Page 65 of Wings Above the Mallee

Heath sounded surprised and she grimaced at her work-worn hands. Without a mirror, she knew that the sun-carved lines about her eyes had been joined by creases of sorrow, and that premature silver threaded through her hair.

‘Not anymore.’ No lexicon contained enough words to convey the emotions divorce entailed. Her divorce, anyway. Guilt, grief, desertion, betrayal.

‘You broke up because of … Noah?’

She liked the way he said her son’s name as though it was fragile. Cherished. ‘Tim and I found that looking at each other was a reminder that we could never be a proper familyunit again. Ultimately, neither of us could face that. Tim found some peace with mates and wider family. I ran away.’

‘I wish I could say that I don’t know your pain. But …’

She gave a hollow laugh. ‘The wounded find the wounded, right? It’s odd, though. I couldn’t share my pain with Tim, yet with you it’s different.’

Heath rubbed his jaw, his forehead creased. ‘Maybe because we’re comparing, not competing?’

She flinched, then nodded reluctantly. ‘I guess Tim and I were locked in an undeclared contest of who hurt the most, as though the grief could somehow prove our love for Noah.’ She checked the altimeter. ‘Stupid, right?’

‘No.’ She caught his aftershave as Heath shook his head. ‘That actually makes sense. I’ve been thinking on what you said about us using grief to fill a hole in our lives.’

Amelia glanced at him, intrigued that he’d not only reflect on her views, but would share that he’d done so.

‘And I think it’s more complex than that. Perhaps our grief is actually love looking for somewhere to land.’

‘Oh!’Shocked, she mulled over his words. For so long she’d felt guilty about her grief. About the fact that she allowed it, when it seemed she should move on with her life. But if grief was love, didn’t she have every right to it?

They were both silent, the drone of the light aircraft’s engine a soothing hum in the background as Amelia let the words sink in. The thought of embracing her grief instead of fighting and denying the emotion was … comforting.For the first time in years, she felt the tiniest measure of acceptance: not of the fact that Noah had died, but acceptance that she would always grieve him—and had every right to do so.

‘I’ll see you at the RAG meeting Thursday week?’ Heath said eventually.

‘You’re not coming next Tuesday?’

Heath frowned. ‘There’s no meeting then.’

‘Charlee’s … thing,’ she said, realising there was a chance Charlee hadn’t told her father the details. ‘At the bank.’

‘The fundraiser? That’s not until next month, is it?’

‘No, you’re right.’ Though Amelia hoped Heath would come to the practice, Charlee could sort this one out herself. The sprawl of Settlers Bridge came into view through the flickering oscillation of the prop. ‘And here’s home,’ she said, surprised to realise that she had an actual sense of homecoming. She buzzed low over the farmhouse. ‘Anyway, thanks again for coming with me.’

‘Thanks for trusting me to come with you,’ Heath said.

A quiver ran through her. But odd reactions were to be expected after such a fraught morning.

By the time she’d hangared the plane, dropped Heath at the farmhouse and driven into Settlers Bridge, Amelia realised she was genuinely hungry. It was unusual—for years she’d not had an appetite.

She stopped at the back door of her cottage to cuddle Karmaa and Kismet. The lambs were as faithful as any dog, scrambling onto each other’s back to try to be the closest to her. Karmaa, in particular, loved it when Amelia sat on the cold cement and the lamb could either climb into her lap or lie alongside with his head on her knee. Though she missed bottle-feeding them, it was a welcome relief not to have to worry about bloat.

As she opened the back door, warmth rushed out, the air pulsing with music. Even better, though, was the aroma of hot food.

Charlee whipped around from the stove as Amelia entered the kitchen. She heaved a huge sigh that sounded strangely like relief. ‘You’re back! Excellent timing. Look.’ She pulled a tray from the oven, carefully balancing an old-school painted Pyrex dish on it. ‘Apricot crumble,’ she announced.

Amelia kept her gaze on the bubbling pot of golden juice seeping around the crusty, sugar-dusted balls of dough, rather than letting it stray to the counter, which was covered with dishes and ingredients. ‘I didn’t know you were into baking. Smells fantastic.’ She glanced around for somewhere to drop the iPad she used for flying and realised that a chair offered the only free space.

‘I’m not. Tracey came over to see if I wanted to go to the op shops with her to look for our line-dancing gear.’ Charlee screwed up her nose. ‘And I told her I wasn’t even sure we were still doing the dancing thing and that I owed you a huge apology. She said food is always a good way of saying sorry. So—’ she stepped back and gestured to the stovetop ‘—roast pork with all the trimmings. Tracey suggested lamb, but I thought maybe not.’ She tilted her head to the back door.

Amelia chuckled. ‘So you’re going vegetarian when we start up the travelling farmyard?’

Charlee’s breath was sharp and uneven. ‘You still want to do that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

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