The Patterson Girls (6 page)

‘Maybe we should take a vote.' Abigail looked to the end of the table. ‘Do you think it's time for a new angel, Dad?'

‘Whatever you girls want.'

Charlie caught Abigail's eye across the table. The look on her face told her she too was worried about Dad's behaviour.

‘So who's up for going to the Christmas Eve service tomorrow night?' Abigail asked brightly. It was something Mum had forced them along to every year and which they'd all complained about from an early age, although secretly Charlie suspected none of them hated it as much as they made out.

Madeleine rolled her eyes.

Lucinda, arriving at the table with two bowls laden with steaming pasta, said, ‘I think that's a lovely idea. Will you come, Dad?'

‘We'll see.'

‘You'll be going, won't you Mrs S?' Abigail asked.

Mrs Sampson seemed quieter than usual and Charlie guessed it was because she didn't want to intrude on this family time. She wanted to say something to remind her that they all saw her as family anyway, but Lucinda placed a bowl each in front of Dad and Madeleine.

‘Have you got anything special planned for tomorrow night in the motel?' she asked, trying again to lure him into conversation as Lucinda went back for the other bowls.

Surprisingly, Christmas Eve was always one of their busiest times in the motel restaurant. Many locals came for pre-midnight service dinner and drinks and in the past Mum and Dad had often hired a band for the evening. But Dad shook his head. ‘Nah, didn't get round to organising anything. And besides, we're not very busy this year.' Then he went back to his pasta, pushing the fork around the plate but not actually putting anything in his mouth.

Lucinda looked to Abigail as she finally sat down next to Madeleine. ‘Pity you didn't bring your violin. You could play a few tunes.'

‘Oh, yes, that would be lovely,' remarked Mrs Sampson.

‘Fuck, can you imagine?' Madeleine snorted at the same time. ‘A violin would make Christmas carols sound like a funeral march.'

Abigail glared at Madeleine and then spooned the first mouthful of pasta into her mouth. She moaned in appreciation, then promptly changed the subject. ‘Wow, this pasta is better than my favourite Italian restaurant in London. You are a domestic goddess, sis.'

Lucinda half-laughed. ‘Don't know about that.'

‘I bet Joe thinks so,' Charlie said, kind of wishing he was here. She'd always liked her brother-in-law. He had a mellow, fun-loving temperament that seemed to rub off on everyone around him and she felt like they could all do with a dose of mellow right now.

‘Nothing I cook could ever compare to Rosa,' Lucinda said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. Picturing Lucinda's Italian mother-in-law, Charlie thought maybe she was lucky she hadn't found anyone to enter into the institute of marriage with yet.

‘I guess that's true.' Abigail sighed. ‘Remind me never to marry a man whose mum cooks better than me.'

‘That rules out pretty much every man on the planet,' said Madeleine, laughing.

Abigail stuck her tongue out at Madeleine but there was a twinkle in her eye.

‘Girls,' Dad said, his tone both warning and amused. ‘Can you be nice to each other for five minutes?'

‘No,' Abigail and Madeleine said in unison.

‘Of course we can,' Lucinda promised at the same time, but awkward silence followed. The dynamics were all wrong without Mum sitting alongside them at the table. Even Mrs Sampson's usually chirpy presence did nothing to allay the melancholy mood.

‘So,' Charlie said when she could no longer stand it. ‘I've started teaching hula-hooping classes at the Brunswick Senior Citizens' Centre.'

Dad didn't appear to hear, but Mrs Sampson smiled again and her sisters all stared at her as if she said she'd just announced she'd volunteered to go on the space mission to Mars. Charlie wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

‘That's nice,' Lucinda said after too long. Charlie reckoned Lucinda didn't really understand her any more than the other two. Madeleine and Lucinda were too conservative and although Abigail had her music, her tastes were highbrow. She'd rather slit her own throat than listen to the reggae music Charlie liked. And their tastes weren't just different when it came to music.

‘And are you still working at the café as well?' Lucinda asked, at least trying to show an interest.

Charlie nodded. Addicts of caffeine, her sisters had always been far more comfortable talking about her café job than they were about her passions for things like tarot cards, sculpture and aromatherapy. Sometimes she wondered if she was adopted. If Mum hadn't read her horoscopes everyday, Charlie would have been certain.

‘Is that hot guy still working there?' Abigail asked.

Charlie rolled her eyes. A while back she'd sent a Facebook request for her sisters to like the café page and Abigail had messaged immediately asking who the bloke with the shaved head, rocking body and tattooed arms was. ‘Yep. Unfortunately he's happily dating one of the waitresses.'

Abigail shrugged. ‘What about you, Charles? You seeing anyone?'

‘Not at the moment. You?' Charlie turned the limelight back the other way. ‘Or are you too busy working as usual?'

‘
Actually
, there's something I need to …' Abigail straightened but then went quiet. Charlie and the others, even Dad, looked up at the way she said that one word. It sounded … significant, like she was about to deliver an important announcement. Charlie noticed her hand was shaking slightly, which was very un-Abigail-like. Must be serious.

‘Are you okay?' she asked.

‘Yes.' Abigail came alive again, her eyes twinkling and a blush rushing into her cheeks. ‘Actually, I am seeing someone. He's blond …' She paused and that look of a besotted-lover—all gooey distant eyes—came over her face. ‘And gorgeous. And so damn nice. As it happens, he's an Australian also working in London. He's back to visit his family for Christmas too; we came over on the same flight.'

‘And another one bites the dust,' Madeleine said dryly, taking another sip of her wine. ‘That look you've got in your eyes is the same one Lucinda had when she told us about Joe. Remember?'

‘Well, I'm happy for you.' Lucinda leaned across the table and patted Abigail's hand. ‘That's great news, isn't it Dad?'

They all looked to Dad, who blinked as if he hadn't taken in a word of what they'd been saying. ‘What? Yes, lovely.'

‘Mum would have loved him, Dad.' Abigail reached out to take his hand. ‘Tell us the story of when you met her again?'

‘Ah, not tonight, love.' He extracted his hand and pushed back his chair. ‘It's lovely to see you all, but I think the drive to Adelaide and back has got to me. Do you mind if I call it an early night?'

Charlie looked down. Aside from moving it around his plate, he hadn't touched his dinner.

‘That's fine, Dad,' Lucinda said, ‘but is there anything we can help with tomorrow? Motel-wise?'

He sighed, before glancing at each of them in turn. ‘Actually girls, there's something I've been wanting to tell you and I guess there's going to be no better time than now.'

Charlie's breath caught in her throat as she imagined the worst. Was he sick? Did he have cancer?
Please no
. She couldn't handle losing him so close to her mother.

Finally, he spoke. ‘I've decided to sell the motel.'

‘Oh.' Abigail looked speechless, which had to be a first.

‘Makes sense.' Madeleine nodded, but her expression was grave.

‘Yes,' Lucinda agreed. ‘It's a big job on your own, even with fabulous staff.'

Mrs Sampson stared down at her empty bowl as if this weren't a surprise.

Charlie didn't know what to think. She felt a tear bubble. The Meadow Brook Motel had been in Mum's family for generations. She couldn't imagine her life without it here to come back to, but she didn't want to make Dad feel guilty.

‘It's not a decision I make lightly,' he admitted. ‘Your mother loved this place. It was her life—and it was my life when she was here beside me—but I don't want to do it on my own. I've contacted a broker and we'll advertise in the new year. Of course, it could take a while to sell.'

They all nodded, each digesting this news in their own way.

‘And there's one thing I would like your help with,' Dad admitted, staring down at his barely touched plate. Charlie struggled to recall a time he'd ever asked any of them for anything.

‘Yes,' she and her sisters said in perfect unison.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the table rather than at any of them. ‘It's your mother's things … I don't know what to do with them. I tried to clear out her clothes and …' His voice broke slightly. ‘It was too hard. Do you think you girls could do this while you're home? The broker said it would be good if we could declutter the house a bit.'

‘Yes.'

‘Sure.'

‘Of course'

‘Definitely.'

Charlie thought of the clothes they'd seen in the wardrobe only an hour or so ago. She could understand why Dad hadn't felt able to deal with them. They still smelt of Mum and she guessed taking them off their hangers and boxing them up to donate to the Salvos or something was probably going to be one of the hardest things she'd ever done.

Chapter Four

Jet lag was the pits. Abigail hadn't slept a wink despite the wine she'd had last night with her sisters. Although to be honest, she wasn't sure she'd be able to sleep even if she hadn't just travelled halfway across the world. Sighing, she rolled over in the too-soft bed of her motel room and eyed the digital clock on the bedside table. It wasn't even 6.00 am but already the South Australian sunlight was blaring through the faded curtains and someone in the room next door was having a shower, singing loudly as the water pipes groaned their objection. She groaned hers as well and then sat up in bed, once again wishing she'd brought her violin. Playing music was her preferred method of stress relief, and she could have given Mr Shower Rockstar a run for his money.

She leaned over, peeled back the curtains and saw her sister emerging from a room along the verandah. Looked like Abigail wasn't the only one with sleeping issues. Although Madeleine was wearing tiny gym shorts, a tight little tank top and sneakers, suggesting she was going to make the most of her wakefulness.

Before she could think better of it, Abigail leapt out of bed and raced across the room to open the door. ‘Madeleine,' she called. ‘Are you going for a run?'

Madeleine raised one eyebrow and then indicated her attire. ‘No, I'm going to the Opera House to watch the ballet.'

Abigail ignored the sarcasm. ‘Can I come with you?'

Another raised eyebrow. ‘I didn't know you were a runner.'

‘There's a lot you don't know about me. Give me two minutes.' Total lie. She didn't even own a proper pair of running shoes but as she closed the door and went to get changed, she decided a t-shirt, her denim shorts and slip-on sandshoes would almost pass. When she went back outside, she spoke before Madeleine had a chance to comment on her bizarre running gear. ‘So, you couldn't sleep either.'

Madeleine shook her head. ‘Things on my mind.'

‘Me too,' Abigail said, before thinking better of it. Thankfully Madeleine didn't appear inclined to ask and although Abigail was curious about whatever was bothering her sister, she didn't ask either just in case she turned the question back on her. ‘Let's go then.'

Madeleine, who'd no doubt been stretching while waiting for Abigail, launched off across the car park and Abigail charged after her, hoping she wouldn't pull a ligament or anything. Then again, if she fell and broke her arm, she'd have a pretty solid excuse not to go back to London. And she could tell her family that the orchestra couldn't wait for her. That was much better than the truth. If only she wasn't a wimp with an extremely low pain threshold. If only she wouldn't die if she had to go for more than this holiday without playing her violin.

And then there was the boyfriend she'd invented last night. Geez, as if she didn't have enough to worry about trying to keep her failure a secret, now she'd invented a guy she'd need to keep track of as well. No wonder sleep had eluded her.

Five minutes later, sweat was pouring off Abigail's skin, her lungs were burning and her legs aching. She barely noticed the massive road trains roaring past them as she pounded along the gravel shoulder of the highway trying to keep up with Madeleine. Although her sister was likely fit enough to keep up a conversation while she ran, Abigail was not and both of them seemed happy for a bit of quiet contemplation. Was Madeleine thinking similar things to her? Wondering what their first family Christmas without Mum would be like? She'd naïvely imagined it would be good for all of them to be together but if dinner last night had shown anything, it was that her family simply didn't know how to interact without Mum at the helm.

Poor Mrs Sampson, having to sit at the table with a bunch of sour-faced Pattersons.

Dad was like a ghost, barely saying anything until he'd dropped his bombshell and then hurried off to bed, leaving them to digest the news. While he'd been present, Abigail had tried to cheer him up with memories of Mum, but each time someone had shut her down, riding over the top of her with some inane topic of conversation. As if her sisters knew better than she did how to deal with his grief.

As they turned off the highway on to a gravel road that bordered the perimeter of the town, Abigail slowed a little and tried to regulate her breathing. She wasn't actually sure the running was doing any good. All she could think about was the fact that maybe her sisters were right. Was she too young to know anything about anything? She'd certainly made a total balls-up of her opportunity in the London Symphony Orchestra. And that was part of the reason she was jittery, part of the reason she kept trying to make conversation—to ensure no one asked her about work. Since the initial shock about her missing violin, everyone appeared too consumed with other things to pay much interest but someone was sure to enquire sooner or later.