From memory, the room her father was referring to was a parents’ retreat. She’d only been up to the first floor once, when Yasmin had taken her on a tour of the newly completed house. That was years ago.
‘I was reading the paper.’ Her father sat down on one of the overstuffed armchairs while Lynsey perched on the edge of the other one and leaned forward.
‘What’s the story with the mill, Dad?’
He shot her an irritated look and muted the sound on the flat-screen TV. ‘The drought’s near killed us, that’s what happened.’
‘We’ve been through drought before and we’ve always managed.’
‘Not this time.’
‘What’s different this time?’ Lynsey’s gaze drifted beyond her father into the master bedroom. Yasmin, or a discerning decorator, had chosen a burnt orange quilt for the wooden four-poster bed. The colour brought out the accents in the painting centred on the wall above it, a riot of orange, red and gold hues bursting from the canvas of a Pro Hart campsite scene.
A chill ran down the length of Lynsey’s spine and she looked at her father again. ‘What’s different this time, Dad?’
‘It’s not just the drought. The banks have tightened up their lending since the financial crisis. It’s a combination of things.’
If her father believed he could brush her off with a vague generalisation like that then he really didn’t know her. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’
‘I don’t know why you think that.’ He snapped out the words like she was a bothersome primary school kid. ‘As I said on the phone, it’s in the hands of the administrators. They’ll decide the most appropriate course of action.’
What had he said yesterday during their phone call? Stone can wait along with everyone else …
Lynsey dug her nails into her palms and fought off the anger boiling inside her. She’d never forgive her father for interfering in her relationship with Julian, but for now that had to wait. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, have you, Dad?’
Horrified at the sudden tremor in her voice, she braced herself for his answer. Despite the overwhelming evidence she’d unearthed yesterday, she wanted him to deny any wrongdoing to her face.
His eyelids lowered and his gaze slid away to the left. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he mumbled.
He was lying.
She’d watched him do the same thing to her mother whenever she’d put him on the spot about things like staying out late. First he’d deny it and then he’d get all defensive.
Her gaze shot towards the empty bedroom. ‘Where’s Yasmin?’
‘At the Sydney apartment.’
‘Why isn’t she here?’
He sucked in an irritated breath. ‘They’ve pinned some fraud charge on her. Some crap bloody Sasha Bernstein says she found out.’
‘Who’s Sasha Bernstein?’
‘The accounts girl at the mill.’
‘So … when will Yasmin be back?’
‘That’ll depend on the outcome of the charges.’
So Willow had been right. Yasmin had been ripping people off, and the mill hadn’t been her first offence.
‘I need to use the bathroom.’ Lynsey rubbed a hand over her middle. ‘I don’t feel very well.’
‘Go on then.’ Watching her from the corner of his eye, her father picked up his newspaper and shook it open. ‘You should go home to Brisbane. This thing will take months to sort out.’
Lynsey went into the master bedroom and shut the door with a quiet click, hoping her father wouldn’t think it odd. She paused, listening to make sure he wasn’t going to follow, but the only sound from the sitting room was the rustle of newspaper as he turned the pages.
Stepping lightly, she moved towards the painting, the rapid beat of her heart quickening her breath. The painting was the same one as in the brochure. The scorched red earth. The fiery orange sky. The blackened stumps and stick figures. Hart’s recognisable signature. Lynsey pulled her phone from her pocket and took a photograph, preserving the evidence should her father decide to offload it in a hurry.
She turned away, her stomach cramping for real this time. The painting had been purchased with company money—she had the bank statement in her desk drawer to prove it.
Wiping clammy palms down her jeans she looked around the room, her gaze settling on a wooden jewellery box in the centre of Yasmin’s dressing table. With a glance at the door she approached it and carefully raised the lid, praying it wasn’t one that played a tune. Chains, bracelets and three ladies’ watches were nestled inside the felt compartments, the gold pieces reflected in the mirror set inside the lid.
Holding her breath, Lynsey closed the lid and opened the first little drawer. Going by the assortment of brooches and earrings within, Yasmin had a love of gold. The next drawer contained her father’s pieces—gold tiepins and an opal dress ring. Sliding the drawer closed she opened the last one and caught her breath. There it was. The jewel in the crown. A sparkling blue sapphire ring set amongst a cluster of baguette diamonds.
There was a loud knock on the bedroom door. ‘Lynsey! Are you alright?’
Lynsey took a shot of the ring and ran into the bathroom, flushing the toilet with a shaky hand before turning on the mixer in the hand basin. In the mirror, her complexion was ghostly pale. Cupping her hands beneath the water she splashed her face then dabbed it dry with a handful of tissues. At least she looked unwell.
Drawing in a deep breath she opened the bathroom door and came face to face with her father.
‘What have you been up to?’
She gave a bitter laugh and dodged around him. ‘That’s something I should be asking you.’
‘Meaning?’
She wheeled around to face him again. ‘Meaning how did the mill my grandfather start become insolvent?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘You’ve told me on numerous occasions that your majority shareholding goes to me. I’d say that gives me a vested interest.’ Normally she hated talking about money, but she’d come here looking for answers, and there was no way she was leaving without them.
Her father had other ideas. He pointed to the dressing table where the bottom drawer of the jewellery box stood part-way open. ‘Why were you going through Yasmin’s jewellery?’
When she didn’t answer, her father turned and gave her a bemused look. ‘You said you were sick.’
‘I guess I lied,’ she said quietly. ‘Gosh. I must have learned that from you, Dad.’
A hand clamped around her upper arm and Lynsey winced as her father’s fingers dug into the flesh above her elbow. ‘You can’t be trusted.’
‘To do what?’ Heart fluttering wildly she wrenched her arm free. ‘Keep your little scam under wraps if I came to work at the mill?’ She backed away from him and tried to keep the wobble out of her voice. ‘You told Julian you’d fire his mother if he kept going out with me, didn’t you?’
Donald Carter rolled his eyes. ‘We’re not back to Stone again, are we?’
‘He was the only thing that could have kept me in Mindalby, and you wanted me to go. You knew I’d never sit back and allow you to bleed the company dry.’
‘You have proof of all this?’ her father barked. ‘Or are you simply spewing small town gossip?’
‘Oh, I have proof. Of everything. The Bermuda bank accounts. The mill’s bank statements with payments for things like that painting—’ Lynsey jabbed a finger in the direction of the Pro Hart, ‘—and Yasmin’s sapphire ring. Both bought with company money.’
Lynsey watched her father’s jaw harden as he processed the enormity of what she’d just said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I have the entire contents of your home study from a dozen years ago, that’s what I’m talking about. Mum never threw it out. She just told you she did.’
‘Your mother told me she’d taken it to the dump. Why would she have told me one thing and d
one another?’
‘Maybe she was getting her own back,’ Lynsey said, though she knew extracting revenge had never been her mother’s intention.
‘If that’s true then I’ve been misled. Those items are my property and should be handed over to me.’
Lynsey searched her father’s face for some sign of regret, but there was nothing—just a desire to protect himself and a threat in his eyes that Lynsey feared was meant more for her mother than for her.
‘It’s no longer your property, Dad. It’s evidence against you and Yasmin, and it belongs with the administrator and the police.’
The corner of her father’s mouth lifted in a sneer. ‘You always were a spoiled brat. So, go on, what do you want for it?’
‘Not everyone can be bought with money, Dad.’
‘Everyone has their price.’
‘Not me. I want the mill to trade out of trouble and I want the workers to keep their jobs and entitlements. What would Grandad Carter think? The mill was his pride and joy. Thank God he’s not here to see how you’ve dragged the family name through the mud.’
Her father took a step towards her, so close she could smell the cologne Yasmin always bought for him. ‘Get out, Lynsey.’
‘Oh … I’m going.’ Lynsey backed out of the room then turned towards the stairs before her father could see the tears pooling in her eyes. She’d come here looking for answers, and she had them now. Proof that personal items had been bought with company money, and proof that her father didn’t love her, and probably never had.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Lynsey ran down the stairs. She was almost at the bottom when her heel slipped on the second-last step. One knee buckled, and she flung out an arm and grabbed hold of the banister. Suppressing the sob that trembled in her chest, she straightened up and walked towards the front door on shaky legs.
‘Lynsey!’
Her father’s command stopped her in her tracks as though she were an obedient five-year-old.
‘You and your mother had better think twice before you show that stuff to anyone.’
Or else …?
His menacing words drove the breath from her lungs as effectively as a long-bladed knife sliding between her ribs.
Desperate to escape, Lynsey wrenched open the door, her father’s voice booming after her as she blindly fled the house.
‘You need to work out whose side you’re on, Lynsey.’
Chapter Twelve
Lynsey stepped inside the warmth of Joe’s Café hoping a coffee would chase away the tension headache building behind her eyes. The scent of freshly baked banana bread hung heavy in the air, but for once the enticing aroma failed to whet her appetite.
‘A double strength flat white please, extra hot,’ she said to the waitress behind the counter, grateful her sunglasses obscured her puffy red eyes. She had forty minutes to kill before her mother was free.
‘Four dollars.’ The waitress looked her up and down with ill-concealed disdain. ‘The cups are going through the dishwasher. I only have takeaway ones.’
‘That’s not a problem.’ Lynsey handed the woman a twenty-dollar note. ‘You can put the rest on the wall.’
The woman frowned, hand hovering over the cash register.
‘Do you have a wall for the extra coffees?’ Lynsey asked.
The woman pressed a button and the cash register popped open with a tinkle. ‘Whatever you’re talking about—we don’t have it here.’
Lynsey’s cheeks warmed at the woman’s impatient dismissal. Maybe she was taking things for granted in assuming city practices would have been adopted here. Or maybe the woman’s attitude was because she was a Carter. Lynsey stared at the bleached blonde, bone-thin waitress, the seed of an idea germinating in her mind. On Tuesday she would be speaking at the meeting Warren had arranged in an effort to help the area’s cotton farmers. But in a small way, she could do something right now to help the townspeople of Mindalby—as well as the cafe owner.
‘A coffee wall is easy to set up.’ She pointed to a congested bulletin board by the door displaying everything from piano lessons to lost pets. ‘You make space on a board like that one and then you pin a coloured sticker on it whenever someone pays for an extra. People doing it tough can come in and use a sticker to get a free coffee.’
The woman began pulling change from the drawer. ‘You mean people who have lost their jobs.’
Lynsey swallowed. ‘And homeless people.’
‘We don’t have any homeless in Mindalby. That’s a city problem.’
‘It also helps the cafe. Small luxuries like coffee are often the first thing to go when people are on a tight budget.’
‘I don’t think the town needs any more help from a Carter.’
‘She’s right, Beryl. There’s only a handful of people in here.’
Lynsey swung around to see Julian standing behind her. Dressed in a white business shirt, grey trousers and black shoes, he reached around her and slapped twenty dollars on the counter. ‘It’s a good system. Works well in the cities. Put me down for another five.’
Beryl’s demeanour was transformed, and she smiled for the first time. ‘Well, if you’re in favour of it, Julian honey, I’d better go and check with the boss.’ She popped the two twenties into the till and with a sway of her hips pushed open the swing door and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Do all women carry out your bidding with equal relish?’ Lynsey murmured, her heart clamouring at his close proximity.
‘What can I say?’ While he didn’t look at her she could hear the note of amusement in his voice. ‘Beryl aims to please.’
‘To please men. Not one for the sisterhood, is she? Or is it because I’m a Carter?’
Beryl re-emerged through the door. ‘Joe likes the idea.’ She looked pointedly at Lynsey and slapped a small pad of post-it notes on the counter. ‘But you’ll have to organise it yourself. I’m the only waitress on.’ And with that she picked up a metal jug and began frothing the milk.
‘Well?’ Julian tipped his head in the direction of the board and spoke over the din of the espresso machine. ‘Shall we?’
He smelled of soap and musky aftershave and his dark hair shone under the glare of the fluorescents. He led the way to the board and stood with his hands resting on his hips, a smattering of dark hair on his forearms where his white shirt was rolled to the elbows.
‘I think this has been here long enough,’ he said with a chuckle, taking down an A4 poster with Lionel Ritchie’s face printed on it. Underneath was the caption, Is it me you’re looking for?
Lynsey smiled and studied the board when what she really wanted to do was study Julian. She pointed to a program for last year’s Cotton Festival. ‘That one can come down.’ She lowered her hand at the same time he reached for the program and their fingers tangled.
‘Sorry.’ Jolts of electricity pulsed through Lynsey’s body as she slid her hands into the pockets of her knee-length coat and let him take down the program and a yellowing flyer advertising piano lessons.
‘Miss Williams retired from teaching three years ago.’ He folded over the dusty sheets. ‘You took lessons with her, didn’t you?’
Lynsey screwed up her nose. ‘She traumatised me for a good ten years. Made me practise walking into the exam room until I got it right. I should be grateful I didn’t get rapped over the knuckles with a ruler. She used to do that a lot if you played the wrong notes more than three times.’
He chuckled again and Lynsey’s spirits lifted at his friendliness. After removing some more of the aging bulletins he stood back and surveyed the space they’d cleared. ‘That should be enough.’
He took a pen from his pocket and began writing 1 free coffee on each of the sticky notes then passed them to Lynsey so she could arrange them on the board.
‘Where are you sitting?’ It was Beryl with the resting bitch face, holding Lynsey’s take-away coffee in a bony-fingered grip.
Lynsey looked around the cafe. With the exception of
two ladies enjoying a lively chat over morning tea, the place was empty. ‘Anywhere is fine, thank you.’
Beryl dumped the coffee on the closest table and turned to Julian. ‘I’ll put those old flyers in the bin for you, honey,’ she said, standing a little too close to Julian for Lynsey’s comfort and taking them out of his hand. With a racy smile and an exaggerated swing of her hips she returned to the counter.
‘Come and sit with me.’ Julian picked up Lynsey’s coffee and led the way to a secluded spot in the back corner. He put the styrofoam cup on the lime-green tabletop and pulled out a chair.
‘I’m glad I ran into you.’ Lynsey sat facing him. ‘I was coming out to see you later on.’
‘That would have been a surprise, though you might have missed me. I have an appointment at the bank in—’ he glanced at his watch, ‘—just over thirty minutes.’
Lynsey stared at the silver watch on his wrist, a wrist so strong it looked capable of twisting the nuts off a tanker wheel without the aid of a wrench. ‘I owe you an apology, Julian.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
‘No, I do. I called you a wimp. That wasn’t very nice.’
A ghost of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. ‘I shouldn’t have brought up the past when you were already upset over the fence.’
The fence. The graffiti incident felt like a month ago, and so inconsequential compared to what she’d learned in the meantime. She jumped as a sudden burst of laughter came from across the room. The two women were oblivious to everyone else. Outside, the street was quiet for a Friday morning.
Lynsey slipped off her sunglasses. Across the table, she heard Julian suck in a breath at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Yesterday, you were wondering if you should pull your builders off the ethanol plant.’
His eyebrows rose as though that was the last thing he’d expected her to say. ‘That’s right. I’m still thinking about it.’
‘I’d do it. If I were you.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’
She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, fingers so cold they looked almost bloodless. ‘Things aren’t good, Julian.’
A Daughter’s Choice Page 8
