The Secrets Mothers Keep

by Jacquie Underdown

  “Yes, it is,” Mary says firmly. “It’s not to be touched.”

  Luca looks to Pia briefly, then back at Mary. “I suggested that I have my best landscape artist, who is incredibly skilled with all aspects of replanting, to carefully remove each rose, store them in the best conditions for them to thrive, and then replant them once the work is done. Which shouldn’t be more than three days.”

  June’s heart thumps hard in her chest. A sickly sensation of dread stirs inside her. She meets Mary’s eyes briefly, but Mary’s unflinching expression gives nothing away.

  “You’ll have to come up with another solution. The rose garden isn’t to be touched.”

  “There really is no other option. I’ve looked already and—”

  “Look again. It’s not to be touched. That garden is sentimental to me and to this manor and if there is one finger laid upon even one of my roses, there will be hell to pay.”

  Luca draws a noisy breath in. “I’ll take another look.”

  He presents the quotes and the fixtures and fittings’ budgets they each have for their apartments, and they all agree to the layouts and prices.

  Mary moves to stand, but stops and relaxes back in her armchair. “We all know where each of us stands financially, so now is the time to back out of this if any of you are wavering on your commitment.”

  June meets the eyes of her family as they share glances with each other, but every one of them remains silent.

  “Okay, I take that silence as agreement to get this ball rolling. Luca, grab your pen and let’s get these contracts signed. But I want you to draw up a caveat here and now that outlines my wishes with the front garden.”

  * * *

  Darkness has stretched across the sky by the time the contracts are signed and the group move off to the dining room for dinner. Luca was talked into staying—not that he needed his arm twisted with the rich meaty scents that were wafting from the kitchen to entice him.

  In the dining room, the others are already seated. Lily-Rose is pouring red wine into crystal glasses.

  Pia hovers her hand over her glass. “Oh, none for me.”

  Lily-Rose hesitates before moving on to Luca’s glass and filling it halfway.

  Mary takes a seat at the head of the table. June sits to her right.

  “So how are you feeling now? No more vomiting?” Luca asks Pia.

  All eyes fall to Pia.

  “You were sick?” Lily-Rose asks.

  Pia shares a quick glance with June, then back to her mother. “Um … yeah, a little. But I’m fine now.”

  Luca appraises Pia with a watchful gaze. June has underestimated his keen sense of attention and emotional intelligence. If Pia wants to keep this secret of hers hidden, she’s going to have to be more like her mother and play the better actor.

  “I hope you’re not coming down with anything,” Mary says.

  Lily-Rose chuckles. “And if you are, don’t give it to me.”

  Time for a subject change. June raises her glass of wine in the air. “I’d like to raise a toast.” The rest of the group hold their glasses high. “To family, new friends, and a positive future.”

  They all chime their glasses together. June swallows a mouthful of red wine and tries to focus on the bold red-fruit flavours, but all at once a strange sensation sweeps across her skin.

  Luca, the house whispers into her ear and down the back of her neck.

  Yes, she answers back in her mind.

  Chapter 18

  Grace

  Grace strides up the staircase towards her bedroom, the sound of clanking dishes and running water left behind her. She had forgotten how much she enjoys cooking for others. She especially appreciates the deal that she doesn’t have to clean up afterwards. Lily-Rose and June are down there now taking care of that. Not that she can believe Lily-Rose has ever dipped her polished fingernails in dishwater since leaving home. Grace almost wants to rush back down to the kitchen and take a photo.

  She chuckles to herself as she rounds the corner into her room.

  Grace can’t remember a day she hasn’t done the dishes. John never did that sort of thing. Ever. He was that type of man. And that was okay with her.

  She had thought, though, once they both retired and bought the caravan that he’d help out while they were on the road. But they kept their roles. He did the driving, filled the car up with petrol and cleaned the outside of the van occasionally. Grace did everything else.

  Agitation rubs at her chest. She isn’t sure why she’s getting upset over this now. She had a mouth and could have asked him to help. He would have. But she never asked.

  She sighs. Perhaps that’s the part that makes her frustrated; she should not have needed to have asked.

  Her shoulders slump. Too late now.

  Not that she didn’t treasure the two years they had together travelling around Australia, but a break from some of the homely chores every now and then would have been nice.

  And here she is at Viewtree House, sixty-nine years old, about to come out of retirement and cook for guests nearly every day of the week.

  It makes sense that her role at the bed and breakfast is the cook. After thirty years as a Home Economics teacher, she is more than qualified. But her work meant she taught others how to cook; she, herself, never had much of a chance to cook for large groups other than at family gatherings.

  Anticipating what is ahead of her here at the manor, especially after seeing all the graphics last night—which made it feel like more of a reality than a nebulous possibility—eases the heaviness in her chest and fills her with fizzing excitement.

  After a year of dining alone most nights, cooking for herself, if you’d call slapping together a ham and cheese toasted sandwich dinner, it will be a pleasant change. Something to look forward to.

  On the dresser, Grace had perched three framed pictures of John. One on his own, his big blue eyes staring into the camera lens as he stands before Uluru. She remembers taking that shot while they spent three weeks in the Northern Territory. It was spring, but compared to Victorian weather, the humidity and tropical temperatures left a thin layer of sweat coating their bodies every second of the day and night.

  The next picture is of John with their sons, Marcus and Alex. He has his arms resting on their shoulders as they tower on either side of him. He was such a gentle soul—with his kids, with her. Barely raised his voice.

  The kids both inherited his blue eyes. The height came from her side. Mary is tall like Dad, and Grace was always one of the taller girls while completing her schooling. Although, she can’t be sure what characteristics John’s extended family had. His parents had both passed away by the time she met him.

  He didn’t have photos that she knows of because he found his past difficult to talk about. So they never did. She asked him once if his father was tall, but he shook his head in the way he did that indicated the conversation was over.

  He was one of those men who didn’t like to show too much emotion. Grace could understand that—especially with such a painful past. To be twenty-seven and have both parents dead and with no other family would be horrible.

  The next picture is of John and her at his Forty-Year Dinner for the foundry, right before he retired. He had his arm around her as one of his fellow workers snapped a photo of them.

  Her heart cramps seeing this photo—the smiles on their faces. They were so excited that retirement was looming and were praying he’d be offered a redundancy, so he could walk out of that job with a decent sum of money.

  They foolishly believed their life would start then, but it was really the end. Twelve months after this photo was taken, he retired—no redundancy. Three years after that, Grace buried him.

  These pictures have captured some of the happiest times in Grace’s life. These are the memories she wants to keep. Nothing else. Not silly thoughts about if he had or hadn’t helped with the housework. And certainly not that silly email. That so-called daughter can stay in the past.<
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  Whatever the story is, Grace doesn’t want to know. She buried John loving him, knowing him; she doesn’t want anyone striding in and shattering that.

  Grace turns away from the picture and grimaces. Since arriving here a couple of weeks ago, she has not seen one photo of Mary’s husband, Robert, around the manor. How strange. Surely there has to be one photo—at least for Lily-Rose’s sake.

  She strides out into the hall and scans the pictures sporadically placed along its length. Most are of Lily-Rose over her lifetime. Some of June. Some of Mary.

  Grace was twenty-five when she met John. She had thought she was never going to meet a man let alone marry one. Her mother had always said to her that she was a swan—that it will take longer to grow into her skin.

  Grace chuckles. With the perspective of thirty years of motherhood, she now knows that was Mum’s polite way of saying she was ugly and overweight. And with the perspective of age, she knows that to be true. She has never been stunning like Mary with her height and sharp features or petite like June, but John thought she was beautiful. And she truly knows that his affections were genuine.

  After teaching college, she got a job at a small school on the outskirts of Hobart. But by the end of her third year, she was re-assigned to a high school in Melbourne. The city wasn’t as populated back then and nowhere near as expensive. On her modest salary, she managed to rent a small flat. It was a new start for her—away from her family for the first time in her life.

  Grace turns around and heads back down the hall towards the library. She wanders inside and inspects the pictures on the walls in between big stacks of books and on Mary’s desk. No Robert.

  Though, it’s not that surprising—Mary isn’t one to dwell on anything. A bit like John in that respect. But still, there has to be one photo.

  John was twenty-seven when she met him at a bar in St Kilda. He was a little shorter than her, but that didn’t matter. He had a fit body and a full head of sandy blond hair. His eyes possessed a melancholy that evoked empathy and spoke to Grace’s nurturing side.

  She loved that he was quiet, polite, and private, but he was also kind and generous and charmed her in a slipshod rough-around-the-edges Aussie-man way. Although for a twenty-five-year-old virgin, she didn’t take much convincing. By that stage, she was grateful to finally know what it felt like to be with a man. And grateful to know that she was finally a swan. Thanks, Mum.

  No photos in the library at all. Grace heads back into the hall, stops to listen for footsteps or voices, but the only noises are coming from the kitchen downstairs. She strides along the hall towards Mary’s room. Surely there is a photo in her bedroom.

  She creeps inside. Mary’s room is the grandest in the manor, about a quarter of the size of Grace’s entire Melbourne house. A solid timber four-poster bed sits against the back wall. It has been meticulously made without a crease in the bedspread and the pillows are arranged perfectly.

  The curtains on each of the four windows are pulled back and tied. No dust. A fresh bunch of roses from the garden sits on the teak dresser trying, but not quite managing, to cover the scent of age, time and mould.

  Her gaze flitters around the walls, the dresser, to the bedside tables—but there are no pictures, only a few paintings of flowers and landscapes.

  “Looking for something?”

  Grace throws her hand to her chest and whirls to find Mary standing behind her, inside the doorway. She shakes her head. “I … was looking for a photo of Robert. I can’t find any. I was thinking about old times, and I couldn’t remember what he looked like—”

  “Oh. Isn’t there a photo of him? I didn’t realise.”

  Grace observes Mary’s countenance with suspicion, but she doesn’t find any trace of insincerity. Mary has always been stoic, but maybe looking upon her late husband is too difficult even for her.

  They were so in love—she knows that because for the many years before she met her own husband, Grace was chest-achingly envious of them. They were always touching. Always smiling. And Robert had this way he would look at Mary, a shape to his expression that showed it was obvious he worshipped her.

  That ancient sensation of envy strikes her again, but now it is laced up with grief and something else. Something she can’t quite …

  Fear! She swallows hard as her heart races away. Fear that she will never feel that kind of love ever again. But does she even want to? Could she ever be with a man who isn’t John?

  “I’ll have to take a look later and see if I can find a nice picture to hang up,” Mary says.

  Grace nods, but she is tense all over for even entertaining the thought of another man taking John’s place.

  “We’re going to the store today. Luca wants us to choose our tiles and carpets early so he can order them immediately in case there are delays.”

  Grace clears her mind of all that other nonsense. “Right. Yes. A shopping day sounds like … fun.”

  Chapter 19

  Lily-Rose

  Lily-Rose is driving with Pia to Hobart for a day of shopping. Her mother and aunts are travelling in the other car. They could have all fit into one car, but Lily-Rose would rather be alone for the next hour-and-a-half with her daughter rather than her mother.

  She loves Mum to bits. She really does. But she can never shake the feeling that Mum is judging her and the final verdict is never good.

  Maybe it’s all in her head, maybe it isn’t.

  When she was ten, just before Dad died, they had all gone on a holiday to the Gold Coast. The long sandy beaches were magical, filled with families swimming and soaking up the sun.

  At lunchtime, Mum, Dad, and Lily-Rose sat at an eatery beside the beach. Big umbrellas were perched over each table filtering some of the sweltering summer heat. A band was playing. A young girl about Lily-Rose’s age was dancing near the stage. She was the only one dancing. She had long, straight brown hair, pulled up into a high ponytail.

  As this girl danced, she twirled her head in such a way that the ponytail circled around her like a halo. She was beautiful. The first girl Lily-Rose had ever looked at and had that thought about.

  Mum said absent-mindedly, “She’s a pretty girl.”

  Lily-Rose nodded, “Yes.”

  “Nearly as beautiful as you.”

  She wasn’t too young to be able to hear the lie underpinning her mother’s words. She wasn’t too young to know where she truly sat with respect to this other girl.

  Lily-Rose faced the girl again and looked at her with different eyes. Eyes of comparison.

  So subtle was the entire moment, like a tiny ripple from the wings of a moth in a puddle of water. But enough to tip her mind sideways and back-to-front and from that point on, she always looked at others with eyes of comparison. And she always came second.

  Still does, and her mother’s presence reinforces this.

  Lily-Rose shifts in her seat, attempting to ease the ill emotion that memory drags up from inside her. She swallows hard and smiles at Pia. “It will be fun today.”

  Pia nods but doesn’t take her eyes off the road ahead.

  In a way, it is exciting to be selecting all the fixtures and fittings for their own apartments. Lily-Rose has always been too busy to dabble in this type of thing. Even when she and Hugh bought their Sydney apartment and renovated it, she hired an interior designer to handle everything.

  The budget Luca has outlined is too small. She was looking on the internet last night at and the tiles alone are going to take her over the entire apartment’s spending budget.

  She texted Luca this morning to let him know she will be spending more than outlined. He agreed that was fine and would add the costs to her portion of the fixed fees.

  “Surely the others will understand if I spend more on my apartment. I make more money.”

  “I really don’t think they’ll care. They all seemed happy with the budget. I’m happy with the budget.”

  “Are you sure, darling, because I can always lend you mo
re money? In fact, pick out a decent bath, and I’ll buy that for you as a welcome-home present.”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  Lily-Rose never spoiled Pia growing up. Mostly because Hugh insisted on it. She’s glad for Hugh’s influence because Pia has grown into a hard-working and generous woman. “I don’t have to, but I want to.”

  Pia turns her attention from the road for a second and smiles. “Thank you. You know I’m a sucker for a deep bath.”

  “Oh, honey, me too.”

  Maybe this desire to buy Pia expensive items comes from a place of guilt for how things have turned out with her father. Or maybe it’s a desire to ensure Pia doesn’t have the life Lily-Rose had as a child.

  Sure, Lily-Rose had a beautiful home to grow up in but once Dad died, everything changed. The budget was tight. She would be lectured about turning the lights off, not wasting food, not using too much soap, shampoo, sanitary pads.

  As soon as she reached the age where she could find a job, she did, so she could have spending money or, at least, buy tuckshop at school like the other kids.

  Since Mum revealed that she is broke and has been for a long time, it makes sense why Mum was the way she was. But back then, Lily-Rose didn’t understand it. She just knew that along with the pain and loss of her father dying, a part of Mum went with him—the best part.

  Lily-Rose’s phone rings. She absentmindedly answers. “Lily-Rose speaking.”

  “Finally, you answer the phone. What the hell is going on? Where are you?”

  She cringes as soon as she recognises the Californian accent—her agent, Mark Brenner.

  “Mark, how are you, honey?”

  “Never mind me. How are you? I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for a fortnight.”

  Lily-Rose quickly meets Pia’s gaze and looks away. “You have? I haven’t realised. I’ve been busy.”

  “Did you get my messages? There’s about fifty of them.”

  She switches the phone to the opposite ear. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Why, what’s happening?”