Page 33 of Wings Above the Mallee

‘Certainly smells good,’ Amelia said. ‘What is that, pine?’

‘Just him.’ Tara sighed. ‘Well, and pine, and probably red gum and some other stuff,’ she added more practically. ‘Justin is a wood carver. Like, an artist for real. He sculpts stuff for wineries and places like that. He’s amazing.’

‘These toasties look pretty amazing, too,’ Amelia said, bringing Tara’s attention back to bowl she still hovered over the table.

‘Mmm,’ Tara said dreamily. ‘Sprinkled with rock salt and dusted with icing sugar. Powdered sugar, I mean,’ she corrected with an eyeroll. ‘Enjoy.’

Sean nodded at the basket, encouraging Amelia to sample one of the golden fried sandwich fingers. She picked one upand tapped it on the side of the basket to remove the excess salt and sugar. As soon as she bit into it, she turned pale.

‘That bad?’

Amelia shook her head, her throat working as she swallowed the sandwich without chewing. ‘Peanut butter.’

‘You’re allergic?’ He half-rose, ready to start yelling for an EpiPen.

She waved him back down. ‘No, no. Just … not my favourite.’

‘Feel that way about Brussels sprouts, myself.’ Though he’d never reacted that extremely.

Amelia nudged the basket across the table with a trembling hand.

‘Tara reminds me of our Charlee.’

‘Charlee? Sorry, I mean …’

He knew what she meant. Made up to the nines, bouncy and cheerful, Tara was about as far from the Charlee Amelia had met—sullen, uncommunicative, sallow and miserable—as it was possible to get.

‘Charlee’s had it tough the last couple of years,’ he explained simply. ‘We all have.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Amelia’s cognac-shaded eyes softened. She hesitated. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

It surprised him to realise that he did. For the last two years, he’d respected Heath’s wishes, which meant basically ignoring their loss. Ignoring how it was tearing their family apart. Ignoring how both Heath and Charlee blamed themselves. Ignoring how the whole damn tragedy of it was every day driving him back toward drink, tempting him with the oblivion to be found at the bottom of a bottle. And ignoring the fact that he really should share this latest development—the one he refused to let his mind dwell on—with Heath. But not until he’d spoken with Doc Hartmannagain this afternoon. Though, with two messages from her service pushing his appointment back, catching up today was beginning to look unlikely. Which was fine. It meant he didn’t have to face the truth of what he’d done to himself just yet.

‘Charlee lives with Ethan?’ Amelia prompted gently.

Sean nodded, picking up one of the finger sandwiches. He snapped it in half, watching the liquid ooze of jam and peanut butter. ‘Well, I’m saying yes, but I’m not actually sure. Heath’s set Charlee up in her own place. Student digs across the road from Adelaide Uni, nothing flash. I’m not sure where Ethan’s based. He’s a bit of a dark horse, that one.’

‘Looks like he might have been a wild child, too.’

He noted the ‘too’ and knew that Amelia was asking just how wild Charlee was. ‘Hopefully he’s grown out of it. Maybe he’ll have a calming influence on Charlee; show her that this is something she can walk through, that she can get to the other side.’

‘May the best day of her past be the worst day of her future?’

Amelia’s use of the Irish blessing surprised him. ‘Wish I could believe there was any possibility of that being the truth. It’s enough of an ask just pinning my hopes on Ethan digging her out of this pit. And really there’s precious little chance of that happening. He won’t know her full story, so how’s he supposed to connect with her?’

Amelia was silent, watching him. Nice technique, he had to acknowledge. He was generally good at getting people to talk—other than Charlee and Heath, that is—but he did it with overt friendliness. No one would ever recognise the effort it cost him to be so outgoing when he’d rather be sitting alone in a room making love to a non-judgemental, pain-dulling, grief-easing bottle. And, because he chatted somuch to them—about them—no one ever asked his story. At least not until Amelia’s silence demanded his answer.

‘Charlee lost her mum in a car accident a while back.’ It felt good to say the words. He’d kept them locked up, as though he’d betray Heath and Charlee by admitting the depth of their loss. That was part of the reason they’d relocated: there was no one here they had to explain their circumstances to. Yet wasn’t that what was eating him alive? The fact that there was no one to share with, no one to understand that he also grieved. Not only for the daughter-in-law he’d lost—they hadn’t been all that close. But he mourned the loss ofalltheir lives. His son. His granddaughter. Because the twisted metal and dancing flames that had turned the rainswept bitumen into a version of hell had stolen them, just as surely as it had taken Sophie’s life.

‘Heath’s wife?’

Interesting that was the connection Amelia made.

‘Indeed. Charlee’s not been the same since. She was the perfect kid, you know? Not saying she’s not perfect now, but …’ He trailed off, realising the irrationality of that statement. He loved his only granddaughter, but no one else except Heath would now recognise in her the effervescent high achiever whose greatest fault had been such unflagging enthusiasm for life that she could be exhausting.

‘So, six years?’ Amelia rubbed at the sticking plaster covering her left knuckle. An angry redness surrounded the bandage. She’d evidently had time to process his disclosure about sobriety. It often went like that. People would either come around to asking questions or avoid bringing up the subject.

He set aside his food. ‘Yep. Sophie died two years ago, though, if that’s what you’re asking.’ His need to distance himself from association with his daughter-in-law’s deathgave him a little insight into why Heath and Charlee took their avoidance of the subject to near-aggression. ‘But I didn’t quit soon enough to save my own wife.’

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