Page 5 of The Side Road (Love Chronicles #3)

THE CONVENT

Snood followed Mia into the kitchen. He lay down on the floor at her feet and rolled onto his back.

With her foot, she rubbed his stomach. Then she poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the sink.

Her memory of Oliver was still clear. An attractive man with a sensitive face, kind eyes, and unruly brown hair.

He had excellent posture for such a tall person.

The weight in his body shifted evenly from his torso, over his arms, to his powerful shoulders.

A physique that suggested he might be a swimmer, but not in the Kimberley.

He rode motorbikes. She knew this because Tash had told her.

Physically, he was impressive, but the way he smiled made her wary.

His eyes had been all over her like a onesie.

A nervous, apprehensive feeling settled inside her, like cutting the last thread of a delicate hand-knitted cardigan that had taken months of work.

Quickly, she dismissed their connection as two weary, possibly lonely – and in her case slightly drunk – people who had found themselves under a star-filled sky, amongst the hullabaloo of a wake.

Unfortunately, both the moon and the music were romantic .

Her knitting was on the table; she picked it up and examined the rows.

She was making a new jumper. The wool was vicuna from the South American llama, one of the most expensive yarns on the market.

A decade ago, it had been more expensive than gold.

Mia couldn’t resist the soft, cinnamon-coloured fibre, and she had already finished one sleeve of the garment.

On the front, she thought she might incorporate a pattern, but she was still deciding.

It was getting late. Snood knew the nightly routine.

After Mia removed his collar, he settled into his bed by the back door.

She reached down and patted her dog. ‘I know you’re in fine health,’ she said.

‘But I just wanted to say it’s great having you in my life, especially when I’m lonely.

You might already know that, but it’s a privilege knowing you, and I don’t say that lightly. ’

Snood nuzzled into her.

‘If you could talk, I think you’d have a low, growly country and western drawl. This could get weird, but you’re going to need a bandana.’

She headed to her bedroom, a dusty blue space with fluted lamps and a frosted glass chandelier.

A navy throw complemented the flower-print bedcover.

Luxurious mother-of-pearl buttons studded the padded headboard.

Mia loved extravagant textile details, like fringing, pleating, and interesting buttons.

She lay down on the bed, certain that Oliver would not derail her.

After almost three years of singledom, she had crafted a new life and built a successful business.

Life was good and she had never been happier.

Nothing was going to rock her boat. Odd, though, that she felt so weighted down and strangely sad .

On Saturday morning, the sound of a hammer striking an anvil wafted up the road to Mia’s house on the hill.

The restored blacksmith house, once the king of trades, was now a working museum.

Every weekend, Terry, the smithy, donned a leather apron and worked the forge for the tourists.

The museum didn’t open until nine, but Terry was on site at eight, working the forge and pounding the anvil. She appreciated his punctuality.

In bed, Mia rolled over and looked out the window.

Outside, it was a bright, crisp day. The waratah bush in her garden was flowering, and she watched a red lorikeet foraging for nectar in the globe-shaped flowers.

To be a bird, she thought. One that lived in a quiet country town, free from predators.

Realising she was awake, Snood slunk into the room, and Mia invited him onto the bed.

‘Morning, handsome,’ she said.

The big black Labrador placed his head in her lap and Mia ruffled his ears. ‘You make me impossibly happy. Are you my big boy?’ she asked.

He was.

‘Are you hungry?’

Always.

‘Do you love me?’

Forever.

Snood gave her more love than she had ever received.

When he looked at Mia, his resting dog face was adoration.

A low-maintenance companion, he fitted perfectly into her rural life.

His favourite activities were a short stroll around the village, cuddling on the bed, and the warm patio.

The dog’s expressive eyebrow muscles, typical of Labradors, conveyed a full range of emotions, from surprise to indifference.

From concern to happiness. She always knew his mood.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Mia said. ‘And you’re right. It’s time we got up. Holly will be here in half an hour and we have things to do.’

In 1890, Mia’s modest three-bedroom house was a four-bedroom convent built by the Sisters of St Joseph. The stone and timber cottage had had many owners over the years. The community had used it for fruit storage, as a place for shearing sheep, and a garage.

This was the first home Mia had lived in by herself.

Redecorating the house, she had added gilt mirrors and tasselled lamps to the cosy living room.

A folded rug hung over the arm of every chair.

In the bathroom, was a claw-foot bath. The fittings included an old wicker chair, a ladder repurposed as a towel rack, and a stool for holding bathing items. A shaggy rug on the floor kept her feet warm.

The last renovation had preserved the herringbone floorboards and restored the steel-framed windows in the kitchen and sitting room. Botanical prints decorated the light green walls. The wide window ledges held neatly stacked art and craft books.

This house was nothing like her childhood home, a modern glass and concrete mansion. One hundred and twenty years of history separated the two buildings, but to Mia, it felt like a millennium.

Her phone pinged, startling her; personal emails were unusual.

The message was from Jamie, her older brother.

They were a family who rarely talked, but when they did, they corresponded by email.

Mia’s parents spent most of their time in France, and both her older brothers lived in different states.

The emails were brief and formal. Only the most basic facts were included.

They informed one another about work promotions, awards, weddings, divorces, and the occasional vacation update (destinations were optional).

Jamie’s last email to the family had said, ‘FYI. I’ll be on annual leave in January.’ Mia hadn’t had a conversation with her eldest brother, Richard, for three years. On Christmases and birthdays, she sent him a text message. He responded accordingly.

She opened the email. Jamie wanted to know the combination of the family safe in her father’s home office. Her parents were selling a Tom Roberts artwork, a small pastoral sketch from the 1880s.

This was the first Mia had heard about the sale. Jamie’s email said that the auctioneer needed the original receipt before they could sell the painting. Forgery was common in the art world. The receipt was in the safe.

Calling the artwork a painting was a stretch; it was a pencil sketch of a man shearing a sheep. A preliminary work for one of the artist’s more famous pieces. Rare, it would still fetch a good price at auction.

A constant throughout her childhood, the sketch had hung in the kitchen of her family home. Ever-present, it had an unpretentious beauty.

‘Why are Gary and Beth selling?’ Mia wrote back. ‘ Did they buy an island ?’

Jamie replied , ‘ No . The place in France needs a new roof . I’ve tried Dad’s birthday, Mum’s birthday, the year they bought the house, and their wedding anniversary. Do you think it might be one of our birthdays? ’

There was no way her parents would use their children’s birthdays. Mia doubted her father knew what day of the month hers was.

She typed, ‘ Try 140379. The first day of the university term, the day the lovebirds met . ’

A few moments later, Jamie replied, ‘ Bingo . Nothing can ever happen to you. ’

‘ Write down the combination and put it in the safe for safekeeping,’ Mia replied, and giggled at the absurdity of her suggestion.

When Jamie didn’t answer, she realised he didn’t get the joke.

Mia filed the correspondence under Family Matters .

In the kitchen, she made bread with local honey.

Her toaster had broken. Leo had taken it to the Men’s Shed to be fixed.

Many broken appliances went into the Men’s Shed; a week later, they emerged in good working order.

But last week, Leo advised that the repairs on her toaster were beyond the capabilities of the Men’s Shed.

It was a European model. An unfamiliar brand, they couldn’t get the parts.

Four months pregnant with her first child, Mia’s friend Holly arrived carrying a box of cloudy olive oil.

Three years ago, when Mia had left Sydney, a job in Eagle Nest was waiting for her. Holly had seen to that. A city girl, Holly had married Miles Wood, a local man. Miles’s family owned a small vineyard and olive plantation fifteen kilometres out of town.

Mia had managed the oil-tasting room at the Mill Family Olive Estate and Winery.

There, she had learned how to classify the different types of oil – late-harvest varieties were more golden because they contained less chlorophyll, but you couldn’t judge an oil by its colour.

Green oils were as good as the golden ones.

She became proficient at describing the taste – delicate, buttery, robust, and rancid.

Unlike wine, oils did not improve with age.