FIONA McCALLUM was raised on a cereal and wool farm near Cleve on South Australia’s Eyre Peninsula and remained in the area until her mid-twenties, during which time she married and separated. She’s lived in Melbourne and Sydney and currently resides in suburban Adelaide.
An avid reader and writer, Fiona returned to full-time study as a mature-age student and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in professional writing and editing and a second major in history in 2000. She then began a consultancy providing writing and editing services to the corporate sector. While studying, and then working, Fiona found herself drawn to writing fiction where her keen observation of people and their everyday lives could be combined with her love of storytelling.
Now a full-time novelist, Fiona writes heart-warming stories that draw on her rich and contrasting life experiences, love of animals and fascination with human nature. Her first novel, Paycheque, was published in 2011 and became a bestseller. In the ten years since, Fiona has written another eleven bestselling novels: Nowhere Else, Wattle Creek, Saving Grace, Time Will Tell, Meant To Be, Leap of Faith, Standing Strong, Finding Hannah, Making Peace, A Life of Her Own and The Long Road Home. Trick of the Light is Fiona’s thirteenth novel.
For more information about Fiona and her books, visit her website at fionamccallum.com. She can also be found on Facebook at facebook.com/fionamccallum.author.
Also by Fiona McCallum
Paycheque
Nowhere Else
Leap of Faith
The Wattle Creek series
Wattle Creek
Standing Strong
The Button Jar series
Saving Grace
Time Will Tell
Meant To Be
The Finding Hannah series
Finding Hannah
Making Peace
The Ballarat series
A Life of Her Own
The Long Road Home
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
In memory of my dad, to
whom I owe my courage,
resilience and tenacity.
Contents
Also by Fiona McCallum
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgements
A Note to Readers
Prologue
Erica arranged slices of buttered date loaf on a plate and placed it on the coffee table. She’d got up early to bake despite there still being plenty of other offerings in the freezer from Stuart’s wake ten days earlier.
Having something to focus on that wasn’t her sadness and the great gaping hole in her life was important, even though baking, like so many other everyday tasks, was also a horrible reminder that life just carried on, regardless of the assault on normality she had just endured. When she let her mind go there … Erica tried hard to not think too deeply about anything much because no one thought ever completely stood alone. Most things were connected, with one idle ponderance linking to or prompting another. Before grief, thoughts and memories tied together had been comfortable and comforting. She longed for the occasional isolated memory, a single grain of sand, but instead got pulled into quicksand, the darkness and drag of which took a lot of effort to resist. Today she hoped baking from scratch instead of taking out some cake and watching it defrost on the bench would distract from the quicksand. (And she would have watched because all too often lately she was having to drag her attention away from something after losing chunks of time staring mindlessly.)
Erica wished there were only so many tears a person could shed. Her bouts left her wrecked – completely exhausted – as if they’d been wrung from her, like someone had put a hand around her top and her bottom sections and twisted in opposite directions to painfully extract every last drop.
She longed to laugh properly again with her girls and reminisce without eventually dissolving into tears. And actually be strong without pretending or working so hard to be. They’d get there. It would happen: she had to believe that.
She’d also thought grief would be easier this time around, having lost her mother six years before and her brother many more years before that – though that was different because she’d been a kid and didn’t think she’d properly understood or processed it. Even now. With her mum, it had taken her a good – or bad, really – two years to not burst into tears whenever her father, a dear old soul battling dementia, uttered her mother’s name. And it only twisted the knife that he still didn’t realise she’d departed, and relayed memories and chatted to whoever happened to be beside him as if that person were his wife or as if she had just popped off to the loo or the kitchen to get another cuppa. She was thankful he wasn’t as upset as she was, but, Christ, it hurt. Physically. It was a deep punch into her side on top of the all-over ache that was already there as another appendage. She’d thought, hoped, the practice she’d already had would help. But it didn’t. If anything, it was harder, more painful. And she didn’t think it had anything to do with the fact that Stuart hadn’t had a long life, or that he’d had a lot more living and contributing to do. No, Erica found her grief compounded. Thoughts of her mother sometimes set her off now as strongly as thoughts of Stuart, gone just days before.
Not even the fact she’d had time with Stuart to say goodbye, come to terms with it, helped. Those callous enough to suggest someone dying of cancer – slowly – was easier to deal with than sudden loss were wrong. Well, in her case, anyway. Regardless of the fact she truly hadn’t believed he’d die – had thought he would get through this like the previous two episodes – she’d thought it a matter of staying positive. She hadn’t sat beside him, acknowledging his prognosis and offering final words. Though, what did you say?
Some things you only could say to the dead, not the living. And they hadn’t been a very gushy, emotionally or physically demonstrative couple, anyway. Yes, they were strong and supportive, said ‘I love you’, held hands occasionally – usually when crossing the road – but they’d had more of a quiet contentment about them. She hadn’t sat there stroking his hair and cooing that she’d be fine if he left – Just go, slip away, my love. She had sat beside him thinking positively, reading a magazine. Being quiet and keeping him company. Mackenzie and Issy had done the same. Right near the end, though she hadn’t realised that it was, Erica had figured what Stuart needed was rest for his body to concentrate on fighting the beast within, not endless chatter. And if he’d wanted otherwise, Stuart would have said. He was the leader of their family.
They’d had a week to deal with the shock of losing him before the funeral, though planning the event took plenty of energy and had been a welcome distraction and source of momentum. In the time since, they’d cried together, watched lots of action movies – Stuart’s favourite genre – and gorged on leftover sweet and savoury offerings friends and acquaintances had brought. Yesterday was the first
day the three of them had been at home alone with no one dropping in.
Erica would have preferred to have the wake at the funeral home, but the three of them had reluctantly agreed that Stuart would have wanted to have everyone at the house – and this was their last chance to do anything for him. It wasn’t about them. Stuart had been proud of their home, especially the massive renovation, the design of which he’d contributed to heavily. It wasn’t entirely Erica’s taste – a little too white and minimalist, especially the décor – but she did enjoy the features he’d incorporated to control the climate and keep the cost of running the home down, including double-glazing for all the glass in the windows and patio doors. It had probably cost a fortune, but Stuart had kept the details to himself, except to say it was paying dividends, along with the huge solar system on the roof.
While Erica had learnt with grieving over her mum that keeping busy was best, it was as much about keeping the mind active as about being physical. She was probably at risk of being considered a little hyperactive at times, but when she was still the memories came flooding back and the sadness began to pound sharply at her temples and under her ribs and bluntly inside her chest.
She was glad Stuart had been a stickler for having everything in order and had appointed his accountant and financial planner as executors of his estate, and of hers too. They were due here any second to tell her where things were at.
When she heard the doorbell, Erica habitually wiped her hands on the tea towel, pressed the button on the kettle to set it to boil and checked her watch as she went out into the long hall and made her way to the front door. They were right on time.
‘Hi, Paul. Hi, Toby,’ she said, giving the accountant and financial planner each a quick hug, made a little awkward by the briefcases they carried. She didn’t know them very well. They’d been Stuart’s advisers for probably a decade, or even much longer, but even so she’d only met them a handful of times. They hadn’t crossed over into socialising together; theirs was a cordial professional relationship and Erica had never met either of their wives or partners or been to their homes. In fact, they might both have husbands – or be married to each other – for all she knew about them personally.
They’d been at the funeral and here afterwards and at most other open-house style functions Stuart had put on for his business – Christmas, major achievements and the like. Stuart had liked to celebrate publicly – well, as publicly as it got in a private home with professional caterers. Not many of those parties had been thrown of late due to Stuart’s illness. He’d insisted on doing the usual Christmas shindig the previous year – though right at the beginning of December rather than the end – and had managed to be the epitome of an ebullient host. Not wanting to spark fear or a mass exodus of clients, he’d even had Erica use her professional makeup skills on his unhealthy pallor. No one had any idea he’d be dead in less than three months, including her.
‘Come through,’ she said, leading them down the hall into the large, white-tiled open space overlooking the back garden. Six panels of hinged glass doors when pushed open to one side literally brought the outside in. There was a slight chill to the early autumn air, otherwise she’d have opened them up and let the sunshine in. There was plenty of it casting shadows onto the lawn via the surrounding trees. A few of those had lost the first of their leaves overnight, though perhaps it was just the wind; it was a bit early in the season. Nonetheless, she’d rake them up later. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on. Can I get you a tea or coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ Paul said.
‘I’m all good, too, thanks, I’ve already had my morning quota,’ Toby said.
‘Okay. Take a seat.’ It didn’t feel right to have a cup of anything when they weren’t, and something about their demeanour made her join them at the modern timber laminate dining table with high-backed chairs in cream leather that matched the large L-shaped couch.
The men seemed more sombre than usual, though, of course, she’d only ever seen them when socialising and at the funeral and wake – not quite socialising in the traditional sense, but still …
Erica watched as Paul, the accountant, unloaded a few files from his briefcase onto the table. But he didn’t open the folders. Instead he sat with his hands on them as if they were simply props. Were they for reference later?
She ran her hands down her jeans-clad legs under the table, palms first and then the backs of her hands. Damn it, of all times to have a hot flush. Thankfully hers didn’t make her red; they were just uncomfortable heat and sweat. Horrible. How fun was being forty-nine? Not at all! She really wished menopause and all its many and varied symptoms would bugger off.
Erica had experienced what others had described for six months but then the sweats and mood swings vanished for another six – she had thought they’d gone for good. Had hoped. Her best friend and cousin, Stephanie, had warned her they came back. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now there was her upper lip sprinkled with beads of sweat along with the sides of her nose. Damn it. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and quickly and gently dabbed at it and then her brow and down the sides of her nose and around her eyes. She hoped the men hadn’t noticed.
Menopause, while slowly being more openly talked about, still probably wasn’t a topic for discussion with men beyond your own intimate partner. Perhaps in board rooms and businesses where menopausal woman ruled it came up. Regardless, and Erica wasn’t quite sure why, but she was a little embarrassed at the thought of them thinking of her as menopausal. They might think she’d been wiping away tears – understandable – and averted their eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the emotion or not knowing how to.
But Erica didn’t have any tears, not now she had her war paint on, as Stuart had referred to it. Just as well, given she thought she wasn’t exactly a pretty crier. And displays of raw emotion usually made people in the vicinity feel decidedly awkward and not know where to look or what to do, not to mention the domino effect …
They looked up at her with pursed lips. She smiled back at them in an attempt to disarm them, ease their clear discomfort.
Paul nodded to Toby and he nodded back. ‘We’re sorry we don’t have better news. We’re really sorry to have to tell you this, but Stuart’s left the finances, your finances, in a bit of a mess,’ Paul said.
‘Sorry? Complicated, you mean? He was always muttering about this deal or other, moving money from here to there.’ She demonstrated with her hands across the top of the sleek table. Anything to ease the stifling crowding-in feeling coming over her.
‘Well, yes, there was that, which is part of the problem,’ Paul said.
‘Has he done something wrong?’ Erica’s heart slowed. Suddenly she found it very unsettling that they were both seated right across the table from her, side by side. It was hard to not see them as a united front with her on the outer.
‘Not as such,’ Paul said.
‘Well, not in a fraudulent sense,’ Toby added.
‘Yes. More in a mismanagement sense,’ Paul said.
‘What are you talking about? Perhaps you’d better just tell me.’ After the shock of losing Stuart, there was little else remaining to startle her. Or so she thought.
Paul took a deep breath, let out an audible sigh and said, ‘You’re almost broke, Erica.’
She stared and then blinked. ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous. He had a quarter of a million dollars in life insurance – just like I have.’
Both men shook their heads. ‘He cancelled the policies several years ago,’ Toby said. ‘Without telling us.’
Um. Wow. ‘Really? That’s – But there’s his superannuation …’
They shook their heads again. Erica’s pounding heart became slower and slower.
‘He stopped contributing years ago and withdrew it, which he was allowed to do due to financial hardship because of his illness.’
‘How much did he withdraw?’
‘There’s nothing left in his account,’ Toby said.
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br /> There was silence. Erica tried to think, to understand, but just couldn’t.
‘What?’
‘We’re so sorry. This must be a huge shock. It was for us, too,’ Paul said.
‘But hang on. You’re his accountant and financial adviser – where was your advice? How could you have let this happen? What the fuck were you doing?’ Erica cursed her language and emotion but fear was bubbling up and teetering on uncontrollable. Her eyes burnt with frustration and anger. ‘How could you have not known?’
‘It was our role to advise, yes. We advised against plenty of things Stuart suggested, of course – but his affairs were his own. We can’t, couldn’t, make him do anything he didn’t want to,’ Toby said.
Erica took several deep breaths and tried to still her whirling mind and the shaking of her entire being from her organs inside right out to her skin. As much as she wanted to rant and rave at these two – blame them – they were the messengers. And she’d known Stuart. He was self-assured, at times arrogant even. His confidence was what had drawn her to him – especially his assurances that he’d take care of them. And he had. Very well. Or so she’d thought. Now Erica could see it might have been a case of ‘I think he doth protest too much’.
‘Okay. So, that’s the bad news, what’s the good news?’ She was pleased she managed to sound a little upbeat.
‘Sorry?’ Toby said.
‘There is no good news,’ Paul said quietly.
Erica sat staring at them expectantly, her hands clasped in front of her on the table, the smile stuck on her face. And then her brain caught up. They’re being serious. There is no good news; nothing positive at all.
‘Sorry,’ Paul said.
‘Erica, we’re both really sorry. About everything,’ Toby added.
‘Right. Okay. I get that. And I appreciate it. But what do I do about it? Am I going to lose the house?’ Alarm gripped her. She watched as Paul averted his gaze to the files under his hands, and then began to fiddle with their edges.
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