‘Get over it, Amber,’ she chastised herself, quickly discarding any silly ideas of spooky houses while negotiating the rather ordinary Holden Commodore onto the old car ferry.
The sedan had been as upmarket as the Hertz agent at the airport could offer and Amber couldn’t be bothered quibbling, even though she’d instantly missed the heated leather seat of her Saab. Although, she noted with her usual sarcasm, when cranked up high the sedan’s regular car heater did do a fabulous job of burning her eyeballs dry. A little value-added feature the Hertz agent had neglected to point out.
‘Damn!’ The chilly wind outside the car shocked Amber and put an end to any contempt for the ordinary Holden, heated seats or not. Engaging the punt by pressing the big red button, she raced back into the vehicle and braced herself for not so much the river crossing but the very different life waiting on the other side, for a few months at least. After that?
Who knows …
At the top of the incline, the driveway levelled out, something she’d never taken much notice of before, having never driven up here. The last time she’d been in Calingarry Crossing, she hadn’t been old enough to drive a car.
Old enough to become a mother, but not to be in charge of a motor vehicle!
She parked close to the steps and tooted the horn, not knowing what to expect. The note from Madgick & Associates that had arrived a few weeks ago suggested there’d be a caretaker onsite to welcome her, hand over keys and, she assumed, make sure she had everything she needed. But the house was in darkness.
‘Great!’ she grumbled, alighting from the car and flinging the door shut. ‘Hello?’ she called out, wrapping her wool plaid cape around her body and hoisting the fur-lined hood to cover the back of her neck. ‘Is anyone here?’
Nothing.
The setting sun torched the blackening sky with orange, giving Amber a reason to hurry. Clearly on her own and with a car to unload, she still needed to find the key and light switches before the last bit of daylight disappeared. One thing she did remember about the country was the pitch black of night. A sense of foreboding snaked its way up her spine at the thought of being alone with no floodlights, no security systems, no constant stream of visitors and household staff: the window cleaner, the pool guy, the drycleaner and the housekeeper who kept the pantry full and prepared their dinner parties. Then there was Phillip’s PA. He had two: one to look after his medical practice, and one to look after Phillip’s foundation and associated speaking engagements.
After struggling to get the overloaded suitcase onto the veranda, she went back to the car for her coats and handbag. She was ready for any weather, which was just as well, given the seasons in Calingarry Crossing had always been extreme: sticky, hot summer days that meant peeling sweat-soaked clothes off each night, and freezing cold winters that required several clothing layers inside and even more when venturing out.
‘Hello! Is anyone here?’ she called again.
Nothing.
The front door was more than unlocked; it was wide open. With an exasperated groan, she freed one hand from its load to rap her knuckles on the wooden frame. Someone had to be inside.
‘Hello! Hello!’
The flyscreen door, freed from its swollen surrounds, creaked as she opened it wide enough to slip a hand around the corner in search of the light switch that generally always sat inside a front door. Feeling out the old-fashioned, bell-shape switch—the type mounted on a small block of wood with a toggle that flicked up for OFF and down for ON—she at last had light, but as she stepped inside, the light bulb fizzed, sparked and exploded, and the screen door snapped shut. Amber yelped and dropped her handbag, the contents scattering across the floorboards.
‘Just great,’ she muttered, dropping to her knees to feel for her belongings in the almost dark.
Hopeful she hadn’t left anything to trip on, she found another switch further along the hallway which illuminated the kitchen, although how the old fluoro globe worked filled with a summer’s worth of entombed moths and Christmas beetle carcasses she didn’t know. The strain of the day was starting to show in the heavy-handed way Amber offloaded her bag on the kitchen table with a Well, here I am, now what? thud. She was hungry, that’s what. Hungry and tired and wondering why she’d thought staying out here was a good idea when she could be in a five-star hotel.
Five stars? Out here? Humph!
‘Why aren’t you somewhere else, Amber?’ She puffed warm air into her hands and chafed her arms, repeating the process several times while taking in her surroundings. ‘Who the hell would know if you stayed here or somewhere more convenient, not to mention comfortable—and warm.’
The challenge in the conference room that day niggled at her brain. From the initial hello, Poppy’s resentment at Amber’s inclusion in the bequest had been obvious. At school, the pair had tolerated each other for the sake of their mutual friendships with Sara and Caitlin. Amber and Poppy would not have been friends without them. They were polar opposites in every way and Poppy, from her lofty heights, looked down her nose at Amber. God knows why. The girl’s family life was hardly something to aspire to, with a certifiable father and grumpy old grandfather. So, if only to prove Miss High-and-Mighty wrong, she’d stay here in the house and prove she was more than capable of leaving her Eastern Suburbs life behind. She was here, wasn’t she?
If the old Dandelion House hadn’t looked sad enough on the outside, inside despair wedged itself into every crack. With the dearth of her much-loved wind chimes, lingering aroma of incense, and the myriad sun-catcher crystals Gypsy used to claim could transform the sun’s rays into positive energy, revive the soul, and blah blah blah, the last thing Amber expected to feel was a sense of serenity.Amber hadn’t been into all the mumbo jumbo mother earth stuff, not like Poppy, Sara, and to a lesser degree, Caitlin.
Opinions on the circa 1900 building and its colourful owner had varied around town when Amber was growing up. To her father, the uniqueness of the Dandelion House made the property an aspiring developer’s delight. He’d not thought so highly of the occupant.
‘You, Amber Bailey, will keep away from that old witch and her waif. Do you hear me? I’m serious, young lady. I don’t want you hanging around with that daughter of hers.’
‘Of course,’ Amber said, all meek and mealy-mouthed.
That was her father’s first mistake. Forbidding Amber to do anything was as good as challenging her to try.
‘Perhaps some things never change,’ Amber grumbled, thinking about her own daughter while contemplating the dimness of the house.
At least Fiona inherited something from me.
She found every light switch she could, as if a dozen light bulbs might add some warmth, and stopped briefly to contemplate the slow combustion fireplace—loaded but unlit.
Maybe tomorrow. She’d hardly be out of bed long enough to warrant the effort tonight.
In the living room adjacent to the kitchen, mismatched furniture—the kind collectors might pay a fortune for, but with all the comfort of a rock—had been shifted to one end of the room to make way for packing crates and boxes along one wall. Three framed photographs hanging from the picture rail above the marble and wood mantelpiece needed straightening and there was mould and peeling paint on the ceiling.
She sighed. ‘Why are you here, Amber?’
Leaving again crossed her mind. She’d even settle for three stars. A motel near the airport had looked half-decent and it was only a couple of hours’ drive. She could stay there for the night and then take a hire car back to Sydney the next day; a kind of road trip, a Thelma without a Louise.
Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t drive all that way. Besides, she didn’t have to. A call to Phillip right now was all it would take. He’d probably send John.
‘And that, Amber, is precisely why you just have to suck it up.’ She returned to the kitchen, picked up her beauty case and headed down the hall for the bedroom. ‘You’ll feel better after a shower and a good night’s sle
ep in a comfortable—’ Amber froze, blinked eyes heavy with exhaustion and a mountain of mascara. ‘This can’t be right.’
She checked the sign on the door again, the words Amber’s Room, written in a child’s hand, sat beneath five stick figures, each with big smiles and corkscrew curls. Amber was definitely not smiling. The bleak, sparsely furnished room looked more like a prison cell with its single bed pushed hard up against the wall, a single side table, a lamp and a small chest of drawers. The only thing missing from her cell was the lid-less stainless-steel toilet.
‘This just will not do,’ she said, trying the handle on the adjacent door with Sara’s name on the front.
Locked.
She walked to the opposite hallway and tried the other two doors.
Locked. Locked.
‘Just great.’
Being denied access to anything was not something Amber was used to—at all. She got what she wanted, when she wanted it. Her father had made sure of that when she was young, and Phillip had kept with the tradition ever since.
‘That’s it.’
Amber wouldn’t bother unpacking her bags. At this rate, there was every chance she’d be gone before the week was out. She only needed stay long enough to show she’d made an effort. The trouble with that was what to do next with her life. Her stay here was supposed to give her time to think. She hadn’t thought through any of this very well. Five minutes ago she’d been telling herself to go home.
Make up your mind, Amber.
Right now, she couldn’t even figure out what to do about food. She wished she’d grabbed a coffee and something to eat at the last truck stop along the highway. This kitchen was basic, the cupboards … ‘Empty, of course,’ she said, slamming the last overhead cupboard so hard it sprang back open, almost hitting her in the head. She slammed it again and again, and each time it bounced back as if laughing in defiance. ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ She planted both palms on the defenceless little door and banged it shut so hard that the small plastic air vent in the centre popped out and landed on the bench, spinning on its edge before settling against the rust-pitted stovetop. She thought back to the very methodical and supremely meticulous Jesamiah Huckenstead. With such attention to detail, Amber had expected more.
A welcome basket would have been a nice touch.
If only she’d accepted the plastic plane food from the flight attendant with the plastic smile.
A beam of light flashed through the dark out front, travelling across the veranda and ceiling as if someone had shone a torch through the window. Amber’s heart geared up a notch, the fight or flight urge charging her body and making the hairs on her arms stand on end. Without the protective security door and CCTV of the foyer in their apartment block, she felt like the proverbial sitting duck, and in a house with every light ablaze.
In the process of madly darkening the house, Amber noticed headlights, two circular beams of light making their way up the long drive from the punt. She raced back to the kitchen, opened a drawer and grabbed the first knife she could, clasping it in a white-knuckled grip, her recently manicured nails digging half-moon shapes into the soft flesh of her palm. All sense of cold left as fear forced blood surging through every vein. From under her plaid cape her heart pounded, her brain grappling with the best place to hide. But by now the car had stopped, pulled up at the bottom of the steps and—
Tooted?
What sort of intruder toots?
She flicked on the porch light and illuminated the slender and obviously female form leaning into the rear of an old-fashioned station wagon that reminded Amber of her youth. With the blood surge slowly ebbing, her heart returned to a slightly less terrified rhythm.
‘Can I … help you?’ she called.
‘Welcome home,’ came the warm reply.
Amber squinted, a hand shielding the overhead porch light from her eyes.
‘Maggie? Maggie Lindeman?’ she gushed and placed the knife on the hall table.
Gushing was very unlike Amber. Maybe it was relief that the visitor was friend rather than foe, or maybe it was those words, ‘welcome home’.
‘G’day, Amber.’
‘Maggie! I didn’t know you were living back in Calingarry Crossing.’
But why would she know? For twenty years Calingarry Crossing had been nothing more than a spot on a map, an unwanted blemish, an annoyance that she’d kept concealed, even from her daughter, in the hope her history here would fade into insignificance. Amber had never attempted to stay in touch with anyone over the years, especially Cheryl Bailey, who didn’t know the first thing about being a good mother. There’d been a moment after Fiona’s birth, however—call it hormones, and no doubt a load of anxiety about being a mum at such a young age—that she’d wanted to come back home to the country. Cheryl would have welcomed her and brand-new granddaughter Fiona into her bosom, fussed over them, spoiled them, shown Amber how to be a good mother.
Wouldn’t she?
Jack had quickly put a stop to the idea of a reunion, bribing his daughter with gifts and buying in a woman for four days a week to help the teenager adjust to motherhood.
Maggie moved into the light of the porch, a lidded cardboard box in her arms. ‘Inheriting an old country pub was a good reason to make Calingarry home again.’
‘Oh, Maggie, your dad? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I liked him.’
Maggie’s laugh conveyed fond memory. ‘You mean you liked it that he used to turn a blind eye to you sneaking into the pub on Friday nights. The Rev’s still with us, still hanging on, sort of. Now, where can I put this?’
‘What is it?’
‘Delivery for you, from Harvey.’
‘Harvey?’ Amber said, opening the screen door to let Maggie pass. ‘Please, won’t you come in?’
For heaven’s sake, she sounded like she had canapés, champagne and an intimate evening soiree taking place inside.
‘Yeah, you know, Corner Store Harvey. Remember him?
‘Oh, sure I do. Is he still around?’ They shared a brief smile, knowing a little about each other’s occasional five-finger discount when Harvey wasn’t looking. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything,’ Amber said.
‘No worries, I can’t stay. This might come in handy, though.’ Maggie placed the box on the kitchen table in front of Amber. ‘I was on my way home when Harv said he’d had a special phone order from a big spender. He said it was a Sydney doctor and it had to be delivered out here.’
Phillip. Amber slid the lid off the old banana box and peeked inside.
‘I guessed it was you out here, so I offered to make the delivery myself. Oh, and Harv wanted me to apologise for not having any bottles of Evi-aaaaan.’ She strung the word out all posh-like. ‘Mind you, that was after I explained what Evian water actually was. Then I dropped by the pub and grabbed a chardonnay from the fridge. The Amber Bailey I remember appreciated a grog more than water anyway, Evi-aaaaan or not.’
At first Amber thought Maggie’s remark a derogatory one, aimed at her and her mother’s reputations. Was coming home going to be like this, snide remarks and sniggering behind her back?
She didn’t deserve that.
She didn’t.
Did she?
When Maggie laughed, reminiscing briefly about the shenanigans they’d all got up to as kids, Amber knew she’d meant no malice. It was the truth. Amber Bailey had been the party girl and while she and Maggie had not been part of the same clique, at such a small school every kid knew everything about everyone, and kids would be kids—even Maggie Lindeman, daughter of the local Presbyterian minister. The town had loved Maggie. In locals’ eyes, she could do no wrong. But the girl had had a wild side that burned to show. Amber had seen it, even encouraged it, hence the five-finger discount stories and Maggie’s chardonnay quip. Caring and generous, Maggie was always standing up for others, earning the nickname Magpie because she would swoop on anyone who bullied the smaller students in the playground.
Things changed when h
er father abandoned the Holy Ghost in favour of dispensing sacred spirits called Jack Daniels, Jim Beam and Johnny Walker, buying the Calingarry Crossing pub. From that day on, Maggie had to protect herself from the taunts that came from those few holier-than-thou diehards in town. Eventually the town adjusted and the Rev, as locals continued to call the newly ensconced publican, started taking over-the-counter confessions.
‘At least I can offer you a glass of chardonnay.’ Amber opened and closed a couple of kitchen cupboards. ‘If I can find a wine glass.’
Maggie refused. ‘Not for me, thanks. I can’t stay.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Amber waved a blithe hand to cover her embarrassment. They hadn’t exactly been good friends at school, so why would the woman be interested in sitting down in a cold, dank, dilapidated house to have a drink with her? ‘You no doubt have family waiting at home.’
‘Always plenty to do these days, that’s for sure,’ Maggie said on her way to the door. ‘I’ll see you round, Amber. Drop into the pub sometime.’
‘Sure. And thanks again for the delivery—and the wine.’
This time Amber closed the front door, locking herself in and the cold out. She shivered, wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her hands fast to warm herself.
‘See, Amber, you can do this. Tomorrow will be better.’
She went back to examine Phillip’s parcel on the table: a box of Cadbury Roses, several varieties of savoury crackers, some cheese, an almond and cashew mix—salted, but beggars can’t be choosers—and Planters Pretzels, baked not fried.
House for All Seasons Page 26
