A Place of Her Own Read online

  About the Book

  Eighteen months ago Angie Wallace thought her world had ended. Now she’s fighting off suitors – and facing a crisis she never saw coming . . .

  Following the death of her beloved husband Phil, Angie has made a new life for herself in the enchanting gold rush town of Millbrooke.

  As the proud proprietor of the Old Manse B&B and a fierce protector of local history, her transition from ‘blow-in’ to bona fide Millbrooker is complete. She’s even fallen for the erudite but scruffy Richard Scott, owner of Millerbrooke House.

  But just as the relationship between Angie and Richard seems to be blossoming, a woman from his past arrives back in town – and turns their world upside down.

  Because Diana Goodmann isn’t all she seems, and when Angie vows to unearth the truth about her rival, she finds herself a long way from home – and in very grave danger.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  1 JUST FRIENDS

  2 THE LAUNCH

  3 THE EMPORIUM

  4 THE ARCHITECT AND THE VIOLET-EYED GIRL

  5 THE REUNION

  6 RIVALS

  7 THE BATTLE

  8 THE LOVE LETTER

  9 THE MEETING

  10 DECEPTION

  11 SAME TIME, NEXT WEEK

  12 NOW, VOYAGER

  13 SOFT-SHELL CRAB

  14 HER MYSTERY MAN

  15 MATA HARI

  16 BLINDSIDED

  17 VICTIM

  18 A PERSONAL MATTER

  19 COMING HOME

  20 FLASHBACKS

  21 REVELATIONS

  22 THE GLASS ANGEL

  23 STRIKE ME LUCKY!

  24 EPIPHANY

  25 DEUS EX MACHINA

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  If you enjoyed the Millbrooke Trilogy . . .

  Copyright Notice

  Loved the book?

  For PWK, with love

  1 JUST FRIENDS

  Whenever Angie Wallace tried to chart her transition from ‘blow-in’ to local, she couldn’t find a single turning point. Instead, it had been a series of little things, so unremarkable she hadn’t noticed them at the time. Eighteen months ago she had been the newly arrived widow from the big smoke. Now she was a fixture, as much a part of Millbrooke as the Old Manse she had just finished renovating.

  Back then, her sons, both at university in the city, had warned their grieving mother against the move. Tim claimed that she was deserting her offspring, Blake accused her of being in denial and her friend Vicky had called her crazy. For a while she had wondered if they were right. Then slowly she’d made a new set of friends, a group of women she dubbed her ‘painting ladies’, though their art lessons were as much about bemoaning the lack of eligible men in Millbrooke as applying colour to canvas. When Angie had asked them why they’d never considered Richard Scott, the sixty-­something property mogul, who had sold her the town’s historic Manse, the class had laughed in unison. Narelle insisted he was an alcoholic, Jennie dismissed him as too old, while Moira, the oldest member of the group, took the most sympathetic view, claiming he was just a little unconventional. As for Angie, she had seen only a dishevelled eccentric in a flannelette shirt and knitted cap.

  She was lingering over her cup of tea in the place she called the ‘emporium café’, once the site of Millbrooke’s renowned Chinese store, when she looked out the window to see a tall figure shambling across Miller Street and heading for the doorway.

  ‘Have you read the Gazette yet, Ange?’ Richard asked as he removed his old woollen coat and let it fall over the back of the chair.

  ‘Only the headlines. Why?’

  ‘So you haven’t seen the invitation?’

  ‘What invitation?’

  ‘For the second of September.’

  ‘That’s the day I’m launching the B&B.’

  ‘I know. You might have some competition.’

  ‘Will you stop being so cryptic and show me.’

  He turned the paper to the advertisements at the back and pointed to a quarter-page ad under ‘Local Government Notices’.

  An Invitation to the Official Opening of the

  Millbrooke Amenities Block

  Millbrooke Shire Council is delighted to invite residents to the opening of this state-of-the-art eco-facility by Sam Porter MP, Member for Millbrooke.

  Saturday, 2 September at 2 pm

  at Millbrooke Park, Goldfields Road, Millbrooke.

  After the ribbon-cutting ceremony, members of the Millbrooke community are encouraged to join council staff on a guided tour of the toilets, showers and baby changing room, as well as the ecological waste disposal system, solar panels, water tanks and environmentally friendly garden.

  Afternoon tea will be served.

  ‘They can’t do that!’ Angie fumed. ‘I sent the mayor his invitation weeks ago. And the general manager, too.’

  ‘That’s Millbrooke Council for you.’

  ‘Nobody will come to my launch now.’

  ‘Of course they will, Ange. I know where I’d rather be, and it’s not touring the public toilets. Anyway, who would want to have afternoon tea there, when they could be sampling treats made by you and your painting ladies?’

  She wasn’t listening to him. ‘I can just picture the front page of the Gazette. A photo of the toilet block on one side and the Manse on the other. With a joint headline – “Millbrooke’s Newest Ventures”.’

  ‘Cheer up. Everyone who really counts will be at your bash.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can change the date now. It’s too late. The boys have arranged to come for the weekend. And my friends, Vicky and Chrissie.’

  ‘Trust me, Ange. It won’t affect you.’

  Richard spoke with such determination that Angie feared he might be planning to sabotage the opening ceremony, Millbrooke’s own Colonel de Groot arriving on a horse and cutting the ribbon with his sword.

  ‘Richard, may I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would you say a few words at the launch?’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’ He paused for a moment to play with the stubble on his chin. ‘Ange, I was wondering about something. How about dinner at Millerbrooke tonight?’

  ‘Your place?’ she said tentatively. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘You’ve never seen the garden lit up. And I’m not a bad cook.’

  He had caught her off guard. Although their cuppas at the Manse and daily breakfasts at the café were something she looked forward to, dinner chez Richard had all kinds of connotations. Still, she lacked a plausible excuse. She couldn’t even say she was preparing a lesson for her painting ladies because the next class wasn’t until Wednesday.

  ‘Okay. But I don’t want a late night.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll come down to the Manse and pick you up at six.’

  ‘Would you like me to bring something?’

  ‘Maybe some wine.’

  Angie knew Richard didn’t have alcohol in the house. Some years ago there’d been a serious bout with the bottle and now he drank only orange juice. All the same, he didn’t seem to mind other people having a beer or a glass of wine in his presence.

  ‘All right, and I’ll bring dessert.’ She didn’t want to owe him any favours. If he cooked the mains and she made dessert, they would be even. This
would be just two friends sharing a meal. No add-ons.

  Later in the day Angie’s elder son phoned from Sydney. He had almost finished his Master’s degree in Psychology and was prone to use his mother as a case study.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Mum,’ he said, adopting his profes­sional tone.

  ‘I still have my moments, Blake, but in general, I’m feeling much better.’

  ‘I’m glad. Actually, I think you might be ready to relocate.’

  ‘I’m not coming back to Sydney. Not anytime soon, anyway. I thought you knew that.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about relocating Dad.’

  Angie gasped before it dawned on her that Blake didn’t mean disinterring the body and moving it elsewhere. ‘I gather you’re speak­ing metaphorically.’

  ‘Of course. It’s all about finding a new place to put your feelings for Dad.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, can you head me in the right direction?’

  ‘I can’t be your GPS. You have to find it for yourself.’

  ‘Like Ronald Colman seeking his lost horizon.’

  ‘Who’s Ronald Colman?’

  ‘Nobody you’d know, Blake.’

  Afterwards, Angie pondered Blake’s words. Was she supposed to relegate her dead husband to an outpost of her personal empire? Make him an exile like Napoleon on St Helena? Or, heaven forbid, was she expected to replace him with somebody else?

  Angie had never been to Richard’s at night, only daytime meals, usually in the presence of others. Matter-of-fact gatherings to consume food and indulge in badinage and banter. What should she wear to an evening meal at Richard Scott’s? She didn’t want to impart the wrong idea by donning something fancy or provocative like the black top with the draped V-neck – it revealed far too much décolletage. What about the blue dress? She would need to wear high heels with it and Angie knew what effect they had on men. Jeans and T-shirt? Was that too casual? She couldn’t decide, so she wasted the next half hour trying on different outfits and abandoning them on the bed.

  She put on her reading glasses and examined her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. There were fine lines on her forehead and a fan of crow’s-feet radiating out from each eye, but you could hardly expect a fifty-something woman to be in perfect condition, could you? At least her hair was still its original brown, apart from a few silvery strands lurking at the temples.

  From the pile of clothes littering the bed, she selected a paisley cotton peasant skirt and the problematic black top – it was the only thing that worked with the patterned skirt – and chose ballet flats instead of stilettos. High heels and cleavage could be a dangerous combination. Finally she pulled her hair back from her forehead, twisted it into a French roll and pinned it in place. Then she remembered the grey at her temples and undid the lot, letting it fall to her shoulders.

  Why all this indecision? After all, it was only a visit to a friend’s place, albeit someone whose friendship she valued. Richard was good company. She enjoyed the way they joked with each other. And she had been moved when he put his hand on her shoulder and told her it was okay to cry the day she’d been overwhelmed by grief. He’d always been able to sense when she was stressed or sad. She used to imagine a pair of horny growths hidden under his trademark woollen cap, little receptors able to pick up people’s feelings. It had turned out there was only a mane of silver hair. Still, she always suspected he possessed antennae of the internal variety humming away, receptive to her every thought.

  Having someone capable of reading her mind was not necessarily a good thing. For starters, anything other than a platonic relationship was likely to be tricky. And even if she could get past the eccentric clothes and the lack of personal grooming, she would be placing their friendship at risk. If something happened between the two of them and it was a disaster, they would never be able to face each other again. The logistics of a scenario like that were too frightening to contemplate in a small town like Millbrooke.

  You silly woman, she reprimanded herself. Why are you even thinking about the notion of a romance with Richard Scott? It’s out of the question. Ridiculous. Absurd. Nonsensical. He’s the scruffy man you see every morning in the emporium café. Good company, funny, kind, but nothing more.

  When Richard came to collect her, it had started to rain. As she opened the front door of the Manse, she saw he was holding an umbrella.

  ‘You look nice, Ange.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied in a no-nonsense way. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself.’

  He was dressed in clean clothes and his shirt was ironed. He’d shaved too.

  The rain had become heavier. He guided her to the ute, holding his umbrella over her as if she were a member of the royal family on an official visit.

  Angie was glad Richard was behind the wheel. She hated driving on wet, dark nights. Besides, the gravel road leading to Millerbrooke was riddled with deep potholes and Angie was certain she would have wrecked a tyre or cracked a sump had she attempted it herself. When they reached the house, all the lights were on and it looked very grand.

  She was embarrassed to see vases of fresh flowers in the hall and the sitting room, as if it were a special occasion. Purposely she took a seat in an armchair rather than the sofa while Richard poured her a glass of wine. Although their conversation had never been stilted or awkward before, tonight they might have been two mismatched strangers trying to make small talk.

  It was worse when he announced that dinner was served. He had set one end of the twelve-seater table with the best silver, including candelabra. He even served an entrée – yabby bisque. They ate it in silence, except when Angie complimented him on the flavour and asked if the yabbies had come from his own dam. Yes, indeed they had, caught that very day. If he was trying to impress her it was working. But this show of culinary skill also made her anxious. He was behaving as if it was a first date.

  The main course was a rack of lamb with the tips of the bones neatly clad in foil, restaurant-style. It looked an odd colour, though – a brownish grey. That meant the meat would be overcooked and dry. A definite no-no for a sheep farmer.

  With a guilty smile he said, ‘Sorry. I lost track of time.’

  ‘That’s what oven timers are for,’ she responded archly. She was about to add that if you were going to kill a sheep, the least you could do was to honour the animal by cooking it properly, but Richard looked so crestfallen, she thought better of it. Instead, she tried to make up for her harsh remark by enthusing about the potato bake, even though the edges were burnt black.

  ‘I wanted to impress you,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Friends don’t need to impress one another,’ she replied, emphasising the word ‘friends’.

  After the dessert of tiramisu minus the alcohol, they adjourned to the sitting room, where she resumed her position in the armchair.

  ‘I found a book that might interest you, Ange,’ Richard said, producing a worn orange paperback from a side table. ‘Particularly apt in terms of the forthcoming opening ceremony. It’s called Clochemerle.’

  Angie had read it years ago. A funny story about a French town and the opening of its first public urinal. There was an extremely officious mayor too, not unlike Millbrooke’s own office-holder.

  ‘I remember it. Didn’t the mayor consider the public pissoir the best thing that ever happened to Clochemerle?’

  ‘He did, but the locals hated it.’

  ‘That’s right. And wasn’t there a plot by the residents to blow it up?’

  ‘It was rivals from the neighbouring village.’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine the citizens of Cockatoo Ridge ever want­ing to blow up our amenities block.’

  ‘You never know, Ange. They might be jealous. It’s a state-of-the-art facility, after all.’

  ‘You’re not planning to disrupt the proceedings in some
way, are you, Richard?’

  ‘Of course not. What do you think I am, the village idiot? Any­way, I’ll be celebrating the launch of Millbrooke’s latest hostelry. Do you have any bookings yet?’

  ‘There’s a Melbourne couple coming on Saturday. And a woman phoned this afternoon. Said she found me on the regional tourism website. She’s been to Millbrooke before, but not for years.’

  ‘She won’t notice much difference then.’

  True to his word, Richard drove Angie home in time for Lateline. Despite her protests, he insisted on opening the car door and walking her through the lych-gate and up to the front verandah. It wasn’t as if someone would mug her in Millbrooke. The last major crime had been when someone’s garden hose was stolen. At the door the awkwardness returned with a vengeance. He bent over to kiss her but missed her face, landing his lips on her hair instead. In the process he stood on her foot. She wondered if he might try again. For a brief moment she even wanted him to, but he simply said: ‘Will I see you for breakfast?’

  From anyone else, that statement would have carried serious connotations. But from Richard, it simply meant he would be turning up around eight-thirty at the emporium café.

  The morning of the launch, Angie swept the paths and removed the proliferation of weeds which had suddenly appeared in the brick paving beneath her newly erected pergola. The recent rain had caused the weeds to germinate, but it was blasphemy to condemn any kind of precipitation in Millbrooke, even under your breath.

  Beneath the cover of the pergola she arranged tables and chairs to resemble a café. The chairs had been borrowed from the members of Angie’s art class. The tables too. It was an odd assortment that looked fine once she covered them with matching tablecloths she had made from pale green flat sheets, purchased at a discount store in Granthurst. She’d even sewn lead sinkers into the hems to act as weights. It wouldn’t do to have the cloths swept into the creek by a cheeky gust of wind. On each table she placed a white china vase filled with tea roses. Beyond the pergola the alpacas had gathered in their paddock, heads turned expectantly towards her as if they knew there would be guests coming soon.