Head down against the chilly wind gusts, she made a small leap onto the kerb and crashed into a broad, dark-jacketed chest. Her gaze flew up and landed on a stubbled chin and a familiar pair of brown eyes. And a pair of lips she knew the taste of only too well.
Paul caught her elbows as she bounced off him.
Unprepared for the sight of him, or the heat of his hand burning through her leather jacket, she teetered in her high-heeled boots. Slowly, her chilled hands warmed and, with a start, she realised she had grabbed a fistful of plaid shirt beneath his open jacket and was plastered against Paul’s chest.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.’ Releasing her grip by sheer will, she flattened her hands on his chest and pushed gently. What she really wanted was to pull him closer.
But even though her mother was certain neither Carey twin was her father, Frankston was still in the picture.
Her throat closed on the enormity of that obstacle.
As though he sensed the enemy lurking beneath her skin, Paul dropped her elbows and took a step backwards. ‘And there was me thinking you were looking for any excuse to—ah, no worries.’ He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded towards the craft store. ‘Have you been checking out Callie’s new shop?’
‘Not yet. I left Mum there browsing while I went to—she loves crafty things. She says it relaxes her.’ Talking with Paul about her search for her father was firmly in the box of taboo subjects, for so many reasons. It hurt to think how much she had longed to know her father, how much she had wanted a brother or sister when she was little. All those be careful what you wish for talks she’d shared with her mother had come back to bite her.
‘Great. That’s great.’ He flicked a look at his watch. ‘Sorry I can’t stay. Appointment—late—gotta go.’ Dark eyes lingered a moment on her face. She fancied she saw regret before he turned and strode away.
She watched him all the way down the side street, hoping he’d look back, praying he wouldn’t. They weren’t family, but maybe they couldn’t even be friends. Not if Frankston proved to be her father. It was silly, unrealistic, and yet everything in her ached for her loss.
Paul wasn’t hers.
Cursing fate did no good, but suddenly she couldn’t handle dealing with the clerk in the courthouse. Well meaning as she had been, the woman would ask questions Serena didn’t feel like answering today.
A glance into the craft shop showed her mother engaged in conversation with a woman around her own age.
Tipping her head back and peering at windswept clouds, Serena knew she’d be poor company. Better to leave her mother talking colours and yarns or whatever had the two women engrossed, and take herself off somewhere quiet.
A blue and white sign below the street name pointed the way to the library. Losing herself in a dark thriller to match her mood seemed a good option.
***
Dawn waved to Serena from the footpath outside the cafe, and she pulled into a nearby parking spot.
Her mother climbed in and rested a large brown paper bag on her lap before leaning over to pull her door closed. ‘Sorry it’s so late, darling. I met the nicest woman in the craft shop and she’s invited me to meet her for coffee one day soon. Then I decided I’d wander up here for a coffee anyway.’
‘No worries, Mum. Did you have a nice afternoon?’ Serena checked her mirrors and slowly pulled away from the kerb.
‘I did.’ The paper bag crinkled as she adjusted it on her lap.
‘I can see that. Did you leave her with any stock?’
‘Be nice or I won’t knit this up into a new jumper for you. Look at this yarn.’
Serena glanced at the ball of wool in her mother’s hand. Gold thread ran through wool the colour of lapis lazuli. She reached over and rubbed the yarn between two fingers, while keeping her eyes on the road. ‘It’s soft. I expected it to feel rough with that gold thread.’
‘I can see it made up already, an off-the-shoulder style done on big needles.’
Trust her mother to find the perfect antidote for her blues. Bonding over clothing and creative crafts had got them through her adolescence, and was still an effective mood-changer. ‘Over white denim jeans and a cami top. I might have to call in and check out the stock in the craft shop too.’
‘There’s nothing like a little retail therapy to brighten the day.’
Serena turned off the main road and slowed as she approached the driveway of the B & B. ‘I’ve been thinking about the collection I designed for the cotton festival and trying to work out a way to market it that might highlight the plight of the cotton farmers and mill workers.’
‘Have you come up with any ideas?’
‘Maybe. If Max would speak to his chief about it, we might get some interest and a story out of the economic and community angles.’
‘Something along the lines of, if we don’t support our cotton growers we’ll lose Australia’s cotton industry? I like it.’
‘I’m gambling on the fact Max is investigating the closure and looking into the owner’s affairs for his article to spark a side story.’ Serena parked the car and carried her mother’s shopping and oversized handbag into the house.
Trish greeted them as they closed the front door and pointed at the paper bag. ‘What did you find?’
Dawn set the paper bag on the kitchen table, pulled out a ball of wool and settled in for a chat. ‘The perfect colour to knit a top for Serena.’
‘It’s lovely. Against your skin and red hair, it will be stunning. Cup of tea? I put the kettle on when I saw the car turn into the driveway.’ Trish selected three cups and saucers from her prized Royal Albert tea set and placed them on a lacy table runner.
‘Tea would be lovely, thanks. I love arts and crafts and after seeing that shop today, and the stall at the picnic, I’d like to visit the commune and see what else they are making. What do you think, Trish?’
‘Hmm, you should talk to Amber when you visit the commune. I’ll give her a call to tee up a visit if you like.’
‘That would be lovely, thanks. Serena, do you remember the stalls at the picnic?’
Serena had zoned out of the conversation, but her mother wouldn’t let her stay in the doldrums. She sat up and reached for one of the biscuits Trish had set out. ‘One of them had those scarves you draped me in, didn’t it?’
‘Yes. Delightful woman from the commune looking after it. Anyway, I’d like to see what else they produce. Fancy a drive out there later this week?’
‘Sure. I’m keen to have a look at the commune too. By the way, did you know Sean Flynn lives there?’
Her mother turned away and busied herself with unpacking her purchases. ‘Is that right?’
From the depths of her unhappiness, Serena realised two things: her mother, who never blushed, had pink cheeks, and had failed to follow up a juicy conversational opening. It seemed the MC from the picnic had piqued her interest.
Trish filled three rose-patterned cups with tea, and set milk and sugar in the middle of the table. ‘Sean makes beautiful furniture out of sustainable wood and fallen trees. People all over the country have bought his creations. You really should visit his workshop while you’re there. Watching him work is a treat, and that’s not just because of what he produces.’
Dawn sputtered and set her teacup on its saucer. ‘Now I really must check out the woodworker. His jacket was so long and baggy on Saturday, I couldn’t tell from the rear view.’
‘Mum! Are you two seriously talking about checking out his butt?’ Serena stirred sugar into her tea. She might be excused for not having immediately cottoned on to what Trish had said. Meeting Paul so soon after the discussion about her father had been unnerving and a headache throbbed behind her eyes.
‘What’s the matter, darling? Are you surprised that we’re talking about it, or that we’re still interested at our advanced age?’ Dabbing the corners of her mouth, Dawn caught Serena’s eye and winked. ‘You’re never too old to enjoy the goods.’
> Both older women burst into shared laughter, and Serena gave rein to her mirth. But in the back of her mind, she knew which male would command her attention, no matter how old she was.
Chapter Nineteen
Paul jogged along Woodburn Road, his breath escaping in white puffs and his ears stinging in the chill morning air. Still debating the pros and cons of confronting his uncle about Dawn, he knew he had to find out or go crazy with the not knowing.
What information he had only fuelled his speculation. Serena turned twenty-seven at the end of next January—no matter how often he counted backwards, the date didn’t change. She must have been conceived around the time of the music festival.
Josh and Jake remembered Dawn very well. They had known her at the festival.
Known in what sense?
Paul’s mind blazed with insane possibilities. He doubted Serena was his half-sister, but was she his cousin? Josh had always had an eye for beautiful women.
His mother would have talked sense into him, but he couldn’t raise the spectre of an affair between his father and Dawn and expect his mother to discuss it with equanimity. He’d seen a flash of hurt in her eyes when both Josh and his father talked about the memorable redhead from Byron; so memorable they still recalled her name. Talking to his mum about his feelings for Serena was dangerous conversational territory as well; he knew what her response would be.
Of course it’s possible to fall for someone at first sight. I did with your father. So—why aren’t you doing something about it? What’s holding you back?
Every avenue cycled back to the same problem: who was Serena’s father? Was that the task she claimed to be doing for her mother in Mindalby?
Like learning to read a map in an unfamiliar language, he traced the thread of Serena’s withdrawal from him back to that conversation about Byron Bay. Just how well the men in his family had known Dawn seemed to be the key.
Until he had that answer, frustration was his new companion.
Tackling Josh was next on his list and he knew just where his uncle would be. Solidarity ran deep in his family values, and Josh would be where the action was. He was a doer first, and a thinker after the fact, rather like Hayden.
As he drew near the mill, his steps slowed and he stopped on the corner opposite the entrance. The crowd in front of the gates had grown over the past few days and now resembled a campsite. Forty-four gallon drums, split in half, shimmered with heat, and a makeshift canteen had been set up. As he watched, a couple of people from the commune passed him and pulled their horse and wagon to a standstill. Eager hands helped them unload baskets of food and faces brightened as the aroma of onions cooking on a barbecue wafted on the breeze.
His stomach rumbled at the smell the same time he spotted Hayden.
His brother stood a little apart from the crowd, gripping the wire links as he stared at a truck loaded with cotton waiting to be processed.
Paul did a double take as the distinctive Carey Cotton name and logo jumped out at him. The family had voted unanimously to adopt the design he’d created when Hayden took over after their father’s heart attack.
And Hayden had carried the weight of responsibility for the farm ever since. Guilt shafted through Paul again.
Worried by the tension in his brother’s stance, Paul crossed the road and swung an arm over Hayden’s shoulders. ‘Hey, little bro, how’re you doing?’
‘Look at it, all our profit tied up in that load and sitting there, useless as tits on a bull.’ He rattled the links, stepped back and kicked the solid upright. ‘It’s not right.’
‘No, it isn’t, but there’s no way to fix it yet.’
Hayden’s hands fisted and the line of his mouth was a thin slash. ‘I reckon I could break in the gates with one of Stone’s trucks.’
Paul grabbed Hayden’s shoulders and squeezed hard. ‘All that will do is land you in jail. Is that what you want?’
Fever-bright fervour lit Hayden’s eyes. ‘I want what’s rightfully ours. I’m running out of time to fill the orders and you know what that means: fines, having to find another buyer, not having money for next year’s seed—and to pay for it, I’ve got to get this year’s harvest to market on time. Got a solution for that?’
Paul’s chest tightened as though it was trapped in a vice and his lungs struggled to drag in air. Hayden was desperate enough to do something monumentally stupid if Paul couldn’t stop him. ‘I get it. But this isn’t the way to deal with the problem.’
‘So what is the right way? Give up without a whimper? Tell me, what do you think is the right way to stop Carey Cotton going under, because right here and now, taking my cotton by force is the only way out I can see.’
‘The co-op. I’ve got several investors who’ve already put up a few hundred thousand dollars, including Josh. I’m following up others, and I’ve put out flyers. There’s a meeting later this morning and—’
‘You don’t get it, do you? You can’t ride to my rescue every time things don’t work out. I’m responsible for the farm and I’ve got to make the decisions and do what’s best for Dad and Mum. You gave up that responsibility when you chose the saddlery over the farm.’ Hayden wrenched himself free and stormed into the crowd.
Stunned by his brother’s anger, Paul stared at the gap in the crowd where Hayden had disappeared. Why had he never suspected the depth of his brother’s resentment? Had he been blinded by his own ambition? Was what he’d thought of as stepping aside to allow Hayden to fulfil his dream really nothing more than a selfish choice?
Sick to his stomach, Paul turned away and crossed the road, his legs heavy as lead, his original mission forgotten as the bitter taste of defeat filled his mouth. He’d been selfish, a terrible brother and son, to have put himself ahead of his family. He didn’t deserve to be happy when he’d made such bad choices for others.
Seeing Hayden’s cotton liberated on time would be part of his atonement, if he had to steal a truck and ram the gates himself.
But first, he had to ensure more investors picked up the co-op idea, and that meant marshalling his most persuasive arguments at Joe’s Café in—he glanced at his watch—forty minutes.
Listing his key arguments in his head, he picked up the pace and jogged home.
***
‘Look at those gum trees. Aren’t they spectacular?’ Dawn tapped Serena’s arm and pointed. ‘Are you looking, darling? This is a glorious part of the country.’
Serena nodded but kept her eyes open for the dirt track turnoff to the Commune of the Golden Light.
Trish had been happy to arrange the visit with Amber, and the only downside was her inability to accompany them. She’d laughed as she nudged Dawn. ‘Guess that gives you an excuse to visit again, when I can go with you to watch the woodworker at work.’
Slowing as they approached a mob of kangaroos grazing a little way from the track, the glint of sunlight off a windmill drew Serena’s attention. Wind turbines rotated slowly off to her right.
‘Trish said the district has been in drought for the past few years, but this place looks fertile. Maybe there’s more to the way of life here than she mentioned.’
‘Maybe.’ Dawn consulted the hand-drawn map on her lap. As clever as her mother was, left and right and giving directions were problematic. Her hand fluttered languidly as she pointed. ‘Take the next turn that way.’
‘Right.’
‘Isn’t that left? Oh dear—’
‘Yes, I mean okay, I’ll turn that way.’
Minutes later the track opened onto a group of yurts clustered around a large, central timber building.
Serena parked beneath a gum tree a little distance from the dwellings and they got out of the car. Strips of reddish bark peeled off the lower trunk in long ribbons, revealing a smooth surface mottled in shades of grey and white and reddish-brown. A little way above their eye level, a snake poked its triangular head out of a hole left by a fallen branch. Transfixed, Serena watched as it slowly emerged, its body a rippl
ing, unending length of olive and black diamonds. When at last its tail emerged and the snake lay in a shaft of sunlight on a branch, she released a sigh of wonder. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘And not dangerous, which is a nice change among Australian fauna. Welcome, I’m Amber, Wiccan of the Golden Light Commune. You must be Serena and Dawn.’ Strong features, red hair threaded with an occasional strand of grey, and hazel eyes that assessed Serena as she shook hands—there could be no mistaking the wiccan leader.
Before chemo, her mother’s hair had been a similar rich red, worn in a long, thick plait, but the bristly regrowth had lost its colour and vibrancy. Dawn pulled her beanie lower over her ears before extending her hand. ‘Thanks for inviting us. We’ve heard a lot about your community from Trish Jenkins and were keen to visit.’
‘You’re most welcome. I heard about nothing but your performance from Sean after the fundraiser and I must admit, I was curious to meet you. You have an admirer in Sean, and he doesn’t impress easily.’
‘Yes, well, thank you.’
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea? My yurt is this way.’
They passed several beehive-shaped dwellings; some were made of wood, others of mud brick, and most had flourishing herb and vegetable gardens.
‘This is my home. Please come in.’ Amber slipped off her boots and set them on a rack just inside the door.
Dawn followed, toeing off her joggers and setting them alongside the boots. ‘It all looks so inviting. I’ll bet everything is grown organically and tastes like nature intended it to.’
‘The earth gives us her bounty; we should enjoy it without the heavy processing that strips away flavour as well as goodness. I have chamomile tea or would you prefer to try one of my fruit teas?’
Her mother sat on an oversized green cushion and looked up. ‘Chamomile tea please.’
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