‘I haven’t met the man let alone learned anything about him. Why are you interested in him?’
‘Pity.’ Max could be charming but he’d always put work ahead of her. Before she finished speaking, the shutters came down and just like that, she was dismissed.
Beryl appeared at her side, order pad and pen in hand. ‘What can I get you?’
Serena pushed back her chair and picked up her handbag. She smiled at the prickly waitress. ‘Nothing, thank you. I’m leaving. Why don’t you give him a slice of your lemon meringue tart? I hear it’s really good.’
Beryl’s eyes widened and she looked at Max. ‘Sir, would you like a slice? It’s freshly made.’
Max ignored the waitress and bumped the table, spilling water as he tried to get to his feet in the confined space between chair and table. ‘Reeny, you’ll tell me if you hear where Carter has gone, won’t you?’
‘I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care. Goodbye, Max.’ As she turned and walked to the door, she heard Beryl’s response.
‘Don Carter? He went into hiding before the gates were locked at the mill. I can tell you where—’
The cafe door closed behind her. She didn’t look back; she didn’t care what Max was doing. What she needed was time alone to think, to plan her next move now she had a possible name for her father. Asking Paul where Frankston was staying wasn’t an option, but there must be some way of finding him.
She drove to the riverbank and parked, setting her thoughts to drift like sailboats on the sluggish water.
***
As Serena drove slowly along River Road, a silver Audi pulled up in front of a large, two-storey house that seemed to float on huge picture windows. The Audi driver’s door opened, Max stepped out and headed towards the front door. Beryl must have come good with Carter’s address. Good luck to him if he thought he was going to corner the man. No one else had been able to make the mill owner come out of hiding. As she drove past the house, Serena glanced at the upper storey. A curtain dropped back into place as Max banged on the front door. Someone was home after all.
Paul might appreciate knowing that detail. She turned right onto the main street and continued until she spotted her destination. Parking was easy at this end of town. Around the mill it was a different story as workers gathered at the gates. Grateful to have her own business and money still coming in, she picked up her portfolio and entered the building.
A woman in her mid-thirties sat in a small office to the left of the service counter. The sign above her door read Clerk of the Court. After a couple of minutes, no staff had appeared at the counter to take her enquiry and Serena tapped the bell. The woman looked up, acknowledged Serena with a nod of her head, then stood and poked her head around the door.
‘Sorry. We’re short-staffed at the moment. Just give me a minute and I’ll be with you.’
‘Thanks.’ Serena set her handbag on the counter and waited.
Paper clicked through a photocopier while the clerk stapled pages together and filed them in a standard, bureaucratic-grey filing cabinet. The drawer closed with a metallic thunk, official and impersonal.
She couldn’t do it.
Greg Frankston might be her father, but did she want all the baggage that came with that relationship? The man was persona non grata in Mindalby. By all accounts, he was unethical and uncaring and the community despised him for cheating them. Pine trees, for goodness sake!
And look how he’d abandoned her mother. Alone and pregnant at nineteen, Dawn had made the brave decision to be a single mother; for twenty-six years, they had lived happily without her father. Only her mother’s illness had raised a desire to find him.
Well, she’d found him. Acting on that information would add nothing to either of their lives. And it would kill the few tentative friendships she’d begun. Paul would hate her for the connection and she wouldn’t blame him. She hated Frankston for using her mother. Because that must be the reason Dawn had refused to name him all these years. Why else would she prevent her only child finding her father unless he was a complete bastard?
Leaving well enough alone, Serena turned to leave.
‘You’re new in town. What can I help you with?’ The clerk’s question stopped her in her tracks. The woman had bright orange hair, makeup an inch thick, and a voice that demanded answers in return for her attention.
I was looking for information on my father. His name is Frankston, the man everyone loves to hate.
No. She didn’t want to know any more about him.
Not now.
Not ever.
But what reason could she give for being in the courthouse?
‘My name is Serena Quinlan and I’m—’ Her breath caught in her throat. Setting her folder down, she leaned against the silky oak counter.
‘You’re the clothes designer, aren’t you?’
Serena nodded, grateful for the chance to think.
‘I recognise your name. I’m Vera Wellington, the Clerk of the Court. What are you doing in town? You do know the mill closed, right? So there won’t be a festival. Are you here to see Mrs Carter? She owns the dress shop and—’ The spate of words rushed on like water through flood gates, implacable, unstoppable, requiring nothing more than Serena’s presence.
Eventually, Vera paused and eyed Serena, the folder on the counter, and her watch. ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘I have some sketches, and an idea for a fundraiser.’ Fingers trembling, Serena slid the two sketches from the folder and turned them to face the clerk. She waited, tense and expectant, for the woman’s mouth to tighten, for a diatribe about how bad her father was and how he’d screwed so many people.
She waited.
Vera picked the pages up and studied the pictures more closely. ‘Interesting. Why did you bring them here?’ She set them on the counter and pinned Serena with a look that asked why she was wasting the time of someone as important to the functioning of the court as Vera.
‘Do I—need a permit or anything?’ It sounded lame, but it was the only reason she could come up with for calling into the courthouse.
‘Not from us. You’d have to check with the shire council. Anything else?’
‘Not really. Do you—do you recognise either of these men?’
Tapping orange and green acrylic nails on the counter the woman pored over the images again. The sound ran down Serena’s spine like a spider, raising goosebumps and setting her nerves jangling. Finally, the clerk tapped the sketch Paul and Penny had reacted badly to. Her eyes narrowed. ‘This one looks like Greg Frankston.’
‘And this one seems vaguely familiar.’ She stabbed a finger at the second sketch. No one had given it much of a look once they recognised the first subject. ‘I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him around.’
‘In Mindalby?’
‘Yes. But I don’t think he lives in town. Why don’t you show that to some of the shop owners? Maybe one of them will know who he is. Come back when you’ve got a name and tell me who he is. Maybe scrap the idea of showing the picture of Frankston. He’s a dead loss.’
‘Thanks so much, Vera. I really appreciate your help.’ Serena returned the sketches to the folder and headed outside. It seemed a million-to-one shot one of her sketches had led to finding her father. And now she knew who he was, she wished she had left things as they were.
Flutters in her stomach and a light head, or maybe the savoury aromas wafting down the street, reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Following the smell of baking, she crossed the road to the bakery. The shop was quiet, and several shelves were empty of all but crumbs. Taking that as a good sign, she tried to guess at the fillings of the handful of pies still in the cabinet. A small, grandmotherly woman with a kind face stepped up to the counter.
‘Hello, dear. What can I get for you today?’
‘Do you have any pies with mushy peas?’ Her mother had allowed her the savoury treat once a week from the school tuckshop.
‘Comfort food, i
sn’t it. You’re lucky, there’s one left. And how about something sweet for dessert?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Apple slice, caramel tart, raspberry tart. I make them fresh.’ A note of pride filled the woman’s voice.
Serena eyed the slices, remembering Paul’s preference. Mouth-watering, plump pieces of apple within golden baked pastry beckoned. ‘An apple slice please. I haven’t had one in years.’
The woman expertly slid the slice into a white paper bag and twisted the corners to seal it. She set it beside Serena’s pie and smiled. ‘That will be nine-twenty, dear. Anything else I can help you with?’
Handing over a ten-dollar note with one hand, Serena felt the sketch burning a figurative hole in her other hand. She set the folder on the counter and pulled out the drawing. No time like the present to start asking around. ‘Do you recognise these men?’
The woman picked up the sketches, adjusted her glasses, and tipped her head back as she peered down her nose. Frowning, she put down the sketch of Frankston and brought the other page closer.
‘Nan, what are you looking at?’ A young woman joined Nan at the counter. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth hanging from her apron and examined the sketch with interest. ‘He looks sort of familiar.’
‘Really?’ Nan shook her head and glanced at the younger woman.
‘You know, Nan, it could be the tall bloke who works at the mill.’
Heart beating hard, Serena gripped her handbag tighter. ‘Do you know his name?’
‘Reminds me of Josh when he was younger, or maybe that bloke who lives on the commune. Look, I don’t know if it is but the picture reminded me of him is all. If you close one eye and squint, it could almost be a younger version of Don Carter. Not that anybody would want a picture of that bastard.’
God, no. Not the mill owner. She couldn’t decide which of the two choices—Frankston or Carter—was worse.
‘Oh, Shar, what an awful thing to say.’
‘It’s true, Nan. Veronica Carter has been copping abuse from some morons in this town just because she shares the same surname, yet she had the good sense to divorce him years ago.’ Shar tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turned to Serena.
‘Why are you looking for this bloke?’ She nodded at the sketch as Nan set it on the counter.
Maybe it was Nan’s kindly tone, or gentle eyes.
Or maybe it was sudden hope springing in Serena’s chest.
The women had recognised another man from her drawing. A different man who might possibly be her father.
A man who wasn’t Frankston or Carter.
A man she might want to find and get to know after all. Weighed down by the fear her father was the conman, the new possibility was like a burst of sunlight after flooding rain. Desperate for a different father than the one she thought she’d found, the truth slipped from her mouth.
‘I’m looking for my father. That’s a composite sketch I made from the differences between Mum and me. What I think my father might look like.’
‘Don’t you know who your father is?’ Compassion tinged Nan’s voice but her gaze was shrewd.
She refused to mention Greg Frankston by name and shook her head. ‘No, but apparently he came from out this way and had something to do with cotton. He may be a singer too.’
Nan rested a hand on the sketch. ‘What’s changed that you’re looking for him now?’
‘Mum—’ She cleared her throat of the lump that rose whenever she thought of her mother lying in a hospital bed, a snake pit of drip lines tethering her to bottles of clear liquids. Hair shorn and cheeks gaunt, she had struggled with the effects of her chemo treatment.
‘Mum had a bad health scare recently. It made me want to know who my father is, to see if I could make contact with him.’ Serena reached for her sketch.
Nan patted her hand and held it for a moment. ‘We’ll keep an eye out for this fellow and let him know you’re looking for him. If you make a copy of your sketch, you’re welcome to put it up in our window. And talk to Jo Johnson at the local radio station. She knows everybody. She’ll be finishing the midday session shortly. Good luck, dear.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Picking up her sketches and the two packets containing her late lunch, Serena left the bakery with renewed hope. A spot of rain hit her face, followed by a few more as she walked briskly to her car. Two names, and one wonderful, unknown possibility—she refused to consider Shar’s offhand reference to Don Carter, or the spectre of the conman—all in the space of one day. Josh—no surname, but he worked at the mill.
Maybe it was time to let her mother know how her search was progressing.
Chapter Eleven
‘Welcome. I’m so pleased you’re joining us.’ Maree Carey had an ageless face beneath grey-streaked, dark brown hair, and a warm graciousness that reminded Serena of her own mother’s hospitality.
Paul closed the front door behind him as his mother took Serena’s hand, held it between hers and looked into her eyes. ‘You’re on a quest. You’re looking for someone—here in Mindalby.’
Serena’s stomach took a dive, roiling like an angry winter ocean beyond the heads in Sydney. Her mouth dried. Cold invaded her body, and her hands chilled between Maree’s. Paul’s mother had seen her link to Frankston, worked out why she was here, and was ready to denounce her. But she shook her head as though telling Serena she was safe from exposure. ‘You will find what you’re looking for, but it won’t be what you expect.’
Unnerved by Maree’s clear blue gaze and uncanny prediction, Serena fiddled with her coat. Was the woman a mind reader too?
Behind Maree, Paul rolled his eyes and grinned. ‘Mum has the second sight, or so she claims. Bet she saw you coming before you arrived in town.’ He shrugged out of his parka and hung it on the rack behind the front door.
Maree patted Serena’s arm and drew her away from Paul. ‘He can scoff all he likes, but ask him how often I’ve been right in my visions.’
‘Yes, Mum. You know we trust what you tell us.’ Paul held out his hand to Serena. ‘Want to take your coat off? That fire throws out a lot of heat.’
Serena untied her soft belt and handed the coat to Paul. He hung it beside his while Maree took her arm and led her into the spacious lounge room.
A roaring log fire threw out waves of heat from the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. Curling into a ball in front of that fire might be the only way to thaw the chill holding her courage prisoner.
Something larger than butterflies fluttered in Serena’s stomach. Wasn’t Maree going to say more, or was her vision nameless? Yesterday, and again before they left town, Serena attempted to get out of the invitation and spare Paul’s family embarrassment. If they saw Frankston in her features, the evening would be more than just awkward. Paul had recognised the conman in her sketch as soon as he saw it. But he had failed to notice her likeness in the other sketch. Had Maree made the connection?
She forced the uncomfortable image from her mind as Paul’s mother urged her towards an older version of Paul and Hayden. She studied the man’s features as he rose from an armchair, noting deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the tan line across his forehead where an Akubra would sit, the grey liberally sprinkled through his dark hair. Was her father responsible for Jacob Carey’s care-worn features?
Maree patted her hand and turned to introduce her husband.
Jacob’s smile was familiar as he shook her hand. There was a lot of his father in Paul. ‘Pleased to meet you, Serena. Hayden’s description left out a lot of details, like how pretty you are. By the way, he won’t be joining us this evening. He’s working with one of his mates on ways to liberate our cotton bales.’
‘It’s kind of you to invite me.’ Heart-thumping moments passed as she searched Jacob’s face for signs of recognition, of acknowledgement she looked like Greg Frankston. It was a mistake to have come. Any moment now he would recognise her and—
Jacob’s doppelganger elbowed
him out of the way and took her hand. Chocolate-brown Carey eyes like Paul’s, but crinkled at the corners, twinkled as he raised her hand to his lips. ‘You’re spoken for, little brother. Keep your eyes on the gorgeous woman you married and leave space for us single blokes to entertain the bachelorettes.’
Stunned, she looked at the two men before turning to Maree.
‘No, you’re not seeing things. Paul’s father and uncle are identical twins.’
‘I’m Joshua, the good-looking one.’ Joshua nudged his brother’s arm and waggled his eyebrows at her. ‘Isn’t that right, Jake?’
Jacob sat back in his armchair and chuckled. ‘Dream on, Josh. I’m the one who got the girl. All the handsome genes went to my boys.’
‘Which is why you’re so ugly now—’
‘Cut the quibbling you two and give Serena a drink.’ Maree rolled her eyes, her fondness for her husband and brother-in-law clear as she grinned at Serena.
‘I dreamed of Jake the night before we met then wondered why I was seeing double. The gift of second sight came to me through my Irish grandmother.’
‘None of the men in her family dare call her on it. Trouble is, she’s usually right.’ Joshua gave Maree a quick hug and turned to Serena. ‘Has this delinquent nephew of mine shown you the night view over the river from the lookout yet?’
‘Um, what lookout? What’s so special about the night view?’ Heat rose up her neck and she glanced at Paul. Surely his uncle didn’t mean what she thought he was implying.
Joshua chuckled and winked. ‘It’s a grand place to cuddle on a cold winter’s night.’
Beside Joshua’s left shoulder, Paul rolled his eyes again. Apparently he’d inherited that from his mother. ‘Josh, Serena only arrived in town Tuesday morning.’
‘What, four days isn’t time enough to make your interest clear? You don’t deserve the name of Carey if you’re so slow, boy.’
Maree inserted herself between them. ‘Let me get you a drink, Serena. What would you like?’
Joshua relinquished her hand. ‘No fair, Maree. I was about to—’
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