I didn’t see him after the appointment, but I did get a chance to ask Aima how it had gone.

‘Interesting,’ she said.

‘Useful?’

‘I hope so.’ She didn’t sound very sure.

‘Did Joyce give you hell?’

Aima smiled. ‘You know I can’t answer that.’

‘I might need some counselling myself if I have to put up with the Rooneys for much longer.’

I was joking, but the joke quickly soured. That afternoon, on my way home from work, I passed Mitch McCall’s colourful house and noticed a silver SUV parked across the road. Scott Rooney’s car. Slowing, I wondered if Scott was delivering Aaron to Krystal. Then I spotted a silhouette behind the wheel.

Scott was sitting there, motionless, watching Krystal’s front door.

Fucker, I thought, and leaned on my horn as I drove past. ‘Which was stupid,’ I told my father that night, during our weekly phone catch-up. ‘It’s just going to fan the flames.’

‘I dunno, love.’ Dad always tried to be supportive. ‘He sounds like he needs a good kick in the arse.’

‘Yeah, but it’s not my job to do that.’

‘Seems to me it’s your job to do bloody everything.’

‘Mmm.’ I thought briefly about the report I had to write for Krystal, then changed the subject. ‘I’ll be making jam tomorrow with the CWA. To raise money for rural mental health services.’

‘That’s wonderful. Good on you.’ After a brief pause, he said gruffly, ‘Mental health is very important.’

It was as close as he would ever come to asking if I was all right. I’d hit a bad patch in Sydney after Troy left. For that reason—and because of my mother—Dad always worried about my mental health.

‘You can have a taste when you’re here next,’ I promised. ‘You can sample a jar of Robyn’s Old-time Tangy Mental Health Marmalade.’

‘Was it your friend who invited you? Deborah?’

‘Yep.’

‘She’s a marvel, that girl.’

‘She is.’

I didn’t realise what a marvel she really was until I arrived at the CWA hall and saw that Deb was pretty much in charge. About twenty women were crammed into the kitchen at the rear of the building—which was a friendly old fibro with lots of fire extinguishers—and every one of those women looked to Deb for guidance about jar lifters, sterilised lids, setting points and caramelised sugar. Even some of the older women needed her help. I calculated that half the people there were as clueless as me. The rest were wiry old experts with arthritic joints and clunky false teeth who were probably good at scones, too.