‘I wasn’t going to refuse your offer, Jaz.’
That voice—measured and rhythmic, like a breeze moving through a stand of radiata pine.
‘We’ll all welcome the chance of a hot drink and the use of that microwave, believe me.’
Amazingly, he smiled. It was a small one admittedly, wiped off his face almost as soon as it appeared, but Jaz’s pulse did a little victory dance all the same.
‘Do you have a spare? You might need it.’
He held the key between fingers callused by hard work, but Jaz would’ve recognised those hands anywhere. Once upon a time she’d watched them for hours, had studied them, fascinated by the ease with which they’d moved over his sketch pad. Fascinated by the ease with which they’d moved across her body, evoking a response she’d been powerless to hide.
A response she’d never considered hiding from him.
She gulped. A spare key—he was asking her about a spare key. She rifled through the keys on the key ring. Twice, because she didn’t really see them the first time.
‘No spare,’ she finally said.
‘I’ll have one cut. I’ll get the original back to you by the close of business today.’
‘Thank you. Now, I’d better get back to the shop.’ But before she left some imp made her add, ‘And don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. I wouldn’t want to invite any trouble, you know.’
She almost swore he chuckled as she left the room.
At ten-thirty a.m., a busload of tourists descended on the bookshop demanding guidebooks and maps, and depleting her supply of panoramic postcards.
At midday, Jaz raced out to the stockroom to scour the shelves for reserves that would replenish the alarming gaps that were starting to open up in her Local Information section. She came away empty-handed.
She walked back to stare at the computer, then shook her head. Later. She’d tackle it later.
At three-thirty a blonde scrap of a thing sidled through the door, barely jangling the bell. She glanced at Jaz with autumn-tinted eyes and Jaz’s heart practically fell out of her chest.
Was this Connor’s daughter?
It had to be. She had his eyes; she had his hair. She had Faye’s heart-shaped face and delicate porcelain skin.
Melanie—such a pretty name. Such a pretty little girl.
An ache grew so big and round in Jaz’s chest that it didn’t leave room for anything else.
‘Hello,’ she managed when the little girl continued to stare at her. It wasn’t the cheery greeting she’d practised all day, more a hoarse whisper. She was glad Connor wasn’t here to hear it.
‘Hello,’ the little girl returned, edging away towards the children’s section.
Jaz let her go, too stunned to ask her if she needed help with anything. Too stunned to ask her if she was looking for her father. Too stunned for anything.
She’d known Connor had a daughter. She’d known she would eventually meet that daughter.
Her hands clenched. She’d known diddly-squat!
Physically, Melanie Reed might be all Connor and Faye, but the slope of her shoulders, the way she hung her head, reminded Jaz of…
Oh, dear Lord. Melanie Reed reminded Jaz of herself at the same age—friendless, rootless. As a young girl, she’d crept into the bookshop in the exact same fashion Melanie just had.
Her head hurt. Her neck hurt. Pain pounded at her temples. She waited for someone to come in behind Melanie—Connor, his mother perhaps.
Nothing.
She bit her lip. She stared at the door, then glanced towards the children’s section. Surely a seven-year-old shouldn’t be left unsupervised?
If she craned her neck she could just make out Melanie’s blonde curls, could see the way that fair head bent over a book. Something in the child’s posture told Jaz she wasn’t reading at all, only pretending to.
She glanced at the ceiling. Had Connor asked Melanie to wait for him in here?
She discounted that notion almost immediately. No way.
She glanced back at Melanie. She remembered how she’d felt as a ten-year-old, newly arrived in Clara Falls. She took in the defeated lines of those shoulders and found herself marching towards the children’s section. She pretended to tidy the nearby shelves.
‘Hello again,’ she started brightly. ‘I believe I know who you are—Melanie Reed. Am I right?’
The little face screwed up in suspicion and Jaz wondered if she’d overdone the brightness. Lots of her friends in Sydney had children, but they were all small—babies and toddlers.
Seven was small too, she reminded herself.
‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’
Excellent advice, but… ‘I’m not really a stranger, you know. I used to live here a long time ago and I knew both your mum and your dad.’
That captured Melanie’s interest. ‘Were you friends?’
The ache inside her grew. ‘Yes.’ She made herself smile. ‘We were friends.’ They’d all been the best of friends once upon a time.
‘I can’t remember my mum, but I have a picture of her.’
Jaz gulped. According to Frieda, Melanie had only been two years old when Faye had left. ‘I… uh…well… It was a long time ago when I knew them. Back before you were born. My name is Jazmin Harper, but everyone calls me Jaz. You can call me Jaz too, if you like.’
‘Do you own the bookshop now?’
‘I do.’
Melanie gave a tentative smile. ‘Everyone calls me Melanie or Mel.’ The smile faded. ‘I wish they’d call me Melly. I think that sounds nicer, don’t you?’
Jaz found herself in total agreement. ‘I think Melly is the prettiest name in the world.’
Melanie giggled and Jaz sat herself down on one of the leatherette cubes dotted throughout the bookshop for the relief of foot-weary browsers. ‘Now, Melly, I believe your dad is going to be at least another half an hour.’
Melanie immediately shot to her feet, glanced around with wild eyes. ‘I’m not supposed to be here. You can’t tell him!’
Yikes. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m supposed to go to Mrs Benedict’s after school but I hate it there.’
Double yikes. ‘Why?’
‘Because her breath smells funny…and sometimes she smacks me.’
She smacked her! Jaz’s blood instantly went on the boil. ‘Have you told your daddy about this?’
Melly shook her head.
‘But Melly, why not?’
Melly shook her head again, her bottom lip wobbled. ‘Are you going to tell on me?’
Jaz knew she couldn’t let this situation go on, but… ‘How about I make a deal with you?’
The child’s face twisted up in suspicion again. ‘What?’
‘If you promise to come here after school each afternoon this week, then I won’t say anything to anyone.’ At least Melly would be safe here.
Melanie’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Okay.’ She shot another small smile at Jaz. ‘It’s what I always do anyway.’
‘There,