Patrick turned his mind firmly to matters of the present. “How can you be sure Jacko Bullock isn’t one of those?”
“I can’t be. But I trust him more than I do Andrew Preston.”
“What do you have against Preston?” Patrick tried to keep his voice neutral.
Louisa’s face tightened slightly. “I don’t like change, Patrick. That’s all. And I don’t like situations I can’t control.”
Patrick agreed with the sentiment that Andrew Preston wasn’t about to be controlled by anyone. His mind’s eye, however, continued to see the long, straight auburn hair of the woman who’d gotten out of the Toyota, reminding him of another woman with long, straight auburn hair.
“Wesley,” Bronwyn hissed at her son as she finally persuaded him to sit on a stone wall outside the head housekeeper’s office. “I’m trying to get a job,” she said, moving her full-size backpack—one that had belonged to Ari—and Wesley’s smaller tote bag so that they sat together. Bringing everything she owned to Fairchild Acres hadn’t been practical. Instead, she’d hired a small—very small—storage unit in Sydney and prayed that she’d find a way to pay the monthly rentals until she could collect the rest of her belongings, belongings for which she was pretty sure there would be no room in the Fairchild Acres employee bungalows.
“It’s important that you are quiet and stay out of the way here,” she continued whispering to her son. “I have to have this job. Don’t you see that? We have no money since your— Anyhow, we have to make our own way, Wesley, and that means I have to work.”
“Why couldn’t you get a job in Sydney?”
“It’s expensive to live in Sydney.” This wasn’t the whole reason for her calling about the job she’d seen advertised at Fairchild Acres, however, and Wesley seemed to know it.
He said, “You always think you’re smarter than everyone else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Like Nam. You thought he couldn’t understand English.”
Bronwyn’s cheeks burned anew. When she’d bade their driver farewell, he’d said in perfect English, “He must have caused you a lot of trouble.”
Ari.
Well, that was one way of putting it.
Yes, it was easy to blush, remembering her mistake.
“Wesley, could you please sit here quietly while I go in for my interview?”
“What if you don’t get hired?”
Bronwyn didn’t want to think about that. “I’m going to get hired. Now stay here. Don’t wander around.”
She approached the door of the estate manager’s office, which was labeled Office, as she’d been told it would be. She knocked, and as she did, a small, extremely pretty young woman with short blond hair looked out of the next door, which stood open. It appeared to be the door to the kitchens, though also part of the main house.
“She’s not here,” the woman called.
“What?” Bronwyn turned.
“Are you here about the dishwasher’s job?” the blonde asked.
Bronwyn nodded, noting the perfection of her skin and thinking that Patrick Stafford had no shortage of beautiful women at Fairchild Acres. But he probably had a girlfriend, for all Bronwyn knew. She certainly wasn’t here to resume any romantic relationship with him after a ten-year separation. Nonetheless, this pretty female made Bronwyn want to find the nearest sink and mirror so she could clean up after the hot, dusty truck ride. How could anyone come out of that obviously steaming kitchen looking so good?
“Well, Mrs. Lipton is gone for the day. She’ll be back tomorrow. You’ve come on her day off.”
“But I have an appointment.” This was impossible.
“You’re the woman who’s supposed to be coming tomorrow?” the blonde asked, her eyebrows drawing together.
How could there be such a mix-up? Bronwyn wondered. It was late in the afternoon and Nam had already headed back to Sydney. Not that she could have afforded to have him make the trip again the next day. Were there hotels nearby? Bronwyn wasn’t destitute, but she didn’t want to spend any of the little cash she possessed. She could live on the smell of an oily rag better than most, but there was no point in depleting her resources unnecessarily.
“Look, I’m Marie,” said the blonde, sticking out her hand, which Bronwyn took, grateful for the offer of friendship which the woman seemed to be making.
“Bronwyn Davies.”
“Yes, now what you want to do is go over to that door and go in and find Agnes. She’s the assistant housekeeper, and I dare say she’ll find you a place to sleep tonight. Is that your boy there?”
“Yes, that’s Wesley.”
Marie nodded, smiling. “He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”
“Too handsome for his own good,” Bronwyn admitted. “He’s been known to get away with plenty.” She hesitated. “Which door?”
Marie pointed, and Bronwyn turned to see where she’d indicated.
“Right. Well, thank you.”
“No worries.”
As Marie ducked in the kitchen, Wesley said, “Brilliant, Mum. Wrong day.”
Bronwyn nodded in resignation. “Well, you better come with me.” She stooped to shoulder her heavy pack then fastened the hip belt. Wesley picked up his tote, swinging the strap over his shoulder. Bulging with his most prized possessions, the bag seemed to dwarf him, and Bronwyn thought how very young he was to have to go through all that he had in the last months—culminating, of course, in Ari’s murder.
I’ve got to stop saying nasty things about Ari, she thought.
After all, Wesley loved the man, loved his memory still.
Bronwyn, too, had loved Ari. Once.
I can’t think about it, about any of it. Unlikely as it might have seemed that she had loved a man twenty years older than her, that had been the case. Probably her attraction to him had something to do with the fact she’d never known her own father, who’d died before she was born, leaving Bronwyn’s mother to fend for herself and her infant in urban Sydney.
Bronwyn would do a better job of that than her mother had. She and Wesley were not going to do any sleeping under bridges—or in shelters, for that matter.
She said, “Wesley, you’re the best, y’know?”
“Mmm,” he answered.
She led the way up a red stone path to the door Marie had indicated. As she turned up the path, the door at the end opened, and a man stepped out.
Her breath caught, and she stumbled on the walk. Graceful, Bronwyn.
She would have known him anywhere, and already her eyes were seeking out that cleft chin, the jaw and delicate yet prominent bones she remembered in his face. His medium brown hair was a little too long, parted on the side, and still had a tendency to dash across his hazel eyes.
The eyes Wesley had inherited.
Patrick Stafford stopped in his tracks. He paused, gave her one derisive look, and said, “Why doesn’t this surprise me?”
Chapter Two
Patrick Stafford wasn’t surprised to see