Forbidden Fruit

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘Yes!’ Lucy grinned with relief. ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘You could start a private Facebook group or something,’ said Quinn, looking up from her phone. ‘Then you could post, like, short clips and stuff, Luce. And Jasper’s mum could use that to stay in touch. Save her ringing.’

  ‘That is actually a brilliant idea, Q.’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for Facebook,’ said Amy hesitantly. ‘Or any of those things.’

  ‘I’ll teach you.’ Jasper reached around to give his mother’s shoulders a squeeze. ‘You’ll love it. We’ll make it totally separate, so we don’t need to be Facebook friends or anything. That’d be creepy. Like we’re invading each other’s privacy. No, this’ll be perfect!’

  I swallowed a grin. He was a smooth operator. Not quite the pushover I had assumed, although time would prove that one way or the other. Amy was still crooning endearments at the baby, who suddenly twisted her head toward her grandmother’s chest, her mouth opening and then pursing primly. She frowned, her faint eyebrows coming together, and then let out a soft mewl. With some effort, I dragged my eyes away, enough to note that the expressions of Lucy, Jasper and Amy were absolutely identical. A smile stretched across my face. Because surely that would be enough.

  *

  My mother was standing in the waiting room. She took me by the arm, glancing at Quinn as she did. ‘Go ahead for a moment, will you, Quinn? I just want to talk to your mother.’

  I watched my daughter obediently head off towards the elevators, feeling a little like I was being prevented from escape by my mother’s hand. I twisted slightly. ‘What’s up?’

  She dropped her hand. ‘I just wanted to check that you were, really, okay.’

  ‘I am.’ I nodded, puzzled. She wasn’t making eye contact.

  ‘I feel a little … that is, I’m sorry it turned out this way. Really sorry. I liked her.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘All these years. With Rita. I’m just so angry.’

  I realised that there were levels here that deeply affected her. Not just the unfairness of what happened to Dallas and to Clare, but Uncle Jim and a long marriage that was based on misguided duty on the one side, lies and revenge on the other.

  ‘And I’m sorry you got dragged into it all.’

  That was the second time my mother had said sorry in two minutes, with even one utterance being an unusual occurrence. I spoke gently, touched. ‘It’s not your fault, Yen.’

  ‘I know that.’ She waved a hand. ‘But I have to take some responsibility also. I was part of what started this all.’ She hesitated for a moment and then recited: ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.’

  ‘Wordsworth,’ I said, feeling closer to her than I had for years.

  ‘No, you fool – Walter Scott, in Marmion. I don’t know why I bothered paying for your education; I should have saved my money. Come on, let’s go. Your father’s waiting for me.’

  We walked towards the elevator, past the reception desk. I had wanted to take the stairs but it didn’t seem right to abandon my mother at the elevator. Tempting, but not right.

  ‘I really did like her, you know,’ said my mother, staring ahead. ‘She was my inspiration.’

  I looked at her. ‘Your inspiration?’

  ‘Yes. I was struggling badly during that Queenscliff weekend. She was so much her own person, so together. On the Sunday, she and Dallas and I went for a walk.’ She flicked a glance at me. ‘They were always together but we never thought anything of it at the time. I just thought they were good friends.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, we went for this walk and Clare said, ‘If he really doesn’t want to reopen the butcher’s, then why don’t you use the shop? Start your own business. You love books – what about a bookshop?’

  ‘Really?’ I shook my head, grinning. ‘That’s amazing.’ The light above the elevator flashed on and the doors slithered open. We stepped inside. Now I could see her face reflected in the pressed metal of the elevator walls. She looked impassive, as usual, but somehow smaller. ‘So she did leave a legacy then.’

  ‘Yes. But let’s not be too maudlin.’

  ‘Is it too maudlin to say congratulations? On becoming a great-grandmother?’

  ‘No, that’s fine. Thank you.’

  We rode the rest of the way in silence, which was probably best. I felt drained. Now might be a good time to start taking those vitamins I had purchased in Bendigo. I swallowed a sigh. Clare Fletcher still sat like a stone in my gut but she was surrounded by the airy lightness of Willow. The two did not balance each other out, or compensate for each other in any way, but rather just were. And that was something I was going to have to get my head around, I knew; that they had both happened on the same day. Life and death, joy and despair, tragedy and triumph. Choice.

  Chapter Thirty

  Here’s a joke that only your middle-aged (and above) readers will get. Question (best asked in an offhand manner): ‘Have you ever smelt mothballs?’ Answer: ‘Yeah, sure.’ Punchline: ‘Well, how did you get their legs apart?’ Hysterically funny, right? So recently I decided to try it on my own late teens (thereby adding to my street cred.). Question: ‘Have you ever smelt mothballs?’ Answer (delivered while recoiling away): ‘Shit, Mum, what is wrong with you? That is, like, totally disturbed! I can’t even look at you now. Gross!’

  Ashley held out a very good bottle of chardonnay. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I took the bottle and stood back so that he could come in. I was glad intuition had encouraged me to change into a sleek black caftan about an hour ago, as the business day came to a close. I also had my head wrapped in a rainbow-coloured scarf, turban-style. I felt very bohemian. It was my new look.

  ‘Congratulations on the new additions. You must be thrilled.’

  ‘I am,’ I said, with an automatic smile. I shut the door and led the way to the kitchen. Gusto scrambled off the armchair and came over to sniff Ashley’s feet. ‘Lucy’s due home tomorrow. Scarlet on the weekend. It’s all going to pretty hectic for a while.’

  ‘One of each, hey? Well planned.’

  I nodded, still smiling. Scarlet’s labour had recommenced only hours after we had left Lucy, except that she had not been quite as fortunate as her sister. Jack Darcy Carstairs was born sixteen hours and two epidurals later, requiring an episiotomy that had his mother still sitting on a blow-up donut when I visited this morning.

  ‘I take it all the adoption stuff got resolved? She’s keeping the baby?’

  ‘Yes. I suspect we have interesting times ahead, but for now everything’s going well. I’ll cling to that while I can.’

  ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘Thank you. You too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I stood at the bench, feeling awkward. He did look good, dressed casually in jeans and an open-necked shirt. His hair had that damp, too-neat parting that indicated a very recent shower and he smelt of sandalwood. I turned away, busying myself with finding two wineglasses that looked like they hadn’t been washed with caustic soda. Ashley took the bottle back and levered out the cork. He poured generously.

  ‘Whoa!’ I raised a hand. ‘Are you trying to have your way with me?’

  ‘If only it was that easy.’ He grimaced. ‘Well, actually, that part is. God, no it’s not! I didn’t mean it the way it sounded! You’re not easy. At all.’

  My fluttering nerves, the tiniest of butterfly wings, settled with his rising discomfiture. I laughed. ‘Shall we take the drinks outside? It’s a gorgeous evening.’

  He nodded, rolling his eyes at himself. It really was a gorgeous evening, with dappled sunshine casting quivering shadows across my newly-planted garden. In the corner, Charlotte was flourishing, showing every sign that one day she would spread her arms protectively over that entire area. Gusto ran over and squatted awkwardly, moving himself forward and maintaining eye contact as he did his business. I sent him a death-glare but he seemed to take that as encou
ragement.

  We sat at the new wicker and glass outdoor setting, still placed as it had been for the Carstairs’ visit almost two weeks ago. They were due again this weekend, but were staying in a motel this time to give Scarlet and Matt some space. I planned to make some discreet inquiries about Kate, who was still in residence next door. What was she studying at school? Did she have anywhere else to live? Did she have a boyfriend? This last thought gave me pause. I frowned.

  ‘When does your father go back?’ asked Ashley, stretching out his legs.

  ‘Next Tuesday.’ I pushed Kate aside as I drew a breath. ‘My sister’s going with him.’

  Ashley’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Who knows? She says she’s in a rut, and that she wants to shake things up a little. She’s going to meet the siblings, travel a little. Whatever.’

  ‘I see.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘So how are things going with your father? Other than the fact he’s filching your sister for a while.’

  ‘He can have her.’ When Petra had first brought it up, I had thought she was joking – particularly considering her fledgling relationship with Paul Patrick. But no, apparently she wasn’t. I tried to remember what Ashley’s question had been. ‘Yeah, we’re good. That is, as good as we can be. After all, he’s been something of an absentee father for years.’

  ‘I suppose at least you understand the reasons a little more now.’

  ‘I don’t know that I do.’ I shrugged. ‘I mean, in essence he did what every selfish parent has been doing for millennia. Things weren’t good so he went off to find himself. In other words, he prioritised himself.’

  ‘I suppose …’

  ‘Things weren’t good for Yen, either, but she stuck around. Compromised.’ I held my glass up until the sun’s rays caught the crystal. I was glad my father had returned; apart from anything else, it had allowed me to get to know him as an adult. And I really liked him. But I wasn’t going to fool myself either. He had ditched us all once and, if it suited, would probably do it again.

  ‘I bet he was relieved to have all the charges dropped.’

  ‘Do you know, I don’t think he ever lost much sleep?’ I shifted in my chair to face him. ‘He has this unshakeable faith in the system. Says he always knew the truth would prevail.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ashley raised his eyebrows. ‘I think there was a little bit of luck there as well.’

  ‘I know there was. Rita Hurley would never have confessed. She’d have sat in court when he was tried for murder and tut-tutted under her breath. Probably gone around calling my mother “Poor Lilly”. All the while pretending that extra-marital stuff had nothing to do with her.’ I realised that Ashley was trying very hard not to grin. I kept my face expressionless. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, c’mon, Nell, you have to admit that it’s all a bit hard to get your head around. Swingers? They’re all in their seventies!’

  ‘They weren’t always in their seventies.’

  ‘True.’ He took a deep breath and flattened out his smile. A few seconds later, it started to curl upwards once more. ‘Sorry! Sorry! It’s just … well, I’ve met your mother!’

  ‘Yes, thank you. So have I. And I prefer to avoid the associated imagery if at all possible.’

  ‘Okay.’ He fell silent, staring out over the garden, the smile still tugging at his mouth.

  I watched him through narrowed eyes. ‘Now it looks like you’re trying to picture it.’

  ‘Not at all. I was just admiring your garden.’

  ‘Sure you were.’ I took a sip of wine to hide my own smile. I could hear the faint sound of the television coming from Lucy’s house. Quinn had gone over earlier, to watch some more Game of Thrones. She had cast me a sidelong glance when she mentioned this, and I suspected the show might not meet with my approval. As I had rarely censored anything my children watched or read, this was saying something. I had made a mental note to drop in later and check the series out for myself. And while I was there I could say hello to the baby.

  ‘Yeah, look at you,’ said Ashley. He was ruffling Gusto’s fur. ‘You’re grinning too!’

  ‘Well, it is a little funny. Especially now that it looks like she’ll plead guilty so none of the more unsavoury stuff comes out. And I’m pretty confident that the journalists have moved on. Fortunately, they weren’t the brightest lot around.’

  ‘I thought your paper might have done something. Or asked you to.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ I let my smile settle. ‘They’re not asking any questions. Too worried I’m going to alienate my target market. It’s ironic, really: my column feeds off the many facets of the middle-aged woman, yet they themselves see the whole brand as so one-dimensional.’ I realised I had slipped into my lecturing tone and grinned self-deprecatingly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ He was regarding me thoughtfully. ‘I like it when you get fired up.’

  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, so I changed the subject. ‘Did you ever find out exactly what happened to Rex Fletcher?’

  ‘Do you want my opinion or the official one?’

  ‘Both.’

  Gusto tried to clamber onto Ashley’s lap but he held him off. ‘Not a chance, mate, I know what you were just doing.’ He looked back at me. ‘Well, the official line still has him committing suicide and leaving the note and all. The crime scene indicates he held the gun to his temple and he pulled the trigger. They reckon he was depressed about the encroaching Alzheimer’s.’ He shook his head. ‘But I don’t believe that for a moment. The Alzheimer’s was way too advanced for him to nut out a plan like that. No, she was involved all the way through. I wouldn’t be surprised if she positioned the damn pistol in his hand.’

  ‘What about the note?’

  ‘Yeah, the note.’ He laughed shortly. ‘In all my years on the force I’ve never seen a bloke leave a suicide note like that. I did it all for love? What a load of crap. Probably some scrap he’d written once. Maybe they were playing Guess Which Song?’ He snorted, ‘And I’m betting she was the one who rang you, too, got you out of the way. No, she was in it up to her neck. Might as well have pulled the trigger.’

  I blinked with surprise. Those were almost the exact same words that Clare herself had used. ‘Then why …?’

  ‘Honestly? I think Eric just wanted to put it to bed. And the Fletchers are both dead anyway, no relatives screaming for answers. If it was my case, I’d probably do the same, because otherwise …’ He hesitated and then continued. ‘This is strictly off the record, Nell. But it’s like this. With any death, we look at who benefits through the disposal of assets. It’s just standard procedure. Well, in the case of Clare Fletcher, everything has been left to Paul Patrick Junior and his sister, Jennifer Patrick.’

  ‘But … when was that will made?’

  ‘Last Wednesday, the day before her husband died. It’ll be some time before they see any of it, of course, because it’ll have to go through probate. Plus, it’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report.’

  There was a vein of irritation in his voice, as if Clare had got away with something. From my point of view, nothing could be further from the truth. She had made some bad decisions at the end, but she paid dearly. She had also paid dearly for the mistakes of others, namely Rita Hurley, who had had her own Judgement Day delayed by forty-three years.

  I still hadn’t come to terms with Clare’s death, but would get a chance for some degree of closure with her funeral on Friday. She was to be buried beside her husband at the Queenscliff Cemetery. The big question was where the remains of Dallas Patrick would be laid to rest. This had not yet been announced, but I had already decided to offer my two bob’s worth when I saw Paul and Jenny this Friday. Clare and Dallas needed to be together, full stop.

  ‘It’s a bugger,’ said Ashley, although I wasn’t quite sure which bit he meant. He stood abruptly. ‘I’ll grab the bottle.’

  I took a deep breath of sandalwood before the breeze carried it away. Gusto slunk ov
er to my side to try his luck and I patted him absently as I finished my wine. Ashley returned and refilled our glasses before leaning back in his chair with a satisfied groan. For a while we sat in silence, bathed in evening sunshine, the breeze like a sigh within the trees.

  Ashley laced his hands behind his neck and squinted skywards. ‘When are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?’

  My first instinct was to pretend ignorance, but that would be just postponing the inevitable. ‘Now, it seems.’

  ‘Well, let me put my cards on the table. I want to move forward. I want a concrete commitment. Moving in together, something like that.’

  ‘I see.’

  He paused. ‘Or getting engaged.’

  ‘Good lord.’ I stared at him, taken aback. ‘Is that a proposal?’

  ‘No. Yes. Christ.’ He sat up. ‘I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I? I mean, mucked it up. Shit.’

  I wanted to laugh, to ease the moment through with a joke, but I was washed by a sense that if I did, before I knew it I would be engaged. It would simply become a fait accompli. Even the thought caught in my throat and made breathing hard.

  ‘The thing is,’ he went on quickly, ‘I was thinking about proposing at Christmas. Had this grand gesture in mind. And then my secondment came up and you seemed, well, relieved. So I shelved the whole idea.’

  ‘I wasn’t relieved,’ I objected automatically. ‘There was simply a lot going on.’

  ‘That’s exactly it! There’s always a lot going on. I just want to be part of it!’

  I felt defensive, and irritated by being put in this position. I also thought he sounded a little like one of my children when things didn’t go their way. Petulant and demanding. I smiled slowly. ‘So where does by golly Miss Holly fit in with all this romance?’

  ‘Just Holly,’ he said pedantically. But he also flushed a little. ‘I don’t know where you got this idea something was going on. True, we got on well and yeah, I’ll be honest, if it wasn’t for being involved with you, then something might have happened. But it didn’t.’