Stella picked up the ragged directory from the floor of the public phone box. Balancing it on one raised knee, she flicked through the torn and dog-eared pages until she found an entry for the Tasmanian Bank for Savings. Then she ran her eye down the list of branches until she found the one in St Louis.
As she did so, she thought back over all the information she’d gathered over the last few days. First, she’d made enquiries about the widow’s pension – and had found out that Grace was eligible to receive a modest monthly payment. She’d then ascertained from the council how much Grace would have to pay each quarter in rates. She’d added this to an estimate of what would need to be spent on power, food, petrol, and the cost of keeping the ute on the road. It had become clear that Grace would be able to manage on the pension – but that she would have very little to spare for luxuries or unplanned expenses. Stella was not alarmed by this – she knew her father had a savings account. She hadn’t been able to find a passbook in any of the sideboard drawers, however, and Grace knew nothing about William’s financial arrangements. Phoning the bank was the only way to find out how much capital Grace had been left with.
Stella dropped a coin into the slot and dialled the number. Her call was answered by a young woman, who offered to put Stella straight through to the manager, Mr Wilson.
Stella recognised the name immediately – Mr Wilson had been in charge of the bank for years. She remembered him coming to her school to talk to the children about the importance of saving their pocket money. In his suit and tie he had looked as solid and dependable as the building he worked in. The bank premises – two storeys high and made of brick and plaster – towered over everything else in St Louis except the Town Hall.
When Mr Wilson picked up the phone he sounded bright and brisk. But his tone changed when Stella said who she was.
‘Ah – yes. Excuse me for a second.’ Stella heard the man getting up from his desk, and the sound of his office door being pushed shut. Then he returned to the phone. ‘Let me begin by offering my deepest sympathy to you and Mrs Birchmore. It was a terrible tragedy. If we can help in any way …’
‘Thank you,’ Stella said. ‘I’d just like some information about my father’s savings.’
There was a brief silence. ‘Can you come in for an appointment? I’d really prefer to speak to you in person.’
‘I’m afraid I’m very busy,’ Stella explained. ‘I have to get back to work, and there’s a lot to do …’
‘I understand,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘Well, I can give you that information – if you can just hold the line.’ The man returned after a few minutes. ‘I have checked the file. Your father has – had – one savings account. It contains nine hundred and fifty-six dollars and twenty cents.’
Stella’s hand tightened around the earpiece of the phone. ‘That can’t be all he’s saved!’
It made no sense. William had never earned a large income from fishing, but he had always made a point of saving a portion of each cheque from the fish factory. He liked to remind his family that – unlike the local people, with all their cousins and uncles and aunties – the Birchmores had only themselves to rely upon.
‘He used to have considerable savings, of course,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘But about ten years ago he decided he wanted to convert the crown lease on his property to freehold. The valuation was rather higher than he expected. Then there were legal fees, surveyors. It took him years to get it finalised.’
‘You mean he didn’t own Seven Oaks?’ queried Stella. ‘I thought he bought it from the man who built the house.’
‘What he bought was a hundred-year lease. Lots of people round here have got them. They don’t give it a second thought. But it bothered William. He just wouldn’t be happy until he got a freehold title.’
Stella nodded to herself. She knew it was William’s plan for Seven Oaks to be Birchmore land forever – not just for a hundred years.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll work out a budget with my mother. She should be able to manage on the pension, even without any savings.’
Mr Wilson’s chair creaked. Papers rustled on his desk.
‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple,’ he said. He spoke gently and slowly. ‘His savings only covered a small part of the price he had to pay to the government. He took out a substantial loan. That means there are repayments to be made. They will exceed the amount of a widow’s pension. I’m sorry. I hate having to tell you this.’
Stella stared at the grimy metal of the phone. She thought quickly, running back over everything he had said.
‘What are the options?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps you could you waive payments for a while?’
‘If that would help, I will certainly consider it,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘But I’ll need to know what the long-term solution is going to be. I’m assuming William left no other assets. If he’d had any, I imagine he’d already have sold them. At the time we arranged finance for the loan he had no life insurance.’ Mr Wilson sighed. ‘Fishermen never do. I think they believe it’s tempting fate – throwing down a gauntlet to the sea. Or something of that sort … What about you? Perhaps you have some resources?’
‘No,’ Stella said. ‘I’ve got nothing.’
Just a typewriter, left behind in a foreign hotel. A few old clothes. A niche angel from a French garden …
‘Are there any relatives who could help?’ Mr Wilson asked.
Stella thought briefly of Daniel. He would offer assistance if he could, she felt sure. But he, like Stella, had never made much money. He lived with Miles in a grand old home in Melbourne – but the building, and even the furnishings, belonged to Miles’ family. The two men scraped by – they managed to save enough each year for a holiday away, but that was all.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Stella said. ‘There’s no one.’
Mr Wilson sighed again. ‘I’ve been in this situation before, Stella. It’s a very hard road – battling with debt on top of bereavement. I advise against it. William was a smart man. Since he got his freehold title that property has more than doubled in value. Tourism is really taking off in St Louis. Ocean-frontage properties – even out your way – are at a premium. My advice is – sell up.’
‘No, no. That’s impossible,’ Stella said. ‘I couldn’t even suggest it to my mother …’
‘She may be upset by the idea now,’ Mr Wilson said kindly. ‘But sometimes it’s actually easier for those left behind if they make a fresh start. I haven’t done the figures, but as a rough idea – consider this: you sell the property and buy your mother a nice little unit in St Louis. Warm, easy to maintain, close to services. Then you invest the remainder. She’s got an income for life. Instead of just scraping by on the pension, she can afford to go to the hairdresser once a week, even take the occasional cruise. It’s not a bad scenario.’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ Stella said. ‘My mother’s whole life has been built around that place. She could never part with it.’
Mr Wilson cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be plain with you, Stella. There may not be much choice. The repayments are about a hundred dollars per week. Look, I’m not going to push you on this. Take a few more days to think about the situation – look at your options. One piece of good news I have for you is that William had the title in both his and your mother’s names, which means there won’t be a delay with probate and all that. She’s free to sell any time she decides to.’
Stella leaned her head back against the glass wall of the cubicle and closed her eyes. Everything the man was saying made sense to her. No one could live solely on a pension if they had a mortgage to pay. And it was not as though Grace were going to go and get a job in the fish factory or the pub …
‘Look, Stella – I happen to know someone who would be very interested in the property,’ Mr Wilson added. ‘I could send him out to see you if you like. No obligation. I’ll explain the situation to him. I’ll tell him to keep it confidential.’
Stella rubbed a hand over her face. She hunched over the phone, as if to hide her words from the watching gulls or the listening wind. ‘Okay. Let him come. I might as well find out what he’s prepared to offer.’
‘That’s very sensible,’ Mr Wilson said.
Stella agreed with him. It was the right step to take, she was certain – to gather all facts.
It never hurt to know.
Wallabies grazed in the paddocks to each side of the track. Stella steered the ute with her left hand. She hung her right arm out through the window, letting her hand lie against the outside of the door. The metal was warm and smooth. Cool air brushed her skin. As the car came up over a small rise, she slowed – looking ahead at the house.
Her eyes travelled over the familiar lines of the building. The roof – rising up against a clear sky – threw a long mid-afternoon shadow over the shed and water tanks. The oak tree stood near the front door, its branches dotted with small clumps of fresh spring leaves, just beginning to unfurl.
Further along the front wall of the house, a red smudge caught Stella’s eye. Driving closer, she saw that it was Grace’s cardigan. Her mother was standing there with bucket and sponge in hand – hard at work, cleaning windows.
Stella parked the ute, then climbed out and walked slowly over towards Grace. As she came near she could see the woman’s face reflected in a pane of spotless glass. Grace was studying her handiwork intently – standing back with a small smile of satisfaction on her lips. She looked like a mother gazing upon her child: proud and critical at the same time.
Watching her, Stella felt a deep sense of misgiving at the prospect of having to pass on Mr Wilson’s bad news. As Grace turned round, Stella made herself smile. Grace raised a hand in greeting, then picked up a sponge and began sloshing water over the next pane of glass.
Stella sat at the table, peeling apples. They were the last ones left from the winter stock and were difficult to peel. The waxy skins were slippery, and the flesh beneath it was shrunken and soft. But Grace hated to waste anything. The apples were to be made into sauce, to be served with My Own Roast Pork. Jars of the thick yellow brew – neatly labelled and dated – would be added to the rows of uneaten preserves that already stood on shelves in the shed.
Stella had seen them there while looking for a tin of oil for the ute. The colours had arrested her attention, burning behind glass in the dusty light: ruby-red raspberry jam; ink-black pickled walnuts; sunny yellow marmalade; flecked-orange tomato relish … Stella tried not to think about how they would all have to be given away or emptied out into the compost when the time came for everything at Seven Oaks to be packed up and taken somewhere else.
She went on with her task – pausing now and then to watch her mother at work. Grace moved back and forth between the recipe book on the table and the stove. Without taking her eyes off her frying she grabbed an oven mitten from its hook on the wall and slipped it on. She reached into the oven and turned round a pie that was cooking on the middle shelf.
She looked so comfortable and at ease, here in her domain.
Stella tried to picture her mother in a different kitchen – somewhere smaller, more compact, new. But the scene she conjured reminded her of a child’s book she’d once been given: the illustrations were not on the same page as the story to which they belonged. The characters looked pointless and lost.
But Grace could adapt, Stella told herself. If she had to, she would … Stella had seen refugees left with nothing, forced to begin again in a new country. She’d seen prisoners facing life terms locked in foreign jails. People were always stronger than they appeared. Often, they surprised even themselves.
A heart torn in two did not stop beating …
A tapping sound broke in through the noise of Grace’s cooking. Stella looked around, trying to find its source. A face appeared at the kitchen window – a man that Stella did not recognise: dark-haired, wearing a cream polo-necked jumper. His sunglasses glinted in the late afternoon sun.
She stood up and moved quickly to the back door. Fortunately, Grace was still bent over the stove and had not noticed the newcomer. Regardless of who he was and what he wanted, Stella preferred to deal with him herself. Opening the door, she stepped briskly outside and closed it behind her.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me for calling without an appointment,’ said the stranger, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Clifford Beaumont.’
Stella offered her own hand, and felt his fingers press warmly against her skin.
‘Mr Wilson told me you have no telephone. I was in the area, so I took the chance to drop by. I understand the property is for sale.’
Stella’s lips parted in surprise – she had not expected the bank manager to act so quickly. She glanced towards the kitchen window, then she beckoned the man to follow her round behind the woodpile. He appeared a little nonplussed, but when she looked back, Stella saw that he was following her lead. He stepped cautiously over the uneven ground in a pair of cowboy boots. As soon as they were hidden, Stella spoke.
‘My mother doesn’t know anything about this yet. I have to break it to her in the right way. If you leave me your phone number, I’ll contact you, but I’m afraid you can’t possibly look at the house now.’
The man smiled, showing off white, even teeth. He had the smooth-skinned, carefully fed appearance of a wealthy man.
‘I don’t need to look at anything,’ he stated. ‘Wilson showed me the title.’ He turned to scan the foreshore – taking in the whole sweep of the view. Stella watched his face, waiting to see his expression soften as the beauty of the scene touched him. Instead, his mouth thinned, his lips turning down in the corners. He nodded to himself. Stella tried to look through his sunglasses, to read his eyes – but the glass was shiny and dark. She felt her stomach tighten. She did not like talking to men who kept their gaze concealed. They reminded her of soldiers, bodyguards, secret police – men whose cars had blacked-out glass to match their blacked-out eyes and darkened souls.
‘The property includes the whole point, down to the high-tide mark – right?’ Clifford asked.
‘Yes,’ Stella said, ‘from the fenceline at the front gate. There is a small dam as well. We’re on a septic system out here, and tank water. The house hasn’t been renovated, but it’s been very well maintained.’
Clifford waved one hand as if a fly were annoying him. ‘I’m not interested in any of that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Stella asked.
‘The house will go, of course.’
Looking past the woodpile, Stella could just see the front of a silver sports car. Of course, she realised, a man like this would not want to live in a simple house like theirs. He would pull it down and rebuild.
‘I can see eight – maybe ten – beach houses here,’ Clifford continued. ‘Each has a great sea view, outdoor entertainment area, carport. The road runs in behind them – through here.’ Clifford drew a line in the air with his finger, showing how the new road would go straight through the existing house and pass right down the middle of Grace’s garden.
Stella stared, mute with shock. In the midst of the moment an image came to her, detailed and vivid: she saw the bulldozer arriving at the picket fence, its blade raised, ready to move through, crushing everything in its path. It was like a military tank – the kind that soldiers drove over pits piled with bodies, only some of them dead … She saw timber splintering; plaster cracking into a powdery mess; the oak tree snapping at its base. Mangled lilies were squashed into the earth; bushes tumbled over, their roots in the air. As the water tanks burst, a small tidal wave swept out over the debris.
‘You can’t do that!’ she said. Her voice sounded thin and high.
‘I’m sorry – I thought Wilson would have told you. I thought you knew.’ Clifford whipped off his sunglasses and fixed Stella with a sharp look. ‘There’s only one reason I can make you such a good offer. This is a prime development site. It’s worth nothing as a home.’
Stella did not look at him. Her eyes travelled over the garden – the place that the man planned to see razed to the bare earth. She saw it scarred with the tracks of the bulldozer – then covered with concrete and tar.
Somewhere lay the bones of a tiny baby – just a fragile tracery of white in the earth. Too small even to be noticed as they were dragged up by the blade and churned into nothing …
‘It’s not for sale.’
Stella said the words quietly, as though trying them out for shape and meaning. Then she lifted her chin and repeated them, clear and strong. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Seven Oaks is not for sale.’
Clifford touched her on the shoulder, then drew back his hand as Stella flinched away. ‘I understand. You need time to get used to the idea. It was your childhood home, after all. But when you receive my formal offer, you’ll see – you cannot refuse. I’ll give you a few days and then come back.’
‘No, you needn’t bother,’ Stella said. ‘You’ll be wasting your time.’ She kept her voice low, so as not to attract Grace’s attention.
Clifford took a step back. His eyes flicked from side to side, as if he wanted to keep hold of the coveted views. ‘I’d like to meet your mother next time – and talk to her.’
‘Don’t come back,’ Stella said. She felt suddenly angered by the man’s insistence. ‘I don’t want to see you here.’
Clifford opened his mouth to speak again. Then he snapped his sunglasses back into place and walked off towards his car. A minute later, Stella heard the engine start – a throaty purr, soon lost in the sound of wheels spinning in dirt.
Stella took a deep breath, calming herself. She looked out at the sea, lapping against the grey boulders adorned with orange lichen. Emerald-green boobyalla grew down almost to the waterline. Beneath the foliage she could see the twisted branches, sculpted by the onshore winds. The trees had been growing here for generations, she reminded herself, undaunted by storms and droughts – untouched by the comings and goings of humans.
The sea, the rocks, the land had looked just like this when families of Aborigines had camped here centuries ago.
And when the house had first been built.
And on that night when William had walked out into the moonlit garden with a small bundle in one hand and a spade in the other. The night when – unwittingly – he’d sealed forever his family’s bond with this little piece of land.
Stella turned to look out over Grace’s garden. As she watched the dwindling sunlight playing over the trees and shrubs, she knew.
This was sacred ground – like the rector’s churchyard.
However long it took, whatever it cost – Stella had to stay here until she was sure that Seven Oaks was safe.
Grace turned from the stove as Stella entered the kitchen.
‘I heard a car,’ she said.
‘It was just a man who came to the wrong place.’
Grace picked up her wooden spoon, ready to stir the stew.
‘Wait, Mum. I need to talk to you. Leave the cooking,’ Stella commanded. She saw a look of surprise cross Grace’s face. Stella knew she sounded like William – using words as implements to push people around. Grace pulled the stewpot over to the cooler edge of the stove-top. Stella waited until her mother was facing her, then she spoke.
‘Do you know …’ Her words petered out, and she began again. ‘Did William tell you where he buried my baby?’
Grace stared at Stella in shock. The woman’s lips moved silently as she struggled to frame words. Finally, she just shook her head.
‘If you know, tell me,’ Stella demanded. ‘You have to.’
‘I don’t know,’ Grace said. ‘He never told me.’
‘Please. You must know – something,’ Stella whispered. But already she felt the chill of loss. What had made her hope that Grace could answer her question? Knowledge was power. William would have wanted to keep his secret. And Grace … Grace would have let him. Stella backed away from her mother. Her boot caught the leg of a chair and scraped it harshly over the floor. Anger sparked inside her, but then died under the weight of her despair. ‘You didn’t want to know! You didn’t care!’
There was a long silence, broken only by the murmuring sea. Then Grace drew a deep, ragged breath. She looked down at the floor – at her feet, placed side by side on the edge of a woven mat. When she spoke, her words were drawn out and slow, as if being dragged up across a great span of time.
‘After you left, I stopped working in the garden. Every time I dug in my spade and lifted the earth, I was afraid of what I would find. I asked William to tell me where the grave was – so that I could stay away from it. But he refused.’ She studied her hands, twisting the soup ladle between her fingers. ‘The truth was – I wasn’t really afraid. I just didn’t want to harm the grave. I wanted to leave him in peace. Either that, or plant flowers there for him. But I knew William would never allow that. Your father couldn’t bear anything that reminded him – of what happened. What we did to you …’ Grace lifted her face, gathering shreds of strength around her. ‘I stayed indoors for a long time. In the end, William gave in. But he would only tell me one thing. He said I could be sure – he could promise me – I would not find the place by accident. After that, I dug only in the places where my plants already grew.’
Grace looked away towards the window. Her eyes were red and shiny. Stella followed her gaze. Late sun shone over the garden, turning everything into stark shapes – half shadow, half light.
The two women hardly spoke as they worked their way slowly around the garden. Like Spinks’ orange-suited volunteers, they divided the space into sectors and carefully examined every piece of land that lay outside the fruit and vegetable plots. They trod quickly over the parts where native grass and plants still grew. They looked for the places where the ground was covered with weeds – the foreign plants that invaded whenever the soil was dug up.
It was these sturdy weeds that Grace and Stella had to pull out or drag aside, searching for some sign of the burial. They looked for a stone or a heavy piece of wood – something laid there by William to cover the broken earth. Even inside a fenced garden they knew no one would risk leaving a grave unprotected from devils or stray dogs – gates could be left open, or a picket could come loose.
The air became laden with the smell of fresh earth, bruised stems and torn leaves. Weeds were piled up on top of the beds, along with pieces of old glass, cracked seed trays and a yellow plastic duck that Stella had once played with in her bath.
Stella straightened up, stretching out her spine and rubbing blistered palms together. The sun had disappeared into the sea, and the air was growing cool. The last of the gulls had wheeled their way across the sky to find their rookeries. Soon, Stella told herself, it would be too dark to see clearly the ground ahead of their feet. Yet she did not want to abandon the search, now that it had begun.
As if reading Stella’s mind, Grace went into the shed – returning after a few minutes with two kerosene lanterns. Blue-yellow flames burned low inside the smoky glass covers.
They worked on. As the sky darkened, the lamps shone bright – casting a yellow glow over the earth. Near the back fence they reached a blackberry thicket. A few canes had been planted there decades ago, to provide berries for Aunt Jane’s Summer Pudding. But, since Grace had stopped working in parts of the garden that lay outside her plots and beds, it had run wild and colonised the whole back corner. Stella brought leather gloves and secateurs from the shed and they began to snip the thick stems. As they ripped them free and threw them aside, thorns caught the skin of their arms, leaving long scratches beaded with bright blood.
Stella slapped at a mosquito that was whining in her ear. Grace moved ahead of her, cutting a swathe into the thicket. Suddenly, the woman stopped. For a long moment she did not move. Then she stepped slowly back.
A small cross lay on the ground.
Stella pushed past Grace and knelt by it, pressing her shoulder into the thorny bushes. Grace bent over her, holding up the lantern.
The cross was crudely formed from two pieces of bare wood, joined with a rusty nail. Faint markings could be made out on the crossbeam – the remains of numbers. 1976.
Grace’s faint voice drifted down over Stella’s shoulder. ‘William did that. He must have …’
Stella shook the gloves from her hands and reached towards the little cross. Carefully, she pulled it free of the tangled vines. Beyond it – half-concealed by low growing weeds – lay a large stone.
With trembling hands, she snatched the weeds away, revealing an egg-shaped piece of granite. The stone had come from the beach, Stella knew – it had been tumbled into shape by the waves. But here, in the shadows of the blackberry bush, the earth had begun to take possession of it: moss and lichen crept up the sides, colouring the grey stone with silver green.
The egg lay there, cradled in the damp soil. It was about the same size as a baby. Not the tiny boy buried beneath it – but the baby he should have become. Stella’s fingers brushed the mossy surface. She waited, bracing herself for the sadness to sweep over her – the sense of loss, the rising fear, the guilt … But instead she felt a weight being lifted, as if the stone beneath her hands were able, somehow, to draw her burden down into its own mass and hold it there.
A hand touched her shoulder. Stella glimpsed Grace’s long fingers laid over her shirt. As their grip tightened, pressing her flesh against her bones, Stella looked up. Her mother’s eyes were brimming with tears.
Grace leaned over and placed the lantern down beside the stone. Then she pushed in next to Stella. The two knelt there, side by side, arms pressed together as they looked down at the grave. Grace picked up the wooden cross and put it back by the stone.
Stella turned to her. Grace’s face, painted with yellow light, was beautiful. She looked young again – the woman who had made a tiny jacket for her daughter, yet unborn. A woman with hopes and dreams …
Grace’s lips quivered as tears fell from her eyes. She smiled at Stella.
‘We found him,’ she said, in a voice that was soft with wonder.
They waited there in silence. A gentle wind ruffled their hair. The sea lapped quietly at the rocks on the shore. And the moon rose above them, sending down a silver veil to blend with the gold light of their lamps.
Grace sat at the sea-room table, her head bent over the open weather journal. The standard lamp had been pulled close to her so that it cast its light down onto the handwritten pages. The woman flipped back and forth between the two entries – a year apart – that Stella had marked.
From the opposite side of the table, Stella watched as contrasting expressions passed over her mother’s face – pain and confusion, and a slowly dawning amazement.
‘You didn’t know, did you?’ Stella asked her mother. ‘That he was sorry …’
Grace shook her head. ‘When you ran away, he was devastated – but he still insisted that we’d done the right thing. I didn’t see it that way. I regretted my part in it – even before you left. But there was nothing to be done …’ Grace gripped the edge of the table with her hands. ‘I was so angry with him – and myself – that I didn’t want to talk to him about it. I avoided the subject completely. We discussed you, of course – the news we heard from Daniel, and the things you wrote in your letters. But we didn’t go back over the past. It was like a wound that was scarred over on the surface, but still raw underneath. It was all right if you left it alone – but it hurt too much to touch …’
Grace’s voice trailed off. She met Stella’s gaze with eyes that were dark with pain.
Stella looked at her in silence. She felt pain, too – but it was sharp and alive, not like the deadening ache that she had lived with for so long. She imagined her own wound being torn open – the thick scar being stripped away, leaving the flesh bleeding and raw.
‘I didn’t know he’d ever written an apology to you,’ Grace said. ‘Or that he’d tried, at least …’ She shook her head again. ‘I never imagined he’d come to see that he had been wrong.’
The woman looked away towards the dark glass of the windows. There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a branch rubbing against the outside of the house.
When Grace spoke again, she turned back to Stella, leaning forward over the table. ‘I used to blame William for how our lives – and yours – turned out. But you were right – what you said to me when I was lying on the bed in my room. I was the one who failed you. I was the one who should have understood. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’ve never forgiven myself. But I want you to know how sorry I am.’
As she finished, she lowered her eyes. Her shoulders slumped, as though the weight of her regret was too much to bear. Stella looked away, torn with emotion. Hearing all this, after so many years – she did not know what to say, what to feel ….
Movement drew her gaze back to Grace. The woman’s hand was reaching across the table towards her. It waited there, the fingers outstretched, trembling. Stella stared at it, motionless. Then her hand crept out to meet it. Grace lifted eyes that were bright with tears as the two sets of fingers entwined in a tightening grasp.
Grace stood up, drawing Stella with her – leading her along to the end of the table. There, Grace stepped forward, spreading her arms. But as her mother drew her close, Stella felt herself stiffen. She could not remember the last time Grace had held her like this. It was a long time since anyone had. Her arms hung rigid at her sides, but Grace only held her more tightly, pressing her cheek against Stella’s hair.
Gradually, Stella found herself softening into the embrace. Her hands rose, timid and cautious, until they met Grace’s body. Then, suddenly, they were hungry – grasping for comfort. Stella clung to her mother, lost in a vision of unhoped-for closeness.
After a long, time-frozen moment, Grace dropped her arms and drew away. The memory of her touch lingered on Stella’s body, as if a bright pattern had been left behind.