‘I was head over heels, we were together forever and I had plans to marry her. I thought everything was great. We’d sit around and talk about our future, about how many kids we were going to have …’ his voice caught in his throat, and he detailed their time together. It wasn’t easy for Nicole to hear, but her story couldn’t have been easy for him either.

‘Then one day, out of the blue, she said she was leaving me. That she never actually wanted kids. Turns out, she’d just been stringing me along, pretending to want kids. She had her eyes on Grandpa’s money. But she fell in love with a bloke from Woodville and couldn’t keep up the pretence anymore. So, she dumped me. Just like that.’

Nicole reached across the sofa and touched his arm briefly. He pulled away slightly.

‘A year later they were married. And she got pregnant. I didn’t take it too well.’

Nicole swallowed deeply.

‘When I saw Mark here, with you … and I had no idea what was going on. I just saw red. Sorry.’

‘I guess we both could’ve handled things differently.’

He shrugged.

Nicole took a deep breath. She had to ask. She had to know. ‘So, what do we do from here?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know. This is a lot to take in.’ He stared across the room. ‘For both of us.’

Yes it was. She turned her head away from him, shame blooming in her chest.

‘What if …’ Danny’s voice was soft, tentative, and Nicole turned back towards him. ‘What if we start again?’ Danny held out his hand, which she took. ‘Hi. I’m Danny Temple. I love history, I play footy and I do odd jobs around town.’

‘I’m Nicole Miller. I write books, I cook badly and have recently got out of a less-than-healthy relationship.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Danny’s grin spread across his face.

Thirty-two

In the warmth of the midday sun Nicole carried a small fallen branch of gum, waving the leaves slowly above her head. A childhood spent fending off diving magpies had taught her well – with glorious spring days comes swooping season.

As she approached the boatshed she let the branch drop, sure she was safe. The door was ajar. Stepping over the fallen picket gate, she moved towards Ivy’s bench.

It was empty.

She went back to the front door of the boatshed and knocked.

No answer.

She called out Charlie’s name.

No answer.

She pushed the old wooden door and it creaked open.

‘Charlie?’

No answer.

Past the dusty boxes she shuffled, whispering his name. When she got to the bookcase she could see Charlie lying in his bed and she moved quickly to his side.

The rise and fall of his chest told her he was still breathing. She reached out and touched his hand.