Bungalow on Pelican Way

by Lilly Mirren

  The Waratah Inn

  The Waratah Inn, Book 1

  Lilly Mirren

  To the generations who sacrificed lives and love so we could have freedom.

  Contents

  The Waratah Inn Series

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Also by Lilly Mirren

  Author’s Note to the Reader

  Glossary of Terms

  Discussion Guide

  Recipes

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  The Waratah Inn Series

  The Waratah Inn

  One Summer in Italy

  The Summer Sisters

  * * *

  Christmas at the Waratah Inn

  (a standalone novel)

  About This Book

  Wrested back to Cabarita Beach by her grandmother's sudden death, Kate Summer discovers a mystery buried in the past that changes everything.

  When Kate returns home to the sleepy hamlet of Cabarita Beach and the run-down Waratah Inn where she spent many happy childhood years, all she wants to do is sell the dilapidated boutique inn and head back to the city and her busy, professional life. But she and her two estranged sisters discover they've inherited the inn together. To sell, they need all three sisters to agree to the sale.

  When things in her carefully constructed life begin to unravel, Kate decides to stay in Cabarita Beach to renovate the elegant, old building. Despite her misgivings about reviving the crumbling structure, she soon becomes consumed with crown moulding, history and an attractive horse wrangler she just can't seem to ignore.

  When she discovers a clue to a mystery from the past in her grandmother's things, she'll be drawn down a path that raises more questions than answers. Piece-by-piece she and her sisters will uncover the secret former life of their beloved grandmother. A life of love, intrigue, and loss. A life they never knew she had.

  When the three sisters have the opportunity to sell the Inn, they'll have a decision to make: commit to the Waratah Inn and family, or walk away from the Inn and each other, back to their separate and isolated lives.

  Please note:

  This book is set in Australia, so may on occasion use terms and spelling that may be unfamiliar to you. A glossary has been included at the end of the book for your convenience.

  1

  August 1995

  Brisbane

  The wind clutched at Kate Summer’s straight, brown hair blowing it in wild bursts around her head and into her green eyes. The ferry lurched forward. She grabbed onto a cold, metal handrail with one hand and held her flyaway hair against her neck with the other. Then she stepped through the doorway and into the City Ferry cabin. The rush of wind in her ears quieted, replaced by the dull murmur of conversation between commuters as they huddled together in clumps throughout the cabin.

  The Kangaroo Point terminal faded out of sight behind them as the ferry chugged across the sluggish, brown Brisbane River toward the city centre. Kate tugged her coat tighter around her body and inhaled a steadying breath through her reddened nose. It’d once been smattered with freckles, but time had faded them to a pale remnant of their former selves.

  Sighing, she sank into one of the hard chairs that were lined up like so many church pews, smoothed her hair with one hand as best she could, and set her purse on the empty seat beside her.

  She had to get to work on time today. Marco was stressed out about the new menu. He’d called her at home to tell her he wasn’t entirely convinced it was a good idea to take the restaurant in a new direction, what with the economic climate the way it was. She reminded him the economic climate was fine and it was the perfect time to try something new, as they’d discussed a hundred times over the past six months. That he’d named her head chef at the Orchid for a reason and should listen to her ideas.

  He’d agreed and hung up. But she’d heard the tension in his voice. He hated change. She knew that well enough, having worked for him for five years. But five years of creating food that was expected, safe, the same as it had always been, was more than enough for her. If he didn’t want to make the change, then she would. Her creative spirit itched for something different.

  The ferry pulled to a stop, growling back and forth until its ramp lined up with the dock. When she stepped onto solid ground, she couldn’t help one wistful glance back at the river. She missed the water. The ocean had been like a second home to her once. She’d spent so much of her teenage years diving under the waves, floating on her back, and staring up at the sky on a calm day, or surfing the break when the wind was up. But since she didn’t live near the beach these days, she had to make do with the river. It wasn’t the same but paddling a kayak or riding the ferry brought a measure of peace.

  By the time she reached the restaurant, she’d already run over the menu again in her mind and was convinced they were doing the right thing by reinvigorating their offerings. It was fresh, unique, delicious — it would bring diners into the restaurant in droves. She was sure of it.

  Or it would drive them away.

  Her stomach tightened at the thought of what Marco would say if it didn’t work the way she hoped it would. Reputation was everything for a chef, and in a small city like Brisbane, failures weren’t something you could hide.

  “‘Morning chef.” Her Sous Chef greeted her with a warm smile. “Ready to change the world?”

  She chuckled. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Fresh groceries from the market lined one of the bench tops along the wall. She always placed her orders the day before. Fresh produce, direct from the farmers, was the best way to make delicious meals, and the write-ups she’d received so far in the local newspapers showed it. She’d sent one review to Nan.

  What she really wanted to do was drive down to Cabarita and bring Nan back with her, so her grandmother could taste the food for herself. Not that she was such a big fan of Asian fusion cuisine. Nan preferred her meat and three veg, like most Australians of her generation. Still, Kate wanted her to see the restaurant, see the career she’d built for herself over the past decade. She was proud of what she’d achieved and wanted someone to share that with.

  Just thinking of Nan and the inn put a twist in her gut. She hadn’t been back to see Nan in months, and when she’d gone the last time she’d only visited briefly. Nan had made her promise to stay longer on the next trip, but with everything she had going on, the visit never happened.

  If the new menu didn’t work out, Kate would have plenty of time on her hands to visit Nan and the Waratah Inn. Maybe she’d be a permanent guest there. She shook her head, her pulse accelerating as worry over the future, her career, and personal life washed over her again. She was used to it, this anxiety. It clogged her thoughts, put knots in her gut and sent waves of adrenaline cour
sing through her veins.

  The new menu had to work. It was the first time Marco had given her complete control over what they’d serve. If people didn’t like it, he might never offer her the chance again.

  She wasn’t ready to concede defeat and move in with her grandmother yet. But a holiday, a beach holiday, was a great idea. Davis had been bugging her about getting away together, away from the city and their crazy, hectic schedules, ever since he proposed six months earlier. She’d suggest it when she saw him that night after work. They often met up late for a light meal, since she worked when most people were done for the day. He didn’t like it, but what could she do? It was her career. He’d said they should take a vacation, but they hadn’t spoken of it since. Perhaps it was time to raise the subject together. They could both do with some time off. And more than that, she missed Nan.

  2

  August 1995

  Cabarita Beach

  The sand squelched between her toes, wetting the soles of her feet with a cold that sent a shiver up her spine. The grittiness of it, the scent of salt in the air, the warmth of the sun on her face — all were familiar feelings, sensations she’d grown to love. It’d taken time to embrace this place, but she had. For years now, it’d been home.

  Home.

  The word reverberated through her soul and her smile lingered as she brushed the strands of white hair from her eyes. When had it turned white? She’d have described it as salt and pepper not so long ago. Now there wasn’t any pepper left; it was more the colour of snow.

  It’d taken an age to allow herself to call it home here. Home had been so far away. Such a different place, a different time. But this was Edie Summer’s home now. Adjusting to change was part of life, though some changes you never grew accustomed to.

  Even her name had once been foreign to her, had caused a little pain in her heart that couldn’t be shaken whenever anyone called her by it. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Summer,” they’d say, and her stomach would clench. “Nice weather we’re having, Mrs. Summer,” and her head would spin as pin pricks of light danced before her eyes. Now, her name was as familiar to her as the lines that lingered on her face long after her smile had faded.

  A pair of seagulls trotted along in front of her, just out of reach. Their red-rimmed eyes watched close as each head craned from side to side, feet scampering in a steady rhythm. She picked up the pace and they launched into the air, a rapid flapping of wings taking them above her head in no time, their cries drifting back to her on the breeze.

  She watched them go, her eyes squinting against the glare of the rising sun. One hand tented against her forehead, her gaze followed them out over the spray of a dark wave, then they disappeared into the bright colours of the sunrise.

  Pink, orange, and yellow. Glowing fingers reached from the horizon toward her, shooting bright blue lights high into the sky overhead. It was beautiful in a way that made her heart sigh. How many more of these would she see? How many had she ignored or simply slept through in her youth?

  She glanced along the length of the beach, studying the dark outline of Castle Rock as the dawn pulled it from the shadows, surrounded by froth and bubbles. A wave hurtled itself at the rock, and salt spray shot into the air, raining down in droplets on its black surface.

  Perching on that rock was one of the things she’d loved to do most, back when scrambling out beyond the waves wasn’t such a chore. She’d dive beneath the curling lip, water rushing against her ears and pummelling her body. Then both feet would plant in the sand and her head would break free of the water’s surface as she gasped for breath, in time for the next breaker to lean over her.

  A frown creased her forehead. That was before her body slowed and diving through waves became a hazard, or at least that’s what Jemima told her. Back when so many things were easier to do. Maybe she should never have given it up. Mima had become too cautious, except when it came to love. She wasn’t cautious about love.

  Edie smiled and let her eyes drift shut a moment, the sun playing a kaleidoscope of lights through her eyelids. A play formed in her mind as the lights danced, the cast so familiar to her and yet seeming unreal in their youthful beauty, with broad smiles on handsome faces. Smiles unchecked yet by grief, suffering or loss. Smiles full of love and the prospect of life to come.

  Her own smile drooped as one image filled her mind’s eye. His face was no longer so clear as it once had been. Wisps and vapours gave him smudged edges and his eyes, at one time so clear to her, seemed distant. Still, her heart squeezed as memories poured over her like deep water through narrowed shores.

  With a cough she cleared her throat and her eyes blinked open, taking a moment to adjust to the burgeoning daylight. So many memories. She could spend the entire day wrapped up in them and never leave the beach, but there were things to do. Always something needing her attention.

  She pushed a hand into one of the pockets of her loose-fitting culottes, searching, and pulled free a piece of paper, a newspaper clipping. An article about a chef in Brisbane whose restaurant had surprised the critic with its vibrancy and unique artistry. “A breath of fresh air,” he’d written — a cliché but it’d warmed her heart, nonetheless. She read it again in a whisper, repeating the words over as one finger traced the outline of her granddaughter’s cheek.

  Kate was so beautiful, as all her granddaughters were. So much like her father, in so many ways. Edie’s eyes misted, and she swatted at them with the back of her hand and with the impatience of having cried too many tears too many times.

  Her stomach clenched and she wondered if the milk she’d added to her coffee that morning had been too far gone after all. Bile rose up her throat. She shook off a dizzy feeling and strode through the sand, shoving the article back into her pocket as she went.

  There were guests to wait on, people to serve, rooms to tend. Not so many as there’d been in years gone by, but still, they were there, and they needed her. The life of an innkeeper was never dull.

  It wasn’t a life she would’ve chosen in her youth. She’d had so many dreams for herself back then, but that was before her eyes had been opened by horror and violence, to the possibility that life should be more than what others laid out for you like freshly ironed clothes on the bed.

  When she was young, all she’d known was the path followed by her mother, grandmother and the generations of women that surrounded her then. She knew what she would be, and she relished the thought. Treasured it. Looked forward to a life of domesticity in the town of her birth, with icy winds nipping at her nose and children mewling at her breast.

  Then she’d grown, and her dreams had grown with her. A career, something for herself. A path to sharpen the mind and leave behind a legacy. It was difficult to remember exactly what it was that had driven her. Likely the same energy and optimism imbued in young people everywhere before the world snatched it away.

  Puffing lightly, she stepped out of the sand and onto a hard-packed trail through the dunes. It wound, rose, and fell, soon becoming a track of loosely connected timber slats, dusted with sand that rose and rose toward the green hillock ahead.

  When she reached the hillock, she paused to catch her breath. Walking had become more difficult in recent days. She’d done so much of it in her life she had no desire to slow down now. She knew how to push through the pain. To keep going even when she didn’t feel like it.

  With one calloused palm resting on a handrail made of sun-bleached timber, she glanced back over her shoulder. The sun had popped over the horizon in its full glory now, remnants of pink glistened within its bright, yellow rays. The entire beach was bathed in light, sand warming, and crabs finding their way back to holes that hid them from the heat of the day. The waves, no longer dark, sparkled azure.

  Her breathing slowed and she climbed the stairs at a brisk pace. Sandals awaited her at the top, lined up neatly side by side. She slid her feet into them, then marched through the short grass.

  The inn rose tall ahead of her. Shadows from
a grove of pandanus mottled the peeling pink paint. The gutter on the rear side of the building sagged and smoke sputtered from the small chimney above it.

  She stopped to study the building, inhaled slowly, and smiled to herself. It’d seen better days, but then again, so had she. To her it would always be the place she’d found herself. The place where her wounded heart had discovered a refuge.

  Her thoughts returned to her granddaughters. They’d spent years living here, with her. Would they treasure it the way she had, or would they throw it away and go on with their busy lives? She knew she shouldn’t care. When she was gone, she’d have no way of knowing what any of them did, or what became of her legacy. Only, she wanted them to find each other again, her wayward girls.

  Perhaps she should’ve told them why it meant so much to her. Already Nyreeda had suggested she sell the place and retire. “Relax,” she’d said. “You’ve worked hard all your life. Sell the inn and get some rest.” Bindi was the only one of the three who’d objected. But she’d always been the fondest of the inn, probably because she’d spent the longest part of her childhood within its paint-chipped walls.