‘Maggie?’ Fiona stood at the doorway to the pub, a plastic crate in her hands. ‘Do you have a minute?’
‘Sorry, Fiona, I don’t right now.’
‘But I need to talk to you.’
‘Well, you’ll have to wait. I’m—’
‘I think I’ve waited too long as it is.’
‘All right. Let’s go into the dining room. It’s about to get noisy in here. Ethne?’ she called out. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Come get me the minute you hear something.’
Fiona plonked the plastic container on the staff table as Maggie took a seat, but Fiona couldn’t sit herself. She was too on edge, despite already having practised this speech on her grandmother a dozen times. Cheryl had offered to provide an escort to the pub, or have Maggie come to the house, but Fiona had wanted to do this herself.
‘What is it?’ Maggie asked, sounding unusually impatient.
‘This is the stuff … The box that your husband … You know?’ Fiona flicked the little blue clips on either side of the crate and lifted the opaque plastic lid.
Maggie peered inside and said only one word. ‘Oh!’ Her voice was a whimper of regret. ‘This was my mother’s favourite tea set. I was saving it. Something to give Noah’s fiancée when … Well, anyway …’ Maggie put the broken sugar bowl to one side. Then she took the correspondence from the box, frowned and put them with the broken pieces. Next she inspected the cup and saucer and matching milk jug that had miraculously survived the fall. She smiled. ‘Not all is lost as long as he—whoever he turns out to be, whenever Noah chooses—will just have to be sweet enough without sugar. I’m sure he will be,’ Maggie sighed.
Fiona nodded, her mind racing ahead. Just as she was deciding Maggie might need time to go through the contents of the box on her own, the woman bucked up and pushed the crate to one side.
‘The rest can wait, I think. Thank you for taking such care to deliver this to me. I appreciate your concern.’ Maggie looked up, her gaze settling on Fiona. ‘And thank you for being such a friend to Noah these last couple of days. Adults can learn a lot about forgiveness from our children. I see that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—’
‘There’s something else, Maggie.’ Fiona dropped into an adjacent seat and gingerly placed the letter on the table before sliding it across to Maggie. ‘I read it. Sorry,’ she blurted, as if saying it quickly would make the confession easier.
‘What is it?’
‘I recognised the notepaper first. Then I saw the handwriting. I didn’t mean to read it, but … You’ll see what I mean.’ She paused. ‘You have to read it now.’ But Maggie appeared distracted, her attention drawn to the main bar. ‘Please.’
Maggie sighed, picked up the letter and with her eyes flitting back and forth from Fiona to the note, she unfolded the paper and read:
Dear Brian,
I suspect this letter comes as a surprise and I have no doubt you will be even more surprised with the message it contains.
I won’t go into detail about my recent stay in Calingarry Crossing. I assume Maggie mentioned she and I caught up a couple of times at the pub. Going home to the country changed me. I hadn’t realised how important family was until I had the chance to reconnect with that part of my life.
What stands out the most about the Calingarry Crossing of today is that small towns have big hearts and country people are the most forgiving and most genuine people I know. (And I have met a lot of people in my time in Sydney.) Honesty and openness are now an important part of who I am and who I want to be for my daughter.
Our daughter.
I’ve made many poor choices, starting with my lies about the night I fell pregnant and agreeing to never tell anyone it was you. At the time, I was immature enough to think a reputation was more important than the truth. (Nothing like promiscuity—real or implied—to make a girl popular!) But you and I both know the truth, as does Phillip, that you were my first time. You had dreams and ambition and that’s why you didn’t want anything to do with me or the baby. I understood then as I understand now.
That’s why this letter is not about blame. I was drunk and looking for trouble that night. I found you. What we wanted back then is not as important as what we should want for our daughter. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed success with your music and are in a position to get to know Fiona now. She needs to know her real father. At least she needs to have the choice of knowing you.
I am hoping you will understand and agree that telling her is well and truly overdue. Having your willingness to be a part of this will make such a difference—to me and to Fiona.
Please contact me as a matter of urgency.
‘Maggie? Are you okay?’
The notepaper floated to the floor, swinging from side to side in slow motion, like a single leaf falling from a branch. Was Maggie about to fall too?