‘Billie, are you in there?’ Her mother’s voice, accompanied by a sharp knock on the bathroom door, roused Billie from her unhappy musings.
‘Yep,’ she called back. ‘Coming.’ Hastily, she shoved the pregnancy tests into the small rubbish bin beneath the sink. Luckily, the bin had a lid but, as soon as possible, she would have to get rid of the incriminating evidence properly. Her mother didn’t generally use this bathroom, as she had an ensuite off the main bedroom, but Billie certainly didn’t want her to find out about this latest disaster.
Not now, when her parents had already bought a caravan and were happily planning the fine details of their trip. Caravans weren’t allowed on the island – the roads were just too narrow and winding – so there’d been many trips back and forth to Townsville to stock their van with linens and towels, cooking gear and pantry goods. Her mum had also spent all the hours she could spare on her laptop, haunting grey nomad websites and Facebook pages, making notes on the very best ways to approach their adventure.
‘They say it’s best to only drive about three hundred kilometres in a day,’ she’d told Billie, her eyes gleaming with unnatural excitement. ‘That allows time for stops for morning tea, lunch, et cetera. And if you get your distances right, you can settle into the new destination by around four in the afternoon.’
It was quite amazing the way her mum had rattled on lately, outlining all their plans. They would spend a couple of days in each main centre, soaking up the ambience of whatever town they were visiting, seeing its sights and touring its museums or galleries.
‘And we won’t stay in the caravan every night,’ she’d added. ‘I think we’ll need to give ourselves a couple of nights each week in a hotel or motel, eating out, instead of cooking for ourselves, and enjoying hot showers without having to traipse through a van park.’
Her mother even had a pinboard in her office where she’d mapped the grey-nomad-friendly service stations with refuse and laundry facilities. And she’d written an actual bucket list. She wanted to try her hand at prospecting for gold and to see the Dog on the Tuckerbox near Gundagai. She wanted to go to the Kimberley and see Western Australia’s wildflowers and the Morning Glory in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Seeing the tip of Cape York was also a goal, as well as the southernmost point in Tasmania, and she hoped to eat oysters in Port Lincoln in South Australia and to dine in a top gourmet restaurant in Melbourne.
It was going to be a busy six months for them. Billie wasn’t sure they’d manage to fit all of the wish list in, but she was delighted to see her mum looking so happy and worked up, instead of worried and tense. The last thing Billie wanted was to cruel this excitement by sharing her pregnancy news. Glumly, she realised she wasn’t ready to tell Petros about it either.
Fixing a smile on her face, she opened the door and went out to the living room. ‘You wanted me, Mum?’
Her mother nodded. She looked a little pink in the cheeks, but her expression was guarded. ‘I’ve just heard from Freya again.’
‘Oh?’ Billie tried not to sound too hopeful.
‘Seems she’s changed her mind.’
‘You mean she’s coming after all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, wow.’ Billie couldn’t resist fist-punching the air. It was about time she had a little good news. ‘That’s great.’
‘Yes,’ her mum said again, but with markedly less enthusiasm, and she made a business of straightening the silk runner made from Indian saris that graced the dining table.
‘That’s awesome, Mum. I’ll really appreciate Freya’s help, and after the fire and everything, I’m sure she’ll benefit from getting away and having a change of scene.’
‘Yes, of course. I knew you’d be pleased.’
‘You’re pleased, too, aren’t you?’ Billie couldn’t resist nudging.
‘Yes, yes.’ Her mother’s expression changed and she seemed to be studying Billie, dropping her head to one side as she did so. She frowned. ‘Are you all right, Billie?’
No. I’m freaking out. ‘Yes. Fine.’ Billie squeezed her cheek muscles to hold her smile in place and tried to blank her thoughts re the pregnancy dilemma. Yikes, if she went ahead with it, how enormous would she be when her parents returned in six months’ time? And how would poor Freya react?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Forester was packed, a task that, sadly, had taken very little time, given the scarceness of Freya’s possessions. Now her car waited at the kerb, rather like a patient packhorse, while Freya made a final pilgrimage to the remains of the home where she’d lived for close to twenty years.
She almost hadn’t come. A tour of the wreckage would be an unnecessary downer when she was about to head north on a new adventure. There was something therapeutic about the beckoning call of an open road, and she was actually looking forward to the two long days of driving, passing through Rockhampton and then Mackay and Bowen, before she eventually reached Townsville. So she’d been tempted to skip this painful goodbye.
It had felt spineless, though, to leave without taking one last look, and Freya wanted, more than anything, to be strong. She’d read in an article in one of Daisy’s self-help magazines that the worst day of your life could also be the best day. It was all about how you reacted and what you chose to focus on.
Freya wasn’t sure she actually had a true focus at this point, but she would probably try to sell the block of land. And she was hoping that if she faced up, just one more time, to the harsh reality of her house’s skeletal remains, she might find it easier to let go.
Poor Won Ton was a shivering wreck, though. As soon as Freya turned into the cul-de-sac, the little dog began to whimper and cower with her face between her paws. Freya hated to think of the trauma the poor animal had suffered on the night of the fire.
‘I won’t be long,’ Freya promised, giving Won Ton a comforting rub behind her silky ears. Then, leaving her in the car with a window partly unwound, she resolutely marched up the drive to the tangle of twisted and blackened metal that had once been her garage doors.
Okay, let’s do this.
The rest of the house was worse, nothing but rubble and soft grey ash that clung to Freya’s boots. Miserably, she pictured the rooms as they’d once been. Her lovely kitchen had been right here in the centre, the heart of her home, but now, the beautiful stone benches that she’d kept spotless and perfect lay at her feet in cracked, black and broken pieces.
Tears stung Freya’s eyes as she remembered the joyful day those gorgeous pale benchtops had first been installed. Remembered all the times she’d happily cooked and baked right here, chopping herbs, beating batters, rolling out pastry on the gleaming surfaces.
Oh, the sticky date puddings she’d made in this space, the fruit mince pies at Christmas, the seafood chowders and Thai curries. So many hundreds of hours she had spent here, preparing meals for herself and Brian, and her dinner parties had become quite famous within their circle of friends.
Just a few steps over was the spot where her favourite corner bench had caught the sunlight on winter mornings. God, how many mugs of coffee had she enjoyed there?
Now, all that was left were copper wires and pipes and unidentifiable rubble. Oh, and a burnt-out dishwasher. Almost angrily, Freya gave the door a wrench and scowled into its blackened interior.
Goodness. To her surprise she spied two of her favourite coffee mugs, one with orange and white stripes and the other decorated with autumn leaves. They almost looked okay and, when she pulled them out, she discovered they were only slightly blackened and hadn’t even cracked. How amazing.
Clutching the unexpected treasures to her, she wandered on to the end of the house where her bedroom had stood, remembering her ridiculous excitement over its jaunty new look and how those pinks and oranges had put a smile on her face when she woke each day.
Ouch. How fragile those pleasures had been, based on a couple of pots of paint and a few bright swatches of fabric.
They were only things, she told he
rself as she had so many times in the past fortnight. No one was hurt . . .
Unfortunately, Freya still couldn’t quite accept that earthly possessions weren’t important. She wondered how many of the people who so easily preached this sermon had actually lost everything.
And in the next breath she found herself asking, I wonder if the ring’s still here?
The question jumped out of nowhere, but almost immediately she knew deep down that this was why she had come. Next moment, she was crouching among the ashes, eyes alert, searching for the impossible. A small silver circle.
If a coffee mug could survive the fire, she reasoned, surely a diamond ring might stand a chance.
She looked around her again, taking careful stock of the twisted metal struts that had once supported her bed, as she tried to work out exactly where her bedside table had stood. It had been made of timber, with a drawer and a little cupboard underneath. The cupboard door had a small metal hoop instead of a knob. Oh, look, there was the fractured base of the lamp that had stood on the table to light her bedtime reading.
Setting the mugs aside and kneeling in the sooty ash now, not caring about the messy state of her jeans, Freya began to sift through the debris with the forensic care of an archaeologist. The ring she searched for was not the sapphire one that Brian had given her for their engagement. She’d sold that months ago and good riddance.
No, her interest in this other ring was quite hopelessly sentimental. Now, with no possessions to give witness to her life – no books or photographs or clothes. No photos of her mum and her grandparents. No high-school-formal dress that she’d kept for decades. No Ginger & Smart trouser suit that she’d spent a ridiculous sum on when she and Brian had gone to the Melbourne Cup. Now that she no longer possessed any of these things, this modest ring’s importance seemed to have skyrocketed. For reasons Freya couldn’t properly explain.
The little hoop door handle appeared first, buried in soft white ash, and she almost missed the other small metallic circle. As she carefully brushed more ash aside, however, there, by some kind of miracle, it was. A silver ring with a modest single diamond.
Trembling now, with a sense of awe, Freya picked it up. The band was blackened, but it would probably rub clean. The little diamond, however, was no longer bright and clear, but cloudy, no doubt affected by the intense heat of the blaze.
Goosebumps prickled her arms. Her throat tightened painfully and she suddenly wondered if searching for this had been a mistake. Even now, all these years later, she could still remember in excruciating detail the momentous afternoon on the beach at Picnic Bay, and she could still hear Seb’s voice, rough and raw with emotion.
‘But what you want to do isn’t even legal in Queensland.’
Even now, she could hear the call of black cockatoos in the sea-almond trees and the soft splash of tropical waves, and she could see the glistening shimmer in Seb’s grey eyes, the jerky motion of his throat as she’d tried to hand his engagement ring back to him.
‘I need to do this, Seb. Pearl’s desperate to have a baby.’
He’d refused to take the ring, even though he’d probably needed the money back in those days and should have at least hocked the diamond at a pawnbroker’s.
‘This is your decision,’ he’d responded in a cold hard voice that Freya had barely recognised. ‘I want no part of it.’ And with an abrupt about-turn, he’d marched away, up the beach, past the line of palms, shoulders squared.
Never to look back.
Freya had, perhaps foolishly, kept this ring for decades, well hidden, of course, and an early, brief engagement with her high-school sweetheart was a chapter in her history that she’d never shared with Brian.
During their marriage, she’d tried not to think too much about Seb Hudson, but the internet was a jolly handy tool and she’d kept a weather eye on his soaring career. She knew that he’d left for America twenty years ago in a bid to further his art, and in California, he’d lived in some kind of artists’ commune. And, well, actually, if she was brutally honest, she could probably win a Mastermind quiz if her specialist topic was the artwork of Sebastian Hudson.
Sure, she’d tried to consciously wipe him from her thoughts, and she’d achieved a measure of success in that regard. But only months ago, she’d stumbled on an article in the Sunday Mail along with photos of Seb’s amazing paintings, and the report included the fact that he now lived in Spain.
With a heavy sigh, Freya almost slipped his damaged ring into the pocket of her jeans, but somehow that didn’t seem quite safe enough.
It still fitted her finger, however – the finger of her right hand, that is – and when she gathered up the mugs and went back to the car, she didn’t care about the diamond’s blackened, cloudy state. Given the mess her life was in, a damaged ring from a long-lost lover seemed appropriately symbolic.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Billie turned from smoothing a muted grey and white striped cotton spread over the bed in the spare room to find her mother in the doorway with an armful of neatly folded sheets and pillowcases.
‘Oh,’ her mum said. ‘So you’ve already made up Freya’s room? Well, that’s good, I guess.’ But she didn’t look particularly pleased.
Billie almost came back with a snappy retort, suggesting that she’d appreciate a little gratitude. She’d been feeling pretty damn tired lately, what with working long hours, as well as helping out at home, not to mention keeping her scary pregnancy news under wraps. Now she held her tongue, however.
She knew her mum was tense about Freya’s arrival. Earlier at breakfast, she’d seen a flash of something close to panic on her mum’s face when Freya had texted that she would arrive on the ten o’clock vehicular ferry. But whatever was behind the tension between her mother and her aunt, it had begun long ago and the situation was unlikely to change in the next couple of days between Freya’s arrival on the island and her parents’ departure.
‘Would you like some flowers for this room?’ Billie asked, thinking that while her mother’s preference for linens in faded dust-bowl colours was currently very fashionable, it didn’t really match her memories of her vibrant, colour-loving aunt.
Her mum gave a brief eye-roll, accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug. ‘I’m sure Freya would like them.’
Billie suppressed an impatient sigh. ‘I’ll pop down to the supermarket. They had lovely buckets of sunflowers yesterday. With luck, they won’t be all gone. I might grab a pawpaw as well and we could do with more butter.’
‘Thanks, love.’
This was said more gently and her mum gave a tired smile, which worried Billie, but she couldn’t ask again if her mother was all right. She’d had that question rebuffed too many times already. Even her dad had shrugged her concerns aside.
‘Your mum’s fine,’ he would say, if Billie enquired. ‘She just needs a good holiday.’
Billie didn’t feel she could argue. He was a nurse, after all.
She was waiting on the wharf at Nelly Bay when the barge from Townsville pulled in loaded with vehicles in neat rows. Freya had texted that she was driving a white Forester and Billie could see at least five white SUVs in the line-up, but it was impossible to make out their drivers from this distance.
She was surprised by how excited she felt. Excited, relieved and just a little nervous. Being responsible for her parents’ business was still a daunting prospect, and Billie knew that Freya would be a genuine support in that regard, but she’d also be great company, too.
If only I didn’t have the pregnancy to worry about.
Billie’s breathing snagged at the very thought of having a baby. Big decisions awaited and she suspected – maybe hoped – that she’d find herself discussing her options with Freya. But she certainly wouldn’t burden the poor woman with her problems the minute she arrived.
At least it was a beautiful day, spectacularly beautiful, in fact. The sky stretched overhead like a spotless, vivid blue sail and the aquamarine sea was at its sparkling
best. On the headlands the hoop pines stood tall and proud among massive granite boulders. And now, the first cars were moving cautiously off the ferry and up the ramp.
Billie edged closer to the railing, her eyes darting from white car to white car, searching for Freya. Then she saw a long arm waving madly and she found herself grinning as she waved back. It was a matter of being patient then until Freya had at last driven up the ramp and found a place to park.
‘Billie, how lovely to see you, darling.’ Slim arms extended, Freya swept Billie into a warm embrace. ‘It’s been too long.’
‘I know. Ages.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. How are you? How was the trip? It’s such a long way to have to drive.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t too bad. I listened to all sorts of programs on Radio National.’ Freya laughed. ‘Ask me anything about climate change, gut health, North Korea. I’m all clued up.’
Trust Freya to be so positive in spite of everything that had happened to her. She looked wonderful, too, as slender as ever in skinny jeans and a loose-fitting lime-green linen shirt, with a bright scarf tied around her auburn hair and knotted on top. She’d always dressed with flair, Billie remembered.
‘You look great,’ Billie told her.
This brought another laugh. ‘You can actually find amazing bargains in the op shops on the Sunshine Coast.’ Then, more seriously, she asked, ‘So how are your mum and dad?’
Billie hesitated now, wishing she still didn’t have the gnawing sense that things weren’t quite as perfect as her parents were making out. ‘They’re fine.’ What else could she say? ‘You’ll see for yourself very soon.’
Freya’s gaze narrowed as she processed this response. She looked, for a second, as if she would have liked to ask another question, but she must have changed her mind. ‘Righty-oh,’ she said brightly instead. ‘Let’s go then. Do you want to hop in my car, or did you drive here?’
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