Chapters (50)
- Cover
- About the Book
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Sandie Docker
- Book Club Questions
- Welcome to the Kookaburra Creek Café
- Prologue
- One
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She could see from his expression he didn’t buy it, but he was too much of a gentleman to push her too hard. He took her hands and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, catching the corner of her mouth.
She turned her head slightly and caught the fullness of his lips.
The realisation this could go no further hit her hard. Danny said goodnight and walked off down the path.
Of course he wanted children. Why wouldn’t he? Tears filled her eyes. Even if Nicole could find a solution to her living arrangements, even if Danny was as genuine and wonderful as he seemed, even if she could put all her insecurities and Mark-inflicted issues aside, there was one thing she couldn’t change, couldn’t control.
It was the one thing Danny wanted. The one thing she couldn’t give him.
Nicole lay in bed and closed her eyes, but sleep evaded her.
She couldn’t run. She couldn’t stay. She was trapped in the in-between.
A life lost that wouldn’t let her go. A life found that she couldn’t hang on to.
She rolled over and pulled out Ivy’s box from the bedside table. Her one comfort.
2nd February, 1962
My Dearest Tom,
Lucy’s wedding was beautiful. There was no pomp and ceremony, which Joan felt necessary to point out continually. She was only invited because Lucy felt sorry for her, and, let us be honest, in a town like this such an omission would have been keenly felt. Still, Joan’s sourness could not dampen the day.
Father Anthony blessed the union in a simple service, one I thought was appropriate given the age and circumstance of the bride and groom, despite what Whinging Wetherby says. It was, of course, nothing compared to her glamorous event, but no wedding ever was or will be as she still feels the need to point out, three decades and one divorce later.
We had a sumptuous feast back at the cottage afterward. The entire town was here, my love. The front yard was awash with colour – vases filled with pink and orange roses from the garden atop borrowed tables of all shapes and sizes draped in white linen cloth, green salads and red pasta sauces on display in clear bowls, powder blue and lilac sugared almonds sprinkled on loaned porcelain plates decorated with floral sprays.
It was kaleidoscopic, not the sort of party you could imagine me at the helm of, I am sure, but it was quite perfect. So wonderfully perfect.