‘What the —?’ The grey mess jumped back and grabbed the closest object to its flailing hands – a tin of beetroot.
The hand holding the beetroot tin was very small and there was a slight curve beneath the grey hoodie. Alice’s thief was a girl. A young girl with pieces of half-cooked bread crumbs caught in the folds of her tattered jumper. At least that explained what had happened to her baking.
‘The door was open. I didn’t break in,’ the girl said at once, stepping back and forth looking for a way past her captor.
‘What are you doing here?’ Alice asked, trying to control her breathing. It was just a child. ‘If you put back whatever you’ve taken, I won’t call the police.’
‘Don’t you dare call the cops.’ The girl pushed her greasy black hair behind her ears and raised her eyes to Alice in defiance.
From Alice’s trembling hand the rolling pin crashed to the floor, a resounding thud echoing through the silent café, and she gasped.
Those two piercing blue eyes.
The girl shoved past her and sprinted through the café.
‘Sorry.’ Alice ran after her. ‘Wait. I just …’
But the girl rushed past, out the café and into the trees across the large grass clearing that stretched in front of the café before Alice got to the bottom of the steps.
Alice sat on the deck that wrapped around the café and tried to calm her racing thoughts. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen his eyes gazing back at her from a stranger’s face. It wasn’t the second or third. There was a time when she saw those eyes in every male she met. In the stare of the postie who’d delivered her bills; the mischievous gazes of the boys in the pub who were probably too young to drink; every second customer that came into the café when she first arrived in Kookaburra Creek. No, it wasn’t the first time she’d seen Dean McRae’s eyes in another. But only once before had she seen his eyes in a young girl, and that was so long ago, in a life no longer hers.
It was several minutes before Alice felt calm enough to rise on shaky legs and head back inside. Fractured images from her past fought for attention, but she blocked them out. She had a café to open. She couldn’t dwell on wasted memories.
She stood in her kitchen, her heart beating fast, not sure where to start. It was too late to make more bread. Betty would be upset, no doubt. So would Claudine. They loved her homemade loaves. But they’d forgive her, just like they had that time a town-wide blackout had turned the oven off in the small hours of the morning. She’d make up some excuse or other. Joey would be able to bring over a few loaves from the bakery if she texted him now, and he’d be popping by for his coffee in about twenty minutes anyway.
Coffee! She hadn’t put her coffee on. Nothing could be achieved before that ritual was taken care of. The drip of the Colombian blend falling into her favourite yellow mug was just the tonic she needed. She switched on the coffee machine to heat up and freshly ground the beans. She’d make enough for two.
She took down the wooden chairs, each a different colour – blue, pink, red, orange, purple, green – from the round white tables they perched on overnight. She rearranged them in new combinations, as she did each morning. Except Joey’s chair. He liked the aqua and he liked it beside the east-facing window. He was her best customer, after all, even if his motives weren’t altogether benign, so she kept his favourite spot for him, just the way he liked it.
As her coffee cooled she wiped down the tables and set them with the salt and pepper shakers collected from around the world: Babushka dolls, English phone booths, an Eiffel Tower set. Every time someone from town travelled overseas, they brought shakers back from their trip as a gift for Alice. Joey had started the tradition with the Leaning Tower of Pisa set and Betty had continued it with the two camels from Dubai. One day, on the table in the middle of the café, Alice would place a set she brought back herself.
She hoped the young thief was all right, that she hadn’t been too frightened. Alice knew a little something about being discovered where you shouldn’t be. She could never forget those early days when scared, alone and afraid, she’d stumbled upon the neglected café in the tiny town of Kookaburra Creek nestled in the hills in the middle of nowhere and somewhere.
As always, the routine of setting up the café soothed Alice completely, and she slowly sipped her coffee in front of good old Sylvia while waiting for inspiration to strike.
Sylvia always provided an answer, of course. Her warm expression and kind eyes looked down on Alice from her framed place on the wall above the oven, her grey hair collected in a white cotton bonnet. At least they were the colours Alice imagined behind the sepia tones of the picture. Sylvia wasn’t her real name, though there was no reason it couldn’t have been. Alice had simply called her that all those years ago when she first stepped into the kitchen and looked up in wide-eyed terror, wondering how on earth she’d ended up in this town.
Sylvia had told her that day, by way of the recipe that fell to the bench when Alice reached up to touch the picture hanging on the wall, to bake chocolate fudge cupcakes. So she had. It was the first cake of any description she’d ever made and the world stilled. It was as if everything around her had quieted. It was the first time in Alice’s life she’d been able to switch off the constant thoughts in her head. The first time she’d been able to forget the scars and bruises collected in her life and enter The Silence. And so it had been that way ever since.
Alice looked into Sylvia’s eyes and waited, asking her silently what to bake today. The answer came at once: strawberry and white chocolate.
Alice lowered her cup, her heart pounding, and stared hard at Sylvia. ‘What?’
Sylvia gazed straight back, her eyes giving nothing away.
With shaking hands Alice pulled out the red and white polka-dotted patty cases from the pantry and lined the cupcake tin. She hesitantly reached for her bowls, beaters and measuring cups. Sylvia had never been wrong before. But strawberry and white chocolate?
Alice closed her eyes and, when she opened them again, the morning chorus of magpies and lyrebird no longer floated through the open window, the constant, gentle buzz of the old fridge could not be heard: The Silence.
Her hands steadied as she hulled the strawberries, chopped them into small pieces and folded them into the batter. She pushed a square of white chocolate into the centre of each waiting cupcake and her breathing quickened. Strawberries and white chocolate was not a combination she’d ever used before. Or ever wanted to use. Strawberries, yes. White chocolate, yes. But never together. Memories of that night so long ago teased the edges of Alice’s mind. How could Sylvia have known?
Alice slid the tray on to the oven shelf and shut the glass door. She cranked up the music on the radio and moved her hips in time with the beat as she cleaned down the bench and started washing up.
The three-tiered cupcake stand on the counter was Alice’s very favourite thing in the room. After the photo of Sylvia, her favourite thing in the whole café. In itself it was nothing special – plain white ceramic that you could probably pick up in any homeware store in any town. But it was the same stand she’d displayed her first batch of cakes on and each batch since, and she always felt such pride every time she loaded the tiers with creations she’d made on her own from scratch.
This particular morning was different, though. Her hands were unsteady as she arranged the strawberry and white chocolate cakes. She shook her head. Stop being so silly. It was a coincidence, that’s all. How could Sylvia possibly have known the significance of strawberry and white chocolate and that night so very long ago? She was an inanimate object, for goodness’ sake. And how could she possibly have known the girl with Dean McRae’s eyes would be in Alice’s pantry that same morning? She couldn’t have. That’s right.
‘They look good.’ A deep voice startled Alice from her thoughts of the past and she dropped the last cupcake, frosting down, on her bright blue bench. ‘Sorry, Alice. I’ll take that one with my coffee.’
&nbs
p; ‘Good morning, Joey. The usual?’ she asked, handing him the double espresso she’d started making before he’d even turned up.
Monday was Joey’s only day off from his bakery, and at 9 a.m. Mrs Harris, the reverend’s wife, started her shift in Moretti’s Bread House. Every Monday Joey then made the walk to the Kookaburra Creek Café and 9.06 on the dot he arrived for his double espresso and cupcake after a long morning baking.
‘I got your text. Here are those loaves you wanted.’ He put one white, one wholemeal and one tomato and olive loaf on the bench. ‘What happened this time?’ He asked fondly. ‘Or do you finally concede your bread will never be as good as mine?’
‘Haha. I just, um … I forgot to set the timer. Silly me.’ Alice couldn’t tell him the truth. He’d only worry if he found out the café had been broken into.
Joey shook his head. ‘How long have we known each other, Alice? I can always tell when you’re lying. Something’s got you rattled.’
He reached across the bench and took her hand, his gentle touch warm, yet hesitant. Still. After all these years.
She started to tug her hand away and he immediately released it, frowning.
‘I’d better head.’ He nodded and Alice watched him leave. His old dog, Shadow, waited patiently at the bottom of the deck, big eyes staring up, ever hopeful Alice would let him back into the place he once knew as home. But she couldn’t.
Despite the morning’s disarray, the day passed without much note. As Alice closed the blinds of the café that evening, her thoughts turned to the girl with Dean McRae’s eyes, then to the strawberry and white chocolate cupcakes. Surely it was just a coincidence.
Alice was too on edge to head up the external staircase to her apartment and call it a night. Instead, she made her way along the ambling creek that ran past two sides of the café, wrapping its way from the back around to the side before meandering off to the right to cut the town in half about half a kilometre downstream. The single bridge there, joining the east and west banks, was one of Alice’s favourite parts of town.
The grass by the creek edge was long this time of year and Alice slipped off her shoes to feel the soft blades between her toes. The fields of Massey’s farm to her left had been turned. Planting would begin soon. To the north she could see the lights of town blinking on as the sun began to set. She would only walk as far as the bridge, as far as Dandelion Dell this evening. With little chance of running into anyone, she could stop in her special place. She could sit on the bench hugged by dandelions and run her hands along the wood, like she often did when her thoughts were a mess, and draw on the sense of calm that always washed over her there.
She followed the creek as it curved to the right, stopping just before Dandelion Dell. Curled up on the white bench was the girl in grey.
‘You didn’t get very far,’ Alice said gently, stepping forward.
The girl sat up, and Alice’s breath caught as the familiar blue eyes pierced right through her.
MICHAEL JOSEPH
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd in 2019
Text copyright © Sandie Docker 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, published, performed in public or communicated to the public in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd or its authorised licensees.
Cover design by Laura Thomas © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Cover illustrations: (crimson rosellas) Anastasia Lembrik/Shutterstock.com; (envelopes and seashells) Katy’s Dreams/Shutterstock.com; (books) Elzza/Shutterstock.com
ISBN: 9780143789222
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The Cottage at Rosella Cove Page 29
