Stone Castles (7 page)

‘I didn't realise.'

‘Oh, you do. You really do. I really love your accent. You sound just like AnnaSophia Robb in
The Carrie Diaries.
'

Pip blinked. ‘Um, about Fi?'

‘Oh.' She shook her head, looking conflicted. ‘What did you ask again?'

Pip wanted to scream. Any minute now she'd reach over the counter and shake the girl until her brain dropped out. She wondered if Annasophia Robb had ever done that. ‘Is Fi okay? It was just a day procedure, wasn't it?'

‘I thought that's what she said, but she called me last night and said she needed to have more tests and could I work in the shop all day and maybe tomorrow too.'

‘More tests for what?'

‘She didn't say. Only that she had to go to Adelaide for them.'

Oh god.

But then she checked herself. Just tests, the girl had said. It didn't have to mean anything. Just because of what had happened to Fi's mum, it didn't have to mean anything.

‘Did she say when she'd be back?'

The girl shook her head. ‘She wasn't sure. The only thing was –'

‘What?'

‘She sounded really upset.'

Oh double god!

‘Thanks,' Pip said, and turned and was halfway to the door when she remembered. ‘Um,' she said, looking at the bunch the girl was still making up. ‘Is that bunch meant for anyone?'

She blinked and shook her head. ‘No.'

‘Then I'll take it.'

Chapter Ten

A
s much as she tried to rein in her fears, the questions plagued Pip as she drove the fifteen or so kilometres to Moonta. Why would someone need to have tests in Adelaide unless the hospital here had found something it couldn't deal with? Unless they'd found something entirely more sinister?

Otherwise surely Fi would have been in touch, even just to send a text saying she'd been delayed a while, especially given that she and Tracey had been expecting to catch up tonight.

But maybe she'd texted Trace.

That was it. She was probably worrying about nothing. Fi was probably just upset about the inconvenience of having to go to Adelaide and what to do with the shop and the twins.

She parked the car outside the cemetery under the shade of a scrubby ti-tree and dug in her bag for her phone.

‘Hey Pip,' Tracey answered on the third ring. ‘Everything okay?'

‘Yeah, no news. Just wondering, has Fi been in touch at all?'

‘No,' she said, and the fears Pip had been trying to calm bubbled and churned some more. ‘Didn't you see her at the shop?'

‘She wasn't there. The hospital sent her to Adelaide for more tests apparently.'

There was silence on the end of the line. And then, ‘Crap. You don't think it's what her mum had? You don't think it could be ovarian cancer rather than fibroids, do you?'

Pip squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I don't know what to think,' she lied, because that's exactly the fear that had been uppermost in her mind. ‘But from what the girl in the shop told me, she was pretty upset.'

‘Oh god, poor Fi! That would be so unfair. What about the twins? They're still practically babies.'

‘I know,' Pip said, feeling helpless. ‘What can we do?'

‘Tell you what, I'll text her and say we heard she had to rush off down to Adelaide, but we're wishing her all the best and we'll be here whenever she needs us. In all the excitement she's probably just forgotten we had a date tonight.'

‘And if she doesn't answer?'

‘Then I guess we just have to wait. And hope.'

Pip slipped her phone back into her bag before scooping up the flowers from the passenger seat and taking a deep breath, grateful for one thing. At least thinking about Fi had stopped her thinking about what she was doing here.

She stepped from the air-conditioned car, the white painted stone pillars and gates of Moonta's cemetery bright under a late afternoon sun that still packed a powerful punch. Today's maximum was supposed to be around the mid-thirties and the temperature was still hovering somewhere near that mark. Nowhere near the low to mid-forties she knew summer was capable of delivering, but hot enough for someone fresh out of the northern winter, the dry summer air smelling of dust and harvest time.

Just inside the gates, the quaint old curator's office was as pretty as it had always been, looking like a miniature church with its white painted quoins and green roof, and she wandered past the cemetery bell that had long ago stopped mournfully tolling at every funeral, and through the vast section where babies and children who had succumbed to fever and sickness in the nineteenth century were buried.

Far too many babies and children. Far too much heartbreak to linger on.

But trees cast shade and muted the sounds of the traffic passing on the nearby highway, and there was a kind of peace here too, along with the tragedy. She felt that peace unexpectedly wrap around her as she followed the path through the old cemetery towards the new, and she figured there must be worst places to spend your final rest. The perfume from the bouquet in her arms coiled sweetly in the air and the song of birds in the trees reminded her that this was not a place solely for the dead.

It was a place, also, to remember and reflect.

On a sudden whim she took a detour and found the grave of her grandfather, who had died more than fifty years ago – long before she was born – a grandfather she'd never known other than from photographs and family lore.

She stood there a moment, wondering about this man her gran had married, a man she'd spent only twenty years with before enduring the last half-century of her life a widow. She'd talked of him, while she could still remember, with love and with a fondness that transcended the years. Death couldn't be all bad, Pip mused, if it reunited lovers torn apart too soon.

‘You've waited a long time, Grandad,' she said softly, tugging a single red rose from her bunch and placing it on the grave where Violet would soon join him. ‘Soon you'll be together again.'

And then she turned back to the main path to the new cemetery and found the wide plot beneath which her family lay. She stood there a while, looking at the granite stone with its humble but heartfelt message that they would be forever missed. And she looked at the first two names and ages and dates. Her mother, Deirdre Mavis Martin, and her brother, Trent Gerald Martin. Both dated the twenty-second of December.

Trent, aged eleven, just a boy. Forever a boy.

Her mother. Thirty-five years old. A scant three years older than she was now, and already a wife, and a mother of two. And Pip shivered, because she'd always thought of Dee as her mother first and foremost, her age irrelevant, and suddenly age
wasn't
irrelevant, as never before had she been so struck with the concept of her own mortality.

Thirty-five was way too young to die.

Her fingers tightened on the bouquet in her hands as her eyes lingered on the third name.

Gerald William Martin, aged forty-six, dated one week later.

Gerald Martin. The man she'd sat beside for seven straight days – holding his hand, willing him strength while he'd teetered between life and death.

The man she'd grown up believing was her father.

A man who'd been a father to her, and yet . . .

She sniffed and raised her face to the sky. Was it any wonder Christmas wasn't her favourite time of year?

A crow cawed loud in the scrubby trees nearby, shattering the peace and reminding her of that day with her old great aunties, shrunken and bent and lining one side of the hall in their black funeral weeds, and an old familiar ache pulsed hard in her bones as she placed the bouquet of flowers by the headstone. She'd been talking to Gran at the wake, the poor woman already confused and struggling even then, already on the long road to nowhere. And she'd overheard the old crows behind her talking in their stage whispers, and the words that were as deeply carved in her psyche as those names and dates on the stone.

‘The end of the Martin line then,' one had said with a sigh.

‘Such a shame.'

‘There's always Pip, of course,' someone else said. ‘But then, she was never really a Martin, was she? It's not like Gerald was her father.'

And the old crows had cawed their agreement as Pip's already fragile world had shattered into tiny pieces.

Luke finished the final bit of the paddock he was working on and sat for a moment in the cab, looking out over the pattern of even lines the harvester had left on the stubbled earth, feeling satisfied with what he'd achieved today. He'd started early, with the rising sun, and the day and the harvester had been good to him, the new fuel filter behaving itself and no other running repairs required. And best of all, no unexpected encounters with former girlfriends.

There was something to be said for not leaving the farm. Another few days like this and the bulk of the crop would be in and he could afford to take a couple of hours off on Sunday for Chloe's christening.

He curled his fingers around his dog's ears before turning the header for home. ‘Okay, fella. Let's go rustle up some dinner.'

Turbo sat up at attention while Luke told himself what a good job he was doing. Yes, sir, he thought. Another good long day like this and he could probably handle seeing Pip again without missing a beat too.

She'd taken him by surprise yesterday, that was all. But he'd been thinking about it all day, thinking about the sheer dumb luck that had seen him going into the cafe in the very same moment she was coming out, and now he was almost grateful it had happened that way.

Now there would be no need to be surprised come Sunday. Now there was no need to dread that first meeting.

Not that he dreaded it anyway, mind. It wasn't like he even cared. Not really.

It's just he'd have preferred not to run into her if he had the choice. Because Pip was his past. His long forgotten past.

And he was definitely over her.

Chapter Eleven

V
iolet Eliza May Cooper passed away a few minutes after seven o'clock the next evening. There were no more twitches of her lips that day, no more smiles that morning when Pip had kissed her hello, no warmth in her gnarled fingers and no hint that her gran was still with them, if you could discount the gravelly snore of an occasional, troublesome sounding breath.

Pip sat by her side all day, wondering at the strength of this tiny woman, cursing the cruelty of a disease that had cost Gran her mind and left her body to continue on for so many years without her, while a parade of nursing home staff dropped by to visit, with a quiet word and a touch of fingertips to her papery cheek or a stroke of her snowy white hair. As if they knew.

When it was this close, it seemed, everyone knew.

So Pip stayed right there by her bedside, still reading from the tattered book that Gran had considered her bible, and she was there when the sun slanted, sending red rays through the garden doors to bathe the room in a warm, ruby glow, and Violet took one sudden gasp and then another, and Pip looked up from her reading and held her own breath as her gran left this world on one long, slow exhale.

Pip sat there a while, waiting – suspecting – and this time there was no answering intake of air after an impossibly long wait. No sound in the room but the thump of her own frantic heart beating out of time with Andrea Bocelli singing ‘Ave Maria'.

Her gran.

The last link to her family.

Gone.

Finally she could put off the inevitable no longer. With a heart that was breaking, torn between relief and despair, she squeezed Gran's hand and said, ‘I love you,' and kissed her brow, before she went to let them know.

Molly Kernahan came bustling out of a corridor carrying a bundle of towels when Pip was halfway down to the nurses' station. The other woman started to smile at first, until she saw the look on Pip's face and dropped the towels to pull her straight into her embrace instead. Pip dissolved into tears on her shoulder. ‘There, there. It doesn't matter how much you expect it,' Molly said, rubbing her back and squeezing her tight. ‘It's always a shock.' She rubbed her back some more, before she said unevenly, ‘It's always a shock.'

Craig came to collect her, both he and Tracey refusing to let her drive. And Tracey hugged her close when she got back to the farm, and then pulled her dinner from the warming oven.

‘It's mad,' Pip said, feeling numb as she forked at the meal in front of her, still trying to make sense of it. ‘She hadn't been with us for years. Not really.'

‘It's the end of an era,' said Tracey. ‘There's ninety years of history gone right there.'

And Pip sighed, because what Tracey had said was true, and because whatever secrets her grandmother knew, whatever secrets she might once have known, were gone with her. ‘My boss texted today,' she said numbly, because it was easier to concentrate on the here and now and the future rather than that which was gone and lost forever. ‘He wants to know when I'm coming back.'

‘Oh no, Pip. Surely not already? You only just got here. Surely they can't expect you to turn around and get back on the next plane?'

‘No. They know I have a funeral to organise. But they're flying in the London Vice President of the bank for these interviews in a week.'

‘But it's almost Christmas. Summer holidays. Haven't they got anything better to do?'

‘They had their summer holidays in July and August. Now they want to set up the branch for the coming year, before the end of this one. They were good to give me leave to come and be here. But after the funeral, I have to get back.'

Her friend shook her head. ‘You only came home this time because your gran was dying. How long before we'll see you again?'

‘I don't know,' she said, her heart already heavy with the thought of leaving, and then added with a sad laugh, ‘Maybe when Chloe decides it's time to visit me.'

*

‘Oh, I meant to tell you! Fi texted me last night.'

It was ten o'clock the next morning and because there'd been no need to rush to the nursing home, Pip was sitting in Tracey's kitchen munching on vegemite toast while giving Chloe a cuddle.

But Pip sat up straight now. ‘What did she say? Is she okay?'

‘She said she was sorry she missed getting together, but they're coming home from Adelaide today and she's hoping we can catch up tonight instead.'

‘So everything's all right then?'

‘I don't know. If there's anything wrong, she didn't say, and I didn't like to ask. I just suggested a barbie here. I figure the men can cook, my kids can look after the twins, and we girls can open a bottle of wine and talk. And if there is anything wrong –'

‘She wouldn't come, would she, if it was seriously bad news? Surely the hospital wouldn't have let her go if it was that bad.'

Tracey nodded. ‘That's what I'm hoping.'

‘Phew. I think. I'll grab some wine when I'm in town. I have a date at the funeral director's and then with a funeral celebrant –' she looked at her watch ‘– ooh, in about an hour's time. And then I have to clean out Gran's room.'

Tracey pulled a face. ‘A bit bizarre to call someone who does funerals a celebrant.'

‘Yeah, my thoughts exactly.' Pip kissed Chloe's forehead one more time before she handed the baby over to her mother. ‘I better scoot. Thanks for lending me your car. Let me know if you need anything while I'm there.'

Her mother let Chloe grab hold of the index fingers of both her hands, but she didn't accept the baby, not properly, not yet, leaving her suspended by Pip's hands under her armpits. ‘Pip, I know you said you had to go back to New York soon, but what happens next? What happens after you've seen this funeral celebrant person?'

‘Then I'll be pretty sure of when the funeral will be, and I'll be able to confirm my flight home.'

Her friend looked up at her. ‘Home,' she repeated. ‘You called it home. Is New York home for you now? Is that how you see it?'

Pip got stuck between a shrug and a shake. ‘I've lived there for nearly ten years now, Trace. And my job is there, and if I get this promotion . . .'

Tracey nodded, blinking eyes sheened with moisture, as finally she took the baby from Pip's hands. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, kissing Chloe's forehead before turning her around to sit upon her lap. ‘Of course your life is there. But it's just so good to see you. So good. I miss you so much when you're not around, and New York is just so far away. It's not like we can just pop over for a weekend.'

Pip leant down towards her friend and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. ‘I know.' She kissed her friend's cheek. ‘I miss you guys too.'

Tracey nodded. ‘I just feel like, with your gran gone and now if you get this new job . . . I just feel like we're going to lose you.'

Pip shook her head. ‘No! That won't happen.'

‘It's already happening though, isn't it? You wouldn't even be back now if it wasn't for her.'

‘Hey, I'll still have you guys.' She touched a hand to Chloe's head, a baby who was already well on the way to worming her way into her heart. ‘I'll still have this little one to bring me back.'

Tracey sniffed. ‘You mean that? You really mean it?'

‘Of course, I do.' She smiled at her friend. ‘You don't get rid of me that easily.'

But as Pip drove towards Kadina, she bit her lip and wondered if Tracey wasn't right. She hadn't bothered to come back for the best part of eight years. The last time was for Fi's wedding, and she
wouldn't
be here now if it wasn't for Gran.

What would it take to bring her back again?

A funeral for a ninety-year-old woman shouldn't be such a big deal to arrange, Pip reasoned, and yet still it was an hour of sitting down with a serious looking woman in a seriously grey suit and sorting through a seriously long checklist of music choices and prayers and eulogies. Pip was exhausted by the time every last box was checked, and then the woman apologised profusely and told her that the earliest the funeral could be arranged, given the weekend, would be Wednesday. She dutifully nodded at the news – because by now she'd figured that nodding dutifully was her role – while in fact she was breathing a sigh of relief. Because a Wednesday funeral made a return to work next week unviable. But Monday week was eminently doable, giving her a few precious days here and making sure she'd be back in time for her interview with the London VP.

It was the best possible outcome.

It was so neat she could have written it into her CV. ‘Able to arrange family funerals half a world away with minimal impact on visiting VIPs.'

That, in New York's pressure cooker work environment, might even earn her a few brownie points towards this next promotion.

And winning this promotion would be so sweet. So very sweet indeed.

Because the guy who'd dumped her two Thanksgivings ago, Edward J Stanwyck Jnr, was going for the same promotion she was. It had taken months of hard work to claw her way up to his level, but she'd made it and now they were both vying for the same job.

If she scored this promotion, she'd be his boss.

And wouldn't that be the sweetest victory of them all?

The staff at the nursing home greeted her with hugs and kind words about Violet, and about what a sweetheart she'd been to care for. The room was quiet now, the CD player gone, and there was only the sound of people talking as they came and went along the corridor outside, and of cupboards opening and closing as she sorted through her small wardrobe and chest of drawers, putting anything worth donating in one bag, anything that had seen better days going into another, and all the while trying not to think too much about the empty bed, now stripped and bare and cold behind her.

After an hour, she was done. Some keepsakes she would take. The copy of
Not Only in Stone
. Gran's brush and mirror set and the lace doilies. Tracey might like the narrow hall table in the B&B. The rest the nursing home could keep, to use where there was a need.

And then Pip was back outside in the fresh air and sighing as a couple of stray tears squeezed their way out. Because it was done. Her gran was gone, the funeral arranged, her room cleaned out. All that remained was to write her eulogy and to get through the funeral.

Thank god she had this evening's dinner to look forward to. It had been so long since she'd enjoyed a simple barbecue with friends. She stopped at a supermarket and bottle shop and bought cheese and crusty bread and wine, and then suddenly found herself at a loose end. She didn't have to rush back to the farm. For one of the first times in years, there were no demands on her time at all.

She wasn't sure why she found herself headed out towards Wallaroo and the coast except it would be a shame not to at least visit while she was here. Besides, she was bothered by the strange feeling that if she didn't see it now, she might never see it again.

Which was crazy, she told herself, because of course she'd be back.

But when?

The doubt gnawed away at her as highway gave way to town streets and the car slowed – even if her racing thoughts didn't. Tracey had put these thoughts into her head. Tracey had put this challenge to her and despite all Pip's assurances, it was sitting uncomfortably in her mind like an ugly fat truth.

Because hadn't she been heading towards this exact point for the last fifteen years? Weaning herself from home and her friends, coming back for a wedding or two, until there was nothing but a fragile thread linking her back to this place?

A tenuous thread that had finally snapped when her grandmother had given up her valiant struggle to live yesterday evening.

Wasn't this what she had wanted all along? A final severing of the ties? A reason not to have to come back. A reason to put the secrets and lies and betrayals of the past behind her forever.

And her friends? Tracey and Fi and their families and now tiny baby Chloe? Well, it wasn't like they couldn't still be friends. She could still visit. She would visit, like she'd told Trace.

She breathed deeply, steering the car into the car park at the end of the Wallaroo jetty, her mood like a dark cloud when the day was bright.

It was being here that was unsettling her, that was all.

It was being here and losing Gran and finding a connection with Tracey that had only needed to be dusted off to be as shiny and warm as it had ever been.

But that was hardly a surprise.

What had happened was hardly Tracey's fault.

Damn. She shook her head, wishing she could shake away the thoughts that plagued her, and ran her fingers through her hair, finding a wave where there shouldn't have been one.

She pulled the offending strands around and examined them with disbelief. And then remembered it was three months since she'd had her hair straightened, and the appointment she'd had to cancel because she'd be away, and how she'd been unable to book another since she didn't know when she'd be back. She'd have to see if she could make an appointment for next weekend with Rikki or she'd look like something the cat dragged in at her interview. She'd grab a coffee and text the salon and make sure he could fit her in.

And while she was at it, now that she knew when the funeral was, she would get her agent to check out flights too.

She tugged on the wayward curl as she stepped from the car into warm air that tasted of salt and seaweed and fish and chips, feeling at less of a loose end now she had a plan.

Her hair stylist was a genius. She'd spent her first five years in New York wasting precious time every morning with straightening tongs, and it had been a godsend when someone had told her about chemical straightening and given her a referral to the salon where Rikki had just started. And the bonus was that he was an expert colourist, so her hair was now cleverly streaked in cinnamon and honey and every bit as sleek and professional as the image she wished to convey.