“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Summerhouse just called and they’ve got some funding. They’re looking for someone to help a group of frail oldies—” Hilary consulted the note in her hand, “—‘Scrapbooking as a way of connecting to the past and fostering memory and wellbeing.’ Personally, I’d be worried they’d cut themselves with the Stanley knife! Anyway, it’s arty and I immediately thought of Alice.”

The jobs that matched Alice’s skills, and provided the opportunities for her to reach her potential and achieve the sense of wellbeing she needed, only existed in big cities. That’s why Alice had lived in Melbourne for a decade. That’s why Karen wanted her to return. The longer Alice delayed, the more confidence she’d lose, and unlike Libby, Alice didn’t have any reserves in that department.

Hilary was watching Karen expectantly. “Hil, it’s really kind of you to think of Alice, but as I explained, her talents lie a long way from scrapbooking and the bay. It’s really not her thing at all.”

After popping into the co-op to buy some flathead tails for dinner and grabbing some groceries, Karen carried her reusable cloth bags into the kitchen. “I’m home.”

“In here,” Alice called from the living room.

Karen found her younger daughter on her hands and knees surrounded by photographs of every size, from tiny black and white prints to large color ones. Karen and Peter’s wedding album, such as it was—a white and gold photo album from the discount store, which Karen had filled with photos taken by friends—was open on a picture of them standing on the steps of the old Royal Mint. She and Peter looked so young, yet Karen remembered feeling as if she’d already lived a lifetime by then.

Pragmatic, cash strapped and without any family of her own, Karen’s idea was for a low-key wedding. She’d planned to be married in the dress she’d bought for her job interview at a prestigious school for girls, but the day before the wedding, Peter’s mother, Dot had arrived unannounced at their apartment holding a large white box. Nestled inside sheets of pale blue tissue was a white, tea-length frock with a full skirt, a sweetheart neckline and a lace overlay. Feeling like Cinderella, Karen had lifted the dress clear of the box and pressed it up against herself.

“I know you’re a very independent young woman and I admire you for it,” Dot said, her words rushing out. “And there’s nothing wrong with being financially prudent, but you only get married once. At least I hope you do. Anyway, I saw this and I thought it said, ‘Karen.’ But if you don’t like it, I won’t be at all offended. I’ll just return it.”