by Lily Malone
ABOUT LILY MALONE
LILY MALONE might have been a painter, except her year-old son put a golf club through her canvas. So she wrote her first book, His Brand of Beautiful instead. Lily has now written three full length rural romance stories and a novella all published by Harlequin Escape. Her debut trade paperback, The Vineyard In The Hills, was published by Harlequin MIRA in September 2016. Water Under The Bridge is the first in a three-book series, set in the fictional West Australian town of Chalk Hill. When she isn’t writing, Lily likes gardening, walking, wine, and walking in gardens (sometimes with wine). She lives in the Margaret River region of Western Australia with her husband, and two handsome sons who take after their father. Lily is a member of Australian Rural Romance.
She loves to hear from readers and you can find her on Facebook and on Twitter @lily_lilymalone.
To contact Lily, email [email protected] or visit www.lilymalone.wordpress.com
Also by Lily Malone
The Vineyard in the Hills
Available in ebook from Escape Publishing
His Brand of Beautiful
Fairway to Heaven
The Goodbye Ride
Water under the Bridge
Lily Malone
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
To Brian, for believing in me, and giving me dedicated time to spend with all these words.
Contents
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER
1
To be fair, Harvey had warned her, Ella Davenport acknowledged as yet another black house spider succumbed to the bristles of her broom.
Been a few years since anyone lived there, Ella.
Place might need a bit of work, Ella.
This spider was bigger than the others, and angrier too. Gingerly, Ella took the broom and its stowaway to the cement path leading up to the house, shook the creature out, kicked off her shoe, whacked the critter about the ears with her thong and felt immediately better.
There were a few wet black squish marks making a personal tally on the cement path. Not that anyone was scoring, but if they were, she was the winner.
‘Can we go home yet, Mum? This is so dumb.’ Sam appeared around the corner of the house, pushing a wheelbarrow laden with broken terracotta pots, timber offcuts, cardboard, a bike helmet and something that might have once been a rollerblade. Otherwise, it was just an old purple-blue boot on one wheel.
‘Have you finished cleaning out the shed, Sam?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Then the answer is “no, you can’t go home yet,” isn’t it?’
‘But we’ve been here hours.’ Sam rolled his eyes in the way only a ten-year-old could.
‘That lot goes in the skip, thanks, Sam,’ Ella said, motioning with her chin towards the red mini-skip on the street verge. ‘Keep going.’
‘This sucks. No other kid’s mum makes him clean out a complete stranger’s shed.’
‘You’re not another mum’s kid. You’re my kid.’
‘Yeah.’ There was one of those pauses after Sam’s yeah, and Ella knew he was debating whether he could get away with adding something like, doesn’t that suck? Or his current favourite, wish I wasn’t your kid.
Her grip on both broom handle and thong tightened as she waited. Sam was fast learning how to master the put-down, and it hurt Ella more every time.
‘Oh, okay then.’ He gave in, rolling the barrow straight over the spider remnants and out to the street where he thumped each item in the skip harder than the last, before turning on his heel and marching back down the side of the house to the shed at the rear.
Ella blew out a breath and dropped her thong to the pavement so she could step into it, then she paused for a moment to look up at the house.
Lot 3, Chalk Hill Bridge Road, Chalk Hill, aka: the Honeychurch house.
‘For sale,’ she began, aiming for the tone of those ads where you got the slicer, the dicer, the juicer and the extra steak knives. ‘Character property zoned town centre on big block with superb views of Chalk Hill Bridge. Four-bedroom, one-bathroom home with a quaint country-style kitchen and high ceilings throughout, plus wide verandahs for all your entertaining. This month only, spiders are free. Only $649,000. Come on. When was quality ever a bargain? Don’t let a few dollar signs stop you! Call me today. Ella Davenport, Begg & Robertson Real Estate, Chalk Hill.’
The silent home stared back, and Ella felt a little silly. She’d always been good at monologues. She’d had so many hours to spend alone making stuff up in her head. Hours up the lane freestyle, eyes on that thick black line. Five or six days a week from pretty much the day she turned twelve, with only Sundays off to do what she liked.
Well, to do what her parents liked her to do, which was pretty much nothing. No parties. No pizzas. No ice-cream. No chocolate.
No fun.
Ella marched up the steps with her broom, and soon had a rhythm going, humming You Should Be Dancing as she swept. Bee Gees music was great to clean to. It was humid under the verandah roof. Whatever breeze existed couldn’t quite puff its way under the eaves, and dust hung thick in the air, sticking to her skin.
Occasionally a vehicle rumbled over Chalk Hill Bridge away to her left, before continuing slowly towards the T-junction with the Muirs Highway. When that happened, Ella felt the weight of eyes watching her sweep. There was nothing like a For Sale sign at the front of a house to make people in a country town take notice, and it wasn’t like this was your regular runof-the-mill home. This was the Honeychurch property. Old Irma Honeychurch had lived here most of her life.
The way Harvey Begg told it, Irma’s sons had gone on to buy up farming properties out of town, but Irma wouldn’t move. She always said the only way she would leave this place was in a box, unless they dragged her out. Harvey remembered Irma sitting on her rocker on the verandah, watching the bridge. Kids would ride their bikes down the river tracks after school in the spring, dodging magpie attacks for a chance to pick mulberries from the tree out the back. Irma never minded sharing the fruit as long as the kids plucked up the courage to ask. If Irma found you in her mulberry tree and you hadn’t knocked on her front door and asked? There’d be hell to pay, and Harvey had shaken his knuckles in a way that made Ella think of rulers and blackboards, and serious-faced schoolmarms from long ago.
After half an hour, Ella decided the verandah was about as good as she could get it, short of oiling the old jarrah boards, and her DIY enthusiasm wasn’t quite up for that. Maybe if it hadn’t sold in a month …
Be positive, Ella. Just because the place is expensive by Chalk Hill standards doesn’t mean there won’t be someone in Perth, or even Sydney, who thinks
it’s cheap!
Ella glanced around at the willows by the river, the white-painted bridge, and the zero number of cars on the street. So, Sydney to Chalk Hill was a stretch, but come now, sea-change/tree-change, it was a thing.
The place could do with a lick of paint too. She ran her fingertips over the balustrade, feeling the sharp lips of flaking paint. At the very least, sanding the weatherboards smooth would help. She could suggest it to the owner if he’d ever return her calls—
A commotion in the gum trees at the front of the cottage caught Ella’s attention. A flutter of small white wings and the snap of something larger chasing it. Magpie? No, not big enough. Honeyeater? She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t been here long enough to know the native birds.
Squeaks and squawks splintered the afternoon. The little white bird circled and wheeled, but the beating wings kept hammering back towards where Ella stood, rather than away from the house.
She leaned her broom against the exterior wall and trotted down the steps, looking up into the branches that stretched far above her head, shielding her eyes with her hand against the harsh January sun.
The white bird flew straight at her, making Ella duck at the last second with a squeak all her own. The bigger birds left it alone and when Ella turned to track the bird’s flight, she found it huddled on the balustrade, feathers puffed and twitchy.
‘What’s up, little guy?’ Ella crooned, close enough now to see it was a cockatiel with a yellow crest and a circle of orange feathers behind shiny black eyes. It was identical to Perkins I and Perkins II, although Perkins II had more yellow through his wings. ‘Poor little thing. You look all tired out. Were those nasty birds chasing you?’
Ella held out her index finger and inched forward, rotating her wrist as she moved, so that her finger made a horizontal perch. ‘Want to come and say hello?’
The bird cocked a shiny black eye at her and shuffled a couple of steps to Ella’s right. He didn’t fly off.
‘You’re used to people, aren’t you? I think you’re someone’s pet. How did you get out? I bet someone’s missing you, Mr Pretty.’ Ella stepped closer. She held her finger just above the height of the balustrade, in front of the white bird. Then she tried the command she’d used on her birds before. ‘Step up. Up.’
‘Mum? I’m finished.’ Sam’s voice cleared the corner of the old house, and a second or so later, her son appeared.
Ella put the finger she wasn’t holding out to the bird to her lips as she glanced at Sam. He didn’t get the message. ‘What are you doing, Mum? What is it?’
Startled, the bird dove from the verandah post and arced into the garden towards the road. Immediately, the two native birds harassed it and the little cockatiel cut in a hard circle and arrowed swift and true, back towards Ella and Sam. This time he flew to the window and perched on the sill.
‘Where did you find him?’ Sam said quietly, his gaze riveted on the bird. ‘He’s like Perkins II.’
‘Just like him,’ Ella agreed. ‘See if you can get him, Sam. Perkins II loved you.’
‘I’ll try.’ There was more enthusiasm in Sam’s voice than Ella had heard in a long time. As she watched her son climb the steps and approach the cockatiel, she willed the little bird to stay. Stay for Sam. Give him something. Give me something.
‘Hey, Perkins. Hey, little Perk. You look just like our bird used to. We called him Perkins. We call them all Perkins. Come on, mate. Come on. Step up. Up.’ Sam held his finger out just as Ella had.
The cockatiel didn’t shy away, but his beak lowered.
‘Don’t move your finger, Sam,’ Ella warned quietly. ‘Even if he pecks. It shouldn’t hurt. He needs to have confidence in you.’
‘I won’t,’ Sam said. ‘Up. Step up.’
Ella held her breath and, like magic, the bird stepped onto Sam’s finger.
‘Look, Mum.’ The smile on Sam’s face made every tantrum, every insult, every slight she’d suffered from him for the last six months worth it.
‘Careful, buddy. Don’t scare him.’
‘I won’t.’ Sam smoothed behind the cockatiel’s crest. ‘I think he’s thirsty, Mum.’
‘He will be. Especially if he’s been out for a few hours in this heat with wild birds chasing him. I wonder who owns him?’
‘Can we keep him?’ Sam said. Ella heard the yearning.
‘Not if he’s someone’s pet we can’t.’
‘If we can’t find his owner, we could keep him.’
She let that go. ‘We need a cage for him. At the very least we need a box or something or he might fly away again.’
‘There was an old bird cage out in the shed, Mum. I saw it.’
‘I’ll go look. You stay here, Sammy. Don’t take him out from the verandah or those other birds might scare him again.’
‘I won’t.’ Sam leaned so his back was on the windowsill. He’d grown so much this last year. He could almost perch his skinny butt on the brick of the sill. He put his finger to his shoulder and the bird jumped off and balanced near Sam’s ear. Her son’s grin got wider.
Ella moved carefully away from Sam and the bird, then ran down the length of the house towards the garden shed.
It was big as old sheds go, longer than it was wide. The front roller door was up to keep some air moving but even so, it was hot inside. Ella felt a pang of sympathy for Sam working out in it. He’d done a reasonable job of cleaning up the shed. He’d found the slots for all the tools. Old Mr Honeychurch had a collection of woodworking and carpentry tools. Lots of old planes, chisels and the like. His screwdrivers and wrenches had shapes traced on a piece of plywood hung on one wall and Sam had matched up most of the tools.
Different weight silver chain hung coiled over bolts, and longer lengths of timber had been neatly stacked.
Right at the back, near a leaning tower of plastic garden pots and assorted tins of oil and paint, Ella spied the bird cage. It was rusty with age, discoloured on the bottom, and the mirror that must once have hung from the top bars was long gone. A couple of dowel-style perches remained though, along with a container for seed.
At a pinch it would do.
Ella scanned the shed for a container she could use for water. Had to be small enough to get through the cage door …
She found what she was looking for on a work bench—a jar that had once stored instant coffee and now held nails. The jar didn’t interest Ella, but its shallow bottle-green lid did. She untwisted it, washed the lid out under the tap from the rainwater tank off the side of the shed, cleaned it and then filled it. The water ran so smooth and cool over her hands that she cupped her palms and drank, and then splashed and washed her face and neck before splashing water over the bottom of the cage to give it a quick rinse. She hurried with the cumbersome cage back towards the front of the house.
The sound of Sam chatting to the bird warmed Ella’s heart well before she rounded the corner. Slowing her steps so she wouldn’t startle Perkins III (she’d already named him in her head), Ella approached the pair.
‘See if he’ll go in here,’ she said, opening the door of the cage and putting the makeshift water container on the cage floor.
Sam took Perkins III from his shoulder to his finger, then to the cage, but the bird didn’t hop in. Not even when Sam urged him, ‘Step.’
‘Can you get hold of him gently, Sam?’ Ella asked. ‘See if you can put him in.’
‘I’ll try,’ Sam said, taking the instruction seriously.
Sam closed his hand confidently around Perkins III’s wings. The bird looked a bit surprised at the treatment, but he suffered it without pecking Sam’s fingers. Sam put his hand into the cage and released the bird onto the dowel perch.
‘Onya, Sammy,’ Ella said, as Sam closed the wire gate.
They watched the cockatiel for a while. He watched them right back, and Ella began to wonder how she might find the owner. She could put a sign up on the wall at the Post Office. They could take a picture of Perkins III and print it out and put
it up on the power poles like she’d seen before when people lost a cat or a dog.
‘I wish we could keep him,’ Sam said again. There was such a sad edge to his voice, Ella’s heart ached.
‘I wish we could keep him too. He’d make an awesome Perkins III.’
Sam smiled at that.
‘How’s this for a deal? We’ll put the word out that we found him but if no one claims him, then I think we can keep him. I think that’s fair. Okay, Sammy?’
‘I hope no one claims him!’ Sam said. ‘What would he eat, Mum? Can I go down to the produce store and get some seed for him? Perkins II loved those black seeds.’
‘I think the shop would be shut, Sammy. It’s Sunday.’ Ella thought about it. ‘You could ride your bike home and get some celery out of the fridge though, okay? Doesn’t matter if the leaves are on the tops. I have a bit more to do here before I finish up.’
‘Okay.’ Sam was already down the steps, pounding up the path to where his BMX bike lay against what might have once been a classic white picket fence. Unfortunately, it was now missing a couple of pickets and it too was flaked grey and faded.
Ella returned her attention to the bird. ‘What am I gonna do with you, little guy?’
Sam would love it if they never found his owner, but Perkins III had the look of a well-cared for bird. Ella was pretty certain he had people who loved him.
‘We’d love you too,’ Ella cooed at the cockatiel, and for a moment she was tempted to keep Perkins III secret. They’d buy him a new cage and hang it at the rental house.
Then she sighed. Unfortunately, no can do.
Picking her phone out of the back pocket of her dusty denim skirt, Ella thought about how she could get the message out. Chalk Hill had a community Facebook page that would probably work faster than a note on the Post Office wall.
She took a quick picture of Perkins III in the cage, navigated to the page she needed and posted: ‘Found in town. White cockatiel. Very friendly. We have him at Lot 3 Chalk Hill Bridge Rd.’ She thought about it for a moment then deleted the street address to make it read, ‘Old Mrs Honeychurch’s place. We’re here for another hour or so, then we’ll take him home. PM me if you need to find me after 4pm.’