Starting Over

by Susanne Bellamy

  ‘So what if you’re right about why I’m here. What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m in a unique position to help you find him. Let’s say I’ve a couple of promising leads.’

  ‘So have I. But why would you want to help me?’ Wanting to believe Max’s kindness, she struggled to accept what he offered came without strings. With Max, there were always strings—a spider web of them.

  ‘I have resources at my fingertips and connections that open doors. And you’re important to me.’

  Until that final, tagged-on, almost throwaway comment, he’d almost had her believing he was on the level.

  Almost.

  He always put her last.

  ‘Tempting, but no thanks. I’ll do this on my own.’ She made to rise, annoyed at how well he could still play her.

  His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. ‘I care about you, Serena, and I’ve missed you.’

  She looked pointedly at his hand until he released his hold, and only then did she sit down. It was better to finish this conversation once and for all. ‘What if I don’t feel the same about you? What if I’ve moved on with my life in the months since we separated?’

  ‘You care about people close to you. Once, that was me, and I hope it will be again.’

  For a nanosecond, Serena was tempted to accept his offer. Finding her father had become an obsession, and it wasn’t just about her mother. Paul and his family were connected to her in some way, even if she hadn’t found who connected them. Max’s ability to sniff out answers made him a top journalist, but those damned strings worried her.

  With Max, there would always be a price to pay.

  ‘Are you offering to help me find my father if I come back to you? Because that’s not going to happen. If I had any lingering feelings for you, the past few months apart have erased them.’

  His eyes narrowed and a hint of sarcasm slipped through his mask. ‘Maybe you think you’ve found someone else here in Hicksville.’

  If she hadn’t been listening, she might have passed off Max’s response as jealousy. But she hadn’t lived with him for over a year without learning to read his subtext. Max knew something about Paul or his family. Did he imagine he could use it to bring her back to him?

  Fear curled in her stomach and a chill ran down her spine. What if he started digging up old scandals? Jacob Carey had survived one heart attack, but how would he cope if Max raked the past up all over again?

  ‘I’ve met some wonderful people and yes, maybe I have met someone I like enough to want to get to know better. That’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘I want to have the right to care for you again. There may be things about your … friend you’d prefer not to make public. For example, his father might have swindled folks in town.’

  Dawn came up and stood behind Max without him noticing her approach. Slim and weak as she was, her eyes held a fierce look that promised retribution. In that moment, her gentle mother looked capable of murder.

  ‘That sounds like an attempt at emotional blackmail to me. You might want to rethink your strategy.’

  Unfazed, Max turned and met Dawn’s gaze. ‘Just looking out for your daughter, Dawn.’

  Beryl set a cappuccino in front of Max. ‘There you go, hun. You want anything else, just let me know.’ The look she cast at Serena was triumphant before she patted Max’s shoulder and returned behind the counter.

  A sick feeling rolled through Serena’s stomach. How many people knew about Jacob Carey’s poor investment in a scam? Would Paul and his family—maybe her family too—be affected by the information if Max disclosed what he knew? Just how much did he know, or guess?

  ‘I’ve lost my appetite. Mum, do you fancy a drive somewhere?’

  Max caught her hand and held it. ‘Think about my offer to help.’

  Looking pointedly at his hand detaining her, she waited until he let go. ‘I’ll think—whether your offer is help or something else.’

  ***

  As the car windows fogged up, Dawn turned from contemplation of the river and met Serena’s gaze. ‘Tell me what you think you know.’

  ‘There isn’t much.’

  ‘Max Stinker seems to think he’s got something and your face is still a shade of white, so you must agree it’s a possibility. Spill.’

  Where to begin? She sifted through the suggestions and innuendoes since she’d begun her search for her father. ‘Since you don’t recall the name of my father—’

  Her mother’s expression remained the same and, for the first time in many years, Serena doubted her own certainty that her mother had simply kept silent.

  ‘I created a couple of sketches from the differences between your features and mine and showed them to a few people in town. So far, I’ve been told they look like Greg Frankston, a scam artist; the mill owner who seems to have vanished, and who nobody has a good word about—’

  ‘Neither of them could be your father. He was a decent man, a good man.’

  ‘Mum, that was twenty-seven years ago. People change, things happen.’

  ‘I doubt he would have changed from the man I knew. He was like an oak tree, the kind of man my grandmother would have called steadfast.’

  Feeling as if they were going around in circles, Serena raised a hand with two fingers folded down. ‘Okay, leaving aside your certainty he’s not likely to be a scammer or a cheat, those are the first two possibilities. Then there’s a man who lives on some commune outside town. I haven’t seen him yet so I’ve no idea what he’s like. And then there are twin brothers, the father and uncle of—of a friend.’

  ‘Twins? Are they identical?’

  Serena had to remind herself to breathe. If her mother remembered the twins after all these years, it had to mean more than just meeting them. And yet, weren’t they the kind of men she’d always believed her father to be? Decent, honourable, family men—men who would never have left her mother alone and pregnant if they had known.

  Perhaps Dawn’s story about their ill-fated last meeting was true.

  ‘They were both at the Byron festival the year I was conceived.’

  ‘Were they?’ Dawn rubbed her temples. ‘Twins—with dark brown eyes and black hair?’

  ‘Yes. And they knew your name.’

  Her mother’s memory of the twins gave her hope that the man Frankston wasn’t her father.

  Hope that a Carey man was her father.

  And hope that he wasn’t.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Paul shovelled the final spadeful of dirt into place and tamped it down. The smell of damp earth mixed with the scent of eucalypt. He panted, less from exertion than emotion, stood back and looked at the small mound that marked Jack’s resting place by the river, their favourite haunt when they were young. Water tumbled over rocks in that constant, soothing babble he knew so well and a magpie carolled its sweet tune from a branch overhead.

  No more pain. Jack has no more pain.

  But his chest hurt with a huge, aching, Jack-shaped hole. Leaning on the shovel, Paul tipped his head and looked at the tracery of leaves patterning the sky. The pattern blurred and Paul sniffled—hard. He wiped his face on his sleeve and drew a shuddering breath then turned and trudged back to the farmhouse. His mother opened the screen door as he tugged off his boots, heavy with river mud.

  ‘Coffee’s poured, darling. With a dash of something to take away the cold.’

  Paul nodded, not trusting his voice, and sat with his back to the woodstove. He raised the mug, aware of the peaty scent of whiskey lacing his drink before it even touched his lips. He sipped, then sipped again.

  ‘Okay?’ His mother’s hand rubbed his shoulder and her soft voice grounded him.

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Mum.’

  She slid into the chair next to him. ‘I know you used to talk to Jack and get things clear in your mind. You can talk to me, if it helps?’

  ‘How do you always know, Mum?’ He did need to talk—about the mill, and Serena, and—

  He looked
around, realising how quiet the house was. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Off to meet Josh. Hayden’s in the top field.’

  Paul wrapped his hand around the mug and leaned both elbows on the table. ‘You know Frankston is out of prison? He turned up at the mill saying he was going to buy it. If he does, it will be the end of Mindalby Cotton because he’ll strip it and sell off the pieces for revenge.’

  His mother gripped his free hand between hers. ‘Then it’s up to us to stop him. We’ll have to find a way.’

  ‘This damned mill closing—it’s caused chaos.’

  ‘But the community will pull together. Profit from the picnic will go a long way to—’

  ‘Help, I know. But for how long? Will it see those who can’t get work through winter?’ The Cotton Bale’s bedrooms were all taken by people who lived from pay to pay. The need in town was overwhelming.

  ‘People are doing what they can. Opening your property has helped.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  She grinned and patted his hand. ‘No second sight needed. I know my son. And Josh has a big mouth.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s nowhere near enough. What we need is an injection of capital. No one in town has that kind of money, not alone, not even—’

  ‘Together?’

  Together. Together?

  The idea struck him like a flash of summer lightning. It was bold, it was brave, it was—madness. The concept was way outside his comfort zone, but just maybe—

  ‘You’re a genius! Gotta get into town and see Penny, see if—’

  ‘Go. Love you.’ She kissed his cheek and straightened his collar before he jumped down the front steps and headed for the ute.

  ***

  Penny tapped her pen on the yellow legal pad as she read from her screen, making occasional notes, emitting occasional hmms.

  ‘Is it doable?’ Paul gripped his hands together between his knees. The waiting was killing him and he began to doubt the idea that had seemed brilliant back at the farm.

  ‘Very doable, actually. A co-operative would mean no one person has control.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I reckon that’s key to getting people onside. One thing about Carter’s actions, they’ve taught us a valuable lesson about control. This has to be a better way.’

  Penny did a quick calculation, noted the figures on her pad and nodded to herself. ‘If you pitch the idea to the bank and back it up with, say four hundred thousand dollars, I think they’d be more than ready to listen. As it is at the moment, they stand to make a substantial loss if the mill is sold at a knockdown price.’

  His stomach flipped at the thought of who the purchaser could be, and the reason he was here talking with Penny. ‘The possibility of Frankston buying the mill is like the threat of a nuclear war. He’d leave nothing standing and Mindalby would cease to exist.’

  ‘I agree. Problem for us is the drought has affected crop prices, and the flow-on effects in the community make the mill a less attractive proposition to an outside buyer. But I think there are enough people in town who would tip in money to save the mill.’ Penny made one last note and sat back, a smile growing on her face.

  Paul leaned on the desk as faint hope shimmered in front of him. ‘So it would be run by an elected board? No one person would control it?’

  ‘That’s correct. Why don’t you ask around, get a feel for which businesses would be the biggest losers if the mill doesn’t reopen?’

  ‘I’ll go and see Julian Stone and Tox Ryder for a start. Their transport businesses must have taken a big hit already.’

  ‘Well done, Paul. I have a good feeling about your idea. A co-op for Mindalby cotton would give the town control over its future.’

  ‘Anything will be better than letting a bastard like Frankston—sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Don’t apologise, you’re right. He was a bastard. It was a sorry day for Mindalby when he rolled back into town. I was lucky I found out what he was really like before I married him. Now, take my advice and start canvassing support.’

  ‘Thanks, Penny.’

  ‘There’s no charge for today. I’m happy to help however I can. Call this my contribution to our town pulling back from the brink.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paul’s father dumped a Tupperware container on the table beside the barbecue. ‘Put some more onions on with those sausages. I’ll be back in half a mo to take over.’

  ‘At the rate these are selling, we’ll be lucky if the snags hold out until dinner.’ Paul added more onions, the smell teasing his nose and making his stomach rumble.

  The sun was playing hide and seek above the fundraiser in the park, enthusiastic crowds devoured food and entertainment, and a junior school band began playing a variation of ‘Three Blind Mice’ in the rotunda, one of the clarinets peeping a wrong note. Paul added another batch of sausages to the barbecue and wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow.

  The fundraiser was going better than expected and interest in the co-op idea was strong, but he was feeling low.

  Serena was avoiding him.

  She had promised to bring her mother to meet his parents, but all he’d seen was the back of her head on the far side of the park. And that was the most he’d seen of her all week. He’d bet his last dollar it had something to do with what that damned journalist had said. Callie Ferguson wandered past dressed as a clown, her mass of brightly coloured balloons attracting a mob of kids clamouring to buy their favourite colour.

  ‘She’s like the Pied Piper.’ Paul’s mother waved a sausage in bread under his nose and relieved him of the tongs in his hand. ‘Here’s your reward for filling in. Your father is back so you’re off the hook. Go and find Serena and her mother.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He pulled the chef’s apron over his head and tossed it to her as he rounded the front counter. She caught the apron mid-air and pointed her tongs at him.

  ‘You look after Dawn and Serena. They’ve got more than enough to contend with right now.’

  Sometimes his mother’s intuition was scarily accurate. Serena hadn’t mentioned the word ‘cancer’ but that had to be what his mum meant. ‘You can depend on me.’

  ‘I know, darling. Bring them over to meet us when you can.’

  ‘Will do.’ He didn’t need his mother’s gift of second sight to know something about Dad and Josh and Dawn meeting in Byron Bay had caused Serena to feel uneasy. Her too-keen interest in that trip and then her monosyllabic conversation would have been clear even to a blind man.

  Serena’s arm linked through her mother’s as they stood in front of a craft stall. Dawn was slim to the point of skinny, and had spent half of the day after her long bus trip in bed. Perhaps that was what his mother had seen—exhaustion.

  But it didn’t account for Serena avoiding him the rest of this week. Sure, he’d been busy helping set up for the picnic, but two days of excuses not to meet had him on edge. As he made his way through the crowd towards the two women, Julian Stone stopped him. ‘Paul, I’ve decided. I’m in on the co-op. Great idea. Can we catch up next week and start the paperwork?’

  ‘Sure, that’s great, Julian. Uncle Josh is tipping in twenty thousand from his superannuation and I have promises from others to get back to me by the middle of next week. We can do it.’

  ‘Excellent. Well done.’ Julian shook his hand before heading off.

  Paul looked around for Serena and her mother. An animated discussion was in progress as Dawn patted her daughter’s arm and draped a knitted scarf from the stall over Serena’s shoulders.

  In the rotunda, his second cousin Sean Flynn stepped up to the stage microphone and encouraged applause for the young performers, who began a noisy exit.

  Paul stopped behind Serena. Meeting Dawn’s eyes, he smiled carefully, not wanting to lose his chance of finding out why Serena was keeping him at a distance. ‘Hi, Serena. Enjoying all the fun of the fair?’

  Serena was clutching a bright bundle of knitting, which she set down with c
are before turning to face him. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his. ‘Hello.’

  Charming and graceful beneath a bright blue beanie, Dawn Quinlan held out a hand. ‘Hello, you must be Paul. I’ve heard quite a lot about you and your family.’

  So Serena had talked about him to her mother. If she’d wanted to cut all ties, she’d have said nothing. He pushed his advantage. ‘They’d love to meet you if you have time today. We’re manning the sausage sizzle.’

  ‘And I’d love to meet them, although I believe I may have met your father and uncle many years ago. Now, Paul, give me a man’s opinion please.’ She stood back to examine the scarf she’d draped over her daughter’s shoulders.

  Serena frowned, tension visible in the stiff line of her neck.

  Did she regret kissing him with her ex-fiancé in town? Paul scanned the crowd. Was the journalist still in town or had he flown back to the big smoke? Was Zinsky holding something over Serena’s head?

  He looked back at Serena.

  Her intense gaze ran over his face, as though she was memorising every detail. Why? Was she preparing to give him the brush-off? His stomach tied itself in knots and the sausage he’d scoffed down sat like a ball of lead.

  Since dinner at the farm, she’d given an excuse for not meeting each time he rang, keeping him at a distance. Or keeping him and her mother apart?

  That odd reaction to the Byron Bay conversation flitted through his memory. Something in the details might give him a clue to her present behaviour, if only he could pinpoint it.

  He lifted the apple-green scarf, brushing Serena’s cheek as he pretended to consider the colour. Her skin was cool but a hint of pink flared at his touch. Her gaze collided with his and a hunger that matched his burned in their depths.

  So, she wasn’t immune to his touch.

  His cheeks ached with the smile he couldn’t contain at that knowledge. ‘Do they have one in purple? This is too pale for her colouring.’

  ‘Purple? You do have a good eye, Paul. And funnily enough, that’s Serena’s favourite colour.’ Dawn turned away and ferreted through the untidy pile in search of one.