‘Hello, who is this?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Derek Prescott from Prescott & Knight, Solicitors. Am I speaking with Miss Gates?’
She winced. Add a snippy response to her less-than-groomed appearance yesterday and no doubt Prescott & Knight had her pigeonholed. ‘I’m sorry, yes, this is Roni.’ She didn’t add her surname. Not that eavesdroppers could do much with it, but she valued her privacy. There was none in foster homes.
‘Miss Gates, I apologise for contacting you so early, but I wanted to make certain you are coming in to our office today.’
Prescott’s voice was deep and self-assured, but he had to be joking. ‘Mr Prescott, as I tried to explain to your receptionist yesterday, you have the wrong person.’ A couple of passengers had tuned into her conversation, watching over their phone screens, or more discreetly from behind newspapers.
‘As I have a personal interest in this matter, I’m quite certain we do not, Miss Gates.’
‘And I’m equally certain you do.’
‘Then, although I wouldn’t normally do this by telephone, let me confirm. You were placed in state care, with the unusual objective of having you fostered, rather than adopted, twenty-nine years ago?’
Caution and irritation tinged her response. ‘Sounds like you know rather more about me than I know myself.’
‘And you were subsequently fostered by three different families?’
‘I’m sure those records are accessible to anyone.’ Hopefully not the reason the final placement had been terminated, though.
‘Quite,’ Prescott agreed smoothly. ‘And, in the final year of high school, you won a competition you do not recall entering, the prize being rather exorbitantly priced driver’s education and licensing.’
‘What?’ Her grip on the phone tightened.
‘Immediately upon graduating high school, despite somewhat mediocre results, you received an offer of a fully funded university scholarship.’
‘But that was a sc—’ A scam. She’d thought it a scam, like the letter from Prescott & Knight. What the hell?
The train disgorged passengers, pulling her along with the human detritus. She made for a low wall, hugging the safety of stone as she stared through the open arch at the monochrome rainbow of the Harbour Bridge, the phone still pressed to her ear.
She hadn’t pursued the scholarship because she’d known it was bogus.
Dear God, please let it have been bogus.
The life she could have had flashed before her eyes. A life that didn’t smell like week-old hamburger. A life where she had a career. A home. A future. A life that didn’t involve worrying about whether she could make the rent.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the view. ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘That’s me.’
‘Then I shall be immensely pleased to make your acquaintance this morning, Miss Gates.’
The call clicked off, and Roni bolted down the escalator, hurdling the steps rather than wait for the mechanism to grind to the bottom. The lower level was crowded with commuters as passengers jostled their way off ferries. She angled across the flow of workers headed from the dock into the city and shoved the heavy glass door.
‘Door open or shut, Rafe?’
Her boss looked up from behind the workbench, where he had about forty slices of white bread laid out, his hand working in a steady rhythm as he buttered each with a single, practised sweep of his knife. His bald head glistened. ‘Shut. Too humid. Don’t want my stuff sweating.’
‘Right. Thanks for that visual.’ At least it would distract her from replaying the solicitor’s conversation.
‘Looks like she’ll be a spring scorcher today.’
She pulled an apron from the hook behind the counter. An apron that she might never have had to wear if she’d—no. She couldn’t afford those thoughts. Regrets didn’t pay bills. ‘You planning on seeing any of it?’ Rafe came in before her and wouldn’t leave until after dark. He claimed that, because the shop was closed on weekends, he had no need of R&R during the week. Possibly his wife thought differently, but Roni rarely saw her; she would appear once or twice a year surrounded by a bubble of excited, noisy children. She seemed to share the friendly, unassuming manner that made Rafe so easy to be around. Rafe didn’t ask Roni too many questions, didn’t pry, yet held a quiet concern for her welfare. He was a constant fixture and, in a life that had been rife with change and uncertainty, that permanence was remarkable.
She dropped the apron over her head and crossed the waist strap at the back, trying to encourage the loose ends into a knot above her stomach, like the celebrity chefs did on TV.
Rafe waved his knife. ‘Keep telling you, Roni, it’s not going to reach.’
And it would be less likely to reach by the day. A tingle shot into her fingertips, a fizz of anticipation and excitement curling her lip. ‘It won’t reach because you’re a tightarse. Bet you got a discount on aprons with short straps, right?’
A grin split Rafe’s face. ‘Yeah, that’s it. Entirely my fault. Milk delivery’s running late, so stock the fridge soon as it gets here. Bring the old stuff to the front.’
‘Really? Old stuff to the front. Hmm. Let’s see if I can remember that.’ Like she’d not done it a million times. Or at least almost three thousand, but who was counting?
‘Morning.’ She moved to the till, rang up a daily paper and an iced coffee, handed change to the customer. ‘Thanks, have a great day. Rafe, I’m taking lunch at eleven-fifteen, okay?’
‘Nice, Roni. You haven’t even got your apron tied and you’re telling me when you’re off?’
‘Them’s the breaks, my friend. Literally. Hey, don’t suppose you know anyone with a rental?’
‘Sure I do. How many bedrooms do you want?’
Her heart soared with sudden hope. Two pink stripes and her whole world was looking better. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Rafe earlier? Sydney born and bred, he knew about a million people. ‘I’ll take pretty much anything I can get.’
‘How do you fancy three bedrooms, detached, with gardens?’
‘Oh, I fancy, all right. Are you offering to quadruple my pay, though?’ She couldn’t think what came in the sequence beyond quadruple, which would be nowhere near enough.
‘No pay rise. Place is going cheap.’
She frowned, her hands busy shifting the baked goods in the warmer, making sure they heated evenly. ‘Nothing goes cheap here.’
Rafe tugged sheets of cling wrap off an industrial-sized roll, flipping the sandwiches and tucking the ends of the plastic under. ‘Ah, here? You didn’t mention you wanted it here. Specificity, Roni. No, this place is in Victoria.’
‘So the commute to work would be even worse? Great. You’re hilarious.’
‘See, that’s what I keep trying to tell Tanya. I’m thinking of doing a stand-up night at the pub, what do you reckon?’
‘I reckon you’ll be shouted off the stage.’ She shoved the coffee machine’s group handle under the grinder, murdering beans to drown out her boss. Then she relented. With a house full of kids, Tanya wouldn’t be able to go along to support Rafe. ‘Let me know if you want me to come and fake laugh, though.’ Fervently hoping he would refuse her offer, she tempered milk to a creamy smoothness. As a familiar fragrance wafted past her, discernible even over the rich aroma of fresh coffee, she drew a decaf latté, then made eye contact with pinstripe-suit guy. His lip quirked and a five-dollar note slid across the counter.
She didn’t bother to accidentally touch his hand.
Greg had been the final lesson, a refresher course her life should have made unnecessary. No man could be trusted. Her and Scritches. And the baby. That’s how it would be from now on. And that would be just fine.
Chapter Four
Roni hid one of her scuffed shoes behind her calf and sank deeper into the chair, aware of the odour of deep fryer clinging to her hair and clothes. Not that Derek Prescott had let on. He’d stood as she was ushered into the office, stret
ching over a gleaming wooden desk to shake her hand and urge her to take a seat.
Had she known she would end up here she could have brought a change of clothes.
Except she wouldn’t have. She never needed to pretend anything.
Not since she’d grown up, anyway.
Having requested coffee from the secretary seated in his outer office, Prescott was absorbed in sorting through a sheaf of papers he had retrieved from a leather folder. He shuffled them and tapped the base against the desk, a physical reprimand for daring to slide out of place. ‘Now, Ms Gates, I must say, this is a rather unusual case.’
‘Case?’ He was an actual solicitor, the law-practising variety, the kind that sued people? She surreptitiously wiped her palms on her thighs.
‘Yes. Ms Nelson has been a lifelong client. Not only am I much saddened by her passing, but the manner of her bequest will make for some unusual trials.’
‘Bequest?’ She sounded like a parrot. But he’d said the trial word. Surely not in the right context? Or at least, not in the scary context? She tucked her hands under her thighs. ‘Mr Prescott, I have no idea why I’m here. I tried to explain that you have the wrong person, but you’re convinced otherwise. I don’t know any Mary Nelson.’
‘Marian,’ the solicitor corrected. ‘Marian Nelson. Yes, I do realise you are unaware of the tale attached to your inheritance—’
‘Inheritance?’
He ignored her interruption. ‘Which is no doubt going to make the explanation more difficult. Veronica—may I call you that?’
‘Roni,’ she replied mechanically. How could she have an inheritance? Unless—the breath caught in her throat. ‘Mr Prescott, was Mary—Marian Nelson my mother?’ The words tripped over each other as she connected the dots. When she’d been far younger, still compelled to find family, she’d searched for her birth parents. But with her father not listed on her birth certificate she had only her mother’s name to go on. And, apparently, Sierra Octavia Simmondsen had never existed, at least not in Australia. Which indicated her mother deliberately hid from her.
Yet … an inheritance meant her mother was now revealing herself.
She linked her fingers in her lap, squeezing to stop their excited fluttering. Not at the thought of an inheritance but at the realisation that her mother was belatedly acknowledging and claiming her.
‘No.’
Her hands fell limp like dead birds.
‘No, Ms Nelson was not your mother. Well, actually, Ms Nelson is your mother. But not Ms Marian Nelson. Following my client’s death, I am directed to divulge that her sister, Ms Denise Nelson, is your mother. Marian is—was, I mean, do forgive me—your aunt.’
‘But … Sierra Simmondsen?’
‘Ah,’ Prescott tapped a fountain pen on the desk. ‘Yes, Sierra. It seems that, given enough money, it is not impossible to fabricate an identity in Australia.’
Roni stared at her reflection in the polished wood of the desk as she tried to digest the information. ‘Sierra and … Denise. They are the same person?’
‘Indeed,’ Prescott replied sparely, seeming to give her time to process.
‘Wait,’ she said, jerking upright. ‘My mother is alive?’
Mr Prescott heaved a sigh that seemed out of all proportion to her question. He turned the silver pen end over end between his fingers, then looked up as the secretary re-entered. ‘Ah, coffee. Excellent, thank you, Robin. Sugar, Ms Gates?’
‘No, thank you.’ She crossed her arms.
The solicitor stirred his cup and darted a glance at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. Heaved another sigh. Clearly he hoped she would politely let the subject drop.
Prescott tapped his teaspoon three times on the side of his china mug and then laid it on the tray alongside a tiny sugar bowl. Went for a trifecta with the heavy sighs. ‘Yes, Ms Gates.’ Evidently, he didn’t like Roni. ‘Your mother is alive.’
‘And she wants to see me?’ She edged forward on her seat. Even asking the question seemed a betrayal of everything she’d told herself, of her determination not to be needy. A revelation of the desire she’d fought so hard for so many years to subjugate, telling herself that it didn’t matter if she was unwanted because she didn’t want her parents anyway. But now she needed to know.
‘Ah.’ He straightened his perfect tie. ‘I don’t act for Denise Nelson, so I cannot speak on her behalf.’ His frown made his reluctance seem somewhat deeper set than a simple lack of authority. ‘I’m only authorised to speak with you regarding your aunt’s bequest. As you may have deduced from our conversation this morning, she retained a lifelong interest in your welfare. Although constraints were in place preventing her from contacting you, Ms Nelson arranged for small conveniences, such as the driving lessons and the scholarship.’
‘The scholarship was real?’ Her words came out low, a mournful acknowledgment of lost opportunity.
‘Most certainly. Your aunt hoped you would seize the chance to make something of yourself.’
She glared at the solicitor’s impassive face. ‘I’m doing just fine. I don’t need handouts.’ Even though no way would she ever have been able to afford her driver’s licence without ‘winning’ the lessons.
Prescott made little patting motions in the air to calm her. ‘I do appreciate that, Veronica. As did your aunt. In fact, she took a fair measure of pride in how you’ve managed over the years. It was the final factor in deciding her bequest.’
The excitement darting through her helped push down the surge of disappointment at finding her mother must know her whereabouts but hadn’t sought contact. Years of allowing false hope—before she’d learned better—meant she was practised in focusing on the positive; so what exactly was the bequest? If she had to be called in to a flash office, could it be enough to pay the bond on a new place? Perhaps even a few weeks’ rent? She knew that it would be gauche to ask, though. Not to mention needy. She firmed her chin and her mental resolve: if some unknown woman left her a token she would accept it, but she sure as hell didn’t need it.
Prescott pulled a page from the sheaf of papers. ‘Subject to a number of conditions, this property now falls to you, Ms Gates.’ He slid an A4 photograph across the desk.
A house.
A bloody house.
No, she couldn’t allow such a ridiculous notion. Prescott meant she had inherited the potted plants that stood sentinel either side of the front door in the shade of a bull-nosed verandah running the length of the stone building.
Two windows, evenly spaced on either side of the front door, created a face, the broad steps up to the porch a smiling mouth. Laughing at her wild imagination.
She stared at the photo, searching for a clue. Perhaps the solicitor was testing her greed? Or maybe he meant the wrought-iron outdoor setting was hers? Placed to the right of the door, between the plant pot and an eight-paned window, it looked sturdy. Floral cushions softened the seats of two white lacework chairs and the round table held a single teacup and a vase of drooping, heavy-headed roses.
Roni drew back, crossing her legs and picking at black fraying denim on her knee, trying to feign nonchalance. But her mind whirled. Why show her a photo instead of simply handing over the inheritance? The furniture or plants could have been—surely would have been—sent to her.
So that left the house. Except it couldn’t be.
Could it?
As though reading her mind, Prescott nodded. ‘The house is old. Over one hundred and thirty years, I believe. But solid. Four bedrooms, although, unfortunately, there is only one bathroom.’
‘One bathroom?’ She wasn’t questioning the number, but trying to buy time while whatever had just exploded inside her head settled down.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But it’s a house. My aunt left me a house?’ Incredulity forced her voice up to a squeak.
‘Oh, no, Veronica.’
No, of course not. She stared at the photo, trying to will the flush of embarrassment to stay beneath her shir
t, not to crawl up into her cheeks. What she would give for a hole in the expensively carpeted floor right now.
Prescott tapped the photo. ‘Not a house, Veronica. As I said, a property.’
Semantics. He could call it whatever he liked as long as he actually meant that this beautiful building was hers. ‘Okay, so the house is a property. But you’re sure this woman—my aunt—left it to me?’
‘No, no, the house isn’t a property. The house is included with the property. Along with a number of stone outbuildings. Barns and sheds, mostly, I believe. And a smaller cottage.’
The blood thundered in her ears so hard she could barely hear his next words. Which didn’t much matter, because they were far beyond her comprehension.
‘Set on eight hundred acres.’
Acres. She had no concept of how much an acre was but it was certainly larger than a Sydney backyard. And apparently she now had eight hundred of them. And a mother. She lifted her cup with extreme care and gulped the coffee, scalding her tongue.
Her gaze returned to the photograph. ‘This was my aunt’s home?’
Prescott steepled his fingers as he looked down at the picture, his voice soft. ‘For her entire life.’
‘So my mother also lived there?’
‘I believe that is the case.’
‘But she doesn’t live there now?’ She coughed, trying to cover the sudden note of begging in her voice. Why did it matter where her mother, the woman who’d surrendered her, lived?
‘My understanding is that she lives in the district.’
‘Then why would my aunt leave the property to me?’
‘That’s really not my place to say. But she has left you a letter.’
Why did it strike her as odd to receive a letter from someone she had never known existed when she had just been given a house by that same person? Correction, a property. ‘You said there are conditions attached to the inheritance? Is that … normal?’
The solicitor made an odd gurgling noise, which may have been a chuckle. ‘Very little about your aunt could have been considered normal. She was a truly remarkable woman.’ He turned to his file, flipping pages, and then withdrew an envelope. ‘The condition listed here is that you view the property. Not too onerous a task, I would think.’ His magnified eyes caught the overhead light as he looked over the top of his wire-framed glasses.
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing Page 3