The Patterson Girls Read online

  ‘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 perimete
r 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.

  For the next few hundred metres, Abigail tried to come up with a plausible story, or better yet, a way to evade the situation entirely. She didn’t want to lie outright but nor did she want to admit her failure. She couldn’t bear to see the look on her sisters’ faces—or worse, Dad’s face—when she told them she’d been fired from her dream job. Her family had been so proud when she’d scored the gig as one of the youngest violinists ever to join the prestigious orchestra, and they’d be so disappointed if they found out the truth.

  Hadn’t they suffered enough disappointment lately?

  ‘Crazy old bat.’ It was the first thing Madeleine had said since they’d left the motel and it jolted Abigail from her thoughts. She looked up to see they were approaching an old, run-down fibro cottage, the garden (if you could call it that) overrun with purple flowers, chipped outdoor ornaments and cats.

  Abigail jogged after Madeleine, glancing back at the house just in time to see an old woman glaring at them from the middle of her overgrown garden. Wearing a black skirt that brushed the ground, a dull grey saggy jumper—in this weather!—and a black scarf wrapped around her head, she looked like some kind of witch. As a child, Abigail had heard rumours about the woman. The centre of many a children’s horror story, she was nicknamed ‘Wacky Wanda’ and the local schoolkids estimated her to be around one hundred years old—though no one knew her real name or age. Word had it she only ever ventured into the main street to buy cigarettes and the weekend paper. Lord knew where she bought other supplies, such as food.

  But Abigail had always felt a little sorry for the old woman. Her sisters might drive her insane sometimes but she couldn’t imagine what it would be like if she didn’t have any of them. She lifted her hand and waved, calling out ‘Merry Christmas’ as she did so.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and then she made a weird hissing noise, before mumbling something and turning away in apparent disgust. Although Abigail couldn’t make out the words, whatever it was, it was obviously unpleasant. Her sympathy evaporated. I was only trying to be nice. A weird shiver scuttled down her spine like she’d just run through a spider’s web.

  She felt Madeleine’s hand close around her arm as she urged her on. ‘Come along, keep running.’

  ‘Did you hear what she said?’ Abigail asked.

  ‘Fuck knows. She probably thought we were trespassing. I’m sure she’s perfectly harmless though.’

  Lucinda woke to the buzzing of her phone. She rolled over groggily and reached for it. Despite only having two glasses of wine last night, her head harboured the mother of all hangovers. Probably more the emotional stress of yesterday than the alcohol.

  Smiling at the caller ID, she snuggled back into the pillows and pressed Accept. ‘Hey gorgeous.’

  ‘Babe.’ Joe’s incredibly sexy, deep voice seeped into her bones, acting like an instant pain relief. Things may have been a little tense between them lately but absence always made the heart grow fonder. ‘Thought I’d get a quick call in before I start my shift. How was yesterday?’

  ‘Draining,’ she admitted. ‘Dad’s being really quiet and everyone’s walking on eggshells. I think it’s going to be a long week.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be there.’

  ‘It’s fine. We both decided that it was for the best. Your mum will forgive you not attending Christmas if the reason is work, but if it’s because you’re spending it with my family instead, she’ll probably excommunicate us.’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.’

  But Lucinda knew he didn’t mean it. Although Joe’s mother had been dropping less than subtle hints that it was time he joined her other (five) children in providing her with grandchildren, he still adored her. He could say things like that but if Lucinda dared utter one mildly negative word about his mamma, she’d be given the silent treatment for a week.

  ‘Dad has decided to sell the motel,’ she said, not wanting to think about their failure to procreate.

  ‘Really?’ Joe was momentarily nonplussed. Then, ‘I guess that makes sense. Must be a lot of work on his own. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘It’s weird to think of anyone else owning it but at the same time, I see where he’s coming from. And I’m worried about him. I think we all are. He seems really sad. Hopefully not having the pressure of the motel will help.’

  ‘His wife just died, of course he’s sad.’

  ‘I know.’ Lucinda thought about that a moment. ‘Maybe we expected too much of him. It was always going to be strange coming back here without Mum but I didn’t think it would be this weird. I don’t know how we’re supposed to get through Christmas.’

  ‘Will Aunt Mags be coming?’

  ‘Yes.’ Immediate relief rushed through her at the thought of Dad’s eccentric older sister, Margaret—more affectionately known as Mags. She lived in a retirement home in Port Augusta, where by all accounts she was having the time of her life.

  ‘Well, there you go,’ Joe said, as if he’d just solved the problem of world peace. ‘No one can be morose when Mags is around. She’ll get you through it. What are you going to do today?’

  ‘Dad asked us to help him start sort through the house, mostly Mum’s things, so I’m going to try to get everyone focused on that. Lord knows I probably won’t be able to rouse Abigail or Madeleine till early afternoon. Even without jet lag into the equation they’ve never been early risers. We also need to go shopping—there’s nothing in the house and I guess I’ll be organising Christmas lunch.’ She sighed again, already mentally writing a to-do list. ‘I saw Mitch McDonald last night and he reckoned Dad might be struggling a bit with the motel.’

  ‘Charlie’s old friend?’ Joe asked.

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got a point. And maybe your dad knows, otherwise he wouldn’t be considering selling,’ he said, ever the voice of reason.

  ‘I suppose,’ Lucinda mused, ‘but I also talked to Mrs Sampson and although she was less forthcoming, reading between the lines, I’m pretty sure she’s just as tired and overworked as Dad.’

  ‘You’ve got your hands full then. No time for missing your poor hardworking beloved husband.’

  Lucinda laughed. ‘I’ll miss you all right, but don’t pretend you’re all hard done by. We all know nothing gives you more joy than blowing things up.’

  ‘What can I say? I like excitement. But seriously, babe, you look after yourself. Try to have fun with your sisters and Brian. It’s important for you all to be together at a time like this. Try and relax, okay?’

  Lucinda suddenly choked up. She knew what he really meant. He wanted her to put aside her ‘obsession’—he’d actually called it that last week in a moment of anger—with having a baby and concentrate on something else for a bit. Maybe she could do if it wasn’t for his mother and his baby-machine sisters-in-law. Then again, probably not. She wanted nothing more than to have babies, to start a family with Joe like the one her parents had happily made together.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she promised, wanting to end the conversation before she fell apart. ‘You have a good day.’

  ‘Will do. Love ya, babe.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  Not sure whether she felt better or worse after her conversation with Joe, but thoroughly awake now, Lucinda climbed out of bed and ventured down the hallway. The house was still quiet—she guessed Charlie mu
st be asleep and Dad would be in the motel kitchen, doing the breakfast service. She filled the kettle, then flicked the switch so it’d be ready to make coffee after her shower.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, there was a loud discussion happening in the kitchen.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She glanced from Madeleine to Charlie to Abigail. All dressed in exercise gear, Charlie looked serene but Madeleine and Abigail were drenched in sweat and Abigail looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  ‘Madeleine and Abigail went for a jog and had a run-in with that old gypsy lady who lives on the outskirts of town,’ Charlie explained. ‘Remember Wacky Wanda?’

  ‘It was hardly a run-in.’ Madeleine crossed the room to the kettle and poured Lucinda’s boiling water into her mug. She tossed in a tea bag and stirred. ‘She just gave us an odd look and mumbled something unintelligible.’

  Abigail ran her hands up and down her arms as if cold. ‘I was trying to be nice and she looked like she wanted to put a hex on me.’

  Lucinda laughed. ‘You’ve listened to far too many schoolyard stories. I’m surprised that old hermit’s still alive. She seemed ancient even when we were kids. And I’m sure she’s not really a witch.’

  ‘She might be,’ Charlie said, ‘but even if she is, real witches aren’t like the one that poisoned Snow White, so I wouldn’t stress about her. As Madeleine said, you frightened her.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure her bark is worse than her bite,’ exclaimed Madeleine, laughing.

  ‘Do you want me to make you a coffee?’ Lucinda could tell Abigail was genuinely spooked. ‘I was about to make a plunger.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Abigail smiled gratefully up at her.

  Lucinda refilled the kettle.

  ‘Right … I’m going back to my meditation,’ Charlie announced, before looking to Lucinda. ‘Do you still want to get stuck into Mum’s things today?’