Serena led the way out of the office without speaking. The solicitor’s reaction had been understated, but no less powerful than Paul’s. And it sent chills through her body. They hated the man in her sketch with a vengeance.
My father.
The conman whose crime had nearly killed Paul’s father, assuming her composite sketch was accurate.
She stopped and Paul ran into her back, knocking her bag out of her hand. He scooped it up and held it out.
‘For a moment in there, I wondered … That is, tell me to shut up if you don’t want to talk about it, but it seems you’ve got more invested in this town than just a fashion show.’
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t dare look into his face. Paul didn’t know the half of it, but when he found out Frankston was her father—
Might be. She held onto that tenuous hope. The conman might not be her father. She raised her chin and met his gaze. It lacked any sign of accusation for a woman tainted by her relationship with a criminal. Then she remembered. Paul didn’t know she was searching for her father. He didn’t know the sketch was her attempt to find the nameless man who had fathered her. He didn’t know. And she didn’t want to tell him—ever. So what did he think he’d worked out about her?
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, I don’t mean to pry but if I can help in some way, even if it’s just a friendly ear. Or shoulder or—’ His gaze dropped to her lips and, for the briefest of moments, she forgot why she wouldn’t kiss him again.
She gripped her handbag with both hands. ‘Thank you. It’s my problem but thanks for offering.’ From deep within her bag, the sound of a train horn tooted. She pulled out her mobile and checked the screen. ‘Thanks for letting me tag along to see your solicitor. Penny is lovely, and incredibly kind.’
‘She’s an old family friend. Look, would you like to grab a coffee?’
Wishing her life was simple and that grabbing a coffee with Paul didn’t mean analysing the heck out of the ethics of it, Serena held up her phone. ‘That was my reminder. I agreed to meet Max at Joe’s Café.’
In a way having to meet Max was a relief. At least she didn’t have to wonder about the rights and wrongs of telling him to take a flying leap if she didn’t like what he said.
‘Ah, your journalist friend.’ Paul shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
A wave of regret washed over her. Paul really was a kind man and she enjoyed his company. She would miss it once he knew— Cutting off that line of thought, she smiled. Until she had certainty on her side, she’d make the most of their time together. ‘Until tomorrow.’
‘Sure. Trev and I will swing by your place about six-thirty.’ He waved as she headed along the main street to meet Max.
Max the smarmy, Max the arrogant, Max who, she realised now after they were long finished, had been all wrong for her.
Or she was wrong for him. It cut both ways.
And wasn’t she all wrong for the man she was beginning to have feelings for? The kindest thing she could do for Paul Carey was to take herself out of his life.
Starting with the dinner invitation to his parents’ home.
After she’d spoken to Max, a phone call to Paul politely declining dinner with his family was next on her list. Confused, she drove with only half her mind focused on her lane, and parked across the road from Joe’s Café. Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, Serena sat and watched Max. He was seated at a corner table, back to the wall and his laptop open on the table in front of him. His fingers stilled on the keys and he tipped the screen down as Beryl sashayed up to his table carrying a tray. She placed a mug and a glass of water near his right hand and gave him one of the smiles she reserved for the male of the species. In the cold light of day, Serena’s initial shock at Max’s appearance in Mindalby had disappeared. Surprisingly, a small ball of hurt lingered, tinged with resentment. He’d deserted her, not the other way around. She wasn’t good enough for him to stay and support her when her mother was hospitalised? So why did he want to talk to her now?
What do you want from me, Max? she thought.
Max turned his attention to Beryl. Even from across the road, Serena could see the gleaming white expanse of his expensive dental work as he chatted to the waitress.
‘No matter how winningly you smile at her, you won’t get your espresso shots there, Maxie-babe.’ Gritting her teeth as her childhood habit of voicing her thoughts resurfaced, she grabbed her keys and bag and got out of the car. Then she stood, hand on the door, wavering between crossing the road and climbing back into her car and heading off somewhere he wasn’t.
But Max wasn’t in Mindalby on her account. With his Italian suits and shoes, nothing less than the prospect of a front-page story would have enticed Max into this dusty landscape. He covered national business and finance. Was Don Carter implicated in a scandal? What if Max knew something that could help Paul and his friends? If she listened nicely instead of allowing her hurt to surface and accusations to fly, maybe he’d tell her.
As if he ever shared anything with me, even while we lived together.
Pale sunlight peeked through grey-tinged clouds that promised rain. Taking that as a good omen, she crossed the road, pushed the door open and stepped inside.
‘Serena darling. Glad you could make it. And you’re early! Can I take it that you’re as anxious to see me as I am to see you?’ He took hold of her free hand and leaned in to kiss her mouth.
At the last second, she turned her head and his lips brushed her cheek.
A slight tightening of his hold suggested displeasure, but he stepped back and, holding her hand high and to the side, gave her a once-over. ‘You’re looking fabulous. Who’d have thought the back of beyond would agree so well with you?’
‘It’s not your usual stamping ground either. I must admit I was surprised when you walked into the pub.’
He held her chair and his hand stroked her hair with a possessive touch before he took his own seat and closed his laptop. Serena loosened the green leaf-patterned scarf draped around her shoulders. Surely once upon a time, she had welcomed his touch? Now, it simply annoyed her.
Leaning his elbows on the table and linking his fingers, he examined her face. ‘It’s good to see you, Reeny. I’ve missed you.’
There was another thing she hadn’t missed: that silly pet name he’d insisted on using, never mind how often she told him she disliked it. If this meeting did nothing more than sever the last threads of a dead relationship, she was glad she’d plucked up the nerve to cross the road and speak with him.
‘I wasn’t the one who walked out, Max.’
‘I admit that wasn’t my finest hour, but I was under pressure at work.’
‘And I wasn’t? I spent that night and all the next day at the hospital when Mum went in for emergency surgery.’
Max covered her hand with his. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive. Look, we’re both here now. What do you say we get back together and—’
‘What?’ Pulling her hand free from his, Serena pinned him with a glare. ‘Are you serious? Is that what this is all about?’
‘Why wouldn’t I want to get back with the sweetest woman I ever met?’ Charm oozed from him, but his eyes lacked that sincerity Paul’s had.
‘The only event of sufficient interest to drag you from the city is the mill closure. And I can’t imagine why one small cotton mill on the edge of the outback would catch your attention, unless you’re following a bigger story?’ She allowed the implied question to hang, and waited.
Max tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I dig for juicy details. Beneath the surface, that’s where the interesting stories are.’
‘What’s juicy about—?’ The solicitor’s comment ran through her mind. One small hint, that’s all she wanted Max to drop, and she’d pass it on to Paul. ‘Are you investigating Don Carter? What do you know about him?’
‘What do you know about Don Carter?’
As always he answered a question with a question, but his tone implied he was interested in her answer. So that meant something about Carter had raised a red flag for him.
‘I haven’t met the man let alone learned anything about him. Why are you interested in him?’
‘Pity.’ Max could be charming but he’d always put work ahead of her. Before she finished speaking, the shutters came down and just like that, she was dismissed.
Beryl appeared at her side, order pad and pen in hand. ‘What can I get you?’
Serena pushed back her chair and picked up her handbag. She smiled at the prickly waitress. ‘Nothing, thank you. I’m leaving. Why don’t you give him a slice of your lemon meringue tart? I hear it’s really good.’
Beryl’s eyes widened and she looked at Max. ‘Sir, would you like a slice? It’s freshly made.’
Max ignored the waitress and bumped the table, spilling water as he tried to get to his feet in the confined space between chair and table. ‘Reeny, you’ll tell me if you hear where Carter has gone, won’t you?’
‘I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care. Goodbye, Max.’ As she turned and walked to the door, she heard Beryl’s response.
‘Don Carter? He went into hiding before the gates were locked at the mill. I can tell you where—’
The cafe door closed behind her. She didn’t look back; she didn’t care what Max was doing. What she needed was time alone to think, to plan her next move now she had a possible name for her father. Asking Paul where Frankston was staying wasn’t an option, but there must be some way of finding him.
She drove to the riverbank and parked, setting her thoughts to drift like sailboats on the sluggish water.
***
As Serena drove slowly along River Road, a silver Audi pulled up in front of a large, two-storey house that seemed to float on huge picture windows. The Audi driver’s door opened, Max stepped out and headed towards the front door. Beryl must have come good with Carter’s address. Good luck to him if he thought he was going to corner the man. No one else had been able to make the mill owner come out of hiding. As she drove past the house, Serena glanced at the upper storey. A curtain dropped back into place as Max banged on the front door. Someone was home after all.
Paul might appreciate knowing that detail. She turned right onto the main street and continued until she spotted her destination. Parking was easy at this end of town. Around the mill it was a different story as workers gathered at the gates. Grateful to have her own business and money still coming in, she picked up her portfolio and entered the building.
A woman in her mid-thirties sat in a small office to the left of the service counter. The sign above her door read Clerk of the Court. After a couple of minutes, no staff had appeared at the counter to take her enquiry and Serena tapped the bell. The woman looked up, acknowledged Serena with a nod of her head, then stood and poked her head around the door.
‘Sorry. We’re short-staffed at the moment. Just give me a minute and I’ll be with you.’
‘Thanks.’ Serena set her handbag on the counter and waited.
Paper clicked through a photocopier while the clerk stapled pages together and filed them in a standard, bureaucratic-grey filing cabinet. The drawer closed with a metallic thunk, official and impersonal.
She couldn’t do it.
Greg Frankston might be her father, but did she want all the baggage that came with that relationship? The man was persona non grata in Mindalby. By all accounts, he was unethical and uncaring and the community despised him for cheating them. Pine trees, for goodness sake!
And look how he’d abandoned her mother. Alone and pregnant at nineteen, Dawn had made the brave decision to be a single mother; for twenty-six years, they had lived happily without her father. Only her mother’s illness had raised a desire to find him.
Well, she’d found him. Acting on that information would add nothing to either of their lives. And it would kill the few tentative friendships she’d begun. Paul would hate her for the connection and she wouldn’t blame him. She hated Frankston for using her mother. Because that must be the reason Dawn had refused to name him all these years. Why else would she prevent her only child finding her father unless he was a complete bastard?
Leaving well enough alone, Serena turned to leave.
‘You’re new in town. What can I help you with?’ The clerk’s question stopped her in her tracks. The woman had bright orange hair, makeup an inch thick, and a voice that demanded answers in return for her attention.
I was looking for information on my father. His name is Frankston, the man everyone loves to hate.
No. She didn’t want to know any more about him.
Not now.
Not ever.
But what reason could she give for being in the courthouse?
‘My name is Serena Quinlan and I’m—’ Her breath caught in her throat. Setting her folder down, she leaned against the silky oak counter.
‘You’re the clothes designer, aren’t you?’
Serena nodded, grateful for the chance to think.
‘I recognise your name. I’m Vera Wellington, the Clerk of the Court. What are you doing in town? You do know the mill closed, right? So there won’t be a festival. Are you here to see Mrs Carter? She owns the dress shop and—’ The spate of words rushed on like water through flood gates, implacable, unstoppable, requiring nothing more than Serena’s presence.
Eventually, Vera paused and eyed Serena, the folder on the counter, and her watch. ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘I have some sketches, and an idea for a fundraiser.’ Fingers trembling, Serena slid the two sketches from the folder and turned them to face the clerk. She waited, tense and expectant, for the woman’s mouth to tighten, for a diatribe about how bad her father was and how he’d screwed so many people.
She waited.
Vera picked the pages up and studied the pictures more closely. ‘Interesting. Why did you bring them here?’ She set them on the counter and pinned Serena with a look that asked why she was wasting the time of someone as important to the functioning of the court as Vera.
‘Do I—need a permit or anything?’ It sounded lame, but it was the only reason she could come up with for calling into the courthouse.
‘Not from us. You’d have to check with the shire council. Anything else?’
‘Not really. Do you—do you recognise either of these men?’
Tapping orange and green acrylic nails on the counter the woman pored over the images again. The sound ran down Serena’s spine like a spider, raising goosebumps and setting her nerves jangling. Finally, the clerk tapped the sketch Paul and Penny had reacted badly to. Her eyes narrowed. ‘This one looks like Greg Frankston.’
‘And this one seems vaguely familiar.’ She stabbed a finger at the second sketch. No one had given it much of a look once they recognised the first subject. ‘I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him around.’
‘In Mindalby?’
‘Yes. But I don’t think he lives in town. Why don’t you show that to some of the shop owners? Maybe one of them will know who he is. Come back when you’ve got a name and tell me who he is. Maybe scrap the idea of showing the picture of Frankston. He’s a dead loss.’
‘Thanks so much, Vera. I really appreciate your help.’ Serena returned the sketches to the folder and headed outside. It seemed a million-to-one shot one of her sketches had led to finding her father. And now she knew who he was, she wished she had left things as they were.
Flutters in her stomach and a light head, or maybe the savoury aromas wafting down the street, reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Following the smell of baking, she crossed the road to the bakery. The shop was quiet, and several shelves were empty of all but crumbs. Taking that as a good sign, she tried to guess at the fillings of the handful of pies still in the cabinet. A small, grandmotherly woman with a kind face stepped up to the counter.
‘Hello, dear. What can I get for you today?’
‘Do you have any pies with mushy peas?’ Her mother had allowed her the savoury treat once a week from the school tuckshop.
‘Comfort food, isn’t it. You’re lucky, there’s one left. And how about something sweet for dessert?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Apple slice, caramel tart, raspberry tart. I make them fresh.’ A note of pride filled the woman’s voice.
Serena eyed the slices, remembering Paul’s preference. Mouth-watering, plump pieces of apple within golden baked pastry beckoned. ‘An apple slice please. I haven’t had one in years.’
The woman expertly slid the slice into a white paper bag and twisted the corners to seal it. She set it beside Serena’s pie and smiled. ‘That will be nine-twenty, dear. Anything else I can help you with?’
Handing over a ten-dollar note with one hand, Serena felt the sketch burning a figurative hole in her other hand. She set the folder on the counter and pulled out the drawing. No time like the present to start asking around. ‘Do you recognise these men?’
The woman picked up the sketches, adjusted her glasses, and tipped her head back as she peered down her nose. Frowning, she put down the sketch of Frankston and brought the other page closer.
‘Nan, what are you looking at?’ A young woman joined Nan at the counter. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth hanging from her apron and examined the sketch with interest. ‘He looks sort of familiar.’
‘Really?’ Nan shook her head and glanced at the younger woman.
‘You know, Nan, it could be the tall bloke who works at the mill.’
Heart beating hard, Serena gripped her handbag tighter. ‘Do you know his name?’
‘Reminds me of Josh when he was younger, or maybe that bloke who lives on the commune. Look, I don’t know if it is but the picture reminded me of him is all. If you close one eye and squint, it could almost be a younger version of Don Carter. Not that anybody would want a picture of that bastard.’
God, no. Not the mill owner. She couldn’t decide which of the two choices—Frankston or Carter—was worse.
‘Oh, Shar, what an awful thing to say.’
‘It’s true, Nan. Veronica Carter has been copping abuse from some morons in this town just because she shares the same surname, yet she had the good sense to divorce him years ago.’ Shar tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turned to Serena.
‘Why are you looking for this bloke?’ She nodded at the sketch as Nan set it on the counter.
Maybe it was Nan’s kindly tone, or gentle eyes.
Or maybe it was sudden hope springing in Serena’s chest.
The women had recognised another man from her drawing. A different man who might possibly be her father.
A man who wasn’t Frankston or Carter.
A man she might want to find and get to know after all. Weighed down by the fear her father was the conman, the new possibility was like a burst of sunlight after flooding rain. Desperate for a different father than the one she thought she’d found, the truth slipped from her mouth.
‘I’m looking for my father. That’s a composite sketch I made from the differences between Mum and me. What I think my father might look like.’
‘Don’t you know who your father is?’ Compassion tinged Nan’s voice but her gaze was shrewd.
She refused to mention Greg Frankston by name and shook her head. ‘No, but apparently he came from out this way and had something to do with cotton. He may be a singer too.’
Nan rested a hand on the sketch. ‘What’s changed that you’re looking for him now?’
‘Mum—’ She cleared her throat of the lump that rose whenever she thought of her mother lying in a hospital bed, a snake pit of drip lines tethering her to bottles of clear liquids. Hair shorn and cheeks gaunt, she had struggled with the effects of her chemo treatment.
‘Mum had a bad health scare recently. It made me want to know who my father is, to see if I could make contact with him.’ Serena reached for her sketch.
Nan patted her hand and held it for a moment. ‘We’ll keep an eye out for this fellow and let him know you’re looking for him. If you make a copy of your sketch, you’re welcome to put it up in our window. And talk to Jo Johnson at the local radio station. She knows everybody. She’ll be finishing the midday session shortly. Good luck, dear.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Picking up her sketches and the two packets containing her late lunch, Serena left the bakery with renewed hope. A spot of rain hit her face, followed by a few more as she walked briskly to her car. Two names, and one wonderful, unknown possibility—she refused to consider Shar’s offhand reference to Don Carter, or the spectre of the conman—all in the space of one day. Josh—no surname, but he worked at the mill.
Maybe it was time to let her mother know how her search was progressing.