Birthright Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FIONA LOWE has been a midwife, a sexual health counsellor and a family support worker; an ideal career for an author who writes novels about family and relationships. She spent her early years in Papua New Guinea where, without television, reading was the entertainment and it set up a lifelong love of books. Although she often re-wrote the endings of books in her head, it was the birth of her first child that prompted her to write her first novel. A recipient of the prestigious USA RITA® award and the Australian RuBY award, Fiona’s books are set in small country towns and feature real people facing difficult choices and explore how family ties and relationships impact on their decisions.

  When she’s not writing stories, she’s a distracted wife, mother of two ‘ginger’ sons, a volunteer in her community, guardian of eighty rose bushes, slave to a cat and is often found collapsed on the couch with wine. You can find her at her website, fionalowe.com, and on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Goodreads.

  Also by Fiona Lowe

  Daughter of Mine

  Birthright

  Fiona Lowe

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To the men in my life—my father, my husband and my sons—who taught me that the love and support of a good man eases life’s load.

  No legacy is so rich as honesty—William Shakespeare

  Where there’s a will, there’s a relative—Roger Karshner

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  Excerpt

  CHAPTER

  1

  ‘It’s Sunday morning on Australia’s radio show.’

  The twang of a banjo exploded in Sarah’s ears, hauling her aggressively and abruptly out of a deliciously deep sleep. Worse than that, it imploded a wondrous dream of a place where she floated peacefully, bathing in all its wonder. A place no one expected her to juggle the transport logistics of bread and cheese, solve staffing issues, find missing wallets/keys/phones/items of school uniforms/homework—in fact, no one was asking her to do anything at all. It was her definition of bliss.

  She lay momentarily stunned, her heart pounding and her mind struggling to compute more than No! Too early! Go away! The realisation it was Mother’s Day dribbled into her consciousness more slowly, before jabbing her like the sharp end of stick.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn’t you check the alarm last night?

  She’d shared her life with Alex for twenty-two years and she was intimate with the fact that eighty per cent of the time he forgot to switch off the six-day-a-week radio alarm on Saturday night. So here she was awake in the dark at 6.30 am on Mother’s Day. Fabulous! The temptation to wallow in a seductive bath of ‘why today of all days?’ tugged at her, but martyrdom wasn’t a coat that fit. All her life she’d been a problem solver, a fixer—a woman who got things done. Sure, she was awake ridiculously early on a day that was technically ‘her day’, when sleeping in was an essential part of the manual, but was it an opportunity? Carpe diem and all that jazz? She smiled. This year, they only had one kid at home and she’d bet Gus wouldn’t be up this early, giving her and Alex plenty of time to celebrate.

  Rolling over, she moved to spoon her husband. Her arms touched warm but empty sheets just as Alex’s feet hit the floor with their usual thump. A streak of cool air zoomed in under the doona, skating up her spine. She sat up in the dark.

  ‘You’re going for a ride?’

  The sound of lycra snapping against skin answered her. She worked at not sighing out loud and actively bit off the words, ‘It’s Mother’s Day’. There was no point uttering them.

  When the children were little, Alex had helped them make her breakfast in bed but the moment they’d become teenagers he’d stepped back, saying, ‘She’s your mother, not mine.’ Apparently, Mother’s Day had never got close to an event for the Hadfield family. Sarah tried to take the same hands-off approach to Father’s Day but she was hopeless; each year she found herself reminding the kids it was coming up, cajoling each of them into making a card, and she always arranged a family outing.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ Alex said, his early-morning voice raspy.

  The yellow light from his bedside lamp penetrated her closed eyelids, turning everything orange. ‘Argh.’ She pulled the doona over her head.

  ‘Sorry.’

  The light snapped off and as if that was their cue, the dawn chorus of raucous cockatoos screeched as loudly and as stridently as a fire siren. She flinched; the sound mocking her for entertaining thoughts of sleeping in. Alex silently patted her shoulder and she sleepily raised her head for a kiss. She missed and her cheek hit his shoulder as his hair brushed her forehead. Oh well. At least they were still trying after two decades together. It was more than could be said for many of their peers.

  Over the last few years, there’d been a cascade of divorces in Mingunyah. The domino effect had started after Bianca Russo drank too much red wine at a Rotary dinner, grabbed the microphone and announced to the room she was leaving her husband. More marriages went on to fail, and each time Sarah heard of another separation she found herself examining her own marriage. Alex didn’t seem to need the same reflection. Their discussion on the night of Bianca’s bombshell was a case in point.

  ‘You know what this means?’ Alex’s coffee-coloured eyes had shone with the same enthusiasm that had captured her heart two decades earlier.

  ‘That yet another marriage of people our age has hit the wall?’

  A momentary look of remorse crossed his face. ‘Yeah, that part’s sad. But their land abuts the farm. We could build a fourth dairy. Milk another two thousand goats and secure our milk supply. This is the next step in taking our cheese beyond Victoria.’

  It was a tempting idea, one that would free them up from relying on other milk suppliers. ‘They may not want to sell.’

  ‘Oh, I think they will. Ed paid top dollar for that place and it’s heavily geared. There’s no way Bianca will get her share of the marriage assets without them selling. And we’ll be waiting in the wings with an offer they can’t refuse.’

  ‘Look out, Australia,’ she teased, ‘Mingunyah Cheese is coming.’

  ‘We’re not stopping at Australia. Think of the foodies living on the West Coast of the US. They’ll fall over themselves to get their hands on our healthy, organic cheese.’

  As always, his excitement was both terrifying and infectious. ‘I always knew life with you wouldn’t be boring.’

  ‘Damn straight.’ He’d grinned and kissed her again before demonstrating exactly how exciting and exhilarating life with him could be.

  Back then, they’d thought the goal of entering the American market was the ultimate prize, but they’d been wrong—China was the crowning glory. They’d opened an office there and now exported their marinated goat’s cheese and sheep’s yoghurt. It was beyond their wildest dreams and recently, with a middle management structure firmly in place, they finally had time to explore interests outside of the business. Sarah was yet to get out from under her workload and family commitments but Alex had committed
to cycling.

  He was a cycling store’s dream come true, from his state-ofthe-art Italian, full carbon-fibre bike with its lights, computer and little solar panel for charging his phone, to his gloves for every season and booties with heated insoles. Given that winter mornings were below zero, it made sense. Sarah didn’t begrudge him the thousands of dollars he’d spent on getting kitted out—it wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford it. In fact their bakery benefitted from cycling tourists and skiers, selling them, among other things, marinated fruit muffins nicknamed turbo buns.

  Like every other morning, Sarah lay in bed listening to the familiar sounds of cycling shoes clicking into cleats, the gentle whirr of tyres, and the clunk of gears changing until they faded into the distance. Now fully awake, she ran through her options. She could stay in bed and wait for Gus to wake, remember it was Mother’s Day and give her breakfast in bed. The only flaw with that plan was that, without his father or younger sister in the house, the chances of Gus waking before ten and remembering the significance of the day were slim.

  Always practical, Sarah got up and, alone in the kitchen on Mother’s Day, made herself coffee and baked a cake.

  A rather sad and pathetic-looking cake.

  Sarah cocked her head to the left and studied the offering. She couldn’t believe her no-fail chocolate cake had sunk on her. But then again, nothing was going according to plan so far and it wasn’t even ten yet. Grabbing dark chocolate from the pantry and cream from the fridge, she went into fix-it mode just as she had the week before when her sister-in-law Anita had texted, Doubt our plan to run away for a spa day on Mother’s Day will fly. Margaret will want family lunch.

  Sarah had immediately texted back, Riverbend 12.00.

  Why had she done that? Sure, she’d hosted Mother’s Day for her mother for years, but now that Anita and Cameron were living in Mingunyah, her lovely sister-in-law, who was a stellar cook, had probably been about to offer to host lunch herself. Anita’s mother had died before she’d married Cameron, so although Mother’s Day was a bittersweet day for her, Anita had never known the inherent problem of the day—being a daughter and a mother.

  For years Sarah juggled trying to have her own day as well as making sure her mother felt special too. More than once it had culminated in hot tears and chest-crushing frustration. After one particularly disappointing year, she’d pretty much accepted that until her mother was no longer with them, expecting to have Mother’s Day exclusively for herself was both unrealistic and angst-inducing. Since then, Sarah kept breakfast for herself—although this year even that seemed in peril—and devoted the rest of the day to being a dutiful daughter. Her brother, Cameron, was a dutiful son on the occasions it suited him. Their younger sister, Ellie, was unfamiliar with any aspects of the term ‘dutiful’.

  Sarah absently licked the spatula dripping with the remnants of the melted chocolate and fervently hoped her emergency cake ministrations wouldn’t send anyone into a sugar coma.

  ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mum.’ Gus, her gangly, almost seventeenyear-old son ambled over, wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hug. ‘Bit hard to give you brekkie in bed when you’re already up.’

  She resisted glancing pointedly at the clock. ‘True, but I’ll happily eat it with you at the kitchen table.’

  He scratched his head and opened the fridge, staring into it as if willing whatever it was he was looking for to levitate from the shelf and float into his hand.

  ‘Are there any croissants?’

  ‘Did you buy any?’

  He looked sheepish as he closed the fridge door. ‘Where’s Dad? Is he in town?’

  Sarah gave in and checked the clock, surprised to see it was ten thirty. ‘He was riding to Gravitt’s Lookout. I thought he’d be back by now.’

  ‘I’ll call him and get him to buy some.’

  Sarah did the calculations in her head and knew that wasn’t going to work. ‘How about you toast me some of our fruit loaf and slather it in butter? Then be my kitchenhand so we’re ready when the hordes descend.’

  Gus grinned. ‘I’ll even make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘You’re my favourite middle child.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘One day Finn and I are going to get you to admit you like Emma best.’

  ‘Only on Mother’s Day,’ she quipped, tousling his chestnut hair as if he was seven. ‘And only because she remembers the croissants.’

  Of her three children, Gus was the sportiest and yet he was also the most reserved. A talented footballer and skier, he was the quiet one among his friends, often surrounded by noise and girls— hugging, squealing girls. Sarah noticed that other boys with similar skills always carried themselves with an air of confidence—a certain swagger—but the moment Gus walked off the footy field or hung up his skis, he seemed to retreat into himself just a little. This bothered her but whenever she mentioned it to Alex, he’d sigh and give her a look that inferred she was worrying over nothing.

  ‘That kid,’ he’d say, pride lighting up his face, ‘has the world at his feet. If he plays his cards right, he’ll end up playing footy in the AFL.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Sarah was on her knees with her head in the fridge playing Tetris to make room for the cake. The buzz muffled Gus’s words but she thought she heard ‘play’.

  At yesterday’s match, Gus took a spectacular flying leap and cleanly marked the ball. Slowly running in, taking his time, he kicked the winning goal right on the siren. Not only did the entire team slap his back, the crowd slapped Alex’s. Her husband glowed with as much pride as if the ball had come off his own boot.

  Carefully sliding the cake onto the middle shelf, Sarah rose and closed the fridge door, pleased Gus was mentioning the moment. He generally underplayed his achievements. ‘It was an impressive play, darling. Your coach was beside himself.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Gus’s hand gripped the handle of the kettle. ‘He was.’

  Sarah heard resignation instead of pride and gave him her full attention. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  He dropped his gaze, concentrating on pouring boiling water over the tea leaves. She waited for him to say more but his large hands fumbled with the tea cosy.

  ‘Gus?’

  ‘G’day, mate.’ Alex appeared in the kitchen, sweaty and red cheeked. ‘Everyone at the café’s talking about your mark. Old Daryl Cotter said it reminded him of your grandfather.’

  Confusion crossed Gus’s face. ‘Grandpa didn’t play footy.’

  ‘He’s talking about my dad.’ Sarah was sure she must have told Gus at some point over the years that her father had played for the Mingunyah Tigers. If she hadn’t, then her mother certainly would have said something. Mind you, her father’s playing days finished not long after he married Margaret so footy hadn’t really been part of their shared life. Come to think of it, her father had never talked about footy much at all. His only nod to his time on the team was a dusty framed photo that hung off a rusty nail over his workbench in the shed. The fit young player staring out at her with a roguish glint in his eyes had always seemed a totally different person from the man who was her father. He’d been older and greyer, and the roguish glint had been replaced by a businessman’s preoccupied stare.

  ‘Ask Gran about it at lunch. She’s probably still got some photos.’

  ‘Photos?’ Alex snorted. ‘Her entire house is a shrine to Kevin.’

  A ripple of irritation ran along Sarah’s veins and she tried to shake it off. After all, there was no good reason for it—Alex was right. Decades after her father’s death, her mother still kept many of his things on display, but the football memorabilia was not part of the collection.

  A memory came to her—clear and bright—tumbling her back to when she was eleven. Determined to avoid her mother and her demands that she ‘clean up that tip of a room’, Sarah was hiding in the shed. Looking for something to pass the time, she went exploring and, under a faded old green tarp, she discovered a pile of dust-covered b
oxes. It was the equivalent of finding lost treasure. One was filled with tarnished football trophies, all engraved with her father’s name. Inspired, she rummaged about in the old biscuit tin he kept on his workbench and, among the tins of dubbin and boot polish, she found the Silvo. Listening to Wham on her Walkman, she spent an enjoyable hour polishing the trophies and bringing them back to their former glory. When she was satisfied that they couldn’t shine any brighter, she ran into the house waving the gleaming cups.

  ‘Look, Mum!’ she said proudly.

  Her mother’s face rapidly stiffened into hard and sharp lines. ‘That’s what you’ve been doing instead of cleaning your room? Take those straight back to where you found them.’

  ‘Why? You’ve got Cameron’s tennis trophies on the mantelpiece, so why not Dad’s?’

  ‘Do. As. You’re. Told.’ Margret ground out the words as if Sarah was being excruciatingly difficult and trying her patience to breaking point. ‘Or do you want to feel the sting of the wooden spoon?’ Having recently experienced a series of run-ins with that spoon, Sarah reluctantly trudged back to the shed. Her submission to her mother’s request, however, wasn’t enough to stop the simmer of resentment swelling in her chest.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she complained to her father as she sat on the end of his workbench after tea.

  His hazel eyes held only resignation. ‘They don’t fit with your mother’s decor.’

  ‘Neither do Cam’s!’ An unfamiliar hot spot burned in her chest and she rubbed it.

  Her father marked the wood he was measuring with his flat red carpenter’s pencil. ‘It’s a rule that mothers display their son’s trophies.’

  ‘Then wives should have to display their husband’s trophies.’

  He laughed and stuck the pencil behind his ear in his familiar and reassuring way. ‘It doesn’t work that way, blossom.’

  ‘I’ll keep them in my room then,’ she said indignantly, confused by her father’s acceptance of what she clearly saw as a double standard.