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  PRAISE FOR FIONA LOWE

  ‘Lowe is a master at painting believable characters with heart and soul that contribute to creating such an addictive read.’

  —The Weekly Times on Birthright

  ‘Fiona Lowe’s writing is infused with many splendid literary influences. Her books entertain and immerse readers but there are also echoes of classic writers such as Evelyn Waugh, the Brontë sisters, and Isabel Allende.’

  —Better Reading on Birthright

  ‘…This book has left me speechless. I practically inhaled this story and my advice to other readers is clear your calendar for the day so as you can just read this one.’

  —Helen Sibbritt on Birthright

  ‘Filled with credible characters and familiar situations, it makes for an emotional read.’

  —Canberra Weekly on Birthright

  ‘Birthright is a complex story that seamlessly intertwines many story lines. It is full of interesting characters that reveal more and more as the story progresses. It is raw, incredibly engaging and reads beautifully.’

  —The Big BookClub on Birthright

  ‘Entertaining and riveting reading.’

  —Good Reading on Birthright

  ‘The question of wealth is always a contentious issue and Fiona Lowe explores this subject area with great insight, wrapping the resulting family story up in one engrossing and highly readable novel.’

  —Amanda, Mrs B’s Book Reviews on Birthright

  ‘A sweeping Australian novel of lost love and tangled family secrets.’

  —Australian Country on Daughter of Mine

  ‘A readable and thoughtful book. It has winner written all over it.’

  —The Weekly Times on Daughter of Mine

  ‘Daughter of Mine is a beautiful story of bonds, family expectations and the insidious and far reaching effects of secrets and lies. It may be the first book I have read by Fiona Lowe but I’m sure it won’t be the last.’

  —Beauty & Lace on Daughter of Mine

  ‘…a real page-turner.’

  —Cairns Eye on Daughter of Mine

  ‘An exceptionally magnificent read.’

  —Talking Books Blog on Daughter of Mine

  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 writes books that are set in small country towns. They 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, a 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

  Home Fires

  FIONA LOWE

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To my wonderful Tuesday tennis and coffee club women.

  Thanks for getting me out of the home office and for being

  my watercooler mates.

  Be true to your work, your word, and your friend.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.

  —Virginia Woolf

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Fiona Lowe

  About the Author

  Also by Fiona Lowe

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Questions

  CHAPTER

  1

  The scent of the rainforest—leaf mulch, mud and a spritz of eucalyptus—prickled Claire’s nostrils. A fine mist settled over her, the chill sneaking around the tops of her woollen socks and skating along her bones. Beside her, Matt pulled his hat down low before crossing his arms and shoving his hands under his armpits. The familiar oily smell of wool and dubbin rose off his coat, curling into the earthy perfume that said home. Sanctuary. Safety.

  The reassuring aroma of Myrtle in winter.

  It was very different from the summer smells of choking heat, dry dust and cow dung. Claire shivered, a combination of the insidious chill and sheer relief. Once she’d hated winter in Myrtle and had complained bitterly about the sun that crawled far too slowly to its zenith. Even when it finally reached its highest point, the weak light barely penetrated the canopy of the tall, straight mountain ash. Now she welcomed winter and the accompanying wet. It was harder to accept the rolling mountain fog that encased Myrtle in an asthma-inducing blanket, stealing the view down to the Southern Ocean. The low cloud dug up memories of another day when Myrtle was cloaked by impenetrable grey and isolated from the coast on one side and the flat plains on the other, where smoke smelled like fear, burnt flesh and cataclysmic change. A day no one wanted to remember. A day no one could forget.

  A day that left a livid and jagged scar on the small township cocooned by the thick forest of Victoria’s Otway Ranges.

  She stamped her feet, trying to keep warm, and willing the proceedings to commence so they could all rush inside to hot tea.

  Phil Lang stepped forward to the edge of the veranda, his moleskin-clad legs, blue-and-white check shirt and puffer vest marking him as a local and distinguishing him from the mob of Melbourne dignitaries—male and female—all wearing black suits. He tapped the microphone. ‘Testing, testing.’

  Claire flinched at the squeal of feedback reverberating through the speaker.

  Matt slid an arm across her shoulder. ‘You should be anticipating that by now. What’s this? The fifth opening we’ve been to?’

  ‘Sixth.’ It was the same as the number of funerals she’d attended in one dreadful week. Of the six, only one had contained a sole casket. At the others, there’d been two, four and five respectively. She’d missed two funerals completely, because they’d run concurrently with others; no one had thought to schedule the funerals to avoid a clash. Back then, thinking was impossible, existing almost too hard.

  Claire flicked away a bead of moisture before it plonked into her eye. ‘Why didn’t we bring an umbrella?’

  ‘Because you love the rain.’ He squeezed her shoulder and smiled, the bold curve of his mouth filling with a special memory.

  She allowed herself to tumble back two years to when life had been different—deceptively easy.

  A wall of rain fell, pummelling her. Clay sucked at her boots, while her arms pushed high into the air and her head fell back to greet the crying pewter sky. Matt’s arms wrapped around her, holding her clo
se, and his deep, husky laugh warmed her skin.

  ‘Matt! Feel it. Taste the sweetness.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘I’ve missed rain like this. I think I’ve been in the city too long.’

  His eyes sparkled like dappled sunshine on the rainforest floor. ‘Stay here then.’

  ‘Myrtle?’

  ‘Myrtle. The farm. Right here. Marry me. We’ll make a beautiful life and beautiful babies.’

  The microphone squealed again, fracturing the memory. Ricky Kantor, Myrtle’s new—and self-appointed—AV guy, checked the cables and scratched his head. ‘Try it now, Phil.’

  ‘Testing.’

  A Melbourne woman clutching a clipboard said something to Phil before tapping her watch. Adam Petrovic, the local builder, turned from the group of dignitaries and spoke to Phil.

  Julie Lang, Claire’s mother’s friend and her honorary aunt, slipped in next to her. ‘We’re three minutes behind already.’

  ‘That’s on time for Myrtle.’

  ‘Apparently the Minister has to be in Lorne by noon. You should see the running sheet his PA sent us. It included a request for vanilla slice. I told her that Myrtle specialises in light and fluffy scones and Otway jam and cream.’

  ‘With any luck, it means he’ll have to cut his speech short,’ Matt said. His body tensed against Claire’s. ‘Why are these things always such a bloody circus? Hell, we’re struggling to field a cricket and footy team, let alone trying to introduce basketball.’

  ‘That’s now,’ Julie said quietly. ‘This is for the future.’

  ‘At the rate Myrtle’s population’s going backwards, the joint will be falling down by the time we’ve got enough people to use it. It’s a perfect example of the gap between Spring Street and the bush,’ Matt grumbled. ‘We’ve got people spending a second winter living in freezing caravans and containers. They can’t start building because of the bloody bureaucracy, but the same government’s throwing buildings at us that we don’t want or need.’

  Claire wanted to say shh, but she squeezed his hand hard instead. His brows drew down and he shot her a look. She widened her eyes and inclined her head slightly towards Julie.

  ‘Sorry, Julie. I wasn’t taking a crack at you.’

  Julie gave Matt a small smile—half the size of the one she’d have given before the fires. BF, as Claire had taken to calling it. Now was AF—after the fires. One horrific December day that had scorched a demarcation line into their lives. Now everything was measured in BF and AF, from the big-picture things right down to the little things like reaching for your favourite cooking knife or spanner, only to realise it had been destroyed.

  ‘I know you’re not taking a shot at me, Matt, but the building’s here now,’ Julie said. ‘We need to use it for more than just an evacuation centre.’

  Matt’s arm tightened around Claire. ‘Let’s hope it never comes to that again.’

  They all knew hope didn’t protect them from a damn thing.

  ‘Rightio!’ Phil’s voice boomed through the speakers. ‘Let’s make a start. Thanks for coming. Let’s give the Minister a warm Myrtle welcome …’

  A scattering of applause broke out. Claire glanced around at the crowd. Despite eighteen months of experience, she couldn’t stop the ache bruising her heart. Again. It was just like the previous five grand openings of the other new and shiny buildings; all she could see was the missing. So many absent faces. Some people chose not to attend these events. For others, that choice didn’t exist.

  ‘It’s an honour to be in Myrtle today,’ the Minister said. ‘I was here a few days after the fires, stunned and horrified and barely able to comprehend only two buildings remained standing in your pretty town. Today, as I toured around, I’m heartened by how much has been achieved and how quickly. It’s a testament to Myrtle’s spirit, grit and determination.’

  ‘We still don’t have a pub,’ a bloke called from the back.

  The Minister’s laugh was deep, hearty and practised. ‘Sadly, that’s not part of my portfolio, but you do have a state-of-the-art primary school, a Men’s Shed, Country Women’s Association meeting rooms, a community health centre, a playground and now this spectacular multisport indoor stadium. Myrtle is back on top and kicking goals.’

  Was it though? All that remained of the stark lunar landscape that the conflagration had created—black ash, black trees, black bricks and blackened, crumpled iron—was the brittle lace of dead trees silhouetted on the ridge overlooking the town. Lifeless sentries gazing down on a carpet of defiant emerald green that wrapped itself around all the new buildings that made Myrtle look bright, modern and optimistic. Claire couldn’t shake the worry that all of it was an illusion—one that could shatter at any moment. Underneath the veneer of Colourbond, river stone and timber, Myrtle’s heart remained charred and barely beating.

  If the politician heard any gentle rumblings of dissent about the stadium, he didn’t show it. ‘I know you’re all keen to get inside and check out the facilities so without further ado, I declare the Myrtle Stadium open.’ He cut the ribbon and walked inside. Claire noticed Adam and Bec Petrovic slipping in immediately behind him, before his entourage, and well ahead of the rest of the rebuilding committee. Why didn’t that surprise her?

  The rest of the crowd moved and as Matt stood back to allow Julie and Claire to precede him through the double doors, Julie said, ‘Claire, I’m short a few hands. Can you help out with tea and coffee?’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’

  This time it was Matt who squeezed her hand. Guilt flickered, but saying no to Julie wasn’t an option. Julie was like family. Scratch that—Julie was family now and the closest thing Claire had to a mother. Not that she could say that to Matt. If she did, he’d look at her with hurt keen in his chocolate-lashed eyes and she’d experience a familiar tug of anger rising on a platform of shame.

  No matter how many times he said, ‘You’ve got my mum,’ Louise Cartwright was very much Matt’s mother—at best, she tolerated Claire’s presence. Although Claire had originally met Louise when she was an eight-year-old Brownie and Louise was Brown Owl, twenty-two years had passed before Matt introduced her to his mother as his girlfriend. That meeting had taken place on an unseasonably frigid late summer’s day when a smattering of snow lightened the dark gullies and ice clung to the wide leaves of the tree ferns. Not much had thawed between the two women since.

  As Julie walked purposefully towards the kitchen, Matt said quietly in a steely voice, ‘We had a deal, Claire. Apart from this bloody opening, we’re spending the day together.’

  ‘And we are.’

  He snorted. ‘You just volunteered to pour tea. That’ll kill another hour. Why didn’t you tell her no? It’s our first day off together in months. Hell, you’re not even in the CWA. You’ve always said it’s not your thing and you never wanted to be part of it.’

  ‘I’m not and I don’t.’ Claire sighed. ‘Matt, it’s just pouring tea.’

  ‘It’s not though, is it? Someone will ask you to look at a mole or listen to their kid’s chest and you’ll open the clinic and boom, the day’s gone. With you it’s always just something for someone.’ Tension ran up his jaw and she saw the battle he was waging between irritation and understanding. ‘Today, I wanted to be that someone.’

  She leaned in and kissed him. ‘You are my someone.’

  ‘Knock it off you two, it’s only eleven in the morning.’

  ‘You’re just jealous, mate,’ Matt said with a laugh.

  Josh Doherty stood behind them, adjusting his squirming toddler on his hip. ‘Surely you’ve been married long enough now to be sick of each other?’ he quipped.

  Claire stilled, momentarily forgetting to breathe.

  ‘Josh!’ His wife Sophie threw him a dagger-laden look.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember?’

  The stage whisper spun around the four of them. For a couple of seconds, Josh was as still as Claire had been, his gaze long and straig
ht but vacant. Then he barked a laugh, the sound harsh, abrupt and loud. The child on his hip squealed in frightened surprise. ‘That explains why you’re still all over each other like a rash, then.’ He tousled the tight blonde curls on his daughter’s head. ‘Time you had a passion killer like this one and joined the rest of us poor bastards.’

  ‘I have tea to pour.’ Claire walked purposefully to the kitchen, shutting out the barrage of thoughts that threatened to intrude and ruin her day. Pulling a CWA apron over her head, she plastered a smile on her face and stepped up to the building queue. ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked a woman from the Melbourne delegation.

  ‘Do you have any herbal tea?’

  ‘I’ve got bergamot.’ She flung a tea bag into a cup and wondered how long it would take the woman to realise it was Earl Grey.

  ‘Is the Devonshire tea gluten free?’

  Claire tried hard not to roll her eyes. ‘The jam and cream are.’

  ‘Oh. I’m lactose intolerant.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that too loudly,’ Claire said conspiratorially.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re surrounded by dairy farmers.’

  The woman stared at the spoon Claire was handing her, nonplussed. ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘The jam. It’s both gluten and lactose free.’ Before the woman could utter another word, Claire looked at the next person waiting, giving thanks it was a local. ‘Cuppa, Ted?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask, love.’

  * * *

  ‘Shh, it’s okay.’ Sophie lifted a crying Trixie out of Josh’s arms. ‘Daddy didn’t mean to scare you.’

  Josh’s mouth tightened as he stretched his thumb out towards the tear on Trixie’s cheek. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, Trix?’

  Trixie pouted and buried her face in Sophie’s shoulder.

  ‘Mummy’s here.’ Sophie hugged their daughter close, soothing her and breathing in her scent of baby soap and dirt. Trixie wailed louder.

  ‘Jeez, Soph. Now she’s just bunging it on because you’re making a fuss about nothing. She has to get used to noise.’