‘That’s me. And mum. Before …’ James took the photo in his trembling hands.
‘This isn’t easy, I know.’ Nicole tried to comfort him with a smile.
‘No. But I want to put it all together. His story.’ His voice cracked. ‘I have to.’
‘Shall we get some fresh air?’ Nicole suggested.
On the way out Nicole saw a single dust-free book among the untouched novels and tattered volumes of encyclopaedia that lined the shelves. She reached out and touched it and then picked up the old copy of David Copperfield, Ivy’s beloved novel that had once belonged to her father. The inside cover was inscribed.
‘Charlie, you have found your home. Ivy.’
Nicole handed it to James, but he pressed it into her chest.
‘This one is definitely for you.’
Together they sat on Charlie and Ivy’s bench and watched the ocean kiss the shore and retreat in rhythmic repetition.
‘Before I go home, I think maybe you should read this.’ James handed Nicole his letter from Charlie.
‘It’s not exactly light reading.’ His smile was warm, his cheekbones strong, his grey eyes intelligent, just like his father’s. ‘But, if I’m ever going to reconcile any of this, total disclosure is best.’
Nicole stared at the letter. ‘I’m not sure about this.’ She shook her head.
‘From what I’ve learned this week, you knew him best, and he trusted you. And one thing I am sure of is that if he did trust you, well, then that means something. Somehow you and I have to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.’
He pressed the letter into her hands, squeezing them tightly.
The pain in Nicole’s chest threatened to double her over as she slowly took in every word of Charlie’s confession. If it wasn’t in his own handwriting, she’d never have believed it. Beside her James played with the collar of his linen shirt. He’d been in Rosella Cove for a week now and every day he’d worn a collared shirt.
As he pushed it up and down she saw a scar.
‘Is that …?’
He sat still and let her look.
Dr James Baker, burns specialist. Charlie’s letter. The scars. All the fragments of information started to take shape.
‘Surely he didn’t burn it down …’ She looked into James’s eyes. ‘I mean, not deliberately … with you guys inside …’
James shrugged and Nicole went back over Charlie’s letter.
‘I just can’t believe … it had to be an accident.’ Though Charlie’s words were clear. In a drunken rage he’d set fire to his house, wife and child trapped inside.
‘I’m still trying to figure it all out. Alcohol can do funny things to people. Turns you into someone you’re not. It had a hold of him good, that much I know. I also know he pulled me out of the flames. There was nothing left of the house. My mum, Hannah, she never blamed him, you know. She tried to find him once. But she was weak. The firefighters managed to get her out, but her lungs were never the same. It wasn’t long after that that she died.’
His voice wavered. Nicole held his hand.
‘I was so young. All I’ve got to go on is in here, really.’ He took back the letter and folded it carefully. ‘And what you’ve told me.’
Nicole breathed out and shook her head, thinking of the three different Charlies now unmasked. The guilt-ridden exile who’d saved Ivy’s life and had been her loyal companion, the man in her letters; the angry, violent drunk described in his own words; the gentle recluse Nicole herself knew and loved.
Over dinner that night, James was particularly quiet. ‘Nicole. I’ve been thinking. About the cottage. My life is in Sydney and until I figure out what any of this Charlie stuff means, it doesn’t feel right to sell this place. Would you be interested in renting it for another twelve months?’
Nicole had to stop herself from launching across the table to hug him.
‘I would love that, very much.’
James nodded.
The next day Nicole helped him load his suitcase into his car. ‘See you in a few weeks.’
‘Next time, I’ll stay longer. Organise a proper replacement at the hospital.’ He squeezed her hand.
‘Oh, please do. And study that dictionary of yours. Scrabble match first night you’re back.’
‘Will do,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if I bring my family next time? You can meet the kids.’
‘I’d really like that.’
Days faded into weeks, and spring melted into summer.
Nicole sat at her desk with a cup of tea. On his last visit, James had helped her move it into the boatshed, under the portal window that looked out to sea. She and Mandy had cleared out the old building, sorting through Ivy and Charlie’s things. Trevor had built shelves and cupboards around the walls and it was starting to feel like a proper study.
She finished the email she’d been composing and hoped with all her heart Jane would respond. Mandy had put her up to it. Now that she was settled in Rosella Cove, was there anything else in her past she wanted to lay to rest? Nicole had told her about Jane last night over dinner.
‘Don’t text her, though.’ Mandy had encouraged her. ‘What if she’s changed her number? You did when you came here. Besides, texts are so impersonal and short. Maybe writing to her will give you both the space to say what needs to be said.’
The space to say what needs to be said. So much had happened to Nicole in the year and a half since she’d spoken with Jane. So much Jane didn’t know, even before they stopped speaking.
A plethora of alternative scenarios around their history had suddenly become apparent to Nicole. She didn’t know if reaching out like this would work, but she had to try.
She hit send on the email and hoped. Hoped Jane’s old email address was still in use. Hoped she would reply.
She pulled out her notes and research and sat them next to Ivy’s box. The information about Ivy’s parents she’d sourced from the university the past few weeks had been interesting. More than interesting. Ivy’s mother’s money was very old, aristocrat old, and when she’d married Ivy’s father it had caused quite a stir. Having James help her navigate the massive library archives had certainly proved fruitful.
On the shelf behind her sat the Scrabble box and Charlie’s copy of David Copperfield. The picture of Ivy dancing barefoot in the grass hung where it always had, watching over Nicole, inspiring her.
Danny’s latest letter from Bangladesh sat with the plane ticket he had sent her. In one week she’d be joining him.
She looked at the writing pad in front of her and picked up her favourite pen.
Chapter One
Ivy fidgeted with the pink bow in her hair. She hated bows. She hated pink too, but Mother had insisted she wear it. Top to toe. She pulled at her hair, wishing it could be free from its coiffed constraints. Her feet ached in the ridiculous heels Mother forced her to wear. Her bright, green eyes darted around the room.
The cute boy with the wavy brown locks and warm, dark eyes was looking at her again. The girl he’d arrived with, the one with black hair, was nowhere to be seen. She hoped he would ask her to dance before the girl returned, before Ivy tore the pink bow from her hair and caused a scene, before Mother forced her into the arms of the Fitzgerald lad, Hubert.
Mother didn’t approve of young people going to dances, even when Father insisted. It was for a good cause he’d said. Ivy had begged Mother to let her go. She was never allowed to do anything remotely resembling fun. But neither of these forces could sway Mother. It was only when she heard the Fitzgeralds would be there, including their pimply letch of a son with his extremely healthy trust fund in tow, that she changed her mind.
All evening Mother had been working the Fitzgeralds over by the punch bowl at the back of the hall. If she hadn’t been so terrified of dancing with Hubert, Ivy might have found Mother’s talents impressive.
She could see from the smile on Mother’s face that an agreement had been reached. She turned to escape.
She felt a tap on her shoulder.
‘I hope you aren’t leaving.’
Ivy turned to face those warm, dark eyes that had enchanted her from the moment she saw them.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said, extending his hand to escort her on to the floor. ‘I’m Thomas Wilson.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Joel Naoum of Critical Mass Consulting for helping massage an earlier version of The Cottage at Rosella Cove and for giving me direction with this story. Your insight and knowledge is second to none.
Jan Wallace Dickinson, thank you for lending your expertise on postwar Italian tourism to this project. Your willingness to help when I reached out to you is why I love the writing community.
To my wonderful writing buddies, Shell, Max, Georgie, El and Benison, thank you for your continued support and being there throughout this process. Thanks also to Anne S and Adrienne M for your ninja moves in bookshops.
Dianne Blacklock, you are the best unofficially adopted mentor a girl could hope for. Thank you for your wise counsel, for talking me off the editing ledge (more than once), and for helping me navigate the world of being a published author. Every writer needs a Di in their life, and I’m so grateful I have you.
Thank you to my amazing beta readers – Mishell Currie for being my staunch cheerleader, for loving this story before I did, and for your amazing support throughout (how many copies of The Kookaburra Creek Café do you own?!); Jennifer Johnson for your unwavering support, your willingness to read yet another version of Rosella Cove at the eleventh hour, and your beautiful texts that keep me going.
Léonie Kelsall, my wonderful critique partner, thank you for the oh-so-many late night messenger conversations about writing, publishing, family, editing and all the stressors that come with this journey and for being such an integral part of Rosella Cove. Thank you for flying across the country to be with me when The Kookaburra Creek Café came out. You are awesome.
Thank you, Kimberley Atkins, for taking a chance on me and my little stories about small towns with big hearts. I am forever grateful.
To my team at Penguin Random House – Ali, Elena and Emily – thank you for all you do to bring my stories to life and get them into the hands of readers. Thank you for your patience (especially you, Elena) as we wrangled this story into what it was meant to be. Thank you, Laura, for your beautiful cover designs. Everywhere I go people comment on how stunning they are.
To my in-law family, thank you for all your support, from buying books and travelling to events to spreading the word.
To my mum, Irene, thank you for tying down every single bowls player on the entire mid-north coast and forcing them to buy The Kookaburra Creek Café. Are you ready to do it again with Rosella Cove?
To my sister, Karen, thank you for all your support and for loving Ivy and Nicole and Charlie from the very start. This is the one that brought us back together. This one is for you.
To my husband, Chris, for ensuring I have the time and space to follow this dream, thank you. Sorry for screaming at you when the edits weren’t going well, but if you can’t scream at the one you love, who can you scream at?
My beautiful daughter, Emily, every day you amaze me with your strength and determination. I hope you know what an inspiration you are to me.
And finally, to the booksellers and librarians and my readers, thank you all for your support!
Sandie Docker grew up in Coffs Harbour, and fell in love with reading when her father encouraged her to take up his passion for books. Sandie first decided to put pen to paper (yes, she writes everything the old-fashioned way before hitting a keyboard) while living in London. Now back in Sydney with her husband and daughter, she writes every day.
www.sandiedocker.com
@SandieDockerwriter
ALSO BY SANDIE DOCKER
The Kookaburra Creek Café
Book Club Questions
Do you think Nicky is justified in her desire to start her life over again in a whole new place?
Nicky believes that Mark loves her ‘in his way’. Is this ever enough?
Rosella Cove is a tight-knit, supportive community. What are the pros and cons of living in a small town like this?
In what ways do Ivy and Nicole’s stories mirror each other?
What does Ivy mean when she says of Lucy: ‘In each other’s company, neither of us need put on the brave face we do with others to protect those around us from our grief’?
Charlie says, ‘The less you’re seen, the more you see.’ Explain.
In what ways is the renovation of the cottage physically and symbolically significant to Nicole’s journey?
At the end of the novel, despite trying to make amends for his past, does Charlie find redemption?
What is it that finally gives Nicole the strength to say no to Mark?
Discuss the issue of gaslighting and why we seem to hear more about it these days.
Danny leaves for Bangladesh, but do you think Nicole and Danny’s relationship will continue?
What similarities can you find between this novel and the author’s first book, The Kookaburra Creek Café?
Welcome to the Kookaburra Creek Café
THE PAST
For Hattie, the café has been her refuge for the last fifty years – her second chance at a happy ending after her dreams of being a star were shattered. But will the ghosts of her past succeed in destroying everything she’s worked so hard to build?
THE PRESENT
For Alice, the café is her livelihood. After Hattie took her in as a teenager, Alice has slowly forged a quiet life as the café’s manager (and chief cupcake baker). But with so many tragedies behind her, is it too late for Alice’s story to have a happy ending?
THE FUTURE
For Becca, a teenager in trouble, the café could be the new start she yearns for. That is, if she can be persuaded to stop running from her secrets. Can Becca find a way to believe in the kindness of strangers, and accept that this small town could be the place where she finally belongs?
One small town. Three lost women. And a lifetime of secrets.
Read on for a taste …
An excerpt from The Kookaburra Creek Café
Prologue
Kookaburra Creek, 2010
She ran as fast as she could.
‘Where are you?’ she screamed, her voice cracking.
Her throat hurt. Every gasp for air was difficult. She couldn’t see very far through the thick black smoke, but she was sure she was close now. She had to be.
Angry orange flames danced across the tops of the gum trees behind her, chasing her down. But she wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t leave him out here alone.
Be brave.
She coughed. No air.
‘Are you here?’ she rasped.
Trees cracked beside her. Branches exploded, sending hot black shards into the air. She ducked. She weaved.
Be brave.
There in the clearing she could see a quiet shadow.
‘There you are. Silly boy, running off. It’s okay. I’m here now. But we have to go.’ She could see fear in his eyes. ‘Are you hurt? Can you walk?’
He whimpered. She fell to her knees and ran her hands through his thick coat.
Tears started to fall down her face, before evaporating into the hot, dry air. ‘It’s okay. I’m here.’ She coughed again. Each breath was harder than the last.
‘We’ll be okay,’ she said, as she lay down in the dirt beside her best friend. He nuzzled into her arm. ‘We can rest a little bit, then we have to go.’
She closed her eyes, coughing, wheezing. A minute was all she dared rest.
One
Kookaburra Creek, 2018
Alice Pond opened the door to the Kookaburra Creek Café and the brass bell hanging from the entrance frame didn’t clang. Most people entering the ca
fé wouldn’t have noticed the absence of the bell’s ring, but for the last fourteen years every morning of Alice’s life had been exactly the same. Nearly every morning. And that meant Alice certainly did notice.
The oven timer’s discordant buzz, in contrasting harmony with the door chimes, should have assaulted her ears as she opened the door. But there was only silence.
The smell of freshly cooked bread left to bake overnight should have greeted her. But there was no delicious doughy aroma wafting through the room.
Something was wrong.
Alice looked above her head to see the bracket holding the bell to the door frame was slightly bent. Her eyes darted around the room. Everything else seemed to be in place. The green gingham curtains were drawn shut, the piles of serviettes were on the counter where she’d left them the night before, the chairs were still atop the tables.
Then her gaze fell on the counter. The register was open.
Alice’s stomach tightened as she moved slowly through the diningroom.
Carefully she inched open the white shutters that divided the dining room and kitchen. The oven was off. She frowned. The pantry door was slightly ajar and she picked up the rolling pin as she tiptoed past the bench. Not that it would do her any good against a band of thieves, or even one thief if they were serious. But false confidence was better than none.
She stepped towards the pantry door. The sound of something hitting the floor, a lid perhaps, made Alice jump. The buggers better not be into her flour. Surely no one would think to look in there for her stashed savings. Well, whoever they were, they picked the wrong café to break into.
She pushed the slatted door open. A crumpled mess of grey spun round to face her.
‘Ha-ya!’ Alice screamed out, adopting her fiercest ninja pose, rolling pin poised for attack.
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