A table of German backpackers passing through town won the game, much to Cheryl’s distress, but Danny bought her a glass of her favourite wine and she was placated. She sat quietly in the corner, chatting with Jacqui.

‘Hey, Nicole.’ Mandy interrupted the quiet conversation of the table. ‘Before you got here tonight, we were talking about all the painting you still have to do.’

‘Oh, please. Don’t remind me.’ Nicole rolled her eyes. Painting, the one thing she thought she could do before starting this crazy project, was now the thing she dreaded most.

‘Well, we were thinking, how about a painting bee? Get that job knocked over,’ Jacqui suggested and, before Nicole could answer, she and Cheryl got to work making plans for a fortnight’s time.

As the group disbanded Danny leaned in to Nicole. ‘Shall I walk you home?’

Nicole was torn.

‘Just a walk.’ He grinned.

‘That would be nice.’

She and Danny stood on the verandah, saying nothing, looking into each other’s eyes. There was a calmness to the moment, a gentle stillness that made Nicole feel alive.

‘Goodnight, Nicole.’ Danny leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

She lifted her head slightly and his lips caught hers. He kissed her softly, sending warmth radiating through Nicole’s entire body.

‘Goodnight,’ she breathed.

Nicole pushed open the door to the cottage. She’d forgotten to leave a light on and in the blackness she couldn’t see. A few steps in she stubbed her toe and yelped. It was her suitcase, left at the door.

She wheeled it to her bedroom, and unpacked it.

Twenty-five

The next day Nicole spent the morning going through her Ivy folder that she kept under her bed.

Inside was the photo Mandy had given her (she should probably give it back), and the newspaper clippings and church bulletin copies she’d dug up from the library so far. She looked back at the Cove Chronicle’s article about the dance, the faces in the yellowed photograph known to her now. Joan was easy to spot, her steely glare the only unhappy visage in shot. Tom and Ivy, the targets of her scowl, looking as if they had touched the stars, stood just to the right. A young Bill Tucker standing off to the side, looking at the older men as if they were his heroes, was instantly recognisable, his stance and gaze unchanged after all these years.

An idea teased her thoughts and Nicole took out the large leather-bound notebook from the bottom drawer beside her bed and wrote more questions.

Who was the boy off to the left with the pointy face looking as if he owned the world? Why would Ivy be at this dance, if she was from Sydney?

Was there something here for Nicole? Something she could perhaps turn into a … No. This was for personal interest only. Ivy’s letters were simply a way to pass time. A hobby.