross and Flame kept an eye out for each other over the coming days, neither showed any sign of it. It was true Flame was intrigued by him. Since hearing of the loss of his wife, she would have liked to invite him to share dinner with her again, to at least discuss when he might like her to move the van, and she wanted to apologize again for her initial fury. Each morning, she’d rise early and leave kindling on his back step, and every evening it was gone, but aside from that and a light or two burning inside at night, and, just once the plume of smoke from his chimney one bitterly cold night—evidence her gifts were coming in handy—the farmhouse might have been empty. Maybe he was avoiding her. Shame surged again at her lack of grace. ... Ross stared at the pile of kindling on his back step. Each time he left the house,

the twigs arrived, slowly drying in the sun. At 4pm, he brought it inside and placed it by the fire. He’d barely used the fireplace since Margaux’s death. However cold he’d felt, shivering had felt right—respectful. His pile of fresh kindling grew higher. He’d stare at it as he brought in another handful of the twigs Flame had broken and stacked for him each morning. It threatened to tumble off the hearth. This time, when a southerly wind came up and blew through the cracks in the floorboards, making him shiver, he squatted, selected some of the sticks, and placed them as he’d been taught to do as a scout, and as he’d arranged them on the two camping holidays he, Margaux, Bethany and Anita had taken when the family was young, until they’d all confessed they preferred holidays in hotels. Spare sympathy cards and their envelopes sat stacked in a pile at the side of the dining table. He grabbed some envelopes and crumpled them, adding them to the arrangement in the old fireplace. Yes. Tonight he would light a small fire, just to get rid of some of Flame’s sticks. The paper lit quickly, consumed by the sudden blaze of heat and light, and he added some thicker ones, reveling in the sudden warmth and spectacle. The beauty of the flames mesmerized him. He wasn’t sure how long he squatted there, feeding the sticks and envelopes into the conflagration. Was he controlling the flames, or were they controlling him, calling out for more fuel? It was midnight before the whole pile was gone, consumed by the flames, up in smoke, and when he stumbled into bed, he fell into the deepest sleep he’d experienced all year, ever since the news of Margaux’s prognosis first haunted the two of them. Next morning, Ross smiled to find another offering of fresh twigs on his step. Again, it was the only sign of Flame, who had hitched or walked into town, or wherever it was she went each day with such a spring in her step.

Chapter 5

After another simple meal, Flame checked all her blinds were down. She locked her door, and reached under the bench for her satchel. She drew her purse from her backpack, took out the notes Lenny had paid her for cleaning at the motel, and added them to the growing stash. Shoulders dropping with relief after another successful day, she fired up her spirit stove and made herself the hot cup of tea she’d been dreaming about for hours. She chose one of Lola’s moon mugs and smiled. Lola had been one of her first friends in the district, consulting her for a tarot reading in exchange for the mug. With her frizzy white hair and eyes of the palest blue Flame had ever seen, Lola sold her mugs at most of the markets in the district, adding a ionfruit or macadamia nuts when either was in season. Lola had grown up down Main Arm way on a kind of hippy commune with a jumble of siblings in the 1970s. Lola still lived off the grid with her potter’s wheel and not much else, and she still moon danced, she told Flame with a smile, adding that as a Buddhist, she loved peace, happiness and simplicity. “Simplicity,” said Flame, as they sat together after a reading. “If only!” And they laughed as if they’d known each other for ever. Lola’s deep sadness was that she’d never known the identity of her father. Her own mother didn’t and didn’t believe it mattered. “But what if I end up getting it together with my own brother?” Lola had tried to argue, as they looked out over the valley. “You could get yourself tested, for DNA,” said Flame, but Lola just laughed and shook her head. “Too late now, eh? Best to just enjoy every moment.” The weekend after Grady drove out of her life in her car, Flame half walked, half

ran, to Lola, who grabbed her hand and sat with her, sharing her pain in silence, until her heart rate slowed and she breathed more easily. “Still a beautiful world,” Lola had said, staring into her eyes until she nodded. Later that weekend, at the markets, as other stall holders packed up around them, Flame turned her gaze to the brilliant greens of the nearby community gardens, irrepressibly verdant, budding with flowers and fruit and vegetables as they buzzed with native bees and butterflies. She ed her heart would heal again. But it was more complicated than that, all tied up with the way she planned to mend her relationship with Stella, her younger daughter. Maybe if Grady hadn’t fallen for that singer, Flame would still be living one day at a time, riding his moods, dreaming his dreams and taking comfort from his platitudes. The rare times Grady earned money from a gig, she never felt it was her right to claim any of it, though she badly wanted to pay back Stella. The problem was that Stella barely spoke to her any more. She never phoned her, and never rang back when Flame left her a message. “What do you want, Mum?” Stella would be quick to ask, on the rare occasions Flame caught her. “Can’t a mother phone her daughter to say ‘hello’ now and then?” “But you don’t, do you, Mum. There’s always something you want from me.” “That’s harsh, darling.” “It’s true though, isn’t it? How much do you need this time, Mum?” Stella had plenty of money. She loved her job. She was always flying off to London or Paris or the US with her boss. And she was generous, with her money, if not with her time. It hurt Flame that her relationship with Stella was so sub-optimal she been living in Sydney for three months and Flame hadn’t even known. Why hadn’t she called to say so? Jeannie had let it slip by accident when they were discussing

what Jeannie’s children, Lucy and Sienna, might like for Christmas. “Stella’s living with you!” said Flame. “When did she move? Why didn’t you both tell me?” “Stella thought it best not to say anything to you,” Jeannie said. “She didn’t want you to worry.” “Why would I worry? Is she okay? What happened?” “She’s great, Mum. She’s never been happier. She finally left that bully of a boss and set up on her own.” “What?” “She’s gone into business, making her own jewelry. It’s called Stellar. You really need to get a proper phone, Mum. She’s on Facebook.” “I don’t do all that FaceApp YouTunes iSpy stuff.” “Well, I’m just saying maybe you should consider it, so you can keep in touch with us better.” “If she’d just phone me back I’d know what was happening.” “She’s incredibly busy, Mum. I wouldn’t take it personally. That’s just Stell. In her own world. Want to speak to Lucy? She’s just finished with her cereal. That’s her, banging the spoon.” But Flame did worry. If Stella had started her own business it meant she no longer had a wage, and Stella had adored that regular flow of money. She’d been so proud of it, she’d flashed it around, encouraging Flame to take hundreds over the years. Thousands, even. Flame knew how hard it was to make ends meet without a regular wage. That was when Flame had put two and two together. She knew she wanted to make good with her youngest daughter, to build a better relationship, one in which Stella might answer her calls for starters. She made a promise to herself to pay her back every single cent of the money she’d loaned her over the years.

Maybe the gesture wouldn’t help patch things up, but it was worth a try. More than that, it was the right thing to do. The money her daughter had shared with her was well and truly gone, but now that Stella no longer had her own regular job, and had started her own jewelry business, Flame knew every cent would matter. Stella regretted accepting Stella’s money now—particularly when Grady wasted it all on a better car, only to drive away with someone else. Flame couldn’t bring back Grady and didn’t want to, but she could pay back Stella for once. In all her years of doing things her own way, being stubborn was the one thing that had seen Flame survive. Without a partner to change her priorities, she now had no excuse. Her pile of cash was becoming impressive, and the fact Grady hadn’t known about it when he’d left made Flame swell with pride. In another month or so, by adding more earnings from the markets and her cleaning work for cash at local lodgings, she’d be able to catch a train to Sydney, find Stella, and square their relationship. That she’d never been able to make things right with her own parents was a dark scar she carried with her every single day, but Stella was still alive and breathing, and she owed her generous younger daughter this. Maybe she’d even have some money left over to splash on Jeannie and her husband, Matt, and little Lucy and Sienna. If they were all based in Sydney now, it would make it even easier. She’d save the cash and go south, as soon as possible. Flame clutched the pile of notes and sorted it again, laying them across the bench in piles of hundreds, then thousands. A sudden thump on the roof made her heart stop, and she swept the notes together under her arms protectively, but the scuttling that followed told her it was only a large possum, and she breathed again. When she’d neatened the pile, rolled it up in the plastic bag and stowed it carefully away again, she closed her eyes in a small prayer of thanks. What if her van had washed away in the creek while she’d been away, working, and all that hard-earned money lost? What if she’d been asleep when the flood waters claimed it all, and drowned before making peace with Stella? Becca’s story about Margaux was fresh in her mind. Life was short, and far from certain. Who

knew what the future might bring? There wasn’t a moment to lose in setting things right. If only she could work the markets for another month or two, she’d have the full amount. But without more sarongs and scarves, she could only tell fortunes—her least favorite occupation, particularly since her faith had been shaken so much by Grady’s departure. The truth was, she could easily have foreseen Grady’s disappearance. The same pattern had played out in all of her previous relationships. Euphoria and joy, then disappointment, denial and disillusion. She was old enough to know better. That’s why she could never fall in love again. She’d given of herself freely over all these years. Whether she’d expected too little in return, or whether all the good guys were taken by the time she came on the scene was irrelevant now. Flame would have to burn in solitude, make it up with her children, and pray for forgiveness from her parents in Haven till the end of her days. ... The markets were too crowded. Ross had come to town for a haircut. When he’d returned to the farmhouse after rescuing Flame’s caravan, he’d glanced into a mirror for the first time in months. No wonder she’d drawn herself up to her full height and stared at him with all the ferocity she could muster. He appeared half crazed himself, with his wild, wet hair plastered over his forehead and a grizzled beard to match. He didn’t recognize himself. Checking his image throughout the day had been habitual when he chaired meeting after meeting, back in the olden days, in his city life. He’d been sought out for his calm demeanor and voice of reason. His careful grooming meant he’d been welcomed almost anywhere, but now? It was anyone’s guess who lay beneath the disarray. When had his eyebrows grown so grey and shaggy? He looked like his late great uncle; the alcoholic who’d lived at the back of his parents’ place till kidney disease had turned him yellow and taken him away forever. Ross told his reflection that for once he agreed with what Anita would have said. He truly did need to take greater care of himself. He also ran a critical eye over the house for the first time, not liking what he saw. While the old chair called to him from the balcony, he wouldn’t go to it until he’d achieved something each day, starting with a stock take of the kitchen cupboards and a list of what was missing. Margaux was never coming back to do these things for him again. He’d

managed, since she’d fallen ill, but that was no longer good enough. If this was the life he was choosing for himself, he had to make it work better, re-engage and re the land of the living in a way that didn’t scare normal people out of their wits when they ran into him. He counseled himself as he would have spoken with a junior member of staff, and coaxed himself to achieve more each day, to push himself out of his too-tiny comfort zone. He could do this now, without Margaux. He could even say her name out loud and allow himself to crumple and grieve, then go and explore another corner of the house they hadn’t managed to get to when they’d taken it, fully furnished. There were mysteries here nearly a century old to uncover, and more in the tractor shed, let alone the mystery of the woman in the caravan. So now, with his close cropped beard and fresh haircut, he stood a little taller when he left Becca’s Studio on Saturday, and forced himself to follow the bright flapping banners pointing the way to the markets. He’d been away from others for far too long. He wouldn’t have to talk to anyone—just wander among humanity without Margaux, and reassure himself it was possible. The aroma of coffee and market food greeted him first—Turkish gozleme and Dutch poffertje. His stomach rumbled and he stood in line, watching children dash across the grass, and holiday makers and locals picking their way through the stalls of second hand clothes, bric a brac and produce, laughing, swapping news and swatting flies. When a couple of old hippies wandered past with grey dreadlocks and beaded beards, he touched his face, wondering whether Becca couldn’t have given him a similar look, but he instantly dismissed the thought, chuckling. “Clean, tidy and easy to live with” was what he’d asked of her, as she’d stood with scissors poised, and if it turned out a bit conservative compared to some of the locals, that suited him fine. Finally at the front of the queue, he nodded to the offer of fresh lemon juice on the steaming hot, savory pancakes, took the paper plate and set off slowly, ing those who meandered among the stalls. At the far side, he did a double take. Red gumboots caught his eye under the edge of a small marquee, toe to toe with a pair of riding boots. “Learn your fortune” said a banner strung out across the closed flap. Flame? The pancakes had hit the spot and Ross was full of cheer. He was tempted to

wait for the session to finish, to discover whether it was Flame, but he talked himself out of it. He had little patience for such pastimes, believing the purveyors little more than fraudsters. Besides, people created their own futures, didn’t they? Personally, he had enough trouble dealing with the recent past and the present, let alone conjuring a future. He’d been away from the comforting walls of the farmhouse long enough. Tossing the biodegradable plate in a waiting compost bin, he strode towards his four-wheel drive. The car was parked near a plant stall. A basket of deep purple plums and a number of pots with toothed leaves caught his eye. It was so unusual to see ripe plums in winter, Ross halted. Sensing his interest, the stall holder introduced himself as Stavros, offered him a plum and launched into a spiel on the plants, a native fruit from Queensland. The tart juice caught Ross by surprise. The man laughed. “Better cooked up with sugar,” Stavros said. Ross pulled out his wallet and bought a plant for what he’d just decided to call Margaux’s orchard. The stallholder swore the plant would thrive so well that Ross would be back for more. He climbed into his car and turned the key. ... Flame was frustrated. She’d sold a couple more sarongs and made a little extra money telling fortunes, but she was so short on stock, her ability to make good on her final debt to Stella was severely impaired. Nancy from the book stall had offered her three free books in exchange for a tarot reading, and, after packing up her tent, Flame enjoyed picking out a couple of books by her favorite authors, and a travel one on Scotland. On market day there was no shortage of offers of lifts for the hitch hiker she had become, and she started reading as she walked, thumb out, heavy pack on her back as usual. She couldn’t have been more surprised when a familiar four-wheel drive pulled over ahead of her and waited for her to catch up. Even more astonishing, a small plant was balanced on the roof.

In the driver’s seat, Ross offered her a lift. “Should I foresee you’re going my way?” Ross said. She blushed. “Are you teasing me?” she said, hating the hint at humiliation. It was easy to make fun of fortune tellers, but she was ready to defend her skill. Some people appreciated the opportunity to be reassured, or to even just to test their plans against the views of someone older and more experienced. What would Ross Archer understand about such things, the great landlord with a brand new car? Still, she appreciated the lift. She was completely in his debt, not paying rent, and now, being given a lift, so she bit her tongue. She grabbed the plant off the roof for him. Who looked foolish now? “This yours?” she said. “Thank you! I’m clearly out of practice.” Flame secured the purple pot behind the enger seat as she lumped her backpack into the rear of the car, settled into the enger seat and busied herself with the seatbelt. “Enjoy the markets?” “Enjoyed that Turkish food. It tasted quite good.” “Better than fish fingers?” Ross just smiled. He was handsome with his clipped beard and trimmed hair, at least a decade younger, and somehow more approachable. “Did you go to Becca’s Studio?” Flame tried again to spark some conversation. Ross gave a nod. “Looks quite good,” she said. “Better. I don’t mean to be rude.” “And I stocked up at the supermarket.” It was Ross’s turn to change the subject and the gears as they reached the foot of the hill. He focused on the road. They

began to wend their way up higher into the hinterland, and Flame tried not to notice his hands working the gears, and his legs, long and lean in his clean blue jeans. Ross was a good driver, unlike Grady, who was prone to squeal around corners, and brake and rev too much. Ross’s driving left Flame free to notice the scenery as the long miles she’d walked so often zoomed past. She glanced again at his fingers on the steering wheel. Could fingers be intelligent? They certainly weren’t the hands of a farmer. She wondered how he’d made his living. She would have liked to ask, but didn’t want to be too nosy. Bringing up the past might make him sad. It was only as they reached the home stretch and Flame offered to jump out to open the gate that Ross spoke again. “Did the fortune teller tell you what to do about the caravan in my shed?” he asked. Flame dragged her pack out of the back seat, then threw her head back and laughed. “What’s so funny?” “I’m the fortune teller, Ross. Want your fortune told? It’s the least I could do for you, since you saved my caravan and I’m currently living rent-free on your patch of paradise, next to all those spades.” She couldn’t read his expression as he swung his eyes to her. She felt him take in her blaze of hair and red boots, then wrench his eyes back to his steering wheel. “No. No, thank you,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of faith in fortune tellers.” She shrugged, though his comment stung. “Let me know if you change your mind,” she said. “I also clean, on the side. And I sell my tie-dyed scarves and sarongs and linen—whatever it takes to pay my way.” Flame swung the gate shut as Ross drove through and parked in the carport next to the farmhouse. He stared back at her, gave a wave and touched his hand to his forehead in a kind of salute, or maybe he was feeling where his shaggy old fringe had been.

She held up one hand in response. Was he thawing? She was on the verge of offering to help him carry in his groceries, but held back. He was already busy unloading and seemed content on his own. She retreated into her van and hid her earnings safely away, before opening the blinds and staring out as the shadows began to swim out across the field and cover the long grass on Ross’s land in streaks of bluey grey.

Chapter 6

So Flame was a fortune teller? As Ross stacked the meat in the deep freeze, vegetables in the fridge and the tins on the shelf near the stove, he wondered whether he and Margaux would have moved here if they could have foreseen the future. Not that they believed in fortune telling. Yes, he decided. It wouldn’t have changed the inevitability of her death, and their tree-change adventure had filled her final months with joy. From the moment she’d seen the ment, Margaux had been seized with excitement, burning to renovate the farmhouse, to create the cottage garden of her dreams, extend the orchard and even buy some chickens. The day they made their offer on the property, they attended the Royal Easter Show in Sydney to study the hens and roosters. Ross laughed as he recalled her enthusiasm. Even in the final stages of her illness, when she’d slept for most of the day, Margaux would smile out at the sunshine moving across the fields and valley. “You’ll be happy here, Ross,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “You finally have some space for your ideas. You mustn’t miss me too much. We’ve had a great life together, you and I.” It hurt to recall their conversations. Her voice had come to him again hundreds of times this past lonely year. “You’ll find another partner,” she’d told him. “You deserve to be happy.” Ross stacked up the grocery bags and hung them on the old hook behind the door. He strode to the window, rested his arms on each side of the sill, and stared out as the shadows deepened and western sky glowed amber along the silhouette of the range. His sigh was full and the ache in his heart began to lift again as the first star appeared, and then another. While part of him longed to engage with the vast space of the farm by making fresh plans, he also valued this absence of action, as if the notion of “fallow”

was as necessary for himself as it was for the land, stripped of its trees by the first white settlers, then grazed to its bones by cattle. The land was fertile. Weeds grew in profusion, as did everything else. Margaux’s wisteria had raced along the garden fence and up the side of the house in its first few months before dropping its leaves for winter, and already the spring blossoms were straining to bloom from under the knuckles of the bare vine. The district boasted macadamia farms, Davidson plums, tea tree oil and custard apple plantations, while a few neighbors had planted timber for a longer-term harvest, but Ross was uncertain what to add to the world. As he stared out at the dark valley and more stars appeared, all he knew was that he loved this space and the intricate chaos surrounding him. He suspected he was out of his depth on the farm—but to return to his old life and its constant reminders that Margaux was gone, was impossible. Margaux, younger sister of his team captain, Lance. Four years younger, she was soft and smiled and smelled of strawberries at her strategic appearances at endof-season barbeques at Lance’s house. When Lance’s older brother was killed late in the Vietnam War, the whole cricket team attended the funeral. Ross’s heart went out to young Margaux, who kept stealing glances at him through the service, and afterwards returned with the tray of sandwiches to him no fewer than five times. He bought his first car in 1976, an old Holden, and swung past Lance’s place to show it off. While he and Lance pointed at things under the hood, Margaux, in her late teens by then, packed a picnic in a basket and accompanied them for a run to Wollongong. They tested the brakes on Bulli and ate her treats at a lookout. The following weekend, Lance had the grace to be busy, so Ross collected Margaux and her picnic basket and drove her to Echo Point in the Blue Mountains. By the time they’d gone north to Newcastle, and east to Watson’s Bay, the Sunday picnic had become a thing, Ross and Margaux an item, and the next 40 years predictable. Their two girls grew, attended school and found their own interests; Bethany, law, in which she excelled; and Anita, primary school teaching, which she

resented. Margaux redecorated the house, took art classes, learned Italian, decorated cakes, ed a book club and told Ross what to do everywhere but at work. He usually complied. Ross’s skill at interpreting Government Ministers’ wishes and translating them into acceptable policy became legendary and he survived countless rounds of restructures, but in his sixties, the contortions required were wearing him down and he wondered what he might do with his remaining years. Margaux leaped at the idea of retirement and moving north, but losing her and spending a year alone in the farmhouse left Ross empty. Rescuing Flame’s caravan was his first foray into the future, the bold if unplanned proof he could still be an agent of change. In a strange way, he envied Flame her industrious energy. No, he wouldn’t want to be rushing to a cash job to clean motel rooms, but there was pride in the way she’d told him she paid her own way, even if it wasn’t entirely true. She wasn’t paying him rent. She’d pointed it out herself. Perhaps it was time to ask her about it. Yet she kept her distance, and the shed was a long way from the house. Perhaps he’d grown used to the idea of having her around when she was down by the creek, invisible and intriguing. He was willing to share the space. There was plenty of it. She wasn’t disturbing his own plans, when all he was doing was pondering the puzzle of the weeds and the soil and the watercourses and watching the sun move across the sky in all its seasons. ... When morning dawned, Ross realized he needed a spade to plant the Davidson plum. He rose early and caught Flame just as she was about to lay the kindling on his doorstep again. She jumped back as the door swung open, eyes wide. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, equally awkward.

“Timing!” said Flame, wiping her hands on her things, composing herself. “Good morning.” “I need a spade from the shed, and I don’t want you to think I’m snooping.” “Welcome to the House of Spades.” Her gesture was grand, taking in the wall of spades and the open door of her caravan, with its unquestionable touches of domesticity—a tea towel over the sink, some books on the settee; out its windows, views of Ross’s fields, fences and farmhouse. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, too,” said Flame. “Go on.” “Would it be alright to use your bath, please? If that’s okay.” It was Ross’s turn to take a step back. Flame’s cheeks were red from her range across the fields. Dressed in black tros and a large red Chinese silk jacket, Flame had been vivid, luminous against the green of the fields, the morning sun lighting up her hair. Now, she smelled fresh, like fruity shampoo. Suddenly she laughed, aware of his discomfort. “Not for me,” she said, amused. Her lips curled when she smiled. The whole encounter was distracting. His heart was pumping. “Oh?” “I’m fine. I stay clean. It’s just I need lots of water to dye my cloth. I tie-dye things for the markets. I wouldn’t ask, except I’m nearly out of stock and I’m saving ... “ Ross stood speechless. “I’m sorry, Ross,” she said and stared at her hands, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m imposing on you enough. I need to go to work now. Please don’t worry. I’ll find another solution. Please go get your spades and wheelbarrow anytime you like. I’m sorry you felt you had to ask me. They’re all yours. Really.”

And she turned in a whirl and was off up the driveway and jogging down the road before he could open his mouth. Flame in his bath. The possibility wouldn’t leave his mind. Even when he strode out, long after she’d gone, and set about choosing a spade for planting the plum, he couldn’t get a vision of her out of his mind. Flame was so different to Margaux—tasteful, classy Margaux with her French twist and subdued manners. Flame was loud; vivacious. What would Margaux have made of Flame, he wondered, as he pressed the spade deep into the rich soil, freed the tiny fruit tree from its pot and pressed the soil back around its roots. As if in answer, a dragonfly flitted past and alighted on a leaf, its wings shimmering with rainbow colors in the morning sun. A butcherbird began to sing, its song so sweet Ross listened in awe. Still kneeling, he reached for another handful of soil, brought it closer, and inhaled deeply the microbes in the damp earth. The morning sun warmed his shoulders. Joy welled up in him. First, he’d rescued the caravan. Now he’d planted the plum. After too long a winter, he felt it in his bones. He was coming alive again.

Chapter 7

It took another shower of rain to bring Ross and Flame together, one evening, when, with spring around the corner, the moisture of the rain released the first fragrance of wisteria. Flame ventured out of her caravan in the dark, and followed the scent into the wet farmhouse garden. Every spring, this smell catapulted her right back to the time she became Flame, back to her childhood home, beside the main road—back to that afternoon just after her seventeenth birthday, when she should have been studying. She ed that moment, at her desk with her messy red hair not quite held back with a regulation black ribbon. Maybe because she’d never had her own garden, memories of her childhood one were more vivid—especially the heady purple beauty of the wisteria cascading across the high brick fence. Back on that day—the day she’d transformed herself from Fiona to Flame—a black currawong had been whistling up spring on the roof of the house next door, on and on and on. How could she concentrate on Mathematics? She lived with her mother and father just three streets from the beach. Most afternoons when the sea breeze came in, she could smell the salt and hear the waves—a hush or a roar—and the cries of seagulls. Her parents were working extra shifts and she was home alone. If she hadn’t been a redhead, she’d have lived at the beach. Red hair meant red nose, red shoulders and backs of knees so burned she couldn’t bend her legs without wincing. Being a redhead was about hiding from the sun, but with a hat and a wrap, she could be on the beach all day. Later, that’s how she’d started her first and best business, creating and selling tie-dyed sarongs and oversize scarves at markets. That bird kept calling. Two of her answers were wrong and she couldn’t work out why; didn’t want to work out why. What was the point of being seventeen if she kept doing what she was told?

Unable to quell her restlessness, she decided to take a walk. She pulled off the hair tie to let her red curls spring out and cascade over her shoulders, and checked herself in the mirror. In her new fiery orange bikini, Fiona Spender had become a goddess—with a few freckles and an ace bikini. She stood taller; struck a pose and walked out that door, inhaling the wisteria growing along their front fence—the scent of freedom, the scent of adventure. The beach was empty, but for a few holiday makers and some surfers floating in the break. She slipped off her sandals and headed for the edge of the sea, right where the waves rushed up the sand and retreated. Their sheen seeped away before the next wave cartwheeled in, in a tumble of froth. She cantered and kicked at the spray with pointed toes, loving just being alive. Fingers of the breeze teased out her hair. She’d just wanted to dance with someone. Every spring and too often at other times, Flame re-lived her past and regretted so much of it she had to haul herself in, recalibrate her mood, and celebrate all she had been given instead. Independence. Freedom. An appreciation of the simplest of pleasures, like strolling in a dark wet garden with a chest full to bursting with emotions. Here in Ross’s garden, the light rain gentle on her face and on the purple petals of those tumbles of blossoms, her past was vivid as ever. The screen door of the farmhouse swung open and banged shut, and she knew she was no longer alone. Ross stepped slowly into the dark garden. “They’re so beautiful, the first wisteria of the season,” she said into the night. She didn’t turn to look at him; didn’t want to frighten him back inside. “I hope you don’t mind my being here.” “Margaux planted the wisteria,” Ross said, his voice deep. It was on the tip of her tongue to rush in and say how sorry she was to learn of his loss, but it sounded trite when she rehearsed it in her head. She kept quiet, encouraging him to say more.

“She had big plans for this garden,” Ross said. “And for the house. She’d barely chosen the new paint colors when we discovered how ill she was.” Flame nodded. “Wisteria,” she said, cupping a cascade of blossom in her hands and bringing it to her face to inhale deeply. “It’s a beautiful choice. Brings back memories for me. Bitter sweet, I’m afraid.” It was Ross’s turn to stay silent. She’d thought he might return to the warmth of the farmhouse, but instead he was waiting for her to speak, so she did. What did it matter what Ross learned of her past? “My parents said Sven did the wrong thing, but they were young themselves when they hooked up. Who else’s business is it when you fall in love? There’s an instant when you know what you want to do, whatever the price. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my parents, and I never meant to hurt them, Ross.” “No,” he said. “I didn’t run away, by the way,” Flame said. “I didn’t run away from home. There was nothing to run from, except the maths homework, and I would have even sat back down at my desk and done the rest of it if I hadn’t met Sven.” “You never went home?” Was he judging her? Or just showing he was listening? “What surprises me is why a lot more people don’t do it—leave what’s ordinary, and run towards something they like better—something or someone irresistible; someone lovely,” she said. “I’ve met a lot of people in my travels, Ross, and so many of them are unhappy. In this beautiful world, why do they stay miserable? Are they happy being unhappy? What are they so afraid of, when life’s so short? I don’t understand ruts. I’ve never once been stuck in one, and don’t intend to be. Yet people judge me. Women are the worst. ‘What?’ they say. ‘You just kept on walking? What about your parents? Didn’t you worry they’d worry about you?’ ‘That’s a lot of worrying,’ I tell them. My parents worried about me anyway.” “Parents do worry.”

“When would have been a better time to leave home?” she said. “Would twentyseven have been a better age? Thirty-seven? Forty-seven? I let my girls go when they were ready. My Stella was seventeen when we parted ways. She put her feet down in Perth when I took Jeannie back east. Jeannie got a place at university in Sydney, but Stella wanted to stay, so we left her behind. Jeannie’s just two years older than Stella. When Jeannie and Matt became an item in Sydney, I headed north, alone again. Any direction works, to make a fresh start.” “A fresh start,” Ross said into the darkness. Flame hadn’t known whether he was listening. Her monologue was as much a confession to herself as it was to him. Back in that first wisteria spring, when she first saw Sven, he was walking towards her on the beach, board under one arm and wetsuit half off, hanging like an awkward second skin, or like he’d just hatched—pure, fresh merman, all chest and intent. She’d met them before, these creatures from the edge of the deep. They thought they owned the beach. They liked their chicks to sit on the sand and worship them, especially ones like Sven, who scored 10 out of 10 on anyone’s ranking. Maybe 11 or 12. But she hadn’t been in the mood to walk around him. She’d found her path in the sand, just where her feet didn’t sink too deeply, and she was sticking to it. Both of them slowed as they approached each other. He’d tried to stare her down, but she stared back, and when he started to laugh, she laughed right back at him. “These days, the beach is all high rise,” she said. “The last of the sun has been built out. Back then, we were spot lit, golden. Sven called me ‘Flame,’ a challenge in his eyes. He had an accent—Swedish, I found out later. We’d slowed till we were just a few feet apart. I drew a line in the sand with one toe. The next wave washed it away. We had a good look at each other. ‘Flame,’ he called me again. I loved it. Who would ever be plain Fiona when they could be Flame?” “Flame,” said Ross, in the wet garden, and she shivered. “He told me his name was Sven and he had a van at the end of the beach. It was time to head home, but if I was Flame on the outside, I was flaming inside, too, bright orange and churning, like a diagram of Earth’s molten core.”

Flame cupped a bunch of wet wisteria in her hands, inhaled deeply, and then shook the cold droplets off her fingers as she continued. “Sven said ‘See you tomorrow’ but it wasn’t a farewell; more of an order. My body headed home, but my soul stayed with him. There was no way I’d settle back down to study. I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. I’d just been born, with the smell of wisteria and the full moon and the wind in the trees.” Ross nodded, his silhouette clearer against the lights of the farmhouse, now her eyes had adjusted to the dark; so she kept telling him of her first mistake. The morning after she’d met Sven, in the thin dawn light, her wall calendar had shouted its grid of commitments. She’d been marking off the days. Fiona’s trial examinations, real ones, holidays, get a job, work out what to do next. None of it looked substantial. None of it added up to anything as compelling and real as Sven, so full of life with his bold smile, waiting for her at the beach. It was Flame who owned the future. She hadn’t wanted her parents’ misery, nor their recriminations. Arguing wouldn’t have changed a thing—just prolonged the tug of war. “It was my life to live; not theirs.” Flame tried to explain herself to Ross. If she said it often enough, would it remove the guilt which followed her all her life? “I packed a bag, wrote a note. Promised to keep in touch. Slipped out with the currawongs calling. I should have realized...” “Nobody knows the way things will work out.” “I should have guessed some of it,” Flame said, rueful. “I had to grow up fast. Did I ever believe in happily ever after? I cared about the moment, the ‘now’. Still do. Like this. Like the scent of wisteria in the rain. How beautiful is this, Ross?” “This is beautiful.” “With Sven, the moment was everything, but then it became nothing. That morning, I found him at the end of the beach. Sven, so cool in his white shirt with the buttons undone. He was cooking bacon and eggs at the back of his Kombi van in a cloud of blue-gray smoke.”

A tawny frogmouth settled on a low branch nearby as Flame’s story continued. “Sven’s kiss tasted of bacon. I loved the warmth of him, all those new sensations, the surprise in his eyes, his white smile, the tiniest spark of a question on his lips. I gave Sven everything. I knew women were fighting for equal rights. I was all for burning my bra, but did I want liberation? Not that day, nor in all the weeks that followed. I wanted servitude. To Sven. My future was right there, living and breathing in front of me in an open shirt as white as his smile. “‘Why resist?’ I told myself. Well. Sven was on an extended holiday and had no shortage of girlfriends like me, because he looked like a god and had an ego to match, and all the while he was planning to go back to Sweden, wasn’t he? Without me and our beautiful baby Jeannie, with her fuzz of red hair.” Flame’s arms held the shape of a baby and she rocked silently in the dark. She shook her head. “I still don’t understand how he could leave her, but I had simply invented a Sven who was perfect. Young love, huh? Just after he left, I found out I was pregnant again. I wouldn’t have told him even if I’d been able to find him. I was furious. If he didn’t want his first baby, why would he want a second one? I vowed to raise them both myself.” Flame sighed. “The Me Too Movement could have helped me back then, that’s for sure, though I know better than most that love is blind.” Then her voice twisted. This part of it always tripped her up, winded her as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “I broke my parents’ hearts,” she whispered. “I came back with baby Jeannie, once Sven had left, and they welcomed me and my new baby, too, Stella—they were such a help to me—but none of us was happy in that house, and I left again. I went further north this time, on trains, all the way to Darwin, where I demonstrated poor taste in men again. My parents begged me to come home. And then...” She doubled over onto the wet grass, crumpled as if she’d only just heard the news.

“Flame?” Ross squatted down beside her and touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?” “Oh God, Ross. They’re gone.” She stood and pulled out a handkerchief as he placed a hand on her arm to steady her. She stared into the bush as she wiped at her eyes. “I try to forget about it. They were both killed in a head-on collision on the Pacific Highway. The worst of it is, they were probably driving north to find me, but I’ll never know. I didn’t even find out until weeks later.” Flame blew her nose. “I wasn’t good at keeping in touch. The neighbors couldn’t find me, and my parents were buried without me. I took them for granted— ignored them—and then it was too late. I’m bad, Ross Archer. This wisteria smells so sweet, and every year it punishes me afresh, as if it only just happened.” “Grief,” said Ross. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to listen to that. You’re not my confessor. I’ve tried priests and crystals and nothing heals me, though most of the time, I’m fine. I pull myself together. God, Ross. I shouldn’t talk about death and grief to you of all people. I’m sorry.” His answer was silence—and a steady hand on her shoulder in the dark. Flame brought her own hand up to meet it, pressing it harder against her body, squeezing his fingers. “Thank you, Ross. I’m so sorry.” “No. It’s alright.” His voice was steady, a comfort, and the pain in her gut began to ease. “Oh Ross. So many regrets. It’s good to talk. You’re a great listener.” Her voice came in a rush. “There was nothing from their estate. Pokies. Slot machines. The public trustee sold the house to cover their debts. I left again, of course. South, this time, to Wollongong. At least I had the ing parent benefit, but it wasn’t easy. Share houses, more hopeless love affairs. I like men, but I never choose sensibly. Grady wasn’t even the worst of them.” She sighed, pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin and smiled into the darkness. “So it’s no more men for me. I’m over them. Be my witness, Ross

Archer. Grady was a real wake-up call for me. The hardest part is I can barely face my daughters. I owe Stella money, but I’m just about ready to pay it back, and I’m absolutely determined to clear this debt and start fresh with her. Now. Enough of me. Have you always been such a good listener?” “I’m glad to listen. I’ve been in my own company for a year now. Margaux and I were almost childhood sweethearts, I suppose. I loved her and I still miss her. She died too soon.” Why did inquisitors use bright lights to make their subjects confess, when the darkness was so much better? Ross shared his memories of first meeting Margaux, and their courtship, their years in Sydney, their flight to this farmhouse, and Margaux’s too-rapid death. Flame’s heart ached for his loss. As he finished, she knew she couldn’t leave him to return to his empty house. “Cup of tea?” Flame said. A chill wind had come up and sliced through her coat. “Your place or mine? I made a cake earlier today. I’d love to share it with you.” “I’ll make the tea. You bring the cake.” Ross met her at his back door, taking the cake in both hands. It was heavy, chunky, still warm, and smelled of honey and nuts. His kitchen was basic, with a simple, bare wooden table and a few chairs. He thrust the kettle under the tap, lit the burner of an old fashioned stove, then ushered Flame through a couple of doorways into a central room where an old armchair was pulled up near the fireplace, a pile of books stacked up beside it on the floor. Flame scanned the titles—an eclectic mix of everything from Tractor Maintenance for Idiots to some of Bill Mollison’s permaculture classics, local history books on shipwrecks and timber milling, and more. “Take a seat.” Ross knelt and put a match to the pile of sticks. He returned to the kitchen and came back with one of the chairs for himself. “You don’t want a hand?” “I know I’m a widower, but I can manage a pot of tea and a couple of slices of cake, Flame.” She sank back into the warm old armchair as the fire leaped and threw shadows

around the room. She gestured at his books, and Ross began to discuss the planet, the dying reefs, the global tragedy of palm oil plantations replacing rainforests at alarming rates, and the loss of biodiversity. “First Margaux died, and now the planet’s dying,” he said. Flame couldn’t help but speak up. “You realize you’re one of the few people actually in a position to make a difference, Ross,” she said. “You live on the edge of a rainforest. Have you thought about bringing back the bush? It can’t be that hard. Everything thrives here. You can practically feel it growing.” Ross stared at her.

Chapter 8

What had he done, inviting this stranger into his home? With her wild red hair gleaming in the firelight, there in his chair, she was far more interesting than his books. Still, it didn’t mean anything beyond neighborliness. It would have been odd not to invite her in. The phone rang as he poured the steaming water into the teapot, and brought it into the warmth of the inner room. He excused himself and went to the next room to answer it, out of habit. Anita often phoned him at this time. “How are you, Dad?” “I’m well, Anita. How are you?” She launched into a story about the number of children who were sneezing in her classroom and a complaint about their parents sending them to school unwell. She halted when Ross failed to answer. “What’s wrong, Dad? Something’s up.” “I can’t talk for long tonight, Anita. I have to go. I have a visitor.” “A visitor? At this hour? Who? Who is it? Is it a woman?” “It’s a neighbor, Anita. Her name is Flame.” “Flame? What kind of a name is that, Dad? Is she a hippy? Be careful, Dad. Is she a gold digger? I wish you’d just come back to Sydney.” “I know you do, darling. But I’m fine here. I’ll phone you back tomorrow.” When Ross returned with the tray of tea and cake, Flame had her head in one of his books, on soil science and regenerative agriculture. “You’re a greenie, then?” she said.

“You sound surprised.” “I’d have called you more—conservative.” “Is that an insult? Sugar?” “Two, please. Heaped.” “Interesting cake.” “It’s vegan. Bananas and coconut milk instead of eggs and butter and milk. Lasts for ages. See if you can guess what else I put in it.” The cake was full of flavors and crunch, far more delicious than the supermarket fruitcakes he’d occasionally buy. “Apricot.” “Yes.” “Something crunchy. Almonds?” “Macadamias. Sometimes I clean at the outlet near Byron and they give me the broken bits.” “Sunflower seeds?” “And sesame seeds, dates and walnuts.” “It’s very good. I’d love the recipe.” “There isn’t one, sorry. It’s different every time. You didn’t cut your phone call short because of me, did you?” “Anita phones nearly every night.” “Anita?” “I have two daughters, Anita and Bethany. Anita’s in Sydney. She’s a primary school teacher; and Bethany’s in the UK, finishing her PhD at Oxford.”

“Wow. Congratulations. A whole family of intellectuals!” Was this an insult? Probably not. He sipped his tea, then added more wood to the fire. “I didn’t even finish school,” said Flame, taking a sip. “You could change that, if you wanted to.” “What? Go back to school?” “Yes. Or apply to university or college for an open entry degree. Plenty of people do. What would you study?” “I’ve never thought that far ahead, Ross. I’ve barely thought as far as next weekend, and I haven’t solved that yet. I still need to dye some more scarves and sarongs. In your bath, or someone else’s.” Ross laughed, enjoying the cake and tea and company. “What’s so funny?” He shook his head. Anita had accused Flame of gold digging. If only. So much for his suspicion Flame would lure him into the bathroom with a trail of fragrant bubbles and a glimpse of a seductive ankle. She only wanted his bath for her business. There was nothing to worry about there. Did a tinge of regret stir inside him? Flame’s mind was on other things. “Jeannie’s my conventional one,” Flame told Ross as he poured her another cup of tea. “She hated the way I drifted—both of my girls did. They never actually blamed me for dragging them all around Australia all their lives, but as they grew older, I could tell. There were signs.” On those rare occasions when Flame and the girls had been invited to others’ houses in their childhood — school friends’ birthday parties, or play dates, Jeannie’s eyes boggled, she told Ross. Jeannie would practically run her hands over the acres of pristine bench tops and bloated leather lounges, enchanted by all that abundance. Her daughter’s play for weeks afterwards would reflect what she’d seen.

“Go and find it in my pantry,” she’d boss little Stella, as if such a thing were exotic as a castle. Maybe it was. Was there magic in opulence? In a kitchen appliance for every purpose? Flame had a favorite bowl and spoon for whipping up cake, but anything would do. A saucepan and fork. An old ice cream container with a lid, or a jar, for shaking up eggs and milk and honey. Instant egg flips. Add a pan and fire and you had scrambled eggs. Flame was happy to live her life as if she’d run away and never stopped camping. “But Mummy, why don’t we have a popcorn machine?” little Jeannie would say. “We do, darling. Me.” Flame produced plenty of it, with lashings of butter and salt. The spherical beauty of a watermelon and a shady corner on a park bench in summer was heaven to Flame. A sunny corner and a steaming cup of tea did the trick in winter—especially with a sugar or three. Even when Jeannie and Flame left Stella in Perth and moved to Sydney so Jeannie could do enroll in her marketing degree, and they’d found a shared house near the university campus, Flame never exactly settled. But Jeannie did. She took to the new share house like a terrier. She claimed the kitchen and filled it with colorful canisters and saucepan sets, organized the laundry with fancy little baskets for cleaning products, and purchased quilt sets for every season for the best bedroom. Flame had been happy enough on the back step where she could read the paper in peace, though she became rather fond of an old lounge chair she’d rescued from a throw-out pile. “But it’s ugly, Mum,” Jeannie had told her in despair, when Stella had dragged it into the living room when autumn deepened and the step shrouded in shadows. “It doesn’t match.” “Give me a day or two, love.” Flame scoured second hand shops in three suburbs to find an old bedspread the perfect beige to camouflage it, and Jeannie finally relented.

Then Matt moved in. He was studying electrical engineering. Jeannie went into overdrive, adopting the mantle of chief shopper, cleaner and caterer. Their other housemates cooked, but they followed Jeannie’s menu, and the food was plentiful and delicious, with leftovers stacked in matching containers in the fridge or freezer. Flame was agog. She’d never guessed Jeannie had it in her. Occasionally, Flame would shout everyone beer and chips for dinner. When Jeannie’s exams loomed, Matt bought a brand new shiny barbeque and insisted on searing meat and vegetables. Matt, with his wry smile, would deliberately stand in front of the vacuum cleaner when Jeannie brought it out, at first to annoy her, and then to wrestle it from her and take over, to give her a break. That was when Flame first suspected he and Jeannie were becoming more than housemate pals. Flame moved with Jeannie to Sydney to help her, but was no longer needed. It was Matt watching out for her, Matt comforting her after a bad assignment mark, Matt celebrating with her at the end of a successful academic year. Flame had become a hanger on. She liked the jumble of students dropping in and out; but she knew Jeannie disapproved of the mess she made in the laundry every time she dyed a new batch of scarves and sarongs. One evening when Flame returned from the markets and found Jeannie and Matt snuggled up on her armchair laughing at something together on Matt’s mobile phone, she knew she’d become the spare wheel; she must give them space and move on. Jeannie was the settler, and Flame, the drifter. “You didn’t think of going to university yourself while you were there?” said Ross. He’d worked hard with a couple of committees to open up opportunities

for single parents with little education, people like Flame, to help them find alternative futures, and become self-ing. “How could I? I hadn’t even finished school. Besides, a bunch of my old school friends had gone to uni. We caught up at a school reunion and it was like they were on another planet, talking Marx and Freud and Brecht and Goethe and Piaget like the words meant something. I was still breastfeeding Stella, and Jeannie was a toddler in diapers. They looked at me like I was some kind of animal. I felt a bit insulted, as if they thought it was shameful. But Ross, having babies is the most natural thing in the world, and I adored my girls. Still do. Most of my old friends have children now. They roll their eyes at their teenagers’ antics while they try to juggle serious careers, and I’ve already been there and done that. Not that I could handle the pressure of their jobs. Sure, I could have done with their salaries but I’m glad I had so much time with my girls. I’m not complaining.” “You’d have time to go to uni now, you know,” Ross said. “I worked on a policy committee to make it easier for mature age students to retrain and re-enter the workforce. I was proud of the doors we opened for people like you.” “People like me?” “Single. Itinerant. People like you bring a vast number of skills and experience to roles, especially in the public service, where I worked.” “Were you a fat cat?” It just popped out. Flame didn’t mean to insult Ross. “Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth. “I didn’t actually mean that about you. I’ve met a few public servants in my time and not all of them are as idealistic as you are. Ambitious for themselves, maybe, but not for the public they’re supposed to serve.” Standing by the mantelpiece in the firelight, his tall, lean flame lit by the glowing fire, Ross appeared anything but overpaid and underworked. Sincere, maybe. He broke into a laugh. “What is it?” “You just reminded me of some of my old colleagues,” Ross said. “I really am sorry, Ross. Look at you, standing there. I’m the fat cat tonight

alright, hogging your best chair. If I don’t go home soon, I’ll fall asleep in it.” “I like a straight talker, Flame. When do you need to use my bath?” ... Was he flirting with her? No chance. Despite Anita’s fears, he wasn’t nearly ready for another relationship. Flame was fun. She wasn’t unattractive, either, with her curves and mischievous smile, but he wasn’t seeking that kind of company, he told himself as she gathered up the empty cups. With a joyous laugh, she was up and gone, out of there, teacups stacked in the sink, a whiff of perfume in her wake, her flashlight dancing through the garden and up the driveway in the darkness. Ross helped himself to another slice of her cake as he washed up the cups and plates out of habit and left them to dry beside the sink. Two cups this time. He smiled. When he returned to the fire and picked up a book, the chair was still warm. He placed the book back on the pile as he stared into the flames, the words of his visitor tumbling in his mind—the regrets and grief and struggles and quests of another. A burden shared is a burden halved. The old saying was true. For once he wasn’t dwelling on his own concerns and disappointments and losses, and the challenges of his daughters and how to spend the rest of his life in a worthwhile way, without Margaux at his side. He liked his treser. What a life she’d led, the hard way, yet she hadn’t let her burdens get her down. Her fortitude was irable. Her laughter and faint perfume lingered in this room at the heart of his house, among the jumble of furniture and the boxes he and Margaux had never unpacked. Anita had chastised him every time she visited. “It’s so stark, Dad. You don’t even have a TV set up yet! It’s as if you moved a couple of days ago, but it’s been more than a year.” He’d tried to explain he had everything he needed to survive.

“Surviving’s a pretty low bar, Dad. How about thriving?” During her last visit, she ripped open the top of a box and pulled out some photos, one of Ross and Margaux on their wedding day, and another of herself and Bethany with Santa when they must have been about six and eight. “Perhaps,” Ross said, taking the frames and turning them face down on the mantelpiece. He pushed the edges of the box closed again, and smiled at Anita. “I just need peace now, Anita. Leave it, please.” When Anita headed back to the city, he’d placed the photos in the kitchen, glad she’d forced him to confront his loss again, but he made no further moves to unpack, beyond the bare essentials. What was the hurry, now Margaux was gone? The gap between Margaux’s vision for the place and the stark reality of her absence was too great for him to straddle so soon after her death. It hadn’t been a problem. When Craig Donovan visited, to settle the fencing arrangement after all those phone messages, there’d been no issue. So why, in the wake of Flame’s visit, was he recalibrating? He laughed at himself and went to bed, warmed by their conversation.

Chapter 9

On her way out, Flame noticed Ross’s wedding photo, in an ornate silver frame, slightly tarnished, poked into a nook in the kitchen—the two of them so young and obviously in love; Ross, tall and slim, his hair dark and trim, no sign of those crinkles at his eyes. Margaux was an English rose, fair and perfect with cheeks like the blush of a ripe peach. They were staring at each other adoringly. No wonder the poor man had grieved for so long. Margaux was perfect. A pang of grief for Ross’s loss swelled up inside her. She turned away from the picture as he entered the kitchen behind her, reluctant to reopen his wounds. When she turned to face him at the back door, they shared a smile. “You’re a great listener, Ross Archer,” she said. “I owe you. I’m here for you, if you need anything. Anything at all.” She thought of writing him a card to put under his door, to thank him for the cup of tea and their chat, but it seemed both over the top, and not enough, for what they’d shared. Her kindling deposits continued, but otherwise, she was busy for days, working down her debt to Stella. A knock at her door surprised her one evening. She’d been sitting up, reading one of the books she’d picked up at the markets. Ross held out the empty cake plate. “I suppose I should have baked something for you in return,” he said. “Nonsense. Would you like another? We need to talk about what I owe you for rent or something,” said Flame, taking the plate and gesturing inside. “Would you like to come in?” “I won’t, thank you. Not this time. I’ll be in town tomorrow, if you wish to use my bath for your dying.” “Oh Ross. Thank you! I didn’t want to ask again, but I much prefer selling my

scarves and sarongs to telling fortunes.” “Beautiful quilt,” he said. “It’s yours,” she said, grabbing it and thrusting it in his hands. “It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness. Imagine if the whole lot was under storm water. I can’t believe I yelled at you. I make them out of my scraps. Better still, let me make one for you. What colors do you like? This is one of my rainbow specials.” Deep red hues in the center blended with oranges, yellows and greens in concentric circles, merging into multiple shades of blue and ending with deep purple at the edges. “This is a work of art, Flame.” “It’s one of the oldest forms of recycling. It’s tricky to piece it all together, but very satisfying, and I’d love to make one for you. I generally sell smaller, more affordable things at the markets. Tell me what appeals, and I’ll be glad to make it for you; please, Ross.” “That’s a lovely offer, thank you, Flame. Margaux was the decorator. I left all of that to her. No one’s ever asked me what colors I like. I’ll give it some thought. Is there a local show? You could win prizes with this work.” Flame glowed with the compliment. She knew her work was good enough to sell, but she’d always thought of it as craft, rather than art. “I make any kind of patchwork, Ross,” she said. “From any scraps of cloth. This is made from all my tie-dyed material, but I made quilts for the girls from their favorite old play clothes, and I made one in rich velvets for Jeannie and Matt’s wedding. Just let me know. I can’t thank you enough for letting me use your bath. Oh. And the clothes line, too? Would you mind? Tomorrow? I’d string up a line, but that old Hills Hoist would be ideal if you’re not using it.” “Be my guest. I’ll be out all day.” He nodded and retreated into the darkness. Flame smiled and contemplated her cozy caravan. She was glad she kept it tidy. Gleaming, in fact. More than that, for the first time, she was glad Grady had left her. There was more than twice as much space without him, and it was all hers to enjoy. Sure, she missed his music, but there was nothing her little sound system couldn’t play. To celebrate, she slipped a Keith Urban CD into her player and

had a little dance in her kitchen as she stowed her cake plate back inside a locker. She surveyed her home as Ross might have done. He was right it was cozy. And maybe she could enter a quilt in the local show. She’d think about it. She knew Jeannie and Matt’s quilt still lived in pride of place on their marital bed. Jeannie posted her a photo of little Lucy and Sienna on it with their Easter eggs every April. As she stitched, Flame ed going to Sydney for their wedding, carrying the huge parcel on the bus. Her fellow enger hadn’t been amused, but she couldn’t risk putting it in the luggage compartment underneath. The whole trip had been a bit of a disaster. Nobody had been surprised when Jeannie and Matt announced their engagement, least of all Flame, though she wondered why they bothered. All that fussing with bridesmaids’ dresses and visiting wedding venues was alien to her. How many dresses did Jeannie try on? Thirty? Fifty? She was happy for them because it was what they wanted; so young and in love. Would she have married Sven if he’d asked? With her own parents forced into an unhappy marriage because they’d been expecting her, she doubted it. She’d hoped true love would shine through, wedding or not. Stella travelled from Perth for the wedding, and she and Flame threw themselves into helping decorate the hired chairs with lilac and white ribbons and flowers. They did exactly what Jeannie told them to do. Jeannie was the designer after all, the marketing guru. She knew about themes. The frenzy of tasks helped cover up the silences between Flame and her youngest daughter. The theme for Jeannie and Matt’s wedding was stylish plenitude— like any wedding, Flame supposed, but Jeannie and Matt did it well. There were fifty best friends and a sprinkling of family on both sides. Matt’s relatives outnumbered Jeannie’s by far—seven earnest folk from the country in

hired suits who appeared as awkward as Flame. Jeannie insisted Flame and Stella have their hair and nails done, and Flame forced herself into high heels for the first time in 30 years—a ridiculous notion given the garden setting by the edge of the harbor. Her heels aerated the grass all afternoon and evening. Both daughters were sensational on the day, Stella in lilac and purple as bridesmaid and Jeannie in white, complete with a puffy veil that caught the sea breeze and wafted fetchingly. Her girls; all grown up. A marriage celebrant— now that might be a job Flame could do, if she ever settled long enough to gain accreditation. Maybe not. All those vows about loving and cherishing until death. Fine for others maybe, but not for Flame. Evidently. Trays of champagne in matching glasses with long stems. Catered cocktail nibbles. A live band and a portable dance floor. Matt, now a career electrical engineer with a decent job, had created solar powered fairy lights which flickered on as the mosquitos came out. A huge white cake on a pedestal with more lilac ribbons and flowers; a couple of speeches; cheers and applause as the happy couple departed somewhere secret by water taxi; and it was over. Flame and Stella shared a hotel room. Mutual exhaustion and the effects of too much champagne masked the awkward silences. Sleep pulled them under as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Next morning, Stella insisted on taking Flame to breakfast in the fancy lobby dining room. Stella wore a sleek, navy blue suit—her own daughter had become an alien. She was working for some high flying Western Australian mining investment company, and was recently promoted to office manager. They barely knew what to say to each other. “Still making things, Stell?” Both girls had been creative, and the jewelry Stella made, particularly beautiful. She had a gift for it. Now, sipping on her macchiato and ordering eggs florentine, Flame saw Stella try to hide a flick of derision.

“Too grown-up for creativity now?” Flame’s tone was wistful. “Jewelry doesn’t pay the bills, Mum.” Stella barely bothered to ask her what she was doing now and where she was living. Where was the little dark haired girl who’d giggled with mischief and planted kisses on her neck? Flame comforted herself by pocketing a couple of tiny jars of marmalade and a display apple. Stella was tight lipped as she’d flashed her card at the checkout. “I’ll pay, Mum.” “Let me, dear.” Stella proceeded, as if there were no possibility her flaky mother could afford to do so. Flame was saddened, but she didn’t want to cause a scene. She replaced her purse in her handbag and studied her daughter as the attendant handed her the receipt. Stella might be paying the bills, but she was pale and brittle. They could have had cereal in teacups in their rooms, saved some money and had a good laugh. Instead, there was a hasty hug on the curb. “Hold onto your dreams, my darling,” said Flame, though she had no idea what Stella’s dreams might be anymore. Stella was whisked away to the airport in a taxi, and Flame found a bus stop, leaving her expensive, ruined high heels on the edge of the nearest bin, just in case someone might actually want them. Flame sighed. If Stella had asked her about her own life, she wouldn’t have had much to say. On board with a window seat, she stared out as the suburbs made way for fields and the bus cruised north west. She could have described her job cleaning the bathrooms at a caravan park in exchange for a bed in the oldest, moldiest van and a couple of $50 bills in the hand each week. Or so she thought.

Unfortunately, when she arrived, she discovered the owner’s estranged wife had returned while Flame had been at the wedding. It was hard to compete with free labor, and the woman didn’t like the way her husband stared at Flame, so she was told to move on. Again. Immediately. It had been a great job. Holidaymakers often left useful things behind—novels, half-finished packets of food, and the remainders of a tub of expensive face cream. And she’d just sold the owner on her tie dyed sheets concept—excellent for covering up stains and a nice little side earner for her. She packed her favorite paperbacks and lugged her dyes and other few possessions back to the bus stop. It was a drizzly afternoon. The northern bus wasn’t due for three and a half hours, so she sat and watched the trucks and cars hiss past and wondered at her despondency. In the past, moving on gave her a thrill. In the great adventure of her life, any day was beautiful, the more unusual the better. So what was this mood? She burrowed in her purse and pulled out the fresh lipstick she’d bought for the wedding when she and Stella had an hour to kill after checking into their hotel before the ceremony. It was an excellent brand, with a top finish on the gold tube and a black band around the base. It felt heavy, substantial, the kind of treat she would never had bought for herself had Stella not been there. She squinted at the name of the color. “Fruitz.” She clicked off the lid and investigated. It smelled expensive. She twisted, and the stick emerged, a deep red, red as Snow White’s poisoned apple. She pulled out her old makeup mirror, applied it, pressed her lips together and inspected herself, deliberately coaching herself to ignore the extra lines around her eyes. At least her lips were defiant. “Hmmm,” she said. “Better.” A magpie pecked around the orange peel left by a previous traveller. It peered up at her and resumed its work. She smiled and studied the clouds for a patch of blue. If she’d been glum that day, there was worse to come—the worst time of her life, before she’d met Grady. Now, she hoped to forget it all. It was over. Thank goodness. Flame came to the end of a patchwork piece, bit the thread and yawned. Enough

reminiscing for one night. She had another early start next day. It was time to snuggle under one of her quilts and sleep. Mopokes called and possums clattered across the shed roof as she closed her eyes.

Chapter 10

“D isaster,” said Becca next morning as she pulled ahead of Flame on the road again and let Flame inside the car. “What’s up?” “The Rileys are sick. They’ve both come down with the flu, and the Trivia Night’s tomorrow. Had you forgotten?” “No. I’m up for it again. No problem.” “So we’re not just one down. We’re two down, and it’s such late notice. Do you think your Lord Archer would come?” Becca had been teasing Flame about Ross, her “landlord,” ever since she heard Flame gave him a cake, insisting Flame was kidding herself about him. “‘No more men,’ my foot, Flame.” Becca had said. “You’re interested in this guy. And if you’re not, you should be. He’s hot. Well, maybe not compared to my Davey, but pretty good for his sixties. If you don’t snap him up, someone else will. Treenie Lewis is on the loose again.” “Sounds like you’re interested, Becca,” said Flame. That was a joke. Everyone knew Becca and Davey were ed for life. Davey was a local lawyer. Becca and Davey had escaped Brisbane a decade ago and they were well and truly settled in town with their businesses side by side. They even met for lunch each day. “Well, I like to see my friend happy,” said Becca, slowing as a pair of king parrots streaked across the road in front of them. “Besides, people tell me things in my line of work, all the time.” “And?” “Treenie Lewis definitely has her eye on your Ross Archer.”

“He’s not my Ross Archer. Not everyone has to have a partner, Becca!” Flame said. She didn’t like to gossip. As a single mother, Flame had been the source of so much speculation when the girls were at school she shied away from anything similar. She suspected Treenie attracted gossip because she ran her own real estate agency. Confident and independent, she had a reputation for wrecking marriages, after she’d had affairs with both the mayor and an orthodontist up the coast at Tweed Heads, but Treenie Lewis’s life was her own to lead, and if she had Ross Archer in her sights, why should Flame care? She wasn’t taking Becca’s bait. Becca just laughed. “Then just ask him anyway,” Becca said. “You’re right. I do like him. Not for me, of course. Davey and I couldn’t be happier, but you might want to open your eyes to a decent man, Flame. You learn a lot about people when you cut their hair, even men, who don’t talk much, and Ross is a good person. Without the Rileys, we need Ross on our table. Okay, not as your date, but just to make up our numbers.” Becca refrained from mentioning Grady’s absence, and Flame loved her for it. “So how about it? Will you ask him?” “Okay,” said Flame as the boys tumbled out, snatching their school bags and giving Flame and Becca a wave. Next morning, Flame placed a carefully written invitation beside the kindling for Ross, ignoring the buzz of excitement in her stomach. The trivia night was just a neighborly event, held every quarter to raise money for the school. It was nothing like a date.

Chapter 11

Ross’s heart lifted , glad to see Flame’s note. He’d barely seen her all week. She’d made herself scarce since sharing so much of her past in his garden and during their fireside chat. Did she regret divulging so much to him? She didn’t seem like the sort of person to harbor regrets. Dear Ross, Please our table at tonight’s trivia event in the local hall at 6.30pm. Sorry for the late notice, Flame A community event. He’d barely ventured out, save for buying groceries, but maybe it was time. He ran a hand over his hair and smoothed his palm over his stubble. The trim at Becca’s Studio had been timely. Now he just had to locate the iron. Just after six o’clock, Ross grabbed a bottle of red wine from the old pantry, strode to the shed and knocked on the door of the caravan. There was no answer; just the faint fragrance of Flame’s perfume. Why was a small part of him disappointed? He was accustomed to being alone. He backed out the car, wound his way down the dark roadway. His headlights caught the red eyes of possums and other marsupials, as he parked near the school. The school hall was flooded with lights as others arrived from all directions, greeting each other as they juggled baskets of decorations. Cradling the wine, he locked the car and ed them, steeling himself for more social interaction than he’d had in a year. Inside, he immediately spotted Flame in a distant corner, and raised his hand in a

wave, but before he could reach her table, a tall woman with impossibly long blonde hair grasped him firmly by the right hand and introduced herself. Her heavily mascaraed glance grazed his eyes, shoulders, chest and torso in an appreciative sweep. “I’m Treenie Lewis, Rainbow Valley Realty; delighted to meet you; and you’re ...?” “Ross Archer, Treenie. Pleased to meet you, too.” He doubted the accuracy of his comment as he tried to extricate his hand. She simply squeezed it tighter, leaned in and whispered to him, as if divulging a secret, in full view of the whole room. “Of course, Ross. Do come this way and let me introduce you to everyone you need to know.” Her wink was extravagant, as if there were plenty of people he should ignore. “I’ll be fine, thanks, Treenie,” Ross replied, raising his own level of charm to trump her with a wink and salute as he rescued his hand. He strode past many strangers towards Flame’s table, where Becca patted the seat next to Flame and introduced Ross to Davey. “So glad you’re ing us, Ross,” said Becca. “The Rileys are still unwell. So you’ve met Treenie Lewis. Loves a new man about town, our Treenie. Oh, thank you so much for the wine! I’ve brought plenty of glasses. Hamiltons always supply the pizzas. Their twins are in Year 6. I’ll miss this next year when they both head on to high school. So Ross, this is my husband Davey. Any legal needs, he solves them. His office is right next door to my studio.” Davey nodded and launched into a clarification. He couldn’t actually solve all legal problems, particularly criminal matters, though he doubted Ross would need representation with such things. However, he could certainly help with family and civil matters and would, in fact, be in a position to recommend who to , should Ross actually encounter any criminal issues. Ross nodded his thanks, uncorked his bottle and poured a glass each for Davey, Becca, Flame and himself. “Thanks for the invitation,” he said to Flame, touching his glass to hers in a greeting.

The quiz master stood, in her mortarboard and gown, and hushed the crowd. “Welcome and thank you, everyone,” she said as the room cheered. “I remind you this is a friendly competition. Whichever table collects the most points, it’s actually your children and our community that stand to benefit. Answer sheets are on the tables. There’ll be three rounds of questions, with pizza in between. No cheating. As quiz master I retain the right to fine anyone for anything.” There were a few boos, but she pointed at the people who’d booed the loudest and Treenie swept across, rattling a large tin and demanding small change, which landed inside with a clatter. The questions began, and Becca, Davey, Flame and Ross settled on their answers without much disagreement. Flame was particularly good with answers about popular music, Davey had a prodigious memory for history, Becca was excellent with celebrities, and Ross performed well on sports, geography and wildcard questions. “We need to keep you on, Ross,” said Becca. Ross smiled as Flame took their first round answers up to the quiz master’s table on stage. Previously, he’d hardly ever seen her in anything but a raincoat and gumboots. This evening she was fit and trim in her jeans and a purple top, her red hair cascading down her back. Had she gone to extra trouble tonight? What did he know of his neighbor after all, he wondered, apart from the fact she’d left home early and had two children while still in her teens? A little burst of iration for her rose in him. He doubted he could have raised Anita and Bethany by himself. Sometimes he worried that he and Margaux, for all the advantages they’d tried to give their children, had somehow failed. Anita would be back for a week in the coming school holidays. His heart fell at the prospect. She meant well, but her constant nagging that he return to Sydney had worn thin. Someone sat beside him where Flame had been. “Treenie!” said Becca. “What are you doing here?” “We need to fine Table Seven,” said Treenie into a microphone. “You’re doing far too well for a table with only four people. It must be Ross here, the new genius. All your spare change, into the kitty, please, Ross; right now.”

Ross pulled out his wallet, extracted $50, rolled it up and posted it in the tin, hoping to be rid of her. The move backfired. “Hey, big spender!” said Treenie. “Spend a little time with me! Did you see that, folks? Our new neighbor, Ross Archer, just donated $50, and I don’t believe this man even has a child at our school. Can we have a round of applause for Ross Archer, everyone!” Ross’s guts twisted. While he was happy to command attention, he never sought it; certainly not at gatherings like this. Flame returned with two boxes of pizza, and sat opposite Ross in one of the spare seats the Rileys would have occupied. When she flipped open the lids of both boxes and held them out, Ross grasped a large slice of the vegetarian one and took a bite, catching Flame’s gaze in his own. Had he ever been more grateful for an excuse not to say anything? If he’d told Treenie to shove off, he would have broken his vow of being civil to all, regardless of their background and behavior. Still chewing, he raised his eyebrows, as if to convey his gratitude, and was surprised at the spark of understanding which travelled between them—along with a surge of excitement he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. As he munched, he wondered why he was so keen for Flame to understand he hadn’t sought Treenie’s attention. He stole another glance at Flame as the main lights lowered. She’d definitely taken care with her appearance this evening, her eyes accentuated with eyeliner, perhaps a touch of rouge to emphasize her cheek bones, her chin high and her smile entrancing. Why had he not noticed her fine features before? Flame was a stunner. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. He’d only ever seen her in the rain and the dark and firelight. It helped, to be sure, that this time she wasn’t yelling at him. As the quiz master took to the stage again, Treenie squeezed Ross’s arm in another extravagant display of affection. “I’ll see you again soon, Ross,” she said as she busily stood and circulated again. Becca swept the air as if shooing a blowfly away, then patted the vacated chair to indicate Flame should take up her rightful place next to Ross.

Flame caught Ross’s eye again, and he surprised himself by nodding and beckoning her closer. He liked her right there beside him, where she could record the answers and he could check the spelling. He hadn’t realized he was so competitive, but when the quiz master read the results and Table Seven was coming a close second to the teachers’ table, he saw they had a good chance of winning. He was having his first taste of fun in more than a year. He topped up everyone’s glasses and turned his attention to the questions. The next round went quickly. This time, Davey took their results to the stage. Ross cringed when he saw Treenie make a bee-line for Davey’s seat, back beside him. Flame had been trying to tell him something, but the hubbub in the hall was huge and he’d had to lean closer to make out her words, close enough to notice her perfume, an intriguing mix of vanilla and musk. Now Treenie was back, and thrusting herself at him. On impulse, Ross leaned back towards Flame. The most ridiculous thought came into his mind. What would happen were he to kiss this red-headed goddess by his side? Would Treenie notice and leave him alone? As the quiz master read out the tallies for each table so far, the thought wouldn’t go away. Now Treenie was actually nudging him with her foot to get his attention. Such an act might drive Treenie away for good. He thought about it. He’d catch Flame’s shoulder gently with his hand to bring her even closer, and then—a surge of daring shot through him—lean even closer and brush his lips against hers. The idea was electric, far more thrilling than a trivia win. It roared in his imagination, this delicious new possibility. Was Flame reading his mind? Flame glanced away from the stage and met his gaze, shrinking from it a moment, then holding his eyes, lighting on his lips and back to his eyes. Was her own interest in him changing? Something new hovered between them, long enough for Becca and Treenie to notice. Their conversation, something about the district show committee, had stopped. Flame deliberately turned her head away from him, picked up the pen, clicked the end of it a few times and spoke. “Ah,” she said, changing the mood, finding neutral ground. “Here comes Davey! Off you go, Treenie. Davey needs his seat!” As the next question rang through the hall, something about naming five capital

cities beginning with L, Ross’s pulse raced. He couldn’t stop staring at Flame, at the slight pulse in the delicate skin at her neck, the shape of her jaw, and those lips. When Flame blushed under his gaze, he began to smile. “London!” “Lima!” Davey and Becca repeated their answers, and his smile widened. He’d distracted Flame long enough for her to have to tear her gaze away from his to write down their answers. This new thing was mutual. He sat taller. Treenie grabbed his forearm to pry his attention away from Flame, so Ross leaned even closer to Flame, still hoping Treenie would back off. He could actually kiss Flame, here at the very edge of the event, while everyone but Treenie was busy whispering their next answers. He could show Treenie how little she meant to him, and how much more interested he was in Flame, this Flame, this streak of spirit who had emerged in his life, so fierce and colorful— from the moment she’d yelled at him that wet evening after he’d rescued her caravan from floodwaters, to the way she’d left kindling for him morning after morning. At once he longed to know more about her, beautiful Flame, this woman beside him who was waking his soul from its chill winter. This urge, this need to test the warmth of her lips... He tipped his head to one side, leaned closer. Suddenly Flame lurched back in her chair. The legs of it scraped against the floor as she stood to go. “Sorry, guys,” she said, flustered. “I’m finding it a bit hot in here, and I’m not feeling very well. I’m going to head home early. Best of luck for the rest of the session. Hope you win!” Her announcement was a rebuke. Had he crowded her, as Treenie was crowding him? Yes. He chastised himself. Had he chased her away? A vision of her walking home alone along the dark and winding road tormented him. “Let me give you a lift, Flame,” he said as she shrugged on her coat. She shook her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, the light gone from her eyes, her

expression carefully neutral. As the quiz started up again, Ross was surprised at the sense of loss which tugged at him as Flame gathered her coat closely around herself and left the table. “I’ll be fine, thank you, Ross. See you next week, Becca. Thanks for a fun night!”

Chapter 12

The hide of him! Flame could barely contain her confusion. Was Ross interested in her? More to the point, was she developing feelings for him? Back there beside him, she could have sworn he was about to kiss her. Worse, she’d wanted to kiss him back. If she hadn’t stood up, it would have happened. Her lips still buzzed with the possibility; with need. Part of her glowed with the glorious knowledge that at their table, with the glamorous, accomplished Treenie right there, Ross had turned towards her instead. But another part was alarmed. Ross was a neighbor, a kind of landlord. More to the point, she had sworn off men, hadn’t she? The last thing she needed was an affair with Ross Archer—something else to go wrong in her life. Besides, she must be mistaken. Surely if Ross were interested in another partner, he’d be pairing up with Treenie. They’d be perfect for each other. Treenie loved land and Ross had plenty of it. Both were educated people of the world. Treenie was always bragging about her latest trip to Europe or the US. Flame had travelled alright, but caravan parks weren’t quite the same as five-star resorts and plush hotels. Flame walked faster, bristling, as the noise of the crowded hall dwindled into the distance. Ross wasn’t silly. He’d be a fool to up Treenie. So why did that annoy her? She shook her head and forced herself to notice the beauty of the night around her—the gentle flick of the flying foxes’ wings and their squeaks as they foraged in the fig trees. She faced the moon as she rounded a bend in the dark road. Mopokes called and glow worms twinkled in the clay embankments at the high side of the road. She loved to walk. In time, the rhythm of her steps would calm her heart. Had the wine messed with her judgment? If she were honest with herself, she’d enjoyed Ross’s eyes on her all evening. It felt good to imagine she was attractive again, especially after Grady abandoned her, but she should have leaned back in her chair away from Ross sooner, and made it clear she had no interest in the man. Lean, smart Ross Archer had waltzed into that room in his clean jeans, white

shirt and black jacket like he owned the place, swanning around like he was already Treenie Lewis’s latest prize. Oh, why had she allowed Becca to talk her into inviting him? Had everyone noticed he was showing an interest in her? Or was it all just a ruse to throw Treenie off his scent? If so, how dare he take such liberties with her own reputation? That would be outrageous and unacceptable. Had Ross actually noticed she was human, and not just a convenient female decoy? Worse, had he used her to make Treenie even keener? War escalated inside her—mixed feelings she should not be entertaining. Why had she let Becca convince her to get her hair done that afternoon, and try out new makeup samples? Shame on Becca and her scheming, trying to pair her up with Ross. Now she just felt foolish. Because the truth was, tonight she’d seen Ross Archer in a new light. With quiz answers rolling off his tongue and his witty repartee, there was a debonair charm to the man. More than that, she’d seen the way he could command a room. Treenie had noticed it immediately. And there in the semi darkness, right next to him, his magnetism was unquestionable—a distinct thrill she’d rarely experienced. But she couldn’t afford to fall in love with Ross Archer. Dumb idea. Surely she was old enough now, and wise enough, to have learned something from all those failed relationships. The next thing she knew, it would all be over and she’d be homeless again. She simply couldn’t risk entering such dangerous territory. No way. “Strong and single,” she said to herself as she walked. “Single and strong.” That was the safe path. She needed to rely on her own common sense. She’d never had much of it, but she had enough for this; surely. Headlights swept the dark road, and a vehicle slowed behind her. It stopped; pulled up. A car door opened and closed, and she walked faster. She willed herself not to feel afraid. “Flame?” Ross’s voice. Although her shoulders dropped in relief, she walked faster anyway. The last thing she needed was to get closer to the man. She had a poor record for keeping herself in check in dark cars with attractive men, and tonight of all nights, when her imagination was running riot, it was not a good idea.

“Are you okay?” She didn’t want to answer, walking faster again. “Please stop, Flame. I owe you an apology.” She didn’t want this conversation. If she could have rewound the last half hour and deleted it, she would have done so. Things had been going so well in her life. She was saving money for the first time in years. She’d soon be able to pay Stella back. Rocking the boat in any way was not an option. “Are you going to make me run after you, Flame? Please stop. Can we discuss this?” She spun on her heel, hands on her hips, and confronted him. “What’s there to discuss?” “Back there, I was having such a good time; and I haven’t drunk wine in more than a year, and I did the wrong thing. I want to apologize to you, Flame. I absolutely did the wrong thing.” “The wrong thing,” she said. So. Now he regretted paying her so much attention, did he? Not only did it mean nothing; he must have guessed she wanted to kiss him back. She rose to her full height. The indignity of it! Ross faced her in the middle of the road, his hands out, as if to beseech her. What did he want of her? Why did every man assume a single woman was up for grabs? “You’re beautiful, Flame.” Oh? So now it was her fault? She’d heard that argument before from men. “It was her fault, your honor. She led me on.” It was the oldest excuse in the book for a man’s poor behavior. A single headlight flashed into the bush behind him, lighting his silhouette and glancing away. The engine roared closer as they confronted each other—frozen in the ime.

“Get off the road, Flame,” Ross said. “You’ll get run over. Can we forget it, whatever it is that’s bothering you? At least let me give you a lift home. Please.” Oh. So now she was a child again; as if she hadn’t walked this road in the dark a hundred times and managed to survive. Still, her high heels were a bit different to her trusty red gumboots. She should have thought about that when Becca had picked her up earlier in the day. To think she’d even entertained a fantasy Ross might give her lift home this evening after the quiz had ended. She’d allowed herself to look forward to this moment—but not under these circumstances. Could she help her hesitation? Maybe her first impressions of Ross Archer were right after all—that he was an entitled bully. How could she have imagined they had been developing some kind of understanding, a mutual respect? It was the same old story; the landlord and the tenant; the empowered and the powerless; the one with the car and the one on foot. She accepted his lift but the ease of their conversation earlier in the evening was gone. She held her tongue—though her silence in his car was more than uncomfortable—as she fought her tangle of feelings for the man. “Thanks,” she said, as she leaped out and opened the gate, and closed it again as he drove through. Instead of driving on to his house, he waited, until she leaned in the enger window to wish him goodnight. Ross’s eyes sought hers—lingered, questioning. Her confusion about him made her sound more abrupt than she’d planned. She stepped back, until he had no choice but to drive on. She nearly twisted her ankle reaching the House of Spades in her high heels. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she brought a flashlight?

Chapter 13

No kindling greeted Ross the following day. His sigh was deep as he slid into his car, inched past the caravan with an exploratory glance and headed into town to collect Anita from the bus stop. His heart was heavy. These visits from his younger daughter in her school holidays were increasingly fraught and burdensome, laden with unexpressed expectations. She always behaved as if she was going out of her way to do him a favor by visiting, all the while resenting the circumstances. It tried his patience. He had to keep reminding himself she was grieving, too. He’d lost his wife, but she’d lost her mother, and Anita and Margaux had always been particularly close. “Hello, darling,” he said, as she alighted. He took her luggage and stowed it in the back of the car. Anita always brought more than enough outfits for every eventuality, although mostly she stayed in the house, shuffling items about and talking about her childhood. “So, you’ve finally got a haircut, Dad. Coming back to Sydney after all?” “We’ve had this conversation, Anita,” he said. “No need to have it again straight away, surely. Now, it’s market day. I picked up a fruit tree for the orchard last time I was in town—I’m calling it Margaux’s Orchard—so while we’re here, I’d love to grab another plant or two. You might even like to select a plant yourself. Hungry? I can recommend the Turkish food stall by the way.” Anita was sullen. Was she still resenting the fact he was so determined to stay in the area? Why was she so reluctant to his choice? Hopefully she’d enjoy exploring the market. They agreed a time to meet up again, and Ross shook his head as she wandered away from him, soon lost among the colorful crowd and stalls. Stavros ed Ross. “How’s that plum?”

“Thriving, thank you.” “Perfect time to be planting, with all the rain, and the soil warming up with spring,” said Stavros. “Not that any time’s a bad time to plant up here. Like another fruit tree?” Ross nodded and the stall holder left him to browse. He enjoyed reading the information about the plants, some of which he’d never seen before. By the time Anita returned he’d selected a custard apple and avocado, and was deep in conversation with Stavros about plantation timber options and what to do about all the invasive camphor laurels. Anita was happier. She carried two gozlemes and held one out for him to take. “That’s great, Anita. Thank you. This is Stavros, by the way. Stavros, my daughter Anita, a school teacher from Sydney.” “Up from the Big Smoke, eh?” said Stavros. “I escaped 30 years ago and never looked back. Planning to us up here?” Anita stared at the beads in his beard, smiled politely and shook her head. “Grows on you,” he said. “Really?” She turned her back and bit into her gozleme. “Anita’s planning to go to the UK to visit her sister, Bethany. She prefers Scottish castles.” “Fair enough.” “Well, we might get going, unless you’d like to choose a plant, too, while we’re here, Anita.” “Not really,” she said. “Looks like you’ve got enough on your hands. You know you’ll have to keep them all watered yourself when I go back.” “Yes. Well, see you next time, Stavros,” said Ross. As they reached the car, two barefoot children thundered past, one chasing the

other. As she dodged them, Anita’s food tumbled down her dress, and she glared at their backs. “The trouble with being a teacher is you’re always on holidays with children,” she said. “If you dislike them so much, maybe you should change your profession.” “Easier said than done, Dad,” she said. “Most things are,” he said as he secured the new plants securely in the back seat. He wouldn’t make the mistake of driving away with them on the roof this time. “It doesn’t mean it’s not effort well spent.” Anita described the latest staffroom politics as they wound their way back up the mountain. “Sounds familiar,” said Ross. “Can’t say I miss the office. Not that aspect of it anyway. Have you thought of seeking a transfer?” “Maybe.” When they reached the farm, unlike Flame, who always jumped out and opened the gate, Anita stayed put. This time Ross spoke up. He couldn’t tread on eggshells around her forever. Margaux was never coming back. She needed to start to move on and stop dwelling on herself all the time. “Might be nice if you opened the gate, please, Anita,” said Ross. She stared at her shoes and at the mud outside and frowned, but did it anyway; then, instead of walking the short distance to the door of the farmhouse, she got back into the car. “What’s that old caravan, Dad?” “It belongs to Flame.” “The woman who was visiting you when I phoned? She’s not actually living here, is she? Why is she living here? I can’t believe you’d do this to Mum. Mum was perfect.”

Margaux had been far from perfect, though Ross had loved her to the end. He and Margaux had had their moments, though they’d kept them hidden from the children. He’d forgiven her as she’d expected. Maybe he was soft; too soft. But softness was also a strength. Because of him, they’d been able to give Anita and Bethany a loving home, a top education and a steady upbringing; a string of advantages. Who was to know whose approach was right? For all the security she’d been given, Anita was hard. She lashed at him. “No, I don’t want to meet her,” Anita hissed, when he suggested they invite her for afternoon tea. “You might find you like her.” “Are you keen on this ‘Flame’ woman, Dad? I can’t believe you’d jump into someone else’s arms so quickly.” “Just a minute there, Anita. Flame is a neighbor, and a good one. You’re always saying you worry I’m alone too much. Despite what you’re insinuating, we are acquaintances, and nothing more. I am simply suggesting you meet each other, so please stop being so protective of me. You might be making a few assumptions.” “But what’s she even doing there? Is it legal, having a van in a shed like that? What about insurance?” “We call it the House of Spades.” “It’s all very well joking about it, but what if she hurts herself on one of your shovels and sues. Is she paying any rent? And how long is she staying?” “Relax, Anita. This is my home, and you’re welcome here, and so are my friends. How about you let me worry about whose company I keep? I don’t comment on your friends. I’ll leave you to unpack, settle in and relax. I’ll put the kettle on.” Ross refused to let Anita boss him around. It was his decision who he invited into his home, and Anita was no longer a child. If he wanted to invite Flame across to meet her, he would do so. Let her discover for herself Flame’s fine

qualities. Since he hadn’t seen her since the trivia night, now was as good a time as any to broach their silence. What could it hurt, to invite her in for a simple cup of tea with his daughter? Let Anita make an informed decision about Flame, instead of casting aspersions for the next week. Besides, there was never the right time for anything. His time in public service and management had taught him that. Conditions were never perfect. Regardless of the resources at hand and the conflicting preferences of those around you, sometimes you had to make a decision, choose a direction or adopt a policy and simply make it work. Anita might not like the idea, but Margaux was gone, and, now that he was finally awakening from his own frozen wasteland of grief, he couldn’t put the rest of his life on hold because of Anita’s sensibilities. He flicked on the kettle, ran his fingers through his hair and stepped out of the farmhouse. At the very least, while he was at the caravan he could select a spade so he could plant the new fruit trees. Flame’s blinds were up. They hadn’t seen each other since the night he’d dropped her home after the trivia competition. Did he regret almost kissing her? Yes and no, but whatever his mixed motivations, it was time to build bridges. He liked having her live nearby, and he wanted to be on good . An afternoon tea invitation was a civilized way to keep dialogue open, and with Anita there, Flame shouldn’t feel cornered. Despite his best platonic intentions, when Flame opened the door, Ross’s gaze fell to her hair, wild around her shoulders and to her hips. As it settled on her lips, his heart skipped. Her mouth was full of pins. Behind her, a patchwork quilt was taking shape on her table, the rainbow colors scattered as if split through a prism. Country music played quietly on the radio. “Hope I’m not disturbing you, Flame,” said Ross. She shook her head once, dropped her eyes, pulled the pins from her mouth, and gave him a careful smile; still keeping her distance. That was fine. There was no wine involved this time. He knew how to control himself. “I’d like you to come and meet my daughter, Anita. She’s here for a week from Sydney. Would you like to us for afternoon tea?” “You must have guessed I just baked another cake,” said Flame, smiling.

Ross’s heart leaped. So, she wasn’t still mad at him. “I’ll just freshen up,” she said, touching her hair. Ross’s eyes travelled back down her body. He’d missed her. He hated being on bad with her; with anyone. “You look great,” he said and meant it. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” When Ross opened his door to her ten minutes later, Flame had brushed her hair, braided it and held it back with a purple ribbon, the same shade as her jacket. His heart leaped to see her again, there at his door, her cake held out as an offering. “If this is a truce, I’m glad, Flame,” he said softly, taking the plate and standing back to usher her inside. Anita was bent over a box marked “fragile,” a froth of tissue paper littering the table and a nest of bowls emerging beside her. “I’ve found Mum’s Spode!” Anita said as she straightened. But her joy turned to shock as she saw Flame, and the jug in her hand fell to the floor, its handle zinging off and resting, a shiny white question mark, under the table. “I ... Let me fix this,” said Flame, eyes on the floor. “It’s a good break, a clean one.” “Really?” said Anita, openly hostile. Ross glanced from one to the other. “Let me introduce you,” said Ross. “No need for that,” said Anita, prim and frosty, folding the piece of tissue paper into smaller and smaller squares. “Yes, I can fix it,” said Flame as Anita glared. “I’m good at fixing things like this.” She bent and retrieved the pieces, placed the handle inside the jug and hovered. “In fact, don’t worry about the tea. I’ll go fix it now.”

“Must you?” said Ross, but he stepped back to allow her to and she rushed out into the fresh morning on the run, jug in her arms and was gone. Ross turned back to his daughter. “Anita?” His question was almost a rebuke. “So that’s your neighbor in the caravan?” “Flame, yes.” “‘Flame.’” Anita rolled the word around her tongue as if it were bitter. “Did you see Flame’s hands, Dad? Her fingernails are filthy! Mother wouldn’t have been seen dead like that.” Dead. The word hung between them. Ross winced and turned away, biting his tongue. No. Margaux wouldn’t. She’d insisted on manicures twice a month, while Flame had cleaned other people’s houses and tie-dyed old sheets to sell as sarongs at markets to feed her children. Had their daughter no grace, no glimmer of generosity of spirit? How had he and Margaux raised such a snob? He stared back at her, as she stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes and lips tight with rage and hate. Was Anita aware how harsh and hard she appeared? What was the true definition of “coarse”? “Flame tie dyes cloth for a living,” he said evenly. “The dye stains her fingers.” “Oh. And that’s not all she does, though, is it?” “Pardon?” “She rips off people who want their fortunes told.” Ross kept his hand steady as he poured the tea. How would Anita be aware of Flame’s occupation? Had they just met at the markets? Not wanting to provoke an argument, he took a bite of Flame’s cake and said nothing.

Chapter 14

Back in her caravan , door firmly closed, Flame caught her breath. Disaster! So, her young client that morning was Anita, Ross’s daughter! More to the point, Ross was this woman’s father. Business had been brisk at the markets earlier in the day, when she’d donned her red fortune-telling headdress with its glitter and coins. There’d been several pale city slickers, all with their own balances of hope and misery, but this woman had stood out in her unhappiness to such an extent she wouldn’t even offer her own name, preferring to remain anonymous. So sad had she been that Flame hadn’t accepted her payment, and she’d invited the young woman to come for another free session the following weekend. Now Flame stood in her caravan, oblivious to the lingering aroma of her newly baked cake, replaying Anita’s scorn just now in Ross’s kitchen, and then her reading of the young woman’s future. First there had been the death card. Anita’s knuckles had gone white and she’d pushed her fist against her own mouth. “It’s not what you think it is,” Flame said, to reassure her. “But it is; it is! How did you know? I don’t even believe in fortune tellers! I’m just filling in time.” “Yes,” said Flame. People often made excuses, though they were always keen to listen. What was important was to explain the death card. “There’s been a death, but this card is also about new beginnings.” “You knew. You knew about my mother.” “Your mother?” How could she have guessed that the young woman still so upset at her mother’s

ing had been Margaux’s daughter? And when she’d spoken of her indifferent father, nothing she’d said matched her own experience of Ross, of all people. When Anita described a father who ignored her, whom she blamed for taking away her mother and allowing her to die, Flame had sympathized and encouraged Anita to talk. Most of her customers only wanted the opportunity to talk—without judgment and to a stranger—about the things that disturbed them. When Anita had described her brilliant older sister who was so at ease in every situation and excelled in every challenge, her jealousy had been palpable. Flame had had to repeat her suggestion that all older siblings seemed more accomplished, simply because they were older, less clumsy and more experienced than the younger ones. Anita’s eyes had flashed with annoyance, mentioning a wonderful overseas scholarship, but even then Flame had not made the connection with Ross’s eldest daughter, Bethany. The only time Anita hadn’t bristled with discomfort and sadness was when Flame had asked her about what had made her happy in her past. “Swimming,” Anita had shot back at her, eyes shining. “Oh, in the water I could always beat my sister, even though she was older. She was still in the tadpoles’ group when I was brought into the dolphins, and finally the sharks. She tended to sink, but I was a fish. She didn’t really care, but Dad called me his ‘silver girl’ after I came second in a whole series of races. He noticed me then, alright. I trained even harder after that, always trying to make him proud. I swam away my dawns and mornings, and even trained in the school holidays. What a waste of time!” “What happened? Our past is seldom entirely wasted. The significance of an event may reveal itself in the future.” “No,” Anita shot back. “It was a total waste. By the time I realized I was never going to make it to the State finals, let alone the Olympics, my friends had all moved on. They dropped me and I’ve been on the outer ever since.” “What did you love about swimming?” “In the water, I was confident and happy.” The young woman almost smiled. Her

eyes were far away. “Do you know what it’s like down there? When you breathe, you blow silver bubbles. Water is my element. When I was in the pool, I was a silver seal. With different coaches, I slimmed down my times by learning to adjust even the angle of a finger, or the curve of my shoulders. I loved it. But out of the water, I was an awkward nobody again. Oh, why am I telling you all this?” “Is your father aware you feel this way?” “We don’t talk much. Not about things like that.” “These may be the important things. Have you thought about opening up some conversations?” Her client stared at her fingers, cleaned the edge of a nail with another and sighed. “Would it be too difficult?” said Flame. The woman glared at her and then at the corner of the tent, flapping in the breeze. “Shall we turn over another card?” Flame said. The young woman wasn’t discrediting fortune telling now. She was as immersed in the experience as any of Flame’s more trusting clients. She considered the array of cards, hovered her fingers over first one and then another, before selecting. “The world!” said Flame. “This is an excellent card.” “Why?” The woman had retreated into herself again, sullen and depressed, revealing barely a spark of interest. “This signals a major change coming up in your life. Do you want to tell me about where you’re living, or your work situation?” Anita sighed deeply and her shoulders slumped. She wouldn’t meet Flame’s eyes, instead gazing at the coins across her forehead. The headdress was an excellent way to help people to talk about their inner lives without the intimacy

of eye . Flame nodded slowly as she spoke. “I’m a teacher,” she said, her voice flat. “That’s awesome!” Flame delivered the words slowly, with impact, affirming them. “Are you making fun of me?” The woman drew back. “I have nothing but iration for teachers,” said Flame. “If I hadn’t run away from school I wouldn’t be sitting in a hot tent telling fortunes, that’s for sure. Is there some problem with your work at the moment?” “No. Not really. I keep wondering what I’m doing. But that’s the only other time Dad said he was proud of me.” “Oh?” “When I graduated.” “It doesn’t mean you have to keep doing something you don’t like for the rest of your life.” “Easy for you to say. So why do you keep telling fortunes? Why don’t you go back to school?” “I never knew it was possible, but do you know, a good friend has just suggested the same thing and believe me, I’m actually considering it. Maybe your ‘world’ card is opening up new possibilities for you, too.” The woman glanced at Flame’s face with a flicker of real interest, before she withdrew into herself. She studied her watch. “Is that the time! I have to run!” “This session is my gift to you. No charge. How long are you here? Come back next week. It will be free, too.” “Why?” She was suspicious. Had there been so little generosity in this woman’s life that she had to be on edge all the time? “Why not?” Flame said, palms up, fingers relaxed. “There is abundance in this

beautiful world. Let us open ourselves up to all it offers.” If the woman looked down on her with disdain as she rose, noting the spangled but crooked tablecloth on the simple card table with its damaged leg, Flame didn’t mind. She was proud of the value she offered to those who visited her. She might never have graduated, but her services were confidential, the school of life had taught her a thing or two, and she knew she listened well and offered fresh perspectives. Sometimes it was all a client needed to get their life back on track. Now, back in her caravan, still cradling the pieces of the jug in her hands, Flame lifted her chin. She’d run into clients in real life—outside the secrecies of her tent—more than once and knew she would keep her lips sealed. What Anita chose to do about their meeting was up to her. She placed the broken jug on her table, reached for her pot of glue and sticks of chalk and, using an old matchstick, began to create the right mixture. A friend at the second hand stall at the Wollongong markets had taught her how to mix grated chalk into the glue to create the perfect color. It was fiddly but rewarding work for anyone who couldn’t afford new or didn’t believe in wasting resources.

Chapter 15

After their afternoon tea, Ross persuaded Anita to visit the orchard and help select locations for the new plants. He traced out the path of the sun in all the seasons and read out the instructions on the back of each label. Maybe imagining the trees fully grown would help Anita understand the age of time, and help to give her perspective on whatever difficulties were making her so disagreeable.She declined to touch the dirt, but agreed to water them in “just this once.” Ross ran his dirt-stained fingers under the run of water, and inhaled the fragrance of the moist earth. “I can’t explain how much satisfaction this gives me, Anita, to plant something new here.” “You’re finally turning into a greenie.” “Would that be such a bad thing?” “Stacey could sell this place for you. She has lots of Sydney buyers dreaming of their tree change. There’s a lot of interest in the north coast.” “For good reason, Anita.” She ignored his logic. “They’re all asking after you in Sydney—the Snellermans, the Thompsons, all your old tennis friends, the neighbors. They’re worried about you.” Well might the Snellermans be asking after him. Margaux had had a fling with Reg Snellerman in the ‘90s. Ross would love nothing more than to forget the Snellermans. “It didn’t mean anything,” Margaux had insisted, begging his forgiveness. With Stacey and Anita best friends at their private school, they’d all agreed to ignore

it. It had been all he could do not to walk out and take Anita and Bethany with him. But for his job, the mortgage and the fact the girls seemed so happy at their expensive school, he might have met Flame sooner, out there on the road for singles. Would he ever tell Anita? Not when she was like this, self-righteous and manipulative. He saw right through her, deep into her selfish heart. He’d known her all her life in all her moods, yet he still loved her. He truly did. But he didn’t deserve this. Why did she insist she knew better? She was babying him. She’d stepped right into Margaux’s shoes, bossing him around. He rinsed the spade under the stream of water and glanced at Flame’s caravan. Her blinds were down. She must have headed out. He seized the opportunity to ask Anita to take the spade back to the House of Spades. A few moments later, Anita came rushing back to the house. “How can you even trust this Flame woman, Dad? There’s this strange white powder all over the place.” “Are you snooping, Anita?” “I’d never snoop. To hang the spade back up, you can’t help but notice the caravan, right up against the wall like that. It’s all over the treads of her stairs.” Anita held out her fingers, showing the tiny white grains. “Why don’t we just ask her about it?” “Dad, she might shoot you.” “Anita, this is Australia. You watch far too much crime.” He’d never actually seen cocaine, only on cop shows. What did you even do with cocaine? Sniff it through a rolled up $100 bill? Rub it on your gums? “I’ll go and have a look, if it will ease your mind.” At the caravan, he bent, leaned in to observe the specks more closely,

uncomfortable to be nosing around, investigating Flame’s space. Gingerly he reached a finger down and touched the white powder. A few grains stuck to his fingertip. He brought it closer to his nose. What if he sniffed and got high, or ed out? Would Flame find him here in her space? What if it caused him to let down his inhibitions? What if it fed on his curiosity and coaxed him to go inside the caravan and find more of the white stuff? What if he was still affected by it when Flame returned home? He might say or do anything in front of her and not even realize or what he did. Maybe he’d her things he’d later regret, like how he’d grown accustomed to having her nearby, or would invite her inside with him one cold night, to enjoy his warm fire once more. He should do that anyway; cook a proper dinner this evening and invite her in, like neighbors sometimes did. The place was unpleasant with Anita’s frowns and attitudes and bossiness. But the white powder... What if there was a delayed reaction? If he was still high hours later, and not even realize, he might even reach out to Flame and not be able to stop himself from touching her. How he longed to just feel the softness of her extraordinary hair, even with the backs of his fingers; or to run one hand down the shape of her shoulder. He hadn’t touched anyone in so long. He sighed. A truck rumbled past on the road and he laughed at himself. His imagination ran riot without drugs anyway. What was he doing standing here, staring at his finger? Was he a grown man or what? He might as well get on with it. He sniffed the substance. It smelled of finger. Nothing too exciting about that. He touched it to his tongue. It was full of flavor. Tasted like ... salt. Was cocaine salty?

Or was this, simply, salt. He waited for some reaction, a numbing of his tongue, a buzzing in the back of his brain—something to tell him he might be starting to trip out, or whatever it was one did on cocaine. Nothing. What if it was just salt? Though why there’d be so much salt on Flame’s stairs he had no idea. He went and checked the spades. He took down the grubby one, hosed it off and hung it again. As it dripped, darkening the concrete floor beneath it, he stared at the stairs and checked his state of mind again. Totally normal. He squared his shoulders and headed back towards the house, determined to check the deep freeze and dream up a dinner worthy of company. He was managing just fine, whatever Anita tried to argue. Entertaining a neighbor was healthy. If he could get his computer working again, he’d find out what cocaine tasted like. Or maybe he’d phone Bethany and ask. She’d probably know that kind of thing. What time was it in England? “Dad? What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong, Bethany.” “Sorry, it’s just... the last time you rang me was when Mum was dying. How are you? What’s up? You still at the farm? Anita thinks you should sell.” “I’m well. Thank you. Yes, Anita’s here just now actually. I suppose you two swap notes on me.” “You should be grateful we care about you, Dad. You do realize if you spend too much time with that woman on your land you’re in danger of her declaring you’re in a de facto relationship? She could claim half of everything you own.” “‘That woman...?’” “Flame.” “You and Anita have clearly been talking.”

“We text each other from time to time,” said Bethany. “We only want what’s best for you.” Ross sighed. “And how are you, Bethany? How’s your research?” “Oh. Making progress now. Thanks for asking.” “What’s it about again? International relations? Legal something or other?” “It’s a serious subject, Dad. If you’re not interested we don’t have to do this.” “I am, I am. I’m very proud of you, Bethany.” “Thank you. Actually I have to go soon. I’m in Wales. At a conference. Why did you ring?” “Wales! Lovely. Look, Bethany, I’d actually like to know whether you know if cocaine tastes like salt.” “It’s quite pretty. Wales, that is. Maybe you should have come across after all.” Bethany sounded sad. The conference. He and Margaux had been planning to visit her and go on a driving trip around the UK. He’d cancelled all of that. At the time, he couldn’t face the thought of travelling without her. “I’d love to come and visit you, Bethany. I just needed a bit of time.” “Well, come then! Look, I’ve never actually tried cocaine and I don’t intend to. Some lawyers do, but I don’t want to risk getting struck off, and I prefer to keep my mind clear as a bell. Why are you asking? I really do have to go now. I’ve got thirty seconds.” “Anita’s worried my neighbor's a drug dealer. Love you.” “What?” said Bethany. “Sorry I have to go now. I’ll find out and get back to you. Love you, too.” “Thanks. Enjoy the conference.”

Anita had come into the room. She stared at him, as if plucking up courage to say something. “What is it, Anita?” “You never tell me you love me, Dad.” “Of course I love you.” “That’s not what I said. You and Bethany always get on so well.” Ross smiled sadly. His voice was gentle. “That’s probably because she doesn’t nag me to come back to Sydney every time we talk.” Anita stayed quiet, considering his words. “You’re not coming back, are you?” “No. Not for good, anyway. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Ross placed the phone back in the holder and strode to Anita. “Need a hug?” he said. She nodded, tears forming, and he held out his arms to her, beckoning her closer. “I still miss Mum,” she said, stepping into his embrace. “So do I, Anita. She was a beautiful person. She wasn’t perfect. Nobody is. But I loved her and of course you girls did, too. It’s hard sometimes. None of us wanted her to leave us so soon.” Anita nodded against his chest, and he cupped her head with one hand. Had he shown her enough attention over the years? He really did love her, this difficult child, the one who’d grown into a prickly adult. He’d just never worked out how to please her; how to make her happy. She pushed herself away and slapped at her eyes with the back of her hands. “And now I’m going to cook some dinner for us, Anita,” Ross said. “Bethany said she has no idea what cocaine tastes like. Why don’t we just ask Flame about the mysterious white powder when she brings back the jug?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve just ed you need salt when you dye things. We did some tie dyeing with Year 6 last year. It’s probably just salt.” Ross gave her a warm smile. It was the closest she’d come to backing down on something her whole life. The deep freeze looked like a cocaine mine, frost everywhere. Ross dug out a wad of meat and thunked it down on the metal sink to defrost. With frozen peas and a couple of potatoes, it would be a feast. He was managing this. So much for all of Anita’s tut tutting about the way he lived, about how he should come back to Wahroonga’s shops and restaurants. After the meal they retreated to the lounge room, where Anita began opening boxes and Ross sat in his chair, flipping through a book. “If you’re really staying, maybe we should unpack some more, Dad. Mind if I keep going?” “Go for it.” “Are you listening to me?” “Of course.” “But you’ve got your head in a book.” “I’m learning about this land, Anita. There were huge forests here; thousands of species of plants, all living together in harmony, their roots interwoven, their canopies protecting the seedlings.” “Competing with each other, more like. Definitely turning into a greenie, Dad.” “Maybe I always was one. Maybe we’re all born greenies, and we forget. After all, we rely on the planet to survive.” “Is that why you’re suddenly interested in planting an orchard?” “Your mother and I were both interested in the land, in moving out of the city. She had a more old-fashioned view of the orchard, maybe. She wanted to

preserve fruits like her grandmother had done, in the days before refrigeration. You might find a couple of the old jars in there as you unpack. My interest is deeper. Permaculture is still about humans, about providing food for us. I want to restore the forests, bring back the real bush, recreate wilderness, for the sake of creatures other than humans. Do you ever worry about the planet, Anita?” “Of course I do, Dad. We teach the children about how much damage plastic does to birds and the ocean, about all the extinctions, about recycling. It’s depressing. Every year there’s more and more on the syllabus. I’m tired of it all. Where do you want the Spode, Dad? I’ve just found the soup tureen and the big baking dish. Mum loved these.” Anita ran her hands over the soup tureen as if it was the Holy Grail. “You love that set, Anita. Why don’t you have it all?” “Do you mean it, Dad?” “You’re welcome to anything you want, you and Bethany, as long as you agree on it. I can’t bring your mother back. The least I can do is share her precious things with you—the things that make you happy. I’m certainly not going to need Margaux’s clothes. Take them. Maybe you can sort them while you’re here this time. Check with Bethany. It’s time.” “But how will I get all this stuff back to Sydney? There’s a luggage limit, you know.” “Why don’t I drive it down for you? It’s time I went south and finalized arrangements.” “You’ve changed, Dad.” “I had to change, Anita. It’s not necessarily something to fear.”

Chapter 16

Flame stayed away until she knew Anita had been gone a few days. If she’d noticed Ross tow some large fallen branches back to the farmhouse with the tractor, strip off his shirt and chop some wood like a boss, she didn’t it it to herself; not even when she heard the ring of the axe on the chopping block later in the week, and found herself staring out her window again at his tall frame, his broad back soaking up some sunshine as he worked. Not bad for a city boy.As sunlight streamed in her caravan window, she turned the repaired crockery in her hands. The cracks were almost invisible. She wrapped the jug carefully in a silk tie-dyed sarong of blue and white and brought it across to the farmhouse later that afternoon. At least it would be there the next time Anita visited, when she’d calmed down about the fortune telling. That she hadn’t turned up again at her market stall to learn about the rest of her future had been no great surprise. Ross greeted her with a warm smile. She loved the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. Wood chopping was doing him good, or maybe it was the time he was spending outdoors, slashing great growths of lantana with the tractor. He’d lost his earlier pallor. “Anita will love this,” he said, holding her gift between them, acknowledging her effort. “Thank you so much for fixing it. Do you know about that Japanese tradition of repairing broken bowls with gold? Kintsugi. Those bowls become far more precious than the originals. Would you like to come in?” “I won’t, thank you,” Flame said, disappointment suddenly bitter in her mouth. What was wrong with her? He wasn’t suggesting she should have repaired the jug with gold; merely conversing. Part of her would definitely like to spend more time with Ross. “How’s the orchard?” she asked. She’d seen him out there, planting more trees; wondered if she should be offering to water the plants, or to weed, instead of bringing more kindling, now the weather was warming up. “Come and see,” he said, and he placed the soft parcel carefully on the table. As he grabbed his hat and sprang out the door, he almost seized her hand and pulled

her forwards in his enthusiasm. She had to fiddle with her own hat to avoid his touch. His proximity was disturbing. Just friends, she counseled herself. Not doing anything to rock this boat. Her savings were just shy of what she needed to take them south to Stella. She’d planned to buy her ticket to Sydney on Monday and leave as soon as possible. “This was the first tree; already here,” Ross said, pointing at a craggy old bush lemon. “Who knows how old this one is. Margaux loved it. She made lemon meringue pie with it the first week we arrived.” Flame stared up at the tree, bedecked with odd, bumpy lemons. She stayed quiet. Maybe Ross would like to say more about Margaux, but he seemed at peace with the memory. “I make a mean lemon tart myself,” she said. “Want one?” “Would a widower ever turn down the offer of dessert?” She laughed, glad he was pleased, and vowed to pick some lemons before they left the orchard. Right now, though, she wanted to watch him introduce each plant. She loved his enthusiasm. As he talked, his hands conjured the fully grown trees from the afternoon light, his palms holding harvests to come, in seven years, or maybe sooner. This Ross was different to the ghost of a hermit who had towed her caravan up the hill months ago. This Ross was a magnet. She bit her lip to stop herself smiling too widely, and when Treenie Lewis sprang to mind, she was instantly annoyed with herself. It wasn’t as if she wanted Ross Archer for herself. Or did she? She squatted down and began to pinch tiny weeds out from around the base of the plum when Ross’s large hand landed on her own. She froze; staring at his long arm against hers, fully aware of his proximity, so close her skin buzzed. “Stop.” His voice was deep, quiet. “That’s a ...” As he gently plied her fingers away from a tiny seedling, it was there again—the hum at his touch. If she wasn’t careful, she’d lock her fingers with his. She twisted away and stood, brushing grass from her knees.

“I think that one’s a red ironbark, a little mugga,” he said. “Eucalyptus sideroxylon rosea. That would be amazing. The seedbank’s still here, under the grass. The bush can renew itself, if only we let it. I’ll come back with a spade and move it down to the section I’ve been slashing. There’s enough mulch there now for it to do well.” She crouched again beside him, to study the leaves, their knees almost touching. Wind swept through the long grass. From far away came the call of a whipbird. Ross’s focus was intoxicating as he spoke of the valley as it once had been, with its towering red cedars and eucalypts and dense canopy, new growth from seeds dropped by birds and flying foxes, or dispersed by ants on the forest floor. She could visualize the forest renewing itself in the rich earth of rotting fallen limbs and leaves. “I’m so sorry, Ross. I nearly killed it.” Flame stared at the tiny plant. Suddenly he stood and slapped a hand on his thigh. “But I’m wrong, Flame. It’s a common Farmer’s Friend, and we don’t want any more of those, present company excepted.” He laughed at his own joke as he stood, and she squatted again and quickly pulled out more of them. When Ross stooped again and took them from her hand, her fingers buzzed once more with his touch. He scattered them over the cleared earth at the base of the tiny tree. “We use these as a kind of a mulch, to keep the moisture in,” he said. “So you’re saying I’m a common Farmer’s Friend?” she said. He laughed. “Is it the farmer who’s common, or the friend?” she asked. “Touché.” It was good to laugh with a friend in the spring sunshine. “How large do you expect the orchard to be?” said Flame.

“There’s not enough water for a commercial establishment, even with all the rain we have here. I could plumb up the grey water, but it would be a long pipe. I haven’t decided.” “I’d offer to water them for you, Ross, but I have to go to Sydney for a week or so.” “So do I,” said Ross, his eyes lighting up. “Anita marked up some boxes of Margaux’s things she wants to keep. Want to me? Let’s share the ride.” “I was going to catch the coach...” “I’d enjoy your company, Flame. Why not? It’s a long way. You’ll keep me from falling asleep.” “I’d love that, Ross, but the timing might not suit you. It has to be this week. I’ve already arranged to be away.” “Fine with me.” Excitement leaped in her heart. It would be a wonderful way to travel south, in Ross’s company. “Mind if I take a few lemons for your tart?” “Be my guest.” He was so much taller, he could reach plenty without climbing, and he threw them across to her till her arms were so full. When he tossed another, she dropped them all. She was glad to stoop and hide her face. Playful Ross was a joy. Two could play this game. She threw them back at him, one by one. He rapidly stashed a few in his pocket. “Cricketer’s trick,” he said. “Trick, alright. That’s cheating!” She tried to look stern, but they both ended up laughing. Suddenly, Flame grabbed a lower branch and pulled herself up, up and up to the higher branches, grabbing more ripe lemons and pelting them down on her

landlord, until he fell over backwards trying to catch a poor throw. She laughed so much; she missed her footing and came down hard, ripping her shirt on some thorns on the way and landing with a thump that winded her. There was Ross beside her in an instant, down on his knees. He touched the back of his fingers to her cheek and grabbed her wrist with his other hand, feeling for her pulse. It was enough to make her swoon. For a second she considered faking it, just to extend the moment. How long since anyone had shown such concern for her wellbeing? From here, she could reach up and grab his shoulders just to keep him there. Would she pull him closer? “You okay, Flame?” She nodded; hand on her chest, still catching her breath. “Winded,” she gasped. “I’m okay.” “You sure?” He stayed there above her, eyes on her forehead, her cheeks, her throat, her open collar, her buttons, the very shape of her, as she flushed. Was he thinking what she was thinking? She caught his eyes, suddenly serious. Oh no. She wasn’t going there. Hadn’t she made a vow to herself? As she sat up, he leaned away, and then offered both his hands to help her stand. She took one of his hands to steady herself but dropped it again. To avoid being burned, stay away from fire... She brushed herself down and began to collect the fallen lemons. She tore her eyes away from him, so lean and attentive in his jeans and shirt, as the spring breeze murmured through the trees and her hair. Surely she’d learned something by now, with or without a degree, about herself, and certainly about men—even if there was far, far more she wanted to learn about this particular one. .

Chapter 17

They left at dawn the next morning. As they travelled south, they chatted easily about the scenery, the upgrades to the roads, and the changes in property prices. Several hours later, when they stopped for coffee at Nambucca Heads, Flame suggested they take a walk along the foreshore. They sipped their takeaways as the soldier crabs scurried among the mangrove roots. Ross pointed out schools of fish that caught the light as they turned together, their silvery flanks shining in the sunlight. Ross was easy company. They could be silent together, or they could talk. When Flame noticed a cormorant drying its wings on a rock, she nudged Ross in the ribs and nodded, and he stopped and watched. Later, they saw teenagers drifting along on a blow up banana and a hot pink flamingo. “Bring back memories?” he said. “We used inner tubes. The black rubber was deliciously hot in the sun.” It was her turn to smile and nod. Their next stop was for fish and chips at Laurieton. Flame laughed when the seagulls descended, seeking a feed, and Ross lobbed a fat chip at a bird on the outside of the group with an injured foot. “Softie,” she said. “Why not?” “I like you, Ross Archer,” she said. “You’re a good man.” Ross unlocked the car and they belted up again. “Ask Anita her opinion of me and you’ll get a different story,” he said. He turned on the ignition and steered back towards the highway. Flame remained silent. If Ross was about to discuss Anita, she couldn’t let

herself be drawn on their time in her fortune telling tent. It was confidential. Let Anita raise it with him if she wished. Instead, Flame found herself telling Ross about her troubles with her own daughter, the debt, and her plan to make it right. “I can’t even be sure Stella will accept the cash, Ross. But I need to hand it over and do the right thing by her. I’m ashamed now about accepting so much money from her over the years, though she never said she begrudged it.” “Do we ever finish raising them?” he said. “When they’re small, they look up to you. To them, you understand everything. Then suddenly you can’t do anything right. Anita is not exactly a man hater, but there’s this thing—I’m sure you’ve heard of it—’straight white males.’ We’re guilty before we even open our mouths or move a finger. We’re accused of having all the power and never sharing it, of ogling every woman who walks past. There’s prejudice everywhere and maybe it’s our turn to taste some of it. But it hasn’t helped my relationship with my girls, that’s for sure, and with Anita, well, I sometimes wonder if it’s holding her back.” “Holding her back?” “From having her own relationships. She’s very quick to criticize. I’m glad my girls have high standards, and I hope they retain them, but I worry they’ll never know the joy that comes from loving another, faults and all. Am I rambling?” “You’re making perfect sense to me, Ross.” Flame touched her hand briefly on his thigh as he drove, but removed it. She didn’t want him getting any ideas. She’d merely meant to show she understood, as a good friend. Suddenly, she clutched his thigh, hard. “What’s wrong?” he said, braking hard. She craned her head around, grabbing the edge of the window. “This is it,” she said. “I think this is where my parents died. Down there.” Ross put on his indicator, pulled to the side of the road, stopped the engine and gave her his full attention.

“Did I tell you about their car crash? Could we stop here for a little while, please, Ross? With you here, I’ll finally do this—to say my goodbyes.” She could barely speak. Her voice had shrunk to a whisper. “I don’t care when we get to Sydney,” Ross said. “The Spode’s not going to go off. This is important.” “Do you really not mind?” He shook his head. “One of the things I’m doing in Sydney is visiting Margaux’s ashes,” he said. “I’m ready to make peace with the past—all of it.” Did Ross have secrets, Flame wondered, her heart still pumping at the shock of recognizing the place her parents had crashed and died. Of course Ross must have secrets. Everyone did. “I’ve come past here so often in the coach,” she said. “It always makes my heart jump. But I’ve never been able to stop. Never walked it. I’m not sure exactly where it happened, but I heard it was on the approach to the old bridge. It was all cleared up, long before I even knew, but I’ve often wondered.” Flame undid her seat belt. She didn’t add that she tried to drive here once herself, that time the police pulled her up, that nightmare of a time—and everything that followed—that darkness she never wanted to revisit. She breathed deeply, stared at the day, basked in the warmth of the sun as it shone into the car onto her lap. Ross’s presence was reassuring. It was alright. Time had ed, and now, finally, she would make peace with the loss of her parents before she’d even had a chance to thank them for all the good times. “Do you think there’s something different about the place our loved ones die?” she said. “There could be,” Ross said. He nodded, considering her words. “Especially if you want there to be.” She held his gaze. The engine ticked as it cooled, and Ross wound down his window. It was just a normal stretch of highway, but below it was the old road

and an old bridge. “I’ll drive down a bit closer if you like, find a shady spot and wait for you. Want me to come with you?” She shook her head. “You’re so kind, Ross, but I need to do this by myself.” She opened the car door and headed out, alone. Flame stepped over the safety rail as Ross went on ahead. In the distance she saw him pull to the left down a siding, drive across the old road and stop the car in a patch of shade. She scrambled down the embankment, where bits of old litter rotted in the scraggy undergrowth. The highway was a blur when you sped down it at 100 miles an hour, but here, on foot, there were tiny details—rubble, ants, weeds. From the old road, the newer stretch of highway snaked out into the distance; a silver ribbon where the trucks were dwarfed to the size of insects by the vast space between their destinations. Her feet crunched in the gravel at the edge of the road as she approached the bridge. Her childhood neighbors had told her some of the details. Her parents had died instantly, they’d said. Was that ever true? It was a comfort of a kind. It must have been on this side of the road they’d taken their last breaths, travelling north. Had they been speaking of her, their wayward daughter, or dreaming of cuddling toddler Jeannie again, and seeing how much baby Stella had grown? The loss struck her again; the infinite void, the unbreachable distance between the loving parents of her childhood, and their absence. She’d taken them for granted, hurt them and lost them, with no chance to say goodbye. Thank goodness she was making this trip to Sydney to see Stella and Jeannie. She couldn’t let her selfishness stand in the way of a better relationship with them.

Flame reached the bridge and stopped. Was that a dent in the old safety rail? She reached out and touched the metal, hot in the sun. The air coming off it shimmered, distorting the farmland behind. The metal burned her fingers as hot tears scalded her eyes and salted the back of her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, falling to her knees in the gravel. “I love you; Mum, Dad. I’m sorry I left you and let you down.” She rested one arm against the hot rail and buried her head in it, letting the sobs come, deep and hard. “I never meant to hurt you. Did I kill you? I hope I didn’t kill you.” Sharp stones pressed into her knees. There was no answer in the landscape; nor in the dark pink sockets of her eyelids, pressed up hard against her arm. Silence, but for the cry of a crow and the swish of the tires of the cars of strangers along the highway above, intent on their own journeys. “I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good to my girls. I’m going back now to pay back Stella. You’d be so proud of her, and of Jeannie. They look after each other. I brought them up right. Stella’s staying with Jeannie, and you should see the little ones. Matt’s a good father to them; Lucy and Sienna. They’d be your great grandchildren!” She lifted her head. The ache in her chest was easing. Had she finished? “Thank you for all you did for me—for my safe home, for my bedroom, for school; for all the ironing, my school lunches, for my bicycle. I used it for years, you know. I’m sorry I took it all for granted. Until I saw for myself how hard it was to keep everything together. You and Mum weren’t always happy, Dad, but you were good to each other. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I’m trying to do better, to live better. “I’m sorry you died so young. Life is beautiful. Thank you for giving me life.” She wept again. She knew they’d only married because her mother became pregnant. Teen parents themselves, they’d done their best for her. She hadn’t made it easy for them, with her impetuous ways, storming out on a whim, chasing Sven when she should have known better, then taking her girls away. She’d found her parents’ way of life stultifying, but she’d been inconsiderate, short sighted and completely selfish. She knew that now.

“Can you ever forgive me?” She raised her eyes to the sky, where puffy white clouds drifted. It seemed peaceful up there and the pain in her chest dropped another notch. “Do you ‘rest in peace’?” She pictured her father, not as she’d last seen him, worried at her decision to leave again, but on a Sunday as he surveyed his tidied lawn; tired, content, resting in the shade with a cold beer. “Mum? I did my best, too. I’m doing my best.” Her mother’s face in all the seasons hovered there for her. She’d still been young when the car smash had obliterated her future, much younger than Stella was now. The horror of it haunted Flame, and she gripped the railing hard as she stood, shoulders stooped. Was it hopeless? A black and white bird sped past and landed on the rail, observing her with its beady eye. “Mum?” How ridiculous. Could a bird become a person? Maybe reincarnation was a thing. Unlikely. “Mummy?” The bird stayed. It turned 180 degrees and peered at her again, then flicked its tail, as if to say, “shoulders back; chin up; get on with it”—all her mother’s words. Flame almost laughed at the coincidence, her chest lighter. As the bird took to the air, flapping its shiny wings up into the sky, the sorrow in her chest seeped away and a deep peace drifted into her bones. She placed her hand against her stomach to hold it there, this new serenity, to treasure this moment, commit it to memory. “Bon voyage,” she said to the bird as it dipped and flew out of sight. How long had she lingered? What must Ross think of her? She was being selfish again—oh, but what a gift he’d given her; allowing her this time to make peace with her guilt.

She sprang up the road with a new joy, eager to be with him again. ... “Oh, Ross. Have you ever done that? You can’t imagine what that’s done for me. So worthwhile! There was a bird ...” Flame looked even younger, all her features glowing. Ross ed the moment he’d almost kissed her at the trivia night and gripped the wheel tighter. He mustn’t take advantage of her. She pretended to be tough, but there was more to Flame than met the eye. He was learning that, and wanted to learn so much more about her. Would he, too, be able to make peace with Margaux, and with Anita? He smiled at her as she clicked her seat belt back on and met his eye. “Thank you.” “It takes a loss to make you realize,” he said. “I took Margaux for granted.” “Were you waiting long for me?” “It’s fine, Flame. We’ll stop again if you like. I wouldn’t mind visiting a few places myself along the way. Do you mind?” “Don’t be silly! As if I’d mind! You’re the driver. I’m just the enger.” “Would you like to drive?” “I will if you’re tired. I still have my license. I’m not making that mistake again.” “What’s that?” “Oh, that’s another whole story.” “We’ve got time.” “Tell me where you want to stop next, Ross, and why.” Was Flame distracting him, or was she just being polite?

“Old Bar,” he said. “We had a disastrous camping holiday there, the three of us. It rained for five nights. The sun came out on our final morning.” “Great. I’ll shout you an ice cream when we get there.” “Deal.” It was hot by the time they reached Old Bar, renowned for its beach, fine surfing and fishing in the estuary. Ross found some shade under a Norfolk Island pine tree. Flame grabbed her hat, sarong and purse and they strolled together to the caravan park kiosk. “You find all the best places,” Ross said, when Flame handed him an ice cream and found them a bench. “I paired up with a surfer, Ross. I know this coast like the back of Sven’s surfboard. I breastfed Jeannie on just about every bench on the NSW coast before Sven shot through. The girls and I found a few other places north, south and west. I did consider going east to New Zealand when I took up with a Kiwi. Nice bloke, but the whole port thing was impossible.” Ross nodded. Some itinerants didn’t even have birth certificates and bank s. The black economy was a perpetual puzzle for the NSW government, maybe for every society in the world. He’d had a glimpse of it when he’d worked in Treasury for a while. They weren’t all criminals. They were just disconnected. It posed problems for their education and health care as well, often perpetuated through generations, but it sounded like Flame’s children had broken the pattern. “Tell me about Jeannie,” he said, as they made their way back to the car. “Only if you tell me more about Bethany.” “Deal.” So, as they watched the waves and unwrapped their ice-creams, Ross heard about Jeannie, bright and kind, who loved her baby sister Stella and loved school; and he heard how hard Flame had at worked whatever jobs she could find, as well as the markets, to keep her girls in school. Her own life was tough because of her poor decisions, and she wanted the girls to avoid her mistake of

not finishing school. “The hardest part came when we were in Perth, though,” said Flame, taking their wrappers to a nearby garbage bin. “I was so excited when Jeannie did well in her leaving exam, and so keen that she go ahead and claim the university place she’d won, I ignored Stella’s own needs. I can’t believe I left her in Perth while she was still in school, Ross. I assumed she’d come with us, and finish her schooling in Sydney. We’d always moved together.” She went quiet, licking the ice cream as it started to drip. “We did move a lot—a lot more than most families, and it wasn’t all bad. They saw a lot of this country, I can tell you, and I kept my girls safe. I made sure they went to school every day. But Stella got sick of moving, or so she said. At seventeen, when I went east with Jeannie to Sydney, and she refused to us, and dug her heels in, in Perth. It was hard. If I hadn’t gone with Jeannie to Sydney, she might have stayed in Perth, too, and missed out on that university place. I was determined she seize that chance, Ross, and she’s done so well...” Ross was silent, enjoying the ice cream, glad to learn more of Flame’s life. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. “But Stella,” Flame said. “She’s stubborn like I am. Staying behind like that, she ended up leaving school and getting a job to herself. I’m proud of her, but the last time I saw Stella, at Jeannie’s wedding, she’d become hard and bitter, Ross, not like the quick, creative girl I raised. I worried there was a man, a poor choice, but she wouldn’t tell me.” “But she’s in Sydney now?” “Jeannie’s told me a few details. Only a couple of months ago, apparently, Stella gave up her Perth job and moved to Sydney, and she’s finally doing what she was born to do. She’s an incredible jewelry designer. She’s set up her own stall, and Jeannie says she’s doing well. Even so, making and selling your own things —it’s not easy, believe me.” “I believe you, Flame.” Again he wondered how she’d managed it, her hand-tomouth existence. He’d loved his regular wage; could never have kept Margaux

happy without it, and it had given him the freedom to buy the house and then the farm. How hard it must be to never know how much money would be coming in. Flame finished her ice cream and put the stick in the bin. “Hot enough for a swim,” she said, peering up and down the beach. “The water won’t be warm yet.” “Let’s. Just a quick one.” “I didn’t bring costumes.” “Isn’t that what underwear’s for?” She did this to him, Flame. Made him more spontaneous. It was how he’d lived his life in the days before Margaux. He loved it. They raced each other down the sand and plunged in, gasping at the shock of the winter-cold water. Ross stood in the surging brine as his legs became numb. He studied the waves, identified the rip to avoid it, and plunged in. He swam safely, parallel to the beach, and back again. Was Flame a good swimmer? Would he need to rescue her? She was already out of the water when he returned, shaking his head and scooping the droplets off his arms and legs. She’d spread a sarong out for him on the sand, where she sat on her own sarong, wrapped in another, soaking up the warmth of the sun. “That was fabulous,” he said. “Cleansing. But I’m glad the sun’s got some kick. At least the sand’s warm.” He lay on Flame’s sarong as the sun dried him off. The heat seeped down into his bones and lulled him as surely as the hush of the waves on the shore. He must have nodded off. He woke, ed where he was, glanced at Flame and found her smiling at him from under her hat, tracing circles in the sand. “What time is it?” “No idea, but the sun’s starting to drop.”

It was true. The shell pink tinge of a spring sunset was just beginning on the western horizon as he sat up beside her and yawned. When Flame shivered, it was the most natural thing in the world to lay his arm around her shoulders, just to keep both of them warm as they watched the colors deepen. At first she stiffened, and then relaxed. When she let her head rest against his neck, he could smell her shampoo. It was good to have a friend. That’s what he and Flame enjoyed, wasn’t it? Friendship. Every time he thought there might be something more between them, Flame froze him out. She’d punished him for a whole week after the trivia night. He didn’t want to blow it, nor to take advantage of her. If she’d had a string of hopeless lovers in her life, he wanted to be different. Flame was special. She deserved respect. When it grew too cold, they returned to the car, pulled their warm clothes back on over their salty skin, and headed back to the main road. “What are your thoughts, Flame?” he asked. “About what?” “I’m thinking we should head into Taree, find some dinner, and maybe check into a hotel and stay the night. This way, we’ll start fresh in the morning and get to Sydney in daylight.” “Fine with me,” she said. “Let me buy you dinner, Ross. You’ve saved me the bus fare. I’ll pay for the next top up of fuel, too.” “No need.” They enjoyed a meal at a Chinese restaurant, recounting tales of school and travel. Again, conversation flowed easily. The cold white wine was delicious after their hours on the beach and, after the long drive and swim, Ross was more relaxed and content than he could for a long time. Flame was eager to hear all about his plans for reestablishing rainforest on the farm. “So that’s why the tractor’s been out and about,” she said, when he explained how he was slashing the lantana and letting the broken weed sit as mulch on the land. “Over the next month or so as the days become hotter and the soil warms up, it

gets interesting,” he said. “I’ll need to run back over it a few times, but then we should start to see the native plants emerge from the seedbed. The weeds will be back, too, of course, and there’ll be a bit of work to pull them out by hand.” “I’d be glad to help,” said Flame. “It’s the least I can do; ‘weed’ for my supper. I can recognize Farmers’ Friends and Lantana, and I’d love to learn more.” “I’m a novice myself, but sure. I’d enjoy your company.” “Well, since I’ve been living right next to your spades and shovels, I’ll be glad to put them to good use.” Flame was a great conversationalist, quick to laugh and challenge him. He liked that about her. He liked everything about her. After their meal, they found a simple motel. “I’ll sleep in the single if you’re happy to share a room, Ross,” Flame said. “Let’s not waste money on two rooms.” “Really?” Maybe it was sensible. It wasn’t as if he was going to try anything with her. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, hadn’t she? Anything companionable, she’d accept. Beyond that, she’d laugh at him or push him away. This was what friends did. They shared costs. Ross returned from the reception with a small carton of milk and the key. It wasn’t a swanky place. It hadn’t been done up for years, but it was clean and quiet, a few streets away from the noisy highway. Margaux’s expensive taste had been unyielding. Flame’s satisfaction in the simple room was a delight. It lit him with pleasure, transforming the evening into something exciting; a shared adventure. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he said, as Flame flung her backpack on the single bed. “What, do you think I’ll snore?” “It’s my snoring that’ll keep you awake,” said Ross, though it wasn’t what he was thinking. She was beautiful in the soft light; the bedside lamp accentuating

her curves. The swim and wine made him more relaxed and happy than he’d felt all year. His body ed the delicious warmth of her frame beneath his arm on the beach; how she’d let her head rest against him, and the way her hair had brushed against his bare chest in the slight sea breeze. If he were honest with himself, Flame was becoming more than a friend, but this was no date. Even so, he darted a glance at her. Was there any way she felt the same way about him? He would never take advantage of her. He wasn’t that kind of man. But he was still a man, for sure. He caught Flame staring back at him in the mirror. Could she guess his mood? “You use the bathroom first, Flame.” “You’re such a gentleman, Ross.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She laughed, grabbed a sponge bag and various bits of clothing and sprang into the tiny bathroom, while he phoned Anita to let her know what time he expected to arrive. Anita leaped to her own defense about the state of the garden—“a bit overgrown”—and said the house might still be in a bit of a mess when he arrived, but not to worry. She’d get around to fixing it on the weekend. By the time their conversation finished, Flame’s bedside lamp was off, and her body had created a tiny mountain ridge in the single bed, her shoulder and hip the high points as she faced away from him, her thighs and feet a headland in the sea of bedclothes. She yawned as he found himself staring at her. He could swim in that sea, alright, clamber around her shoreline, scale her cliffs and valleys. “’Night, Ross. Thanks again.” “’Night, Flame.” He shook his head and headed into the shower. Sleep came too slowly for him. Thoughts of Flame tormented him—her laugh, the way her hair caught in the breeze at the beach, the creaminess of her

shoulders, and the shape of her ankles. He tossed and turned and tried a different pillow, but the knowledge she was right beside him in the room was impossible. What did he know about seduction? Should he have brought her a dozen red roses? No. He’d been driving all day. He turned again and punched the pillow. Once, she called out in a dream, and he sat up, wondering if she would come to him and share his bed; but he shook his head, chastising himself. Yes, they’d had a meal together, with some wine, and even enjoyed fortune cookies. But it hadn’t been a date. What had his fortune been? “A good friendship is often more important than a ionate romance.” Really? He hadn’t been seeking ion, nor romance, but a ionate romance with Flame? That would be something. She’d merely grabbed his fingers, to re-read the tiny slip of paper, tossed back her head, and laughed. And Flame’s fortune? She hadn’t shared it. She’d snatched it away before he could read it, then gone to pay the bill. “A ionate romance.” He pushed the new pillow away and doubled the old one. The little refrigerator clicked on, humming too loudly. Dawn was glowing at the edges of the motel curtains before sleep claimed him. When he woke, she was up and dressed before him. Had she seen him slumber? Bad idea. Had he been dribbling? What had he been thinking, allowing this arrangement? He’d dreamed of her all night, of wrestling with a many-armed Indian goddess, her red tresses like the snakes of the Gorgon. Flame had invaded his dreams, but not as the chaste neighbor she portrayed. In the cinema of his dreams, he’d wielded a silver sword at Sven, Grady, and any and all of the others who’d scaled her mountain range, wanting her to be his and his alone. He took a breath and stilled his heart. What was his own shape in the bed? He wasn’t ashamed of his desire. He just didn’t want to force it upon her. She was busying herself with the kettle. “You like milk and sugar, don’t you?” she said. “I ordered you bacon and eggs.

I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.” “Perfect,” he said. The knock at the door came a moment later, and as she turned to open it and collect the breakfast tray, he took the opportunity to dash to the bathroom with his clothes. He felt like a teenager again. What was the name of the aftershave the latest heartthrob used? They didn’t even call them heartthrobs anymore. That’s how old he was. He was totally out of practice—out of his depth. He’d been spoiled by his decades with Margaux. He might understand a lot about the world, but at the fine art of seduction, he was a total novice. He stared at the man in the mirror. What kind of a man was Grady, the professional crooner? What kind of man attracted Flame? When he opened the door, she’d pulled up the little table against the end of the double bed, and was tucking into her eggs and bacon; his sat beside hers, untouched. He slipped in beside her on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for this; and for the cup of tea,” he said. The bed bent in the middle. Beside his hip, her thigh was distractingly soft. When he went to cut the bacon, his elbow went sideways, nudging her own. “Hey,” she said, pushing him back. He retaliated, the point of his elbow meeting her ribs, and before he knew it, she’d bounced up on the bed and kneeled behind him, laughing. She pulled his shoulders backwards till his head lay in her lap on the bed, and she covered his face with upside down kisses, until she found his mouth. “I wasn’t going to do this,” she said, breaking away for breath. “It’s the bacon.” It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but he’d listen to anything with her there behind, beside and beneath him, all curves and kisses and cuddles and laughter, as she tumbled and teased and offered herself to him. “It’s okay,” she said. “We don’t have to go any further. It’s only if you want.”

He answered her with another kiss, pulling her down on top of him, losing himself in the moment—in her; rich with the knowledge she wanted him, too.

Chapter 18

Flame hummed softly in the shower. When she returned to the room, towel around her head like a turban, Ross glanced at her, serious and silent. He’d packed his bag, and before they could kiss again, or even exchange a few words, he headed out to pay the bill. Regret stabbed at her. What must he think? That she was cheap? That she slept with everyone? As they drove south in silence, she was full of misgivings. Why had she encouraged him? Because she’d seen him studying her in the mirror; because she knew she had something he craved and he’d been so generous to her; because she was so grateful to him for letting her stop and confront the hardest challenge in her life, her parents’ death; or simply because he’d looked so good coming out of the surf yesterday, free and fresh, the water sluicing off his height and strength as he caught his breath and shook his head so the droplets arced away in the afternoon light? She liked Ross Archer. For all she’d sworn off men, Becca was right. Ross was a catch. He’d made love to her like he cherished her, hungry, but considerate. There was a sensitivity to him. She liked him more and more. Back on the highway, she stole a glance at his profile. All his focus was on the road. The traffic thickened as they approached the big city. The trouble was, making love to Ross Archer didn’t bring her satisfaction. It only made her want him more, but her glances met this stony silence. He’d retreated from her. Did he regret their morning together in the bed? Ross was so much wealthier than she was, and so much better educated. If Ross were to marry again, surely he’d choose someone like Margaux, someone refined, a teacher like Anita, or a lawyer like Bethany, or yes, even Treenie. She didn’t want to feel so small and bitter. She’d felt this way before; totally trapped in negativity, a downward spiral if ever there was one.

Suddenly she drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as she’d seen her friend Lola do. Lola ran yoga sessions from time to time. She must book herself in for some more on her return. No good came from dwelling on misery. The car purred as they travelled south. How smoothly the miles disappeared in Ross’s new car, with its cruisy suspension; completely different to her old clapped out sedans which limped from breakdown to breakdown. As the miles wore on and the highway gained more lanes and became busier than ever, and Ross remained silent, Flame sank deeper into her thoughts. She’d blown it again, throwing herself at him with no thought for the future. Was it the wine? She’d been fine till then. After half a glass, she’d noticed something different about him across the table. She’d become more than fond of his serious face. It shifted like a landscape when the sun came out, making her catch her breath. Ross was handsome. Even better, he was kind, and he clearly wanted her—had done so since the trivia night, yet had held himself in check. irable. A good man. But now? It might have been midnight in the crags of his face, for all he was sharing his thoughts with her. Blank, shut up and private. Spectators unwelcome. Hermit. Well, she was self-sufficient, wasn’t she? Why should she be surprised? She, too, could withdraw. “Do you need a lift to your daughter’s place?” he said, as they reached the outskirts of the city. “No need, thank you,” she said. “It would be hours out of your way, coming in at rush hour like this. Please just drop me at a train station.” “Are you sure?” Why was his offer so kind, but his tone so cold? “I’m a big girl,” she snapped, instantly regretting her choice of words. Well, if she’d blown it, it hardly mattered what she said, or how. “I want ...” “I didn’t ...”

They spoke at the same time. “Hornsby’s fine, thank you, Ross,” Flame said, her voice steady. “As you wish. Flame, I’m not sure when I’m heading north again.” “Nor I,” she said. “You needn’t worry about me, Ross. Thank you for the lift; for ... everything.” Silence. It was maddening. Hadn’t he given her the impression he’d have to go back soon to slash weeds? No more mention of him needing her help, nor of a time for his departure northwards. Nothing. Was he backtracking so quickly from their agreement to share the bush regeneration tasks, so amicably reached in the past few days? Maybe he no longer respected her now she’d slept with him; made the first move. Did people still think like that? Maybe if they’d been happily married for thirty years and then widowed. Regret lodged in her stomach, more solid than the bacon. Bitter. When Ross pulled over, she slipped out, grabbed her backpack from the rear of the car, closed the door gently and leaned in the open enger window. If only she could read his expression; get some response. “Thank you, Ross. Good luck with your daughter.” “You’re welcome. Good luck with your own.” Did his eyes flick to her lips? He could have been a poker player for all he was sharing his thoughts with her. So that was it. Pleasantries. She might have been a casual acquaintance, or a complete stranger. So much for offering herself to him. She sighed, pushed her shoulders back and forced her chin up. Did she regret making love to him? Maybe. But they’d both enjoyed it, or so she thought. If it had just been a meaningless romp to him, fine. She had things to do. But if her heart began to beat faster at the thought of seeing her granddaughters again too, part of her stayed in the car with Ross. Was he even okay? Even if their morning together had meant nothing to him, she wished she’d at

least kissed him goodbye properly, just to feel the brush of his lips again, and breathe in the earthy smell of him. She sighed. Ross Archer might be a catch, but he’d be unlikely to choose her, the treser with barely any education. It didn’t mean she didn’t care about him. When Flame walked towards the station, she didn’t turn back. She bunched her hair in one hand, tossed it behind her and stood tall. She’d managed without Ross Archer all her life, and would continue to do so.

Chapter 19

Ross’s mood remained subdued as he drove through the familiar streets to his old home. His body still hummed. Flame was every bit as beautiful as he’d imagined. Had he taken advantage of her? She’d been strangely silent all morning, insisting on her independence. So be it. They both had things to achieve in Sydney. He noted a few changes in the neighborhood; the news agency had become an estate agency, there was a new pizzeria and a couple of new carports; trees had been lopped, and hedges were wider and taller. Anita was right about their garden. She hadn’t trimmed a thing. On the farm, the long grass was natural. Here, it screamed neglect. Margaux would have hated it. He shook his head. Margaux was gone. He sighed, parked, and brought his bag inside. The place smelled musty. The sooner he sold it the better. Anita was only using the kitchen and her bedroom. Blinds were down in the other rooms and all the windows locked. A strange assortment of parcels lay jumbled in the study. Odd. Maybe the tendency to be a hermit was inherited. He tried to laugh, but it came out bitter. The truth was, he didn’t want to be here without Margaux. Even saying goodbye to Flame had been a wrench. He was still vulnerable, and he hated it. He longed for the wide open spaces of the farm. The sudden roar of the mowing service next door was an irritation. He wanted to sell this place and use the cash for farm projects. The idea of restoring the lost forest had taken hold. He could do his bit to reduce global warming. Not everyone was in such a position. The least he could do was get on with it. As he removed the last of the boxes of Spode from the car, he spotted something white under the enger seat; a slip of paper.

“Romance moves you in a new direction.” Flame’s fortune? He stood on the driveway staring at the quote as the mower moved back and forth and back again. Was that why Flame had come to him this morning, offering herself so freely? Did a fortune teller believe fortunes must be followed? The memory of their love-making made his heart jump all over again; the beauty of her body—such a balm after his seasons of loss and solitude, a gift beyond quantifying; an incomparable and unexpected joy. Her silence afterwards had puzzled him—their easy conversation had suddenly evaporated; awkward, stilted. Did she regret her decision? Had he failed her in some way? Making love to Flame had been so free and satisfying, for him, at least. They’d moved together so easily, as if their bodies had always known how to please each other. The unexpected delight had shocked him; such easy ecstasy. He’d realized since the trivia night how attracted he was to her, and after his sleepless night, her playful kisses were a dream come true—but a real gentleman would have refused her; would at least have taken her on a few dates; not taken advantage of her proximity. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t have afforded to pay for an additional room. Had his hunger for her been so transparent? He’d abused her generosity, and now he regretted it. It confused him. It wasn’t part of any plan. It made no sense. Ever since Margaux’s diagnosis, his once sensible life had been a puzzle—and the next steps? Invisible to him. Ross pulled the wallet out of his back pocket, opened it and slipped the piece of paper deep inside. Flame was special. That was the truth of it. She was special and he missed her. He wanted more of her in his life. He locked the car and re-entered the empty house. There was plenty of time to find some old clothes and tackle the garden while he awaited Anita’s return. After a couple of active hours, he called it quits, showered and made some phone calls. He teed up visits from three real estate agents and had just hung up on the final

one when Anita walked in. “Was that an estate agent, Dad?” “Yes. The third one I’ve spoken to today. I’ve been busy, alright.” “Wonderful, Dad! I knew you’d finally see reason.” “I’m a bit surprised you’re taking it so well, Neetie.” “I’ve been suggesting you sell that place since Mum died, Dad.” “Oh, I’m not selling the farm. It’s this place we need to sell.” “You’re joking!” “No. Why did you think I came to Sydney?” “To have a holiday? To visit me? To catch up with the neighbors who miss you and have been asking after you? You’re impossible! Why do you have to sell our home?” she said. Ross kept his voice calm. “The question is—why do I need to keep it?” he said. “Because I’m living here? Because I’m your daughter, and you’re throwing me out? Because I’ve lost my mother, and now you’re making me lose my home?” “Are you, Neetie? ‘Living here?’ To me it seems you’re barely here. You’re only using a couple of rooms. You’re not a child, Anita. You were never going to live here forever, were you? This place is far too big now for one person.” “Says the man with a whole farm.” Ross sighed. He wasn’t good at this. Communicating with Anita was always a drama. Margaux had been much better at it. “There’s no easy way to say this, Anita. It’s time for you to make your own life. Move in with friends or rent something you like; even buy your own place. When we sell here, I’ll be in a position to help you make a good deposit; to start

you and Bethany on your own way in real estate. It’s time. Your mother and I were always going to sell this place.” “Mum wouldn’t have kicked me out like this. Why the hurry?” “It’s been a year, Anita. It’s time to sell it and divide up any money left over between you girls.” “You’re throwing me out!” “No, Anita. You can get your own mortgage and buy it from your sister or from me, or take your share of the money and start building your own future—a future you really want, not just one you’ve fallen into.” “What do you mean?” Anita sprang back, almost tripping on another unopened box. “Something’s happened to you, Dad. It’s that woman, isn’t it? Flame. She’s bewitched you. You’re a fool, Dad, and she’s playing you; got you around her little finger. This is her idea, isn’t it; to sell this place to fund your fancy new lifestyle.” “What’s this got to do with Flame? She lives in a caravan. How ‘fancy’ is that, Anita?” “I knew it. Now you’re defending her. She was a treser! You’ve got it bad, Dad. Surely you’re too old for that now.” “For what?” Ross flushed, the memory of his morning in the bed with Flame too real to deny. Anita turned away from him, hands on her hips, then twisted, all frowns. “I can’t believe you’d do this to Mum’s memory.” “This has nothing to do with your mother. I can’t bring her back, any more than you can. It’s a hard truth, but it’s been more than a year. Why should my relationship with Flame be any of your business? It doesn’t reduce my love for you and Bethany in any way. Love is infinite. Don’t you think your Mum would want you to open your heart a little, Neetie? There’s plenty of love to go around. Maybe it’s time you started finding and sharing some love yourself in this world.”

“How would you know what I’m doing or not doing?” “You’re right. I have very little idea of how you spend your life, but you don’t seem happy, Anita.” Anita glared at him. “Did you hear something about me?” “You’ve only got to look at this place to wonder what’s wrong. If you value it so much, why are you just living in a room or two? And what are all those boxes in the study? I put the Spode in there, too, by the way.” He strode out, and returned—clasping the blue and white cloth. He handed it to Anita. She took it and unwound the silk sarong, exposing the jug, perfectly repaired. “Flame felt terrible about breaking it. She dyed that cloth, by the way. It’s a gift for you. Pretty good repair, isn’t it?” said Ross. Anita nodded. As she flicked out the material, the blues and whites shimmered like light on water. Inside the still house, the air musty, the walls blank and silent, the sinuous movement of the cloth promised something better. “Let’s not argue,” Ross said. “Come on. Let’s go up to Curl Curl and catch a wave. We can buy some dinner while we’re out. How about you drive, Neetie. I’m all driven out.” Silent, Anita turned and left, returning with bathers and a towel. She snatched up the keys and spun them around her middle finger. When she took the wheel of the old Citroen C3 Margaux had left for her when they’d moved north, she revved up Boundary Road, across the Roseville Bridge, windows down. As she crested the hill, the Pacific beckoned. “Been to the beach much?” said Ross. “Not enough,” Anita said. “Too busy working, or up north visiting you.”

“I should thank you for your visits.” “Not if you don’t mean it.” “I don’t want you there if you don’t want to be there.” “You’ve got other company now.” “Flame, do you mean?” Anita shrugged. “I don’t understand why you don’t like her. She has many fine qualities.” “I’m sure.” “And what about you, Anita? How are your friends? Are you seeing anyone new; anyone you’d like me to meet while I’m here?” Anita shrugged. What Ross didn’t ask was how she expected to grow beyond her grief and start living again, while she stayed in her childhood home, stuck in a loop of grief and resentment, missing her mother. From the silent interior of the car, he noted the number of houses being replaced with medium and high rise apartments and the piles of moldy old treasure and broken furniture left out for garbage collection. How glad he was to have found the wild wide spaces of the farm, where Flame’s hair flicked in the breeze. He missed her, missed her laugh. Would she accept a lift home with him? Would she even come back to the farm at all? Maybe she’d stay in Sydney with her grandchildren. A sliver of disquiet disturbed his reverie. He could make no assumptions about Flame. He liked her in his life, but did she even realize she was welcome to stay? Was that why she’d been so quiet all morning? With a stab of dismay, Ross ed he didn’t even have Flame’s phone number. Flame could wander out of his life and he’d never see her again. At the very least, he’d need to her about her caravan, but how? Becca would have her number. She wouldn’t necessarily give it to him, but she might on a message from him.

Ross ordered take away fish and chips at Dee Why. Was this near where Flame had lived as a child? As gulls whirled and Anita waited in the car, an image of young Flame dancing on the beach with Sven captured his imagination and he smiled, then frowned. Selfish Sven. The story of a young woman’s loving trust, so betrayed—it was far too common. Margaux had never liked the beach, complaining of sand in the car and sand in the carpets, and salt on her skin, but Ross would bring the girls here on days when Margaux wanted time to herself. He’d taught them to dive in the little rock pool, where Anita had first shown such promise. Bethany was a brave and diligent swimmer, mechanically following directions, but Anita glided through the water as if she were a mermaid. When he’d first shown her how to dive from the edge of the pool, she’d taken to it with perfect trust, flying off the sandstone ledge and into her element, the water welcoming her as if she belonged in its embrace. As Anita drove them to North Curl Curl, Ross glanced at the sullen woman beside him and wondered where she’d gone, his carefree daughter who would emerge from the surface of the water shiny as a seal, and all smiles. Would the water restore some of her former joy? “Will we walk to the rock pool?” Ross asked. There was enough light. The sky was a bowl, deepening to lilac. It was a perfect evening. “Do you ever come here?” he said as they made their way along the path. Anita shook her head. “Do you learning to dive?” She put her head on one side. “It was almost like you already knew how to do it, Neetie. You were such a natural.” The water shimmered, a silvery rectangle against the curves of the coastline. “Race you,” she said, flinging off her shorts and t-shirt and executing a perfect dive before Ross had even agreed.

As she swam underwater, her limbs were pale shadows, like something unearthly, like moonbeams. For a moment, Ross feared she would not resurface, but up she came, the water turning her into something glistening, a polished metal statue of a mermaid, his youngest daughter, a minor miracle. She slipped back under the surface and swam another lap or two, then a few of backstroke and some overarm, her motion mesmerizing. Did she know how much he treasured her, beyond the complications of Margaux’s death and the farm? It had been such a joy to hold her as a heavy bundle of warmth, a magical baby, and to watch her grow. How hard it had been to see her buffeted by her mother’s illness, to witness his own anguish reflected in her eyes. He wanted to tell her he’d loved her at every age and always would, even if he’d sometimes found her behavior challenging. The way she’d learned to walk, to swim, to run, to dive, to read and write and teach—all these things lifted his heart in pure joy. She was truly a creature of the sea, of salt water, of his and Margaux’s love. So he did it—explained to her how special she was to him. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me that, Dad,” she said, avoiding his eyes as she hauled herself out. He was tempted to cup her wet cheeks in both his hands, as he’d done when she was in Kindergarten, marveling with her at her two missing front teeth. Instead, he held up the towel for her. She wiped herself down and slung the towel around her hair like a turban. He handed over her clothes. She hugged her knees as they sat on the rocks, still warm from the sun, and shared the salty food as the waves curled and smashed themselves in spectacular crashes, over and over. The beauty was enchanting. Did Anita feel it, too? Could it take her out of her fears for the future, release her into a better place; help her leave behind her grief and resentment?

“Fearless as usual, Neetie,” he said into the twilight. “Too cold for me, but you plunge in and come up laughing every time. You spent so much time in the water, and you loved it. What changed?” “I started losing,” she said, lips tight. “Who wants to be a loser?” “Against whose criteria?” “Against yours. Against the coach’s. Against the school’s and the other kids.’” “You haven’t mentioned the only one who matters.” “My own?” It was Ross’s turn to be silent. “I did love it,” she said, reaching for a piece of fish. “I swam my heart out. I felt like I was flying, but my times weren’t improving. Do you know how it feels to be dropped from a team? Kicked out because you’re not good enough?” “Probably not.” “Exactly.” He offered her more of the food, and they munched together, licking the salt off their lips as the sky shifted into purple. “ the saying about the baby and the bathwater?” “Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater?” “Yes. Know what it means?” “You think I should swim again.” “Why not? You could compete if you wanted, but you wouldn’t have to. You love the water. You’re a mermaid, a sea goddess.” “But you were so happy when I won, Dad. I felt ashamed when I didn’t. I hated to disappoint you.” “If I’d known, I never would have made a fuss of you. I was happy because you were happy. But it was the water you actually loved, not just the winning. Did

you think of that?”

Chapter 20

If Flame let herself think about Ross Archer for even a moment, about the shape of his shoulders, the feel of his hands, his gentle smile, his quickening heartbeat, and then, later, at their parting, that blank indifference—so nothing—such a contrast to the intimacy they’d shared, dismay punched her in the stomach. She wrenched her mind back to the present, to the way Bondi Junction had changed, with more high rise towers than ever. The new station funneled her past a few shops. Confused, she ended up in an enormous, glitzy shopping mall where she felt underdressed in her soft jeans and t-shirt, with her trusty backpack. Curious, she window shopped in the air conditioned center, investigating the latest fashions and footwear. How did people find more than a thousand dollars for a handbag? Thoughts of Ross invaded her mind again, his serious brow, his collar bones, his —so she filled her thoughts with her granddaughters until her arms tingled with anticipation to hug them again, little Lucy and baby Sienna. Would they even her? Then she forced herself to imagine Stella, and how excited she would be to receive the money. She crossed her fingers it would be the turning point in their relationship she craved. As she made her way closer to Oxford Street Plaza, where Jeannie said she’d find Stella’s stall, she rehearsed the handover moment. Should she hand over the money immediately, or wait until Stella had finished for the day, and surprise her in Jeannie and Matt’s new townhouse, far less public and less likely to be witnessed and potentially stolen? How she longed to unburden herself of the debt, after more than six months of saving, to build that better relationship with her youngest daughter. But with each step, she began to hesitate. The last time they’d spoken, she’d been cynical—almost scathing—about Flame’s lifestyle. How extraordinary to

think Stella was now doing what Flame had done most of her life—running her own stall. Flame could only hope it would open the way to a new level of understanding and respect between them. Maybe they could swap stories about their most difficult customers, and about the best of days, when stock flew off the stall and the money pouch grew fatter with larger and larger denominations. Flame was still recalling some of her most successful days of trading when she found the right plaza. Yes. There was the old landmark— Huntleys House of Jewels—and there in front of it was ... a drinks stand. A little further along was a stall with hats, and another with bags and briefcases, but where she’d expected to find Stella’s glittering stall? Nothing. Flame paced the length of the plaza. She crossed the road and returned. Had Jeannie described the location wrongly? She stood and peered both ways. She asked at the drinks stall, finding a few dollars to buy a lemonade. “Stellar? Beautiful stall; so sad,” said the stallholder, an older man, shaking his head. He had a bit of an accent. German? “Beautiful young woman; dark hair. Talented, that one. Yes, she was here for a couple of months. Popular stall.” “But where is she now? Why did she leave?” Had Flame left it too late to pay her back? Had she been responsible for Stella’s failure? If only she’d saved more carefully; come sooner. “I haven’t seen her for a few days. Last week? She was right there. This week? Gone. Stalls.” He shrugged. Flame nearly wept with disappointment. She was tempted to unburden herself to the old man, and explain she was Stella’s mother, but she reminded herself this was the city, and most people weren’t really interested in the lives of others. Instead, she buoyed herself with the realization she wasn’t too far from Jeannie’s place. Jeannie should know what was going on. She paid the old man and checked the address in her purse. From Jeannie’s instructions, it shouldn’t take her too long to walk it; probably less than an hour. If she could just find Bronte Road, follow it till it hit Carrington Road, and walk another few hundred meters, she’d be there. Walking always calmed her. The rhythm of it helped her to think. Stella hadn’t told her she was setting up the stall in the first, place so she’d be

even less likely to share the news she’d stopped trading. All would be explained soon, surely. All would be well, wouldn’t it? Just then, her phone rang. “Becca! What’s up?” “How’s your holiday with the hottie silver fox?” “Stop it, Becca! We shared the drive.” She would omit what else they shared. “Sure you did. That’s why he can’t wait to speak with you again. He just phoned me. He was ever so polite. He said he was aware he couldn’t speak to you directly, ‘due to privacy requirements,’ but he wondered whether I ‘could possibly you’ to let you know he’d like you to phone him.” “Oh.” “Why do you sound so unhappy about it? Aren’t you two supposed to be having a wonderful time in Sydney together? And why doesn’t he already have your number?” “Oh, we never thought to exchange numbers. Living so close to each other, we’d just leave notes for each other, or knock on the door. Did he say what he wanted? Was it urgent?” “I didn’t ask. But he didn’t say it was particularly urgent, no.” A chill of disappointment settled over Flame. Ross’s quiet mood in the car as they finished their journey might bode ill. Was he thinking of evicting her? Is that why he wanted to her? “See? Romantic. What did I tell you? You two are practically a unit. It’s a scream you don’t even have each other’s numbers.” “Becca, it’s nothing like that. We’re not in Sydney together. We’re each seeing our own daughters, separately. We just shared the journey.” And the hotel room; and the bed—before the wall of silence descended—but Becca needn’t know everything.

“Well, here’s Ross’s number.” Flame fished out her phone and keyed it in. She and Becca chatted again briefly about the “big smoke” before another customer walked into Becca’s Studio and she said she had to go. Flame hitched her pack high on her back and set out towards Jeannie’s townhouse, musing on Ross’s request. Why would he want her to call? Was it good news, or bad? Might he be telling her to move on? Had it been a mistake to be so forward with him, to make love to him? That was the trouble. She was always so impulsive. Well, whatever he had to say, she needed to see Stella first, and Jeannie and her little family, to achieve what she’d come to Sydney to do. Hopefully Ross could wait.

Chapter 21

Flame traipsed past Jeannie’s set of townhouses twice trying to work out how to enter. The number was right, but the door was locked. A woman came out and looked her up and down suspiciously, her face cold as stone. She quickly pushed the door shut again so Flame couldn’t enter, before rushing off up the street. City people. They were far too busy to be civil, let alone friendly. Flame hated the place. She longed for Rainbow Valley and her familiar caravan. At times like this, she understood Lola’s steadfast refusal to leave the district. They’d discussed it before. “There’s too much right here to see in one lifetime,” Lola insisted when she’d challenged her on it. As if to demonstrate her point, a tiny green spider had dropped from the edge of Flame’s fortune-telling tent, its single web flashing rainbow colors. Lola had swept it gently into her bundle of kale. “I’ll take it home with me,” she’d said. It was so Lola. Flame smiled and hitched her pack higher again. Were there any green spiders in the city? Trucks rumbled past, snapping Flame back to the present, just as a young man on a bicycle delivering fast food almost ran her over on the footpath. Finally, she stood and studied the silver display of buttons and worked out how to press Jeannie’s townhouse number and a small bell symbol. “Mum!” Jeannie’s voice was an instant balm. “What are you doing here? What an incredible surprise! I’ll buzz you up. Open the door. We’re on the third floor.” Jeannie’s friendly welcomes always filled Flame with gratitude. She’d done something right in her life, giving birth to this child and raising her by herself, but she was tired now from the walk, and the pack was heavier than ever as she waited for the lift. Jeannie leaned out of her doorway, while little Lucy peeped out from behind her legs. The redheads embraced, pulled apart and embraced again before Flame squatted down to meet her granddaughter eye to eye.

“Look at you, big girl! me? I’m your Flame.” “Fame,” said Lucy. “That’ll do. You are so grown up, Lucy! How wonderful.” “Come on in, Mum. Take off your pack. Looks like it weighs a ton. What are you doing here? Cup of tea?” “Desperate for a cup of tea. Now Jeannie, I went to the plaza, but Stella’s not there. You said she’d be there.” “Long story, Mum. She should be there but there’s been a hitch. She got a letter a few days ago saying her license had been revoked. She’s at the council now, trying to sort it out. You still taking too much sugar?” “Oh no! Absolutely. The sugar. That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? Enjoying? Don’t hold back. Two or three, please. Tell me more. Now, little Lucy, my love. There might just be something in this bag for you and our Sienna, yes indeed. Just let me wash my hands and we’ll have an explore. Oh, are you coming to wash your hands, too, Lucy? Great idea. Where’s Sienna?” “Aseep.” “Of course. Sleeping.” They were just starting on the tea, Lucy bouncing her koala along the lounge with a sing song voice, when the key turned in the lock and Stella walked in. “Mum!” “Don’t act so shocked, Stella.” “But you never visit.” “Well, I’m visiting now.” Stella’s expression was almost as closed as the woman’s who’d refused to open the door to her. Her face was drawn, large shadows under her eyes. Did her daughter hate her so much?

“Tea, dear?” Stella ignored her as she laid a folder on the dining table. “How did you go?” Jeannie said. Stella shrugged, her shoulders stooped. “I don’t want to be there anyway if it was Huntleys. The council refuses to tell me who lodged the complaint about my stall. It’s despicable.” Jeannie and Flame exchanged glances. “What’s happened, darling? I thought you had a bouncing business going. Congratulations by the way. Fresh start and all that.” Jeannie screwed up her face. Oops. Wasn’t she meant to know? “Jeannie told you?” “I was aware you’d left Perth, but I don’t know any details ... Come and sit and tell me.” As they drank their tea, Stella told Flame she’d walked out on Damian, her old boss who’d led her along for almost a decade, hinting he would divorce his wife and marry her, but never following through with it. She’d finally freed herself of him, or so she hoped. With Jeannie and Matt’s assistance, she’d created her own jewelry business, Stellar, here in Sydney on the other side of the country. It had begun with a bang, with some extra publicity when a movie star noticed her work and sent her social media mentions sky high. “But Stella’s so incredibly talented,” Jeannie butted in. “You can market all you like, but if the product’s no good, nobody will buy it. Her sales have been astronomical, from the stall and online. She’s been doing incredibly well. She’s too modest to tell you, but she just won a design competition, a Huntleys Valentine’s Day thing. It was national, and she took out first prize.” “That’s my girl!” said Flame. Stella weakened. She almost smiled at Flame. “But it hasn’t been easy,” Jeannie said. “Someone stole her takings and they still

haven’t been recovered.” “Oh, I’ve had that happen,” said Flame. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it. You feel like you can’t trust anyone, for months. I still worry someone will snatch my bag. I’ve had to become awfully careful. So what’s this about your license? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I don’t understand why Huntleys would try to close you down when they just awarded you a prize...” Stella sighed. “You might as well know, Mum. But I’m still confused about it. It’s doubly awful because I think it’s Huntleys who’ve complained, but the council won’t confirm it.” “Huntleys? The jewelers? But they’re a reputable firm. Why would they go after a small stallholder?” “Well, who else would try to close me down? My stall’s right outside their store, and they’ve never been happy about that. I didn’t set up there to create a problem for them. I just went where the council said I should set up. It’s not like we’re in real competition or anything. Their stuff costs hundreds of dollars, and mine’s all affordable. You know my work—the knot rings, recycled coffee pods, those toothbrush bangles, and a few other things.” “Stella’s far too modest, Mum. Her stuff’s fabulous. That movie star’s still being photographed in some of her sparkly earrings. All of it’s selling so well. Huntleys even knocked off one of her designs. Here, I’ll show you.” Jeannie jumped up and dashed down the corridor, returning with a black box with an ornate gold H embossed on the lid. “Stella bought me this for my big birthday. How beautiful is this, Mum! It’s a rosette, real gems, but it’s Stella’s design. Huntleys copied it.” “Is that legal?” Stella nodded, still frowning. Flame saw the girls exchange a glance. Jeannie had raised her eyebrows in question, and Stella had shaken her head. Flame decided not to pry.

“So. What’s next? What’s your plan, Stell?” “Well, I’ve been thinking about that. If it’s going to be so hard to trade here, I might as well try overseas. There’s an international jewelry fair coming up, in Hong Kong. I want to find out if I can sell some of my designs; test the waters. See if they’re as good as I hope they are.” “What a fantastic idea, Stella! Why not?” “Well there’s the entry fee, for starters. Plus the airfare, plus accommodation.” Suddenly, Flame stood, arms out. “My darling! I knew this was meant to be. Let me tell you why I’ve come to Sydney?” “Why?” “It’s weighed on my mind for months and months now, ever since Jeannie told me you were setting up in business for yourself. I knew you’d need money, and my darling you’ve been far too generous to me over all these years; so I’ve been saving. It’s been hard, what with Grady disappearing with the car—yes, I have bad taste in men, and I’ve finally given them up, you’ll be pleased to know—but the good news is, I’ve saved every cent of what I owe you, and I’ve brought it to you. Hang on. Stay right there. I’ll get it now.” Flame stood and moved to the corner of the couch where Jeannie had placed her pack. She rummaged around inside and pulled out a large packet of macadamia nuts—which she thrust at Jeannie—and another koala, Sienna’s blue one, and dug deeper. She began to extract things—her nightgown, a few books, a sweatshirt, three t-shirts, another pair of jeans, a dress and a squashable hat. She started searching more quickly, kneeling and plunging her arm right down. Her fingers flew to the zippered hood section and side pockets, the search ever more frantic, again drawing a blank. “No,” she said. “No, no, no.” The girls exchanged glances. Lucy threw the koala on the floor. “No!” Flame stood, hands on hips, wretched, then swept the back of one hand against

her forehead. “It’s okay, Mum,” said Stella, resigned. “I never expect anything from you. That way, I’m not disappointed.” “I deserve that,” said Flame. “I totally do. But really, darling, I’m going to make it completely right with you. I just can’t find the package.” “Of course you can’t, Mum,” said Stella. Flame hated her expression; disappointment, exasperation. “Just don’t worry about it, okay?” Stella stood and rushed off down the corridor, just as the baby monitor picked up Sienna’s calls as she awakened from her nap. Jeannie rushed after Stella. Flame stood, alone, thinking. She’d had the money when they’d left Rainbow Valley. She’d put it carefully in her backpack; and she’d had it at Old Bar when they’d stopped for an ice cream and she’d fished her sarongs out of the pack. That was it! When she’d felt it in the pack, she’d hidden it carefully under Ross’s enger seat! She didn’t want any thieves stealing their valuables while they were on the beach. And then, what with going out for dinner, drinking wine and falling asleep, and the events of the morning, she’d completely forgotten to retrieve it. What a fool she was! Stella was right to despise her. Well, at least the money was still safe; but she’d have to call Ross and ask him for it. Thank goodness Becca had given her number.

Chapter 22

Relaxed and more at peace with each other, Anita and Ross were driving back from the beach, Anita at the wheel, when Ross’s mobile phone rang. “Ross?” “Flame! How are you?” He couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. So. Flame had wanted to keep in touch with him after all. when she’d been so quiet all morning, then insisted on continuing her journey independently, he’d worried he’d crossed some invisible line and offended her. “Oh Ross. Where are you? Can you talk?” What was that urgency in her voice? “I’m in the car with Anita,” he said. “What is it? Are you okay?” Beside him, at the mention of Flame’s name, Anita had closed into herself like a sea anemone into its hard shell. So much for the progress he’d hoped they’d been making—building a healthier relationship with his youngest daughter. “Look,” said Flame. “Thank you for the lift, and for ... everything. Ross, I need to ask you. Under the enger seat, there should be a package. When you stop, would you mind just checking it’s still there?” “A package?” Anita flashed him a suspicious glance. “ when we stopped at Old Bar? I put it under there, to keep it safe while we were swimming. People watch and wait and break into cars.” “Okay, Flame. We’re in Neetie’s car right now, but I’ll check when we get home and I’ll phone you back.” So. All Flame had wanted was her package. What a fool he was, to think she might have been calling to speak to him because she valued him, or something

stupidly sentimental like that. It was nothing to do with her missing him. His mood dived. In the silence, he glanced back at Anita, still sullen. “Something wrong, Anita?” “I couldn’t help but overhear. It’s that woman again, isn’t it. when I found the white powder on her caravan steps, Dad? Don’t tell me I’m wrong to be suspicious of Flame. If it’s not drugs, it’s probably cash; a great fat wad of it. What are you doing consorting with criminals? Your part of the coast is full of people growing marijuana. You should think about what you’re getting caught up in. If you do find a strange package in your car, you should take it straight to the police, before you put your own fingerprints all over it.” “There’s a perfectly sane explanation, Anita, but I won’t go into it now. You just don’t like Flame.” “I’m not going to pretend I do.” “No. Well. I do happen to like her, and I will phone her back. She sounded worried. I’ll just ask her about it.” “I really don’t think you should get involved, Dad.” Anita drove into their old driveway, pulled on the handbrake and unclipped her seatbelt. She yawned. “Well, thanks for this evening, Anita,” said Ross, trying to recapture some of the joy of their time together beside the sea. “It was a great way to wind down after the long drive, and I really enjoyed it. You really are happy swimming, aren’t you? My silver girl—silver woman now. You go on inside. It’s late and I know you have to work tomorrow. If the parcel’s there, I’ll deliver it to Flame. It’s hers after all and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Anita yawned again. “Teaching does take it out of me, Dad. Thanks for the swim. It was great, but I’m really ready for bed. Alright, take it to her and wash your hands of it. Sounds highly suspicious to me; Flame’s ‘package.’ ‘Night.” Sure enough, there was a soft bundle the shape of banknotes, tucked up under his enger seat, so Ross phoned Flame back and arranged to meet her with it at

Jeannie’s address. Flame was waiting for him outside the gates when he pulled up. His heart jolted at her figure, trim in her jeans, her red hair aglow under the street light, and the warmth of her smile as she recognized him. He had to counsel himself to settle down. She wasn’t actually waiting for him. She was waiting for the bundle; for the money for her daughter. The trouble with this part of the world was there was never enough parking. He wanted to go to her, to hand it over in person. He parked in a bus stop half a block away and jogged up towards her. When her whole face lit up to see him, he couldn’t help himself. He leaned in; near enough to smell her shampoo. He closed his eyes and drew her closer, reaching his arms around her, longing to hold her tight. Their bodies fit together so well, as if they were made for each other. Memories of their morning making love came flooding back. While Flame didn’t resist him, she didn’t pull him closer. It wasn’t him she wanted—she was intent on the package. He stepped away. Was Anita right? Was Flame a criminal? Was she simply using him? She took the package from him and slipped it under her shirt; tucked it under her bra. He tried not to look, not to think of the way she’d been that morning, in the bed with him, wild and generous; all his. Now her mind was on other things. “How can I thank you,” she said, patting down the front of her shirt. Stiff. Formal. He could think of a few ways, but they weren’t exactly polite. A bus came laboring up the hill. He’d have to return to the car, and soon. On the spur of the moment, he decided to ask her out. How would that be, to take her somewhere in Sydney tonight? On a proper date, for a drink somewhere swanky. Weren’t there wine bars in Sydney these days, and whisky bars and gin bars and champagne bars? Anything to prolong their time together. Anywhere. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier, when she’d called him? What was he? Sixteen again? What a fool he was, but he wanted this, wanted Flame. He’d missed her company all day, no matter how many distractions there’d been. She might as well know it.

“Come out with me?” “Now? Oh. No. I’m sorry I can’t, Ross. You’re so kind to have brought this across, but I have to give it to Stella right away.” “Of course.” Her daughter was more important to her than he could ever be. Why did he think he had a chance with this magnificent woman? Why would she give up her independence to be with an old widower like him? If only he could pull her close for a moment, to press his lips against the warm softness of her own. Didn’t it tug at her, too, that buzz between them, the way his body was always drawn to hers? Was she sorry she’d turned down his invitation —or was she desperate for him to go, so she could get on with her life? The bus driver hooted the horn. “Well, then,” he said, more formally than he’d meant to sound. “Must run.” And he leaped into his car as the bus driver rolled her eyes at him, and when he drove past the lamp post, Flame was gone. As he pulled into the driveway of his old marital home, he took stock of his day. While Flame’s rebuttal felt like a slap, he’d made some progress with Anita, or so he hoped. Their visit to Curl Curl was a success of sorts. He was glad he’d suggested their favorite old beach destination, where the girls had loved splashing along with him in the surf, free to kick at the waves and the water and make as much noise as they liked. Something of that freedom had slipped back into Anita’s demeanor as they’d eaten their takeout food at the beach. After their rock pool swim, they’d walked south past the lagoon as the evening light faded to stars, and he’d tried to listen to the message beneath her words, about how much she missed her mother. “Don’t you miss her too, Dad?” “Of course, I do. And I always will. We were together for so long we could finish each other’s sentences. While I never knew exactly what she was thinking, I could have a pretty good guess. It’s a wonderful thing to know someone so well, Neetie. And she loved you so much. She would just stand at your cot and smile down at you when you were sleeping.”

“I still feel her near me now sometimes. It sounds crazy, like wishful thinking.” “Plenty of things in this world don’t make sense.” “I worry we’re forgetting her.” “Is that why you’re so against me selling the house?” “Maybe.” “It’s just a house, Neetie. And it’s not meeting our needs any more. I’m aware you don’t like the farm, but Margaux was happy there, and so am I. We can’t live in the past, and we can’t change it. Why waste the future? Margaux wouldn’t want any of us to stop living. She actually told me that.” “What?” “To get on with things. I wasn’t able to do it myself for a long time. You saw how lost I was. I’m grateful to you for coming up to check on me.” Anita had broken away from him and raced up the beach alone, her long legs pushing out sand and froth behind her as she ran. Ross considered racing after her, but maybe she needed some space. Why hadn’t he thought to thank her sooner for her efforts? It would have been better than them resenting each other’s presence in the gloom of those first few months without Margaux. Hard times. Harsh times. Maybe Anita, too, would turn a corner soon and free herself from some of her grief. Would she ever dive into her future like she dove into the rockpool? From the driver’s seat, he stared at the old house. With Anita already asleep, all the lights were out. He’d attacked some of the overgrown garden earlier in the day, and a full moon lit the stacks of vegetation he’d tied in bundles, ready to be taken away by the council. Should he ask Anita about the boxes in the study? It would have been ideal to have tidied up the insides of the house, but he’d invited the real estate agents in anyway. A house was worth something, no matter the condition. Achieving top dollar was one thing, but right now, for Ross, moving on was just as important.

He’d have to share his plans with Bethany, and work out what she wanted done with all her things. Bethany loved change. She was less sentimental. While she’d also grieved for her mother, her mind had always been on the future, on her own plans in a wider world. She’d outgrown the house as soon as she’d finished school, and few of her things remained. It would be easy enough to arrange storage for anything she wanted to keep. Despite Flame’s apparent indifference to him this evening, with the fresh salty air of the beach walk still in his lungs, and—from the astonishing start of the day —the memory of Flame’s beautiful body in his arms—nothing was insurmountable. Of course Flame’s mind would be on repairing her relationship with her daughter. She’d come south to pay back Stella—not to pamper the ego of an old widower. He managed to laugh at himself, but he knew this in his soul—Flame had ignited in him a new hunger, a new hope.

Chapter 23

When Flame returned to the townhouse, Stella was on the couch, jiggling little Sienna on her lap. How alike they were, with their wavy dark curls. Anita glanced up at Flame warily as she closed the front door. “Here, darling. It’s here. Every dollar. All your money. I have it for you,” said Flame, retrieving the warm money bundle from under her shirt and thrusting it at Stella. “I can’t take this from you, Mum,” said Stella, her face closed. “You must. It’s not mine, darling. It’s all yours.” “You’re going to need it, Mum,” said Stella, shaking her head. “You always do. Don’t worry about it, okay. I’ll manage.” “You are so independent, Stella! It’s irable, but you don’t have to be so proud. Come on. I’ve worked hard to save this for you. Honor me by accepting it.” “So what happened to Grady, then? What about the whole lettuce plan, Mum? The special refrigerator.” Stella seemed so weary, sitting there, as if she didn’t really want to hear about another of Flame’s failures. Who was this young stranger with the bitter face? Stella gave all her smiles to Sienna. She held her thumbs apart while Sienna tried to force them together with her chubby little grip. Didn’t Stella realize Flame herself had played that game with her baby girls? Jeannie hovered at the edge of the kitchen bench, watching Stella and Flame spar. “Let me take Sienna for a while, Stell,” said Jeannie. “Time for her snack and bath. How about you and Mum go out together for a while? Mum, I’ll make up a bed for you on the couch. I don’t want to see either of you back in here till

you’ve had a proper chat, okay?” Flame placed the bundle of cash on the coffee table, and stood. “I’m not taking it back with me, so you might as well have it, Stella.” Silence. The bundle sat, ignored. Stella rose and placed Sienna in the high chair. She helped to fit her bib while Jeannie settled beside her with the bowl and spoon. She cupped Sienna’s head in her hand, kissed her on the forehead; then grabbed a light coat from the coat rack, slipped it over her shoulders and opened the door. Flame glanced back at Jeannie as she followed her out. When Jeannie gave her a hopeful smile and crossed her fingers, Flame mouthed a “thank you.” She drew in a deep breath and pushed back her shoulders. This was her moment. This was what she’d come to Sydney to achieve—reconciliation with her youngest daughter. She’d walk and talk with her all night if that’s what it took. Stella set off at a pace. Luckily, Flame was fit from her own walking, and she soon caught up. “Why so cold, Stella?” “What do you expect, Mum? You turn up out of the blue and expect us to be besties.” “Well, we always were, the three of us. Great mates.” “Until you both took off for Sydney without me.” “You could have come with us, but you were so fierce about it. You insisted on staying. And I let you stay, because I wanting to do things my way. I left home at seventeen, too, ? It wasn’t a great idea in my case, but I’m so proud of you. You made a real go of it, with one great job after another, and all those after-hours courses you did? You’re amazing. The fact you lent me so much money—I simply want you to have it back. You might need it.” “So you think I can’t make a go of it now, without your help?”

“I just know how hard it can be, Stell. Your money was a godsend to me, and I want to be helpful to you, now. I’d love to give you even more, and I would, but I don’t have it yet.” Silence. “Are you mad with me, Stella?” “Yes. I am actually. I’ve been mad at you for decades, Mum.” “Well. Good. Let’s have it out, then. Why are you mad at me?” “It’s all very well you turning up now. How come we can never find you when we want you?” “I don’t always to recharge my phone.” “You forgot for three months, Mum. How slack is that!” In the dark, Flame bit her lip. She’d hoped no one had noticed her disappearance, least of all her daughters. “Silly me. I’m sorry, Stell. I always love you, whether or not we’re in touch.” Flame crossed her fingers Stella wouldn’t start to probe. Some things were best left in the past. “Come on. What else?” “Well, why couldn’t we ever, ever, ever have a normal family, like everyone one else?” “No family is normal, Stell.” “Don’t play word games with me. Why didn’t we have a father, just one father, and not the series of losers you called your boyfriends?” “That’s a seriously good question, Stell, and if I’d had my way, you would have had your own father and we’d still be together. Sven. I told you about him. Sadly, he had other ideas, but I couldn’t let it ruin my life, so I got on with it the best I could.” “But why couldn’t you keep him?”

“He didn’t want to be ‘kept,’ Stell. I did everything I could to make him want me forever, like it happens in the movies, but there’s only so much control you can have over another person. I thought if I loved him enough, everything else would just fall into place, but ...” Flame still dreamed of Sven from time to time. She’d wake with a start, drowning in hopelessness and sorrow at being abandoned with baby Jeannie and another on the way. Though she’d adored Sven, once she’d realized he was never coming back, her fury ballooned into a tornado that built and twisted and rose in her gut, propelling her into her own future—determined to make her own way without him. “I get it,” Stella said. A crossing sign had just gone green, and they walked side by side. “Oh?” “Damian. I tried to control him, too, I guess. Talk about ‘fail.’” “What happened, Stell?” “I followed him around for years, expecting him to do the right thing. I’m ashamed now. He was never going to get a divorce. What a fool I was!” “Don’t be ashamed for loving someone, Stell. He’s the one who should be ashamed. It’s his loss.” “I guess ... But, Mum; I’m worried I’ve done it again—fallen in love like a total fool.” “Why’s that? “Huntleys.” “Tell me?” “James. James Huntley. The third. He seemed to be so encouraging. Well, not at first. Talk about arrogant!” “What’s happened?”

Flame nodded as Stella explained the Huntleys’ hostility after she’d inadvertently stolen their social media show the very day she’d opened her stall outside their shop; but then how James had been increasingly friendly, bringing her ice cream, taking her to the hospital after an accident, and taking her sightseeing in Kangaroo Valley—even giving her top quality color pencils and a sketchpad for Christmas, to encourage her to draw her designs and enter competitions. “I thought it was all genuine, Mum. He seemed so ...” “Kind?” “More than kind. Keen. Like he actually cared about me.” “Well, are you certain it was Huntleys who complained about your stall?” “I can’t think who else it would be.” “That’s no proof.” “Yeah. No. That’s the problem, Mum. You were always so trusting, so willing to find the best in everyone.” “There are worse things.” “But look at you. What happened with Grady?” “Oh, Grady. He let me down big time.” Flame blew air through her lips and told Stella the whole sorry story, from her misgivings the first time she’d heard him sing at the club and he’d flirted with her with his too-blue eyes, to the day she came home from one of her cleaning jobs to find their new car gone, and the note on the table bequeathing her the caravan. “I should have seen it coming,” Flame said. “But I prefer to believe the best in people. The caravan’s great, by the way. The fling with Grady wasn’t all bad. No relationship ever is.” “You’re so naive, Mum. It’s irritating! I never want to be like you.” Stella’s hand flew to her mouth.

“It’s alright, Stell. It’s what we’re doing. ‘Having it out’ like Jeannie said. I understand your comments, and, as I said, I’d actually already promised myself not to bother with another partner. I don’t pick them well, do I? Even when I’m not picking anyone at all! But what can any of us do but live and love and learn?” Stella gave her half a smile. Flame reached her arm around her and gave her a squeeze, then dropped it. She didn’t want to push her luck. “Now, Stell. I need to ask you some things. I want to find out about evening college.” “Almost every course is online now, Mum. What big idea are you onto now?” Flame decided to ignore the implication that any new venture of hers must fail. “Is ‘online’ difficult?” “‘Online’ is easy. I’m surprised you’re not online already, but you still have your totally ancient phone. That won’t be helping. What do you want to learn?” “The caravan’s on a farm, and the owner, Ross Archer, wants to bring back the old forest. I feel so ignorant when we discuss it. I regret leaving school so young, Stell. Ross tells me it’s easy to learn to use a computer, and I’d like to help him. I need to be able to identify the right seedlings to leave in place and make sure I’m only pulling out the weeds.” Stella snorted. “What’s that about?” “The Celtic harp?” “This is different, isn’t it? I wasn’t really very musical. I can recognize good music, but I’m no musician. At least I tried.” “And the goat cheese?” “How was I to know the goats would eat everything, Stell—even my sarongs while they were still drying on the line. It was the last straw. And they actually

did eat one of my hats!” Was there a trace of fondness in the smile Stella gave her? “I’ll it I’ve made lots of mistakes, but at least I’m still willing to give new things a try.” “I do ire that about you, Mum. Ever optimistic.” “Gotta look on the bright side.” “A platitude for everything.” “When did you become so cynical.” “Realistic, more like.” “Well, either way; you have some savings now. Tell me you’ll accept this money. It’s yours; every single cent; so please don’t insult me by rejecting it. I saved for ages and I’m determined you keep it. I’m not taking it back; that’s for sure.” They walked on in silence, glancing at the ing cars, crossing roads with care as traffic rushed past, until they reached the top of the ridge where the harbor was inky black and the lights on the distant shore a jeweled brooch. Stella stopped and turned to face Flame. Right there, Stella swept her into a hug, her strong arms squeezing the breath out of her. Relief surged through Flame. Hot tears welled. Thank God. Stella broke away. “Okay, Mum. I’m going to accept your money. And I’m going to use it to go to the Hong Kong expo. Thank you. The timing couldn’t be better. But there’s one condition.” “Darling! You’ve made me so happy!” “You haven’t heard the condition.” “Okay. What is it?”

“We pay for a proper new phone for you with some of it first, and we get you online. Email’s easy, and we’ll show you how to look things up, and how to create basic documents. Jeannie will help you. But you’re not to give up this time. You say I never phone you, but you wouldn’t even know. I can’t even leave messages for you on that old thing. We’re getting you a new phone tomorrow. You’ll be amazed what’s possible. It’s like having a little computer in your pocket. Now, I’ve got to get moving. If I’m going to this jewelry fair, I need to leave on Monday. Mum! This is exciting!” That evening, Jeannie set Flame up on a Gmail , and showed her Ross’s farm online, from a photograph from space. Flame pointed out the gullies and farmhouse and the House of Spades, and even the old lemon tree, marveling that such a thing was possible. “Looks like heaven up there, Mum,” Jeannie said. “Can we come up for a holiday some time?” “I’d love it, darling. I’m sure Ross would welcome you all. He’s generous and there’s so much space! You’ll like him. He wants to bring back the bush. I really want to help him. I told you how he rescued my caravan from washing away. He’s been letting me stay on, for nothing.” “Well, you can research anything, Mum. Let’s do it now. You could surprise him, Mum. See? All you have to do is type in ‘bush regeneration NSW north coast’ and see what comes up.” “Oooh. Jeannie, Stella, this is amazing. Listen to this, about the ‘drip-line’. The rainforest birds drop seeds under their perches. All we have to do is keep down the weeds, and the birds and flying foxes and insects will help spread the native seeds. There’d be trees up in the range we wouldn’t even know existed. We can grow more of them just by keeping out the competition.” “Are you keen on this Ross fellow, Mum?” Stella was ironing some clothes and packing her bag. “He’s a good man, if that’s what you’re asking.” “You say that about all your partners.” “We’re not partners,” said Stella. What were they, in fact? “More like

neighbors.” Neighbors who made love like honeymooners, then met again like total strangers, more was the pity. Had she sent him away too quickly tonight? She’d been so keen to give the money safely to Stella. She bit her bottom lip, ing. Maybe she’d be able to message him when she had her fancy new phone. What had Jeannie called it? FaceTime? WhatsApp? SMS? Flame, Jeannie and the girls took the train with Stella to the airport, Lucy with eyes big as saucers and Sienna squirming in the pram. They waved her into the departures area with a few selfies on Flame’s new phone and made their way to the corridor where they could wave again at Stella when she walked past, once she was through customs. Lucy recognized her Auntie first. Flame marveled at Stella’s assurance. Her daughter was literally sparkling, wearing some of her own best sellers. Even better, there was a new layer of confidence about her—excitement crackling around her like electricity—off to sell her wares to the world market. Stella stood and waited while Jeannie showed her how to zoom in to take a better photo of her. Pride swelled in her chest. Her own actions—repaying the money—had made this possible for Stella. Flame had never been overseas herself. That Stella was ready to take on the world was a minor miracle. They all blew kisses. What was Jeannie saying as they gave final waves? “The trouble is, Stella’s keen on James, and James is keen on her—I’m sure of it —so she’s really struggling with the fear that Huntleys are trying to close her down. This trip is perfect timing, Mum. It’s so good of you to pay her back like this, right now. It makes her completely independent. Stella should hold her head high and do her own thing, regardless of how the Huntleys behave.” “And you’ve met this James?” “Swoon-worthy. He and Stella are gorgeous together, Mum. She’s keener on him than she lets on, I reckon. They’re perfect for each other. He’s got this old fashioned business he’s inherited, and she’s full of all the bright ideas he needs to bring it into the future.”

“And he’s nice, you say? You’ve done so well with your Matt, Jeannie. I set such poor examples with all the men in my life. Maybe I taught you by example what kinds of men to avoid!” “‘Void,” said Lucy, pointing at an airplane backing out on the other side of the glass. “No, that’s a ‘plane’,” said Flame. “Pane,” said Lucy. “Some of them were a pain!” said Jeannie. They laughed as they wandered through the terminal shops and back to the train.

Chapter 24

Ross threw himself into cleaning up the suburban garden again, finding it easier than expected. He was stronger than ever from chopping wood, and cutting and poisoning the privet at the farm. He hesitated at Margaux’s roses, overgrown but already budding. He decided to leave them to bloom. They’d be beautiful for the house inspections. The hedges were soon under control, and the lawn more manageable. Anita took half a day of carer’s leave to travel with Ross to see Margaux’s plaque at the crematorium. Somber, Ross placed some late camellias from her garden on the wall of remembrance. They were already wilting. They took some photographs to send to Bethany, who was still fast asleep on UK time. “Thanks for coming with me, Dad,” Anita said, as they sat on the picnic rug overlooking the gardens. They picked at some cheese and biscuits and grapes they’d brought in one of Margaux’s old picnic baskets, though neither had much appetite. “Visiting this place might never get any easier,” Ross said, pinching a fallen leaf and tossing it off their rug. “It’s not what we would have chosen for ourselves, but not all of the changes have been bad. At least not for me. I love the farm.” “I’ve been resisting change,” Anita said. This was new. Until now, Anita had only ever blamed him for the things in her life which weren’t going well. Ross held his breath; waited for her to continue. Anita caught his gaze, solemn. “I saw something last time I was up there with you, Dad.” He nodded for her to continue. Here in this wide open space, it was easier to talk.

“It was a card; a picture,” she said. “I can’t get it out of my head. It was of a crumbling tower. Its foundations were on fire; crumbling, battling flames like daggers, like a dragon’s breath; forces of change, so much stronger than the footings and the tower itself. The flames and the gale were inevitable and unrelenting. I’ve been clinging on, Dad. You’ve said it yourself. I wanted so badly to keep things as they were; as if Mum were still alive; as if she could walk in the door and find me at home, waiting for her.” Ross stayed quiet on the picnic rug beside her, listening. Had Anita ever talked so much? “But wanting something so badly isn’t enough to make it happen,” she said. “I can’t fight this anymore. She’s gone. I need to accept that what I’m doing is no longer working—that ‘home’ is irreparably changed. You know when I ran ahead at the beach last night?” He nodded. “I thought about it. Those winds of change; they’re just like a rip at the beach. No use trying to swim against it. You taught me that years ago, when I was still little. I understand it now, and I want to tell you. I’m letting go, Dad. You would have sold the house anyway, without my blessing, but I want you to know I’m okay with it now. Just do it.” “I’m not doing it to hurt you, Anita.” “I realized last night, as I ran, I’m sick of the house. It’s not the same without you and Mum and Bethany; and she left years ago. I couldn’t tame the garden. I worried all the time I was letting Mum down, but it’s not even my garden. I loved it, but I’m not interested one little bit in gardening, and you’ve seen the state of the house. From when I race out of bed in the morning to when I finish my lesson plans at the end of every evening, I haven’t even had time to open the curtains, let alone vacuum the whole place or do the nice things, like arranging a vase of flowers. Even knowing you were visiting and wanting to make it look good, I barely had time to pick stuff up off the floor. I’m never going to have the time to devote to it like Mum did.” Ross nodded as Anita picked at the bunch of grapes. “But you just turned up and dealt with it. Slash, cut, trim, tidy. Done. Incredible.

I ire your strength, Dad.” “You have it too, Anita; an inner strength—your swimming training when you were at school, getting your degree, keeping your job.” “I’m done with u my energy to prop up the past. And I need to tell you something, Dad.” “I’m listening, Neetie.” “All those boxes in your study?” She spoke quickly, a confession. “It’s online shopping and I don’t actually need any of it. I don’t even have time to open the boxes. How depressing is that! But I see it now for what it was. Searching for things online helped me escape the loneliness. It filled in hours and hours every night. I didn’t always buy, but I liked to look. I’m going to return those things; get some money back. I need to get busy and find somewhere else to stay.” “You can come up and stay with me.” “No. You were right. I need to make my own decisions; step up and claim my own future. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? I’m grown up now. I can do exactly what I want.” “You can. And what will you do?” Anita sat straighter. “It scares me to tell you this, Dad. I want to resign. I know I’m lucky to have a good job in a good school, and you said you were proud of me when I graduated, but I never wanted to be a teacher—not in a classroom, anyway. The house is convenient for my current job, but ...” “... if you don’t like your job...” “No. Maybe I’ll go and stay with Bethany—find a job teaching English in Europe. When I really started thinking about it, after the swim and run last night, I got excited. I could go absolutely anywhere—kayaking in Indonesia, or mountain climbing in Nepal. Plenty of people go travelling in South America. I could learn Spanish. I could teach at American summer camps, or go inland to Broken Hill, and see what’s out there. When I set myself free, anything could

happen.” “It does. I know. I never thought I would be investing in soil sequestration at my age.” “What’s that?” “A bit of a fancy name for watching the grass grow,” Ross said, laughing. “So are you sure about this? I want you to be happy, Neetie. When will we put the house on the market?” “Now. Really. Now I’m going with these winds of change, now I’m not scared of the tower crumbling, I can’t wait to resign. I don’t want to be unfair about it. I’ll give good notice at my school; until the end of the semester. There’ll be someone who really wants my job; who’ll be able to make the most of it.” “This ‘crumbling tower’ ... You’ll stay safe?” “Of course. It’s a beautiful world, and I’ve seen just the tiniest fraction of it. I won’t endanger myself, but what I was doing before wasn’t really living.” Ross clapped an arm around Anita and squeezed her again. “I’m so proud of you, Neetie. You’re going to dive into it, Neetie; dive back into life!” “I am!” Anita stood and swept up the picnic basket. It swung on her arm as she set off across the grass towards the car, a spring in her step. As Ross shook the rug and rolled it up, he marveled at the change in his difficult daughter. That evening, they phoned Bethany. Ross was astonished Anita had meant every word of what she’d said. She asked her sister how soon she could come and visit. They would plot a tour of Europe together when Bethany finished her thesis. “How soon will you sell, Dad?” Bethany asked. A couple of days of cleaning and tidying, and the house could be opened for inspection.

If Anita felt the winds of change, he felt them too. He wanted nothing more than to sweep past Waverley, find Flame, and take her north with him, back to the farm. But would she want to accompany him? He hadn’t heard from her. Once the “for sale” sign was in the front yard, he swallowed his pride and phoned her. Oddly, her number had been disconnected. Was she hiding from him? Had their love making been some kind of farewell present? Nothing had been right between them since he’d dropped her off at the railway station. In the pit of his stomach, an ache began. For all he’d told Anita about the old cliché—how it was better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all—he wasn’t ready to lose Flame so soon after losing Margaux. The memory of their love making at Taree was a gift, a promise of better times, together. His heart raced at the prospect. Ross tried Flame’s number again. Again it failed to ring through. No matter. He’d head north without her. He took a turn past the lamp post in Waverley where he’d last seen Flame, on the off chance she’d be there, but apart from a garbage truck and a reluctant teenager slowly walking a dog, eyes glued to his phone, the street was empty. Ross headed for the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Pacific Highway, some clippings from Margaux’s garden in a bucket in the back, for old time’s sake. Pushing north, he was more than ready for the fresh air of his farm. If Flame was making herself scarce, there was nothing he could do about it. For all he knew, she was already back there in her caravan, stitching patchwork quilts, and if not, she’d surely turn up some time. And if Taree held significance for him now as he zoomed past the turn off, he could only hope Flame felt the same way.

Chapter 25

On the north coast bus, Flame barely took in the view. She stared at her new phone hour after hour, absorbing information about native plants and introduced species. It was war out there, seedlings and roots vying for sunshine, water and nutrients at every moment. Deep in an article about the dense cover and shallow root systems of camphor laurels crowding out other plants to form a monoculture, she jumped when a message from Jeannie popped onto her screen. “How’s your new phone, Mum?” Flame fiddled, then fired back some emojis; a thumbs up, a green tick, a rainbow, and a silly smile; and then worked out how to send Stella some “good luck” crossed fingers. Then Jeannie pinged her some fresh photos of Lucy and Sienna. It was a miracle, this phone. Maybe if she’d had one back when Sven had been around she could have coaxed him back into their lives with cute pictures of his daughters by showing him what he was missing. No. Bad plan. Just as well telephones were in red boxes and had to be fed coins, always scarce around Jeannie. More to the point, she had no number for Sven in Sweden. “Just got a sale,” Stella texted. “Stunning, Stell!” Flame shot back. “So proud of you! Take on the world!” When the battery ran out, Flame snoozed until Coffs Harbour, visions of serrated leaves and seed pods drifting in front of her eyes as she revised her new knowledge of native species and weeds. Wait till she told Ross all she’d discovered! She called in at Becca’s and asked her for empty hair dye bottles. “What are you up to, Flame? How’s the family?” “Never better, thanks, Becca. How’re the boys? Can you show me your throw-

out pile, please? I need some of those old plastic bottles. How many of these have you tossed out over the years? Turns out they’re just right for poisoning privet and other invasive exotics.” “You’re talking another language, Flame. What’s up?” “Just saving the planet. Gotto go.” Two hundred dollars was burning a hole in Flame’s pocket, forced on her by Stella at the airport. She recalled their conversation, both glowing with the success of their reconciliation. “Honestly, Mum,” Stella had said, giving her a hug. “I’ll be okay. I can’t believe how much money you’ve given me. Did I actually lend you all of that? It sure added up! Your turning up like this and bringing it back to me has been like the savings plan I never had. I can spare this. Go on. Maybe it will encourage you to keep saving some for yourself next time; for your own special project.” The hardware store sold Flame a leather apron, new secateurs, a deep bulb spade, a sharp knife, strong gloves and weed killer. Flame caught the school bus up the hill to Rainbow Valley, amazed at how much more she understood about the bush and rainforest surrounding her. Weeds clustered in patches of sunshine where the canopy had been broken by development, by driveways and home sites. Great swathes of lantana, privet and camphor laurels clogged up the waterways, choking out native growth. She marveled at how blind she’d been, believing all greenery was good for the planet, blind to the fight for survival the native growth had been losing for more than 200 years. But now? She would help Ross achieve his dream. Freed of her worries about Stella, enriched by her reunion with Jeannie and Matt and the girls, Flame left the bus and stepped lightly along the dirt road, breathing in deeply the fragrance of fresh air and sunshine, eager to settle back into her caravan and explore the progress of the orchard. She wondered whether Ross was back from Sydney. It was a shame he hadn’t ed her to offer her a lift home, but they hadn’t

exactly made an arrangement. They were independent adults, despite their intimacy, despite the fact she missed him. A lot. She pushed back her shoulders under the pack, proud of what she’d learned in such a short time, about the land and the plants on his property, and the dangers the weeds in the watercourses posed to the remnant bushland downstream. Would he be home yet? He was. At least his car was there—and so was a large horse float. Odd. Flame shrugged, then stashed her backpack in the caravan, put away her groceries and peered out the window. There was no sign of Ross. That was alright. What Ross did was technically none of her business, and she was on fire to try out her new knowledge. After a long drink of water, she hauled on her oldest clothes to protect her arms and legs, strapped on her new apron, adjusted the straps, took the tags off her implements and tucked them into their pouches where she could easily reach them. She took one of Becca’s old bottles, rinsed it carefully, measured out some weed killer, and diluted it according to the instructions on the label. Anything poisonous made her cautious. The last thing she wanted was to poison Ross’s land. She rinsed her hands and bucket. All she needed now was a large bag. Some old stock feed bags hung from a nail in the House of Spades. She hauled down a couple, folded them and slipped them under her belt. She chose her widest brimmed hat and headed out, first to the orchard, to see how much the Davidson Plum plants had grown. Her goal to start on a gully on the other side of the home paddock. She’d collected kindling here for Ross in the past, and had determined it was a good place to start, ing how privet and lantana had taken hold on the edge of the stand of native trees and bushes. After the confines of the city, it was wonderful to slip on her red boots and stride out into the vast green spaces of the valley. Part of her ached to leave little Lucy and Sienna, but she was going to ask Ross if they could visit her here some time; and, in a few months, she’d arrange for more time off and go south again to Sydney.

Messages continued to come through from Stella, and her successes in Hong Kong could not have made her more proud. She’d achieved what she set out to do, and more. While she and her youngest daughter may not be “besties” yet, as Stella put it, hopefully they would at least remain on “texting” . The grass was higher than she’d ever seen it, pulsating with the lush green of late spring; and the shade of the gully trees, welcome. The lantana had also sprouted, and she made quick progress, pulling down brittle green shoots from the lower branches of some of the established native trees, creating a stack of the spiky broken twigs. Although Ross had mentioned he’d slashed some of the sections of his land with the tractor, he hadn’t started on this part. Here, the weed infestation was minor, a perfect place for her to start, on the edges of healthy forest where her work would make a rapid difference. This lantana was so new she could even pull it out by its roots, and she pressed the fresh dirt down firmly with her boots and covered it with some leaf litter to discourage new weeds from sprouting. A dribble of perspiration ran down her forehead and she took off her hat and fanned herself with it, placing it on top of the pile of sticks. At least she was working in some shade. Now for the privet, a tougher challenge. Pulling out her new secateurs and sliding the catch across with her thumb, Flame felt like a soldier heading into battle, off to fight a worthy cause. While the smaller branches fell quickly, the thicker stumps were more of a challenge. She’d bring a mattock next time, and try levering out their roots, or ask Ross to bring the tractor and a chain, but the younger plants were still supple enough for her to cut. Quickly she painted the fresh, disc-like surfaces with the weed killer, careful not to spill a drop, confident each errant plant would absorb the liquid and die, its roots eventually rotting, to nourish the other plants, while keeping the soil in place. She wondered if Ross had heard of the Bradley sisters, Joan and Eileen. She’d read about them on her phone. While Flame was a baby, they’d weeded remnant bushland at Bradleys Head on the edge of Sydney Harbour, pioneering successful bush regeneration. As she kneeled and cut and hauled and planted, grateful to be making a difference, however small, Flame hummed to herself and thought of the sisters’

satisfaction as they returned to their increasingly healthy patch of Australian bush, so close to where May Gibbs had made the gum trees and banksias and wattle famous in the 1920s with her treasured book Snugglepot and Cuddlepie— about fairy babies who wore gum blossom hats. Flame rocked back on her haunches, thirstier than ever. How did the Bradley sisters work out when it was time to stop? She jumped as two heads peered down at her from the edge of the paddock. “Hello?” Ross’s voice. He was with someone, the bright sun behind them obscuring details. Flame rose from her squatting position, rubbed her back and scrambled up the side of the embankment, increasingly conscious of her old clothes. Ross’s eyes widened as she approached. Beside him was Treenie, immaculate in jodhpurs and a white linen shirt, her long blonde hair in some kind of relaxed but classy French twist, eyelashes lowered in derision. The look Treenie gave Ross was straight out of Mean Girls and Queen Bees and Wannabes. “Flame, Treenie,” he said. “Ah yes, trivia night,” said Treenie, studying her nails as if they were more important than the encounter. She took a step back and turned away from Flame. Ross stared at Flame’s forehead, incredulous, a half smile on his face. He stepped forwards and gently pulled a long sprig of lantana out of her hair. She caught his eye and laughed at herself. “I must look a fright,” she said. Something turned in her heart. It was wonderful to be with Ross again and the touch of his fingers in her hair? Heavenly. “We did wonder if Ross had a runaway scarecrow,” said Treenie, her tone superior. Though she was still below paddock level, Flame pulled herself up to full height.

“Resident bush regenerator, actually,” she said proudly, patting her new apron. If Ross was impressed, Treenie was not. She completely ignored her, turned away again and clicked with her tongue. “Titan!” Treenie called. “Oh no!” said Flame, spotting a white horse. “You can’t.” “What’s up?” said Ross. “You can’t have horses.” “I beg your pardon,” said Treenie. “This is Ross’s land, not yours.” “Not yours, either,” said Flame. She crested the ridge, forcing Treenie to take a few steps backwards to make way for her. “In fact, none of us owns this land— except the Bundjalung people—but it’s up to us all to take care of it. Didn’t you know Ross is rewilding his farm, bringing back the native vegetation?” “Oh, is he just, Flash? And when did you become an expert on Ross’s priorities? And as for trying to tell me who owns this land, you do realize you’re talking to an estate agent? You wouldn’t have half a clue about land titles up here. Now, don’t let us keep you from your weeding.” Treenie gestured at the whole valley. “Sorry we can’t stay for a longer chat. Now, Ross, you were telling me about the sale.” And Treenie took Ross’s arm and began to pull him back to the farmhouse. Did she overhear Treenie saying “that woman is laughable, Ross?” She knew no good came of eavesdropping, but she couldn’t help it. Her ears caught on one word that chilled her to the bone. Were Ross and Treenie talking about a “sale”?

Chapter 26

A“sale?” Was Ross selling up—to Treenie? Flame’s blood ran cold. Then it boiled, and she ran ahead, turned and confronted them, hands on her hips. “You’re not keeping horses here, Ross,” she said, staring from Treenie to Ross. “They spot graze and the soil washes away. Their manure puts too many nutrients in the waterways.” “I really need to get going, now, if you’ll excuse me, Ross,” said Treenie, breezing past Flame. “I’ll be in touch.” Did she wink at Ross? Ross held up his hands, conciliatory. Flame’s heart pumped hard enough to burst. Was she as foolish as Treenie had made her out to be? She replayed the exchange in her mind. Had she insulted Ross? No. She’d only spoken the truth. As Treenie’s engine ignited behind her at the farmhouse, Flame saw Ross’s eyes flick to follow her. Only as the roar of Treenie’s car and float faded did Ross’s arms drop to his sides. Had she completely misread him? Were Ross and Treenie an item? “Don’t mind Treenie,” he said. Flame’s pulse roared in her ears. Over Ross’s shoulder, she saw two more horses. He turned and followed her gaze. “You weren’t wrong about the horses, but there’s plenty of grass. It’s just for a little while, to help Treenie out.” What did Ross owe Treenie? Would she be handling his sale? He stepped forward and raised a hand. What was this? “Sorry,” he said, with a slight smile as he pulled another twig out of her hair, and she turned away, annoyed.

What had Treenie called her? “Scarecrow.” A savage burst of frustration seized her. How could she have possibly hoped for more of Ross? What kind of a fool was she? So, Ross was selling up. She forced herself to turn back to him, stare into his eyes, take a deep breath and step backwards, away from him. Was this beautiful man going to sell? That would be right. She’d committed herself to saving the place and bringing back the bush with him, and all he wanted to do was sell it! She’d been wrong to let herself grow so fond of him. Would she never learn the lessons of all her previous failed relationships? Falling in love led to pain. She must stay solo—stay strong. It was the only way. She mustered all her strength to stifle the little voice of hope that Ross might be different. Didn’t she always think the best of them when she was in love? And wasn’t she always proved wrong? She would just have to make a fresh start again. She’d done it before. For now, what mattered was to retain any shred of dignity she could muster. As soon as she was back in her caravan, she washed her face with cold water, the shock of it welcome on her hot cheeks. She ripped off the long sleeves and tros. They protected her from lantana scratches, but nothing could protect her heart—ever hopeful, ever foolish, too often broken. Where was the Japanese gold that could heal and seal her heart forever? She sponged herself in an effort to cool down as she swallowed her disappointment. Feeling sorry for herself was a dumb idea. She found a soft old sarong, twisted the ends and tied them around her neck, then ran herself another long cool glass of water and forced herself to take some sips. There was no point growing sentimental. If Ross was selling up, she simply must move again, even if she’d grown to love this valley. All her life she’d moved house happily. What was this sudden reluctance to do it again? Ross had been kind to let her stay rent free, but she should have realized it couldn’t last. The caravan had allowed her to make good on her plan to save the

money she owed Stella and pay it back. Her goal was accomplished. Why hang around? A caravan in the tool shed was hardly a beautiful feature if he was selling the place, and if she was making a fresh start; why burden herself with something so large she couldn’t even transport it herself? She’d miss her caravan, but why tie herself down? Maybe it was better just to let it go and see what other possibilities might open up. Maybe she could still earn her keep as a bush regenerator. There was certainly no shortage of weeds in the valley, or in the whole of Australia for that matter, or even the world. As she’d flicked through her phone, she’d seen something about Willing Workers on Organic Farms; Woofers. Someone, somewhere would welcome her new skills. She’d search online this evening. In fact, hadn’t Jeannie shown her something about how to sell things on Facebook? She’d pop an ad up for the van while she was at it, and see what happened. She settled onto her caravan settee and reached for the patchwork quilt she was sewing for Ross. She might as well finish the thing and hand it over before she moved on. She frowned at it as she spread it out. It was coming along, in all the greens of the valley, with the grey of the ancient rocks, a blue, blue sky and flashes of dark denim weaving in and out at the foot—the creek. She rustled through her bag of scraps and pulled out a run of tiny stars. They were a bit symmetrical, but this was art, so she bit off a strand of black thread and began to add it at the top, between some tree tops, humming softly. The rhythm of the old sewing machine calmed her, but it wasn’t long before her mind turned to Treenie and the horses. Treenie Lewis, be damned! Flame was no scarecrow and she wouldn’t be bullied. It hurt that Ross was blind to Treenie’s faults, but he was only human. Thank goodness she was so good at creating a fresh path for her future. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to move, and probably wouldn’t be the last. She sighed. She’d had such grand plans for this valley, and she had so much to offer Ross, now she was learning more about bringing back the bush. She’d even nursed the idea of permanently switching her work from indoors to outdoors, giving up the cleaning and devoting herself to weeding. It wasn’t a silly idea.

She loved it out there in the bush, with the scurrying lizards and the birds in the treetops, swooping through the dappled shade. Saving a gully and the precious Australian bush from the choke of weeds was a real accomplishment, whereas cleaning up one hotel room after another was repetitive. It had only ever been about the pay. Even the fragrance of the soil was rewarding, with all those tiny microbes doing their invisible thing, exchanging nutrients between decaying leaves and the hungry roots of growing trees and vines. This new world fascinated her. Suddenly, she reached for her old hot pink pair of shorts. She ripped off a back pocket and plonked it right in the middle of the composition. This would become her caravan on the canvas of the quilt. Maybe she was taking liberties with the color—her caravan was actually a pale cream—but she’d be damned if she’d let Ross sleep with Treenie Lewis in his great big bed and not her. On impulse, she rose from her sewing, peered into her cupboard and pulled out some cake ingredients. Let the battle for Ross Archer begin! She threw open her door to welcome the breeze and nearly banged it into a startled Ross who stood there, holding her hat. “You left this in the gully,” he said. “Oh. Thank you.” There he was, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, but she could hardly invite him in, with his gift quilt full of pins and half finished on the table behind her. “You’re doing a great job out there,” he said. “Plenty more to do,” she said. What was the point in this conversation if he was just going to sell up? “You seem to have learned quite a lot about the land since I saw you last.” “I’ve finally gone online,” she said. “The girls showed me how. I’ve applied to do an online course on bush regen.” “Fantastic, Flame. Congratulations.” He still stood there awkwardly.

Was he patronizing her; trying to make her feel better now he was selling out and moving on? Did he guess how fond of him she’d become? More than fond. If only things had been different. She longed to grab his hands and lead him up her stairs and into her space. Taller than Grady, he’d have to stoop to enter. Yes. Forget being careful. Life was for living, wasn’t it? “Well. Don’t let me interrupt you,” Ross said, stepping backwards. Disappointment plunged her hopes to the soles of her feet. She’d missed her chance. And now? Keep it neutral. That was what was required. “Thanks for my hat,” she said. “Thanks for your work.” “Thanks for letting me stay here, Ross. I owe you.” Flame spoke from the heart, but he backed away with a strange salute. Was that a “sorry, I’m selling up now I’ve slept with you, Flame, but I’m actually more interested in Treenie” kind of wave? She stared after him, returning his wave, and then turned back to her cake making. She might as well finish the thing. She’d just broken three eggs into the mix when Jeannie phoned. “Jeannie, my darling!” Flame was thrilled with the distraction. If she focused on her family she could ignore the imprint of Ross at her door, his head and shoulders blocking out the paddocks and ridges behind him; the sound of his voice, and the lingering scent of him, essence of Ross—like something missing from her life. “Mum! Did you get back safely?” “No problem, Jeannie.” A total change of subject. What was it she wanted to tell Jeannie? “I just have to thank you and Stell again for getting me online. I can’t believe this little phone. There’s a whole world inside it. I love being connected.” “Good, isn’t it? I use it all the time when I run into problems with the girls, like what to do if they’re crying too much, or why they’re being particularly difficult.

Only this morning I was looking up twenty tips to tackle teething. I’d be lost without it. I have no idea how you managed to raise us without it, Mum.” “Well, it wasn’t always easy, but you were no trouble. We were all young together, I guess.” “You make it sound easy.” “I loved you, and maybe life was simpler back then. Your childhood is all in the past now anyway, and here you are managing Stella’s online sales and bringing up your own beautiful girls, and now I almost feel like you’re bringing up me, too. I can’t believe how much I’ve learned on this tiny phone. I’ve signed up for an online TAFE course in bush regeneration, and I even found out about a local group meeting at the local school hall tomorrow evening. I never would have known about any of it if you hadn’t given me this phone, so thank you. Any news from Stella?” “She’s sold some more of her work, Mum! I knew she’d impress those buyers. She was always international standard, my quality sister. Stellar Designs is a success. She’ll be home next week.” “That’s wonderful, Jeannie.” Flame didn’t add she would have liked to hear it from Stella herself. Jeannie spoke into the silence. “Don’t worry, Mum. She’ll come round. She’s awfully busy from what I understand; on her feet all day, and networking at night, too, trying to meet all the great international company reps. She’s trying to wrangle an invitation to Antwerp.” “Antwerp?” “International diamond market. Look it up. Mum, here’s Lucy. It’s Grandma.” “Hello, my Lucy, my darling. How are you?” “Granma!” “Lucy!”

A howl in the background brought Jeannie back. “Sienna’s just bumped her head. She’s alright but I’ve got to go.” “Love from me!” The following afternoon, after work, Flame threw on some fresh clothes and set off along the road for the school hall as the last of twilight faded and the songs of the crickets pulsated in the darkness. There were only about seven people there, including the guest speaker, in his forties, and a bushcare coordinator from the council who introduced him; a sincere sort of fellow with a PowerPoint presentation which went on far too long. While most of the talk was interesting, Flame battled to stay awake. She’d worked since first thing in the morning. She smiled and stood up and headed for the door, just as the speaker asked if there were any questions. At the back, she was stunned to see Ross. He must have snuck in after the lights went off. Flame stared at him and rapidly slipped back to her seat, heart pounding. She shot up her hand. “In your opinion, how much damage can horses do to a paddock?” she asked. “They’re not great, if that’s what you’re asking.” Flame nodded vigorously. “Their teeth pull the grass out by the roots, causing soil erosion, and they’re particularly destructive near waterways.” “Why, please?” “Gardeners use horse manure as a fertilizer because it’s particularly potent. While it’s great for cottage gardens, roses and other exotic plants, it’s too strong for our native plants, so it tends to encourage weeds, and has been shown to cause eutrophication in waterways.” “Sorry, what’s ‘eutro...?”

“Eutrophication involves the growth of algal blooms, robbing the water of oxygen and causing fish to die.” “Native fish?” “Yes.” “I’ve read that horses are bad news for dams, too,” she said. “Is it true, please?” “Yes, that’s right. Their hoofs compound the soil at the water’s edge, preventing anything else from growing.” “So in your opinion, if you had a local property you wanted to regenerate—say an old farm with some gullies and creek front and a dam—you wouldn’t bring horses onto it if you could help it.” “No, I wouldn’t.” “Thank you.” Flame rose again to take her leave, giving Ross a meaningful stare as she ed him. His arms were crossed. Was there a glint of amusement as he met her eye? Well, he couldn’t joke his way out of this. It was a serious matter. “Happy now?” he asked, as he rose and followed her out, his voice intimately low, for her ears only. “No,” she said. It was only the truth. She liked Ross, but his arrangement with Treenie was wrong. “I’m not happy about Treenie’s horses.” “I worked that out. Would you like a lift, Flame?” She turned and faced him, eyes flashing. “Flame,” said Ross, observing her. “Yes?” “I sense you’re unhappy with me.” “I just don’t understand why you’re letting that woman walk all over your dreams.”

“She’s hardly ...” “But she is. You want to rewild your farm. You told me so yourself, and I believed you.” “Stella, it’s irable the way you’ve learned so much about bush regeneration in such a short time—I’m impressed, honestly—but...” “But the whole environmental trip doesn’t mean anything to you anymore? It’s because you’re selling up, isn’t it? Don’t worry. I’ve made plans to get my caravan off your property. I should have done it ages ago. It’s an eyesore. It’s hardly a selling feature, but I’m just disappointed, Ross. I thought you really believed in bringing back the bush. You do, don’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here tonight?” “If you’d let me get a word in edgeways...” Ross was trim in his ironed shirt and chinos, clean shaven, with brown shoes and a matching belt; like a model out of a catalogue. Add a Stetson and he could look like a Wyoming horse rancher. She caught a whiff of cologne. Yum. Damn the man. “Well?” “Firstly, if I want to give Treenie a break and let her leave her horses with me for a little while, what’s it to you?” “Only that it’s counter to what you said you wanted to achieve. You’re right I’ve learned a lot about it. And I actually want to help you—to thank you for letting me stay on your land rent free for so long. And the more I discover, the more I care about the land and the birds and marsupials and dragonflies and frogs—the whole intricate network. Once your eyes are opened to all the destruction humans cause, it’s hard to ignore it. So I got serious. How wonderful to the fight to save the planet, to use my skills and time and energy for something bigger than myself. Ross, I truly thought you felt the same way.” “Hey, don’t write me off just yet. So, do your new values allow you to accept a lift in a petrol fuelled car?” She was tired. She’d love one. “I can compromise occasionally.”

“Be my guest.” Being in the enger seat brought back good memories for Flame; memories of their trip south; the stops they’d made together; Ross’s kindness in helping her reconcile the loss of her parents; his fine companionship on the beach; and their tenderness at the hotel. He’d been a complete gentleman, not to mention a fabulous lover. She’d been the one to make the first move, and then... As they did up their seatbelts, they accidentally bumped elbows. Flame whipped her arm back to her side as if branded. She was branded. By Ross Archer. She itted it to herself. Not for the first time she noticed how attractive he could be. But they were discussing his farm, not sex, though her cheeks burned in the dark at the thought of it. “I’m glad to have this opportunity to speak with you, Ross.” “This is very formal.” “I was going to ask you, actually, Ross, whether I could use your farm as a case study. I’ve enrolled in an online course in bush regeneration. I want to document what I achieve over a year or so. Oh, don’t worry. I don’t need to live there to do it. I can hitch or walk up to your farm to carry on the work. But since you’re selling up...” “Hang on a minute. You think I’m selling? I am selling—my Sydney place, not the farm. I’m committed to the farm. So in fact, your caravan can stay.” “My caravan ...” “And you. You, too. You’re welcome to stay, if you want.” “’If I want.’ What do you want?” “I want you to stay.” “And bring back the bush.” “Dammit, Flame. I do. Even though you’re giving me a hard time.” “But when did you decide to go in for horses, Ross? Did being in Sydney change

your mind? Or has Treenie done some kind of deal with you?” “What is it with you and Treenie, Flame? Three horses are hardly going to destroy my property.” “Why stop at three? Treenie can be very persuasive.” Ross pulled up outside the gate. As Flame moved to jump out and open it, he placed his hand on her arm. His touch. “Wait. Is it the horses you don’t like, or is it Treenie?” “It’s not for me to say, Ross. You’re a grown man. You’ll pick and choose your friends and that’s fair enough. Just because she called me a ‘scarecrow’...” Ross’s laughter filled the car. She would have been glad he was happy, if it hadn’t been at her expense. “You’re not jealous of Treenie, are you, Flame?” “Am I jealous of Treenie? Would I like to be running a successful real estate business and having affairs with powerful men all about town? No, not really. I like my life. Most of it, anyway.” “But you don’t like her visiting me.” Flame shifted uncomfortably. “Well. You’re right, Ross. I don’t like her interest in you one little bit. I don’t like her influence on you. She’s already twisted your arm about the horses. What next?” “There’s plenty of grass there for three horses, Flame.” “It’s not creative.” “Since when did farming have to be creative?” “Everything has to be creative, Ross. We’re facing the biggest challenge in the history of the planet. I’m surprised you’re not taking it seriously. This is no time to turn away. Besides, I have bigger plans for your grass.”

“Okay. Intriguing. I promise I won’t accept any more of Treenie’s horses.” “Oh. Well, that’s great.” She nodded at him through the car window, gorgeous man. Time to back away, while she could still control herself. “Thank you very much for the lift.” If he waited and watched her before rolling the car forwards to the farmhouse, she didn’t look back. It would have been too easy to follow him through his back door and show him how she really felt. The sooner she moved out, the better.

Chapter 27

As Ross parked the car and entered the farmhouse, he wished he’d invited Flame in for a chat. What had she said about having plans for his grass? It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask her, but she’d already backed away, heading for the House of Spades in the darkness, so proud, so alone. His mood was surprisingly flat as he prepared for bed. Was Flame right to be angry with him? Was he complacent about his responsibilities as a landowner? That evening, he read up on the impact of horses on farmland and had to conclude she had some points. He’d Treenie and set a date for their removal. Next morning, he saw Flame out in the paddock just after dawn. The sky was ablaze as she stooped and gathered swathes of ... his grass! This woman had energy to burn. It reminded him of all the mornings he’d awoken to piles of kindling on his steps; but this time she walked down the road towards town with the whole bundle, the seed tips stacked high over her shoulder and swaying with each step. What was she up to now? ... Treenie agreed to meet Ross in town next day to discuss their agistment arrangement, insisting she host him for lunch at the golf club where she was a member. She greeted him inside the entrance, leaping up from a plush chair to grab his arm and escort him into Chincogan, the silver service restaurant where the waiters were discreet and the white tablecloths matched her linen suit. She’d gone to some trouble with her makeup, Ross noted, and large silver bangles accentuated her elegant wrists. A silk scarf was draped artfully around her neck. “This place is over the top, Treenie,” said Ross. “Shhh,” she said. “Every man deserves spoiling sometimes.”

“Not when I’m about to renege on our arrangement with your horses.” “Oh? Surely not. Let’s work out something mutually agreeable. Champagne? Prosecco? Oysters?” “What are we celebrating? Have you had another great sale?” “Friday? Us?” Ross shifted as uncomfortably as an insect whose wing had touched a strand of spider web. Was it too late to extricate himself from this lunch? Probably. “Let’s just celebrate ‘Friday,’ Treenie. I’m not interested in a relationship right now.” “Oh, of course not. How insensitive of me. How’s my Titan settling in?” Treenie signaled to the waiter and ordered Prosecco and oysters. “For mains, the fish is good here, especially the trout,” she said. “You must try it with the New Zealand Chablis. Have you been to the South Island, Ross?” “Freshwater trout?” When she nodded, Ross’s mind flashed to the comment about horses spoiling waterways. “I’ll have the chickpea and quinoa salad, please. How many horses do you have, Treenie?” “About a dozen at any one time. It’s a hobby, you know. I don’t make money from them, by the time I pay the vet’s fees, extra oats and hay, and upkeep on the float, but you have to agree they look magnificent on the land.” “So they’re decoration?” “You make me sound so extravagant, Ross!” She clipped him on the wrist with her napkin and winked, and he hid his hands under the table. “Or very large pets?” Treenie laughed as she tapped her long-stemmed glass against his.

“I love a man with a sense of humor.” The crescent of lipstick she left on the flute was distracting. What was he doing here? “About the horses, Treenie.” “Yes. Let’s go for a ride together. How about tomorrow? Do you ride? Titan’s spirited. Tillie’s a darling. They like each other. We’d love to explore your boundaries. Have you ever seen your land on horseback? It’s one of life’s pleasures. I have spare saddles. Let’s do this, Ross.” “We’ll see.” How quickly could he extricate himself? In the old days he could have claimed he had another meeting and it wouldn’t have been a lie. He’d never had time for long lunches. Why couldn’t he just relax and enjoy this? As the alcohol sloshed around his empty stomach, he fought to recall his purpose. “The reason I wanted to meet you was to make it clear the horses can’t stay, Treenie.” “Then you must come riding with me, while they’re still up there in Rainbow Valley. It makes perfect sense. Now, tell me about yourself. What are your plans for your land, Ross? You must have plans; a man of the world like yourself.” “I actually do want to bring back the forest, Treenie.” Gazing at the manicured golf course, even to himself he felt like a fraud. Did he really believe such a thing was possible? “Such a lovely dream, Ross.” She shook her head as she topped up their glasses. “I must enlighten you. We have so many environmentalists moving in from Sydney and Melbourne, all loved up about the planet. A few seasons in and they’re ing me, giving up, wanting to subdivide, or run cattle to make a profit, totally tired of the green dream. That’s why I offered you my horses.” Ross left his glass on the table and leaned back. Was she right? “Don’t get me wrong, Ross. I’m all for the planet. Who wouldn’t be? We live here!” She laughed at her own joke. “But those ideas seem so much easier in principle than in practice. You saw Flash last week, battling it out, solving global warming one twig at a time. It’s all a bit impossible. Your farm. There’s a lot of land there, granted, but who’s to say subdividing it and putting in suburban gardens isn’t a better solution in the long run?”

The lunch ed pleasantly enough, Treenie displaying her charms and Ross retaining a polite distance. He had to ire her tenacity. He dashed ahead to the till. “Ross, it was my shout today,” she said, pouting. “I can’t, Treenie. I’m an old fashioned man.” “A gentleman, indeed. How rare. Well thank you, but don’t imagine I’ll forget. Now I owe you double.” “How about you repay me by collecting your horses, as we’ve discussed.” “Yes, well.” At the till, Ross noticed the flower arrangement—tiny white roses with an unusual fill of soft green tresses, bejeweled with minuscule seed pods, barely formed. He did a double take as he collected his card from the maître di. Was the wine impairing his judgment? Or was that humble grass in the vase? A few days later, Treenie turned up at Ross’s farmhouse door in tight cream jodhpurs and a crisp shirt as white as her wide smile with a cleavage deeper than a deforested gully. She jangled a tangle of bits and bridles. “Coffee?” Ross had been expecting her, though not like this; all dressed up for a ride. “Love some. Thank you! You must have read my mind, Ross. Black. No sugar— It’s the best thing before a ride. Except for port of course, though I didn’t plan a fox hunt today.” Her laughter tinkled as she noted her own joke. A knock on the door interrupted the start of his refusal. Flame. “Cake?” she said, her offering held out in front. “Definitely,” said Ross. “This cake is good, Treenie. Recommended.” “Flash! How sweet.” He forced his smile into neutral. The only flash was the clash of their expressions as they sized each other up.

Flame helped herself to the milk, plenty of sugar, a wide knife and some plates for the cake. Was she showing off her familiarity with his kitchen? Ross bit his cheek to prevent a smile. “Treenie’s come to collect the horses,” said Ross. “After we ride the boundaries,” said Treenie. “Great day for it. I love this part of the week, totally free of commitments; just the horses and the open air, out there enjoying ourselves. I’m so glad you’re ing me, Ross. Sorry I only brought two saddles, Flash. You probably don’t ride, anyway.” Flame’s eyes were narrow as she sought Ross’s. He smiled. “Now, Treenie,” he said. “This ride was entirely your idea, and I haven’t agreed to it. I’ve come off enough horses in my time to understand that an old codger like me is better off on his own two pins.” “Oh come now, a man like you; in your prime. You’re not afraid are you, Ross? Live a little. Titan’s a pussy cat, and Tilly only ever walks these days. At least let’s saddle up so you get a feel for it. You haven’t lived until you’ve ridden your own boundaries.” Ross merely smiled at her. “How’s your week been, Flame?” he said. “What’s in this cake?” said Treenie. “It’s very ... unusual.” “This one? I’d give you the recipe, but I make it up as I go along. Tinned pineapple, a couple of ripe bananas, shredded coconut, honey and a pile of self raising flour, and a bit of yoghurt and some lemon zest and nutmeg.” Flame cut another large slice and pushed it across to Ross. “Hmmmm,” said Treenie, frowning. “Not for me. Trim and terrific. That’s my motto.” Flame nearly choked on a crumb, and then cleared her throat. “I had a great week, thank you, Ross. The markets were sensational yesterday. I had a real win. In fact, this is yours.” She reached into her back pocket and

pulled out some money. Two one hundred dollar bills quivered on the table between them. Treenie sat back and frowned. “What’s this?” said Ross. “I’ve introduced a new line, but technically it’s yours, and it’s selling like hot cakes.” “Tell us.” “All that long grass you say the horses need to eat? I took a huge bunch of it into town earlier in the week and gave it to Benny and Ken, the new florists, just up the road from Becca’s. They love it. They want me to bring more next week.” Ross took a bite of cake and smiled at her. It tasted perfect with the coffee. “So I thought I’d try selling a few bunches of it at my stall yesterday,” Flame said, as Treenie made herself busy checking her phone. “I had to arrange them a bit, with the shorter grasses at the front, and I wrapped each bunch in brown paper. Sold out! I’ve experimented. The wonderful thing is they’re equally special, green or dry. They last for ages, so I can assure the buyer they’re excellent value. Benny and Ken want to try sending some to Sydney where they’re part of a network of florists. They’re super excited about them. Native grasses are rare, and city people love a touch of country. Who knows. If the seeds spread, we’ll be regenerating long lost grasses all over the country. First Nations people made bread out of some of them. There’s so much for us to learn.” Treenie frowned. “Long grass is a dreadful fire hazard around farms,” Treenie said, breezily. “And some people are allergic to grass.” “And to horses, so I hear,” said Flame. “Sustainable decoration is quite a trend. Plants bring the outdoors inside. We were all forest creatures once. We crave the natural world. Maybe that’s why you like riding so much, Treenie.”

“Maybe you’d like a ride today if Ross won’t come,” said Treenie with a touch of pout. “No thanks, Treenie. I got over horse love at the age of thirteen when one bit me. I was devastated; my first heartbreak. Horses are beautiful creatures but they’re not for me. Erratic. ” Treenie’s plucked eyebrows arched ever higher. “Don’t get me wrong,” said Flame. “I can imagine the attraction, but my life’s exciting enough without their sorts of complications. I don’t mean any offence. They’re part of our history of course, but they’re a very environmentally hungry resource. You need vast amounts of land, and they damage our native vegetation and waterways.” “More coffee, Treenie?” Ross intervened. “I’ve had my fill, Ross,” said Treenie, standing and pushing in her chair. “I guess I’ll load up and be gone. Shame. Great day for a ride. You’re sure you won’t give it a go?” “I’m sure. Like a hand to load them back into your float?” “I’ll be fine, thanks. Titan likes me to lead him, and once he’s in, the others will follow.” Ross’s shoulders relaxed as he and Flame watched Treenie lead her horses back into her float. She backed out the gate and disappeared down the road. He touched the top of Flame’s arm with the back of his hand. “I owe you thanks,” he said. “Treenie’s a handful.” Flame gave him a huge grin and a soft punch on his own arm. “Come on,” he said. “What?” “Let’s walk the boundaries on our own two legs; see what state they’re in; and

work out our regen plan.” “I’ll grab my hat and phone. I suppose you already know these things take amazing photos. I told Becca about my incredible phone and she just laughed at me and told me I was a fossil for not wanting one sooner. Anyway, I need to document everything for my assignment. And we can start a ‘before’ and ‘after’ record.”

Chapter 28

Walking with Ross across his paddocks was pure joy. Ross said “we” and “our,” and included her in his plans as they pointed out the trees and studied the shape of the land, the patches of weeds and the remnant native forest. Flame’s heart sang as she shared what she’d learned from her research, and he nodded and took her seriously. He was more than willing to let her harvest patches of his native grasses as a trial small business. “Brilliant idea,” he said. “Let’s see how it goes over the months; find out if it’s sustainable. I can probably even find a harvester attachment for the back of the tractor if we want to try selling to Sydney.” “Of course.” Months. She might not have to move on at all. Flame’s eyes lingered on Ross’s shoulder and the shape of his hands as he pointed out the edges of his land. She ed the deliciousness of his touch on her bare skin when he’d found her own boundaries, and the very first time they’d met—their standoff in that downpour, and how she’d been drawn to his strength despite her initial anger. As a distraction, she focused on his voice, its deep resonance a comfort. Could you fall in love with someone’s voice? Not that she was in love. “In love” was a dangerous place to be; the pinnacle before the fall. Friends. That was all. Good friends. They decided on a plan of attack; to meet in the gully near the home paddock later in the afternoon, and finish the section she’d begun when Treenie had first arrived with the horses. Side by side, they slashed at the weeds, Ross tackling the large privet roots with a mattock, and Flame working on smaller growth. She loved the convenience of

her apron; always finding the right tool in an instant. Together, she and Ross were efficient, their rate of attack more than twice what she’d previously managed alone. Sometimes they talked, but silence with Ross was also easy. Their companionship and progress was exhilarating. On their return, hot and itchy, they flung their hats on Ross’s outside table. Flame stared at the hose. She grabbed it, turned on the tap so water bubbled out of the end, took a drink and offered it to Ross, but as she handed it across, the pressure changed and it spurted across his shirt, making him gasp. Delicious. He grabbed the end from her and sprayed her own shirt. She squealed, snatched it back, pinched the end to make a spray, and, laughing, pointed it directly at him. She turned the hose on full and doused him, the droplets catching a rainbow in the late afternoon sunlight. “You’re wasting water,” Ross said, mock horrified. “I must photograph you for your assignment.” But instead he seized her elbows and pulled her to him, his lips hotter for all she was starting to shiver in her sopping wet clothes. “Mmmmm.” Flame clung to him, kissing him back. “Bacon?” Ross said. “Maybe later,” said Flame, breaking away. “First, it’s a tick and leech parade.” “You’re so romantic. At least I can offer us a hot bath.” “Oh, yes, Ross.” “But you won’t be documenting this on your phone for your assignment.” “Not this next bit, no.” Afterwards, as Ross slept and the sun began to drop, a shadow of sadness darkened Flame’s euphoria. She was glad for so many reasons, so why should

she start finding fault? She’d managed to banish Treenie and the horses; Ross had welcomed her rewilding work; he wasn’t selling the farm; and he was clearly as attracted to her as she was to him. But should she continue living so close to him knowing she was falling in love with him? If she took the initiative, and moved on before everything soured, could she protect her heart? The following weekend, they worked together beside the creek, near where Flame’s caravan had been stationed. Flame was uprooting thousands of tiny camphor laurels. “You want me to go,” she said, as he tackled some of the tangles of flotsam left over from the flood, pulling it out of branches and stacking it. “What makes you say that?” he said. “It’s true though, isn’t it? I’m still tresing. I don’t have horses. I can’t offer you agistment fees. I’ll get out of your way. I just wanted to do the right thing by you, to make sure this patch of land comes right.” “You care about the land, Flame.” “Yes.” “You care about my land.” “Well, we’ve put a lot of work into it. I’d hate to see it go backwards.” “Why?” “You want it to be regenerated,” said Flame. “You care about my dreams.” “I care about the planet; like anyone. And I’m grateful to you.” “You’re grateful to me.” “You stopped my caravan washing away; stopped me from washing away.”

“You’re grateful to me.” Ross put down the saw, removed his gloves and stepped closer. He squatted so close to her she could smell the earthy smell of him. Her heart was pumping again. “Is that the only reason you made love to me, Flame? To thank me?” “What are you asking me?” Ross’s questions flustered her. Why did they suddenly have to examine their relationship? The deeper she fell for men, the sooner they moved on. She’d counseled herself not to fall in love again. And now look at her. Time to pull back big time. He made as if to brush her cheek with the back of his fingers, the gesture so tender she wrenched herself away from him. “I should leave,” she said, standing and brushing down her clothes as if she could erase her need for him; nullify the way her skin cried out for the warmth of him. “I’ve made arrangements,” she said, avoiding eye . “To sell the van. I have no right to stay on your land. I’m in your way.” “Have I made you feel unwelcome?” He stood and caught her eyes again, hands by his sides; awkward. “You’ve been so kind,” she said. She swallowed. What was that half smile, he gave her, head on one side. “You’re a good man, Ross,” she said, cheeks flushing. Those eyes, those shoulders, toned from all the outdoor work. Walking away from Ross Archer would not be easy. She’d already left it too long. “I’m just a ‘kind,’ ‘good’ man.” He held her gaze. “It’s a compliment.” “Is it a consolation prize?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Flame wrenched her eyes away from Ross’s and backed away, flustered.

“I have to go now, to catch the bus,” she said. “They’re expecting me at the hotel. There’s some kind of conference tomorrow and they need a hand to set up for it.”

Chapter 29

Why couldn’t Ross say it? As he watched Flame walk away, Ross gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t he just tell her he loved her and wanted their easy, loving relationship to continue, to grow deeper. She was an enigma, a dancing flame, so alluring, bending one way and another with the breeze. Infuriating. Fascinating. Irresistible. But what did he know of women? Chosen by Margaux all those years ago, and now, hopelessly attracted to this wild creature with red hair. What did he know of the art of seduction? All he knew was he never wanted her to leave. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her away. If only he could only tell her how he felt—that she was part of his dreams, that his body longed to hold hers, that he was falling in love with her, and longed to know whether she felt the same way... He walked back to the farmhouse, and then left a note on her doorstep. Going to Sydney again for a week or two. House is sold. Need to sign things, etc. Take care. “Take care.” He was a coward. What he wanted to write was “love, Ross.” “Love Ross” more like. “Love me. Just love me back the way I love you. I want you in my life. Always. Be with me. Stay with me. Marry me.” But the rest of the page stayed blank. This time he made the trip south in a day. Sydney was busier than ever, the traffic, the exhaust fumes and every present jackhammers making his head ache. Anita was happier. She chattered about her travel plans as she helped sort and pack everything from their old lives; not just her own things, but Bethany’s trophies and prizes and the law textbooks she needed to keep, and a few of Margaux’s possessions of sentimental value. “I can’t wait to see her again, Dad. Maybe you should come, too, before she comes back to Australia.”

“I might.” “Do you really want to keep the farm, Dad? You could be totally free. You could travel with us!” “Thank you, Neetie, but you’re much better off without me. Go and have fun. I love the farm. It’s where I want to be. Flame and I are making great progress bringing back the bush.” “You and Flame? Why’s she still there?” “Why not, Anita? Flame’s great company.” “Oh, so now you’re friends. Or are you more than friends? You need to be careful, Dad. Bethany and I were talking about it. Under Australian law, if you’re ‘together’ for more than two years, she’ll be considered your ‘de facto’ and she’ll be entitled to half of what you own.” “So you’re actually telling me Flame and I might as well get married.” “No, Dad! I’m saying you should run a mile. Or tell her to run a mile.” “But we like each other. Is there a law against that?” “No Dad, but you have to keep your head screwed on, and not think with your ...” “Anita, I’m astounded. Your mother and I raised you to be better than that. I know what I’m doing.” “Then how about you act like it?” “You might like to mind your own business.” “You are my business, Dad. Mum would have wanted Bethany and me to keep an eye out for you.” “Did you ever think she might have wanted me to be happy, Neetie? Flame makes me happy. It doesn’t change how much I loved your mother, nor how much I love you and Bethany. Time doesn’t stand still and nor can I. If you don’t

like the fact I may fall in love again, I’m sorry, but it’s time you lived your own life and let me live the rest of mine.” Anita went silent. What had he done? Had he destroyed their fledgling new relationship? As they watched the removalists close the back of the truck, Anita’s hand snuck out to his. She squeezed his fingers. “I’m happy for you, Dad. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” He knew exactly what he was doing. As soon as he’d seen Anita onto the airplane, Ross stood tall and drove to Bondi Junction. He’d done this once before, and he would do it again. Huntleys House of Diamonds was still there, the place he’d bought Margaux’s engagement ring all those years ago. Ross swung open the brass handled doors and strode inside. Even the smell was the same; brass polish. An attendant smiled and greeted him. “I’m Lorna,” she said. “How can I help you?” “I bought my late wife’s engagement ring here and thought I’d drop in again.” “I’m sorry to hear about your wife, Sir. Would you like to come up to the second floor? We have some new displays you might like to see.” Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound. He was here; might as well revisit the whole experience. The first time he’d gone to Huntleys, a young woman had served him, with wavy blonde hair similar to Margaux’s. The variety of rings for sale had overwhelmed him. She’d introduced herself as Cynthia, he ed, and had turned out to be engaged herself, to Jimmy, the proprietor’s son. Cynthia’s own ring was a beauty; five slime marquise-style diamonds set side by side. “How about one of those,” he’d said, pointing at her finger.

“One moment, please,” she’d replied. A minute or two later, Cynthia returned with Jim, the goldsmith, who’d explained all his rings were unique, as all the diamonds were different, but he was making a ring with three smaller marquise diamonds upstairs if Ross was interested. When Ross told the woman the story, she nodded. “Yes, those were the days,” said Lorna. “Cynthia and Jimmy were a force, but I’m afraid Jimmy got cancer and died about a decade ago, and Cynthia’s currently overseas. It’s their son James who runs the business now. He’s away at the moment, but Jim Huntley senior’s still here. Let me find him. He’d love to meet you again.” “By Jove,” said Jim, in his jewelers’ apron, loupe flipped up on his forehead. His old face brightened. “I , alright,” he said. “Those marquises were something. I’ve never been able to get another shipment like them.” He shook his head then fixed Ross with blue eyes that had seen a thing or two. “I’m very sorry to hear about your wife.” “I’m sorry about your son,” said Ross. “We never met, but I Cynthia. Well, Jim; Margaux loved that ring, that’s for sure. She couldn’t refuse me with a ring like that!” “No, indeed,” said Jim. “Perhaps we can help you again, sir?” “I will have a browse, since I’m here.” “Certainly. Lorna will call me again if you need me. Shall I leave you to explore?” “Yes, thank you.” Those clever Huntleys. But why not? Since the house was sold, he was flush. He wasn’t given to spending money without planning, but something about Anita’s new happiness had infected him. All those years of carefully paying off the mortgage and budgeting for groceries had served their purpose, and now he was ready to pursue new dreams.

The display of precious gems was spectacular, lit from all sides like a Hollywood movie star’s makeup mirror. There were very few pieces inside, but those featured were mesmerizing—showcased to dazzle. Each side featured a different stone—emeralds, sapphires, pale green peridots, and rubies—all shooting fire around the room. One ring caught his eye. With five rubies of different sizes arranged asymmetrically, it was so full of life; he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Without thinking twice, Ross drew out his wallet. Lorna, well trained, was beside him like a shot. “This is very exciting, sir,” she said. “Would you like to see this one more closely?” “No, thank you. It’s right. I’ll purchase it and be on my way.” “Of course, sir.” Back on the street, the small box was a hot lump of intention in his pocket.

Chapter 30

Back at the farmhouse , unpacking the groceries he’d collected on his way through town, Ross’s attention was caught by a flash of sunlight off a windscreen. Odd; an old blue Hilux was on the lower track, heading up to the road from the creek. Though Craig occasionally contracted fencers who might need access from Ross’s side, why now, on a Saturday? Ross grabbed his binoculars. Through the long grass he could just make out some of the registration plate, and he jotted down the letters and numbers. A week later, he spotted it again, creeping down his track, and he grabbed his gumboots and strode down through a field of diamond dewdrops in the day’s new sun. The car stood empty in the space left by Flame’s caravan. It ticked as the engine cooled. As he waited, he ran his fingers over the serrated leaves of a coachwood sapling, one of a dozen young native trees thriving where lantana once held sway. The rising sun turned the tops of the far mountain ridge to fire. It broadened its hold on the high land, creeping down, igniting the tips and trunk of each tree and every rock in its wide gaze. A flock of birds began as specks—black cockatoos, their red tails a flash of glory as they screeched overhead and swung towards the coast. Appearing from behind dense foliage, the man took Ross by surprise. In his fifties, with bleached blonde hair greying at the temples, he was good-looking in a conventional sort of way, with blue eyes and a showy sweep of hair at his forehead. He gave Ross a charming smile. “Morning,” said Ross. The man nodded, both hands in his pockets. Without halting, he shook out his

keys, slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, reversing it to face back up the track. Ross stood in front of it, feet apart, arms crossed. The men faced off through the dirty windscreen. “Great morning for bird watching,” said the stranger. “On my land,” said Ross. “Track to the creek’s public.” “Private. Mine.” “Sorry, mate. Won’t make that mistake again.” “No. Don’t.” As Ross stepped aside, the man tipped his hand to him in a kind of wave. Was that dirt on his fingers? His exhaust left a blue stench of poison. Ross followed the man’s tracks through dense scrub further along the creek. In places, only a broken twig or footprint in soft mud marked the way, and there, in a small clearing—rows of tiny bright green plants thrived. Ross kneeled and inspected. These serrated leaves were unlikely to be coachwood. He pinched and sniffed a leaf. Trouble was, he had no idea about the smell of fresh weed. Craig had told him about cannabis plantations in the valley, the helicopter surveillance and occasional arrests. He phoned the police; let the experts investigate, and that afternoon, a car pulled into the driveway. “Prompt service,” said Ross, sticking his head out the door and striding up to the House of Spades to see if Flame was home. “Who’s here?” said Flame.

“Local police. I only phoned them this morning. There was an old blue Hilux down by the creek. Had to report it. Pretty sure the guy was tending a cannabis plot down there on my land, along the creek.” Flame went white. Was that fear? Or anger? Or something else? “Flame?” “Could be Grady. My car was blue.” “Great. While they’re here, you can report it stolen; make a statement. Have you tried to get it back?” She shook her head and started to close her door. “I’m not feeling all that well, Ross.” “You won’t us for a chat?” “No, thanks.” Ross pushed the questions out of his mind as he returned to welcome his visitors. Was Flame hiding something? Had she known about Grady’s visits all along? A new fear gripped him. All those mornings she’d collected twigs for him, was she tending the plantation, and others like it? Ross told himself it was nonsense; that Anita’s prejudices about Flame were just that, and nothing more. Plenty of people were uncomfortable around police. It didn’t make them criminals. ... As soon as the police had left, Flame dashed out her door and jogged down to the creek, adrenaline still rushing through her veins. She forced her mind to focus on the job at hand, bagging invasive camphor laurel seedlings. After finishing a patch, she stooped by the creek and washed her hands, the dirt clouding the crystal water before it slipped between some smooth river rocks and disappearing downstream.

That’s all she was; a little cloud of mud in Ross’s perfect life. She didn’t deserve him. How could she partner up with someone like Ross when she couldn’t even show her face in front of police? Better she moved on. Then Treenie could move in for good. Why did the thought make her so sad? She always moved on; good old Flame, looking on the bright side. She couldn’t do this, thinking she might have a real future with Ross. Better to go. That evening her heart leaped at the sound of Ross’s car at the gate. Should she rush out and open it for him? Should she make him another cake? Go knock on his door? But if she saw him again, how could she resist just one little kiss, and then another one? Better not get a taste for what was out of her league. Making love to Ross in Taree had been a mistake—a delicious one, but a mistake nevertheless, like the whole stream of mistakes in her life, like every decision about every man including Sven. She’d been right to sell the caravan. Just one little transaction on her magic phone. It was done. There was nothing more to be said. She’d be gone in days. Flame set her mind to learning more about native plants and promoting biodiversity—a worthwhile pursuit with or without Ross in her life. An email from the north coast ornithological society had caught her eye; all about how to restore a dam to encourage native plants, for birds and other wildlife. A search on “water weeds north coast” brought up thirty seven different invasive plant species, escaped into local waterways from ornamental backyard ponds, many of them too familiar. Flame had ired the yellow flowers of the water lilies, water primroses and water poppies and the bulrushes, but now she learned they were choking Ross’s dam and upsetting the balance of nutrients, killing native sedges and preventing birds from washing and drinking. In the House of Spades, an old rusty rake hung beside the spades. Tomorrow before work, she’d use it to pull out some weeds and let them dry in the sun. Morning dawned bright and clear, the sun hot pink on streaky clouds. Flame pulled on her boots, grabbed the rake and stomped across the paddock to the dam before the colors faded. She’d miss this valley, but she’d know she’d made

a difference here, however minor. She took some “before” pictures first, and worked her way around the edge of the dam, throwing the heavy end of the rake out as far as she could reach without losing the handle. She dragged it back, laced with the invasive exotics. Upending the head, she shook out the haul on the dry muddy edge, and repeated her actions. There was something hypnotic about the rhythm of her work, and a joy as the birds woke and called to each other and flew across, eyeing her progress. So intent was she to finish as far as she could reach before heading for work, she failed to notice Ross’s approach. “Good morning.” She jumped, the tines of the fork hitting the wet soil she’d disturbed, splashing a wad of mud across her cheek. Her heart pounded as he stared at her, his expression unreadable. She wiped her cheek with the edge of her shirt. Was Ross cross with her? Maybe she should have asked him before starting on the dam. He’d never risen so early. “Should I have ...?” “Sorry. I didn’t ...” He stared at her face, at her eyes, her lips. Flame checked her watch. “You need to go?” he asked. “You want me gone,” she said. “No,” he said. “Why do you put words in my mouth—wrong words?” His dismay twisted her heart. That did it. At the mention of “mouth” she tipped back her head and reached for him, the kiss the most natural thing in the world. What could it hurt? A little farewell kiss for what she couldn’t have. It wasn’t that she didn’t want this man. “Goodbye, Ross,” she said, twisting away and wiping her lips with the back of her hand, as if to erase the deliciousness. But Ross reached for her arms, gently pulled her closer, there beside the muddy

dam, and kissed her tenderly, kissed her like she’d never been kissed before, as if he wanted her, as if he needed her and cared for her and never wanted her to leave him. This time, it was Ross who broke away and stepped back, away from her, and stared towards the road. “Go then,” he said, his voice rough, as if he was the one who was hurting. Her lips burned. She wanted more, far more than one kiss. Was he punishing her? It was hard enough leaving Ross Archer—clever, kind Ross, Ross with a heart and a conscience—without having to lust after him for the rest of her life. Another regret. Too many and not enough kisses with Ross Archer. She snatched up the rake and jogged back towards the caravan without a backwards glance. Within days she would be gone. But next morning, he was there at the dam again, waiting for her. “Why are you here, Ross? So early.” “Why are you here, Flame?” he said. “This job’s not done.” “Is that all?” “What do you mean?” “It will never be done, Flame. The weeds and the native bush will be in competition forever.” “But we’re winning here. In the gully, the regrowth is powering, and here—it looks muddy now—but you’ll see. It will come good.” “No.” Ross shook his head. “Tell me why you’re here.” “We went through this a while ago. I’m just doing it while I can; before I leave.” She turned again to throw the rake, but Ross’s hand on hers stopped her.

“Tell me again why you’re leaving?” “You want me to leave.” “You’re putting words in my mouth again.” She wanted to kiss him again, but it would only make it harder to leave. She twisted away. “I can’t stand by and watch you with women like Treenie. And I’m not good enough for you.” “Why not? Tell me.” Hope rose in his heart. This free spirit may yet be tethered, to him, if only he could risk inviting her to stay with him. What did he have to lose? What could she say to him to keep her dignity? She said nothing. “Flame?” “It’s cruel, Ross. Don’t you know how I feel? Well, I’m not too proud to tell you. When Becca told me you were a hottie and a silver fox, and tried to set me up with you, I laughed at her. I don’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell at winning a good man like you. I have so little education. I’m practically a vagrant, and you’re the landlord, king of all you survey.” “I’m just a man, Flame.” “A fine man.” “Sure, and you’re a fine woman.” “Are you saying I should stay?” “Absolutely.” “Don’t make fun of me, Ross. Can’t you see how different we are?” “Flame,” said Ross, hands on her shoulders, eyes burning into hers. “I see a beautiful, spirited woman, an amazing survivor who undervalues her many gifts. I see a woman who turns her mind and hands to anything, who has raised two

children who love and respect her, who has transformed great sections of my property, who bakes cakes with nothing, who makes rainbow quilts from scraps, who finds hope for the hopeless by reading fortunes, who is generous with everything she has, including her body. Flame, you came to me when we drove south. I need to know. Why did you make love to me? You still haven’t told me. Did you pity me, a lonely widower? Tell me the truth.” “I made love to you because I can’t resist you, Ross. I tried. I told myself I was done with men, after Grady, but then, there was you. I wasn’t seeking love again.” “And are you seeking love now?” “I’m running away from it,” she said, ripping her gaze from his and letting her head drop.” “Like you always do?” She nodded. “I’ll give you your quilt and another cake, to thank you again for everything you’ve done for me, Ross. You’re amazing.” She stared up at him, unable to read his expression. “Let me drive you in to work this morning,” he said. “Thank you, Ross. I can’t be late. I need to be back in good time this afternoon. I’ve sold the caravan. The purchaser will want to collect it.” After work that afternoon, Flame folded the quilt and tied it in a red ribbon. At his door, she presented it with one hand and a fresh cake in the other. “Come in, Flame,” said Ross. He flicked on the kettle, took the quilt with both arms—warm—and moved to the louvered veranda where he spread it across the dining table. “This is a work of art, Flame. This is a jewel. It’s like a soft stained glass window, with all the colors of the valley.” “You like it?”

“I love it. Thank you.” She kept glancing at her watch. “How’s Stella?” “Oh. Wonderful, thank you. She went to Hong Kong with the money I gave her back, to a jewelry expo. She sold a lot of designs to international companies. It was a wild success. But I have some more amazing news! She rang me this morning from Sydney. She and James are engaged! She’d thought he’d wanted to close her stall down, but it was all a big mistake. I couldn’t be happier for her. Though she still doesn’t answer my messages, and she was the one who bought me the new phone.” “You have a new phone?” “Yes.” Ross slapped his hand down on his thigh. “On my last trip to Sydney, I tried to phone you, Flame, to offer you a lift back up north with me. I actually asked Becca to share my number with you.” “I put the old one in the recycling box, to save the rainforests, to recycle the cobalt.” “You didn’t consider phoning me? You might as well tell me everything.” “I worried you were going to evict me,” Flame said. It was easier to speak when she was doing things, moving through his kitchen, bringing down the cups and saucers. “So, let’s get this straight. I haven’t evicted you. You’re evicting yourself.” “Before you do.” “What if I want you to stay?” Flame stared at him. “Do you?” Her voice was small.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to stay?” “Because I’ve moved on my whole life. Because of Treenie.” “I don’t want Treenie.” “Good. She’s not good enough for you.” Ross smiled, hope igniting in his chest. “Flame.” “Yes, Ross. I need to go soon, in case the buyer arrives. I don’t want to miss them.” “Would you stay?” “When?” “Now. Would you stay with me?” “If what? It’s too late. I’ve sold the caravan.” “Flame.” “Yes?” “I know the buyer.” “You do?” “I bought your caravan.” “What?” Flame stood, almost knocking over the chair. “Why would you want my caravan?” “I don’t.” “Ross, you’re not making sense.”

He might as well just come out with it. “It’s you I want, Flame. I want you in my life, in my new rainforests, and in my bed. Will you marry me?” She was speechless. “Well? Do you want to be my wife, or not? Stay with me and be my love. Together we will all pleasures prove. John Donne, poet.” “See, you understand poetry. I didn’t even finish school, Ross.” “You went to the school of life, and you’re re-educating yourself now, in bush regeneration and anything else you choose. I ire you. I want you. Do you want me?” “Yes. But wouldn’t you want someone like Margaux again? Someone accomplished and well-travelled and educated?” “Don’t tease me. You’re accomplished, Flame; and perfectly well travelled.” “Up and down the NSW coast ... and to Darwin and Perth.” “You’ve been to plenty of places Treenie will never know.” “You’re just saying that. You’re playing me, Ross Archer.” “I don’t play people, Flame.” “You need to really think about this.” “Don’t insult me.” “I’m not rejecting you; I’m just not sure it’s wise on your part. I’m not known for staying around.” “You hadn’t met me. Come back for dinner tonight.” Flame dressed in a halter neck sundress which showed off her white décolletage and shoulders. She checked herself in the tiny mirror inside the door of a van cupboard. As she piled her red hair high on her head and fastened it with a red

chopstick, her eyes sparkled. Ross had baked a roast. The table on the side veranda was set with candles in silver holders and crystal glasses. “Swanky,” said Flame.

Chapter 31

Ross could barely keep his eyes off Flame, her neck, her lips with their delighted smile. He wanted to kiss her, to press his hand to her bare back and pull her closer. A wisp of her hair gave in to gravity and slipped out of the high twist of hair, so elegantly different. As it glinted in the candlelight, he longed to reach out and touch it, to brush her smooth cheek with his fingertips, touch her chin and tip back her head. Could he start dinner with a kiss? He didn’t want to come on too strong, to scare her away. Instead, he handed her a slim glass of sparkling wine and held his own to hers. “A toast!” said Flame, returning his smile. “To learning new things.” “Oh, yes!” she said, and he held her gaze. He’d missed the light in them, the ever present hint of a challenge, so many ideas. “And to diving in,” he said, and he told her of Anita’s plans to resign from her school and try her hand at a mysterious new future. “To Anita,” Flame said. She smiled but didn’t say a word about her fortune telling. Let Anita be the one to divulge the truth about their session, should she wish. “And to all our daughters,” said Flame, and told him more about Stella’s recent successes. After their meal, Ross smiled, and leaned back in his chair. Time to change the subject. “Where will we go for our honeymoon?” said Ross. “I haven’t accepted yet,” said Flame. “I’m interested you think marriage is a good idea for Stella, Flame, but not for

yourself.” In the silence, Ross cleared their plates. He returned with a small box emblazoned with a gold H which shone in the candlelight. “You’re serious,” said Flame. “I’m a conservative man, Flame. Some say unimaginative. But I’m a loyal one. Will you? Will you be my wife?” “I can’t imagine Anita will be too keen on that idea.” “It’s not about what Anita wants. It’s what we want.” “A marriage proposal, in my fifties. Ludicrous! Is marriage really necessary, Ross?” “It is. It is for me.” “Are you saying we can only be together if we marry?” “Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes.” “But we are together.” “In a way, we are. But not in the way I want.” “You want to own me?” “I want to be with you. I want you to be with me. To stay here, and let us build a future together, here on the farm. You’ll be able to use my bathtub anytime you like. Keep working on the dam and watch the birds arrive in every season. Come up with other ideas. Possum boxes, nesting boxes. I’m exploring carbon sequestration. I want you in my future, Flame. We’re good together. You don’t have to keep moving, just because you’ve done so up to now.” “I can’t become Margaux, you know.” “I don’t want you to become Margaux. The two of you are nothing alike.” Okay. Now was the time. Ross slipped off his chair and down on one knee at Flame’s feet.

She clapped her hands together and laughed, but he was deadly serious. He caught her eyes in his, and began. “I love you for you—essence of Flame—fiery, fearless Fiona; and for all you’ve achieved in your life and all you have yet to achieve. You’re a shooting star, Fiona—I want you to be my Flame. I want you to burn bright in my arms. You’ve made my house feel like a home again. When your lights are on in the House of Spades, I’m not lonely anymore. Just knowing you are near, you make me happy. You brought joy back into my life. But we can be closer. You can live here, with me, in my farmhouse.” He went down on one knee and slipped the ring on her finger. In the light of the candle, it glinted and glittered like a sparkler. He was glad he’d bought it on impulse. How could she refuse him? Flame was entranced by it, moving her hand back and forth beside the candle as the facets shot out light like fireflies in the summer darkness. The shape of her neck, her wrists, so strong and fine. Alluring. “Surely you won’t refuse me.” Into the silence, he spoke again. “Your fortune foretold ‘Romance moves you in a new direction.’” “Now you’re really making fun of me.” “No,” he said, standing and moving back to the kitchen to bring back chocolates. “ the restaurant in Taree and the fortune cookies?” he said. She nodded as he sat and they picked up their knives and forks. “I found your fortune under the car seat, when I went looking for your money bundle,” he said. “And you read it?” “Too often. I’ve worried about it. Flame, I need to ask you this.” “What?”

“Later, after I’d found it, I worried you only made love to me the next morning because of your fortune.” She smiled at him, put down her cutlery, and leaned across to pull him close and kiss him, so long and sweetly he broke away gasping with longing. “Ross Archer. Understand this—I made love to you because I find you incredibly attractive.” “Or maybe because I have something you don’t have.” “Which is...” “A bath.” “That, you do. A woman would marry for a bath.” “Shall I run it for you?” “Show off. Yes.” “Yes?” “Yes to the bath. After this amazing dinner. I’m still not sure about the marriage thing. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a good man, Ross. A great man.” “And I need a great woman beside me.” “This ring is magnificent. Sydney?” “Bondi Junction. It’s made for you, Flame. Look at it dancing. It’s full of life, like you.” “Bondi Junction?” “Huntleys House of Jewels.” “Ross! That’s right near where Stella had her stall. Stella’s engaged—to James Huntley.” “No! Really? Cynthia and Jimmy’s son? Small world. Glad to hear I’ve invested

in the family business.” Flame laughed, iring the ring again. “Bath?” she asked. Ross brought the candle into the bathroom. They had kisses for dessert. Flame spoke no more about moving away. She slipped the ring on and off in the privacy of her caravan, keeping it safe while she was out weeding or cleaning. In the evenings she shared with Ross, in the House of Spades or at the farmhouse, she let herself imagine they could be a “forever” couple. Becca wore Davey’s ring. She’d just never thought of herself as a wife. Their Sundays fell into a routine, of working side by side on a patch of land. In the high heat of summer, they tackled the creek, pulling out thousands more tiny camphor laurel seedlings for hours, until their backs ached and their clothes stuck to them. Stripping off, they stepped carefully over the mossy rocks and plunged into the cool depths of the platypus pool, gasping with the relief of the cold water. As they floated the aches dissolved. In the evenings, they spoke of their wedding plans, but Flame refused to set a date. “It’s a nonsense, Ross; me in a frothy white wedding gown.” “So? Wear red. Wear your beloved regen apron.” “I have to tell you, Ross. Stella and Jeannie will think I’m joking. After all this time.” “Why? You’re a beautiful woman.” “How’s Anita, Ross? Will she be back for the holidays?” “No. Now that I’ve sold my Sydney house and she’s resigned, she’s visiting the UK. She and Bethany will explore and for a few months. Bethany’s finished her thesis and is applying for postgraduate positions.” “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Oh?” “Anita seemed very unhappy when she was up here visiting you.” “Yes. She was. Strange. She’s had a complete change of heart. She told me about this picture she saw that made it clear to her how much she was resisting change. But now she’s going with the flow, she’s exuberant. She’s happy as a child. She always was vivacious, full of energy. She was a swimming champion for a while. Did I tell you?” Together, Ross and Flame bought a few chickens and created a vegetable patch, and added more fruit and nut trees to Margaux’s orchard. They held hands when they went places together. She couldn’t wait to catch up with him every evening, when they would share their stories of the day, and their ideas for the place. “Let’s invite twitchers!” said Ross. “Host some field days.” “Yes! And Ross, you know how this is Bundjalung Country—how white people have been here such a short time—how about we invite the Elders to come?” said Flame. “Don’t they run men’s sessions in some places? What if there are sacred sites here, Ross?” The idea was electrifying. Surely there’d be local First Nations People who would welcome the way they were looking after the land, rewilding it gully by gully and encouraging the regrowth to spread until the paddocks would once again be covered with forest. “I’ll the local land council.” “Maybe you could start a Men’s Shed, and I could run tie-dying classes.” “How about writers’ retreats?” “And yoga retreats. Lola could run some sessions. And night walks with head flashlights and a national parks ranger, for spotting marsupials.” “Or we could leave the koalas in peace.” “We could get night vision goggles.”

“We might need a license for those.” More and more often they stayed together all night, nestled together in his bed under her quilt or in the House of Spades. Flame surprised him one morning when she woke with the birds, his arms around her as if they’d grown there, like the roots of a fig tree. “First day of summer,” she said as Ross emerged from sleep, groggy with dreams. “Our wedding date?” he said, eyes widening. Would she prevaricate forever? When she nodded and sat up, smiling, Ross jumped up on the bed and beat his chest like a gorilla till she laughed and threw a pillow at him. He pulled her back under the covers. They planned a garden wedding. Through the last cold days of spring, when Flame brought kindling, they enjoyed Ross’s fire and nestled together—warm under the patchwork quilt—as the rain banged down on the tin roof. Ross would tease her, pointing at the hot pink caravan on the patchwork. “This is an error, Flame.” “I know it’s more a creamy grey color, but maybe I always did want you to notice me.” And he’d cover her with kisses.

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“E xcited?” Becca tore up pieces of lettuce as Flame chopped the tomato and Danny topped up the birdbath on their big veranda. “Petrified, more like,” said Flame. She was visiting Becca while Davey was away gaining his final accreditation as a marriage celebrant. “Davey loves weddings,” said Becca. “He can hardly wait for yours and Ross’s. You know, he’s told me he far prefers them to divorces.” “Isn’t that like dentists giving you candy after treatment, ensuring you’ll have to come back for more?” Flame had said. “Maybe,” said Becca. “But maybe he still believes in true love. It’s worked for us.” Flame bit her tongue. She’d never add “so far” and spoil Becca’s optimism. Becca called the boys in to dinner while Flame brought her signature macaroni and cheese from the oven to the table. “Macaroni and cheese!” Ruben’s face shone, his appreciation lighting Flame’s heart. She’d loved her years as a young mother and the simplicity of the girls’ joy. Her adult children were far more complex. Well might Stella be back from Hong Kong and engaged to the “swoon-worthy” James Huntley the Third. Stella, busier than ever, barely had time to answer Flame’s text messages, let alone have a proper chat. Or was she avoiding her? Were Flame and the farm too downmarket in Stella’s eyes, now Stella was marrying Eastern Suburbs royalty? “How’s high school, Danny?” said Flame, wrenching her mind away from her own insecurities. “What’s your favorite subject?” “Girls,” said Becca. “Mum!”

“Seriously,” said Flame. “Dunno. Science? History?” “Got some homework?” “A bit. Some assignments. They’re not due for a couple of weeks.” “Do a little bit every day, and you won’t have to do an all-nighter,” said Flame. “Give yourself a good chance. I wasted my schooling, Dan. If someone had told me that back when I was at school, my whole life would be different.” “Better?” “Easier, that’s for sure. What you want in this life are choices, and education gives you more choices.” “Want to play Snap, Flame?” said Ruben. “Of course! After we clean up. But I bet you can beat me these days.” “Three games max,” said Becca. “School tomorrow.” Flame and Becca sat out on the veranda swatting mosquitoes as the boys retreated to their rooms. Crickets sang in the dark. “Excited about your wedding?” “Petrified, more like.” “Why? Ross is gorgeous.” “It doesn’t feel real, Becca. His daughter hates me and I’m worried I’m jinxed. My whole life my relationships have fallen apart one way or another, and Ross is so lovely. I don’t want to let him down.” “Relationships take two, Flame. You just had a run of bad luck, and now it’s your time to be happy.” Flame smiled at her friend. If only she could shake the sense that something was going to go wrong.

They’d planned a garden party wedding, with friends and family arriving from five-thirty for a six o’clock ceremony. Matt, Jeannie and the girls turned up a few days early to enjoy a holiday. The little family took the largest farmhouse bedroom, at the corner of two verandas. The girls were in heaven. They rolled around on the blow-up mattresses and explored the old house, their footsteps pounding on the wooden floors. With supervision, they stepped into the garden. Both girls were tentative at first, wondering at the wide open spaces after their city upbringing, and wary of the mud and insects, but they were braver by the minute and were soon running in all directions. Matt’s gift to Flame and Ross was to install solar s and wire the garden with fairy lights, but the circuits in the old farmhouse all required attention. He hummed as he worked, in his element. His success in electrical engineering had taken him further and further away from his first love of hands-on tinkering with circuits, and more into the political world of sales in a multinational company. With the girls growing up, this was his first true holiday in years. Stella and James arrived a day before the wedding, renting a nearby AirBnB. They planned to continue on to Brisbane to explore options for opening a branch of Huntleys there. Flame was shy with James, acutely conscious Stella had once accused her of being crude. Beside him, she felt rough around the edges. James was first-world gorgeous, with his proper manners and an inheritance. Her engagement ring helped break the ice. “Suits you!” said James. “It’s as if it’s been made for you. I’ll tell Jim the beneficiary is a fiery, red-headed stunner as striking as his ring. He’ll love that. He re every ring he’s created. He actually talks to the gems as he’s setting them. When are you coming to Sydney again? I’m sure he’d love to meet you.” Stella’s own engagement ring—a deep blue sapphire that dominated her clever fingers—glowed and sparkled with its own magnificence, and James explained how they’d met; the way he and Stella argued when she’d set up her stall outside his shop, and how Stella’s fresh ideas had given his family business a whole new

injection of competitiveness. Their connection was palpable. They finished each other’s sentences and barely left each other’s sides. “No date yet?” asked Flame, the same question Ross had plied her with for months. Was this handsome James playing her daughter? “It’s complicated,” said James. Stella jumped in to explain that the Huntleys were busy with operations on three different continents now. They had other matters on their plates. “Our wedding will be about as low key as they come,” said Ross. “It’s more of a garden party.” “Beautiful place you have here,” said James. The girls came inside for some of Flame’s cake. When James asked them about the chickens, they pulled him outside by the fingers to stare through the chicken wire together and point. Down on his haunches, James steadied Sienna on the rough lawn. A little pang of loss ran through her Flame, sorrow that Sven had missed such moments with his own girls—but her joy for Stella scorched it away. Flame could not have been happier that both her daughters had chosen partners who liked children.

Chapter 33

The house was a different place with so many overnight visitors—full of life and color and noise. Next morning, Ross encouraged the women to leave early and make a day of it in Brisbane, and enjoy buying some clothes for the wedding. He and Matt discussed solar power as Matt wrangled Sienna’s wet nappy —“soon she’ll be out of the night one, too; and not too soon”—while James navigated a three-way call from his brother, Will, in the US and Scottie the ant in Sydney, finger in one ear. “Try the northern veranda,” said Ross, wincing as he stepped on a piece of Lego. “It has the best reception. Lucy, come and tell me what you and Sienna like for breakfast. Tea, Matt? Coffee? Breakfast first, Lucy, and then I’ll take you and Sisi to the orchard.” “I want to see the chickens! What’s a ‘norchard’? Where’s Mummy?” “Mummy’s shopping with Flame and Stella. Gumboots on first, please. Where are your hats? Here, Sienna. This is the egg basket.” They scraped their breakfast scraps in a bucket for the chickens and burst out into the morning sunlight, the girls’ boots making dark patches in the dewy grass as they ran towards the chicken yard, tussling to be the one to open the gate. The person who’d built it must have had children; the old rusty chain was just too high for either of them to reach. “Hey, let’s feed them first before we let them go, or they’ll peck away all the lawn before the wedding!” Once inside the poultry pen, Sienna shrank back towards him, squealing and starting to cry as a bird pecked at her boot; its beak as red as plastic. Ross swept her up and onto his shoulders.

“You’ll be fine, Sienna. They don’t want to hurt you. They’re just hungry. They’ve been laying eggs all night. Let’s go see if there’s an egg or two for tomorrow’s breakfast or another one of Flame’s cakes.” “I want to see the norchard,” said Lucy. “Eggs first, orchard next.” Back on the ground, Sienna’s lips were “oh” shaped as she felt her first egg. “Still warm?” said Ross, and she nodded. “Gently,” he said, offering her the basket before she dropped it. Lucy brought other eggs. “Three, four, five.” “One at a time, please.” It had to happen—the jagged edges of white shell and the clear and golden goo dripping between her fingers. Now Lucy was still; mortified. “It’s okay, Lucy. Things break.” “But it was hard.” “Eggs are hard on the outside and soft inside,” said Ross. Like your grandmother. So much about Lucy reminded him of Flame—the red hair and pale skin; her bright eyes and sheer energy. Were Jeannie, Stella and Flame enjoying themselves out on the town? This was precious time together; and he wanted them all to return again and again; for these children to grow up knowing that eggs came from chickens before they found their way to supermarkets; and that fruit came from trees and needed no plastic wrapping to add to the world’s waste. “Now let’s go to the orchard,” said Ross, ing that a change of subject worked wonders when his own girls were small. Where were Anita and Bethany? They were meant to have flown in yesterday, but Bethany had texted something about some mix up with their itinerary and extended delays in flights and connections. Finishing their tour of Europe with a return to Australia via

Coolangatta had made perfect sense when they’d discussed it all three months ago, announcing the wedding, but now? It was cutting it fine. They might not make it in time. “Here, I’ll carry it if you like,” said Ross, taking the egg basket from a relieved Lucy. She’d been carrying it with such acute care she was frowning with the effort. “Good job, Lucy. My turn.” “Let me,” she said, reminding him again of Flame, tenacious. “Of course,” he said, but as they crested the rise and the orchard came into view, she thrust it at him and grabbed Sienna’s hand, pointing with her other one. “Look, Sisi. The orchard!” Now she reminded him of Bethany, his eldest; Bethany the leader, and he smiled, breaking into a jog to stay with them and steady Sienna before she tripped. A flash of king parrots rose from the grove ahead of them, bright green and red. “Blueberries!” said Lucy. “They’re certainly blue,” said Ross. “These are Davidson Plums, a bit sour when they’re raw. Let’s find some mulberries instead.” The girls’ fingers and lips turned crimson with juice. Once again Ross wished Bethany and Anita would arrive in time to spend some time with their future nieces. Anita might feel she already knew and disliked children from her time as a teacher, but meeting them as individuals must be different to dealing with them all as a pack all day. These ones were a joy. Not for the first time he wondered whether he’d spent too much of his own fatherhood working too much, missing out on precious moments with his own girls as they grew. They were in no hurry today, studying how slugs were turning the fallen bush lemons into soil again. Ross showed them how to pinch out weeds from the base of the plums then thought better of it. If it was tricky for adults to distinguish native regrowth from weeds, the girls were likely to undo some of Flame’s and his precious progress without realizing. As the day warmed, the girls helped him collect some of the fallen fruit to give to the chickens, and by the time they made their way back towards the

farmhouse, they were ready for lunch and a nap. Ross enjoyed Matt and James’s company. They’d listened with true interest after dinner the previous evening, when the girls were sound asleep. He’d traced the edges of his farm on an aerial photograph and explained which parts they were rewilding, and where he and Flame planned a long-term native timber plantation along the edge of the road, as a windbreak as much as an investment for the future. They’d been particularly interested in the western edge of his property which bordered national park, where the regrowth was rapid. “Koala habitat?” said James. Everyone cheered when Ross nodded. The soil sequestration trials in the paddock on the other side of the road, carried out in collaboration with Southern Cross University, were going so well he and Flame were hosting an inspection for the local Landcare group next month. Later, the girls clamored for another inspection of the chicken pen. As Ross and the girls entered the garden, Matt waved at them from up a ladder as he festooned fairy lights across the front veranda and up into the trees around where the wedding would take place. The wedding. His wedding. A surge of adrenalin hit his solar plexus. Terror or joy? Flame had been more skittish than usual of late. Would she follow through with this after all? She was a free spirit and he’d offered her stability—a novelty in her life. Longer term, would she still want it? No matter. He’d stay the course even if she could not. He had to obey his own heart, and so far, so good.

Chapter 34

“I can’t do this,” said Flame, waving her hand at all the white wedding dresses in the window. Jeannie had convinced Stella that if the three of them were driving to Brisbane, she had to at least try one on. “Mum!” Stella grabbed Flame’s elbow and coaxed her towards the door. “We’ve come all this way, Mum,” said Jeannie. “Can’t you just enjoy yourself? It’s a white dress. Every bride has a wedding dress. Just try on one, maybe a couple—for us.” “Let’s get a new dress for you, Jeannie, and Stella; maybe you should try on some of these wedding dresses. When are you and James setting a date?” “Don’t change the subject, Mum.” “I’m just nervous, girls. I’ve never done this before. Am I a fraud? Shouldn’t brides be young and beautiful?” “This is so not like you, Mum,” said Jeannie with a big sigh. “You’re fearless. You try anything once. Can’t you just relax and do this? It’s your wedding in two days. You’re going to need to wear something.” “Yes! Okay,” said Stella. “Let’s start with me, and then maybe you’ll warm up, Mum.” A little bell jingled as they opened the door and the noise of the city disappeared as it closed behind them. Even their footsteps were silenced as they walked closer to the models, the plush cream carpet absorbing their tread. “May we help you, ladies?” said a petite and elegant assistant, sizing them up. “Would this one would suit me?” said Stella, standing beside a lacy number with long sleeves and a bare back. “You’d look good in all of them, Stell,” said Jeannie. “Mum’s right, though. It’s

going to depend on the time of year. And weren’t you saying you and James were considering tying the knot in ?” “Maybe we’ll just honeymoon there.” Flame perched on an ornate white and gold sofa. When had her daughters grown so worldly? Fancy marrying in . Still, she supposed it was no different to marrying on the edge of a rainforest. “Would you like to try this on in your size?” the attendant asked Stella. “Yes, thank you. Mum, is there anything here at all that appeals to you? Won’t you find just one to try?” The attendant did a double take. Even she recognized that Flame was an unlikely bride. Why were her daughters so blind? In the mirrors everywhere, Flame saw herself push at her untamed red hair, so out of place amid the manikins’ neat braids and chignons. Maybe she should have worn something more suitable for wedding dress shopping than cropped jeans and a t-shirt, but the trip had been a spur of the moment decision, and Ross, James and Matt had been happy to mind the girls. Jeannie, who had bought little white flower girl dresses for Lucy and Sienna in Sydney and brought them along, had been horrified to discover Flame had done nothing about her own dress. Matt had just given his great big laugh. “It’s just a garden party, Jeannie,” Flame had said. “It’s not! It’s your wedding!” So here they were. Flame stood and approached a manikin in a sleek satin number with a short skirt and halter neck. It might have suited her once, on a beach, with Sven, last century. She reached out to feel the fabric, and then curled her fingers into fists. Her hands were rough from cutting weeds and a lifetime of cleaning. She wasn’t ashamed. They just looked out of place. “We have gloves,” said the attendant gently, but Flame shook her head and they

left without a purchase. They bought some takeaway coffees and found a bench in the Botanic Gardens, overlooking the river. Here at least Flame felt more at home. “I’ve never been comfortable at weddings; not even yours, Jeannie.” “It’s not always about you, Mum,” said Stella, taking a sip. “I think we can say her own wedding is about her,” said Jeannie. “But what I don’t understand is why you can’t just let it happen now. Don’t you love Ross? Don’t you want to be with him? And he seems totally keen; a lovely man,” said Jeannie. “I wonder how the boys are managing with Lucy and Sienna.” “It’s only for a day, Jeannie,” said Stella. “It’s the third time you’ve mentioned them in less than an hour. Matt and James are there with them and Matt’s perfectly capable. Can’t you all just relax and enjoy this?” “Maybe I could make something to wear,” said Flame. “Be realistic, Mum,” said Stella. “The wedding’s in forty eight hours.” “If we can’t get you into a bridal shop, it’s not such a silly idea,” said Jeannie. “You’re an ace with sarongs. How about a bridal sarong?” “Really?” Twenty minutes later they were on a bus to Chinatown. Flame leaped out, finally enthusiastic. “Look at these! Heavenly!” Flame wandered along the rows of bolts of heavy Shanghai silk satins in lush crimsons, emeralds and every shade of white. “And these, Mum! These are a bit ‘you.’” Stella unrolled some raw silk, the textured knots rough and interesting. “I like these!” said Jeannie. “Come and see!” Flame stood speechless before the shot silks, turning her head from one side to the other and up and down to study how the colors changed.

“This one,” said Stella, turning up on her left and pointing at a bolt of sea green shot with gold. “Or this one,” said Jeannie, pointing at an emerald shot with crimson. “This one,” said Flame, seizing a sea green one shot with emerald. “Thank you. Three meters should do it.” “Take four, Mum,” said Jeannie. “Be a bit generous with your draping.” “Or five,” said Stella. “We’re paying.” “Shoes!” said Jeannie as they finished their Yum Cha lunch. “I’d prefer to get married in bare feet,” said Flame. “I can’t face another shop just now. I miss Ross.” “I miss James.” “I miss Matt and the girls.” “How needy do we sound!” said Stella, laughing. “OMG, Stell. You’re right,” said Jeannie. “It’s not that,” said Flame. “I understand it now. We’re happy enough without men, but we like to be with our favorite men. It’s taken me a long time to work that out.” “You know when you wish on a star?” said Jeannie as they drove back to the farm. “I always wished Mum would get married. I don’t believe it’s finally happening.” “I can’t believe she’s finally finding stability, at this age,” said Stella. “I can’t believe it either,” said Flame in a small voice

Chapter 35

On the way home, Jeannie , Stella and Flame stopped to buy food. “Did you really not organize any catering, Mum?” said Stella. “It’s irresponsible.” “It’s an evening wedding,” said Flame, balancing a tray of mangoes on the shopping trolley. “Won’t people go home for dinner?” “No, they will not. They’ll stay and dance. They’ll need dinner, for Heaven’s sake. Cocktails before, and dinner afterwards.” “There won’t be very many of us,” said Flame. “Have you actually even counted up?” said Stella. “Ross is a saint,” she muttered to Jeannie beside the freezer cabinets, though Flame heard. Had she wanted her to overhear? “He is a saint,” Flame said. “I keep telling him I don’t deserve him.” “Well, he clearly wants you, so the least you can do is give him a decent reception,” said Jeannie. “I wish you’d told us, Mum. I love cooking, but it helps to have some idea what you’re doing, ahead of time. ‘Easy wedding feast for unknown numbers.’” She shook her head. “Everyone likes chips,” said Flame, grabbing a few bags off the shelves. “Ooh. I haven’t had pretzels for years.” “No nuts!” said Jeannie. “Still a choking hazard for Sienna. Okay. This is what we’re going to do. Vegetable sticks and dips. Potato salad, rice, one vegetarian casserole, a beef stroganoff and a few fruit and cheese platters for afterwards. And chocolates.” “Oooh. Turmeric,” said Flame. “Let’s get the big packet, please, Jeannie. Apparently it makes a wonderful dye.”

“What about your wedding cake?” said Jeannie. “Let’s have cupcakes with white icing on one of those fancy stackers,” said Stella. “I made them so often for everyone’s birthday parties when I worked for Dam ... WestMine.” Flame and Jeannie exchanged a glance. Stella, now engaged to James, hadn’t mentioned Damian for ages. More than anyone, Flame knew one’s past love life was never fully forgotten. “Thank you, Stell. Lovely! I’ll bet the girls would like to help you with the icing. Do you two helping me? More of it went in your mouths than on my cakes, but you never complained. Oh! But please don’t use coconut. Anita hates it.” Next morning Becca arrived early to do everyone’s hair. She kept filling the teapot, sipping green tea as she snipped and sprayed. Davey appeared later in the day with Ruben and Dan, all of them dressed neatly in shirts with collars. They set to work bringing all the chairs out to the garden, arranging them with the best view of the valley and a small table to one side. Davey explained the history of weddings as they worked. With Bethany and Anita due to arrive from Coolangatta Airport in a hire car, fresh back from their tour of Europe but running late due to a delayed flight, Flame still couldn’t shake her nerves. “Nothing fazes you, Flame,” Ross said, reaching for her in a quiet moment, and holding her close. She leaned into the strength of him. “Everything will be fine.” She swallowed and gave him a tight smile, but her first instinct was to run. Surely there’d been a mistake. There would be a party here, and a good one, but she felt like an imposter. How could she finally be so lucky in love? As the day wore on, she retreated to her caravan and tried to calm down. She pulled down the blinds and forced herself to focus on her outfit, her swirly green fabric, just right for a garden party. That’s all it was—a party to celebrate her love for Ross. She could do this. A knock at the door startled her. Stella.

“You’ll be fine, Mum,” said Stella. “I feel sick.” “Apparently every bride does.” “I’m not worthy of Ross.” “Please don’t start this again, Mum. We’ve all come all this way to wish you well. You want to be with him, don’t you?” “Yes, yes I do.” “Come on out, then. Come and dazzle us, Mum. Maybe a drink will help. We’re all so pleased for you both. Don’t make this about you.” “But it is about me. It’s my wedding.” “Yes. So enjoy it!” “I’m really happier in my regen apron.” “Fine. Wear it tomorrow. Don’t spoil your own party, Mum. That green is divine on you. Think of the photographs.” Flame heard tires in the gravel. “Oh help. That must be them, Stella. I’m so nervous! You’ll understand when you meet them. Anita resents me and Bethany’s an international lawyer.” Flame grimaced. She unwound the silk from her body, revealing jeans and a t-shirt beneath. “So? Davey’s a lawyer, and he’s nice. I’ll stay right beside you.” The car doors slammed and Stella led Flame out of the shed.

Chapter 36

Bethany and Anita were pale with exhaustion, blinking at the bright blue Australian sky after weeks of winter darkness in Europe. “We’ve been travelling for more than 40 hours!” said Anita. “I thought we’d never get here. Bethany insisted on driving, so we wouldn’t miss the wedding. She says lawyers never sleep anyway.” As introductions were made, Bethany’s eyes kept returning to Flame’s. Shorter than Anita, with the same straight dark hair, but cropped, Bethany had piercing blue eyes that shot straight to Flame’s and locked on them. Flame felt the color drain from her face as she stood, motionless. Would she faint? Moments ed. She knew she should step forwards and welcome this woman, but ... Ross’s hands were on her shoulders, gently pulling her aside to usher his eldest daughter inside the farmhouse. “Bethany!” he said, reaching for her suitcase. “Good flight? What do you think of our road?” “Long flight, wild road, Dad.” “Come on, give me a hug. Flame, meet Bethany. Beth, Flame.” “I believe we’ve met,” said Bethany, her intelligent eyes staring straight into Flame’s soul as it shriveled. Flame froze, speechless. Flame could never forget that face—back in the courthouse, witness to her shame. The “incident” had been five years ago. She’d never told her girls about that chapter in her life; never told anyone of her charges. She’d been unlucky. The police officer who’d pulled her up in her car had given her the eye. When she’d resisted him, he’d thrown the book at her. They were the worst, the misogynists. They gave all police a bad name. She knew not all of them were

like that, but this one had been—worst luck. Yes, she’d been driving an uned car, and had no fixed address, and it had been her third warning; but she wasn’t hurting anyone, and she hadn’t any choice. How else was she supposed to get to work on time? On the day of her hearing, they’d come for her and brought her to the court. It was the casual way they summarized her life and her charges that shocked her most. She wasn’t a criminal. Just poor. The courthouse. The case. The every-day tragedy of it. Miserable place. The well-paid public servants, the court staff and cops, and well-dressed lawyers— and the never-ending stream of desperate people like herself. Of course she couldn’t pay bail, so she’d had to go to jail, on remand, as if she were a real danger to others. Thank God her children had been grown up and never heard a word of it. Thank God nothing worse had ever happened to her. She’d just endured it, the acres of concrete. At least it had been a proper bed for a while—more spacious than living in her car. She’d cherished her glimpse of a bit of grass out her window, refusing to stare at the main view, of the two sky-high hurricane fences—unscalable—which marked the absolute limits of her new world. She’d met plenty of women far more desperate than herself. After a while she’d managed to shake off the dark self talk—about how she’d wasted all her advantages. She even looked forward to her turns in the kitchen, where she would others to make endless sandwiches. She’d kept quiet, taken part in the silent fashion competition—a thousand ways with correctional green—dodged the most aggressive of her fellow inmates, and tried to keep fit. Her hair had been a challenge—both keeping it clean and playing down the attention it always attracted. “Hey, Bluey!” Why did Australians think it was funny to say red hair was blue? “Temper, temper!” She’d gone quietly, retreated into herself, learned to comply. Once word was out about her fortune telling, there was no shortage of company. Without her tarot

cards, she read people’s palms instead, always hinting at something better for them around the corner. Their stories were harrowing. She thought she’d done it tough with men, but many were in jail as a retreat from violent partners, with scars to prove it. She’d done her best to forget those months, to utterly erase them from her memory, but now, on her wedding day, they all came rushing back; along with the reality she’d crossed a line and been on the wrong side of the law, and had kept it a secret, even from those closest to her. The experience flashed before her eyes as she and Bethany stood and stared at each other. She’d loved the library at the jail, though she never had enough time in there, and most of the books had pages missing, ripped out for making cigarettes. She’d even had a session with a math teacher. She’d cried that day. More than twenty years since she’d left home, she finally had an answer to the set of maths challenges she’d walked away from. “Three warnings,” said the police prosecutor. “No remorse.” No remorse? What she wanted was to stand up tall and say she’d had no choice. That the registration warnings had never arrived, because she’d moved again, and how was she supposed to ? What hurt the most was how they rushed her case, then all sauntered out for lunch. Why had no one explained it to her; made it clear what would happen? Why did they make it so hard for people like herself? When Ross had first said he’d worked in the public service, she’d feared he might have worked in the justice system. Had he worked in a court, in a jail? Had he been one of those people with uniforms and secure smiles, wearing a lanyard around their neck like they were so special, always on the right side of the law? These people, here for the wedding, Anita, and even her own respectable daughters and Ross, her groom—they had no idea about her past. But Bethany. Did.

Bethany pulled her aside. “I’m just going to have a quiet word with the bride to be,” she announced, and she grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her outside, out of everyone’s hearing. “I you. I was there that day, assisting the defense.” Flame was rigid. She stared back. “I knew I couldn’t marry your father,” said Flame. “We’re chalk and cheese. I tried to tell him.” She’d known it all along; had never felt worthy of him. If Anita hated her, Bethany’s knowledge would be the clincher. “You can,” said Bethany. “You must. Listen to me, Flame. My lips are sealed. Your past is your own business. My profession isn’t worth a thing if you are less free than I am to live your life.” “Sorry? What do you mean?” “I you,” she said. “I was in the court both times. Yes, you were charged, and went on remand, but when your case was actually heard, months later, it was dismissed. You’d done enough time, the judge said. My profession and all my study is worth nothing if you’re not as free a citizen now as I am. You have no conviction, and your secret’s safe with me.” But Flame shook her head, wretched. She collapsed on the garden bench, head drooping. “But I’m not who Ross believes I am,” Flame said. “We’re too different. I’m sorry you’ve all wasted all this time coming here. We have to call off the wedding.” “No,” said Bethany, her voice steady, compelling. Flame could well imagine her holding forth in the International Court of Justice in The Hague or lecturing at a university. “The whole point of the criminal justice system is ‘justice.’ In our judicial system, we believe people can change. This is my whole thesis. Innocent unless and until proven guilty; and—and this is what many people forget, but it is equally important—after punishment comes redemption.” Exhaustion haunted Bethany’s face after her days of travel, but her conviction

shone through as she continued, her eyes alight, insistent. “You took more punishment than you deserved. Our remand system is woeful, but the courts are so crowded the judges have very little choice but to send people to jail until their cases can be heard. And Flame—even if you had been tried and found guilty, former criminals are no longer criminals. They’re free to lead better lives. So live, Flame. Please. With my father, if it makes you both happy. Otherwise, all my work and study is in vain, along with the validity and raison d’etre of our whole judicial system.” “I’m not comfortable hiding this from your father,” said Flame. “He needs to know the whole truth about me. I’ve been trying to tell him I’m not good enough for him.” “It’s not true about you not being good enough for my father, Flame. He’s chosen you. Don’t insult him. Tell him, then, if that’s what you want, but knowing my father, I doubt it will change his mind one little bit.” Flame nodded, serious, and Bethany smiled. Guilt lifted. Flame could breathe again for now. Until she’d spoken with Ross, she couldn’t be sure Bethany was correct, but not for the first time in her life, she knew she’d witness pure grace. She leaned across to Bethany and took her hands. “Thank you,” she said, head bowed. Bethany forced her to lift her head and meet her eyes. “You’re welcome,” she said, and they shared a smile so sweet her heart ached. Was this fine person about to become her daughter? Flame marveled at the beauty in the world; that even her darkest secret could finally be shared and accepted and forgiven—by one person, anyway. Ross’s reaction was yet to be seen. “It’s so, so beautiful here,” said Bethany, changing the subject as if Flame’s secret was immaterial. “Mum loved wisteria, and red roses, the deeper the better.” “You know she planted this one,” said Flame, grateful for a fresh subject as her heart began to resume a more normal beat. The fragrance of the flowers filled her lungs as she took a deep breath. Her time in jail had ed, for good, and if

Ross would still accept her, all would be well. “And Ross brought the rose clippings up from the Sydney garden. Everything grows so well here. We’ve planted an orchard in Margaux’s memory, too. Has Ross told you?” Bethany entered the kitchen first, taking a slice of cake. “Great cake! Who baked this?” “I took out the coconut, for Anita,” said Flame. “Did I hear my name?” Anita slunk in and stood with them. “Flame’s just telling me she doesn’t want to go ahead with the wedding,” Bethany said. “Rubbish!” said Anita. “How selfish, when we’ve all turned up like this!” “But you’re all against it—and you, most of all, Anita,” said Flame. “I was; it’s true. I wouldn’t have liked it a year ago, the first time we met, but I haven’t been fair to you, Flame. I owe you thanks for what you did for me.” Flame’s eyes shot to Anita’s, and ducked across to Bethany’s. Had the sisters discussed her fortune telling? She’d never breathed a word of it to anyone, true to her profession. What clients said about their own experiences was up to them. “Truly, I do,” said Anita. She took both Flame’s hands and sat in front of her, as earnest as Flame had ever seen her. “You showed me things so clearly that day at the markets, in your tent. I couldn’t get them out of my mind. The picture of the tower—I couldn’t have summed up my life more perfectly; the way I was resisting change, refusing to accept Mum had died, refusing to grow up and move on. I was sulking big time, and clinging to life as it had been, hoping she’d come back to us. The effort exhausted me. You showed me the truth—but do you know what’s made the biggest difference?” Flame shook her head.

“The Queen of Cups card, with the water,” said Anita. “That card’s been like a beacon for me, guiding me forwards, giving me the courage to finally step away from the wreckage of my past—my grief over Mum dying and my bitterness about my teaching career. It hasn’t been easy. I clung to the security of the house over my head, and to my regular income from a job I didn’t enjoy—to the convenience and habit of it all. But everything had to change. And Bethany, you helped me, too.” Anita patted the seat beside her until Bethany sat. “If I couldn’t have come and travelled with Bethany, it would have been even harder, but it was Flame who got the ball rolling, with her fortune telling,” Anita continued. “I was ashamed to it I was so desperate. I practically fell into your tent that day, hoping for a miracle, but I’ll say this. You gave me that miracle, Flame. You made it possible, because when Dad visited me in Sydney and told me he wanted to sell the house, I finally stopped resisting those winds of change. I told him about the picture of the fire storm attacking the tower, and agreed it was time to sell, that I’d decided not to fight him anymore, and that I’d resign. And I did. It’s been the best thing, and you started it. It was you who opened up this next chapter in my life, and I’ve never been happier.” Bethany pulled out a chair for Flame as Anita’s urgent words tumbled out. “And our holiday!” Anita said. “The things we saw! We’ll show you the photos later if you like; the architecture—unbelievable. Have you been to Europe? You must go. I saw some old Roman baths in the footings of a museum in Paris and it gave me this whole new dream. Bethany’s aware of my plans, and Dad knows a bit, but let me tell you, Flame.” This was a different Anita; warm, animated, so keen to share her plans. The fear and shame in Flame’s chest continued to seep away in the flood of the young woman’s words. “I love the water,” Anita said. “You noticed the first time you met me—but I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten, left it behind in the drudgery of study and my job. I’d forgotten the thing that makes me happiest.” Anita took a sip of tea and continued. “So I only had this picture of the fountain in my mind and had no idea how to

make it work for me—but this idea grew—of bringing other people to the beauty of water, and at first I was thinking I’d have to buy a swimming pool, which was impossible, even with all the money Dad gave me from the sale of the house. But with these Roman baths, I ed that Sydney is full of underutilized indoor pools. Most of them are under the newer apartment buildings. They’re a swanky selling point, but hardly anyone uses them after the tenants have thrown their first party for all their friends and the neighbors have complained about the noise.” “Lots of the motels I’ve cleaned have pools no one uses, too,” said Flame. She nodded. “I’ve already ed some strata committees and offered to provide private swimming lessons or fitness sessions for residents and their friends. It’s taking off, and I haven’t even started! Word is spreading so fast I can hardly keep up with the demand. I hated teaching children who were cooped up in their classrooms, but these people say they’re really looking forward to their time with me. Some of them never had the opportunity to swim, and others are selfconscious about their bodies but really want to get fit again, and a couple have had some health challenges.” “Tell Flame the name of your business, Neetie,” said Bethany, helping herself to another slice of cake. “The Water Goddess!” Anita laughed, radiating joy. Flame clapped her hands. “So don’t you dare refuse my father, Flame. What reason could you possibly have to break his heart again?” “I keep telling him he’s too good for me,” said Flame. “I’m going to it I thought so too, for a long time, Flame,” said Anita. “But you make him happy. And you make lots of people happy, including me. And look at you! You’re extraordinary. This heavenly sarong; your crazy cakes. Dad showed me the quilt you made for him. The bushcare; your fortune telling. You’re a gem. I couldn’t be more proud to call you my step mother. Besides, I really like your family. Stella and James; Jeannie and Matt and little Sienna and Lucy.

“Do you know what? While you and Bethany were outside, Stella and I already bonded on the concept that the wedding was a silly idea; that your marriage wouldn’t last. We agreed on it so well, we found out that we all really like each other, and now we all want your marriage to last! So you might as well just marry Dad and be done with it. And now I’ve got to go and have a nap.” Stella entered the kitchen, her hair twisted and braided and done up to the nines. “I still can’t believe you don’t even have a proper guest list, Mum,” said Stella. “Chill, Stella,” said Becca. “This is Byron Shire. People put their wedding invitations on Facebook.” “You didn’t, Mum!” Jeannie spun from the stove to face her, hands on hips. “No,” said Flame. “But only because I still can’t quite believe this is actually going ahead.” The fragrance of too-ripe mango filled the kitchen. The golden fruit oozed sweet juice into their tray. “A whole tray of mangoes,” Stella said, as if Flame’s contribution to the wedding feast had been impossibly irresponsible. “We’ll just have to throw them out.” “Not on your life,” said Matt with a big laugh. He cocked an eye at James. “I found the ice!” said James. He opened kitchen cupboards and grabbed a bottle of sweet white rum. Matt called out to Lucy who was busy handing Sienna cake tins from the cupboard under the window. Their fancy white dresses were slowly turning brown at the edges, like aging gardenias. “Come on, Luce! Where did you say the orchard is? We need some lemons for the gin and tonics and mango daiquiris!” Becca was still fiddling with one side of Jeannie’s hair, twisting and braiding it with pearls and diamantes.

“Becca, please. I just need to check the casseroles!” said Jeannie. “I’m not sure we can trust Ross’s oven. We put them straight in on low and they’re meant to quietly cook themselves while we’re all getting ready and the guests arrive, but I need to work out when to turn them off.” “Save those onion skins for me, please, Jeannie,” said Flame. “I’m experimenting with more natural dyes. More environmentally friendly.” Suddenly, Ross appeared again. He grabbed Flame’s hand and pulled her out the back door, out the gate, and across the paddock to where they had a clear view of the dam. Flame’s weeding was working! Word was spreading in bird world. They swooped in, their distinctive cries and flight patterns a wonder.

Chapter 37

“I t’s bedlam in there !” said Flame. She squeezed Ross’s hand. “I brought it on myself, this wedding,” said Ross. He pulled her close to kiss her, and smiled. “But truly, I love your family—my new family—and I hope they come back and visit us again and again. You did a great job with those girls, Flame.” “They raised themselves,” she said, though she basked in his words, warm as a pink sunrise. “I’m sure that’s not entirely true.” “Maybe not. You always think the best of me.” Dread lurked in her heart. She must confess. She knew she’d been hard to pin down, that it was Ross’s patience and love and determination which had created this day, and now that she was about to endanger the whole wedding—she suddenly wanted it more than ever, to live with Ross on the farm, as his wife and partner, for ever. Would it all unravel with what she was about to say? She laced her fingers with his, squeezed them, then pulled his arm around her waist, and her own around his, so their hips were ed as they walked in the late afternoon, down to the first gully she’d reclaimed. “There’s a lot of ‘best’ in you, Flame, and the best is yet to come. See what we’re achieving here?” “I’m so lucky to be with you,” said Flame. “We’ve been together almost a year? It’s nearly a record for me.” “Let’s break our record every year, then Flame. That’s all a marriage is about; being together.”

“You can still get out of it, Ross,” said Flame. “I wasn’t exactly open with you. I have to tell you this. Bethany knows. I need you to know I spent time in jail.” He held her in his arms while she confessed. She couldn’t bear to watch his face, but his words would reveal her fate. “You were only on remand,” said Ross. “Although that can’t have been pleasant. But you need to know, that even if you had committed a real crime, and been found guilty, I still love you. And if you served your time, that would be the end of it. I agree with Bethany one hundred per cent.” “But I didn’t tell you.” “There are plenty of things you don’t know about my past life, too, Flame. It might take us a lifetime to learn everything about each other.” “Really? So ‘no big deal?’” “No big deal, though I’m sorry you had to go through that, you and too many other people.” Grace. Again. Bethany was right. Flame took a deep breath. So that was that. She rested her head on his chest, right where she could hear his heart, steady, generous. How fortunate she was. She hugged him so hard he laughed. On the way back, she touched a vine wending itself around a tree trunk. “Westringia,” she said. “Hardenbergia,” said Ross. Tiny purple flowers nestled among the long green leaves. “Native sarsaparilla,” said Ross. He picked a long tress and handed it to her. “Aboriginal people chewed on these leaves to slake their thirst on long journeys.” She nodded and smiled. The internet was amazing.

“Stay with me, Flame. Let’s enjoy our own long journey.” Flame flung her arms around Ross. The feel of him, tall and strong—just right. Just as Ross released her, she noticed an older man, awkward in a shirt and tie and hat, walking towards the main gate. “Craig Donovan,” said Ross. “I’ve never seen him so dressed up before. Could be on his way to a wedding.” “No! Look at me!” said Flame, still in jeans and a t-shirt. She kissed Ross hard before racing away from him, back towards the farmhouse and her House of Spades. Flame banged open the door of her caravan in her haste to change. She slammed it shut, threw off her clothes, seized her train of wild green fabric and wound it around herself, twisting up her hair and threading the sprig of purple-flowered vine through it, laughing. Let Treenie see her now with twigs in her hair. If she was a scarecrow, she was a happy one. She chastised herself. Her darkest secret was out, into the full light of this bright afternoon as it tipped towards dusk, and Ross, her family and friends hadn’t even flinched. She’d even made peace with the death of her parents. May Treenie find half her joy, or twice as much—and soon. May everyone be as rich. She peeked out a window. Across the ridges and edges of the valley, the setting sun slapped streaks of gold on the peaks. It glittered in the foliage at the tops of the gullies they were restoring. What had Ross called that Japanese technique of fixing broken bowls? Kintsugi. Flame snapped her attention to their family and friends in the garden. Even Stavros had turned up, Ross’s friend from the markets, half hidden by a tree in a pot. Was this the long-awaited pecan nut tree? And there was Aunty Mai and Barry and some of the Bundjalung mob. Rosa was there, from the supermarket. She was chatting with Lenny from the motel. She smiled as Ari and some of the bird watchers lifted their binoculars. One of them pointed out the bird to Danny, tall, in long pants and shoes and socks, his hair dark, still wet and combed in runnels. Ruben was eyeing the bowl of

pretzels. And there was Lola, her white hair a halo in the last of the sun’s rays. Would Lola moon dance later tonight? Flame’s heart beat double time. Was her union with Ross bringing joy to so many people? Numb and humbled, she stood and watched, then jumped into action. They were all waiting for her. The guests turned to her and smiled when Flame stepped into the garden, draped in the luscious green silk, a smaller strip of it trailing in her hand. Ross, in a crisp white shirt and dark tros, was talking with Craig beside the wisteria. Her groom stood tall as she approached, his eyes talking in the whole of her, up and down and up again, as if she were a forest red gum in full bloom, and he were a koala. Or something. She laughed out loud and shook her head. Inhaling essence of Ross, she reached up to his collar, her quick fingers transforming the cloth into a bow tie, a slip of green as bright as new shoots of native grasses, the hue of clean sea breaking on white sand. Bethany approached, handing her a bouquet of Margaux’s flowers and a sprig of gum blossoms. “Be quick!” she said. “They’ll wilt and drop.” “Here among friends and family, we gather to wish Ross and Flame a happy life together,” said Davey. Out on the edge of the lawn where the view opened out along the whole valley, the sky began to turn apricot and violet. They’d repositioned the wedding chairs side by side, so each had a view of the valley. And so, as dusk gathered and Matt’s fairy lights blinked on, Sienna and Lucy ran in circles, lopping tops off the dandelions, their patent leather shoes abandoned on the grass and their white dresses absorbing glorious orange stains from the mango seeds. Lucy stood on a bucket to open the gate to the chicken pen, and let her feathered friends run out, squawking among the guests. Ruben and Danny had kicked off their shoes and ran after them, trying to shoo the birds back in the coop.

The adults sipped Matt and James’s mango daiquiris and gin and tonics and talked and laughed. Half an hour later, Anita stepped out proudly in Flame’s indigo and white sarong, shoulders bare. “Did I miss the wedding?” “Sensational!” said Bethany. “Flame made it,” Anita conceded, picking a gardenia and tucking it behind her ear. Ross stood tall, his arm around Flame. “You have to ire them,” said Bethany to Anita, who yawned as she accepted a daiquiri. “Ross brings out the best in her,” said Stella. “Seconds, anyone?” James said, a jug in each hand. The stars came out as the fragrance of Margaux’s flowers filled the garden. “I’m glad Flame’s decided to stay,” said Ross. “At least for now.” And everyone cheered.

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Did you love House of Spades? Then you should read House of Diamonds by Amber Jakeman!

A heartwarming, emotionally satisfying contemporary Australian romance with an international flavour, by Amber JakemanA fresh start. An instant enemy. But Stella is determined. Sparkles fly when former office manager Stella Rhees, 30, flees a failed affair with her old boss, Damian. Determined to run her own show, she pursues her dream of creating and selling her own jewellery. The problem? She's opened her jaunty stall directly outside the famous Huntleys House of Jewels at the very moment handsome James Huntley the Third, 33, asks her to move so he can stage a publicity stunt. Feisty Stella won't budge. Despite a mutual physical attraction, Stella and James become instant enemies, their rivalry fanned by a social media war. While Huntleys appears prosperous, it's facing bankruptcy, and James's mother and playboy brother are squandering the family fortune overseas. James finds Stella and her fresh ideas irresistible, and she becomes the catalyst for him to change Huntleys' path of self-destruction. He offers her a job, but how can she accept when she's vowed to never fall into the old trap of falling in love with the boss? For Stella and James to find their Happily Ever After, each must overcome personal demons, take risks and learn to trust the other. Will this dazzling couple ever work out how to put a Huntley engagement ring to its proper purpose? House of Diamonds is the first book in the House of Jewels series, with an international flavour, featuring the romantic fortunes of the extended Huntley family. Read more at Amber Jakeman’s site.

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About the Author

Partial to sunsets, picnics and poetry, feel-good fiction writer Amber Jakeman was a journalist, ghost writer and editor before succumbing to her addiction to uplifting endings. She creates fast-paced heart warmers from her tiny apartment on the edge of Sydney Harbour—historical and contemporary love tales with an international flavor. When not writing, Amber enjoys time with family and friends, sailing with her husband, travel, walking and savoring other writers’ creations. Amber Jakeman acknowledges Australia’s first storytellers and offers respect to Indigenous people past and present and to their descendants. Visit www.amberjakeman.com to find out how to order other novels by Amber Jakeman, and sign up for occasional updates. Read more at Amber Jakeman’s site.

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