by Helen Brown
Aunt Caroline’s windfall couldn’t have come at a better time. It allowed Lisa to settle her debts as well as finish the renovations and landscaping. True to form, Maxine had spent her share of the inheritance on a beach house at Portsea on the peninsula.
Lisa was in no hurry for Ted to finish drawing up plans for the new stables. He and James visited nearly every weekend, but there was plenty of room for them to stay in the house as it was.
Portia’s counselling sessions were going well. Her weight was improving. The play she’d written with Zack, Care Bear Killer, was in the final stages of rehearsal. Lisa swapped with another volunteer at Juliet’s animal rescue centre so she and Scott could drive into the city for opening night.
The billabong and wetlands were attracting birdlife Aunty May said she hadn’t seen since she was a girl. Lisa loved the way the water surface turned silver at dusk.
Now, as they climbed the steps to the veranda, pink clouds streaked across the sky. The horizon melted to amber. Pulling her towel tighter around her, Lisa made a beeline for the sofa. Scott had done a reasonable job fixing it, but it was still hard on the backside. Once she was settled, Mojo sprang onto her lap. Kiwi took that as a cue to take up her position on the balustrade.
Scott pointed at his toolbox, which he’d left on the sofa beside her. ‘Upgraded my screwdrivers,’ he beamed. ‘Thought you’d like to take a look.’
Really, he could be a dope sometimes. As if she cared about screwdrivers.
‘Go on,’ he nodded. ‘Take a look.’
Preparing to feign enthusiasm, she flicked the lock and opened the lid. Inside were two crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne. ‘French?’ she gasped, lifting the bottle and reading the label.
‘I figured you deserve the real McCoy,’ he said, taking the bottle from her hand and easing the cork with a muted pop.
As he filled her glass, a shaft of sunlight shot the liquid through with gold. She watched the tiny bubbles stream to the surface.
A kangaroo bounded towards purple hills as she savoured the eucalypt-laden air. Trumperton Manor and its land was in her veins. She belonged.
Scott grinned and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the new Duchess of Trumperton Manor.’ She chuckled and assured him she was no aristocrat.
They clinked glasses then Lisa took a sip. ‘To Tumbledown Manor!’ she said.
