I pull my hair back into a ponytail, using one of the five black hairbands on my wrist. In all the times I’ve visited Faith’s grave, I’ve never told her how I felt about Quade. As time went on, there was less reason to bring it up. He moved on. “It’ll be good to have him back, although from the impression I got from him last night, I worry how things are between him and your parents. They still don’t wanna talk about you, even though I don’t doubt you’re the reason they ended up staying together. I talk about you all the time, God—I talk to you myself but your parents don’t want to. I get that they’re still hurting even after all this time, but it doesn’t feel right. I just don’t get it.”
I huff and let my shoulders slump. This would be the cue for my bestie to say, talk to me, Lace, and then I’d roll my eyes at her, and get straight to the point.
“So the other news, which I didn’t bring up before because I kind of didn’t wanna believe it … Quade will be getting engaged before we know it. Then … then you’ll be an auntie.” I let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, the auntie thing is a bit of a jump. Quade will be getting married and then it’ll all happen. Maybe that’s why he’s home. He’s come here to settle down and give your mum precious grandchildren.”
An image of Quade, clean-shaven in a sharp black suit, standing at the altar flashes before me. Once upon a time I’d imagined he was waiting there for me. Not anymore. Quade and his blushing bride will dance into the night, then likely get down to the business of conceiving a honeymoon baby.
“He’s going to be running around after it,” I say on an exhale, imagining a proud father chasing around a mini Quade or a mini Faith. “Is it weird that—”
“You make a habit of talking to headstones?” a deep voice says from behind me. Even though I know the voice, it doesn’t stop the goosebumps from painfully running a course over my skin.
“You make a habit of sneaking up on girls?” I spit out, but there’s hardly a trace of venom in my bite. I can never pull that off when it comes to communicating with this man. Who can be angry at his sweet face?
He looks at the headstone and then back at me. His forehead grows slight lines as his eyebrows shoot up. “Not usually.”
“Are you stalking me, Quade Kelly? First the Palace yesterday, and now here …”
“Nope. I like to think my stalking skills are first rate. A good stalker stays well out of sight.”
“Ha. Well I suppose they do.”
He looks to the headstone, and then back at me.
“I’m not crazy you know, like as in ‘have a mental illness and talk to myself’.” I just talk to Faith like she’s still around.
He holds his hands up in front of his chest, open palms facing me in a defensive move. “Hey, I never said you did.”
With a soft laugh, I pat at the patch of grass beside me. He crouches down, crossing his long, tanned legs awkwardly beneath him, and then barges his shoulder against mine. My heart jolts with the close contact as his fresh aftershave wraps around me. His scent is the same as it always was. Sigh. Does he have any idea how good he smells? It’s as if he just walked right out of a cologne commercial.
“How much did you hear?” I say, instead of asking him about his cleansing ritual and how he accomplishes that distinct fragrance.
“Something about running?” he says, and shrugs his broad shoulders.
I bow my head and look down at my hands which are fidgeting in my lap. “I talk to her, okay? It helps.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Lace. I came to talk to her, myself. I haven’t been here since …”
“Nearly three years,” I remind him, although knowing how much he adored his baby sister, I’m sure he knows the exact number of days it’s been since she left us.
“They’ve been tough,” he says, resting his hand on my knee. The warmth from his sweaty palm heats up my skin and causes a flood of blood to charge to my face.
He stares at the headstone and I sit beside him in silence, contemplating how surreal this is. For the first time in weeks, I’m here but I’m not alone.
The wind stirs, causing a hum through the willows and rogue leaves to pull free from branches and spatter across the green cemetery floor like large raindrops before a storm. A gust whips shorter strands free from my ponytail, and the first droplet of rain crashes on the bare skin of my leg.
I look down at my white dress. Not a great choice given the forecast today.
“It’s sweet you’re here,” he says, his voice rough. “Faith would …” He pauses and hangs his head.
“I’m glad you’re back in Runaway, Quade. I’m sure Faith is too.” I have no doubt she’s looking down on us right now.
He wipes at the side of his eye and grunts, clearing his throat. I place my hand on his shoulder, a move which makes him sigh, and his frame crumple further over. After a second he pulls his gaze from her plaque and turns his glistening blues to focus on my face.
“I’m gonna head back before I get drenched,” I say, and take a pause. “Unless you want me to stay?” Does he want me to? Is it weird that I’m offering that when he obviously came here to be alone?
“Thanks, but you should probably go. I just need some … time.” The sadness in his eyes confirms that he wants to be left alone.
I stand up and brush the strips of grass from my skirt.
“You know if you want to talk or anything, just um …” I stumble over my words. What am I trying to say? Call me? He’s taken, and I’m sure his girlfriend wouldn’t be thrilled that he’s spending his time with another woman. I know if Quade were mine, I wouldn’t like it one bit. “Just follow the smell of pizza,” I say, offering the Palace as neutral ground. This way, he’ll be coming into my place of business rather than me approaching him. I don’t want to be accused of any wrong-doing.
He nods. Then he winks.
Swoon.
I nod in reply. Taking small steps in the way I came, I whisper an almost silent goodbye to my bestie.
“Hey, sis,” he says, the wind carrying his words to me as I make my way through the grounds.
A weird giggle-slash-crying noise bubbles up my throat as I reach the main footpath and head home. I don’t know whether I want to cry or rejoice at the fact that two people I love so much are in a weird way reunited.
Regardless of why you’re here, Quade Kelly, I’m just glad that you’re home.
CHAPTER SIX
Now that my assignment is almost finished, I can move on to Operation Mail Drop.
Last night I printed flyers until my ink cartridge ran dry. Way to spend a Friday night in. I should’ve been more prepared and started earlier in the week, because I was up until two in the morning folding the suckers into thirds, making sure the headline would stand out at first glance.
After playing with Charlie in the backyard after lunch, amusing him with a tennis ball for a good twenty minutes while I nursed and savoured my giant mug of coffee on the back step, I stash the flyers in my satchel and make my way down the street.
Charlie whimpers through the gate, but I won’t feel guilty. Any other time I’d take Charlie with me for a walk, but he doesn’t always play well with others. The one and only time I’ve brought him on a mail drop, he tangled the lead around my feet attempting to chase two Beagles, tripping me over and sending my precious papers onto the footpath. As I scrambled to scoop them up, a gust of wind carried them into the scrub across the street, up into the branches and amongst the climbers in places I had no hope in reaching. Faith would’ve had no problems with her long legs.
I shake off thoughts of my lost BFF and start walking. Two streets later, I’m in a good rhythm. I have to dodge the occasional spider web as I tuck the mail inside the slots, but other than the threat of being bitten by an eight-legged critter it’s a nice day. The sun is shining, the smell of freshly cut grass wafts in the air, and the drone of a lawnmower or two whirs in the distance. A group of four young girls are out on their push-bikes, probably not quite teenagers, by the
look of their gangly frames that haven’t quite formed curves yet. They’re all in denim shorts, varying shades of blue and degrees of fraying on the legs, and a rainbow of different-coloured tank tops, bikini straps poking out at their chests and around their necks.
Seeing them reminds me so much of my childhood growing up here. Free time was all about being outside. Once your chores were done on Saturday morning, you had the rest of the weekend to ride around, chill at the beach, and eat ice creams at The Carousel Ice Creamery, licking the melted creamy goodness off your fingers as you walked home in the heat, bike handle in one hand, ice cream in the other.
What I wouldn’t give to go back to that time, when there wasn’t a care in the world. You never thought your bestie’s life would be stolen in such a cruel way, leaving questions that would haunt you every day after.
It’s a beautiful day in Runaway, but it’s overshadowed by the job I’m doing now. I just have to keep telling myself that it’s worth it. If only one person takes note of my message, then I’m grateful. It could save a life. It’s all I can hope for.
When I power to the end of Acacia Avenue, something bright yellow against a backdrop of bottle green catches my eye. Unable to help myself, I finger the soft outer petals of the striking buttercup rose. It’s just like the ones at the cemetery.
My head swings to the brass number forty-two on the mailbox and then up at the front door. The timber is faded with a tarnished brass knocker in the middle of it.
Hmm.
I take the corner onto Picnic Parade, as thoughts swirl in my head as to where such a flower came from and how it ended up on Faith’s grave. What is their connection to Faith? I’m tempted to turn back and ask the resident of number forty-two some questions when I cast my gaze down the street, otherwise known as Retirement Central due to the age of residents, to discover at least six houses with an assortment of roses growing proudly out front—yellow ones featuring in at least four of them.
Your detective skills are bang on, Lacey. Let’s target the people who grow yellow roses now and find out how they know Faith and if they know anything about that night. I’ve officially gone crazy. Better yet, check in on every florist within a ten-kilometre radius and interrogate them.
No wonder people in town steer clear of me. I jump to the wildest of conclusions sometimes.
As I distribute more flyers, the rattles of a lawnmower grow louder, the sound of summer ringing in my ears. The old Jackson place looks as if it’s finally been rented. That grass has been dying to be cut for months now. The nature strip has now been mowed to within an inch of its life, and the edges of the main patch of grass are getting much needed attention too.
As I approach the waist-high hedge that divides the Jackson property from its neighbour, Mrs Prescott, I clutch at my chest and gasp as Quade’s naked torso walks zombie-like with a silver handle gripped firmly in his hands.
Oh my word, it looks like he’s mowing the lawn naked.
At eighty-something years old, and still living on her own, Mrs Prescott will be guaranteed to have a heart attack if she looks out the window to that.
When I turn into the driveway, I sigh with relief at the sight of his shorts and boots, but a little part of me is disappointed.
“You have to cut grass practically naked?” I call out as I approach him on the footpath.
Quade shakes his head and his shoulders shake, although I can’t hear him laugh. He flicks a switch, cutting the motor. He runs the back of his hand across the beads of sweat that were lining his brow and then wipes his hand on his shorts.
“Why? You have a problem with this?” He smooths his hand across his glistening bare chest and chuckles.
No problem at all. No, sir.
“No, but what about your neighbours?” Heat rises to my neck and face, and my tongue feels thicker with each word. I jerk my thumb in the direction of next door. “What about old Mrs Prescott—”
“I didn’t see her complaining when she popped over for a visit earlier. I’m mowing her lawn tomorrow. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Are you stalking me?” he asks, as he meets me out on the footpath.
“No,” I bark out. “Not stalking.” Your girlfriend might have a big problem with that. “I had no idea you moved in here. The Jackson place is … cute.” And by cute I mean tired, and in need of a good paint job or a knock-down.
“I didn’t have many options, so I had to go with cute. Besides, it’s not a bad part of Runaway,” he says and shrugs.
“Yeah, if you’re retired.” I laugh.
Two girls walk up the path towards us. I recognise Lou and Kathy from the year below me at school. Beach towels are hung around their necks, and they take their sweet time ogling Quade as they walk past us. Just get to the beach already, girls.
Once they’ve passed, I return my glare to Mr Fitness here, whose gaze hasn’t seemed to veer away from me.
“Skin cancer is a thing, you know,” I blurt out.
“That’s why I lathered up with sunblock first.”
And now that’s all I see. Quade rubbing lotion painstakingly slowly across that toned bod of his, sweeping those strong hands across his skin. Does he have callouses on those palms? Are they rough to the touch? I bet they are.
Gulp.
“Lace?”
I look up from his inny belly button and the surrounding ridges of his stomach and am met with the smirk of all smirks.
“Just checking you didn’t miss a spot. ’Cause, you know. Cancer.” Gulp. “Sun cancer.”
“I’m a big boy. I’ve got it under control, babe.”
Ay, yai yai. He called me babe? Slip of the tongue perhaps? Is that what he calls his girlf—
“Anyway, what you doing here?” he says, eyeing off the bag sitting at my hip.
“Oh, um, just delivering some … pamphlets.”
“Aren’t you busy enough at the Palace?”
Yes I am, but I make time for this. I will always make time for this. “Not too busy. This is important.”
“Important like the pizza deals for the Palace or like the chemist is having a thirty per cent-off sale?”
I shake my head, and ignore his comment. If he knew what I was really delivering, how would he react? I know his mother doesn’t appreciate what I do, which is why I don’t deliver there or to Eden’s parents’ house. “Never mind. I’ll leave you to your semi-naked gardening.”
He pulls a loose pamphlet from my satchel before I get the chance to move away.
Oh, man. I should snatch it and keep walking.
His dark brows pull together. “Don’t let a drunk mate walk home,” he says, quoting the bold black font splashed at the top of the page.
I know my design skills aren’t great. I’m not that creative, but I think given the flyer isn’t all glossy and professional-looking, it might not be as easily dismissed in the flood of junk mail. I’ve changed up the content over the years, but coming into summer is the time to really send the message home.
His dreamy blue eyes target my own, pointing the paper at me. “Where did you get this?”
If I tell him it’s all my idea, is he going to think I’m fixated on her death? That I have a few ’roos loose in the top paddock? I’m not crazy; I’m just trying to prevent this happening to someone else. I don’t care if the neighbourhood is sick of hearing about the dangers. This time of year, with end of school approaching, there are more eighteen-year-olds around, and that means more drunk teenagers with a licence to drive/kill. I spend my spare cash on flyers, but the cost is irrelevant. If I only reach one person and they make sure they get their friend home safe, it’ll all be worth it.
“Did you know that this year twenty pedestrians died in New South Wales, and nearly half of them were drunk?” I blurt out.
He tilts his head to the side, regarding me. “Really?”
“Yes, really. So yeah. Important.”
His mood turns sombre as he folds the pamphlet and steps right in my personal space, his green-tinged b
rown work boots moving toe to toe with my thongs. He hands the paper to me. My heart does a weird skipping thing as I grip the edge of the paper. He doesn’t let go of his end. The veins push to the surface of his tanned hands and he takes in a sharp breath.
Meanwhile his gaze burns into me like a smouldering bushfire. Blood rushes to my face, prickling at my cheeks. I will myself to look up and am met with a very serious Quade. I catch the glint of sunlight in his glistening blue eyes. He blinks his deathly long lashes. I swallow down hard.
He tugs at the satchel, and I let him take it from me. What is he doing? He slips it over his shoulders, glides his sweaty hand into mine and practically drags me down the footpath.
“If we do it together, we’ll be done in no time,” he says, conviction in his stride.
I plant my thongs the best I can into the pavement. Quade halts.
“What about your lawn?” I ask, and glance back to the grass which is only half done, leaving a rectangular-shaped patch in the middle untouched.
“It can wait.” He jogs to the front door and pulls a key from his shorts, turning it in the lock. He jogs back to me, the muscles of his upper body rolling and flexing as his arms swing by his sides. Ay yai yai.
“Well, are you at least gonna put a shirt on first? Because I know I’ll have trouble walking and breathing with all the nakedness you’ve got goin’ on.”
Oh, God. I said that last part out loud?
“Nope.” He straightens the strap across his torso and points to the flyers. “Important.”
“Please,” I beg.
“What are you carrying on about it for? It’s just skin, Lace.”
I let a loud huff out. “Fine, but walking around like that you’ll be like the Pied Piper, except with all the single girls in the neighbourhood trailing behind you. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“Time to stop talking,” he says and snatches my hand in his.
He’s probably right. I seem to suffer a case of verbal diarrhoea when this man is around. Touching me. I don’t let go of his hand, because well, he’s holding my frickin’ hand. The fact it’s sweaty and probably teeming with grass and dirt particles doesn’t faze me one bit. Call me selfish, but I’m only letting go when he does. In this very moment, I don’t even care that he has a girlfriend.
Losing Faith (Surfers Way) Page 5
