Finding Billie by Priscilla Brown

 

For mechanic Billie, repairing cars is easier than perking up her love life.

Until a chance encounter with an old friend  races her under-nourished hormones into overdrive.

🧡🧡🧡 

 I belong to a road service on behalf of my elderly and reliable small car. This membership comes with a quarterly magazine, in which, several issues ago, I read with interest the story of a female mechanic. I tucked this article away for quite some time,until something in my mind's story bank reminded me that such a professional could have a life in a contemporary romance novel. Billie arrived!

  🧡🧡🧡 

Excerpt

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

“If you’re who I think you are, you’re eight years late.”

Billie clapped one hand over her mouth. What a ridiculous thing to say to this guy who had called into her service station only for petrol. Tim working on the forecourt filled the car, then the customer walked into the retail shop to pay her. Something about him seemed familiar. He fingered the lemons in a bowl on the counter as if he couldn’t believe they were real, never mind free, and slanted his left eyebrow. That did it. She’d only ever come across one person who could raise a single eyebrow at an angle like that. All these years later, she still remembered that quirk of his.

And now, such a stupid remark had just popped out.

“Excuse me?” The man sounded baffled, as well he might.

She should say, Sorry, I made a mistake, I thought you were someone I used to know. Instead, her rogue voice persisted, “You’re Jamjar.”

His sharp intake of breath told her she was right. Definitely Jamjar, this tall man with the tired grey eyes and the crinkly brown hair that looked as if he’d just pushed his fingers through it. He made a production out of taking his credit card from his wallet and tapping it onto the reader, maybe so he didn’t have to look at her.

“You were called Jamjar at primary school right here in this town.” She couldn’t stop herself raving on. “We were in the same class. Your name is James Jarvis, yes?”

“Uh huh.”

He placed his card and the receipt into his wallet, and half-turned his shoulders, but not his feet, as if he couldn’t decide whether to walk right out of the shop away from this woman who talked too much. Clearly, he didn’t want to have a conversation, just wanted to be on his way. Probably he thought her day had dragged; that she found the company of the teenager on the forecourt uninspiring and made her desperate for adult male company. But now she’d started, curiosity about her old friend won over courteous customer service. She was about to comment on the weather, always a reasonable conversation starter, especially in such a frigid winter as this when he turned back to her.

“Yeah, I used to be Jamjar.”

Billie wanted to hug herself at what pure chance had delivered. Better, hug him. He must have realised his ‘uh huh’ was at best inadequate, at worst, rude. She hid her smile.

“And you’re…” He frowned, as if with the effort of recall. “You too had a nickname. Like mine, to do with your real name. Hilary Williams? Am I right?”

She nodded. “Spot on.”

“Hey, old Hilliebillie! You lived in the big house on the hill, opposite my family’s cottage.”

“Everyone calls me Billie. Welcome back to Limeburners’ Valley. It’s been a long time, seventeen, eighteen years. Are you going far?”

“Melbourne. I saw your service station notice on the freeway, and as well as the car needing a top up, I’m overdue for a break.”

“How long have you been driving?”

“Over four hours, from Sydney.”

She shook her head. “Without stopping?”

“Yes. I almost went into Moyston, forty minutes back, but I didn’t want to drive into a big town when I was so close to, er, we used to call this place Limey.”

“Still do. Good you came off the freeway here, as in your direction, it’s a long way to the next services. Plus it’s four-thirty, time for coffee better than you’d find on the road.”

His left eyebrow shot up. “Coffee? Here?”

She pointed to a door at the side of the shop. “We have a small area outside, with a patio heater. If you have time to stop, our espresso machine’s fired up.”

“Espresso?”

“Mr Jarvis,” she said, mock-sternly, “you might be in Limey, a falling-down town with a population of five thousand, but we do have standards. No chipped mugs of doubtful cleanliness, no last week’s re-heated dregs.” She hoped he’d smile, but his face might be a mask.

“Thanks. I could use a double shot of long black. Should I move the car?”

“No, there’s room at the other pumps. Go out, coffee will be just a few minutes.”

As he walked through the door she’d indicated, the man who’d been Jamjar as a young boy sensed Billie’s eyes on his back. Could this unusual situation of coffee on the patio be some kind of trap? But why would she want to trap him? Not for any indication of wealth, for sure. The rented mud-coloured station wagon was an inexpensive model found on any road. His faded jeans and black polo neck sweater under a scuffed brown leather jacket could be the travelling gear of thousands of men. He’d stashed his bags and valuable camera equipment out of view under wraps.

The offer of coffee was probably her standard pickup line for any solo guy around her age. The fact that they’d known each other as children made it easy for her, and sudden apprehension flew through him. Her age? Their age. They were thirty-three, surely too old for a pickup. But he’d been out of circulation for so long, he wouldn’t know. He liked her cheerfulness and her warm interested smile, a kind not associated with the usual fill-up, pay-up and get-the-hell-back-on-the-road experience. But he was here for a caffeine shot, not for conversation, and hopefully she would just bring the coffee and go back to her cash desk. He’d be off as soon as the caffeine hit his system.

He settled next to the heater, on the bench at one of the three timber tables in the small courtyard. The area had a homely feel, as if it were someone’s private patio. Even though it was winter, pink and white flowers trailed from hanging baskets, and miniature jugs on the tables contained small yellow flowers with black centres that reminded him of a cat’s face complete with whiskers. A real cat, large and ginger-striped, snoozed on one of the benches.

Out on the forecourt, the full driveway service was a novelty. He hadn’t known what to do with himself as the teenager filled the tank and cleaned the windscreen, so he took in the details of the cutest fuel stop he’d ever come across. The timber building was painted scarlet, with the woodwork around the doors and windows picked out in white. Tubs each side of the shop door contained the same flowers as here on his table. Were they pansies? He couldn’t be certain, though he thought the pink and white ones in the hanging baskets were geraniums. Living away from a temperate climate for years, he’d forgotten a lot of details.

The sign outside the shop door announced Billie’s Bar, while the sign above the closed scarlet roller door of the adjoining building read Billie’s Fix-It. The bright colours, the intriguing signage and the flowers cheered up the dullness of a chilly Friday afternoon in this southern New South Wales town. And in some strange way, along with the friendliness of both Billie and the boy, lifted his bleak mood.

Inside the shop was not what he would have expected either. Soft piano music played. Tidy shelves held automotive bits and pieces. A cold drinks cabinet and a table of chocolate bars and other snacks stood in one corner. On a wall where other shops might pin a girlie calendar, hung a poster vivid with the blue and white of a Greek island village. Surreptitiously, in case Billie came out, he pulled his Greek island photo from his wallet. Tracing the outlines of the four people, he pressed his lips together.

He slid the photo away as she stepped onto the patio. She placed his coffee and a plate of shortbread before him. Hilliebillie! He could recognise the girl she’d been. She’d worn her dark hair long, but now it curved around her face with a short glossy fringe, emphasising her plump cheeks and generous mouth. The mouth he’d kissed for the first and only time the day before he’d left this town for good. Unlike his fifteen-year-old self, he no longer had any interest in checking mouths for kissability. Yet he couldn’t help noticing how Billie’s scarlet lips matched the shade of her fleecy sweatshirt and of the paint job on the service station’s buildings. Billie’s Bar was embroidered on the sweater’s front, and on its back, as she turned to boost the heater, he read Billie’s Fix-It. Her black jeans had seen better days, and he wondered why she wore steel-capped boots. Her dark eyes regarded him with a gleam of interest.

His intention to toss back the pick-me-up and keep moving faded under her presence. “Are you busy, or can you join me with a coffee?” He shocked himself. He hadn’t asked a woman to join him with, or in, anything for two years.

“The workshop’s closed, Tim looks after the forecourt, and my paperwork can wait. Back in a sec.”

She returned with a speed that told him she already had her cappuccino made, and was hoping, or intending, to join him. He emptied three sugar sachets into his drink and stirred with, to his surprise, a quality spoon not a plastic stick, and sipped.

He raised his mug towards her. “Your coffee is good.”

The glow of her smile went a little way to warming his frozen heart. “I told you our standards are high. Tim and I did a professional barista course.”

“That’s Tim at the pumps? He makes coffee too?”

“Yes and yes. He works here after school and at weekends.”

“A useful employee.” Employee? The thought that Tim could be Billie’s son came at him with disconcerting speed. He hadn’t paid enough attention to the boy to consider any family resemblance. He looked sixteen, seventeen. Had Billie been such a young mother? She must have slept with some jerk not long after he’d moved away. He could hardly believe this of the Hilliebillie he’d known, and disappointment in her inched into his mind. Watching her fold her hands around her mug and sip her drink, he wondered if she’d married. She used her single name and wore no rings, but those facts signified nothing.

She nodded. “Yes, he’s a good kid. Have a shortbread.”

He accepted her transparent change of topic and a biscuit. “Do you work here full time?” He had trouble grasping that this daughter of parents who owned not only the limestone quarry, but a good part of the district worked at a service station.

“More than full time.”  She pointed a shortbread at him. “I own the business. Bar is the forecourt and the café, Fix-It is the workshop, and I’m the mechanic.”

“You own it? Really?” He pulled himself up. No reason a woman shouldn’t be a mechanic. And that explained the steel-capped boots.

“Get over it.” She rolled her eyes, as if she were used to men’s surprise. “I’m fully qualified. I’m the only mechanic and the only service station in town, and business is satisfactory.”

“Good for you.” He cursed such an inadequate response, but it did come as a jolt to find the Hilliebillie he’d known as the girl who’d topped their primary school class and then attended a smart boarding school, making her living fixing cars in this two-bit town. He’d have expected her to hold some high-flying position in a big city.

 He brought himself back to the present. “So, you’re still in here in Limey. What did you mean about me being eight years late?”

Billie straightened her shoulders, wishing she’d never said anything about it. At least she’d said late, rather than too late, which would have been truly humiliating. “We were fifteen when your family left. You and I spent a lot of time together until you went to high school, and I went away to school, but, Jamjar, sorry, James…”

“Zac.”

“Zac? Okay, Zac.” She’d ask him about his name change when she had this out of the way. “In the summer holidays our old crowd got together. We were down at the swimming hole when you told me you had to move and…”

“I remember that. But what am I supposedly eight years late for?”

“It’s embarrassing,” she muttered, “because so much must have happened to you since.”

The way he suddenly gripped his mug, white knuckles contrasting against his tanned fingers, told her she’d hit a nerve with that remark. Something must have happened to him, something that still troubled him.

“Then do I need to hear it?” His voice sounded tight, tense.

She re-arranged the pansies in their tiny jug. “No, of course not. I talk too much. Just that I was surprised to see someone from so long ago turn up.”

A taut silence hung on the air between them.

“I might regret this,” he said, “but suppose you tell me.”

“Um, okay. We said, that is, you and me, and, look, um…Zac, it didn’t mean anything, it was just a bit of fun, our teenage way of saying goodbye.” She tossed back more than a respectable mouthful of coffee and hiccupped with her hands over her mouth. “Excuse me.”

“I do remember we’d been friends through primary school. When you came home from boarding school, we still used to do a few things with the other kids.” His left eyebrow rose. “So, what is it you’re embarrassed about?”

“Yes, well, I honestly don’t know if the idea was yours or mine, or if it just kind of… um, appeared, that… um, that if neither of us had a partner by the time we were twenty-five, we’d… um, we’d find each other.”

Colour washed his cheeks. Another memory of Jamjar plucked at her mind. He blushed! She liked men who blushed. But she had embarrassed him enormously. Mortified, she clapped both hands over her mouth.

“Christ.” Zac felt heat flooding his face. He bent his head over his mug, cursing the fact that at thirty-three he still couldn’t control this. The way Billie put her hands over her mouth tripped his recollection of that day. She’d done it then, after she’d made the statement, or suggestion, or whatever it was, and he was certain it had come from her, not him. Surely, they had never done more than hold hands as they jumped off the bridge to swim in the creek, or sat in the back row of the small cinema? And at that last minute of togetherness, the kiss. He took a deep breath and looked up, schooling himself to keep his expression neutral.

“So quite by accident, we have,” he said. “Eight years and a lot of stuff late.”

Two bright circles of red shone on her pink cheeks. “I’m sorry, I was quite out of order in saying anything. Can I get you another coffee?”

“No thanks. I must hit the road.”

“Not going all the way to Melbourne tonight?”

He stood up. “I’ll make a stop somewhere.”

The cat woke, jumped off the bench and padded towards Zac. He reached down to stroke it. “Yours?” he asked.

“Yes. Tigger.”

“Like the tiger character in the story book.” How come he’d let that out? He picked the cat up, hoping to hide his sudden confusion. Hilliebillie might be an old friend, but he didn’t intend to share any part of his life with her.

She stared at him. “You know…”

He clamped his face closed, slicing off anything she might add. A change of subject, then he really must leave.

“I drove along the main street before I came here,” he said, holding the cat on his shoulder and hearing its purr loud in his ear. “I remember busy shops, but now too many are empty. And there are posters about platypus. Some seem for them, and some against. What’s going on?”

“The platypus are still living in the creek. For now. This town is divided.”

“About platypus? They’re harmless.”

“Of course. But they may be harmed.”

He sat down, the cat on his lap. “Who’s harming them?”

“A moment ago, you were ready to leave. It’s getting cold and dark, and if you’re really leaving, you had better go. Are you sure you want to hear about Limey’s problems?”

“I don’t like to think of wildlife being threatened. It’s the conservationist in me.”

“Is that what you do? Something with conservation?”

“Indirectly. I’m a photojournalist specialising in the natural environment.”

“Wow! Then you will be interested in what’s going on here.”

He surprised himself with a sudden need to stay. An evening behind the wheel held no appeal. Of more interest was discovering what problem threatened the platypus, and… and catching up further with Hilliebillie. Really leaving, she’d said. As if she had some doubt about it.

“Melbourne would be about six hours from here, and I’d planned to stop overnight a couple of hours further on.” He spoke slowly, weighing each word so as not to appear over keen to stay in Limeburners’ Valley. “But maybe there’s somewhere in Limey?”

Billie wrapped her arms around her chest, hoping he would deem the movement due to the cold. But in fact, the idea thrilled her that Zac, with his professional concern, could become involved in this sticky situation. No, he wouldn’t. He might show interest now, but he’d called in by chance. Still, since he’d decided not to leave tonight, she had a few minutes more to enjoy talking with old Jamjar.

She turned the heater off. “Come into the shop, it’s freezing out here and…” She held her hand out, watching a drop of water fall onto her palm. “…it’s starting to rain. Sleet was forecast.” She picked up the coffee mugs and plate now empty of shortbread. “Bring Tigger in. You’re honoured he’s taken a liking to you, he’s choosy about his humans. We close at five-thirty, and Tim will be in the shop with the heating on.”

Tim sat at the counter, plugged into his iPod. The fingers of one hand were using his laptop, while the other clutched a triple-decker sandwich from which dripped bits of lettuce and tomato. One day she might convince him that using a plate wasn’t wussy. He pulled the earbuds from his ears.

“Just finished this assignment. Kid stuff. I’ve cleaned outside.” He shoved the remains of the sandwich into his mouth and wiped crumbs from the counter into a waste bin. Closing the laptop, he stood and picked up a sports bag, football boots and a parka. “I’m off.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Have a great game.”

“See ya.” Tim touched her shoulder and inclined his head towards Zac. Then turned back to Billie. “You’ll be okay?”

Zac understood the boy realised he was leaving Billie—his mother?—with a strange man. Billie clearly read this too, for she smiled at Tim.

“It’s fine. Zac’s an old school friend turned up from nowhere. We have a bit to catch up on.”

“Ah.” Tim shrugged into his parka and opened the shop door, letting in an explosion of icy air. He closed it behind him, opened it a fraction, and put his head around it. He raised his eyebrows at Billie.

She nodded. “Yes, really, Tim.”

“Okay.”

This time, he closed the door with a bit more noise. Was the boy concerned about leaving her? Why?

“Nice boy,” Zac commented. A boy with fair hair and blue eyes. Billie was dark, but it took two sets of genes. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen and a half. He’s a big help.” She pulled two stools from behind the counter, and Tigger jumped onto one of them. “About you staying. The pub opposite would be your best bet, with a motel at the back. The food’s good. Ginger Johnson owns the place, and he’s the chef. Do you remember him from school?”

“Can’t say I do.” Picking the cat up, Zac sat on the stool with the purring animal on his lap.

“Red hair, chubby. Had an early interest in food, as he liked to steal your lunch because you had better sandwiches than he did.”

Zac fisted one hand. “I got it! I bloodied his mouth one day, so he couldn’t eat my food.”

Billie laughed. “So you did. You may hear about the platypus in the pub, so I’ll give you my version.” She crossed her arms. “Firstly, Limey has a brand new jail out beyond the railway.”

“I pulled over on the freeway exit ramp where it curves, and you can look down over the town, and that must be the large grey building I saw. With new-looking houses nearby.”

“For the Corrective Services staff when the jail opens soon. More residents. Plus, the inmates’ visitors. Also, a number of people who work in Moyston are moving here because property is cheaper. So, a company called Village Malls sees an opportunity. Apparently, they specialise in what they describe as ‘enhancing small town shopping experiences’.” She made air commas around the description. “Agreed, their project would create jobs, though most of the construction workers would come from out of town.”

“Where do they want to build?”

 “Right here!” She waved her hands around the shop. “Over my business and my cottage.” Taking a plan from a drawer in the counter, she spread it on the counter and put a fingertip on the header Lime Shopping Village. “They think the lime in Limeburners refers to trees and say they’ll plant several. I’ve told them they’re wrong, explained that all the old buildings are of limestone, but their attitude is what do I know?”

“But Billie!” He gripped the cat too hard, causing the animal to squeal. “Surely they can’t literally bulldoze your business just like that!”

“They think they can. This is the whole area they want. Conveniently, it’s already zoned commercial.”

He watched her fingertip circling on the plan. A clean slender finger, nail neatly shaped.  Hey, that was a thought out of left field. Just because she was a mechanic didn’t mean she’d have oil-stained skin and filthy broken nails.

“You saw the empty building next door,” she went on, “in reasonable condition for something a hundred years old. You’ll remember its name was, is, officially The School of Arts, but as it housed the library, everyone referred to it as that.”

“I used to do homework there. Surely that isn’t on the demolition list?”

“It is. A crime for something so historic not to be preserved. The only other building is my cottage near the creek bank behind here. All the rest of their required area has always been vacant land.”

“Your home would go too?”

She nodded and blinked. A sudden need to hold her, to help her with this problem, shocked him with its intensity. He tapped a finger along the creek. “I remember how this runs under the bridge next to your site here, then curves around. So that’s what the posters are about—the platypus wouldn’t survive pollution.”

“Right, and our remaining small shops might not survive either. I believe we should be promoting the individuality and the history of this town, and encouraging small traders, whereas Village Malls plans to put in franchises of shops you’d find anywhere.”

“And you, Billie? What does it hold for you?”

“They will annihilate me.” She closed her eyes for a second. “They own service stations and want their own brand on my site. Self-service fuel only, no mechanic. People appreciate our full driveway service, and to have no mechanic within a forty minute drive is a big negative. They’ve made me an offer to get out.”

“Surely they’d want you for a managerial position.”

“One of their executives has, um, has indicated they’d find something for me, but…” She scowled. “There’s a condition.” 

“That you can’t meet?”

“Won’t. Not in a million years.” She lifted her chin, and he read resolve in the firm lines of her face. “Practically, the figure they’re talking about would put Tim through university with an amount left, but where would we live? How could I start another business? They must think I’m stupid. They forget I run a profitable small enterprise, which does require an intelligence level higher than that of an ant.”

“Always a mistake to underestimate people.” Anyone underestimating Billie might be in for a rude surprise.

“Yeah. Environmentally, I’m on the side of the platypus. Emotionally, being an independent trader suits me and no amount of cash would be enough.”  She huffed out an angry breath. “I fully own not only the business, but this building and its land. There are three titles over the rest of the area they want. One is over where my home is, and I’m paying off the cottage only. One is over the School of Arts, and one over the remainder.” She smacked one fist onto the other. “My father owns the lot.”

Zac remembered how he’d always been a little afraid of her father, sensing he was a bully. “Is he willing to sell?”

“He hasn’t done me the courtesy of letting me know, but rumour around town says he is. He’s in jail, and he’d be looking to have lots of cash to flash when he’s out.”

Zac raised an eyebrow. “In jail?”

“He got five years for fraud, he’s done three. If he’s transferred here when the jail opens, on one hand it would be just desserts as he sold that land to the government years ago. On the other hand, I will set fire to the place. I don’t visit jails, unlike someone who I believe is keeping him informed.”

She thrust her hands under her, as if, Zac thought, to prevent them from punching something. Or somebody. He wished he could offer some kind of solution, some practical help. “So, you’re the main hold up. One hell of a predicament.”

She put her hands over her mouth and let out a sigh between her fingers. Then, reaching over to stroke the cat on Zac’s knee, she said, “That’s enough about me. Where did your family move to? How are your parents?”

“My father passed away. I’ve just come from the funeral.”

“Oh!” She squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry. I remember him as such a nice man.”

“Yeah.” Zac looked at Billie’s smooth warm hand on his, and decided he quite liked the sensation. “We moved to Innisfail, north Queensland. Dad worked on a sugar farm, and Mum did the accounts there. They both retired some years ago. My sister and her family live there too.”

“You’re a long way from home. You didn’t drive all the way from Queensland?”

“Not my home.” Zac took his hand from hers. He didn’t have any place he could call home. “I flew to Sydney to see my agent, then I need to be in Melbourne and decided to rent a car and drive, maybe call in at Limey as it’s on the way.” She was regarding him with curiosity and sympathy evident on her lively face. He banished the thought that here was a person who might understand why he was feeling so raw. But she had problems of her own, and a couple of snippets of information were all he’d give her. “I’ve lived overseas almost since I left university, and it was time to come back to Australia for good.  I have an appointment in Melbourne next week, after which I had planned to spend time with my parents in Innisfail.” He passed a hand across his forehead. “Dad had been ill for some months, and my sister called to ask me to come quickly. So, I went to Innisfail first, and arrived in time to have a week with him.”

“Oh, Zac! What a homecoming! I’m sad for you. Why do you have an agent? Are you going to work in Melbourne now?”

“Not exactly. I have an agent because I freelance, and I can go anywhere. In Melbourne, I have an exhibition coming up.”

“Exhibition of your work? Then are you famous and I should know of you?”

“Exhibition of my photos, yes. Famous, no. You can find some of what I do in Integrated Ecology, especially in back issues.”

Her hands flew over her mouth. Sliding them down her chin, she said, “The international magazine! Then you must be at least quite well-known. I’ve read a few issues, but not regularly, I’m afraid. Is that why you became Zac?”

“No. Seeing as I had to leave Limey, I left Jamjar behind too. Zac is the abbreviation of my middle name.”

She seized his hand again. “Zac. I like it. Oh!” Dropping his hand, she glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m so sorry but I have to go. I teach a yoga class at six, and it’s past five-thirty now.”

To his surprise, disappointment sliced through him. He put Tigger down and took coins from his pocket. “For the coffee.”

“On the house.” She opened the door to the patio and shooed the cat out. “It’s fantastic seeing you again, and I’ll catch you at the pub later.”

Astonished at the warm current of pleasure surging through him at the thought of spending an hour or so more with Hilliebillie, he drove across the road and into the pub’s car park. She had grown up into the kind of woman he never expected to…

He flinched. He wasn’t ready. Never would be ready.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Her shoulders tensed, Billie watched him get into his car. Half-thinking he’d turn towards the freeway, she relaxed when he headed for the pub. He didn’t appear in any condition to drive. His lightly tanned skin seemed pulled taut over his cheekbones, and shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes worried her. Lines around his mouth told of tensions. His features, while strong, bore a reserved look, a don’t ask me anything look, and he’d never smiled.

Perhaps she should have invited him to the yoga class, helped him with relaxation exercises and meditation. She wanted to talk some more with him. Her big mouth had given him an outline of her problems but hadn’t asked him much about himself. His replies to her questions left her sensing there was a lot more to his background.

At the door of the Community Centre where she held the yoga class, Billie met her friend Kate. “Hi! You’ll never guess who turned up this afternoon!”

“Someone I know?”

“Used to, in primary school. No, wait, you’d have known him at Moyston High too. But he left Limey when he was fifteen.”

“Whoever is it? Tell me!”

Billie unlocked the outer door and turned the lights on. “He was Jamjar in school. James Jarvis. Calls himself Zac now.”  In the yoga room, she switched the lights on low, and they took off their outdoor clothing.

Kate felt the radiators for warmth. “I don’t recall those names. Did you recognise him, or did he know you?”

“I recognised him. His family used to live opposite us. I encouraged him to stop for a coffee and we had a little chat. He’s on his way to Melbourne but he decided to stay the night here, at the pub. His father just died, and he’s feeling miserable.”

“Did you cheer him up?”

“I don’t think I did. I talked too much and told him some of the stuff about Village Malls. He’s a natural environment photographer and he’s worried about the platypus.” Billie greeted a group of women coming in for the class, then turned back to Kate. “I said I’d see him at the pub later,” she whispered. “Our usual Friday night dinner at my place is all prepared, but come with me to the pub instead?”

Kate nodded. “You have me curious.”

Billie led the women through the evening’s program, ending with fifteen minutes relaxation and meditation. Usually, she could wind her mind down, retaining just the awareness to know when the time was up, and to bring the class slowly back to their normal life. But tonight, her thoughts whirled in circles.

Jamjar. Zac. His father had died, but was there something else, that ‘lot of stuff’ he’d said after she’d brought up that ridiculous eight years late thing? Why had his family left Limey so suddenly? Where overseas had he lived? Was he married or with a partner? Kids? Had he just split with the love of his life? Ah, that was it, she decided. That was why he was travelling alone and seeming in low spirits. Well, at least this evening she and Kate might perk him up.

 

* * *

 

Zac checked into the motel behind the pub, relieved to find his room warm and comfortable. With sleet hissing down hard now, he was thankful to be off the road. He wanted to see more of the town, especially after what Billie had told him about the possible development, but a stroll around the streets, let alone out to where he used to live, would invite the onset of pneumonia. What a climate! He didn’t remember winters here being so cold. Changing into the only warmer clothes he possessed, corduroy trousers, a thick shirt and a chunky sweater, he decided one of the first things he must do in Melbourne was buy clothes suitable for a southern Australian winter, including gear appropriate for the exhibition opening.

He eyed the tea and coffee making facilities. After Billie’s excellent espresso, he could pass on the room’s instant offerings; he debated whether to go for a drink in the bar. Somewhat to his surprise, he had liked finding her, but he didn’t want to come across anyone else who might remember him; didn’t want to talk about his previous life here and what he’d been doing since. The only name she’d mentioned from school was the chef, who’d be busy in the kitchen, so it should be okay. He went to find the bar and food.

First, he entered the public bar. Its patrons, mostly in working clothes, clutched large glasses of beer and watched football on television, while keeping up strident conversations which, from the tones of the voices, may soon diverge into arguments. This would be a likely place to hear opinions about Village Malls versus platypus.

He couldn’t get involved. Yet he admitted to a trace of curiosity and concern.

In the lounge bar, he breathed in the aromatic scent and welcome warmth of burning eucalypt logs in an enormous fireplace. No television here, and conversation buzzed between casually, tidily, dressed people at the bar and low tables. He bought a beer and picked up the menu for meals served in this area. In the habit of sitting by himself in corners, he settled at a small table tucked away.

Glancing at the menu, he put it aside for the moment, to let his mind range over the amazing coincidence of meeting Hilliebillie. Spending even such a brief time with her seemed to have lightened his spirits. He was relieved she hadn’t suggested he stay with her, nor offered to feed him. He’d have declined. It would have been too personal, too intimate. His current frame of mind had no room for personal and intimate.

He’d been feeling like this for too long. If he ever recovered, he wanted, needed, to be safe, never to be in a position which could leave him vulnerable, exposed to so many emotions. Grief. Anger. Confusion. Resentment. And guilt. That was the one he wanted most to wipe out. If he could deal with the guilt, he might manage the rest.

In the meantime, he looked forward to his exhibition, with the possibility, no, the expectation, of networking and making a start on building his career in Australia.

At the bar, he ordered a rare steak with vegetables and garlic bread. Taking the ‘meal ready’ bleeper to the table, he sat back and yielded again to thoughts of Billie. She’d said my cottage. Did that mean she didn’t have a partner? She’d certainly given the impression that all decisions about the shopping mall were hers alone. And what about Tim? She’d said where would we live, and mentioned the money would put him through university, which had to mean she was responsible for him. His mother? She must be.

So, he’d never know. Supposing she did come to the pub this evening, as she’d said, and he asked her, that would surely lead to her pumping him for off limits details of his life. They might have been at school together, but a chance reunion gave neither the right to probe the other for circumstances they may not want to talk about. He wondered what time the yoga class ended.

The bleeper click-clacked and flashed red lights, and he collected his meal. The bread dripped with garlic, the vegetables were fresh and the steak just how he liked it, so rare that it might only recently have stopped bellowing. Realising that the quality, not to mention the quantity, surprised him, he gave himself a mental shake. There was no reason a small country town like Limey couldn’t produce superior food, just as there was no reason Billie shouldn’t run her own car repair business and serve great coffee.

As he ate, he surveyed the customers. No one else was alone. Several had meals, others were drinking and talking. A group of four sat at a table near enough for him to eavesdrop on their conversation. He didn’t get every word, but he did hear bloody mall countered by jobs, and platypus countered by easy shopping.

Then he heard a name that made him clatter his fork onto his plate. Linc Williams. Linc? Lincoln? He didn’t recognise the first name, but could this be Billie’s father? She’d mentioned he owned the land. Yeah, Zac recalled, what Mr Williams wanted, Mr Williams got. If he wanted the development, no matter that he’d be destroying his daughter’s livelihood, Village Malls would go ahead.

An image slipped into his mind of Hilliebillie in tears as the two of them walked to primary school on one of the final days. Over breakfast, her father had stated she would go to boarding school instead of to Moyston High like everyone else in their class. She’d told her friend Jamjar that she’d pleaded, argued, fought against it, and her father had threatened her. With what, she wouldn’t say. Even aged eleven, Zac would have liked to beat up her venomous snake of a father.

His meal finished, he was considering a coffee when the door at the far end of the room opened. Two women, greeting people as they passed, headed towards him. Wearing tracksuits, they looked as if they’d come straight from the yoga class, Billie in lime green and a short blonde in bright pink. Uncertain whether to be pleased that Billie had come, or not pleased that she’d brought a friend, or relieved that she had brought a friend so that any conversation should remain impersonal, he pulled two chairs from a vacant table.

He looked so lonely, Billie thought, as she and Kate made their way towards Zac. He stood up to greet them. Although she’d met him only that afternoon, she squelched a sudden urge to kiss his cheek. She’d embarrassed him once, and to kiss him in the pub would not only make both of them uncomfortable but would pitch the town’s gossip machine into overdrive.

“Kate, Zac,” she introduced.

Kate shook his proffered hand. “Billie told me an old school friend had blown in. Do we remember each other?”

“Moyston High School bus. You and your friends liked to sit on the back seat and giggle all the way. Four or five of you, all blondes.”

Both women laughed. “Zac!” Billie clapped her hands. “You really remember Kate?”

“Yes, though I think we must have been in different high school classes. Kate, I left when I was fifteen, so I don’t expect you to remember me.”

“More in primary school, actually. Jamjar, the kid with the much-envied lunch.”

If Billie hadn’t been watching Zac closely, she would have missed his smile. And that would have been such a shame, as it was his first she’d seen. Just the faintest curve of his mouth but hinting at a hidden beautiful smile. She wanted him to smile again.

He raised a hand towards the bar. “Can I get you a drink? Are you eating?”

“Yes, we’re eating,” Kate said. “We already decided what we want, and I’ll order it and the drinks.” She picked up Zac’s empty plate and headed for the bar.

“Good yoga?” he asked Billie, as she sat down opposite him.

“It always is. The girls say it makes a great end to the week and beginning to the weekend.”

“Have you been teaching it for long?”

“Ages. I started learning when I lived in Sydney, and I enjoyed it so much and found it beneficial, so I decided to become an accredited instructor. I did the initial training in Sydney, and now I go to refresher courses whenever I can.”

“You lived in Sydney for a while?”

She nodded. “A few years. I started uni there, but I dropped out. Here’s Kate, ever conscientious about the drinks.”

Kate put down two glasses of white wine, and in front of Zac she placed a beer. “I noticed your empty glass, and I hope this is okay. I asked Dave at the bar what beer you’d ordered, and he remembered.”

“Well, thanks,” Zac said. “That’s a nice thought.” He raised his glass. “To a kind of reunion.”

The three of them clinked glasses.

“Usually Kate and I have dinner at my place after yoga,” Billie said. “So, it’s a treat for us to eat out.”

“Friday evening is about the only time I can do it,” Kate added. “It’s a real night off for me.”

“She’s escaping.” Billie smiled. “Her husband’s the local policeman, and on Friday evenings he takes Tim and a couple of other boys to Moyston Police Youth Club. Lots of sports, indoor and outdoor under lights, and Tim plays soccer.”

“Then they go for a feed.” Kate laughed. “Fast food. Not allowed at home. My two boys are too young for the club, but they can’t wait to be old enough because of the junk food. They stay with my parents overnight on Fridays, and they’re even stricter over food than I am.”

“Has your family always been in Limey, Kate?” Zac asked.

“My parents, yes. I went to uni in Sydney, then found a job in Moyston. I met Alex, my husband, and we were both lucky enough to get postings in Limey a few years ago.”

“Kate’s a primary school teacher,” Billie explained. “The school’s a lot bigger than in our day.”

The bleeper announced the meals were ready, and both women went to fetch them.

“He seems nice,” Kate whispered. “But he does look a bit drawn.”

“He looks better than he did this afternoon. I think he needs company.”

“And you want to offer it?”

“You make it sound like a proposition! I know you didn’t mean it like that, but…”

“Of course, I didn’t. But come to think of it, what a shame he isn’t staying longer, since a proposition with Mr Jamjar Zac may not be a bad idea.”

“Kate!” Billie elbowed her friend in the ribs. “Put your dinner where your mouth is!”

Zac watched Billie and Kate return, each with a steaming plate of pasta. They were pleasant women, living normal lives with families—at least, that was Kate’s situation, and Billie’s almost certainly—and jobs. He’d been detached from real life for so long. He tucked away the thought that an evening in a pub with good company and quality food might be a better way to spend time than wrapping himself in the clinging blanket of his melancholy. 

Billie unzipped the jacket of her track suit. “Tell Kate about your exhibition.”

He swung his glance from the curvy shape of her under the neatly-fitting green and white striped T-shirt. “I’m a photojournalist, with a special interest in the natural environment. The exhibition is in a Melbourne gallery that specialises in photography, and it will showcase some of my photos taken over a four-year period, up until two years ago.”

“No recent ones?” Billie asked.

“It takes a long time to arrange an exhibition, and it was booked almost three years ago.” He could have added or substituted photographs until the catalogue was written, but the work he’d done in the past two years didn’t reach his previous standard. He’d been somewhat mollified when his agent disagreed, but the emotional insecurity of his circumstances blotted out his confidence.

“I know nothing about exhibitions,” Kate said. “Did you organise it yourself?”

“No, my Sydney agent did the negotiations. I selected the images, and they went to the gallery some time ago. A few are originals, most are limited edition prints.”

Billie raised her glass to him. “You must be excited.”

Zac had forgotten what excitement felt like. “I’ve never had a solo exhibition before, so I admit to a little nervousness.” While intellectually he knew it was a glorious opportunity, psychologically apprehension gnawed at his gut. How would he cope with the attention? But hey, that was supposing anyone came to view his work.

He needed to shift the subject away from himself. “You were right, Billie. The food here is very good.”

“I’ll see if Ginger can come out, so you can tell him.”

She disappeared before Zac could tell her not to worry.

Returning with the chef, she introduced them. “Ginger Johnson, Zac Jarvis, used to be Jamjar. Limey School in another life.”

Cringing at her use of his nickname, Zac stood up and shook hands, managing not to wince at the chef’s mangling grip. “I wanted to compliment you on the food.”

“Steak hit the spot, did it? You, passing through?”

“On my way to Melbourne. Eighteen years since I left, and the town doesn’t seem to have changed a whole lot.”

“But it will. Great things happening, eh Billie?”

The chef’s beefy hands gave her shoulders a proprietary squeeze. Recognising a predatory gleam in the man’s eyes, Zac wanted to snatch his paws off Billie, and while he was about it, punch him in the mouth like he’d done when they were ten.

She rolled her shoulders back, dislodging the offending hands. “That’s what you think,” she muttered.

“Aw, come on, forget about those little old platypus. Admit Village Malls will be good for Limey. Lots more business for the pub, too.”

“Business looks pretty good tonight,” Zac remarked.

“Business can always be better anywhere.”

Billie stood up, shoulders squared, hands fisted. “You don’t care that mine would be destroyed. And you know it’s about more than the platypus.”

“You can do better. You can get whatever you want from VM.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Common knowledge, sweetheart.”

Zac raised an eyebrow. Sweetheart? He didn’t like the man’s patronising tone, and clearly, neither did Billie. She flashed him a look that should have flung him not only right back into his kitchen but onto a searing hotplate.

Kate frowned. “This isn’t appropriate talk, especially in front of a visitor. Your steaks are burning, Ginger.”

The chef raised a hand. “See youse all later.”

Billie collapsed onto her seat. “Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have fetched him. It didn’t turn out how I’d expected.”

“He might be a great chef,” Kate said, “but his inter-personal skills need work.”

“Can I get you both another wine? Or coffee?” Zac asked, anxious to change the subject. And, if he were honest, to keep the women here a little longer.

“No thanks,” Billie said. “Kate’s going to wait with me for Alex when he drops Tim off. Would you like to come over for coffee too?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw and she read indecision on his face. He shook his head.

“I won’t, thank you.”

“Well, I guess that’s it.” If he didn’t want to finish the evening with coffee at her home, there was nothing she could invent to spend any more time with him.

In the vestibule, he helped them on with their parkas, then held the street door open for them.

“Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

He sounded so formal that Billie wanted to tell him to relax, he was with friends.

“Thank you for calling in at Limey.” Now who sounded formal? She shoved her hands deep into her pockets before they gave in to her urge to frame his face and kiss him.

Kate pulled up the hood of her parka. “Nice to see you again Zac, and good luck with the exhibition. Bye.” She hurried across to the service station.

“Hope the shops problem works out,” Zac said.

“Me too. And I’m sure your exhibition will be a great success.” She took one hand from her pocket and touched his cheek. “All the best.”

“Thanks.” He squeezed her hand. “You too, Hilliebillie.” Turning on his heel, he headed for the motel.

She ran across the road.

Kate hugged her. “I picked up on the vibes. Did he kiss you?”

“No, but, oh Kate, I wanted to kiss him. To say goodbye, like he kissed me all those years ago.”

“He kissed you before he went away? I never knew that. Maybe he’ll be back.”

“Nah. He’s a solitary man with some kind of problem. And if he thought about me at all, he’d work out about Tim, and then I wouldn’t make even his Z list. Story of my life.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

So, this was what a good night’s sleep was like. Zac leapt out of bed refreshed and relaxed after seven hours without dreams, or none that he remembered. This morning, there were no dreams, no nightmares, to leave him with an aching residue of unease.

As he ate his room service breakfast, he thought over yesterday’s astonishing events. One thing came clear. Tim was Billie’s son. Otherwise, why would Alex leave him at her place? The child would be her reason for dropping out of university. None of his business, but he couldn’t help but feel a sourness about it. Ah well, at least he seemed a nice kid. What had the chef meant by Billie being able to get whatever she wanted from Village Malls? She had not given Zac such an impression. And what was the common knowledge Ginger had referred to? Surely not that Billie slept around, and including a man from the company in her clientele would enhance her prospects? He shuddered.

Opening the room door halfway, he expected gusts of sleet. But while the air was eye-wateringly cold, last night’s bad-tempered weather had petered out. The serene blue of the sky promised a reasonable day for a long drive.

Checked out of the motel, Zac inspected the façade of the pub. A plaque on the grubby limestone wall dated the building as exactly one hundred years old. While the inside was acceptable, the owner, the loathsome Ginger, should be celebrating the centenary with a sympathetic exterior restoration. At least the building retained its iron lace balcony, though it looked almost ready to shear away from the wall. But doors and windows had been replaced with no thought to appropriate materials and style. It appeared Ginger’s interests lay only in his cash flow, along with promoting the mall project. And in hounding Billie?

He couldn’t bear to take a photo of the pub, but at the bridge just beyond it, he took several. A handsome structure, a century ago skilful hands had carved its limestone balustrades. Strange to think that before the freeway, when he’d lived here, its two lanes had carried all the Sydney-Melbourne traffic. Walking across on the footpath, he hoped the authorities tested it regularly for strength.

From the far end, he glanced back at Billie’s service station, sited a mere car or two’s length from the town side of the bridge and the creek. He acknowledged a niggle of disappointment that she hadn’t yet opened up, though that did mean he could take photos without seeming too curious.

Returning to his car, Zac drove around Limey’s side streets. He found the school in the same location, with added classrooms. Next to it was a preschool, built since his time. Parked, he gazed at the brightly coloured play equipment. He put his head on his arms on the steering wheel, blinked hard, and allowed himself a minute to manage the struggle to stay calm, to quell the aching memories.

The community centre appeared newly built, housing also medical rooms and the vet. The police station stood opposite, with an adjoining house that he assumed was Kate and Alex’s. A little further along this street he came across an attractive yellow and white cottage with a signboard Rowena’s Bed and Breakfast. Colour, surprising in winter, blazed in its beautifully tended garden.

Back at the main street, he rattled over the ancient timber bridge above the creek and continued up the slight hill to the town’s three churches on three corners of an intersection. Two appeared still functioning, the third boarded up. The house on the fourth corner had a For Lease notice. He recalled it as the home of the minister of the church his parents attended. His mother would be pleased to know that their church was still in use, even though the minister now lived elsewhere, and he took a quick photo. The house looked forlorn, surrounded by an untidy weed-infested garden that could use the talents of the lady from the bed and breakfast cottage.

Further up this road, he crossed the bridge over the railway lines and arrived at the station. The buildings here sported recent paintwork, with an information panel describing the historic station and that the railway authority maintained it as a cultural heritage item. Good for the railways, he murmured as he photographed it. Limey was not completely forgotten. Certainly not forgotten by Corrective Services, whose new houses were a little further on, with the jail beyond them.

Returning over the bridge, he turned off at the church corner onto a lane that wound on a rise above the creek. A stand of tall trees obscured the library building, but a little further on, he could look down across the water to what must be Billie’s cottage, painted red and white like the service station. A witch’s house, with a pointed roof and a chimney at one side. The garden between the cottage and the service station held several trees, a couple bright with lemons.

He didn’t remember this area between the creek, her house, and the service station, and it now appeared much bigger than he’d guessed from the road. No wonder Village Malls wanted this prime location. But any development there would destroy not only the livelihood of the platypus, but the ambience of the whole area. Above a bend in the creek, the lane ended with just enough room to turn, and he headed back to town.

In the main street, he drove slowly, paying more attention than he’d done yesterday. He’d forgotten most of the buildings were of the local creamy limestone, and the weak sunlight improved the look of it. The news agency was doing good business. At a bakery and café next to it, a few hardy souls sat outside under heaters. A line of trolleys waited in hope outside the convenience store, and a butcher, a pharmacy, a hardware store and a hairdresser were open. A few other shops were still closed. He remembered the antiques centre further along and hoped it didn’t still offer the same items. Next to it, a Chinese restaurant, although closed, cheered the street with its bright windows.

Almost opposite the pub where he’d started his nostalgic tour, he parked by what had been the library. While the limestone needed a good clean, at a quick glance its fabric didn’t seem in too bad a shape. Such a shame this charming old building couldn’t be used for something appropriate. To demolish it for a characterless shopping mall would be iniquitous. After taking a couple of shots from the car, his intention was to turn around, and head back through town and onto the narrow road to find his old home.

As he turned, he glanced towards the service station. Yay, Billie! No Tim, but the forecourt seemed full of men. The chef was serving himself with diesel. Away from the pumps, a tall dark-haired man stood with his arm around Billie’s shoulders, while the legs-apart stance of a shorter fair one, leaning against a smart white station wagon bearing a Village Malls logo, conveyed something vaguely intimidating. Tigger the cat prowled the roof of the car, back arched and tail up, as if keeping an eye on the humans and ready to spit and claw if any one of them misbehaved. Zac thought the cat’s fur and the chef’s hair were the same colour, and he knew which of the two he preferred.

He raised a hand, but he didn’t think Billie saw him. No point in stopping.

He’d leave her to her men.

 

* * *

 

Billie skidded her pickup to a stop by the gate to the old Jarvis land. As she’d expected, Zac was there, staring at what had been his home. She read his body language, his face stiff, his shoulders taut, his hands jammed into the pockets of the leather jacket he’d worn yesterday. As she’d known he would be, he was disturbed at what he saw. She pulled on her parka, beanie and mittens, and stood beside him.

“I spotted you going past, and I guessed you were headed here.”

Zac nodded. “Uh huh. You were with a lot of customers.”

“No customers except Ginger. My brother Ian works for me on Saturday mornings. He has a goat farm the other side of the freeway. The short creature is from Village Malls, maybe you noticed his car. He was busy telling me that soon I won’t have to go to Moyston for shopping. Huh.” She banged her fist on top of the gate.

“Is that where you’re going this morning?”

“Yes, every Saturday. I get what I can in Limey, but there are always a few other things. And it’s ‘me’ time, coffee that someone else makes, and lots of chocolate cake. Today I’ll stay for a quick lunch too, because Tim has already gone to Moyston and I’ll pick him and his friend up at two.”

“How did he get there? Is there a train or a bus?”

“Hardly any trains stop here, and the bus goes twice a day on weekdays only. He and his friend from Limey are doing a team science project for school with a Moyston boy and a girl, and his friend’s father took them at eight-thirty. They’re at the girl’s house, and Tim says they should finish their assignment this morning. Then I suspect they’ll go for a celebratory feed of burgers and chips.”

Zac nodded. “You have a very busy life.”

“I do, but everything works out okay. At the moment, anyway. Zac, I’m sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For?”

“This.” She waved a hand at the pile of stones. All that remained of the house was one side wall with a chimney. “No one cared for your cottage, and I’m afraid it fell down.”

“It was very old. My parents did care for it.” He shook his head. “And for the land. All the fruit trees have gone, and the sheds are just piles of stones too.” Regret edged his tone, and distress darkened his eyes.

“Your parents cared for a lot of things. And people.” Billie recalled how Jamjar’s mother had cared for her, one time when her own mother had gone away for a week. Her older brother and sister were in boarding schools, and her father said he was too busy to look after nine-year-old Hilary. She loved her mother, but the prickly atmosphere in her home had made her wish she could live permanently with the Jarvis family.

“Yes, Sarah and I had a good childhood. As a tenant farmer, Dad cared for this land owned by your father. He practised organic farming, that your father thought a ridiculous notion. We had chooks and goats, you may remember, and Dad had good customers for the vegetables, the fruit, the eggs and the goats’ milk, and the cheese that he made himself.”

Billie’s heart turned over at the sadness in his voice. She wanted to hug him, to try to soothe his hurt. “It must have been very hard for him to turn to sugar growing.”

“Yeah. The whole move thing was very hard, very strange.”

“Was it true that you left because your sister had asthma and needed a better climate?”

He swivelled to face her, his fists bunched. “Who told you that?”

“My father.”

“Your father should get his lies straight. First, Sarah has never had asthma. Second, she’s four years older than me and she was already studying in Sydney. Third—get this, Billie—your father told mine he wanted this land to grow olives and Dad wouldn’t be able to manage that. I don’t see anything except waste land here.”

Billie clapped one hand over her mouth. “Omigod.”

“That’s not all. My father spent his last weeks at home, not in hospital, and in the short period I had with him, I overheard a muddled conversation between my parents. Dad was rather delirious, my mother not coping well, and at the time I didn’t take much notice of what they said. He…” Zac brushed a hand across his forehead. “He said ‘it wasn’t the bloody olives’.”

“So, he was talking about you leaving?”

“Had to be. No olives where we lived in Queensland. And a few minutes later, he muttered something…” His lips set in a compressed line.

“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” Billie said softly. “You and I now know it wasn’t asthma and it wasn’t olives. Neither of us knows why you left, but it happened so long ago. Knowing the reason can’t change anything.” But if they hadn’t left… Shoving her hands into her pockets, she indulged in a second of retrospection … Hilliebillie and Jamjar?

“You said you don’t see your father. How close are you to your mother?”

His sudden question, seemingly out of nowhere, almost threw her. “Very. She lives in Limey, in a gorgeous cottage that she runs as a bed and breakfast. It’s being painted at the moment so no guests, otherwise I’d have suggested you stay there. She divorced my father, years ago. She doesn’t have any contact with him.”

Zac bit back on saying he wasn’t surprised. He’d always preferred Mrs Williams to Mr, not that he’d known either well. His mother had worked in the limestone quarry office, and… a memory scratched at his mind… his mother, his dear strong mother, in tears. Had there been some kind of row between his parents and Mr Williams? He was relieved Mrs Williams was not taking guests. He didn’t need to rake over all that old stuff. Yet, wasn’t that exactly what he and Billie were doing? He gathered his thoughts.

“Then I will tell you what Dad said. I don’t know what the context was, but only a few minutes after the olive remark, he muttered, ‘we should have gone to the police’.”

Her hands jerked from her pockets and covered her mouth. “Oh Zac!”

She looked at him over her steepled fingers. The clear morning light shimmered in her tea-brown eyes, highlighting flecks of emerald he hadn’t noticed yesterday. Her straight dark fringe contrasted beautifully with her scarlet beanie, and the cold air had whipped a rosy glow onto her cheeks. He would love to capture her face on film. He’d taken a few shots of the remains of the house, but a camera at this moment with Billie would be intrusive.

“You think my father was involved in something suspicious even then?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t know. But whatever happened must have been serious, for us to leave in such a hurry. Tell me, is your father’s name Linc?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because I overheard it in the pub, but I didn’t get any more of the conversation.”

She shrugged. “Hearing his name is nothing new. He’s notorious.”

Zac pointed across the lane to the large house on the hill. “Does he still own where you lived?”

“No, it belongs to some bigshot company. They have conferences and seminars and things there from time to time. It’s good for business when they come.”

“And these fifteen acres that Dad farmed? Did it go with your house, or does it still belong to your father?”

“Not with the house, so I suppose it still belongs to him. Whatever, nothing happens here.” She waved a hand at the area before them.

“I can see that. What a waste of decent agricultural land. And the quarry?”

“Closed, seven or eight years ago. Let’s go round and look.”

Zac followed her silver dual cab pickup around the hill to the quarry on the far side, crossing the overgrown single railway track that led to the main line. They parked by a high fence of strong mesh wire, its top edge barbed. He got out of his car and sucked in a breath. Pulling mittens on, she joined him.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” Zac said. “I’ve been living on Malta. The main island is limestone, and a lot of the buildings are constructed from it. I’ve seen their quarries, talked to people who worked them. I’m interested that the stone here has been extracted in a different way.”

“Living on Malta? Wow was that wonderful?”

“Interesting. Incredible history. Why was this closed?”

“A fatal accident. My father, as the operator, was fined a huge amount for unsafe work practices, plus compensation. He shut it down, I guess because he couldn’t afford to upgrade the site.”

“That must have been a blow to Limey.”

“Yes, a big fuss, as many jobs were lost.”

“And quarrying is a skilled occupation. Did the workers go elsewhere?”

“Probably some did. But unemployment here is high.”

“No wonder the mall sounds like a good idea. Poor old platypus.”

“Yes, if it happens.” She gripped the fence.

“And I should say, poor old Billie.”

Her hands still on the fence, she swung her head towards him. “That kind of sympathy doesn’t exactly help.”

Shocked at the bitterness in her tone, he almost put his arms around her. He wanted to solve her problems but, how could he? His connection to the town had long gone, he didn’t live here and was about to leave with no reason to return. He took her hands from the fence, slid the mittens off, and linked her fingers with his.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t a tactful remark. I wish I could do something.”

Billie wished he would, could, stay. Not that he could change anything. Although she’d just snapped at him, to have his support, to know that someone cared, might help her through the next few months. Have his warm hands hold hers every day, like they were doing now.

“Well, Zac, that’s your tour about done. Are you off now?”

He slipped one mitten onto her hand, his fingertips brushing her wrist. Before he could take her other hand, she touched his cool cheek. He grasped her hand, and kissed her cheek. A kiss that surely lasted a nanosecond too long to be merely a friendly goodbye. He put her other mitten on her. All the time, his mist-grey eyes regarded her with an expression she couldn’t read.

She pulled his face to hers and kissed him soundly on the lips. Vaguely conscious she was the one who pulled back, she rushed to her vehicle. Gunned the engine. Drove too fast back to town. Aware of him following her.

Slowed as she entered the main street.

Stopped at her service station.

He passed her with a wave.

She watched him cross the bridge.

Turn onto the southbound freeway ramp.

Two fat tears scalded her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

In Moyston library that afternoon with time to spare before collecting Tim and his friend, Billie sat in a secluded corner, staring with blurry eyes at the page in Integrated Ecology. Zac had mentioned some of his work appeared in back issues of the quarterly publication, and the librarian had found her three.

The colour photo on the cover of the first one she looked at was magnificent, a snow-capped perfect cone of a volcano, viewed across a meadow of rippling parchment-coloured grasses. Inside the magazine were more images of the area in far eastern Russia, accompanied by a short article under the by-line Zac Jarvis. Brilliant stuff. Flicking through, she came across a page headed Profile of our Cover Photographer. In his photo, Zac wore an easy smile, as if he had everything in the world he could ever want. She scanned the text.

Australian… studied at the University of Queensland… interest in natural environment… participant in group exhibitions in London and New York… won awards…

The final sentence nearly brought up her lunch.

Zac is based in Dubai with his wife and two daughters.

He was married!

How dare he?

How dare he what? She folded her lips tightly together, hoping she hadn’t spoken aloud. Dare he be married? Dare he not tell her? Dare he turn up and pretend to be nice to her?

How had he managed not to laugh when she’d brought up that appalling eight years late thing? He was probably getting married eight years ago. And worse, this morning, she’d kissed him. He’d be sniggering all the way to Melbourne. Thinking her a naive country bumpkin, desperate for a man. Humiliation poured through her.

She banged her fist on his face.

Living in Dubai? Malta, he’d told her. Well, the magazine was three years old. He’d had a busy career and must have travelled a lot.

His wife would be at the exhibition. She’d have skipped the funeral, probably because of the children, and right now, waited for him in Melbourne.

Billie didn’t bother with the other issues, just dumped them back on the circulation desk. In the ladies’, she rinsed her eyes, repaired her lipstick, brushed her hair, and rocked into place the Hilary Williams who ran her own business, cared for a teenager, and did not need a man. Definitely did not need one who’d blown in from nowhere, forced her to relive their shared childhood history, stirred her under-nourished hormones, and blown out.

She collected the boys. “How did it go?”

To her astonishment and pleasure, since in her experience the communication skills of sixteen-year-old males scarcely outdid those of educated chimpanzees, both described with enthusiasm how they’d completed the project. Their team had worked well together, they told her, and they were sure they would gain top marks. Then they subsided into their more usual grunting talk, which they seemed to understand but to her might be a foreign language.

They’d both been sitting in the rear seats, but when she dropped Luke at his farm gate, Tim moved to the front.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Look a bit pale.”

Again, he surprised her. He didn’t usually notice much beyond his immediate orbit. As there was no one to see the gesture, which would embarrass him, she squeezed his knee through the hole in his jeans.

“Thanks, but I am okay.” I damn well will be. Less than twenty-four hours ago she’d been living a Zac-free life. Nothing had changed. “I had a busy morning.”

Busy kissing a married man. A man who didn’t kiss her back but didn’t recoil either. Shame on him.

“I could cook tonight,” Tim offered.

“Thanks. I left a stew in the slow cooker, you’ll need to do the potatoes. There’s apple pie in the fridge, and custard would be good.”

“No worries.”

Tim had been cooking of his own volition for over a year now and, to her joy, he was turning out half-domesticated, notwithstanding his preference for sandwiches without plates and the cyclonic state of his bedroom. He and she were fortunate they had her brother and Alex as role models for him.

For years, she’d fantasised about providing him with a ‘father’. Once, in her mid-twenties, she’d come close. Or so she’d thought. She’d fallen hard for the ‘perfect’ man, but almost at the last minute, he’d dumped her. Couldn’t take on someone else’s kid. He’d done it by text message, something she couldn’t forgive. She’d vowed that if she ever needed to split with a man, she’d do it to his face. But with the few men she’d dated since then, the relationships, if they could be termed even that, just fell apart, and she felt like a permanent inhabitant of the dating dead-end.

Finally, she’d banished Tim’s mythical ‘father’ to the realms of make-believe.

Finding Billie