A Good Life, page 1
A Good Life
Leanne Lovegrove
Copyright © 2021 by Leanne Lovegrove
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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To Mitchell, my youngest and favourite man. You are destined for great things.
Also by Leanne Lovegrove
Books
Unexpected Delivery
Illegal Love
Keeper of the Light
Novellas
Escapades of a Personal Stylist
Love on the Sweeping Plains
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Shadows dance on the window and I blink. Time zeros back in. When I sat down it was daylight, the birds chirping, the grass wet with dew, the sun not yet radiating any warmth. I hear the clock ticking; it sounds loud to me.
Too loud.
My last cigarette has burned out in the tray, ashes only left. The odour lingers, on my fingers, in the air. A smoky pallor fills the room.
The pervading darkness of the twilight creeps into the room. Where have the hours gone? I look at the easel standing in front of me, the brush in my hand, paint still clumped in the bristles. The cheeks of the cherub staring back at me are full and flushed pink.
Were they ever warm? A whisper of blonde hair across the head, short, fluffy. I long to brush my hand over the wisps and feel its softness. That longing causes an ache to shoot through my chest. My arms are empty.
The eyes are shut but I imagine they are blue. Like the ocean. The lashes fair like the sand on the beach. I move my foot to brush the dog; the fur is bristly. She knows; offers me comfort. But it’s too late. I’m exhausted. The pain of each stroke has kept me going, like an exorcism, releasing the agony and transporting it to the painting. It’s hard to capture likeness, my memory tricks me, time so short, images fading.
It’s done.
Chapter 1
‘Well, you’ve made a right royal mess of things, haven’t you?’ Millicent Osborne swung the cottage door open.
The words hit Greta square in the chest and clean stole her breath away. Standing on the top step, she swayed and reached for the handrail. Trust her aunt to dig down deep, and to the point, immediately.
Her body buzzed; the sensation rocketed up through her shoulders, climbed her neck and thrummed at her temples. She gripped the railing tighter, and her knuckles turned white.
Not now, damn it.
Blackness threatened at the edges of her vision. She gulped in three quick breaths, kept still, allowing lightness to return and her head to clear. The dull throb remained.
Surely, now that she’d arrived, things would improve, wouldn’t they?
Greta took in the familiar surrounds and a pang of something else hit her.
In the middle of bloody nowhere and surrounded by wild rainforest and unkempt gardens, the cottage was as she remembered. Neighbours wouldn’t hear a cooee if you called one and the trip into civilisation was a day out. The rotten timber stairs had peeling paint curled against its boards. The narrow deck had dead potted-plants and a faded green door. A sign welcomed you to Banyan Creek even though the creek, or rivulet of water depending on the time of year and drought conditions, was at the far rear of the property.
But there was comfort in this place. The house had been the same for as long as she could remember. But as a child, she’d never noticed the decay.
Or was it perhaps her that had changed?
The heat of the midday sun penetrated the thin cotton of her blouse. The warmth blanketed her like a second skin, heavy and oppressive and she wanted to rip off her clothes and feel cool relief. There is nothing like the steamy temperatures of the hinterland, sometimes it felt like the tropics. Instead, it was northern New South Wales, but still, it was a world away from Sydney.
Back to feeling a semblance of normal, she dragged her Hermes suitcase onto the timber deck until it landed with a thud. Dropping the handle, she blew her heavy fringe out of her eyes. It flicked upwards and down again, into exactly the same spot forcing Greta to look through black strands of hair.
‘Thanks, Auntie, for keeping it real.’ Greta said, but she’d already disappeared. Peering inside, her eyes adjusted to the dimness and Greta saw Millie striding down the short hall. She smiled at the bobbing red straw hat, her aunt’s trademark painting hat. Some called her aunt eccentric, but Greta loved her. And that is why, despite her acerbic wit and loose tongue, she’d turned up here.
Greta would cop those taunts everyday if it meant she didn’t have to go home.
Home. Wherever that was now.
‘Did you get my letter?’ she shouted after Millie. No answer.
Indoors, she shivered as the perspiration dried on her skin. Halfway up the long drive, the left wheel of her case had broken and rolled away landing in a muddy hollow left over from recent rain. She’d had to drag the bag the remaining few hundred metres in her stiletto heels and tight skirt. Not for the first time, she wished she had something more suitable to wear.
‘I guess I’ll just come in then,’ she sang out.
‘Don’t make a song and dance about it. Come in and shut the door.’ Millie’s voice echoed off the VJ walls.
Rushing to catch up, Greta dumped the suitcase before following Millie into the living room, or rather, the painting studio. Or even more apt, junk room. Who else used their living room as a painting studio? Only her aunt, she guessed. Greta would confess to being a neat-freak, but the mess in this room was disgusting.
And God, the smell. That smell came back like a long-lost friend. She recalled it as a child, but now it was strong, stringent and able to clog up your nostrils with one whiff. A mixture of oil paints and turps and who knew what else.
Greta spied the paint brush first. But she knew where Millie would be, where she always was. In the far corner in her chair, surrounded by easels and boards and half-completed paintings and blank canvases.
‘Did you get my letter?’ Greta repeated. A film of something lined her throat as she took in a breath. She zigzagged across the room.
‘Hmm, no.’
‘How did you know to expect me then?’ Greta quizzed.
‘I didn’t. But I heard someone plonking up my stairs. The whole house vibrates and it’s annoying, mucks up my brush stroke. So, I answered the door.’
‘Oh.’
‘What do you mean, oh? What are you doing here? Have you been released?’
‘Yes. It is okay if I stay awhile?’
Millie looked at her, really stared at her for the first time. Those wise old hazel eyes bored into her causing discomfort to spread through her chest. She would be kind, wouldn’t she?
A brief pause.
‘What will your mother say?’
Greta shrugged. ‘I haven’t told her yet. I’ll let her know if I stay.’
‘Greta, of course, you can stay. It’s lovely to see you. Gosh, child, I haven’t seen you, what, since when? Well before all this ruckus. When you finished school perhaps? I think your mother sent you for a week during the holidays … what, when you were eighteen?’
Greta nodded. ‘Yep. She sent me here for schoolies, remember?’ She laughed at the memory. Her mother had sent her to the small coastal town to avoid the scandal and risqué behaviour of the Gold Coast.
The pair exchanged a smile. It had been a fabulous week of partying with Millie who’d joined in all of the action. That’s who she was and exactly the reason Greta had come.
‘Did I teach you bad habits?’ The tone turned serious. ‘It’s important to be able to moderate our behaviour.’ She let the words hang.
‘I’ve just arrived, can we save the lectures for later?’
The reply was a vocal sound of displeasure. ‘I’m sure we agree that I’m hardly the lecturing type. But I’m also not stupid. Anyway, I’m working. Settle in, do what you must. You know where the spare room is.’
Millie lifted a cigarette to her lips and dragged. The plumes of smoke drifted up to hover at the ceiling. Another smell to add into the mix. When would she give up that revolting habit?
Greta placed her hand to Millie’s shoulder and peered at the canvas she worked on. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Greta whispered as she drank in the artwork and leaned closer. A pastel green vase held a posy of daisies and next to it sat two mint jars and
Millie squashed out the butt of her cigarette and rose to embrace her. Greta squeezed into the hug, clutching too hard to the soft folds of skin around her aunt’s middle. For the first time in months, she felt safe. Gratitude washed over her and her limbs loosened, the tension releasing. Greta held in the tears threatening to stream down her cheeks.
Pulling back, Millie’s hat tipped sideways, the flower on the side sitting askew. ‘That’s enough now. It’s wonderful to have you here. Settle in and we’ll catch up later.’
Millie sat and raised her paintbrush and it landed with a flourish and a twist of her wrist in one perfect stroke. Greta recognised the satisfaction streaked across her seventy-six-year-old face. One of triumph and perfection. She’d seen that look on Millie’s face many times. Hadn’t seen it recently though. Had it really been eight years since she’d visited? It can’t have been … and yet it might. She’d been busy.
Millie hadn’t changed. Perhaps the wrinkles next to her eyes and mouth had deepened, her shoulders more rounded. Maybe an extra kilo or two? Her auburn hair had always been streaked grey and now, from what Greta could see spilling from the trim of her hat, the colour appeared the same. It could be that she’d gone back in time.
Now that would be a blessing: a chance to right her wrongs, make different choices, start over again. She wished. There was no getting out of what she’d done. She sighed.
Nonetheless, that’s how it felt returning here. As if time had stagnated. But Greta hadn’t. She’d lived a whole lifetime, fucked up and lived to tell the tale.
Millie was back in the zone, a place difficult to pull her out of. Even in an emergency.
From the entry, Greta trudged towards the narrow staircase at the rear of the room that led to the upstairs bedrooms. Her high heels click clacked on the polished floors. Would they make a dent? Somehow, she didn’t think Millie would care.
Her bag clunked onto each step making a dreadful clatter. A loud tsk drifted up the stairs each time it landed. Only ten to go. This was a better workout than she’d had in the last six months. At the top Greta paused, out of breath. Walking a square of ten metres wide daily didn’t allow one to gain marathon fitness. As for the gym, she hadn’t been able to face it recently, either. Might have had something to do with her exercise pals.
With one last tug, she opened the door of the room she’d always stayed in and shoved the case inside. And she had stayed a lot, when she was younger, anyway. The suitcase caught on something and she overbalanced, landing flat over arse with her hair falling around her face.
‘Um, hello.’ The voice was deep and husky. Greta shook the hair from her eyes and a man came into view who, from her angle, appeared to be a giant. His too-long hair was mussed with tufts sticking out, like her old boss used to look when he raked his hands through his hair whilst yelling at her. He had matching facial hair three days past a shave, ripped jeans with holes too large to be fashionable and displaying hairy kneecaps and broad shoulders crammed into a deep blue collared shirt unbuttoned at the top but splattered with a riot of colour. And there was that goddam awful smell again. She stifled her gag.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘I asked first.’
Greta dropped her head and made to get up. He rushed forward and grasped her arm. His grip was strong, and his fingers covered the circumference of her pathetic bicep. Greta shook it off. ‘I don’t need help.’
Standing at her full height, he didn’t appear quite the giant, but he was tall and wide; his presence filling the small room.
‘I’m Millie’s niece.’
‘Niece? I didn’t know she had a niece.’
‘Well, she does and it’s me. And this is my room.’ Greta looked around and déjà vu hit. This room resembled the living room. ‘You’re an artist, too?’
‘Um, I guess.’ He nodded.
‘You guess? I’m saying the easel and the paints and the brushes might be a clue. Plus, that smell. Don’t you worry that you’ll overdose on those chemicals? Man, it’s strong.’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t smell it.’
‘Yep. Well that confirms it, you’ve lost your brain cells already inhaling that stuff.’
He took a step back and crossed his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well, I was planning to stay here, in my room.’ A territorial urge rose within her to claim her old space back. Her journey to the past had provided familiarity and treasured memories. She hadn’t realised how desperately she was clinging onto everything being the same. But that was stupid, nothing about her life was the same.
‘Oh,’ he said and paused. ‘I wasn’t expecting you—’
‘Clearly,’ she interrupted him.
‘… but I can clear out. It’ll just take me a bit.’ He looked around, his brows drawing together and his face tightening. The crammed area was like the living room, but also not. Millie’s studio, while cluttered, held delight. This room was dark not by nature but with its contents. A black canvas leaned against one wall; a cluster of messy pieces were on the floor, some with explosions of paint in all colours: reds, blues, and oranges that resembled a child’s finger painting. Standing against the bed in the corner was a portrait with a contorted face with sharp edges and evil eyes. In a row on the top bookshelf were human skulls. And of course, the usual tubes with caked paint at the lid and lots of tins. What sort of artist was this guy and how could Millie possibly tolerate it? But what did she know? She couldn’t even draw a stick figure. She and her aunt did not share this talent.
At his crestfallen glance around the room, she softened. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the other room and crash there.’
‘You staying long?’ he stared at her with bluish-green eyes. A ripple of something shot through her chest, snagging her heart.
Who was this guy? And why was such a damn good-looking man—albeit in a messy, unkempt sort of just rolled out of bed way— in the spare room? Surely Millie didn’t have a toy boy? This guy had to be around her age, perhaps heading more towards thirty. She wasn’t there, yet.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Okay, well, welcome.’ He held her gaze.
Greta turned away. It didn’t matter what a knockout he was. There were other things on her mind. Like the headache throbbing at her temples. The pulsing moved to behind her eyes and her vision blurred. Her legs ached from being on her feet too long and her arms from tugging her worldly possessions around in the broken bag. She resisted kicking it, wanting to take out her frustration for this situation and the one she’d caused all those months ago. She dreamed of a soak in a hot tub and to wash away the grime and sweat of today and the past six months. She prayed there was a stash of bubble bath.
That, and then she’d sleep for a week, safe and comfortable, even if it wasn’t her own bed.
‘I’m Brodie, by the way,’ he said in a voice now dripping with honey.
‘Greta, Greta Johnson’ she muttered hardly audible as she pulled the door shut.
Chapter 2
Brodie Quade had a spoonful of breakfast cereal half-way to his mouth when Greta entered the dining room. He shut his mouth and chewed.
‘Good morning, darling. What a sleep. I expected you downstairs last night, but you didn’t show. Lucky, though, because I painted through to the wee hours. I wouldn’t have been much company.’ Millie lowered her newspaper and addressed her niece.
Brodie’s gaze flicked between the two.
