Flynn stomped to the fridge, retrieved an ice-cold can of Coke, cracked it open and turned to face them all.
“Okay. Out with it. Have I grown an extra head or what?” He ran a hand through his blond, freshly cut hair. Even Emma, his hairdresser, had been strangely quiet. She hadn’t tried to con him into enhancing his tips as she usually did.
“No need for sarcasm, love.”
He tossed a reproachful glare at his mom and, for one terrible second, wondered if someone had come good on their promise to enter him in Australia’s much-loved Farmer Wants a Wife show. Friends and family had been threatening for years: You’re almost thirty, Flynn. As if being thirty meant he should suddenly hang up his single cap and find himself a wife, a four-wheel drive and a white picket fence.
He wouldn’t do it, though. No matter how good the PR would be for the town, there was no way in hell he was pimping himself in such a manner. Unlike some people he knew, he didn’t see the appeal of publicity and bright lights.
Still eyeing him warily, Karina dumped the wooden spoon in the pot, wiped her hands on her apron and sighed. “Well, I suppose if anyone has to tell you, it might as well be me. Sit down, Flynn.”
Sit down? He looked long and hard at the three women scattered around the traditional farm kitchen. People only ever said sit down when it was bad news. When someone had been killed or given months to live. But they were all breathing—even Granny, who’d just celebrated eighty years, was healthy and vibrant—and he’d already lost his dad. So what could be so terrible? So dramatic? Who could it be?
Granny stood and beckoned a long, knobbly finger at his sister. “Come on, Lu, you can help me box my tea cozies.”
“No, thanks,” Lucy said. “I’ll help later, Gran, but I wouldn’t miss this for an-y-thing.”
“Scoot, Luce,” shot his mom without breaking his gaze.
Lucy groaned, moaned and did her usual teenage eye roll, but she eventually vacated the room, followed by their grandmother.
“Must be something terrible,” mumbled Flynn, collapsing onto a chair. When his mom pulled her stool close and scooped up his hand, his heart went into overdrive. He ripped his hand back, feeling momentarily guilty as hurt flashed across Karina’s eyes. But all such emotions were lost when she finally spoke.
“Ellie’s coming back.”
Flynn opened his mouth but no sound came out. He sat still for a moment, the words echoing in his head.
Then, “Fuck!” He shot out of his chair and stormed onto the veranda.
Ten years! Ten years since she’d left him standing at the altar in a mixture of shock, hurt and embarrassment, questioning why. He thought he’d pulled through, dealt with all those feelings, moved on. But he couldn’t have, not the way his eyes were prickling and his heart was pounding.
He spun around, not knowing what to do, before he thumped the veranda post and headed back into the kitchen. Needing to keep his hands busy, he reached for his Coke, but he misjudged and his fingers hit the side of the can, toppling it over.
“Leave it,” his mom said. Her lips were pursed and he could tell she was a hairbreadth from tears herself. “It’ll be okay.”
“No use crying over spilt Coke,” he said, trying to make a joke. But his tone wasn’t funny and Karina didn’t laugh. He knew she was terrified that Ellie’s return would send him back to the way he’d been before. She’d already lost her husband. She didn’t need to lose her son.
As much as he wanted to retreat to his own space—to forget about the afternoon’s game and head to the dam at the far end of their property—he couldn’t. He had to maintain the facade for his mom. For the town. He had to pretend he didn’t care, pretend the thought of running into Ellie didn’t send him into a cold sweat.
It would be easier, he reflected, if he’d found out she’d died. At least that way he’d come to terms with the grief. Surely. Things would be completely different. He wouldn’t have to hide photos of her in a box at the back of his wardrobe. People would talk about her fondly, sharing memories, rather than making sure they never uttered her name in his presence. He knew they talked; it’s what people in small communities did best. But they never talked about her to him. The town protected him. If people pitied him, he didn’t know, but around here, there wasn’t any sign that Ellie Hughes had ever existed. It was as if the moment she’d walked out of his life, she’d vacated the planet. In the newsagent, he never saw her face in TV Week or on the cover of Women’s Weekly. But if he went further afield, to Perth or Bunbury, she was constantly in the limelight. Australia adored her. In a way, that hurt Flynn, but it was nothing on the sadness she’d left inside him. The black hole that no attempts at relationships, no casual sex, no nothing, had ever been able to fill.
Working hard to keep his breathing steady, he cleaned up the Coke and recalled some gossip he’d heard at the hairdresser. He might not be able to take his mind off Ellie, but he’d do his damn best to stop his mom thinking about her.
“Some townies are reviving the theatrical society.” He ditched the wet tea towel in the sink and leaned back against the table.
“So I heard. Good news travels fast.” Karina gestured to the row of tiny nail polish bottles on the table. “Lucy’s planning on auditioning. For some reason, she thinks the color of her nails will make all the difference. And of course, she has to test them all first.”
Flynn frowned. “You’re not going to let her, are you? Year twelve is huge, she should be concentrating on her studies.”
Karina raised her eyebrows and smirked. “When did you become so old and stuck in the mud?”
“Don’t forget the wise bit.”
“Whatever,” Karina said, waving a hand in front of her face, mimicking her daughter in both language and action. “Lucy won’t listen to me. She’ll only sulk and pout and ignore her exams altogether if I don’t let her get in on this. Besides, it’s just a fad. She wanted to start a cheerleading troupe for the Hurricanes last term, remember?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
But his gut felt heavy at the thought of his little sister acting. No matter, the distraction seemed to have worked. His mom was once again stirring her soup with an attentive look upon her face.
Flynn took the chance to slip out the back.
AS THE TRANSWA bus turned into Hope Junction, Ellie tugged the rim of her sports cap down, hoping, with the help of her dark sunnies, that it would cover much of her face. Wearing bland jeans and a man’s flannelette shirt, and with her mousy, chocolate-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she prayed that no one would recognize Stella Williams—one of Australia’s favorite television characters—at least for now. She just wanted the chance to get to Matilda without attention, without anyone confronting her and telling her, in what would no doubt be colorful language, exactly what they thought of her.
But she knew it was only a short-term fix. There were no secrets in the entertainment industry, and even fewer in small towns. Everyone would be on high alert, awaiting her arrival. Next week’s glossies would have the news of her sudden departure from the set, with some happy to speculate on the reason while others dug deeper for the truth. Either way, Ellie’s return to Hope wouldn’t remain a secret for long.
She imagined most people in her situation would be smiling, reminiscing fondly, eager to start adding to their memories. She had fond recollections,