The Summer of Secrets Page 8

  The office was next door to the hairdresser’s, another place of interest for Chloe, as Tammy, the hairdresser, was the missing baker’s girlfriend. Chloe had been careful not to stare as she’d passed, but she’d glanced through the window to see a very slim young woman with bright pink and aqua–streaked hair, chatting and smiling as she cut an elderly woman’s pretty silver curls. At least Tammy seemed to be bravely carrying on as usual while she coped with the huge stress of Ben’s disappearance.

  On arriving at the Progress Association office, Chloe’s first impression had been of a welcoming sitting room, until she’d noticed the businesslike desk and computer that occupied one corner and the walls filled with shelves carrying tourist brochures. The place served as an Information Centre as well and there were posters of beautiful waterfalls, fern-fringed creeks with platypuses, and restaurants that featured local produce on their menus.

  From her comfortable armchair, Chloe noted the glossy pictures of local cheeses and fruit and couldn’t help confessing to the motherly Moira about her mushroom farm fiasco.

  ‘Ah, well, never mind,’ Moira soothed. ‘Some of these farms are very isolated and it takes time to get used to the lie of the land in a new place. But usually, you’ll see a rural block number on a star picket outside the property. That can help.’

  ‘I see.’ Chloe supposed Finn might have explained this if she’d given him half a chance.

  Moira turned to look back over her shoulder at one of the posters. ‘But if you’re interested in stories about farmers and their produce, you might like to talk to Greta Fairlie. She and her husband have a red claw farm.’

  ‘Red claw?’ Chloe’s mind boggled. ‘What’s that? Some kind of bird?’

  ‘No, no. They’re freshwater lobsters. Or is that crayfish? I get them mixed up. Anyway, they’re delicious, and Greta and Mike grow them in ponds.’

  ‘That does sound interesting.’

  ‘Greta will be at the CWA luncheon, so you’ll be able to talk to her then. I’m sure she’d be happy to have a nice little chat and invite you out to look at the farm.’

  ‘I’ll have to make sure I get careful directions,’ Chloe said with a rueful smile. ‘Thanks for the tip, Moira.’ She sliced into the sponge with her fork, and said, carefully, ‘I don’t suppose Finn Latimer covers too many CWA luncheons.’

  ‘No, I don’t think we’ve ever seen Finn there.’ Moira smiled. ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘He has far more important stories to cover.’

  Perhaps Chloe said this a little too forcefully. Moira, tea mug poised to her lips, fixed her with a thoughtful stare. ‘You know Finn’s bark is worse than his bite?’

  ‘Well, I —’

  ‘Of course, you don’t. You’ve only just arrived. You haven’t had time to find out anything about him, or anybody else. But believe me, my dear, Finn’s a softie, really.’

  Chloe found this hard to swallow, but she wisely kept her thoughts to herself. ‘I suppose you ply him with cake,’ she said, smiling as she sent her fork diving back into the chocolate sponge. ‘This is incredibly delicious by the way.’

  Moira’s smile was coy. ‘Well, you know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.’

  Chloe assumed Moira was joking about trying to win Finn’s heart. Grey haired and stout and wrinkled, she had to be, at the very least, twenty years older than him. And yet, when Moira talked about the man, she had the starry-eyed look of a teenage Justin Bieber fan.

  Having now seen her boss sober and smiling – once – Chloe supposed she could understand his attraction. She decided it would be wise to redirect the conversation away from him. ‘So, it’s been a while since you had a female journalist in town?’ she asked.

  Moira nodded. ‘I don’t think there’s been a woman at the Bugle since Izzie Galbraith.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘The paper’s original owner. Izzie and her husband started the Burralea Bugle. Back in the fifties, I think it was, or perhaps even earlier. I know old Gordon Herries looked after the printing press, but Izzie did everything else. For many years there, after she lost her husband, she ran the whole business more or less single-handedly. Even after she finally retired when she was well into her seventies, she kept a close eye on things. There was a shaky stretch with a few different editors. They never seemed to last long. I don’t think they could handle Izzie’s constant vigilance.’

  ‘Wow.’ Izzie might have been intimidating, but Chloe couldn’t help but be impressed. It was amazing to think of a woman starting up a newspaper, way before Women’s Lib, and running the whole show. She hadn’t given any real thought to the Bugle’s history, but she wondered if this was another area she could explore. Only the old-timers would remember Izzie, so the locals would probably find her story quite interesting.

  ‘She sounds awesome,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Moira smiled. ‘I’m sure awesome would be a fitting way to describe Izzie. Emily Hargreaves is her daughter, of course.’

  ‘Really?’ Chloe had been getting quite excited by story possibilities, but now she made a quick mental adjustment. She might do a little research about Izzie Galbraith, but she certainly wouldn’t write anything for publication until she’d spoken to her daughter, the newspaper’s current owner.

  ‘I don’t suppose Izzie’s still alive,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes, she is, actually.’ Moira gave a laughing shake of her head. ‘She must be nearly a hundred, though. She’s in a nursing home these days. Took us all by surprise when she finally moved in, but I don’t think she plans to die anytime soon. I wouldn’t put it past her to live forever.’ Moira hooted at her joke. ‘St Peter’s probably scared she’ll want his job.’

  ‘Goodness. She does sound interesting. And possibly formidable.’

  Clearly, Moira was going to be a very handy source. Chloe was glad she’d decided to check out the Progress Association after an unproductive hour or so alone in the office. Now, she couldn’t help wondering if Emily Hargreaves was as tough as her mother. She’d seemed extremely pleasant during the Skype session, but it would be helpful to be forewarned.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Emily Hargreaves on the phone and on Skype,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t actually met her yet. She seems to be lying low.’

  ‘She’s probably letting you find your feet,’ Moira remarked sagely. ‘Emily’s not one for interfering. As far as I can tell, she pretty much gives Finn free rein.’

  ‘So she doesn’t take after her mother then? At least not where the Bugle’s concerned?’

  ‘Heavens, no. Emily’s a different kettle of fish entirely. For one thing, she’s spent most of her married life on a cattle property out west.’ Moira flattened her lips and she looked, for a moment, as if she might have wanted to say more. But she must have thought better of it. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘You’ll almost certainly meet Emily at the CWA, if not before.’

  Chloe supposed the CWA would be another useful research opportunity, a veritable gathering of who’s who in Burralea. The female half, at any rate. She set down her plate. The cake had been delicious and she’d scoffed the lot. ‘That was so good.’

  ‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe.’

  ‘A strictly guarded family secret?’ Chloe’s mum had always been incredibly reluctant to share their family’s favourite lemon drizzle cake recipe.

  ‘Oh, no, I’ve given it away countless times. And it’s in our local CWA recipe book. Actually, speaking of recipes, you should speak to Greta about her red claw recipes.’

  ‘You think she might let me print one?’

  ‘You can always try. And it wouldn’t hurt her business.’ Before Chloe could thank her yet again, Moira leaned forward and asked with some earnestness, ‘So have you found a place to live yet?’

  The sudden switch in topic took Chloe by surprise and she needed a moment to answer. She was sure it was premature to be thinking about permanent accommodation. She had no intention of quizzing Moira about Finn’s drinking
habits, but she needed to know if the Bugle’s editor had a problem before she committed herself to staying.

  Said editor, by the same token, was obviously sussing her out and if she didn’t measure up, he would no doubt ask Emily to let her go. After this morning’s effort, Chloe knew she still had a hell of a lot to prove.

  ‘I’m staying at the pub at the moment,’ she said.

  ‘Well, no pressure, as folk like to say these days – but if you’re interested, there’s a nice little flat above this office and it’s vacant at the moment. There’d be no one downstairs to bother you in the evenings, apart from a Progress Association meeting on the third Tuesday of the month. So you’d pretty much have the place to yourself, and it’s very handy to the Bugle.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Chloe said carefully.

  ‘Would you like to take a look while you’re here?’

  ‘How much is the rent?’

  The amount Moira named was jaw-droppingly reasonable compared with the prices Chloe was used to in Sydney. She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm in looking.’

  Customers came through the doorway just then, rather earnest and weather-beaten tourists with backpacks and canvas hats and stout hiking boots, enquiring about walking tracks. While Moira attended to them, Chloe took their mugs and plates through to a little sink in the room at the back of the office. The room was beautifully lit with natural light from wide French doors that led to a back garden. She saw timber stairs leading up to the flat above and she couldn’t help feeling curious.

  Moira joined her just as she finished drying the plates.

  ‘Oh, aren’t you a dear to do that, Chloe? Thank you. So let’s go up, shall we?’ Moira kept up a running commentary as they ascended the stairs. ‘Debbie, a nurse at the hospital, was our most recent tenant, but she’s taken off to work overseas. Before her, Alice Miller was here. She’s a furniture restorer and she lived up here and had her little shop below where we have our office now. Alice used the space out the back as a workshop.’

  Moira’s eyes widened significantly. ‘She’s married now, to a cattleman, Seth Drummond, and she lives with him on a property called Kooringal. I believe there’s a baby on the way.’

  A baby on the way.

  To Chloe’s dismay, these few words and the simple happy image they conjured still had the power to pierce her heart and flood her with miserable memories.

  Stop it.

  She swallowed hard. That was all in the past. Unfortunately, she couldn’t have those memories electronically deleted from her brain, so she simply had to get a grip.

  Blinking away the threat of tears, she straightened her shoulders and followed Moira into the flat, which was quite small, but rather charmingly furnished. Chloe particularly liked the polished timber floors, and the curvy red leather armchairs and shaggy cream rug in the lounge room. And there was a gorgeous claw-foot tub in the black and white–tiled bathroom.

  ‘And here’s the lovely big bedroom,’ Moira announced with the air of a real estate agent.

  The bedroom was indeed spacious and it even had a dear little bay window. There would be room for a bassinet, or a baby’s cot.

  Of course, Chloe regretted this thought as soon as it jumped into her head. And yet, her heart gave a queer little thud.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Moira asked, leading Chloe back into the kitchen and opening a pantry cupboard to show off the laminated shelving.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Chloe said.

  ‘So convenient to your work and the shops.’

  ‘Yes.’ It could be quite perfect – if she was going to stay.

  ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ Moira said. ‘We’re not being inundated with prospective tenants.’

  ‘Well, thanks for showing it to me anyway, and thanks for the morning tea. I’ll have to book a time to interview you properly about the Progress Association, but for now, I really should get back to the office.’

  Moira laughed. ‘So should I.’

  Two hours later, Finn still hadn’t returned, but Chloe had spent the time trawling through the internet and she was now totally excited by what she had discovered about Isabella Margaret Galbraith. Running the Burralea Bugle had been a tame achievement compared with the rest of Izzie’s story.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The man in Emily’s bed was not her husband.

  She woke early, out of habit, just as the first light filtered through the trees beyond the bedroom’s uncurtained windows, and her first thought was one of gratitude. She’d made it through the long hours of the dark night without being plagued by the usual nightmares and harrowing grief.

  Then she rolled over and found him lying beside her, his bulky arm flung wide, taking up more than half of the bed. A beefy fellow, with rusty hair and a greying beard. A bear of a man.

  Emily’s heart gave a guilty thud as she remembered. Everything.

  Rolf Anders’ ultra-rugged appearance was deceptive. He was a considerate and intuitive lover, but now, as the pearly light of a new day drifted deeper into the house, Emily wished she wasn’t privy to that knowledge. Icy fingers of doubt plucked at her skin.

  She sat up, embarrassed to find herself naked. Carefully, she rose from the bed, tiptoed across the room and grabbed her dressing gown from a hook on the back of the ensuite door. With the sash safely tightened, she continued through the house to the other bathroom, which she could use without fear of waking Rolf. She needed privacy to think.

  Last night, inviting an old family friend to dinner, someone she and Alex had entertained many times, had made perfect sense, especially as Alex appeared to have deserted her. He still hadn’t tried to contact her since he’d left for Red Hill, the western Queensland cattle property that they still owned and where he and Emily had lived for more than thirty years.

  Alex loved the west, of course. Emily knew that. In recent years, he had agreed to retire here to the Lake House and put in a manager at Red Hill, but she understood his hankering for the outback with its harsh, rugged beauty, so different from this softer, greener country near the coast. And it was the mustering season. Helicopters were mostly used these days, but Alex enjoyed nothing better than to be on horseback again, chasing after the mob. So it was understandable that he wanted to oversee the fate of his cattle was reasonable. However, he had a perfectly good satellite phone, so there was no real excuse for his silence.

  Alex hadn’t even bothered to ring back after she’d left messages on his phone, and so she’d called the homestead number and had spoken to Janice, the housekeeper.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Janice had assured her. ‘Mr Alex arrived safely, all right. He’s been busy organising the muster, but he’s here at the homestead right now, enjoying a beer on the verandah. Shall I fetch him?’

  ‘No, don’t bother him,’ Emily had said, but she’d been shaking as she hung up. Before he’d left, she’d suffered months of her husband’s silence and a chilling tension between them, and she couldn’t have borne to hear his clipped, terse response if he’d been called to the phone.

  So she’d welcomed Rolf Anders when he arrived yesterday evening. Rolf lived across the lake and he’d come by canoe, as he always did, just on dusk, bringing two bottles of very expensive vintage wine along with attentive and intelligent conversation.

  Emily had been well prepared, with a chicken casserole in the slow cooker, and they’d sat together on the deck, enjoying the welcome breeze that rippled the surface of the lake, watching the pelicans and ducks forage in the last of the daylight.

  She had produced a platter of olives and cheese to accompany the excellent red wine, while the sunset spread a cloth of crinkled gold over the lake. Rolf was a writer, a thinker and an engaging conversationalist, and he and Emily had talked about everything under the sun, from politics to the price of beef to their favourite poetry. He had made her laugh, a rare gift these days.

  With the arrival of nightfall, they’d gone inside to eat dinner by flickering candlelight. A
mistake, perhaps, but she couldn’t really blame the romantic setting. They’d listened to a playlist that Robbie had compiled before he’d left for Syria – an interesting, poignant mix of his favourites, plus some of hers and Alex’s.

  The comforting glow of the candles, the rich full-bodied wine and the gift of an attentive, sympathetic listener had worked a subtle magic. Emily and Rolf had actually talked about Robbie – which was momentous – something Alex hadn’t been able to do for the past twelve months.

  With Rolf, Emily had even talked about the greatest taboo of all, the terrible way her son had died – not from a terrorist’s missile striking his Super Hornet in an engagement with the enemy, but a mechanical failure, a cruel act of fate. As a passenger in an American helicopter spinning out of control, Robbie had fallen and crashed to the unforgiving desert, the plane bursting into a ball of fire.

  Perhaps it was inevitable that the telling had taken its toll, and Emily had broken down, but Rolf hadn’t retreated from her as Alex would have done. Like a fragile boat drifting dangerously close to rocks, she had seen Rolf as the steady beam of a lighthouse. And he had taken her into his arms, offering her the comfort and solace she’d so desperately craved.

  Taking him to her bed had been a very natural progression. Rolf wasn’t Alex. He was totally different. Not better. No, never better, just different, and she had savoured the knowledge that he wanted her.

  Afterwards, Emily had slept peacefully for the first time in more than a year. She’d even had happy dreams about Robbie, a vision of him being here at the house with a girlfriend, a girl with dark hair and dancing eyes and a beautiful smile.

  In her dream, Robbie and the girl had gone swimming, laughing and flirting with each other as they’d wrestled playfully in the water. They’d cooked sausages over an open fire at the lake’s edge, and Emily had watched them from the kitchen window, filled with the glow of maternal joy. Robbie was fine. He was happy. Falling in love. All was well.