The Summer of Secrets

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘I haven’t quite decided.’

  His response was a slow smile. ‘Neither have I.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Moira Briggs seemed almost disappointed that Chloe’s move into the flat above the Progress Association’s office went very smoothly without her assistance. The ease of the move wasn’t really surprising, however. The flat was fully furnished and Chloe had only a suitcase and a laptop to unpack. The rest of her things – sheets and towels, special books and her favourite smoky, two-toned coffee mugs – arrived in a box she’d left behind in Sydney and that her mum had efficiently forwarded.

  Moira gave Chloe a potted maidenhair fern as a house-warming present, and Chloe’s heart sank a little. She wasn’t very good with pot plants and this fern looked scarily healthy but delicate.

  She checked the gardening information on the internet and discovered that placing the pot on a water-filled pebble tray should help. This was now established in her kitchen. And her fingers were firmly crossed.

  Shopping for groceries in Burralea was a cinch. The supermarket was just around the corner and it supplied almost everything Chloe needed. Extra luxuries, like ciabatta or salmon steaks or lavender tea, she could collect from stores in bigger towns while she was out and about, driving the Bugle’s vehicle.

  To celebrate her very first evening in the flat, Chloe roasted a chicken breast with pancetta, leeks and thyme. She opened a bottle of chilled pinot gris and drank a glass while she cooked her dinner and had another glass with the meal. A bit flash for a week-night at home alone, perhaps, but after the upset over recent weeks of alternating between missing Jason dreadfully and wanting to punch him on his handsome nose, Chloe needed to fete her new independence.

  The celebratory effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that she ate her lovely meal on her lap in front of a TV quiz show, but she didn’t fancy sitting at the table and listening to music alone. Unfortunately, the TV didn’t really help either.

  Annoyingly, her attention kept drifting from the screen to thoughts about her boss. Had Finn cooked his own dinner, or had he gone to the pub?

  No doubt he was relieved that he could eat at the pub again whenever he liked without having to warn her in advance.

  When she finished the meal, she washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen and gave the maidenhair a glass of water. The view through the window above the sink showed the night sky flecked with crystal stars, sharp and sparkling away from the loom of city lights.

  She caught a movement below in the garden, a shadowy shape slipping into the shrubbery. A cat? Bandicoot? Possum? She couldn’t be sure.

  After the constant hum of voices and music in the pub, the flat was very quiet. The occasional motor vehicle rushed along the main road that skimmed the town, but Chloe only heard it if she really listened.

  Loneliness threatened, but she cheered herself by taking photos with her phone of her lovely new bedroom, complete with a window seat, and the red sofa and chairs in the lounge. She sent the pics to Josie in Sydney.

  My new pad. C xx

  How gorgeous, Josie texted back. Hope you’re having fun. Our little Mischief is growing fast.

  Josie attached a photo of Eve, plump and bright eyed and sitting up, propped by cushions, with a broad grin that showed her toothless gums.

  OMG, wrote Chloe, as she tried to ignore the sharp pang in her chest. What a clever girl. Give her a big hug from Aunty C xx

  With this text message sent, the loneliness rushed back like air hurrying to fill a sudden vacuum. Stuff it. Chloe went to the fridge, extracted the wine bottle and poured herself another glass. She would end up like Finn if she wasn’t careful.

  And yet, Chloe knew that her issues were minor compared with her boss’s, and she wouldn’t be lonely for long. Greta Fairlie had already invited her back to the red claw farm for a barbecue on the weekend and as soon as she was properly settled, she would invite people over to the flat for a little dinner party. Jess and Willow were obvious starters, and Moira and Greta and their husbands.

  Perhaps she would also join an art class or take up pottery. She just needed to be a bit proactive and she’d be fine.

  In fact, Chloe allowed herself to imagine that if all went well here, if she settled into the new job, and into the town, and saved a bit more money, which shouldn’t be difficult given the low rent, she might contact a fertility clinic.

  The thought of single motherhood via IVF was both terrifying and exciting, but if she wanted her own little cuddly mischief, it was almost certainly her best option. And surely there had to be loads of advantages to raising a child in the country?

  Fresh air, a lack of crowds, and a friendly community. What did they say? It takes a village …?

  And how amazing to have playgroups, kindergarten and a primary school all within walking distance. Life had to be easier here than in Sydney. It would be like raising her little one in a cosy nest, a cocoon.

  Warmed by that thought, Chloe took her wine and her book to bed. When she turned out the lamp thirty minutes later, she slept soundly.

  Morning was as quiet as the evening, except for the crowing of a distant rooster. Chloe woke to a sense of unease, however. She’d been dreaming about Ben, the baker, who had walked into the rainforest and disappeared.

  She had only ever seen one photo of Ben and he’d been suntanned with a gentle smile and streaky fair hair tied back in a man bun. In her dream, however, he’d had wild eyes and dreadlocks and he’d warned her that she was fooling herself if she thought life in a country town was safe and cosy.

  The dream’s after-effects hung over her as she made coffee and poured muesli into a bowl. Fortunately, by the time she’d listened to the DJ’s chatter on the radio and then showered and dressed, she’d shaken off most of her edginess. Just the same, she would talk to Finn about Ben when she got to work.

  The police weren’t convinced that he’d been lost in the forest and perished. The fact that his cap was found near a hut with drug-making gear suggested foul play, or the far preferable possibility that Ben was now lying low, or on the run. And Chloe couldn’t help thinking there must be more the Bugle could do to help his cause.

  Outside, the day was warm and humid, the sky rimmed in the distance by fluffy white clouds. Chloe was, nevertheless, in an optimistic mood as she walked the few doors to the newspaper’s office only to find Finn fuming as he stood, hands on hips, glaring at his computer screen.

  ‘Good morning.’ She spoke carefully, in case he was suffering from a hangover.

  He glowered at her. ‘What’s this?’

  Chloe stepped closer and saw a story she’d filed right at the end of the previous day. Finn had entrusted her to cover a couple of ‘straight’ news stories and her proposed header stood out in bold capitals on the screen. AGGRIEVED VICTIM BLASTS COURT. She’d thought it was rather attention grabbing.

  ‘It’s a story from yesterday’s magistrates court hearing,’ she said. ‘A farmer’s truck was stolen and the offender got off with a fairly lenient fine instead of a jail term.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Finn was obviously unimpressed. ‘Was any word of that criticism actually spoken in court?’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ Chloe admitted after a slight hesitation. ‘If you remember, I also had to cover the School of Art’s show at Ravenshoe, and by the time I got back, the hearing had finished.’

  ‘So?’ Finn showed no glimmer of sympathy.

  ‘So I got the details of the case from the court staff and I was able to speak to the farmer in question.’ She had found the fellow sitting outside on a bench, talking to a couple of other men, and she could tell he was really upset.

  ‘And he gave you a sob story about the loss of his truck and the resulting loss of income and how the court system has a lot to answer for when an offender gets a mere fine that amounts to a couple of weeks’ wages? And how magistrates are generally too lenient with criminals.’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly r
ight.’ Chloe had quoted the man word for word.

  Finn stared at her like she had told him the moon was made of Danish blue. ‘You think we should publish this crap?’

  Crap? It was the truth. She hadn’t invented a single word. ‘It should help to sell papers,’ she suggested, but she did so with a sheepish smile. It was pretty darned obvious she was on shaky ground.

  Finn’s response was an eye-roll, followed by a shake of his head and then an exaggerated sigh. ‘You know what this bloody well demonstrates, don’t you?’

  Chloe had no idea, but she was sure her boss was about to set her straight.

  ‘It’s a regrettable example of the stark difference between real-world journalism and a gossip magazine’s fantasy beat-up.’

  Damn him. He was far too self-righteous. Chloe squared her shoulders, gave a toss of her curls. ‘And perhaps this is where a real-world news editor is supposed to kindly offer his brand-new journalist a little guidance. Or, at least, gently explain what’s wrong with her story.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Chloe, is that you and I could end up in front of a magistrate for contempt of court. This amounts to criticism of the judiciary.’

  Chloe decided it might be prudent to make no further comment.

  ‘When you’re covering a court story,’ Finn continued with exaggerated patience. ‘You don’t report a single word that hasn’t been actually stated in court, or presented in a document to the court. You most certainly don’t report Joe Blow the victim’s personal and potentially biased criticism of the hearing. The judiciary take rather a dim view of such cheek. And we – this paper – could cop a really stiff fine.’

  ‘But can’t journalists speak up for the little guy? Doesn’t the farmer deserve to have his point of view heard?’

  ‘There’s an appeal process the farmer can follow if he thinks the penalty or the compensation have been manifestly inadequate.’

  ‘I – I see.’ Chloe knew the Bugle was on a financial knife edge and she’d been hired to help boost funds, not to deplete them. ‘I guess I should apologise.’

  For the longest time, Finn stood with his dark gaze locked with hers. Chloe willed herself to hold the eye contact, no matter how much she wanted to squirm, or look at her feet.

  It wasn’t as if she’d made many mistakes. She’d actually been pretty useful here until this morning. Yeah, she knew she’d been pulling her weight. She’d even managed to get an exclusive from a local councillor, generally known as Grumpy.

  ‘That old bastard never gives me the time of day,’ Finn had admitted. ‘He’s notorious for being ultra-conservative and suspicious of the media, but all you had to do was smile at him.’

  Chloe hadn’t stated the obvious – that female journos could actually be as effective as males.

  Her boss had been extra pleased with another story she’d written about an elderly local who was forced to close down his sawmilling business due to limitations on rainforest harvesting.

  When Chloe had investigated this, she’d discovered that the man’s son had returned home from overseas to find his old dad deeply depressed, but with a huge shed of milled timber sitting idle.

  The son had promptly begun selling these beautiful pieces of walnut, silkwood, cedar and flame oak to specialist cabinet-makers, wood-turners and boat-builders. The family’s business was picking up again, and the son had also found a lucrative outlet for selling timber offcuts to craft markets in Melbourne. Better still, Chloe had tipped off Karen, who’d lined up an advertisement to accompany the story, and this had earned her high praise indeed from Finn.

  She’d been on a roll, or so she’d thought, and had started feeling quite comfortable in her new job. Now, it seemed she was back to square one. In Finn’s eyes, she was again the clueless Dolly he had never wanted to employ.

  Without shrinking from his stern gaze, she readied herself for another verbal smack.

  Instead of berating her, however, Finn looked away and ran a hand through his shaggy dark hair, making it stick up more than ever. ‘I guess I should have checked whether you had court experience,’ he said in a tone so unexpectedly conciliatory that Chloe almost missed its significance.

  Was this an apology?

  She probably looked a tad gobsmacked. Finn actually smiled. Which was dangerous. He shouldn’t smile like that, not without a warning.

  She had no choice but to drop her gaze. She said, ‘So I suppose you’d like me to rewrite this, with only the story the clerk of the court gave me.’

  ‘You got it.’ Finn turned to his desk. The smile was gone. This wasn’t the right moment to ask him about Ben.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tammy, the hairdresser, looked very thin and tired, but she smiled as she welcomed Chloe into her salon.

  ‘I’ll just lock the door behind you and draw the curtains,’ she said. ‘Otherwise there’s bound to be someone poking their nose in here, hoping for an after-hours haircut.’

  Her small salon was very appealing and ‘old world’, with golden timber floors, ornately framed mirrors and a huge bowl filled with roses of every hue set on the glass counter beside a display of local jewellery and handmade soaps.

  Tammy pointed to upholstered armchairs in the corner, grouped around a table with magazines. ‘Take a seat,’ she said.

  Chloe smiled. ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me.’ It had been a long shot. In the end she hadn’t consulted Finn. She feared he would consider this too delicate a situation to intrude on. And when she’d called in to the salon at lunchtime, she’d half-expected Tammy to flatly refuse to be interviewed but, while the hairdresser had been cautious, she hadn’t said no.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Tammy asked now. ‘Tea? Coffee?’ She sent a quick glance to the antique clock on the wall. It was five past six. ‘Wine?’

  ‘I’m fine, actually.’ As Chloe said this, she caught a flash in Tammy’s eyes that might have been disappointment. ‘Unless you’d like something.’

  ‘Well, it is wine o’clock.’ Tammy’s smile was wan. ‘And after the day I’ve had, I could do with a glass.’

  Chloe hesitated. She was still officially ‘at work’, but she knew that drinking alone wasn’t much fun. ‘Then I’d love to join you.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Tammy disappeared into a small alcove at the back of the shop. ‘White okay?’ she called.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  As Tammy returned, Chloe shifted the scattered magazines to make room on the table for her notebook and pen as well as the two glasses and a small dish of olives.

  ‘I could easily provide you with an entire meal,’ Tammy said. ‘My freezer is full of casseroles. People just keep bringing them. Everyone’s been so lovely.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I mention that in my story.’ Chloe sent her a smile. ‘Shows how popular you are.’

  ‘I think it’s a country town thing, though,’ Tammy said. ‘I’m not sure it would happen everywhere.’ She took the armchair opposite Chloe, settling back into the cushions and crossing her long, thin legs.

  She was wearing loose cotton slacks patterned in teal and pink paisley, echoes of the coloured streaks in her hair, and she’d teamed the pants with a tiny pink T-shirt and a floaty vest.

  Chloe admired people who could carry off the layered look. Her own attempts at layering always made her look messy and as if she was merely playing at dressing up. Tammy clearly had flair and Chloe guessed she was probably an excellent hairdresser.

  ‘So,’ Tammy said as she picked up her wineglass. ‘You’d like to write something for the paper about Ben.’

  Chloe nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. I think it’s important to keep Ben on the community’s radar.’

  ‘I guess.’ Tammy looked less certain as she fidgeted with the glass’s stem.

  ‘I’d like to try for a new angle,’ said Chloe.

  ‘How? He’s still missing. What else can you say?’

  ‘I was hoping to write more of a character sketch,’ Chloe explained. ‘About Ben
as a person.’

  ‘Not a eulogy?’ The hairdresser’s eyes were suddenly round with worry, quite possibly on the verge of tears.

  ‘Gosh, no,’ Chloe hastened to assure her. ‘That wasn’t my intention at all. I was hoping that, perhaps, if we painted a broader picture of Ben, we might be able to trigger something. Jog someone’s memory – or conscience.’

  Tammy took a moment to consider this, and then she seemed to relax, much to Chloe’s relief. ‘I guess it can’t hurt,’ she said.

  ‘I promise I’d show you the story first,’ Chloe added. ‘I don’t usually, but I’d like to make sure you’re comfortable before it goes to print.’

  ‘Okay. I guess it’s worth a shot. I certainly don’t plan to give up on Ben.’ With a weary smile, Tammy lifted her glass. ‘Here’s cheers, anyway.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  They smiled at each other and clinked their glasses. Chloe took a sip. The wine was crisp and cool and she realised this was the first drink she’d shared with another woman since her farewell drink with Josie in Sydney.

  It was tempting to kick back and relax, but she had a job to do. ‘So,’ she said, setting the glass on the table and flipping open her notebook. ‘What would you like to tell me about Ben?’

  ‘The main thing is he’s an incredibly gentle guy,’ Tammy said, her voice warm with obviously happy memories. ‘Honestly, he’s just the sweetest, nicest fellow I’ve ever known. And he’s funny. He loves to tell jokes and he makes me laugh. He makes his customers laugh. Everyone loves him.’

  Chloe liked the way Tammy spoke about Ben in the present tense – as if he might suddenly reappear at any moment. ‘I hear he’s a damn fine baker as well,’ she said.

  ‘God, yes. He’s been working so hard at his business and the bakery’s been doing brilliantly. From the moment Ben set up shop here, his pies were a hit with the locals, and his bread’s amazing, too. And just when this – this dreadful thing – happened, he was all set to expand. He was going to hire an apprentice, buy a van and sell to other places on the Tablelands – service stations, supermarkets, that sort of thing.’