Page 4 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
Hannah lifted her head as Marigold swooped up beside her like a flying fox, her floaty top puffing up and out like wings. ‘Came to see what was taking you so long, and here you are tripping up handsome men in carparks and pilfering babies.’
‘Sorry. Runaway dog drama. I left the drinks on the counter.’
‘And who’s this little tacker?’
The baby gave a happy squeal then burrowed into the crevice between Hannah’s shoulder and neck. Her head was warm and velvety, and sort of strong and soft all at the same time. Like a little cavalier King Charles spaniel. No, like a spring lamb. No, wait … she took a scientific sniff, and soap and milk and babyness wafted up her olfactory nerve.
Like a littleperson.
Hannah forgot about the awkwardness of bumping into Tom. She forgot about her irritation with Millie’s owner for losing the dog again. That was all so silly. ‘Sosilly,’ she whispered into the soft hair.
She’d just had an epiphany, and it had tripped her up as surely as the dog had tripped up that toddler. Her subconscious must have been working on it for months, waiting for the right opportunity to pop it out, fully formed. Fully actionable.
She’d been feeling jealous and crotchety about so many things and hadn’t stopped to wonder at the root cause. Josh had been devoting himself one hundred per cent to Vera. Her bestie Kylie had taken over the town mechanic’s workshop and could rarely be prised from her spanners. Her niece Poppy had started ghosting her (or studying for exams, whatever) when usually she could be relied upon for daily texts and funny memes, and even Graeme, the chattiest person in Hanrahan, had lately had the temerity to preference his partner’s company to hers.
It was so obvious. She breathed in another long whiff of baby. So obvious!
She wanted a family of her own. She wanted some mess and fun and love and texting and spanners and handfed morsels of cakeof her own.Which meant change. Action.
Personal growth.
Huh. No wonder her subconscious had waited until she was tiddly on prosecco to spring the trap.
But what was the alternative? Did she want a future that involved endless lonely hours soaking in her bathtub, looking up at the pattern of daisies and ribbons in her plaster ceiling? Did she want to be a pity project for Marigold and Kev to workshop, year in and year out?
Being alone for pretty much the whole of her adult life had been safe, so that was a factor to consider. Being alone had also given her time to build her vet practice and win back her parents’ trust and claw back a little (a smidge, if she was honest) of her self-respect.
But had being alone been fulfilling? For a while, yes.
But not lately. Not since The Incident, in fact.
She closed her eyes and felt the warm, heavy head of the baby resting against her neck.Thiswas what fulfilment could feel like. A family of her own that hurdled the whole messy couples’ thing and leapt straight into parenthood.
It would be change, but it would be safe change. Personal growth without the drama.
‘You’re looking all flushed, Hannah,’ said Marigold. ‘Are you all right? Maybe we need to head past the paella truck on the way back to the beach and soak up some of that vino.’
Hannah was barely listening. ‘It’s the perfect resolution.’
‘You’ve decided? Excellent.’
Crap, she’d said that aloud, and within Marigold’s nosy orbit, too.
‘So what’s it to be? Yoga? Crochet? Possum pouches?’
The mother had calmed the toddler—or Tom had, but Hannah had averted her eyes from the sight of him being all cute with the dog and the kid—and was now back in front of her, plucking the baby off her chest.
‘Thank you so much. Sorry about snapping at you before.’
‘Sure. No worries,’ Hannah said as the mother took her warm little bundle away. Before she knew what was what, Marigold had her hand under arm, and was herding her to the food trucks and gabbling on about gussets and needle eyes and the pros and cons of thimbles for the stitchers who found themselves plagued by arthritis or trigger finger or tendonitis.
She needed to think.
She needed to get away from this craft chat. No way could she allow Marigold to assume control of her non-working life; her ears would explode first, followed by what little she had of patience.
And no way she could reveal the truth of the resolution she’d just—in a moment of clarity almost as blazing as the fireworks in the sky—decided on.
She needed a whatchamacallit, though, to keep the Hanrahan locals from meddling … a misdirection, some wool over the eyes, a diversionary tactic that was doable and that she wouldn’t totally hate. Thank heavens for Kev and his bright ideas.
