Praise for Nicole Hurley-Moore
McKellan’s Run
‘So very readable—you won’t be able to put it down.’ —The Newcastle Herald
Hartley’s Grange
‘In a sometimes grim world it’s good to feel the spirit of optimism that radiates from a novel such as this.’ —North by North East
‘Hartley’s Grange is a tale of second chances, of finding that person who inspires you to be better . . . I certainly found it difficult to put the book down.’ —Beauty and Lace
‘. . . lives are put back together, lessons are learned, and old friends resurface in a timeless story of life, love and living. A wonderful read for a lazy Sunday afternoon which will leave you with a total dose of that “feelgood” feeling!’ —Blue Wolf Reviews
Country Roads
‘A heartwarming tale of taking chances, facing your fears and opening yourself up to new experiences.’ —Beauty and Lace
‘A good book for a lazy beach day.’ —The Book Muse
White Gum Creek
‘New love, fresh beginning and the overwhelming gift of friendship and love, all come together in this warm and delightful tale.’ —Blue Wolf Reviews
‘The perfect summer read.’ —Noveltea Corner
‘It is enchanting to see how [Nick] came out of his shell and made the decision to live again . . .’ —Read the Write Act
First published in 2019
Copyright © Nicole Hurley-Moore 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
ISBN 978 1 76063 111 6
eISBN 978 1 76087 049 2
Cover design: Grace West
Cover photographs: Shutterstock and iStock
For Christopher, Ciandra, Conor and Alannah.
As always, thanks for your love and support.
And to the paw section of the family—thanks for not
eating the laptop, edits and all of my sticky notes.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
Lawson’s Bend, January 2018
Henny Bolton drew in a deep breath as she passed the shabby Welcome to Lawson’s Bend sign on the side of the road. The sign was lopsided, as if one of its posts was giving way, and the faded wording echoed the sentiment that it had been a long time since anyone was truly welcomed here. It had been years since she herself had been back, and if fate hadn’t sent her a curve ball she wouldn’t be here at all.
For a long time Lawson’s Bend had held little for Henny. Almost ten years ago she’d got out and vowed never to come back. But things change and some vows have to be broken.
The gums that lined both sides of the road began to thin as she neared the town. Henny glanced over and saw that the Wrights’ old place still sported a front yard full of cars in various states of disrepair. The whole property was looking run-down, from the old weatherboard in desperate need of a coat of paint to the knee-high weeds straggling in the otherwise barren front garden. She supposed it just went to prove that some things never changed, and felt a twinge of both comfort and sadness in the thought.
Henny slowed as the main town came into view. Other than a couple of new houses on the edge, everything looked the same. It was a typical central Victorian town, wide street lined with small shops on both sides. It wasn’t the biggest town in this neck of the woods but it wasn’t the smallest either. There were about seven thousand residents, and if you counted the outlying areas you could probably add another ten thousand. Looking down the main street you could see the old mansion on the hill that presided over the entire town, giving the whole place a touch of bygone elegance. Lawson’s Bend survived on a mix of farming families, niche businesses and a small hospital, as well as an assisted-living and aged-care facility that catered for the residents of Lawson’s Bend and the surrounding area. It was a pretty place, nestled between rolling hills, long paddocks and vineyards, but, to Henny, once you looked past the aesthetics there was a feeling of perpetual loss hanging over it like a great dark cloud.
Some wouldn’t agree; they would say that Henny was being melodramatic, and just because the town had many senior residents didn’t mean that the entire population was ready to keel over at any moment. But Henny knew better: death was part of the fabric of the town, and those who didn’t know that must be newcomers to Lawson’s Bend.
She parked outside the small supermarket then grabbed her large embroidered bag and stepped out of the car. The air was hot and dry and Henny could smell the dust in it. As she looked up the main street, it was just how she remembered, nothing appeared to have changed—no new shops, no new anything. She took a moment to wind her shoulder-length auburn hair into a rough knot—at least the hair off her neck made the heat a little easier to bear. Henny ruffled the fringe that fell across the left side of her forehead, disguising the thin scar near her temple, and glanced down at her simple white singlet and jeans before walking towards the shop, the stone, silver and wooden bead bracelets on her left wrist jangling and clacking as she went.
The air was cool as Henny stepped through the automatic doors. The supermarket appeared fairly empty, which wasn’t much of a surprise given it was mid-morning. She filled her basket with a few essentials, as she didn’t know what would be waiting for her at the house. The plan was to get in and out of the shops as quickly as she could without being recognised, but as she neared the checkout she realised that wasn’t going to happen.
‘Well, who would have guessed it—is that you Henrietta Bolton?’ A middle-aged woman with greyi
ng hair greeted her from the cash register. ‘My goodness, it’s been years and years.’
‘Hello, Mrs Taylor,’ Henny said with a tight smile. ‘Nice to see you again.’ It wasn’t, but what could Henny say. Rosalie Taylor had always been a gossip, and generally a mean-spirited one.
‘So what have you been up to, dear?’ she asked as she slowly scanned Henny’s groceries through.
‘This and that.’ Henny made the mistake of glancing up and making eye contact, and found Mrs Taylor staring back at her, as if waiting for her to expand on her reply. ‘Um, you know, uni and then a bit of travelling.’
‘I remember your mum saying that you travelled a lot. Listen, dear, speaking of your mum, I am sorry—it was such a shock. Sudden, I mean.’
‘Thanks,’ Henny replied. Damn it, she felt the tears pricking at the back of her eyes and that blasted lump forming in her throat. She pushed it down and blinked back the tears—she wouldn’t fall apart, not yet. And certainly not in front of Rosalie Taylor.
‘Such a terrible tragedy,’ Mrs Taylor said as she scanned the last of Henny’s items. ‘She wasn’t that much older than me, and she was only in here last week. She was always bringing people together. Like setting up the artists’ market and trying to get the town back on the map. The place isn’t going to be the same.’
Mrs Taylor packed the last of the items into a plastic bag. ‘I guess all that travelling explains your bracelets.’
Henny frowned. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Your bracelets. But then I suppose both you and your mum were always a bit out there, weren’t you? Got your own unique type of style.’ The woman said it with a judgemental sort of smile that annoyed Henny.
Henny ignored the comment and dug into her bag to retrieve her wallet. She should have known that nothing changed in this place, including Rosalie Taylor’s lack of manners. As she prattled on about what had been happening in the town for the past ten years, Henny did her best to block it out. All she wanted to do was pay for her groceries and to get the hell out of there.
Henny thrust the money into Mrs Taylor’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ she managed again as she grabbed her bags and headed to the door.
‘Bye, Henrietta—glad you’re back, even though it’s under such sad circumstances.’
Henny had the urge to break into a run as she made for her car. Instead she took a breath and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Everything had happened so quickly—she hadn’t had time to process her mother’s death, let alone grieve.
She let the hot summer sun burn into her as she leant against the car—maybe it would cleanse her in some way. She would have stayed there longer but as she glanced over to the supermarket she saw Mrs Taylor staring at her. Opening up the car, she dumped the grocery bags on the back seat before getting behind the wheel.
God, she’d been in Lawson’s Bend for less than half an hour and it was already too much to bear. How was she going to get through the next couple of weeks?
Henny pulled onto the road and drove towards the far end of the town. Turning left at the old railway bridge, she headed up the familiar tree-lined road that led to her mother’s cottage. The houses began to thin, each surrounded by large paddocks, and on the bend where the road switched from bitumen to dirt sat Wattle Cottage. Henny pulled into the drive and stopped. She peered through the windscreen; everything was how she remembered and her heart ached for it. Turning off the ignition, she sat back in her seat and tried to work up the courage to get out. She half expected to see her mother walk out of the blue front door, lean on the verandah rail and wave to her, just like she’d done every afternoon of Henny’s childhood. But that wasn’t going to happen—it was never going to happen again. That damn lump in her throat started to form and Henny made herself swallow hard in an attempt to keep it at bay.
She had loved this place growing up, and even though so much time had passed she still dreamed of Wattle Cottage and her mother and of what life used to be like. But that was all gone and nothing she could do would ever bring it back.
Henny got out of the car and took the crooked brick path to the steps that led up to the wisteria-covered verandah. The house itself seemed unnaturally quiet, devoid of the life that used to inhabit it. The only sound that harkened back to the past was the gentle tinkle of the wind chime. Pulling out the keys from the pocket of her jeans, Henny unlocked the door and stepped inside the cool, dark house. Her footsteps on the polished wooden floor echoed in time with the faint ticking of the large wall clock at the end of the hall.
A chill danced over her bare arms, setting off goosebumps, and Henny wasn’t sure if it was the drop in temperature or the stillness of the house. As she walked into the large open-plan living room and kitchen at the rear of her childhood home, she looked around at her mother’s possessions, from the old wooden table to the cupboards stacked with art supplies and the bank of brimming bookcases. Organised chaos was what her mother used to call it, Henny remembered with a slight smile. The jumble of colours and trinkets and photos seemed to jump out at her senses from the backdrop of the white painted walls. But for all this room’s fullness it was undercut with an empty feeling that squeezed at Henny’s heart.
Henny reached up and loosened the knot at the nape of her neck, running a hand through her hair as it settled around her shoulders. Walking over to the kitchen bench she filled up the kettle and went to the nearby cupboard in the hope of finding some tea. That’s where she and her mother used to keep it but it had been so long since she’d been home . . . Opening up the door she found several glass jars filled with different teas. For a second her eyes misted but she took a breath and refused to give in—she couldn’t, well, at least not yet. There were too many things to do before she would allow herself to crumple in a heap.
Glancing at her watch, she noted that there was still an hour and a half before her appointment with the lawyer, and then the meeting with the funeral director at four. Perhaps there was enough time to drop into the police station and have a word with Senior Sergeant Nichols. Henny had meant to do so before she came to the house but she just couldn’t manage it. He’d been in touch with her several times over the past couple of days—well, ever since he’d rung her last Monday afternoon to inform her that her mother’s body had been found near one of the walking tracks at the old slate quarry, not far from Killop Reservoir. A terrible accident was how he’d described it.
Henny couldn’t fathom how her mother could have fallen down a steep incline and cracked her head on a rock. She knew every inch of those walking tracks as she’d been jogging along them for years. Senior Sergeant Nichols had explained that Jess must have slipped on the loose dirt and rocks on the side of the road and fallen. The drought had been bad this year and much of Lawson’s Bend had turned to dust. Henny supposed that she had to accept the explanation because how could she not? But still she raged at the unfairness of it all, and that a bit of dusty road could rob Henny of the only person who loved her unconditionally.
It all seemed so unreal; Henny had only talked to her mother six days ago. They had been planning their next get-together. Even though Henny never came back to Lawson’s Bend, her mother made a habit of coming to the city to stay with her on a regular basis. Sometimes they would just hang out in Henny’s little flat or check out art galleries and unique cafes in the inner city. Other times they’d drive down the coast and spend a few days by the sea. Over the years Henny had travelled a lot, both around Australia and in Asia. She’d had worked her way around, picking up waitressing jobs, working in hotels and sometimes pulling beers behind a bar. But wherever she was, Henny knew that her mum was only a phone call away. They had always been close and no matter how far Henny drifted through her life, her mother anchored her. But now that dependable fixed mark was gone and Henny was terrified that she would float away and be lost forever.
There was part of her clinging to the hope that this was just a dreadful mistake, that it was someone else found lying at the bottom of the quarry
. But no matter how much she wished and prayed it wasn’t true, she knew it was.
Now her mother’s unexpected death meant that Henny had to finally be an adult, which sounded kind of crazy as she had just turned twenty-eight. But until she got that earth-shattering phone call just a few short days ago she’d been doing her best to avoid it. And to avoid this town.
For the past ten years she’d been trying forget that awful night up at the reservoir, the night that had turned everyone’s lives upside down and ripped the heart out of the town. People managed grief in different ways and for Henny that had meant running away from Lawson’s Bend. In a way, death had made her leave home and now it had forced her to return.
It had been a terrible and tragic accident, and somehow Henny had never really got over it. Her mother understood that Henny was still grieving the loss of her best friend, Georgie Sykes, and would tell her that she still felt guilty because she had survived and Georgie hadn’t.
Maybe there was truth in that. And, like so many others in the town, Henny might still just need someone or something to blame in order to make sense of the catastrophic events on that faraway hot summer’s night. This was all in the background now—overshadowed by her immediate grief for the loss of her mother, but it made being in the town all the more difficult.
***
‘Hey, Stevo!’
Stephen Drake flicked dark hair out of his eyes and looked up from the quad bike he was tinkering with as his best friend walked towards the big open shed.
‘Hey, Dan. Didn’t expect to see you today. I thought you had to finish off that new bit of fencing.’
Dan Barker shrugged as he leant against the wall. ‘It’s too hot.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ Stephen said as he dropped his screwdriver and straightened up. ‘Want a cold drink?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’ Dan sauntered over to the bike. ‘So what’s wrong with it?’
‘I don’t know—I was never much of a mechanic. I’ll probably take it down to the garage in the morning,’ he said as he walked over to the battered fridge in the corner of the shed. Yanking open the door he grabbed a couple of cans of soft drink and tossed one to his friend.
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