Time had marched on for the survivors. It hadn’t been easy, but it hadn’t been optional either.
It had taken a long time before he could go ten minutes without thinking about Bree, and he still suffered on the special days. It had been hard to get out of bed, but every day he’d rallied, and he’d smiled, and he’d worked damn hard at convincing everyone that he was a functional, emotionally stable human being.
Eventually, he’d stopped acting that way and started being that way instead.
But getting better hadn’t been without its setbacks. Not counting his family and closest friends, it seemed no-one really expected him to ever move on. Obviously, he missed the woman he’d vowed to love until death—she was like a ghost limb, a constant presence in this house and in his children—but the unthinkable had parted them. There were some people who spoke to him like he was a broken man, and others who couldn’t take the sympathy out of their expressions.
Some days he hated the townspeople’s pity and other days he just hated himself.
There wasn’t a manual he could refer to—he had no idea when he was allowed to move on, or if what he was feeling was natural. Was it wrong to look forward? Wasn’t that what Bree would have wanted?
He didn’t want to stand in the rain with a bunch of people and talk about Bree and the birthday she’d missed. If he’d had his way, he would’ve had a wine at dinner then hugged his kids tightly to commemorate the day. Did that make him a bad person? A reprobate widower? Did it even mean anything?
Dean pushed the doona and sheet down the bed and swung his feet onto the floor. Today was going to suck—whatever the weather—and moping in bed wasn’t going to move things along any faster.
When he trudged into the hallway, Nina’s bedroom door was open. Looking inside, he saw that her pyjamas were folded at the bottom of her neatly made bed, which could only mean that Sam was here. This afforded him a degree of comfort. It would be good for him to start this day with people as optimistic as Sam and Ethan. They’d been a constant source of comfort for Dean and his little family. Ethan had returned to Denman at the same time as Bree’s funeral, and although the brothers’ reunion had been a rocky one, they’d come to find a deep friendship in one another again; shared of course, with their mate since childhood, the newly engaged Caleb O’Hara, Samantha’s brother.
The O’Hara family had been an extension of Dean’s own for over twenty years, and he was grateful that they were rallying around him today.
He checked Rowan’s room but it, too, was empty and in an unusual state of cleanliness.
Nobody was in the kitchen when he shuffled in, nor in the living room where someone was often found slumped on the couch.
Outside then, he thought as he stepped into his yard shoes and reached for his wet-weather jacket. Shrugging it on, he shouldered the back door open. He, Ethan and Cal had built the verandah he walked on now; Ethan had married Samantha on it. This house was full to bursting with more good memories than bad, and Dean carried this thought with him as he crossed the grass to join the small group of people huddled beneath the willow tree by the creek.
Ethan looked up and smiled when he heard Dean approach. He was wearing a bulky jacket, but underneath he was still in his pyjamas, which made Dean a little less self-conscious about his own state of dress. Ethan was wet from the rain but the chairs he’d dragged out from the shed were dry. The blue tarpaulin tied to the strongest limbs of the tree flapped in the wind, making a sharp snapping sound.
Ethan was always doing things for this family. Small, but infinitely considerate things.
Since his brother had come home, Dean had taught himself to notice and acknowledge such gestures. It hadn’t been easy to see them at first, but as the brothers had grown closer Dean had learned Ethan’s style, and now he saw these little acts of kindness everywhere.
‘Good morning,’ he murmured. ‘Thanks for the seats and the tarp.’ He swallowed. There was a lump of emotion in his throat so big he thought it might choke him. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘No problem,’ was Ethan’s answer. He slapped Dean on the back and stepped aside when Sam joined them.
Sam’s smile was careful and measured, as it always was when she spoke to Dean about Bree. ‘I’m sorry about the rain. I wish it was nicer weather.’ Her cola-coloured hair was scraped back into a ponytail. She had a round face, a small nose and a slight frame, but she was strong. Always had been. A tomboy with an interest in farming plant machinery, she’d been friends with Bree since high school, and had done her damnedest to be there for the kids since their mother had gone. Dean doubted he would have got through the last few years without her.
He hugged her. ‘Thanks for sorting out the kids.’
Who were at that moment sliding along the wet grass like there were wheels on their feet. Nina wore a rain hat pulled low over her heart-shaped face, and a shiny plastic raincoat that billowed around her little body. Her auburn curls were frizzy and there was grass stuck to her cheek. Dean frowned at the colourful flowers on her coat, which looked suspiciously drawn on, then looked over at his son.
Rowan’s arms and legs seemed too long for his body, his mop of brown curls defying style. Rowan was all Ethan except for the grey eyes, which had come from Rowan’s late grandfather. Ethan and Dean had their mum’s brown eyes.
Thinking this brought Bree back to mind—another wonderful mother worth remembering. Maybe this morning wouldn’t be as bad as expected. Maybe it would be kind of nice.
‘Dean.’ Sam touched his elbow to get his attention. ‘Do you know there’s a nasty bruise on Nina’s back? I saw it when I was helping her change.’
‘A bruise?’
‘A big one.’ Seeing Dean’s surprise, she hastened to comfort him. ‘She hasn’t complained about it, so she might not even know it’s there. Kids are always banging into things.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Sam.’ He looked over at Nina skidding on the slippery grass, her face alight with enjoyment, and wondered.
A four-door ute turned into the driveway and bumped along the gravel. It stopped near Dean’s charcoal Mazda 3. There was a moment of quiet, then the passenger door opened. A woman shouted as a dog launched itself from the cab, slipped in the mud, righted itself, then charged for Nina, barking madly.
Nina instantly forgot her game and ran towards it.
Their reunion was more like a collision. Floyd, the blue heeler, bathed Nina’s scrunched-up face in doggy drool, and she loved every second of it.
Rowan galloped over and flung his arms around the pair.
Dean laughed when the three overbalanced and toppled onto the grass.
‘You say okay to the dog, but not to Boo?’ Sam joked, referring to her maniac goose.
‘Boo lost visiting privileges the day he was born.’
Olivia Law slid from the ute, slammed the door then jogged over to the group. When she was beneath the tarpaulin and out of the rain, she threw her hoodie back and sighed theatrically. She grinned at Dean and as always, he thought of pixies and fairies. Her short, spiky hair was redder than Nina’s, and her narrow face, pointed features and enormous eyes added a cute, almost mythical quality to her appearance. She was short and slight, and her mischievous streak was wider than Dean’s property.
‘Hiya,’ she said. ‘I come bearing condolences and croissants. BYO preserves, I’m afraid.’ She lifted up a bag of fresh pastries baked so recently that steam was forming little drops of condensation on the plastic.
He thanked her with a hug then waited for Caleb to join them. At six foot, Cal had a fair bit of height over Liv, but was about level with Dean. His tousled black hair, strong-lined features and solid arms earned him many looks from the women about town, and Dean teased him accordingly, but Cal only had eyes for his childhood sweetheart.
Cal had stepped out of the ute and right into a deep puddle, so his expression was pinched when he arrived beneath the tarp. ‘Nice day for it,’ he said, shaking Dean’s hand then hugging his sister. ‘
Sorry about the dog.’
Dean shrugged. ‘The tackling started before you got here, don’t worry.’
‘That’s all right, then. Who’re we waiting for?’ He nodded a greeting at Ethan.
‘Fiona.’
And as if summoned, her car turned into the driveway.
Bree had looked very little like her mother. She’d been more classic and natural, compared to Fiona’s typical pressed slacks, starched shirts and fine jewellery. Despite Fiona’s country surrounds, she always looked ready to host a charity auction. Even today, with her face crumpled with grief and the rain beating down on her umbrella, she looked stylish. Dean narrowed his eyes at the heeled boots she wore. No-one spoke as she took one delicate step after another through the rain-soaked grass towards them.
She’d done it hard these few years past. Her husband had left her before Bree died, so it was just Fiona in that big house on the other side of town. Dean knew she filled it with friends and causes, and she said no to his invitations to dinner more often than she said yes—but Dean still worried about her.
They hadn’t grieved the same way. Fiona had fallen apart while Dean had needed to keep it together for the sake of his family. He’d fractured; he was sure she knew that. There had been days when he’d wished he’d had no responsibilities beyond the boundaries of his bed, but he’d mourned on his feet. And he suspected Fiona compared their grief.
By her estimation, Dean had apparently come up short.
She stepped under the tarp, scowled at it, and chose to keep her umbrella up. There were hugs all around as Dean called the kids over so they could get started. He wanted to sit—he was already tired—but more than anything, he wanted to keep things casual.
Dean cleared his throat, only to realise he didn’t know where to begin.
It was Sam who filled the silence. ‘I remember when Bree turned thirty.’ She looked down at the kids and grinned. ‘Your mum tried to stay in bed and sleep through it.’ A few people laughed softly, and the tone was set.
‘I remember her fifteenth birthday party,’ Ethan volunteered next. ‘Dean must’ve lost a litre of spit, drooling all over her that day.’
‘We were at Bean Ramblin’,’ Fiona murmured, referring to the fun, eclectic little coffee shop which had since closed down. Her focus was distant, and looking at her, Dean knew she’d fallen through time.
More people shared their memories. Even Liv, who only knew Bree through Sam’s stories, offered a few words. The kids took their turn, recalling half a dozen moments between them, then all eyes were on Dean.
He cleared his throat again and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked off into the middle distance. ‘I remember … a different life.’
Dean didn’t hurry into work following Bree’s birthday gathering. He got the kids ready for school and dropped them off, but then he went for a long drive. He used the time to clear his head and reflect, and arrived at the garage in time to do a scheduled service after lunch.
It had been an indulgent morning, and one that could probably have been better spent inducting his new employee, but he’d needed a bit of space.
When he’d first gone in to speak with Alice she’d been out getting food. Then she’d been with a customer, then on the phone. Now it was almost the end of the day and he’d yet to see how she was fairing and gauge the mood between them. He wanted to assure her that her job did not depend on whether or not their kids got along, but he was still waiting for the chance.
A short time later, Dean was up to his elbows in kerosene when he realised he had a shadow. He straightened and looked over his shoulder.
A boy stood a metre away, hands in the pockets of his school pants, the heels of his black shoes in the only puddle of grease Dean had yet to cover with sawdust. He looked like Alice in the nose and mouth. The eyes were somebody else’s, brown and fringed with long lashes, but Benjamin Jaye had his mother’s colouring. His dark-blond hair was a few weeks past needing a cut and his school jumper had a pull in the left sleeve. The bruise around his eye was a little purple now.
‘Ben, right?’
The boy nodded.
Dean debated for a moment about how to introduce himself, but he’d never been one for too much formality. ‘Dean. Nice to meet you properly.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Washing dirty tools in a kero bath.’
‘Why?’
‘Kerosene gets the grease off.’
When Ben’s eyes stayed on the thread-chasing tap in Dean’s hand, Dean supposed it wouldn’t be rude to keep going with his task. He held the tap under the steady amber stream of kerosene and rubbed his thumb along the grooves which had removed grime and thread sealer from the bolt holes of an engine block. A moment later, he turned the kero pump off, rested the tool on the edge of the sink and washed his hands.
‘How was school?’ he asked his audience.
Ben blinked and met Dean’s eyes. ‘Okay.’
‘You’re hanging around here until your mum finishes for the day, are you?’
‘Yeah. What’re you doing?’ The boy glanced around the shop, his eyes touching on the various cars, hoists, barrels and tools cluttering up the space. ‘Can I watch?’
Dean lifted his chin a fraction. ‘Sure.’ He was probably doing Alice a favour, watching Ben as she wrapped up for the day, and it was always fun to show someone around the shop. A kid especially, because not enough of them were interested in trades nowadays. He also couldn’t deny himself the opportunity to speak with the kid who’d been involved in Rowan’s first—and hopefully last—fistfight.
He crossed the workshop floor to the open hood of a Ford Focus, and Ben followed. Standing at Dean’s elbow, closer than he had before, Ben looked at the various parts of the engine with interest. ‘What’re you doing?’ he asked again.
‘Replacing a head gasket. It’s an easy enough job—takes time and care, though. So listen, how’s that eye going?’
‘It’s okay. What’s that?’
Dean squeezed the trigger of the tool he’d just picked up and it whined noisily. ‘A rattle gun. A hundred times quicker than a ratchet. I used a torque wrench on those bolts, though, because this has too much power and it can stretch them.’
‘That’s the noise you hear in garages on TV.’
Dean considered this. ‘Yeah, I guess it is. It’s a pretty common thing for mechanics to use.’
Ben nodded and Dean sensed he’d gained a bit of ground. Maybe a bit more shop talk and he’d be able to get Ben to open up about yesterday’s big mystery.
‘See these bolts here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘They have to be tightened in order. There’s a sequence involved in securing any engine component. This cylinder head has to torque down flat. I tightened the middle first, then worked out in a star pattern—going here, then here, then here.’ He pointed at various bolts as he explained.
‘Cool.’
Dean began to unscrew the rattle gun attachment from the air compressor hose. Casually, he said, ‘Rowan’s never hit anybody before, you know. He’s not a bad kid.’ When Ben didn’t answer, Dean filled the silence. ‘I’m not saying what he did is okay. It’s not.’
Dean glanced over when Ben shrugged both shoulders and scuffed his shoe on the concrete.
‘’S okay,’ Ben mumbled. ‘He should’a done it. I would’ve. If I wasn’t me, you know. If I was him.’
This time Dean looked right at Ben’s round, bruised face. ‘You would have hit you if you were Rowan?’
‘Yeah.’
Dean detached the rattle gun and held out the harmless hose. ‘Hold this for me. Why do you say that?’
Ben’s fingers closed around the hose as a soft blush touched the arcs of his cheeks. ‘I hurt Nina. I didn’t mean to.’
Instinct battled common sense as Dean turned away to swap the rattle gun for the blower. His protectiveness was hot, and it burned his insides. The underside of his skin felt like it was bubbling, and demands
were lining up on his tongue, ready to dive from his mouth. But that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He needed to stay calm and he needed to keep the kid talking. He was getting answers. Had he really thought they’d be answers he wanted to hear?
‘She’s got a pretty big bruise,’ Dean said, feigning nonchalance. He took the hose back, pushed on the blower and squeezed the trigger. The nozzle blew fast, noisy air over Ben’s joggers and he jumped.
‘She cried,’ Ben said, eyeing the tool.
And because Dean was listening closely, it sounded like Ben was close to doing the same.
‘Well, it hurt her.’ Dean didn’t know where in his body he was finding this light, conversational tone because he felt like roaring.
Perhaps Ben assumed that Dean knew the whole story, or perhaps he was desperate to confess because suddenly Ben was speaking. Fast. ‘She made fun of me and I pushed her. I didn’t know the tap was there and she started to cry so I ran, and then I let Rowan hit me because I felt so bad, and then Rowan got in trouble and I just feel so bad!’ Fat tears rolled down his eyelashes and splashed onto his red cheeks. They slid down his chin and dropped onto his chest. He took a deep, shuddering breath and slapped his palms to his face, covering his eyes.
Dean blinked at him, lost for words, replaying Ben’s confession over in his mind.
Rowan had been protecting his sister. And Nina had been bullying Benjamin. His daughter had teased a boy so badly that the boy felt the need to push her away.
‘Don’t—don’t cry, Ben.’ Dean tried to remain in the moment, but his mind was charging ahead, visualising his evening and the long talk he was going to have with his kids. This all made a strange kind of sense. Nina was clever, but sometimes her social skills were a little … Maybe she wasn’t charming at school the way she was at home. And Rowan—well. Puzzle solved. Only loyalty would have brought about such a dramatic course of action, and Rowan still wasn’t talking about it because he was still protecting Nina.
Ben stared at the dirty concrete floor between their shoes and sniffed a few times.
Winter Beginnings Page 3
